Five

Today we have a handful of pictures, one for every goofy child of ours:

Peter

His signature dish, “Potatoes and Forks” was preferable to his earlier attempts at raising a tuber, calling out “Ball!” and tossing it at the nearest sibling.

Cecilia

If Curly Girl: The Handbook ever comes out with a new revised edition, Cele will be writing a chapter titled “DIY Styling Products: The Curling and Coloring Properties of Squash Soup.”

Abraham

During school yesterday he made an character-defining decision.  Abe decided to become a “pencil ear.”  I always wanted to pull that off, but I think he has what it takes.

Thomas

When you wear your everyday shoes to make a backyard swamp during recess then you’re left with the ever-stunning dress shoe, slipper sock, swimming truck trio later in the day.

Simeon

The kid loves swimming.  I love the kid.

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Though I Admire Your Angel Eyes . . .*

If you ever viewed the albums we used to post on facebook in days of yore, you might have noticed an ongoing theme in our pictures.  It is simply called:

nose

As best we can tell the origin is our father, and his genes are certainly strong in some of our children.  Today I present to you the Eight-Year-Old Birthday Nose:

*If you’ve never heard this little Sandra Boynton/Neil Sedaka tune there’s a tiny little sniff, um, I mean snippet over here.

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Mush and Eye Rolls

Today is my oldest nephew’s 8th birthday. And as there are very few things I can do from 12 hours away to aid their family during this difficult time, of blogging I am able. So, Simeon, I hope you don’t mind, but this goofy (his words, not mine) aunt is butting in today.

You know those few really poignant moments that you have in life during which a feeling erupts that you didn’t even know was possible? 8-ish years ago, after a harrowing, snow-blind, 14-hour drive in a compact car with 3 other adults, I lugged my 32 week pregnant self across drifts, through a questionable emergency room, up a sterile elevator into a shocking vision of love and completeness. There, at a little after midnight on February 5th, I witnessed a sleeping family.

A family.

The picture, thankfully, is tattooed into my memory. There were three people in that room. THREE! I can still see that shockingly beautiful bald head silhouetted against his labor-exhausted mother. It was as if he had been dropped magically into existence. And (I’m sorry, Simeon, I’m going to get mushy), I loved him painfully and immediately. That little boy, although my nephew, created the mother in me.

Thank you, my sweet first nephew. And Happy Happy 8th Birthday. I love you. (Okay, buddy, you may proceed to give me that famous eye-roll.)

An Aunt and Her Nephew

Growl of the Beloved

See those cuddly bears? Those are our Oldests (when they were Youngests). I remember this evening well. My bear had been washed clean in Holy Baptism earlier that day. He was 6 days old. Christina’s bear joined us to help celebrate (as all good bear cousins do). This Mama Bear and her grizzly husband were T-I-R-E-D, and therefore, well, bearish. We had holed up in our cave for the night (or so we thought) when our den-guests invented a photo-op. (This bear metaphor is getting exhausting. Do you mind if I quit? Thanks.) Anyway, they invaded our room, and made us come downstairs for family pictures. I got all swept up in the crazy that is our family and amidst a LOT of chortling we changed our newborns into matching bear outfits.

It was this evening, in a storm perfect for spousal discovery, that I learned my husband cannot bear an interrupted bedtime OR matching cutesy outfits.

The Post Only a Package Sniffing Dog Could Love

Today’s installment of Things I Love may seem obvious as first, but there’s something dwelling beneath the surface here.  We recently got a package from my sister, and while everyone loves receiving a package in the mail, that isn’t my topic.  Take a deep breath and enjoy.

Things I Love:  The Smell of My Sister’s House.

You know how everyone has their own smell?  Of course you do, that’s not just my own weird overly sensitive thing?  Right?

I thought so.  Okay, back to the pleasant mail delivery.

As the packing tape released it’s final squeaks and cardboard dust particles spread across the kitchen floor the first hints of  the Nebraskans’ cozy split-level reached our noses.  The box – which was filled with birthday gifts, old maternity clothes (NOT to wear, but to cut into a memory quilt for the no-longer-in-utero children that were once hidden under it’s voluminous , yet taut fabric,) and some baby things – was also teeming with Stacy Scent.

It’s dark and figgy and savory and warm and wraps itself around you like a hug that reaches right up through your nostrils.  In a delightful way, of course.  The contents of that package all bore the mark of their origin and the boys and I spent a good portion of the day squishing our faces in for a quick hit of their family’s presence.

Simeon has been aware of his aunt’s odorous ambiance for several years now.  Once, after she sent me some maternity clothing that could be worn without shame or vice I threw on some capris and a tank straight from the box.  The first thing a barely 3-yr-old Simeon said to me was, “I like your green pants and your yellow shirt.”  While I applauded his knowledge of colors, and questioned my own fashion sense, he gave me a big leg hug and then continued his sensory observation with, “Oh!  You smell just like Aunt Stacy!”  The remainder of the day he stayed close at hand, or leg, as the case may be, for frequent sniffs of his beloved aunt’s pants.

I know exactly how he feels.  I sometimes buy “her scent” of body wash in hopes of catching a whiff of my sister on those days when I need a little moral support.  The bonus side-effect is that lathering up also gets a few extra hugs out of the kids.

This nose-worthy accomplishment doesn’t belong solely to Simeon, though.  Abraham used it just the other day.  I was helping him tie his new-to-him fall shoes (Note to self:  teach your children to tie their own shoes.  Soon.  Now.) when I mentioned that I couldn’t recall what generous party had bestowed them on us.  Abe didn’t hesitate.  He picked up the remaining shoe, stuck his nose deep in its footy cavern, inhaled loudly and made his judgment, “It doesn’t smell like Owen and Joe.  It smells like Nathan.”

So there you have it folks.  Whether we have highly sensitive olfactory nerves, or my sister and her household just smell really, really good we may never know.  But then again, maybe you don’t want to know.  Maybe you wish that you could erase what you already know.

Wow, I’m not at all sorry that I wrote this post.

By the way, could you please forget that I implied that I think you smell?

A nose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Why You Shouldn’t Buy Camouflage Shoes

He claims it “disappeared in a cloud of dust” while he was playing outside.  No where to be found.

Now, if only he could solve his problem as easily as B.B. King.

I’m sure I’ll laugh about this.  Later.  After the right shoe shows up.