Tag Archives: Birthdays

P Motion Gets His Gei(co)

4 Jan

Before Christmas, I Facebooked thusly:

Well, Santa didn’t leave either of those items under the tree for P Motion. Instead he left a pogo stick, along with a gift card redeemable at our local emergency room.

However, P Motion did get a lizard for his 6th birthday from his mom and dad.

IDIOT! Don’t you remember your own horrific tales of Hopper the Bastard Rabbit*?

Of course I remember. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a parent, it’s that I’m not obligated to learn anything from my mistakes. In fact, it’s probably better if I don’t.

Plus the kid really wanted a lizard.

So KAW did the research, and last Friday a terrarium, 50 live crickets, and a hypo high yellow designer leopard gecko arrived at our house via UPS. And, yes, our car insurance went down 15% within 15 minutes of its arrival.

But P Motion’s birthday wasn’t until Monday.

For three days, the gecko now known as Ecko (really) lived in our bedroom closet. And, amazingly enough, we actually managed to keep all of the kids out.

However, we didn’t manage to keep all of the crickets in (feel free to insert a witty bit of entomological humor concerning insects coming out of a closet here). In fact, a cricket just went hopping across the kitchen floor as I write this. Swear.

But finally, Monday we gathered the crew, blindfolded our New Year’s Boy, told him to put his hands out, and sat his present on his hand.

Then we removed the blindfold.

Then we observed a reaction that is very non-typical P Motion (still and silent).

Then he let out a little squeak of disbelief.

Then he and Ecko were bum-rushed by his siblings, who were anything but still and silent. See for yourself.

A few observations:

1. Hellcat is three-quarters howler monkey as judged by the un-Godly decibel level used when speaking to (shouting at) others who are less than a half-foot away; the way that she bounces around on a near-continual basis; and her very hairy arms (and back).

2. Our furniture, which we’ve had for just about six months, isn’t likely to last another six months at the frenetic pace with which or children tromp all over it.

3. KAW is very quick to say that no, geckos don’t ever bite you.

4. Slim got those pajamas for Christmas. We refer to them as the Pink Bunny Pajamas from Aunt Clara.

5. Geckos feel like lizards.

6. Reptiles generally make for happy kids.

7. Ecko has to be thinking, “Son of a — why don’t little old ladies get geckos as pets?”

A week in, both boy and lizard are doing fine. Ecko has even shed his skin once, which seems very symbolic for the new year.

But then we think he ate it, which isn’t quite as symbolic.

*****

*Hopper Update: This past summer, I convinced P Motion that we should release Hopper from his hutch and let him run wild and unrestrained as all bastard animals that crap a lot should. I fully hoped expected that he’d be eaten by the neighbor’s dog or some other type of carnivore within a week.

He wasn’t. I’m happy to report that Hopper is still roaming the range, crapping frequently and freely.

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Happy Birthday, Kick Ass Wife (and Britney Spears)!

2 Dec

Today is Kick Ass Wife’s birthday.

She walked in from dropping the kids off at school this morning and told me she’d heard on the radio it was Britney Spears’ birthday today, too.

This got me thinking: what else do these two women have in common?

Last year the kids made KAW homemade gifts for her birthday; this year I made her a Venn diagram.

Eerily similar, huh?

One other difference is Britney had that one “episode” when she shaved her head bald.

Kick Ass Wife just lives with a bald guy who’s happy she chose him to share all life’s episodes with.

The kids and I definitely got the best of the December 2nd birthday girls.

Happy birthday, Kick Ass Wife.

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For Her Being Her

18 Jul

If you happened in to a certain small-town social club last Friday evening, you would have been drawn to a festive melody of celebration drifting from the back room, and there you would have witnessed what it is to be truly loved.

Friends, family, food, spirits, handshakes, hugs, music, dancing, and laughter – lots and lots of laughter — harmonizing to sing a song of gratitude to a beautiful soul, that one there, the woman out on the dance floor with her grandchildren.

Was this a birthday party? Women can be a bit guarded concerning such matters, but it was rumored that the guest-of-honor may have been approaching an age somewhere between 59 and 61 in the coming days.

Was this a retirement party? After 30-plus years of service at a certain small town’s middle school, this woman had deservedly stepped away a few months prior.

Or was this more than either of those things? Was it an overdue acknowledgement to the power of one individual to touch and shape lives? Was it the recognition of what caring looks like, what acceptance looks like, what empathy and understanding look like? Because again, the embodiment of all those qualities is that one there, the woman out on the dance floor with her grandchildren.

This song, this celebration, more than anything else, was for her being her.

*****

If you happened down the sterile hall of a small-town hospital late on the eve before Mother’s Day, you may have been drawn to a whispered melody of comfort drifting from a dimly-lit room, and there you would have witnessed what it is to truly love.

A mother, a daughter, a bed, bags, tubes, wires, the soft, barely-audible automaticity of machines — monitoring this and administering that — harmonizing to sing a song of reverence to a beautiful soul, that one there, the exhausted woman determinedly holding vigil in the chair, her head resting on her arm, her arm lying gently across the frail, fetal form on the mattress, kindly caressing the hand of the individual who delivered her into the world almost 60 years ago.

Was this a goodbye? It couldn’t be. These two women are the only ones left. A dad, a sister, a brother, all gone, all too soon. But in many ways, the important ways, the painful ways, a mother already gone as well, her memories, her very being ravaged by that ruthless bastard which steals away the mind of the aged before the body is ready.

Was this a lesson? A man hesitating at the doorway, silently observing, then looking beyond to his reflection in the window, now but a boy who had shied away, hidden, avoided, cowardly and afraid, angry that the frail, fetal form on the mattress had forgotten who he was, her only grandson. How could she not know him?

Or was this less than either of those things? Was it simply an overdue acknowledgement to the power of one individual to love unconditionally? Was it the recognition of what commitment looks like, what courage looks like, what selflessness and sacrifice look like? Because again, the embodiment of all those qualities is that one there, the exhausted woman determinedly holding vigil in the chair.

This song, this awakening, a son stepping across a threshold, stronger, resilient, a man once again, more than anything else, was for her being her.

*****

To that exhausted woman determinedly holding vigil in the chair, the daughter of my grandmother, a 60th birthday wish that she’ll start to care for herself  and love herself as much as she cares for and loves everyone else.

And to that woman out on the dance floor with her grandchildren, my children, thank you for everything.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM.

LOVE,

SON

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It Isn’t Possible: Slim Turned 7.

1 Mar

Slim, our resident Jedi and in-house encyclopedia of everything Clone Wars, is now a 7-year old.

It isn’t possible.

After all, it was only yesterday that the nurse walked with us out to the hospital parking lot and helped anchor our precious newborn cargo safely and securely in the back seat of our car, deftly manipulating a series of buckles and straps that would make a NASCAR driver’s racing harness seem simplistic in comparison.

Then she smiled, waved, and calmly walked away.

Kick Ass Wife and I smiled and waved in return, half expecting and fully hoping that the nurse would turn just as she reached the hospital entrance, point at us, laugh heartily, then walk back and tell us that the nursery staff had been pulling a little prank.

Got ya! We wouldn’t actually send you home with a human baby to care for only two days after he was born! You guys are welcome to stay for a couple more weeks until you get the hang of it.

But the nurse didn’t turn back. We sat and stared at each other silently, a look one-part excitement and two-parts sheer terror reflecting in one another’s eyes. Then our gaze shifted to the cooing bundle in the back dwarfed by the hulking car seat, and the reality of the situation hit us full force.

Holy shintenelli! That is OUR little boy back there! And they just sent him home with us! No instruction manual or anything!

Saucer-eyed and numb, I shifted the car into drive, and we slowly merged into the parents-with-a-child lane of life. “We” had officially become three.

And I do mean slowly. Fortunately, our house was only three blocks from the hospital because I drove home at a steady 10 miles per hour. I was terrified.

For God’s sake! Stop honking, you maniacs! Don’t you know there’s a baby in here?

Eventually, though, we made it home, and since there was no instructional DVD included, Slim was our parental learning curve. We didn’t know what the hell we were doing, but he didn’t know that. Every day offered an experience that was new to all three of us, and we did okay.

It was an amazing time.

The three of us would lie lazily on the floor, and we would talk to him and stare at him and laugh at the crazy faces and funny noises he made. Or the three of us would lounge lazily on the couch, and we would watch television or read or do nothing at all except have him with us.

Kick Ass Wife would often nurse him in bed, and I would lay beside them and rub his fuzzy little back while he nestled into her.

It wasn’t nearly as creepy as it sounds. Honest. It was beautiful.

And the one memory I’ll never forget is him curled up warm and soft on my chest, rising and falling gently as we napped in the afternoon sun streaming through the window.

For two years, Slim had our complete and undivided love and attention in a way that none of our other children could ever experience.

All of our time was his, and all of his time was ours.

He didn’t have to share, and we didn’t have to share.

He was spoiled, and we were spoiled.

As parents, that time with the first born is special in a way that cannot be replicated with subsequent children. Every birth is magical, for sure. Yet the absolute originality and newness of the first is more magical. It just is.

And unbelievably, inexplicably, Slim, our precious cargo from that day not so long ago, is a 7-year old boy.

But things have changed.

With three younger siblings, he’s had to learn to share in a major way, and more than just his clone troopers and his crayons. He has to share us. We have to share ourselves.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s something inside of him that’s resentful, something that goes back to when he was a baby, something that knows, that at one time, we were all his. Resentment would be understandable. We were his first.

And sometimes I wonder how I feel about it. What would today look like if it was still just the three of us? What types of amazing experiences could I have with that 7-year old boy? What could I give to him alone that I can’t possibly give to him and three others?

But then I see him training his young padawan, Tax Credit #4, in the ways of The Force, and I catch P Motion and Hellcat literally looking up to him, mimicking him, seeking his approval, and I realize that what the three of us gave up has been replaced by something of value: memories with brothers and a sister, moments with sons and a daughter.

The original three doubled to six, and that must be what was planned for us.

Slim has grown into an incredible boy. He is imaginative and smart. He is a jokester and a prankster. He is incredibly kind and he is deeply empathetic.

He is a terrific big brother, as patient as can be expected and loving.

He is an amazing son, often more patient than what is deserved and forgiving.

Truly, I look up to him, too.

A 7-year old boy.

Our first born.

Happy birthday, Slim.

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