Annie and the Bee

My Annabelle is in 1st grade, and she has signed up to compete in a spelling bee.  She found out about the bee on Friday – and it is this Tuesday night.  Not much time to prepare, but she’s up for the challenge.

More challenging is the fact that this bee is open to the entire county, not divided by age, and it includes kids through the 8th grade.

[Actually the rules state that it is for kids through 8th grade or 16 years of age, but somehow I'm thinking that if you're 16 years old in the 8th grade, a spelling bee probably isn't your thing.]

I’m really proud of her for taking this on. 

Don’t get me wrong – we don’t think she’s going to win.  In fact, if you ask her she’ll tell you that she’s entering the first round of a spelling bee.  We figure if she can get through the first round, the rest is gravy.

She’s a great little speller, but a 7 year old against a 16 year old is hardly fair.  I blame the organizers for not having a better system.  But I give lots of credit to my spunky little girl for wanting to do it anyway.  She isn’t afraid to go up against kids more than twice her age, even knowing she’s going to lose.  Once she saw Akeelah, she mapped out her path pretty quickly.  “I’m going to do that some day,” she told me.  And I have no doubt that she will.

Gumption, she’s got. 

She’s so smart, so brave, so confident.  She’s fearless.  There’s nothing she thinks she can’t do and do it well, and she always, always goes for it.  She never gives up, never backs down.  She’s so tiny for her age, and yet so scrappy.  So determined.  So much wiser than I am.

Once upon a time, I was like her.  I would put myself out there.  Once upon a time I, too, would go for it.

I lost that somewhere along the way.  I lost my confidence and my courage.  But I look at this little girl and I admire her tremendously; she makes me think I could get it back.  She inspires me to do better - to be better.

In many ways, my young daughter is a role model for me.

On Tuesday night, I’ll be the proudest Momma in the building, regardless of the outcome.  The first round of the spelling bee this year is just practice for next year – the year that she wins it all. 

I know she can do it.  And even better, she knows she can, too.

Smart girl.

Lucky me.

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The Table

All great change in America begins at the dinner table.  -Ronald Reagan

I am a person with guilt.  Often over little things, like the time I threw a fit because my mom bought be the wrong clippie stuffed animal.  I believe I was 4 at the time.  I still have guilt over that.

I’m also a person with regret.  I don’t generally dwell on things, but there are a few that I can’t let go of, and my grandparents’ table is one of them.  Or rather, the table they used to have.  They are both gone now, making that long-lost table seem all the more precious.

Many years ago they moved from their lifelong home and auctioned off many of their possessions.  I knew at the time that I wanted that table, but I was a college student with a small apartment and no space for a second table.  Like an idiot I kept mine (from Value City Furniture – good call Heather) and let theirs go, and to this day I feel sick to my stomach when I think of it.  It’s no antique; in fact, it was a cheap table in mediocre condition with absolutely no monetary value.  But if I had any way of knowing where that table was now, I’d pay top dollar to have it back.

I’m thinking of it tonight because I found a paper I wrote in college.  The assignment was to write one page about a perfectly ordinary, inanimate object and make the reader care.  And to this day, I care very deeply about that table.

—————————————————————————

The Table

There is a table at my grandparents’ house.  This plain, brown, worn-out old table is a treasure to the two beautiful people who own it.  No one in the world means more to me than them, and no thing in the world means more to them than that table.

The furniture itself is not the treasure; the table is a symbol of love and family.  The backs of the chairs are worn and faded from years of heavy use.  On hot summer days their finish softens, and shirts cling to the moist varnish.  The arms of the chairs are worn down from years of rough treatment and not-so-gentle hands pushing them back under the table.  The table’s legs are nicked and scratched, and it is by no means considered beautiful.   Appearances aren’t everything, though.  Few material possessions could hold more beauty than does the table in Grama’s kitchen.

Pap doesn’t fully understand why she won’t let it go.  The table, or half of the other furniture that Grama loves so dearly.  To this day I can hear them bickering over the old ironing board, so well-worn that it must be propped up on the counter to be used.  My father’s clothes were ironed on that same board forty-odd years ago.  Pap says that they should buy a new one, but Grama refuses.  “For memory’s sake,” I can hear her explaining over and over again, but Pap just shakes his head.  No one really understands like Grama.

For every aging piece of furniture that she clings to there is a story.  There is a story that makes the ironing board worth putting up with, and the ugly table worth holding on to.  I can remember when Grama decided to put a new cover on the stool in the kitchen – the one that sits in front of the paper plate drawer.  It always sits in front of the paper plate drawer, most inconveniently, and for no reason other than that’s where it’s always been.  For years, every time their decor changed, the stool cover changed, one layer on top of another.  Not so long ago the covers all came off.  Everyone laughed at the dozen or so different layers of material, but not Grama.  No one else quite understands.  A new cover went on, and the stool is now at home in a new corner of the kitchen.  It’s just not the same.

The table is the most talked about, though.  Everyone laughs, and they say they can appreciate her sentiment, but no one really does.  No one knows like Grama.

Twenty years ago, two beautiful little girls crawled underneath that table and decorated.  There are still pencil scratchings bearing the names of Amy and Beth, joined years later by the artwork of their little sister.  The family laughs at the mischief and moves on.  No one understands.

Two other little girls have joined the family since then, and I wonder where their names are.  Some may call it destruction, but to Grama it’s making memories.  Maybe we should show them where to write.

Maybe no one understands, but there is no denying the love in my Grama’s treasures.  What some look at as just ordinary furniture are some of her most prized possessions.

And to tell the truth, I think Pap does understand.  Sure, he’s not as vocal, not as teary-eyed or sentimental as Grama, but he also overestimates his ability to hide his emotions.  For all of his harassment, I know that Pap must understand or new things would have moved in long ago.

But still…no one understands like Grama.

We all appreciate that someone cares for us so deeply.  We love the comfortable, homey feeling of Grama’s house.  But no one really understands like she does.

I want to.  I want desperately to understand, to have the same memories and the same sentiments that my Grama does.  My parents told me once that I inherited her heart, and there is no bigger compliment that they could pay me.

Just thinking about Saturday mornings with Pap and Grama, Coco Wheats and bacon, riding through Seven Creeks in the back of Pap’s pickup, playing Trouble, sneaking into Pap’s Twinkies, and falling asleep on their shaggy brown carpet can make me cry.  I know nothing better in the world.

There are a million moments with my grandparents that I treasure, a million memories and a million hugs that I could never forget.  But nothing feels as good as going ‘home’ to their house, and no thing will ever be as precious as that old kitchen table.

————————————————————-

I ache with longing to see them again.  To sit at that long-gone table and share one more meal, play one more game.  I would give almost anything to have that table today.  But I don’t, and I can’t change that.

The only thing left to do is create a table of my own, one memory at a time.  And today, that is exactly what we did.

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The anniversary of the day my life began

Seven years ago tonight, I became a mother.  Seven years ago, my entire world changed.  For the better.

As I tucked her in to bed tonight, I told Annabelle once again the story of the night she was born.  How I waited anxiously all day.  How it was such an easy labor that I even napped in the afternoon.  How Aunt Beth and Erin flew all the way from Kuwait, arriving only 2 hours before she was delivered.  I only pushed once and out she came – she was easy right from the start.  She was an almost-9-pound baby, which is ironic considering how petite she is now.  I told her how I slept with her in my arms for days, because I loved her so much I couldn’t tear myself away from her.  And I told her about Dr. Buck, who kissed my forehead and said ‘Congratulations.  You’re a momma now.’  The most simple, profound words I’d ever heard.

Seven years ago tonight, this little angel of a girl changed my world – and one day she’ll change the rest of it, too.

On a lighter note…

We celebrated today with a skating party.  Catie got to invite her friends, also.  Since she has a summer birthday, she’ll never be able to have a party with school friends, so she was super excited about sharing in Annie’s big day.  All told, about half of the invited kids were able to come which, given past turnouts, was a pretty good number.

Annie wanted to have a Phineas & Ferb party, but unfortunately I couldn’t find anything available to make that happen.  Which is quite odd, if you ask me.  The show’s been out for two and a half years and it’s wildly popular.  What gives?

Anyway, I was able to order this edible icing creation off of eBay, so at least she had a proper cake:

The skating rink always has a limbo contest, every time we have been there.  And every time, Annie has won.  Every single time.  I think it’s because she’s so tiny she hasn’t even hit the bottom of the growth chart yet, but hey, at least it pays off in the form of chintzy plastic toy prizes.

On an unrelated note, have you ever noticed that skating rinks universally seem to have been decorated in the 80s and never updated?  Neon and blacklight – totally rad!

My sassy little Catiebug:

And a semi-decent picture of Lilly, who next to never looks at the camera.

After the party, my husband’s family came to our house for presents.  Annie got a salon chair which was a big hit, and Uncle Mike was a very good sport about getting a makeover:

And she also got the new bike she’s been eyeing ever since she ditched her training wheels.  A super sporty Barbie bike that has a miniature bike on the handlebar so that her doll can ride along with her:

See that green tee and jeans behind her?  That’s me.  Enjoy the view of my hip there, because that’s about as close as we ever get to me being in a picture.  I’m usually manning the camera, and on those rare occasions when my husband does apparently he doesn’t care to snap a pic of me.  Humph.

I wish the story ended happily there, but unfortunately later Annie was screaming in pain with an ear infection.  And the only pharmacy still open was out of the antibiotic we need, so we have to wait until tomorrow morning to start treatment.  I’m anticipating a long and sleepless night.  Hence the reason this post is so terribly late in the day – yet, I’d like to point out, still on February 13th (with a few minutes to spare).  NaBloPoMo, still going strong.

Johnny Depp once said that “Anything I’ve done up till [the day she was born] was kind of an illusion, existing without living.  My daughter, the birth of my daughter, gave me life.”

I feel exactly the same way.

Happy Birthday Annie Mary.

xoxo

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Very Fun Indeed

If you’re one of my 6 loyal followers you might have clicked on the yummy treats link yesterday.  In which case, you might have seen a website called Making Things Fun.  This blog is the brainchild of my soon-to-be-7-year-old.

It is completely her baby.  She has learned how to click all the right links, answer her emails, and even tweet about her new posts.  She’s worked really hard on her posts, too - since she isn’t a great typist, it takes her forever to get one done.  Occasionally she’ll let me help with something mudane like a hyperlink, but for the most part she wants to do it all herself.  And I love her determination.

She has a couple dozen idea posts saved up in drafts, and every day she writes down a new one.  I’m not sure how this project will pan out, but I admit to having the occasional fantasy that this is the beginning of her child-prodigy entreprenurial career.  She is destined for greatness in one way or another – maybe this is it.

Regardless, I think it’s a worthwhile endeavor.  She’s practicing her writing, spelling, and grammar.  She’s expanding her computer skills and becoming a better typist.  And she’s making her little 6-year-old dream come true. 

She came up with the name herself (and the domain was available – score!).  She sifted through hundreds of templates until she found the perfect design.  And she’s seeing her world in a whole new way.

Instead of just doing her chores, she’s looking for a way to make them fun so she can write about it.  Instead of flying through a craft on her way to the the next activity, she’s slowing down to take pictures of each step.  Instead of going through life on autopilot, she’s pausing to take note of the details.

We all need to appreciate the details.

So check out Making Things Fun when you get a minute.  Follow her on Twitter, too – @MakingThingsFun  And drop her an email or leave a comment if you can - she loves that.  She responds to everyone!  And if you have a family-friendly blog and you’d like to join her blogroll, let her know that too.  We’d be happy to add your button to her sidebar.

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A perfect day

Yesterday we had a snow day.  It doesn’t snow very often in Kentucky, but when it does, it doesn’t take very much of the white stuff to bring the state to its knees.  As long as I have lived here, it’s still rather amusing to a Yankee girl.  This might be the only way I am decidedly UN-southern.

I can remember as a child getting a foot of snow overnight, and we’d have a 1-hour delay for school so they could put chains on the bus tires.  I remember walking home in blizzard-like conditions.  And just so you don’t think I’m an old lady who has lost perspective, I readily acknowledge that I was walking DOWN the hill.  It wasn’t all bad.  But it was definitely very different  than the childhood memories my children will have.

We woke up to about 3 inches of snow, and it continued steadily all day.  Annie very excitedly declared that this might be the most snow she’s ever seen in her whole life.  Wow.  Kiddo is missing out.

Nonetheless, it was an exciting day.  Unlike most other moms I know, I love snow days.  I miss my girls all day every day, so having them all home with me again is a special occasion indeed.  And one worth celebrating.

We made a snowman (with snow that doesn’t pack)

and attempted a snowball fight (again, snow that doesn’t pack)

and we did a little sledding.

Snow angels were made

fears were conquered

and cheeks were rosy.

We played ’till we dropped

enjoyed hot cocoa

and even some yummy treats.

The dogs enjoyed their day as well.  Molly played with the girls

and Cooper napped on the [defecation-free] deck

Napping in the snow because he was so cold, no doubt.  Some people.

We’ve done lots of other fun stuff, too, but I’ll have to tell you about that on another day.  Right now a fireplace is beckoning, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs is in the DVD player, and 3 gorgeous girls are waiting to snuggle with me.  It’s a very ordinary, extraordinary day, and life is good.

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Please don’t hold this against us

Annie’s 1st grade class is working on a pen pal project.  In 21st century style, though, it’s not really about the pens.  This project also involves audio, video, a school tour, and a smartboard.  It’s pretty cool, and the kids have been really excited about it.  The principal thought the project was so unique that she called the local paper to do a story on it. 

This is the first time I’ll point out to you that we live in a small town. 

So one day last week, a reporter came out to the classroom to take pictures and ask questions about the project.  He asked the teachers if they had a particularly expressive child that he could interview, and wouldn’t you know, my little Annie was the one he talked to.  ‘Expressive’ is definitely a word that suits her.

I was told to look for it to run in the Sunday paper.  And as it turned out, being a small town, this story was worthy of the front page.  Pretty impressive, right? 

Well.

So I read along to find my girl, and I come across this lovely little tidbit.

Student Annie Roberts-Nault has already found out about several similarities she shares with her pen pal, Emily.

“She likes to play in PE in school … I told her PE was my favorite class, too,” Roberts-Nault said.

Dogs are a common feature in both households as well, with her pen pal having one pup while Roberts-Nault’s family has three. According to Roberts-Nault, however, more does not necessarily equal better as one of her pets, Rigley, possesses a bad habit. The canine has a tendency to poop on her family’s deck, a definite defecation no-zone.

Props to Annie for landing us on the front page of the newspaper with a story like that.

I would like to clear up a few things now.

• Wrigley is spelled wrong.  Cubs, people, it’s the Cubs.
• She is not my dog.
• She is 9 years old and this has only happened twice in her life.  It’s true that I can’t stand the dog, but even I can say that this is not her major problem.
• She is a 25 pound black lab mix, up to date on all her shots, and ready for a new home at any time.

Did I mention we’re a very small town?  A last name like ours really doesn’t blend in.  Not to mention Annie’s such an extrovert that half the county knows who she is already.  Absolutely no chance of anyone not seeing this one. 

How great for us to now be known as the family with defecation issues!

I am, of course, still proud of her.

And, of course, concerned about her inability to filter for appropriate content.

At least she didn’t tell them about the time Daddy kicked Mommy and Mommy was crying on the floor of the closet.  [Catie actually told this to her pre-school teacher.  That the kids are still in our possession at this point is remarkable.]

So it could have been better, but it definitely could have been worse, too.

The article ends by stating

Technology, it seems, no matter how advanced, is never perfect.

It seems the same could be said for my Annie.

~Read it (and laugh at us) for yourself here.

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Handy Manny Birthday Cake

As I mentioned earlier, my youngest daughter turned 3 last month. 

This is where I’d like to talk about how beautiful she is – because she really is gorgeous.

(She also refuses to look at the camera for pictures)

I’d like to tell you how smart she is, what a quick sense of humor she’s got, how she posesses a God-given ability to entertain herself quietly for hours.  I’d like to tell you how bittersweet it is to watch her grow up, knowing that she is my last baby.

But since I just said a blog shouldn’t be all about ‘me’, I can’t.

So instead I’ll tell you about her Handy Manny Birthday Cake.

The kid is head over heels for Manny these days.  I have my concerns, but whatever.

She got the Handy Manny Talkin’ Toolbox for Christmas, so a toolbox cake seemed appropriate.  It also seemed easy, since I could just steal borrow the plastic tools from her set.

My mom was kind enough to bake the cake and fashion the handle for me – my only task was frosting it.  You’d think I’d be able to handle that, but actually not so much.  Cake decorating is so not my thing.  Pardon the rough splotches.

The design on the front was meant to make it look like her toy toolbox.  My dad printed the image off and laminated it and then I just stuck it in the frosting.

(You might notice here that I said ‘my mom’ and ‘my dad’ and not ‘my husband’.  That’s because he did nothing.)

Lilly was a happy camper.

And a good day was had by all.  Even by Mommy, who cried a little when she tucked a 3-year-old baby into bed that night.  Bittersweet, I tell you.

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Lilly’s First Haircut

As I have mentioned before, we support Locks of Love in this house. 

Well, those of us with hair do. Ahem.

Annie has donated twice.  Catie has donated once.  I have donated 9 times.

About a month ago, Lilly decided that her time had come as well.  It was her first ever haircut, and she got it just before her 3rd birthday.  She was delighted about the outing and sat very still, patiently waiting.  I think she was just delighted at the prospect of a short bob that would mean no more fending off Mommy wielding a hairbrush.

Here she is before:

The first cut:

And the end result:

11 inches gone!

She looks older which I don’t like, but the cut is adorable and it suits her perfectly.  Short and spunky, just like my girl!

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Like Mother, Like Daughter

I did some work in the kitchen last weekend.  We had a lovely snowstorm Friday night which made for lots of Saturday morning fun, so while the girls played in the snow with their Daddy, I cleaned/purged/rearranged and organized the kitchen cabinets.  As usual, it was a lot more work than I had anticipated, and it took a lot longer than I had expected.  The end result is great though, and I’ll be bragging about it next Makeover Monday. 

I unexpectedly got another post out of the deal, though, in the form of my mother and I sharing some insanity.

We have a lot in common.  She’s pretty much my best friend.  But I never realized we shared a possible mental illness until Saturday.

It’s called a crippling inability to ever throw anything away.  Ever.

We’re not crazy hoarders, mind you.  We’re just practical.  It pains me to throw away something, even if I can’t use it, because I know someone can. 

Someone needs this junk!

Nevermind that the shirt has paint all over it, if you have no shirt at all then this is better than nothing, right?

For years I thought this was my own hangup, but Saturday I realized it’s not my fault – I inherited it.

When I moved out of my parents’ house for college mom packed up a bunch of spices for me.  Some were put into little glass jars, others she just gave me her containers.  Containers that she refilled because we cook a lot, so we buy spices in bulk.

I now do the same thing.  I buy spices at Sam’s Club and refill my small, easier-to-hold containers and continue using them.  I never gave the practice much thought, really – after all, it’s what my mom did.

My mom also used to re-use ziploc bags, which as a kid I thought was just ridiculous.  I still very clearly remember the first time I re-used a freezer bag. 

It just had bread in it!  It’s like it was never used!

It hit me right away that I was A) old and B) my mother’s daughter.

It took me longer to notice the spice containers.

It started when I saw mom’s handwriting on this bottle and thought ‘Man, I’ve had that for a long time!’ (Despite the fact that I am, of course, still 19 and just moved out of my parents’ house. Ahem.)

(Notice she’s re-labeled a bottle.  You know, since we can’t throw away a plastic bottle.  Also notice, I am mocking her here, yet still using it myself.  Because if she’s on the crazy ship, I’m going down with her.  That’s how much I love her.)

Hmmm…let’s check the date on that one.

Can you read that clearly?  Because it says 1986. 

Yes.

1986, the year of Kiss, Papa Don’t Preach, and Walk Like an Egyptian.

Yeah.

But wait!  I also have these beauties:

That’s right, baby.  1977.

AKA the year of Dancing Queen, Margaritaville, and Car Wash.

I have spice containers in my house that are 33 years old, people.

It’s not normal.  

Unless you are in my family, in which case it is actually completely normal.  My mom is probably reading this right now thinking ‘Well they’re still perfectly good! What’s the issue?’

And they really are very nice containers.  You can’t buy ones that close that nicely anymore. 

 These ones are broken in just right, and they are still perfectly good!  Why would I throw away a perfectly good container?

I wouldn’t. 

Because I am my mother’s daughter.

UPDATE:

After reading this a few minutes ago, my mom looked in her spice cabinet.  Please pardon my blurry cell phone pictures, but I couldn’t wait to share this with you. 

I am sorry to report that she, too, has spice containers from 1977.

She also has this one from 1974:

And this one, which has no date, but by picture alone I’d say could easily be our oldest container winner:

She got that one from my Grama.

And now we’d like to re-iterate that we are refilling the tins, not actually using the same spices from the 1970’s.

And we do wash them before refilling.

And we do know that we’re crazy.

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Wordful Wednesday – Lilly Wussell

My little Lilly Pie turned 3 a couple of weeks ago, and I didn’t blog about it yet.  Shame on me, I know.

Anyway, Catie is in preschool 3 hours a day now so I have had more time to spend with Lilly all alone, and it’s been amazing watching her grow and develop into such a unique little person.  She’s so spunky and funny and smart, and just a delightful little girl.  And she entertains herself exceedingly well, which is a quality any mother will tell you is a blessing beyond measure.

Her given name is Lillian Russell (after my great-grandmother, my great-grandfather, and my father – not the actress) but she prefers to talk about Lilly Wussell and Pappap Wussell.  They are very good buddies.

Last spring when we went to Disney she got sick.  Very sick.  Barfed in line at Toy Story Mania – barfed pretty much everywhere actually.  Among other things.  She was so sick, in fact, that she was hospitalized the day we returned home.  Poor dolly. 

But when she first got sick, I packed her up and left the park to take her back to the resort to rest.  She had other ideas though; as soon as we got back to the Polynesian she felt strongly that we needed to eat.  I guess having an empty stomach and all…  So my girlie and I hit the Kona Cafe, and had a lovely little lunch together.  Which as you might guess, didn’t stay down for long.  But it was good while it lasted.

And in that brief interlude, between episodes of vomiting, she turned on the charm as she always does.  I sat laughing and in awe of her, wondering where the sick little girl I’d seen an hour ago had vanished to, and hoping that she’d stay well.  And I couldn’t resist snapping this picture, which in retrospect is not only a cute memory, but the the very essence of Lilly.

Adorable - check.  Ornery grin - check.  Food nearby - check.  Mommy’s heart in her hand - check.

Love you, Silly Lilly.  Thanks for completing me.

*This post is part of the Wordful Wednesday carnival.  If you have a moment, swing by and check out more pictures with a story over at Seven Clown Circus.

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