But Facebook, Do I Have to Remember?

If you're on Facebook, which even Mama H is these days (can you believe it?!), then you probably get reminded all the time of pictures you posted on this date in years past. I think someone in California was like, how can we force people to look at other people's weddings and babies over and over and over again without the original poster being even more obnoxious than they already might be.

So, issue #1 - if I already liked the picture in the past I don't know if it makes me a bad person not to like it again however many years later. I mean, some posts are hilarious or over the top precious, and it is interesting to see time flying for things like first days of school and such. But honestly, that's not always the case.

Issue #2 though is that Facebook has decided to remind me, at least once a week, that I used to be in this giddy, adorable relationship. The kind that makes you post cute photos of you and your boyfriend/fiance/spouse doing cutesy date activities because you're so darn happy and it will never end.

Now I don't negate the happiness. Read the blog. I was head over heels enamored for a very long time. I just sometimes wake up and remember the state JG and I have now found ourselves in and the last thing I want to do is see how awesome we were. I'm glad we were. I truly am. I love our history and our beginning and more than anything I love these crazy, awesome. adorable. ridiculous boys we created together. They're the absolute best ever. I will always be thankful I fell in love in New York and took a risk on the man I married because all the heartache is still worth it. And, as evidenced in the flashbacks, most of it for a very long time was not heartache. It was bliss and comfort and companionship.

So maybe there's a button that a younger millennial can show me to avoid the barrage of happy memories? Or maybe part of moving on and adapting to change is learning how to accept the past being launched at your face when you'd really rather be mindlessly scrolling and liking happy babies and weddings and vacation getaways.

I don't know.

Either way, it's not like it would help me forget the dates that matter over the summer and fall months. I mean, I still remember birthdays of kids I went to elementary school with. I'm not going to forget August 15th. November 12th. September 6th. Or September 4th or 5th or the other September 6th that eventually led to February 6th. Maybe this whole elephant brain is gonna get me year after year even if I do take a Facebook hiatus.

But when I invent my time machine - along with unsending quite a few emails, being way more thoughtful with certain college decisions, finding the cross streets of the bar from spectacle night, and spending more time with Mom-Mom that final year - I'm going to insert a bunch of ridiculous posts on Facebook to be seen only by me, so that when I return to the present 2017 I can be reminded of cute things like rabbits and pigs napping together, clouds that look like unicorns, me sleeping eight hours uninterrupted and so on. Facebook can remind me of that as much as it wants. I'll smile as I start my daily scroll. I won't repost unless it's over the top adorable. And when I'm ready for all the emotions, then I'll click on old albums or return to old blog posts here to relive the magical and heart-wrenching story of my first great love.

After the Move

After rereading my last three posts I'm thinking I made the right choice by deciding to write tonight. The summer hasn't been the positive slope graph I was hoping when I turned the maybe-divorce-won't-be-awful corner around my birthday. But not everything has been terrible. In fact, a lot of things have been quite wonderful.

For instance, the new house is great. It's about twice the size as my old place for substantially less rent and includes a basement, a bathroom on all three floors, and a guest bedroom for whenever you decide to visit. Yep, you. There's a pantry where I can store your favorite snacks and enough cabinets for me to finally put to use all the fancy wedding gifts that have been stored away. (Oh irony, such a tricky little friend)

The neighborhood is off to a solid start. There's a pool if you get here by Labor Day and it's never busy. Ever. Sometimes we're the only family there. Plus there are a billion kids ages 2-12 that rule this townhome cul de sac like a kid gang from the late 80s. PDG and MDG have joined right in with their training wheels and nerf guns. So many boys! When that's not enough exercise and excitement, we make our way to Fantasy Playground and make believe in the wooden castles, or check out what the library is offering that day. Reptile night has been the biggest hit so far. Camp Nicole isn't quite what it was the year of exploring A-town parks, but it's still suburban busy and scheduled around much needed midday naps.

Still, it's all hard. The uncertainties. The wondering if the kids are going to come through this all ok. The wondering if I'm going to come through ok. The quiet every other Saturday morning when I wish for tiny footsteps to come in the room and tell me the sun's awake and request cereal or frozen waffles. There were the accidents and bedwetting that first week after moving when their little brains and hearts and bodies were adjusting to a new home. My brain and heart and body had to adjust too.

It's all so new, and yet, so much is the same. MDG will be at the same daycare. PDG will be there in the mornings for a while too. I'll be at my same job with my coworkers who have welcomed me to the community with dinners and girls nights and play dates. The boys still have the toys and games and shows they love. We go to a church that teaches the same lessons from the same books and sing the same songs. At bedtime we pray and we tell the same stories. Even the princess story about me and J-Man. We see the people we love and they (you) find time to keep our friendships going.

There's a hole, of course, and there are plenty of people with opinions about how I should fill it and when. There are times when I push too hard and times when I still don't say what I want or need or think I deserve.

There's hurt. Specific hurt that warrants apologies and the broad hurt that no one gets to own more than another.

But at the core, there's so much love. I love my boys. I love my family. I love my friends. That other love I used to write about - I miss it. I'm sure I will for a while. Maybe one day I'll even feel it again. For now though, I'm going to keep counting blessings, finding silver linings, letting myself have a biweekly cry when the house is too quiet, and finding more ways to embrace the positive in the otherwise awful limbo of separation.

Good Riddance, 32

Guess who just finished celebrating her first solo birthday with her first solo wedding! That's right, this woman right here.

 (I was gonna write "this girl" but at 33, it's time I call myself a woman, I think.)

Now, I can't say that I survived the birthday weekend unscathed. I mean, I did sob while driving through the pouring rain at 8am after dropping off the boys, but a phone call to Big Sis and reassuring texts from KB and other friends helped keep it the only real cry of the day.

With that behind me I ventured out to get my hair relaxed at a new salon. And no, I haven't dyed the gray yet. Despite lots of people asking me. Just so you know, I don't plan on changing my mind any time soon, but feel free to keep asking. Seriously. The endless inquiries make me feel amazing. So young. So beautiful. So treasured for my intellect and personality. Can you tell how much I love being judged for something my body is doing naturally? I'm looking at you, random man at Target who felt the need to know if all that gray was real. Awesome.

Less sarcastically, I ate at the bar in Olive Garden while reading another Liane Moriarty novel and it was pretty fantastically self-indulgent.

So with my hair done and lasagna enjoyed I joined KB and O and hit the road to wild and wonderful WV for SA's wedding. There was a moment during the rehearsal when I realized I'd be walking down the aisle to the same song I walked down my own wedding aisle to and my eyes welled on instinct, but remembering it was SA's day and she is an incredible and wonderful friend, I told my emotions to save the pity party for another weekend and pushed through.

After that moment I honestly forgot it was my birthday for hours. We ate and laughed and crossed our fingers the weather would stay warm and sunny for Saturday (spoiler: it didn't). At the end of the night, back in the amazing cabin that we hope to revisit in September - according to Big O we will definitely be back, and fishing, with the little ones - we ate birthday cookies and it sunk in that I was 33.

The next day there were only tiny moments of heartbreak that sneaked in. I knew they would. I breathed them in and exhaled them back out. I accepted hugs from kind friends old and new, and I danced. A lot. With a confidence I owe to J-Man and eleven years of him insisting we always be on the dance floor within minutes of it being opened to the crowd. I wished I had someone to dance with. Then a new song would come on and I'd shoo that thought away and keep dancing.

I kept dancing.

And dancing.

And dancing.

Until the band packed up and we were the final twelve or so folks on the floor.

It kept my body warm in the crazy-cold, see-your-breath, wear-a-coat-through-dinner, night.

It kept my heart warm to be in motion. To cling to the songs about love and happiness and celebration, even if they all didn't feel 100% like current anthems.

SA's wedding was beautiful, and deserves more of a post than this, but what I realized about myself through the weekend is that for my 33rd year, I'm ready to be a doer. I'm ready to say yes. I'm ready to take the confidence I learned in the early years with J-Man, braving the chaos of Harlem and NYCTF, two cross-country moves, the madness of questionable fertility, the juggling act of two under two, and keep pushing forward.

I'm going to say yes more this year.

Yes, I'm going to NYC in two weeks.

Yes, I plan to have applied to grad school by my next birthday.

Yes, I will be on that committee or go to this yoga class or help out with those activities.

Even, yes I will recognize that I need a good cry, YA book and early bedtime to recharge before continuing to say yes to something else.

Yes, I will be happy this year.

Good riddance, 32. You brought too much heartache. You left too many scars. You demanded too many tears and compromises and surrenders.

Hello, 33. Bring on your adventures. Show me your hidden surprises. Tempt me with your possibilities. Teach me what to do with this bowl of lemons because I'm ready for the pitchers and pitchers of lemonade now.

Bring. It. On.

My Heart: Act II

Friends,

It's been a long time since I've written because I haven't had the words to say. You see, last September my heart broke. In all honesty it was breaking beforehand, but as I understood it the whole fracture took place in a day. A hammer on stained glass. Scissors to a quilt. 

I thought afterwards that my heart must have stopped beating, and reflecting in the passing days I wondered how it could not have. It was a miracle. 

Lest you worry, physically I was fine. The boys were fine. Even J-Man was fine. I guess.

I don't really know how to discuss heartbreak here because there are always two sides, and if you're reading this I can only guarantee you mine. And I don't guarantee much of that because it's still my story, to be shared if and when I'm ready. It's my truth. It's a day that, however, did not manage to stop my heart.

In the months since then, my heart has proven time and again that it beats on. It races when I consider where to move or if that's right for me. Or for the kids. It races more when I think of starting at a new school and what changes that could bring. Or resentment. But then I hold my two sweet boys and wrap myself in the world of loving them. Cleaning nosebleeds and blowing bubbles and dancing to the music we choose. 

Of course, it speeds up again when I have to answer their tough questions about our family being forever. I tell them that their dad and I will love them more than anyone else, like we always have, and that our love is forever. In that way we will always be a family. 

It physically aches when they request the story of the prince and the princess. The one where the main characters both have castles in Harlem and meet at teaching school and get engaged in Central Park and give each other rings in front of friends and family to say they'll live happily ever after with their two little princes. PDG's timing on requesting that story is impeccably ironic. And also gut-wrenching.

The thing is, we changed part of the story. And then I changed how I tell the story. It used to be that was the end of it all. Now the two promise to love the princes forever, but one day decide to live in separate houses. I didn't think I could change it, and yet I did. 

I realized during one telling that just because the ending changed, it didn't actually alter anything else. The story is still full of happiness. The story is an outgoing, smart, and goofy guy falling for a polar opposite girl, and the two making a life together.

Of course I know that years from now I'll reread this entry and think of all I don't know yet. By then I'll know if I moved and where. If I got a different job in this school district. I'll know if someone else found me lovable, and if I learned to trust again enough to accept it. If I figured out how not to judge myself based on someone else's adoration. I'll know the myriad things I cannot even fathom that I don't know now.

I do know this, as I will in the future, my heart will keep beating. In eight months it has beat through a separation, a reconciliation, a #divorcemoon and yet another separation. It keeps going. And if I doubt that, I will channel the characters of my book, turn up some Ingrid Michaelson, and sing along with both MDG and PDG that "all the broken hearts in the world still beat." 

I'll keep doing the things I love. I'll write about the topics that hurt and scare me - both here and in my stories. I'll cry at times, but I'll smile more. I'll make new memories, adding more chapters to the story of my life. My heart will step into act II. 

So, here goes. Welcome to the journey.

Love Notes

Not everything PDG and I talk about these days is as heavy as race. For instance, one day this summer he came up and showed me this note.

The conversation went as follows:

PDG: Mommy, I wrote you a note
Me: Aw, thanks. What does it say?
PDG: "Dear Mommy. From PDG. I hope you like it."

Then my heart melted into a puddle on the floor and we hugged with one of those awesome full body hugs that he gives now and will certainly deny ten years down the road.

I love this kid.

Race Lesson Number One

Well, folks, the day has come. My PDG has made the inevitable discovery that he's black. I thought I might have another year before I'd start this complex peeling back of the layers of race with him, but alas it's started coming into focus over the past few weeks and just keeps on popping up.

In some ways it's cute. He thinks it's so weird that people would call him black when he clearly isn't. In fact, he's figured out just which brown crayon in the big box we each are. MDG and I share the same one. His own is one shade lighter and J-Man's the lightest. He has no color words yet to describe our white friends and neighbors. As for the preposterous black/white binary system, he is slowly conceding that we are dark enough to fall into "black" but still thinks his dad is more "blackish whitish." It's all the cute naivete of every kid ever saying "But no one is really black or white, Mommy!"

Tragically pairing his recent realization of race with the news the past month has been devastating. How do you look at your beautiful black son with bright brown eyes and a smile that stretches across his whole face and then hear about more unnecessary killing of black men at the hands of scared police officers? How do you decide when to start mentioning that the policemen we love to point out as "being helpers" or "keeping people safe" might decide that their own presumed lack of safety is someone else's death sentence? Especially if that someone else has skin like ours. Worse if it's darker like their grandfathers' or Big Bro's.

It's been weeks since those terrible two days in a row of Alton Sterling and Philandro Castile and I'm still tearing up about it. It's like the weeks after watching Eyes on the Prize in 8th grade and trying to rid my brain of the horrific images. Beatings. Lynchings. Emmett Till.

Let's step back from those horrors though, because understanding race is gradual and nuanced. First there are going to be the additional questions he'll start to have. We live in a white neighborhood. We go to a mostly white church. We have friends of color, but live a comfortable middle-class life which can make that line of identifying as "black enough" feel out of reach, even when almost every day he will look and feel much blacker than the majority of the people around him. How can we explain how deep blackness penetrates despite how light the surface of his skin might be?

I remember figuring out my blackness. (Ha! I just wrote that, as if I've actually figured out my blackness. Yeah, right.) Better said, I remember starting to figure out my blackness. Some years I was the only black kid at my 180-student private school. Definitely the only black Mormon family in my childhood congregation. I've spent my own life wondering if I'm just the token. How many people name me as their one black friend? How many times have I been in photos like this one, where even the camera doesn't know what to do with me?

I want to tell my sweet boy how being black is not anything to ever feel ashamed of or annoyed by. How he is beautiful, and not because he's light-skinned and stuck with that baggage of being fetishized by all the people who love caramel complexions (because they aren't too dark or sound delicious or whatever?). I want him to find pride in himself and his family without the burden of anger when he begins to understand the circumstances his ancestors endured. I don't want anyone to call him the n-word and have that be a defining moment of his life. I don't want the feeling of otherness to shadow his childhood. I don't want him to wonder if his accomplishments shouldn't be valued because someone quoted anti-affirmative action propaganda and the words "reverse racism" when he succeeded. I don't want him to decide over and over again how hard to defend his right to be smart or articulate or creative or promoted, or not to be athletic or a great dancer or the end-all expert on African American studies.

I want all of that and yet, I don't know what that life could possibly look like because I've spent the past thirty-two years wanting the exact same things for myself.

My greatest solace is that I have years to help him understand this all. He doesn't have to know tomorrow how race is a construct. We can wait until elementary school to flush out the words slavery and segregation. And maybe by the time we delineate between stereotypes, prejudice, and racism the world will be a little kinder, the policies a little more reasonable, and the news stories of inhumanely treated black men a rarity met with honest to goodness justice for all.

NYC Revisited: Day Two

The morning after the wedding we slept in until a whopping 8:30. (Full disclosure I woke up at 5:45 and remembered I could keep sleeping, again at 7 and figured why not see what happened, and then at 8:30 knew that this was the latest my body could possibly understand how to stay asleep).

After a cute breakfast enjoying outdoor seating and people-watching we lazily set up our plan for the day. It revolved around eating, and particularly tracking down a portobello mushroom sandwich with mozzarella and tomato and zucchini that had once made me briefly consider being a vegetarian. We've thought about this appetizer for years and were so excited to see that even though restaurants like Orbit and Creole and One Fish Two Fish are no longer in existence, Ricardo's still was.

J-Man and I soon set off to walk from 80th and Broadway across the park and uptown to 110th and 2nd. We stopped to take some photos, though J-Man reminded me that we didn't need many. After all, we once lived here, and we can come back whenever. Still, I wanted to capture some cuteness.

By the time we'd crossed the park my legs were already laughing at me and my suburb-driving self that doesn't exercise. My hips were like "you know we could've taken a cab right? or a bus or train or uber or horse carriage..." I grabbed a Snapple from a street vendor and told those legs to shove it. I'm still as city fit as I was at 22. In my mind.

Crossing back uptown was a fun adventure. The shift in color and culture of the people on the street came a little farther north than it used to, and people were actually brunching outside above 96th street. But soon enough we were back in our neighborhood. We blended in again, the Spanish chatter started to pick up, and the city transformed into what somehow once was home. Sure enough, as we turned the final corner, there was Ricardo's just as we'd remembered it.

Actually, it was busier than we remembered. And there was a DJ playing poppy hip-hop music. We waited for a table and looked over the brunch menu only to find... what?! No portobello?!?!? How had we not considered once that the menu could have changed in the eight years since we'd last visited? We had to laugh and roll our eyes at ourselves. Of course New York was changing without us. Luckily, the menu was still delicious, and while I'm not a food-picture-taker in general, I did snap this little beauty. Maybe it'll still be around in eight more years?

We walked another six blocks north to see if Mojitos was still around too. That place was our staple once upon a time. Work happy hours, late night tacos, flaming cucarachas. Not only was it going strong, but 116th had some sort of street fair happening. It reminded me of the week after I moved in and the Puerto Rican festival just popped up outside my window. I know when Papa H dropped me off in Harlem the day after my ivy-covered college graduation we were all a little nervous about the neighborhood, but I felt nothing but happy memories standing on the corner.

And J-Man had nothing but good memories standing on his own old stoop too, just a block away from mine.

In case you're wondering, my legs insisted that we cab it back and relax for a few hours next. We watched Spotlight and dozed before starting up friend time. Highly recommended by the way.

Our next food focal point was Tony's Di Napoli. I know there's tons of great Italian food in this city so not everyone will agree, but this one is our favorite. It was always a reliable meal I could take my parents to without exotic cuisine fusions dominating the menu. V joined us - providing stories that could prove to our other college friends that she does still exist and work and isn't on a top secret government assignment - and so did Miss F.  We ordered our favorite zucchini chips and ziti and J-Man's only acceptable chicken marsala. Conversation floated from stealing babies to AMNH exhibits to new job opportunities and of course, the boys we missed so dearly. Also, because V is quite elusive - I took some proof of life.

Back on the west side we finally got to see EK and her husband and thank them for letting us treat their apartment as our personal hotel for the weekend. EK, Miss F and I ate sweets and caught up on life while the boys chatted and discussed the Olympic gymnast's compound fracture.

It was all quite lovely. A perfect little trip. And exhausted we all headed to bed happy.

Oh, and because I like snapchat still, here's my story :)

NYC Revisited: Day One

Earlier this year a few girls in my first period class taught me all the wonders of Snapchat. This obviously made me feel old, but also brought me around to capturing the fun moments in life as they arise, writing all over them, and then adding stickers. Like this...

And while instagram is trying to steal the Snap thunder with their story feature, I've only just recently gotten the hang of these, and won't be converting to anything new too soon. So, since you probably aren't one of the four people who ever look at my snaps, let me use them to tell you a little about J-Man's and my trip back to NYC.

First off, it should be noted that Facebook reminded me that J-Man and I have been friends for ten years now. And that's pretty exact, because back in '06 I was pretty quick to add a friend right after meeting them in order to preserve that connection forever. I was in a brand new city, he was a crazy guy who invited me to see spectacles, we were both on a journey to make a difference and be grown-up teachers. Oh, and he had air conditioning.

Ten years later we were back to see another Teaching Fellow, E-Drizzle get married. We hopped on an Amtrak train, left the little guys behind, and set forth into nostalgia.

Within minutes of hailing our first cab (J-Man didn't want to subway and I felt weird using Uber in the world of yellow taxis) we remembered just how loud and smelly and hot and vibrant the city is. We dodged a street fair and multiple ambulances as we swerved our way to the Upper West Side to stay in our friend EK's lovely apartment. There we'd stay alongside another couple attending a different NYC wedding while EK and her husband were off at yet another wedding in Wisconsin.

Within the next hour we bumped into my friend V - who tends to disappear for months at a time - so it was pretty amazing that our paths crossed at all. We promised to catch up later and continued on our way.

E-Drizzle's wedding was lovely, even though we ended up inside rather than the outdoor park as they'd hoped. It was me, J-Man and two other former NYCTF English teachers and we hung out and talked books. My self-published one, another's upcoming poetry one, and another's currently in the query phase one. After some bouts of not feeling very accomplished in life lately, that conversation reminded me to snap out of it and enjoy the things that have made me happy. I wrote a book. It exists, imperfections and all, and it's ok to feel proud of that.

I proceeded to eat too much, meet new people, dance a bit, smile a ton, and have a fantastic time in the upstairs bar reception. The whole event was incredibly New York, and incredibly them and came along with the beauty of remembering my own vows in the place where I met the man I would love more passionately than I could have ever imagined.

cab ride home - 2016

cab ride home 2006

The day was wonderful, the company too, and it was only the first of the fantastic trip.

Paint Night

Rather than catch up on all of the last month, let me just start with last night. I went to my first painting party.

My Work BFF Sra K was celebrating her fiftieth birthday, and despite the fact that I don't drink wine and my painting experience for the last two decades has been limited to wall primer and theatrical sets, I decided I was going to have fun. So I went, and I did.

It started simple enough, her feeding us tons of delicious food in that way that people who show love through giving and cooking excel at, and some uncomfortable mingling on my part. It shouldn't have been awkward, what with it being mostly coworkers and other great people that my equally great friend likes, but my introvert half kicks in when the threshold of six or so people gets crossed. This party had forty-five painters-in-training all ready to celebrate Sra K and get our artistry on.

 We began with a blank canvas. Obviously. And I'm going to spare you the many metaphors I could describe about potential and fresh starts and endless possibilities. It was a blank canvas and hung in front of us was the desired finish product - Birds on a Fence.

Our artist teacher took us step by step from easy - the turquoise sky, streaks encouraged - to the impossibly difficult - birds I never even attempted. Let's just say mine ended up being renamed to simply Fence.

I sat between two other language teachers and self-proclaimed non-artists, and we enjoyed making fun of our failures and frequently asking each other "what are we doing now?" and "do you really think he has the same brushes as us?" with the occasional "wow, yours looks way better than mine."

It was all quite intense and yet completely ridiculous because no one's, and I mean no one's, looked as good as his. Even if they did all shine in their own way. Get the pun?

In the end I decided I liked it though. And it makes me think of the song I sing my boys almost every night these days. (They're over "Twinkle Twinkle" and the backwards ABC's and are back to the Bye Bye Birdie ripoff "I love you PDG, oh yes I do..." and "You Are My Sunshine"). So when I presented it to the boys, I told them it was so that whenever they look at it they know the lyrics are true. They really are my sunshines, and they'll never know how much I love them both.

I mean, aren't they cute? And big? And full of energy and light?

PDG Turns Four!

Well, it happened. My little baby PDG got all grown on me and now is a whopping four years old. He's still my little PDG Pie though, and I still want to eat him up!

At any rate, turning four apparently means a lot of celebrating. I mean, there was the sleepover the week before, and then the anticipation of a daily countdown from then until the 12th.

On Friday we took some cupcakes (because PDG insisted that this year he wanted cupcakes and cake) to his daycare. All the big kids happily sang to him, especially knowing they got a treat for having done absolutely nothing. That's the best part about birthdays right - getting treats just for existing? Even better when it's just for someone else existing.

Saturday PDG awoke fully aware it was the big day, and unable to contain his excitement. By the time Mama and Papa H arrived, we knew there'd be no nap. Instead, we made cupcakes.

Before the official party at 5pm, we had to give in and do some presents early because somebody just coud not wait another minute.

Sidenote: PDG's current fascination with puzzles is driving J-Man's fight against tiny toy pieces struggle to the limits.

We decided on a not-quite party this year. Paw Patrol ribbon, TMNT napkins, and Batman plates with a random pin the tail on the donkey and tons of fruit and pizza made for an odd assortment of decorations and a menu.

PDG loved it though. LOVED it. And with his very very best friend Lil O, as well as his neighborhood church crew and a happy-to-tag-along Charlie, it was the most kid activity our backyarad has seen yet. And by far the most our living room has endured. Thank heavens for Lego Movie on DVR to keep us warm as the sun started to set.

All in all, a great day celebrating a great kid.

And before I forget, his stats. He's 40lbs even - 81% - and 44 inches tall - 98%. He could answer most of the doctor's questions, but clearly I need to get him a tutor so he knows how to answer "what gallops?" next time. (Honestly, can doctors give us a cheat sheet ahead of time so I can teach to the test? Not that I do that as a teacher or anything, but my competitive edge totally took over and I really wanted my kid in the 99% in the 'random doctor questions at a checkup' category too. I'm just sayin'...)

Hugs and kisses to my big little baby.

One Last Snow

Every year around Valentine's Day Big Sis and her husband come to DC for a week for a work-related thing, and every year they bring crazy cold weather. It's true. Every single year. Meteorologists might try to convince you that this has always been the case around President's Day weekend, but I dunno. I think it's Big Sis.

And this year was just like before. Except, that is, without me having to take her to the hospital and get her treated by my doc on the L&D floor and forcing her to finish her turkey sandwich so we could all go back home on that snow day.

This year, we had our annual brunch with Mama and Papa H, KB's family, Big Sis's and mine where, like we have every single year since beginning this tradition, we showed up with more kids than the year before. Table for thirteen anyone? One sling, one high chair, three sets of crayons and lots of delicious Clyde's food and conversation.

Afterwards we all fought the cold by cramping together in my tiny house for Mama H's surprises: layered cake and iced sugar cookies. Of course the naptime countdown began and some wailing commenced, but once the babes were all locked away, and sadly that meant KB and fam heading out, we did manage to get a game of Scattergories going.

You guys, do you hear that? It's the sound of me celebrating convincing my family to play a competitive board game with me!!! (It's also me entering the 2000s and learning how to save and use gifs - expect my blog to be revolutionized with short animated visuals (also no, there's no actual sound, don't worry, I'm not that fancy))

Anyway, it was all in all a great day. And much like the last time Big Sis was in town, and like the previous years she visited, it was immediately followed by snow.

Monday, a day I already had off school of course, was a beautiful snow day. Three or four inches of pretty, light, fluffy stuff just dancing outside the windows.

We didn't get many snowstorms this year, and one could argue winter isn't officially over yet, but the few we got were still dazzling and perfectly punctuated by this sweet little white blanket.

Also, by some strange miracle, we got Tuesday off school too, which naturally meant we hung out around the house like this.

Isn't that how you dress on your days off? Boots, helmets, and Christmas pajamas? Ok, good. Me too.

So... spring?

Snowzilla

As I mentioned before, we were out for seven snow days. The first was for the two inches that caught the DMV by surprise. The second was because no one knew for certain what time the snow was starting on Friday, and hence we all needed to be tucked safely away with milk, bread, and televisions blasting fear and fantasy at us from all angles.

J-Man, after having two separate flights get canceled in advance, was able to catch an early morning flight to DC, before the airports all closed up shop. By lunch we had him, a serious stash of snacks on hand, freezer meals ready to thaw, and a sense of "ok, let's do this thing" at the ready.

The snow came fast and furious that afternoon, all night long, and all day the next day, not ending until well after bedtime Saturday night. We halfheartedly did some of that shoveling and playtime during the height of the storm. MDG hated it, PDG wanted to like it, and J-Man was mostly in awe at how much snow can fall from the sky.

before going out

uncertain in the midst of it

hot chocolate reward

Even though I don't watch Game of Thrones, this was still my favorite meme of the storm.

Once the snow stopped, we got down to business. Sunday the Mormon neighbors hosted all the Mormon families within walking distance for a pot luck lunch. We're a pretty prepared bunch, so it was delicious, but we're also a procreating bunch, so there were a lot of children occupying a duplex hardly larger than my own. This particular family has a basement, so with Aladdin playing downstairs, the adults got through a game of Taboo upstairs that was only slightly interrupted by the five two-year-olds whose attention spans are too short for a full Disney production.

When the shoveling really commenced, sometime late Monday afternoon when we saw the one and only plow we would ever see, it was like that scene at the start of Beauty and the Beast when everyone comes outdoors and knows each other and is part of a happy wonderland. A snowy, back-breaking wonderland, but chipper nonetheless. The kids ran around on the snow mountains while the adults tackled driveway after driveway together, making sure everyone could get out the next day when work presumably would return. Turns out J-Man and I own the worst two shovels on the block, but we did our part.

The days passed with no predictability at all. Unlike Camp Nicole, with frequent outings to parks and scheduled time for just about everything, we took each day flying by the seat of our pants. Blanket forts? Ok! Turning snow mountains into slides? Sure! Jumping in puddles of melting snow? Rather not but, oh, ok, you're going to do it anyway... Yay!

I also started watching this Australian teen dance show on Netflix.  I'll just let that sit there for a while.

The boys went to daycare twice, the mornings I wasn't worried about black ice from refrozen snow melt, and I had a chance to clean the house from all the sand and salt and general chaos of days off. That plus PDG started wetting the bed again for the first time in almost a year, so that's been.... not awesome.

But that brings us here, back to reality and work and finally warmer temperatures that are melting the remnants of those two feet of snow. I should be more excited about this return to normalcy. But if I'm being honest, I'm already looking at the 10-day forecast on my phone, secretly hoping to see another snowflake somewhere in the future. Not another two feet or anything, maybe just a good 1-3 inches. Preferrably on a Tuesday night. Enough for a no school Wednesday and delay Thursday. Because, truly, it's all quite magical at the beginning.