Dad's Birthday Pledge

I come from a family of 6 kids, all of whom are or were married with or about to have children.  If you got all of that, it means when we all go out, it can be quite the ordeal.  Thankfully, we only do that once a week.  On a Sunday.  Right after mass when the rest of KC is also rushing around, trying to find a brunch spot.

After doing this every single week for over a year, our choices have become more and more limited.  This is not just because of the cost, but the size of our crowd and the reputation Ethan some have developed.  So, the unwritten rules have changed that whoever can get together, does.  Except for birthdays.  Birthdays are special, so we try to celebrate accordingly.

But if you remember, the family of 6 kids have proliferated to include a lot of people, and hence, a lot of birthdays.  Dad came up with the brilliant idea of celebrating all the birthdays of each month on one day.  In February, we have 4 birthdays, and decided to celebrate on the 26th.  For the shortest month of the year, we sure pack in a lot.  I guess quite a few people like to celebrate the end of the school year...

This year, my birthday fell on a Sunday, so Sam took me out they day before to celebrate.  I cannot remember the last time we spent an afternoon exclusively together.  It's not that we don't have a plethora of people willing to watch our kids while we go out; we just feel that weekends are the only real time Sam gets to spend time with them so we like to maximize that time with them.  After a great day without a single fight (worthy of a call to the Vatican if you know me), we went to pick up the kids from my parents' house.  Dad pulled me aside and asked to take my little family out the next day (12th).  I was confused, and reminded him of the planned get-together on the 26th, but he insisted that this year, he wanted to celebrate with each of his children on their actual birthday.

My Dad is old school.  I have always known that he loves all of us.  What I only learned in the last few years is that he has the same obsession with his kids that I have with my own.  This was quite the revelation to me, because we were raised with "tough love" from the old country.  When he was a young father, he had to fight the urge to shower his children with affection, in accordance with the cultural practice of not overtly expressing your love to your children lest they become spoiled.  But now that he's a grandfather, all that blissfully goes out the window.

So this year, Dad pledged to spend each of his children's birthday with them.  I was touched, but still confused, and he must have noticed or was wanting to share his reasons with me: he does not believe he will be with us for much longer.

Dad is 72 years old.  I stubbornly see him as a very strong and healthy man, not looking anywhere near his age, and definitely nowhere near that next phase that I cannot grasp right now, or ever.  He still loves to fish, does almost all the housework, and gives the grandchildren rides on his back.  He chases Ethan around the house, hides around the corner, and allows Ethan to use him as a punching bag.  He takes my mother everywhere, and will drop whatever he is doing the minute one of us asks him to come over.  He seems so much younger than his 72 years.  But, he is unquestionably aging.  When I was 10 years old, I begged God to not take my parents away until I was at least 20 years old, an age I felt old and mature enough to handle such a tremendous loss.  I am 39, and cannot even fathom the horrible day I will have to face this.

I don't know what made my Dad make that morbid prediction, but I do hope that I am making the most of every day I have with him.  I have had to help too many friends bury at least one of their parents, and although I know I will join ranks with them one day, I hope to put it off for as long as possible.  I hope that when that horrible day comes, I can still smile through my torrent of tears, and hope Dad will always know what he means to me.  Because I intend to let him know every day.

God's not so small creatures

God loves all creatures, big and small.  At least that's what I was taught when I was younger and too stupid to know any better.  Now that I'm much bigger and slightly less stupid, I think this is flawed, and the nuns who taught me this were probably laughing behind their veils.

I'm pretty sure mosquitoes and all flying insects are examples that not only humans, but God makes mistakes.  It is unseasonably warm in January, but I hardly think warm enough for this: I opened the door leading to the garage yesterday, and a horsefly the size of a small pterodactyl flew into the house.  I finally cornered the germ-infested flying bastard to a window, hit it with a fly swatter with enough force to make Ethan feel the ripple effect from the other room, picked up the carcass with a napkin and squished it before unceremoniously crushing it into the trash can.  I did NOT want that nasty creature to have any chance of coming back.

I left the house for 3 hours.  I may or may not have been going out to lunch and shopping, spending Sam's hard-earned money almost faster than he can make it.  This is not a confessional, and what's more, that's neither here nor there.  So, when I got back, I had to throw something (I think it belonged to Sam and was offending my natural balance of the chaos in the kitchen) away, and opened the trash can.  That filthy, disgusting creature HOPPED OUT OF THE TRASH CAN AND ONTO MY KITCHEN FLOOR!!!!!

So then I realized maybe these nasty bastards are not God's mistakes, but more like a harsh shove (no gentle nudges from The Big Guy) and cackle of "Did you really think you'd get away with that?"

Beware the sick and sleep-deprived Ethan

We have all been very spoiled to have Sam at home with us the last two weeks of the year.  While many people have been praying for school to start up again, I was excited to have the kids at home for three weeks and nowhere to be at any particular time.  It has been absolute bliss to have my little family at home, waking up late, sauntering downstairs for breakfast whenever the spirit (or one of the kids) would move us, and then go about the rest of our day.  Ethan has been especially happy to have his Daddy at home.  He gets to play games that I would never entertain; you know the type--basketball, football, or anything that might require coordination or worse, for me to exert some energy.    

It's amazing how much a little boy, who barely speaks, can convey using only his eyes and facial expressions.  For the last couple of weeks, he has gotten even more animated when trying to get us to play with him.  No, he doesn't flap his arms like an injured bird trying to take flight.  His excitement is expressed more with his eyes lighting up, excitedly yelling at what he must believe to be coherent speech to tell us to get up and moving, and then when all else fails, he gets a running start and tackles us and falls over laughing at our pain.  Except for his five days of fever and chills, he has been a very happy and funny kid, which made for a peaceful (albeit a little bruised) existence for all of us.

So, you'd think we'd have enough sense to do whatever we can to avoid situations that aggravate him, but it's not so easy.  There are days where he wakes up, mad at the world and ready to duke it out with whomever or whatever crosses his path.  And it's exponentially worse if he's been sick and thus, sleep-deprived.  Sometimes, it's poor Ally who is on the receiving end of his wrath.  Fortunately, she is an exceptionally kind and patient sister, and is able to defuse the Ethan-bomb rather quickly.  When that happens, Sam and I stand in the corner, chewing our fingers (we have one functional knuckle remaining on each finger) and hope and pray she can work her magic.  Most of the time, she is successful and we are able to resume breathing right before one of us collapses from lack of oxygen.  Unfortunately, some days, she refuses to cater to his psychotic rages and simply avoids him.  On those days, we live in abject fear.

One of those days, we decided we were no longer going to be held  hostage by a non-speaking, still poops in his pants two year-old, no matter how cute he is.  We were going to stand our ground and let this boy know, once and for all, that WE are the bosses.  And furthermore, we are NOT afraid of HIM.  Yeah, that's right.  We drugged him up (he had a fever), took him out, and strapped him into his car seat, tightening the belt just a little more than usual to make sure he would not fly out of it and shred us to pieces.

Not even out of our subdivision, I apprehensively peeked in the backseat to make sure both kids were still okay (more concerned for Ally than Ethan, to be honest).  The look I got from Ethan expressed so much disgust with us, my immediate reaction was "Sam, you'd better sleep with one eye open tonight.  He is going to crawl out of his crib, grab his noise-making car, and run your face over and over until you are no longer recognizable.  He is furious."  I could tell he was desperately searching for a half-eaten bag of cheezits to crush and flail all over the car to watch his mother twitch uncontrollably and progress to a full grand mal seizure.  Then he was going to rip off one of his shoes and beat his father into oblivion in the back of the head.  He'd spare his sister, because she'd at least have the sense to hide in the third row of seats.  Yes.  I got all that from the expression on his face.

Needless to say, we turned around and fetched all the basketballs, baseballs, footballs and bouncy balls we could find to appease The Little Man.  And completely chewed off one finger from each hand.

Dreaded anticipation

Do you ever have those moments of anticipated dread, or dreaded anticipation?  You know the feeling--when you know something has to happen, but you don't want it to happen.  At least not on your watch, but if you're the only one on watch, you're it.  And as bad as it is, if it doesn't happen, the consequences would be far worse.

So, you try your best to prepare.  And you wait.  With tremendous dread.  At the same time, you worry that it won't come, and then what?  Ugh, you don't even want to consider the alternative.  You have this tightness in your chest as your worry when and if it'll come, yet not thrilled that it's coming.  Your chest gets tight, your stomach knots up, and you even feel a little nauseous as you wait.  And when it does come, those feelings wash over you all over again.  They don't call those wrinkles on your forehead "worry lines" for nothing.

This happens in our family every single day.  During the week, the concern is not just if it's going to come, but where?  At home?  In public?  On the weekends, it's compounded because now it's not just me that has ants crawling in my brain as I wonder when and if it'll come; Sam is right there with me.

Then it happens.  It washes over everything like a tsunami.

Ethan poops.

A honeybee chicken and a chicken pig

Either I've become very busy with the kids' and families' schedules, gotten extremely lazy, or we have been caught in a time warp where I lost all track of time.  Here is my first attempt at a return to normalcy by updating this blog.

Ally is six years old now.  We put her in a costume when she was 2 months old, but did not force her to try to beg for candy.  No, we had the decency to wait until she was 14 months old, lest people would accuse us (rightfully) of abusing our child in an attempt to get candy.  If my math is correct, this year marks the 5th time we've put her into a costume and escorted her outside to get some goods.

The first year, she was a ladybug, and since she did not make it past one house before losing it, I failed to capture her in action.  However, I did capture her in costume on a very cold Halloween:

The second year wasn't much better.  Undeterred, we took her out again when she was three.  Well, that did not work so well either.  Finally, when she was four, she was Ariel the mermaid and went out with a neighbor while Sam stayed at home with Ethan (then only 6 months old).  That year, she actually made it around the block and got a respectable amount of candy.

Last year, Ethan, although sick, went out for the first time with his sister.  We started at Sam's office:

Success at the office!  Later that night,I figured they were super cute and would get loads of candy.  Right?  Wrong.  After 5 houses, Ally reasoned "Why should I walk when I have so much candy at home?"  So, she ruined Halloween for me and went home.  Ethan, on the other hand, realized he could get candy just by knocking on doors!  So, with a fever, he marched on.  Halloween saved for mommy!

Do we even want to talk about this year?  I put Ally into a honeybee costume she picked out at the Halloween store.  The very same store that sells adult costumes, which scared the living daylights out of her. She ran in, eyes barely open, picked out the first costume in her size, and called it good.  

She did so well at Sam's office, and with a gorgeous night, I thought she'd make up for years past and haul in the loot!  Wrong again.  Five houses later, she lost it when a group of teenagers made too much noise.  So, she turned in for the night, and in fact, hid in the corner every time other trick-or-treaters rang the doorbell.  

Ethan, on the other hand, wanted absolutely nothing to do with his chicken costume.  The best we got at Sam's office was a very angry half chicken:

Later that night, we accomplished a headless chicken that ate the candy almost as fast as he could get it:

At least the headless chicken said "bok bok" on cue to bring in a respectable amount of candy.  To sum up this year, we had a chicken for a honeybee and a pig for chicken.  No matter--I consider it a success!

Round 1 with The Big Guy

Dear God,

No, my name is not Margaret, and I am not wondering if You're here.  Honestly, I hold the belief not only are You here, You get Your giggles at my expense.  I'm not saying I'm the only person that provides You with humor; I'm just saying I'm onto You.

Today, I'm writing about Your running joke, my daughter.  Quite obviously, You heard me pray and plead for a healthy child during my pregnancy, and I thank You again and again.  Ok, maybe just on Sundays, and only if Your other jokey gift, my son, gives me a tiny moment to reflect rather than chase him around the church (By the way, I know You are taking bets, despite the fact You have an unfair advantage, on how many curse words I will unleash during mass.  Like I said, I'm onto You.).  But anyway, I also know You heard my very quiet plea that I never voiced to anyone else that she please be smart, because God, You know how I feel about academics.  And the thought of having a child without a love for education was horrifying to the point I simply could not contemplate. 

I don't want You to think I'm not grateful for a very healthy daughter (we'll disregard the 3-day hospital stay when she was 12 months old, and the epic vomiting over spring break).  But seriously, this child has the handwriting of a horse.  And I'm not talking about the animated animals that have Palmer script.  I am talking about a horse at the end of the Kentucky derby that has broken its leg and ready to be put down.  It is that bad, and I don't see it getting any better.  Recently, while struggling with what I believed to be her writing, I grasped for hope that she would love to read and have the same obsession for proper spelling as myself. 

Har har.  Very funny.  Despite her love for books (thank You for making sure she got my genes for that one), You gave her her father's sheer hatred for spelling.  It would appear these two share a unique dictionary that has yet to be shared with the public.  Or anyone on this planet for that matter.  I'm guessing, however, that YOU provided them with the sole copy.  Any chance I might get a decoded version?  I didn't think so.

I'll tell You what I don't find amusing--the fact that You gave her her father's aptitude for math, when You knew perfectly well it would be I who would have to help her with her math homework.  Don't act like You didn't know I was going to inevitably quit my job and stay at home, and thus, take on that responsibility.  After all, You are omni-whatever that word is that means You know everything.  I appreciate the irony of the fact that despite my love for reading, I simply cannot master word problems in math.  I mean, how can I possibly decipher what I'm supposed to solve?  What do I care how long it would take Ted to reach Fred if Ted were traveling by train at 50mph, broke down 30 minutes later, caught a plane whilst Fred biked on a one-speed in the opposite direction for 3 hours, turned around by Vespa and then caught in a tornado?  Seriously, I don't care.  Beyond my lack of respect for algebra and trigonometry, why are first graders being asked to solve word problems in math?!!!!  HOW HARD ARE YOU LAUGHING EVERY DAY AT 4pm?!!!!!  Because let me tell You, as much as I disrespect math, the lack of faith my child has in me is becoming more and more obvious every day when we sit down to tackle her math assignment.  Perhaps I should audit her class...

In closing, thank You for giving me such a beautiful gift that is my daughter.  Feel free to take away the sass, drama and daily rolling of the eyes first in the morning when I pick out her clothes, and in the afternoon during homework time.  I'm not sure how to close out a letter to You, so for now, let's just leave it at peace out. 

What in the....???

By this time, I should not be surprised by much. However, people still manage to shock me, and that is saying a lot. 

Random things as of late:

1. When a person who never calls you suddenly does, it's not to say "hello". Before answering that call, be prepared to throw away any plans you had that day.

2. Getting an email out of nowhere with the pretense of interest in my family's and my well-being, but really looking for gossip, still surprises and annoys me. It would be so much easier, and I'd respect it a lot more, if the person would just directly ask about that gossip.

3. It does not matter how far I went in my education. Ally will always think I cannot possibly understand the material she is studying at that point in time. Right now, I am apparently having issues with first grade.

4. I am convinced Ethan can poop on demand. Like right before I have to head out the door.

5. Virtually all disputes are due to silly misunderstandings, and that's actually very funny if you're not in the middle of the dispute. But that does not mean I will forgive my death-wishing neighbor for setting off fireworks last July 29 after 9pm when Ethan was trying to sleep. I think the kid is still suffering from PTSD from that incident.

6. After 17 years, I still don't know what Sam does at work. I'm pretty sure it involves fantasy football, rotisserie baseball, eating at Johnny's on Thursdays because it's 2-for-1 burgers, and the occasional trip out of town because "the client needs attention".

7. People are so much nicer to you when you give them a genuine smile and say "hello", and it also makes your day a lot nicer as well. This does NOT mean a kinder and nicer Anh because YOU should know better.

8. When someone complains about the price of gas or how much it cost to fill up their car, do they think they are alone? Do they feel like I got my gas for free or something???

This does not conclude the list by any means, because I am spending increasingly more time each day with "head-scratching" moments. I mean, really--am I in the Twilight Zone?!