One of my favorite things as a mama is sharing things that I remember from my childhood with Caroline. I love experiencing it all over again through her eyes, whether it’s reading We Help Mommy (which I knew word for word when I was little) or taking her to the zoo, it just makes me so happy to share these moments with her.

This past weekend, we loaded up for a road trip to Beaumont to see relatives that I haven’t seen in years. My dad was born and raised in Beaumont and since his mama was one of eight children, we have all kinds of family there. Some of my favorite memories are from the huge get togethers that we would attend. About once a year they’d get the whole family together for a big family gathering that was always held at either the local Knights of Columbus Hall, the fellowship hall at Assumption Catholic Church, or at my Mema’s house.

Just stop and think of any stereotype of a large Italian family gathering and y’all will pretty much have the right picture in your mind. Well, except that nobody was putting hits out on anyone (at least not that I know of) and there wasn’t necessarily a Godfather. At any given time the room was filled with enough polyester, Aquanet and faux leather from their SAS shoes, that if someone had lit a match the whole place would have gone up in flames.

There was always more food than anyone could possibly eat. Tables were heavy with trays of lasagna, spaghetti and always some fried chicken which I guess was the Southeast Texas influence. The music was loud and the family was louder. They’d all be telling jokes at the same time and telling old stories that would make better novels than anything on the market. There would be hugging, kissing and lots of face pinching.

I remember one family reunion that got so rowdy that two kegs were floated and my great Aunt Laura danced so much that they had to call an ambulance to come get her. Turns out that she was okay, just a little out of breath.

I have always loved that I come from this huge, crazy Italian family because it’s a unique experience. Not too many other people I know had turkey and spaghetti for Christmas dinner.

There aren’t too many of these relatives left anymore. I mean, yes, there are younger cousins, aunts, and uncles, but most of the original crew has gone on to the big Knights of Columbus Hall in the sky.

This weekend, everyone got together for a big reunion in Beaumont. It was smaller than the ones I remembered, but the food, the laughter, the loudness, and the kisses were the same and Caroline got to experience it for herself.

My Mema passed away 5 years ago and she has two siblings that are still living. The first is my great Aunt Fina (short for Josephine). Aunt Fina is one of the more unique people you will ever meet. She has always kept her hair dyed jet black and wears more makeup at one time than most people even own. She is a huge fan of anything polyester and she and my great Uncle Joe drive across the Louisiana border to gamble at the casinos about twice a week. She has never and I will repeat NEVER (because y’all aren’t going to believe this) been to any kind of doctor EVER in her whole life. Not a dentist, not a general practitioner, not a chiropractor. She is in her 80’s and has NEVER been to a doctor. But amazingly this fact isn’t what makes Aunt Fina so peculiar. The most amazing thing about Aunt Fina is that she ends EVERY word with a T. And, y’all are thinking what? Is that even possible?

Yes, yes it is.

When she saw me on Saturday, this is what she said, “Oht yourt sot prettyt, andt lookt at thet babyt, she’st sot beautifult”. And the best is if you can get her to say “shrimp” because she pronounces it “strimpt”. I don’t know why she does this or how one even begins to learn this sort of diction, but she has done it my entire life and it is truly amazing. Truly.

So, here is a picture of Aunt FinaT. And by the way, none of the following pictures have been doctored or photoshopped in any way. These are real relatives.

She has looked exactly like that for as long as I can remember. HonestlyT.

My Mema’s other surviving sibling is her youngest brother Paul. Uncle Paul is famous in Beaumont because for years he used to dance to “Don’t Mess with My Toot-Toot” on top of the home dugout during the 7th inning at all the Golden Gators baseball games. Everyone called him the “toot-toot” man and the highlight of many a family reunion was watching Uncle Paul do his dance for the family. Here’s Uncle Paul. He really is one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet.

Here’s another picture of someone that I can’t explain, but will show the picture to prove that I am not kidding about the polyester or the Italian stereotype. This is a real person, not someone from the Sopranos and why yes, those are gold rimmed tinted glasses he’s wearing.

The best thing was that Caroline enjoyed every minute of it. She loved all the commotion, the noise, the candy and the attention. We took so many pictures that by the end of it she said “Why don’t you just take a picture of yourself?” But I wanted to get it all on film because I know the chances of everyone getting together again are probably slim. As my great Aunt Sarah, who is 96 said, “Honey, we need to do this more often because some of these people are getting old.” Here’s Aunt Sarah.

**This post was originally published in October of 2006**

I kind of got the impression from the 100+ comments on my post about my Nanny’s birthday party, that y’all are interested in two critical pieces of information.

1. What is Nanny’s skincare regimen and has she made some sort of lucrative deal with God? And if so, how can you get in on that action?

2. What does that cat eat and does it include a growth hormone cocktail?

I can’t help y’all with the cat. It’s a Persian and it consists primarily of fur. If I had to guess, I’d say that if you shaved it bald it would look like a ferret.

It would also quit hacking up hairballs.

But Nanny read all your comments and has agreed to share her skincare secrets. However, I feel compelled to let you know that you can rest assured she has withheld some piece of information in here somewhere because she never gives away all her secrets.

It’s like the recipes for her cinnamon cake or her fudge. I can come close to duplicating them, but something is still missing.

This is the email that Nanny sent me (cut and pasted word for word):

“My complexion care began at an early age - like when I was about 13. We didn’t have clothes dryers back in those days so we had miles of clothes lines where we hung the wash out to dry. Maybe it had something to do with my growing taller, but it became my turn to hang the laundry out to dry.

If I stay in a dry climate for 3-4 weeks, I come home and keep my skin covered in Vaseline as much as possible. A little uncomfortable - but again, it can work magic.”

Can I just laugh about her reference to staying in a “dry climate”? She lives in Beaumont, TX. Everywhere else in the world is considered a “dry climate” compared to Beaumont, including Houston.

I can attest to the generous use of Abolene cleansing cream. It is one of the smells of my childhood. Any night I spent with Nanny ended with us watching Johnny Carson while she coated her face with Abolene and then wiped it off with a soft cloth.

She was also a pioneer of a product that’s now called Frownies, although I believe in those days they were called Wings.

Or maybe I just called them Wings because when I tried just now to Google “Wings” all that came up was a list of feminine products.

I never understood why someone would sleep with something pasted on their forehead, but now that I wake up with eight different creases in my forehead every morning, it seems a perfectly logical thing to do.

So there you have it. How to look fab at 90.

Of course I’ll also need a time machine to erase all the summers I spent baking in the sun.

There are some things that even Abolene can’t wash away.

I can always tell when we’ve arrived in Beaumont because, in spite of being in the car, you can feel the humidity rising to levels that will destroy your hair no matter how much Super-Hold Aquanet you’ve applied.

And I know this for a fact because I singlehandedly used enough Super-Hold Aquanet throughout high school to ensure that there was a big hole in the ozone layer right over Southeast Texas, and it still wasn’t enough to help my spiral permed curls defy gravity.

We went straight to Nanny’s house and arrived just as the party started. Caroline informed that she was going to be a “little bit shy” and it actually took her all of thirty seconds to come out of her shell.

However, it only took her eighteen seconds to find the electric organ in the back room.

If I had a nickel for every time I played “Little Brown Jug” on that organ while my sister provided sound effects by hiccuping in the background, well, I would have a lot of nickels. I can offer no explanation as to why my sister and I were so fascinated by a song about a drunk hillbilly.

This party was the first time the entire family has been together in over ten years, so we spent a lot of time catching up with everyone and laughing at old memories. Apparently, this past Christmas Nanny announced at lunch that no one else in the family would live as long as she has because they’re all too soft.

It was just like a moment from one of those sappy Lifetime channel holiday movies.

Here’s Nanny blowing out the candles on her birthday cake. Please note we did not have 90 candles because a house fire would have been tragic since there wasn’t anyone there strong enough to carry out the electric organ.

Also note that half the cake has already been eaten. We take our cake seriously.

Later on that evening, the whole family went out to eat at Casa Ole’. Even though I live in the birthplace of great Mexican food (Well, kind of. I guess technically Mexico is the birthplace of great Mexican food.) there is still something about that Dinner El Paso coming out fresh from the microwave that makes me happy.

I have no explanation for this and I should be embarrassed to admit it, but it’s who I am and I’ll own it. I sometimes enjoy fake Mexican food.

Caroline wanted to sit right next to the birthday girl at dinner because she has an innate ability to sniff out where the action will happen. Sure enough, the waitstaff brought Nanny a dessert while singing “Happy Chimichanga to You”.

Truly, one of the most underrated birthday songs in history.

That’s my child trying to steal a dessert from her great-grandmother. She has no shame.

The next day, Amy and I decided to take the girls to the mall with hopes of providing some type of air-conditioned entertainment. Naturally, Sarah had to bring “tato head” as part of her entourage.

Who knew the mall would be such a hotspot for toddler entertainment? The girls were able to take forty second ride on a mechanical school bus that only cost Amy and me $4.25 in lost quarters before we found a bus that actually worked.

Then, as we made our way down the mall, I saw something way off in the distance that frightened me. I saw children bouncing way up in the air while attached to some sort of harness. Discreetly, I whispered to Amy, “I think we should turn around before Caroline sees this.”

But it was too late. She had spied it with her little eye and was off and running towards all the bouncing. It turns out that there is bungee bouncing in the mall. In Beaumont, Texas. Who knew?

All we have at our mall here is a lame playscape with some hollowed out trees to provide minutes of imaginary play.

The girls were so tired after our big mall adventure that they fell asleep on the way home. Perfection.

We finally arrived back at Nanny’s house where Caroline spent the rest of the afternoon carrying around Nanny’s poor cat.

Between the cat and the electric organ, it was an abundance of riches.

A good time was had by all (well except for maybe the cat) and on Saturday night I sat around with my mom, my Nanny, and my sister while we watched the Miss Universe pageant. It felt like I’d stepped back in time about thirty years.

Except this time the stubborn little girl who refused to go to bed for fear of missing all the fun wasn’t me, but my daughter.

Later that night, I curled up in bed with her, the same bed where I’ve slept since childhood, the bed where I spent so many Christmas Eves’ listening for Santa Claus, where I stayed up reading way too late because Nanny would let me, where I cried over more than one bad breakup with a boyfriend, and I was filled with gratitude for that moment.

The blessing of watching life come full circle.

Before we left the next day, Nanny told us that she was going to have to get her handicapped sticker renewed for her car. She hadn’t realized it expired until my aunt pointed it out, because when she got it a few years ago they told her it was good for life.

My aunt said, “They probably didn’t think you’d live this long”.

And Nanny replied, “I guess I showed them”.

I’m so glad she did.

I believe that since I didn’t finish telling you about the rest of the weekend that I led y’all to believe that I enjoyed a weekend of leisure, sipping martinis and examining my eyebrows in a magnifying mirror, just like I did before Caroline was born.

That was not the case.

My Nanny’s 90th birthday was on July 4th, but the family decided to wait until this past weekend to throw her a party because we were afraid a lot of her friends would be out of town during a holiday weekend. Everyone knows there’s nothing senior citizens like more than to party like rockstars in celebration of America’s independence.

So, on Saturday, my sister, Amy, and her daughter, Sarah, loaded up in the car with me and we headed to Beaumont via Houston where we stopped and picked up Caroline.

The whole flight thing really worked out because Houston is on the way from San Antonio to Beaumont, so Caroline missed the first three hours of a five hour road trip. In other words, it helped my campaign for sanity.

If you have never had the chance to drive down I-10 from San Antonio to Houston, then you are truly missing out on what would be a clear winner in the MOST TEDIOUS DRIVE EVER contest. There are approximately five Dairy Queens between here and Houston, which helps somewhat, but is still like a Care Bear band-aid on a massive wound.

Anyway, I was rejoicing in my initial child-free driving status and didn’t really think too much about the fact that I would still be in the car with my three-year-old niece. We packed up the car and headed out, looking like something out of “The Grapes Of Wrath”. Well, except the Joad family probably didn’t have portable DVD player.

About two miles into the journey, Sarah gives me a big “HEEEEYYYYYY!!!” from the backseat. It was very reminiscent of an Arthur Fonzarelli salutation, and so I was all like “HEEEEYYYY Girlfriend, what’s goin’ on back there?”

But she just kept saying “HEEEEYYYYY!!”

At which point Amy informed me that she actually wasn’t saying “HEEEYYYY!” but rather was saying “HEAAADDDD!!!!”, which in toddler-speak translates to “I do not like you wearing those sunglasses on your face and would rather that you’d please put them on your head.”

Fortunately, this request was directed to Amy and not to me. I was able to keep my sunglasses over my eyes where God and Ray-Ban intended.

However, Amy placed her glasses on her head because we were only four minutes into an arduous journey and we both operate under the child-rearing principle of WHENEVER POSSIBLE, DON’T ANGER IT.

With the sunglass crisis averted, we drove happily along for the next eight minutes until I heard a sweet little voice from the backseat say “tato head?”.

Beg your pardon?

“Tato head?”

“TATO HEAD?”

I glance over at my sister who is staring at the floorboard and whispers out of the side of her mouth, “I’m just going to ignore her.”

“TATO HEAD?!”

“TATO HEAD?!!” (the sweet voice has turned into a little more of a growl)

I try to stay out of domestic disputes, but I look at my sister again. She whispers, “She wants her Mr. Potato Head. She’s trying to make it part of our traveling entourage, but every time a body part falls out she throws a fit.”

“TATO HEAD!!!!!”

“TATO HEAD!!!!!!”

Even three days later, I can still hear the voices in my head.

Then “TATO HEAD!!!” turns into “SAD! SAD! SAD!”

“SAD! SAD! SAD!”

Who can resist “SAD! SAD! SAD!” from a little girl with pigtails?

Not these two suckers.

Amy hands over the Mr. Potato Head, who promptly loses a limb. More sadness ensues.

I think it’s time to take some Super Glue to Mr. Potato Head and his various appendages.

The rest of the trip was actually pretty calm and uneventful. There was one point that Sarah requested that I place my sunglasses on my head, but I followed my sister’s advice and acted like I didn’t hear what she said.

It actually worked.

We finally arrived at Whataburger to pick up Caroline, relieved to have three hours of our trip behind us.

I buckled Caroline into her carseat, we pulled onto the highway and drove along for about two minutes before she asked, “How much longer until we get there? I’m tired of being in the car.”

Oh, so now she’s a jetsetter.

About two months ago, my dad called and told me that he and my stepmom (otherwise known as Mimi and Bops) were planning a trip to Houston. Mimi was going to drive in on Thursday from San Antonio and he was planning to fly into Houston on Friday. And since he knew that Caroline had been talking about wanting to ride on an airplane, he asked if she could fly with him to Houston.

There was also some talk of going to the Children’s Museum or the zoo, but none of that mattered to Caroline because all she heard was the part about “FLYING ON AN AIRPLANE!!”

Do you know what I’ve heard every three minutes for the past two months?

“IS IT TIME FOR ME TO GO FLY ON THE AIRPLANE? WHEN AM I GOING ON THE AIRPLANE? IS TODAY THE DAY I’M GOING ON THE AIRPLANE?”

It was enough to make me think ill thoughts about the Wright Brothers and their dream of mechanical flying machines.

So, lesson learned. Do not tell a four-year-old about big, exciting plans to fly on a forty minute Southwest flight to Houston more than one minute in advance of takeoff.

Hindsight.

When last Thursday arrived I was still a fool with no thought to consequences, or things that might cause me to develop a twitch, and I told her “Tomorrow is the BIG DAY!”

That announcement set in motion a chain of airplane readiness preparation that hasn’t been seen since Charles Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic.

First we had to pack her bag with essentials for her trip. I drew the line when she tried to pack her Hello Kitty! alarm clock and her three foot tall stuffed dinosaur.

Then we had to pick out the appropriate flying outfit. She originally wanted to wear a skirt with a top that went with her Halloween costume from two years ago paired with her turquoise rainbow socks, but I convinced her she might regret her decision to wear a pirate shirt that’s three sizes too small.

And finally, I had to roll her hair in sponge rollers because she wanted to look her “MOST BEAUTIFUL” for the plane ride.

She woke up at 5:30 Friday morning. I took her to the bathroom and then explained she needed to go back to sleep because I didn’t want to punish Mimi and Bops with an overtired four-year-old hyped up on the pure rush of adrenaline and airplane peanuts.

“I’m trying to go back to sleep but I don’t want to miss my plane!”

“You’re not going to miss your plane. Close your eyes and go back to sleep!”

And because God likes to laugh at me, a plane flew overhead at that moment.

“IS THAT MY PLANE?”

Yes, yes it is. And you missed it. You missed it because you were too busy trying to convince me that you need to wear a pirate shirt that restricts blood flow to your extremities.

“No, baby. That’s not your plane. I promise I won’t let you miss your plane.”

Mercifully, she fell back asleep until 8 a.m. She was dressed and ready to go within four minutes of getting out of bed.

I thought the sunglasses were a nice touch.

Since the flight was scheduled to leave at 11:00, I told Bops we’d pick him up at 9:30 to make sure they arrived in plenty of time and so he could have the joy of listening to her ask “HOW MUCH LONGER?” for the remaining hour and a half until departure.

Here they are when I dropped them off at the airport for Caroline and Bop’s BIG ADVENTURE.

Through the rearview mirror I watched them walk hand in hand into the airport and cried at the sweet picture the two of them made. It was a moment I’ll never forget, a moment filled with the sweetness of watching a memory being made.

As soon as they landed in Houston, they called me and put me on speakerphone. The first voice I heard was Caroline saying “Mama, we’re here. I LOVED THE PLANE. WE LANDED!”

But the voice that meant the most at that moment was the voice of my daddy telling me it was more than he could have imagined. He couldn’t have dreamed of her excitement at every little detail of air travel, from the fold-down tray table to the free bags of pretzels to the takeoff and landing. When they finally landed, he said she leaned over and kissed him while saying “Thank you, Bops, for taking me on this airplane!”

He told me later it was one of the highlights of his life. I know for sure it was one of the highlights of Caroline’s life.

And in a weird way, although I wasn’t even there, it was one of the highlights of my life too.

I wrote this about my Nanny almost two years ago but, since today is her 90th birthday, I thought I’d post it again.

She is the original firecracker.

My Nanny is 88 years old, but you would never know it. She has more energy and enthusiasm than people half her age. All of her friends are at least 15-20 years younger than she is because as she will tell you “I don’t like to spend time with old people”. In fact, the week before we arrived she had hosted a Bunco party at her house, you know for all her young friends in their 70’s.

She has always known how to stay young. I remember being in high school and walking down the street to borrow her clothes and her jewelry. I’m betting that not too many grandmothers have a wardrobe that their granddaughters would like to wear. You don’t see too many 15 year olds wearing SAS shoes with a nice paisley polyester blouse. But Nanny has always had style.

She was the first person I knew that owned a video camera, a VCR and an answering machine. In fact, my mama said that Nanny called her just the other day and asked “What is an iPod and do I need to get one?” I am sorry, but that is current.

When we walked through the door, it was all so warm and familiar. I can’t identify what her house smells like, but it’s a part of my life. Even when we got home on Sunday, I could smell it on my clothes and in my hair. It’s just the smell of home and comfort, a combination of Sir Walter Raleigh pipe tobacco, fresh cinnamon cake out of the oven and perfume. If I could buy it in a bottle, I would.

Caroline was in complete awe of Nanny’s house. There are more things to look at than you could possibly see in just one visit. She still has our old toy closet filled with toys from our childhood and books that bring back so many memories. Caroline walked into that closet, found a huge box full of more jewelry than you can imagine and said “Oh Mama, this is interesting”. It’s like a little piece of heaven on earth for a little girl, and I know because it’s where I spent so much of my childhood.

At one point, I was on the other side of the house and I heard a familiar noise that made me laugh out loud. It was the sound of Samba music coming from the electric organ that Nanny has in her sitting room. I knew that it was only a matter of time before Caroline discovered it and once she did, she was hooked. I spent a lot of hours playing that same organ with my sister making up variety shows and musicals that would rival the Sweeney Sisters. We’d put Nanny’s nightgowns on our head for our hair and drape ourselves in anything we could find in her jewelry box.

If you don’t want a honest answer, then you better not ask her a question. Sometimes she’ll even give her opinion before you’ve asked. When she came out of surgery last year, my mama was waiting for her and sat holding her hand. Nanny looked at her and said “I really wish you’d do something with your hair. It just looks terrible”. I have always thought she’s kind of like a mama cat, she likes to take all her babies and get them cleaned up just right.

I remember one Thanksgiving when P and I drove 7 hours to get to the lakehouse and when I walked in the door she said “Oh it makes me so sad that you don’t wear makeup anymore”. She feels strongly about looking your best (even on 7 hour car rides), in fact I don’t have a picture of her from this weekend because she didn’t have her “face on”.

The biggest thing (literally) that she worries about is all of her girls’ weight. Gulley said that she knew she was officially part of the family when Nanny told her she’d put on a few pounds. But here’s the kicker, anytime you visit she will always have your favorite dessert fresh out of the oven. It’s like she wants you to look good, but she also wants to indulge you in your favorite food. In fact, one of the first things she said after I walked in the door was that she had made my favorite banana pudding. It was so good I could’ve eaten the whole bowl. And oh my goodness, her sweet tea is like no other you’ll will ever taste. I’d be willing to bet that the sugar to tea ratio errs high on the side of sugar. It’s like heaven in a glass.

After Caroline finally passed out from the sheer exhaustion of looking through all that jewelry, Nanny and I stayed up talking. This has always been one of my favorite things about Nanny, she’s a night owl like me (or at least like me before I had a 3 year old that likes to wake up when it’s still “darken” outside). When I was little she always let me stay up late with her to watch The Tonight Show, in fact the night that Johnny Carson did his last show I was off at college, but I had to call Nanny on the phone because the sound of Johnny’s voice will always remind me of those renegade nights at her house where I was allowed to stay up until 11:30.

When we got up to leave the next morning, Caroline wasn’t ready to leave and neither was I. That’s the thing about Nanny, she knows how to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the world when you’re with her. She listens to everything you say and even when I was little, never made me feel like my thoughts didn’t matter. I think Caroline summed it up best as we were leaving, she said “Oh Mama, I want to take one of these road trips again sometime.”

Mama does too.

Happy Birthday, Nanny. Love you.

I talked to P yesterday morning and told him I was planning on cooking dinner. He told me to not worry about because we had plenty of leftovers in the fridge. He is a peach.

A little later on, I was reading some blogs and noticed that Barb had posted a recipe for a dish that involved sausage and potatoes. All of a sudden I knew there was no way I could eat leftovers. I must have sausage and potatoes. Barb’s dish called for some other ingredients, but I wanted to make them just like my Pa-Pa used to. Sausage, potatoes, a little onion, and lots of butter. It’s a meal that will keep cardiologists in business for years to come.

So I made it for dinner last night and it was good, but not as good as Pa-Pa’s.

The summer after my freshman year in college I lived with my Me-Ma and Pa-Pa. My mom had moved to Oklahoma, my daddy lived in Houston, and I wanted to spend the summer in Beaumont because that’s where my friends were, and most importantly my high school boyfriend who I’d been dating for the last two and a half years.

It wasn’t a good relationship and in truth I knew it was on its last legs, but I was nineteen, insecure, and desperate to hang on to something familiar. No one really thought I should stay in Beaumont, but Me-Ma and Pa-Pa agreed to let me spend the summer with them on two conditions. I had to go to summer school and I had to be in by 10:30 every night.

Think about that. I had just finished an entire year with all the freedom that college offers and I was going to spend the summer with a 10:30 curfew. Even on the weekends. That is what you call a tight ship.

The funny thing is that I respected their wishes. And at a time in my life when I wasn’t afraid to rebel against authority, I didn’t dare break their rules. At the time I wasn’t really sure why, but looking back I think it’s because they were my grandparents, they had always adored me and thought the best of me even when I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want to disappoint them.

I thought I was staying with them and enduring a 10:30 curfew as a last resort, but I look back at that summer as one of the greatest gifts of my life. I’d always spent a lot of time with them because my daddy drove in from Houston every other weekend and we always spent the weekend at their house, but that summer I really got to know them in a way that can only happen when your daily lives are intertwined.

I had an 8:00 class every morning. I think it was a political science class but I honestly can’t remember because for me college wasn’t so much about the actual classroom experience as it was about the extracurricular activities, but I seem to remember some talk of various branches of the government. I’d wake up in the morning and stumble into the kitchen even though I’d had plenty of sleep the night before, thanks to my 10:30 curfew.

Me-Ma and Pa-Pa would be sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and reading the newspaper. They’d also discuss what they needed from Market Basket that day because heaven knows not a day would pass without at least one trip to the Market Basket.

I’d head off to school and get back home around lunchtime. By then Pa-Pa had spent the morning watching The Price is Right and making the first trip of the day to Market Basket. They were gearing up for General Hospital which started at 2:00. I swear the sound of the ambulance in the opening credits of General Hospital will always make me think of their house.

Anyway, Pa-Pa was always a master of various culinary delights. Early on in my childhood he introduced me to the artery clogger known as a baloney sandwich on white bread with Miracle Whip. It makes me gag a little thinking about it now. However, my favorite Pa-Pa specialty was sausage and potatoes. I’d walk in from class and there he would be, standing over a skillet on the stove getting it all ready for me. “BIG MEL! The cook has your sausage and potatoes going!” I’ll never make them as good as he did.

That summer ended up being a defining summer for me. I finally broke up with the bad boyfriend, decided to go back to A&M in the fall, and managed to keep my weight at a decent level in spite of all the sausage and potatoes. I watched a lot of General Hospital and cried a lot of tears on my Me-Ma’s lap.

And I was home by 10:30 every night.

But I think the greatest gift I received that summer was spending every day with two people who thought I could do no wrong. They built me up and loved me unconditionally at a time when my self-confidence was at an all time low. They gave me a safe place that forced me to go back to childhood for a little while and catch my breath.

For that, and the sausage and potatoes, I will be forever grateful.

I just wish I could tell them how much.

I hope they knew.

For twenty-three Fridays I have dispensed fashion advice to anyone who takes the time to read it.

God bless you for reading, ma’am.

Then I was looking through some old photos the other day and found disturbing evidence as to why I may not be the best person to dole out fashion wisdom.

So, in honor of tomorrow being the big Fashion Fiesta and so many of y’all being worried about baring your fashion souls, I’m going to share some sins from my past.

Because we must look at the fashion past to embrace the fashion future.

Coco Chanel said that.

Actually, she didn’t. But she could have.

I am nine years old in this picture.

Please note that I am not wearing a sweet, white Yo-Yo on my other foot because it is wrapped in an ace bandage. Although now that I look closer, it’s not so much an ace bandage as it is just a footie sock.

So, clearly, SERIOUS INJURY.

“Nurse, we need a footie sock, STAT.”

I spent most of elementary school with some sort of bandage on various appendages, not because I was accident prone as much as just a chronic hypochondriac with a touch of drama queen.

It’s a shame because that footie sock really detracts from what would otherwise be a stellar look complete with Suntan pantyhose. I mean who doesn’t want tiers of fabric cascading down their body creating a triangle configuration that blends in perfectly with some quality 1970’s draperies?

By the way, that pole was used to hold up the T.V. in my mama’s bedroom.

Because the 70’s were a time of technological innovation.

This is my sister and me. Easter 1985.

I could talk at length about the influence Madonna had on my dress and lace tights (and I’m not talking about Jesus’ mother), but I think the real story here is my sister’s hat.

Amy spent most of her childhood wearing some type of hat on her head. In fact, for an entire year of her life she wore a yellow satin nightgown on her head and pretended it was long, blonde hair. She’d even walk around with a brush and demand you style it for her. I can’t tell y’all how many hours of my life I spent braiding the sleeves of a yellow nightgown to appease my sister.

That’s not strange.

Honestly, looking at those bangs crowning my sick mullet, a hat wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.

This next picture is Gulley, my sister, and me.

Between the three of us, I feel certain we helped Leslie Lucks fund a European vacation for her entire extended family.

When I first saw this picture I was impressed at how small our waists appear and then I realized whose waist wouldn’t look small when you add three times your body’s dimensions to your shoulders with foam padding?

Especially combined with hair that has seen more than its fair share of perm solution.

And nevermind that I look more like I’m on my way to some sort of Fandango dance show than Easter Sunday services.

I remember this Easter fondly because Gulley came home with me to spend it with my family. We all went to lunch at Steak and Ale and my Big Bob asked my stepfather to bless the meal.

My stepfather was about halfway through the blessing when my Great Aunt Maddie had a delayed response to the whole event and just yelled out, “OH I THINK THAT WOULD BE GREAT!”

I don’t know that I’ve ever laughed louder or longer at such an inappropriate time.

Well, until I found these pictures.

Yesterday, I picked Caroline up from school and we headed to a local ice cream shop because I promised her that if she didn’t get her name written on the board for talking during nap time then we could get a treat after school.

Bribery. It works for me.

We pulled up to the ice cream place and it was closed. Needless to say there was great angst over the ice cream that was not to be, but then she looked across the street and saw a huge sign that pictured chocolate-covered strawberries.

“OH MAMA! CAN I GET CHOCOLATE-COVERED STRAWBERRIES?”

I agreed and we drove across the street. They were some of the biggest strawberries I’ve ever seen and I told her she could have two. The nice man at the counter rang up our purchase and told me that would be $8.10.

For two strawberries.

$4.05 a piece.

Dipped in chocolate, not gold.

And at that moment it totally paid off that I have just one child because otherwise I would have ended up shelling out $16.20 for four strawberries. See how economical the only child is?

Granted, if I had two kids I probably wouldn’t take them to get chocolate-covered strawberries because anytime they asked me for anything I’d remind them that I gave them a sibling and that should be more than enough.

That’s just one reason I go back and forth on the second child thing, the other is that we’re going to need someone to wash dishes while Caroline mows the lawn.

Oh I kid because judging by the emails and comments y’all have some opinions on the only child vs. multiple children thing.

And I’m serious when I say that I appreciate all your words and thoughts on the whole matter. It’s part of the reason I corner every only child I meet and do a battery of psychological tests to make sure they seem to be reasonably normal and well-adjusted.

The thing is that I’m totally okay with whatever God has planned for our family. And really, it’s kind of funny that I spend so much time on the internal second child debate as if it’s totally up to me, because there’s no guarantee I’d even get pregnant again. If He wants us to have another child we will. It’s not like He’s up in heaven wringing his hands over the fact that I’m on birth control pills. Last I checked He’s more powerful than the hormonal manipulation of the Yaz.

Plus, having one child is so simple. Think of what we’ll save on college education. Not to mention the time we’ll save by only having one adult child to call each week and ask why she never calls or comes home to visit.

And we’ll know with all certainty who we have to bribe with good Christmas gifts to ensure that we’re placed in a quality retirement community.

Truth be told, I always assumed we would have two kids because it’s the thing to do. You get married, get a dog so that you can practice keeping something alive, have your two kids, and then make the dog start sleeping outside.

We’re at a point where we have friends popping out babies like they’re Tic-Tacs and I love to visit them, hold the little bundle of sweetness, then hand them back while thinking “Yeah, good luck with that. If you need me, I’ll be sleeping for eight hours.”

But yet there is a part of me that would love the whole experience of having another child, except with an epidural before I dilate to 10 centimeters. It’s such an amazing thing to watch something that weighs 5 1/2 pounds, has no eyelashes, and bears more than a slight resemblance to a baby frog become a beautiful little girl with pigtails that says things and has opinions.

Would we have a boy? Would it be another girl? Is there a chance it would sleep through the night at two weeks and potty train itself?

Because that would be golden.

I even have some great names picked out that may end up being used on a new puppy instead.

And I’m okay with that because who wouldn’t want a puppy named Isabelle?

Or even Cookie, which is what Caroline would like to name a new baby sister.

The truth is that I adore being a mother. I especially adore being Caroline’s mother because, well, she’s mine and that’s how it should be. And while I know I wouldn’t regret having another one, that doesn’t mean it’s the right thing for us.

I can’t have another one just so Caroline will have a sibling, although I might do it for the blog material.

I just know that whatever happens, God is in control. He knows our situation and what is ultimately best for our family. If that’s another baby at some point, great.

And if it’s not, then we’re already more than blessed.

So, now that I’ve got y’all over here, I guess I need to say something interesting. Of course, why deviate from the norm just because I’m in a new location?

I’m all about living up to your expectations of random content.

P and Caroline celebrated Good Friday by heading to the ranch to do some fishing. With this move, he singlehandedly trumped all my big Spring Break activities, including the trip to Target and the $1.00 popcorn.

He even bought minnows to use as bait. Seriously, I can’t compete with the minnows.

And I certainly can’t compete with this.

Those huge catfish? Caroline caught those.

Not only did she catch them, but she also touched them. With her hands. With her little baby hands that used to smell like a combination of lavender and Cheerios all the time.

Friday night she went to spend the night with Mimi and Bops and they brought her home Saturday morning after a stop at Shipley’s Donuts.

She brought me one. Slightly used.

Tasty.

She’d been home exactly five seconds before she begged to start dyeing Easter eggs. Did I spell dyeing right? It doesn’t look right but, frankly, I’m just barely coming out of my baked french toast hangover and haven’t the strength to look it up in a dictionary.

So, I boiled us some eggs and took the whole dyeing operation outside because I know the limits of my sanity and Easter egg dye in my house clearly exceeds those limits. Especially when the chief egg dyer uses a technique called PLOPPING THE EGGS right into a full cup of vinegar, dye and water.

And look what kind of egg dye we bought.

Disney. Those folks have got themselves quite the marketing department.

Don’t think they wouldn’t emblazon DISNEY PRINCESSES right across the Easter Bunny’s rear end if given half a chance. Or try to incorporate Snow White and Sleeping Beauty into the Resurrection Story if they weren’t afraid of going to hell.

On Saturday night, P fried Caroline’s catfish for dinner and she was so proud. Then it was time for bed and we put out carrots for the Easter Bunny. She asked me if the Easter Bunny came down the chimney and I just mumbled something under my breath.

I realize that Santa is also make believe, but the Easter Bunny just seems like a ridiculous concept. I mean, really? A huge bunny that carries around eggs for kids? That doesn’t even make good sense.

Clearly, an elderly gentleman who lives with elves and travels with reindeer is much more realistic.

Then I had to watch the Aggies lose a heartbreaker to UCLA. It was so close. I could see us in the Final Four. With Duke out of the tournament, we’d have such a great shot. But, alas, ten minutes of no offensive production doesn’t really win games and bad calls by refs don’t help either. Boomama instant messaged me (is that how you say it? IM’d me? Ichatted me?) when there were about five minutes left in the game and offered to start vacuuming because that strategy has helped Mississippi State win some games.

A friend who offers to vacuum in your NCAA tournament time of need is a friend indeed.

You can embroider that on a pillow if you’d like.

Caroline woke up bright and early on Sunday morning to see if the Easter Bunny had made it to our house. Sure enough, there were eggs to hunt and candy to eat.

We got dressed for church and even made it on time which, in and of itself, was some sort of Easter miracle.

Mimi, Bops, my sister and her family all came over for Easter brunch. We put a serious dent in the baked french toast and the sausage and egg breakfast casserole and then watched Caroline and Sarah hunt for Easter eggs.

And this is where I would love to wrap this up all neatly with a big Easter bow but, like I said, the baked french toast combined with the Cadbury Egg chaser isn’t for amateurs. I’m going to need to really sleep this off before I’m able to function at full capacity again.

So, I’ll just end with this.

Easter. It was good.