Family

Have potato head, will travel

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.
The spirit of Southwest

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.
Born on the 4th of July

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.
The ghosts of fashion past

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.
This could be the Yaz talking

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.
He is risen, but I am questionable

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.