Easter Portraits

E's first suit! He wore it out of the store...over his clothes. D in heels, growing up before my eyes. L sporting her new duds too and waving her favorite take everywhere item, the "shiny rag."

And here is a low-light video again filmed vertically (when will I ever remember?) of L "enjoying" her solid dark chocolate bunny. It was dripping from her chin while she repeatedly said "i am enjoying this!"

Still Filled With Hope!

Rockin' in the Kitchen

A Smorgasbord

Here is a clip of the Grinch in action last month. I can't figure out if it's possible to rotate the video, i did this on my camera and stupidly filmed it vertically, oh well. Lay down to watch it.


Couldn't get the others to download for some reason. (L singing her favorite song in the kitchen and D and E's up north laek hockey bliss.)

The Grinch is Pubescent

This wonderful, loving, upbeat, generous and obedient child turns ten today. Sometimes I feel like I can see her legs growing before my eyes. She is beautiful, but now pimply and occasionally stinky and says things like, "I can do whatever I want because this is MY BODY!" as her head spins around like the possessed kid in the Exorcist. Deep, gutteral wails eminate from her in-need-of-orthodontia mouth when I ask her to "please shower".

To gain coolness points on her birthday, I made the mistake of taking a van-full of 8 and 9 year olds to see High School Musical Three last night. Pre and post-movie, then on into the night, discussions ensued about which boys/girls they would like to date, marry, kiss and with whom to have babies. I decided that the best course of action would be to eavesdrop innocently in order to better assess the situation, then devise the most effective intervention at a later time. I have come up with these possible solutions - home schooling and admission to a convent. I sense the end of an era.

And for the viewing pleasure of the entire community, my oldest child will play out the yin/yang of her personality and her battle with the ambivalence of adolescence as she stars next month in the leading role as the Grinch in her school play "How the Grinch Stole Christmas", and a tutu-clad fairy in her ballet school's production of Sleeping Beauty.


Despite my repeated attempts to royally screw her up, her coolness prevails as she is catapulted from childhood into adolescence. And I am so proud of her and am honored to be her mom. Bring on the next era!

I Sacrificed My ACL for Barack Obama and 9 Year Old Soccer Players

Given the recent news that I did indeed re-tear the graft of my already reconstructed ACL in my right knee at rugby practice six weeks ago, I am faring pretty well. It doesn't hurt. I should be grateful for that, but it just keeps me in stage number 1 of the 5 Stages of Grief - Denial. I told Jeff that I decided this morning that they had mistaken my MRI with some other moron who had ripped their ACL a second time and that I should go ahead and cancel my physical therapy appointment and just go to rugby practice tomorrow. Like I did for a month after I hurt it.

Here is how I am experiencing The Kubler-Ross model of the 5 Stages of Grief: 1.) Denial - "wrong MRI", "I don't really need an ACL", "It was a bad dream" 2.) Anger "I'm not sure I've ever heard of anyone with more sports injuries requiring surgical intervention that myself", "You need to stop singing that annoying song right now...PLEASE" , "Any person with intact ACLs is a total jerk" 3.) Bargaining "If I promise to never play rugby again, can I just keep playing everything else without an ACL?" "I'll wear a brace every day if I just don't have to do that surgery again" 4.) Depression "UGGHHH, pass the donuts" 5.) Acceptance "It's just a knee, at least I didn't break my neck", "The pain of surgery/rehab will be better than childbirth", "Now that I can't play rugby this fall, I have time to convince people to vote for Barack Obama and coach E's soccer team every Saturday"

So, the injury and subsequent forced end of my rugby career may actually have a silver lining. I now have time to call people during the dinner hour for the next two months and try to convince them that no one should care about their ACLs or any other inconsequential bullshit given the specter of the possibility of being governed by John McCain and Sarah Palin. Also, hopefully my kid will appreciate that I am pacing the sidelines every Saturday morning in a neon orange shirt, screaming directives that are never heeded, instead of riding in a car with a bunch of 20 something rugby players to some far off Midwest city to batter and bruise myself in the name of sport. I'm trying hard to believe that there's a reason for my bad luck.

My genetic material

The tiny rugby ball, the ice cream bucket on her head...nature or nuture?