Wally World

Thirsty Third Thursdays may sound like a happy hour advertising scheme for a bar, but I know it better as TTT. THE WIFE is a loyal and proud member of this distinguished group of ladies. TTT has gathered almost every third Thursday of the month since around 1998, which means they've known each other for about 13 years longer than any of the "real wives" on a Real Housewives episode. The TTT meeting spot varies monthly, but it's usually at someone's home [minus the husband/kid(s)] or a bar/restaurant located somewhat equidistantly for all.

Back in the day pre-marriages and motherhood, TTT nights were often followed by Friday-morning absentee calls to work or adventures possibly inspiring Sex in the City episodes. But nowadays, the ladies are more likely to discuss homeopathic remedies for diaper rash or possibly even order a non-alcoholic drink - GASP - with dinner - at the risk of inviting whispers and murmurs speculating about whether the teetotaler is preggo.

On special occasions other than the third Thursday of the month, the TTT husbands and kids are eligible to participate in group activities and random family adventures. For example, last weekend, many TTT families ventured north to Storyland in New Hampshire. It would be the T family's first amusement park experience.

Nana and Pep volunteered to watch Augey since he is too small for any rides, so THE WIFE and I went back to a 2 v. 1 zone and brought Gigi solo. Easy, right?

Well, our morning got off to a rough start. The GPS took us around Maine or Canada until we got help from a helpful convenience store cashier during her smoke break. Possibly spent from the awful commute out of Boston the day before, Greta was cranky and whining as we finally saw the park entrance beckoning from afar. Naturally, THE WIFE and I started to imitate our daughter's complaining, which only made Greta more annoyed. As we literally pulled into the parking lot, Gigi showed us whose boss and projectile vomitted about a gallon of milk and mostly-chewed Goldfish crackers like a rotating sprinkler head throughout and around the backseat.

We parked as I dropped F-bombs. Horrified, THE WIFE sprinted out of the front seat and grabbed Greta from her car seat. I started working on the back seat while suppressing my gag instinct from the rancid odor. Eventually, I checked on Greta's status. THE WIFE was scrubbing furiously. But upon closer inspection, it wasn't our little girl she was cleaning with a vengeance - it was Greta's shirt with her name on it, the one all of the kids were supposed to be wearing that day.

ME: What are you doing?
WIFE: I'm cleaning her shirt.
ME: You are not making her wear that shirt. It smells like hot stinky cheese.
WIFE: She is NOT missing out on the group kid photo!
ME: That's cruel and unusual.
WIFE: (flashing a death stare)
ME: As long as it's just for the photo, she'll be fine.

And so we passed through the maze of minivans and station wagons with white silhouette stickers of family member caricatures on rear windows that are apparently all the bumper sticker rage these days, entered through the turnstyles, and finally met up with the crew.

It was a blast. Gigi loved the rides, which kinda shocked me because she's such a scaredy cat right now. She especially enjoyed just hanging and playing with the other 17 kids in our crew who were all impressively well-behaved and sweet to each other.

I realized there are three major benefits to group adventures like this with fellow parents:

1) Total lack of worry for an unforeseen meltdown. In the company of single or childless friends, it's kinda difficult to convince them that your kid really is awesome if he/she is sobbing uncontrollably while running around the house naked because they "don't want to wear a diaper." Moments like that are pretty effective birth control, actually. But in the company of fellow parents still in the trenches of tantrums out of nowhere themselves, they hear a kid freak out, turn to see if it's one of theirs, and continue with their conversation as if nothing happened once they see it's someone else's. Safety in numbers, I suppose.

2) A surplus of surrogate parents. All parents have the green light to discipline and supervise as necessary. So, if Gigi tries to walk on the railroad tracks or into the swan boat pond because mom or dad are asleep at the switch, Auntie Jess or Uncle Ryan have a free pass to grab her by whatever body part they can catch to prevent catastrophe. No questions asked. Again, safety in numbers.

3) Collective amusement from humor appropriate only among your contemporaries. For example, one mom was really bent out of shape that Humpty Dumpty had hair. We agreed it was most likely a toupee and concluded that even nursery rhyme characters were not above the difficulties of vanity and aging, which led another dad to conclude that Humpty was in all likelihood wearing a merkin. Great stuff.

By the end of the day, we all managed to avoid any catastrophes at the park. The big hits for Greta were meeting Cinderella in person and driving in the pumpkin carriage to get to the castle, riding in the flying fish, and drinking a juice box. By contrast, she is probably scarred forever by the talking tree that has given her nightmares since.

As for the family truckster, the 80-degree heat and closed windows unsurprisingly did little to improve the scent situation of our back seat. I febreezed excessively that night and fortunately all was forgotten by the next day. As we headed back south towards home, still reveling in our collective buzz from the overall success of the joint family adventure, THE WIFE and I smiled at each other in agreement. "That was fun." "Yeah," I agreed, "we had a great -" and then Greta puked one more time for good measure. As I was saying, great weekend.

Alphabet Soup

Over the last two years, THE WIFE and I have read our fair share of children’s books to the kids. The most common book we’ve read to the kids are the ABC books. We’re pros now. Basically, all you need to tell me is the theme of the book and whatever letter happens to be on the page you’re viewing, and I can predict with good probability what word matches the letter described.

For example, E is rarely anything but an elephant or an egg, the O is almost uncannily an octopus, and the Z is either a zebra or a zipper. A is almost always an apple, B is often a ball, and Y is a yo-yo 99% of the time. X is mostly an x-ray, though xylophones and “x” marks the spot are making strong showings as of late.

The other night, Gigi snagged “A is for Annabelle” by Tasha Tudor, which happens to be an ABC book that totally throws a knuckler at my ability to predict the word for each letter. The original copyright is 1954, which gives some perspective. This book just intrigues me every time it’s in the night reading rotation.

First of all, the dedication just sets the tone. It makes me chuckle like Beavis and Butthead. “To dearest Muff…” I make sure I read that clearly every time just to put a little adolescent smirk on my face.

A, as one may suspect, is for Annabelle. From here, I’ll just touch on the words that will in all likelihood never appear again in future ABC books.

C is for cloak. Unless you’re Nina Garcia’s niece or a really big Harry Potter fan, this word is not likely to be in the 2011 child’s early vocabulary.

K is for kerchiefs. Whenever I think of this word, it reminds me of sitting in a pew during mass one Sunday as a kid with a runny nose. My dad, of course, was prepared and had a handkerchief in his pocket to help me out. The hankie, though, was crusty and hurt my nose when I placed my nostrils to it, so the thoughtful gesture actually worsened the loose mucus situation on my face and I should have just used my sleeve in the first place. Anyway, that was probably 1983 and officially the last time I ever put a man tissue on my nose.

M is for – yes again(!) – muff. Spectacularly, this euphemism for pubic hair that triggers suppressed giggles in adolescent boys and immature 36 year-old men alike, appears for the second time in the book. I can guarantee you will never find that occurrence in any book published in the 21st century. By the way, a muff is a brown, furry uni-mitten that “is so warm and so cosy.” Great stuff.

N is for nosegay. Hmm, you say? Oh, it’s a “bright fragrant posy.” Of course.

O is for overskirt. As if it’s not difficult enough to dress my daughter in a t-shirt and shorts, I couldn’t fathom having to put this seemingly superfluous piece of material on top of a dress. Thankfully, we live in 2011 Southeastern Massachusetts and not south of the Mason-Dixon line in the 1860's.

P is a parasol. Again, unless a toddler happens to catch a Project Runway repeat featuring one as a runway accessory, “parasol” isn’t making a kid’s top 1000 most frequently spoken words. First of all, umbrellas clearly own this product’s market share. Second of all, tan is in – fair skin is out. See Snookie/Jersey Shore and spray tanning.

T is for tippet, or some kind of a shawl I think. Saying the word out loud reminds me of whip-its. Also known as hippie crack. You know, five bucks a nitrous balloon at Phish concerts. Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa. So lightheaded and funky for like ten seconds. You feel like you’re on the verge of passing out. Right? I mean, not that I’ve ever tried. Just heard about it – from my buddy. George Glass. He’s not from around here so you don’t want to waste your time tracking him down. Anyways, moving on.

Last, but not least, Z is not for zebra. Z is for zither. A stringed instrument that lies flat on a table. Strangely, this IS something I could see becoming more commonplace in the 21st century. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Gaga had a zither player on the payroll for her Monster Ball tour.

That concludes my first official children’s book review. Based on Gigi’s impressions to “A is for Annabelle” combined with my muffled amusement, I give this a final rating of 4 out of 5 stars.

Judge, Jury, and Executioner

Gus sits perched on his throne, bib around his neck, maneuvering his last mouth full of apple-raspberry puree spoon fed by his mama from a translucent plastic rectangular cube. The little old man bangs his hand like a gavel occasionally on the tray, either to demonstrate his approval of the last spoonful, or possibly to cue his mommy who lost her rhythm while relating an anecdote from the past day’s activities.

I cheer my little prince on approvingly as he eagerly accepts another spoonful. My princess, perceptively, notices this sudden shift in my attention away from her to her brother, and calculates.

Moments before, Gigi was reluctantly chewing a bite of something she says she “can’t like” with her mouth wide open. She chomped obnoxiously to demonstrate her compliance with my request that she please “chew, chew, chew” so as not to choke. As is the case in any meal, I’ve begged, bribed, and pleaded that my daughter eat something, or at least anything not named ice cream, pretzel, Cheerio, or Goldfish. After she swallowed, I smiled towards her and nodded with a “Nice job.” But then my focus switched to her brother.

As THE WIFE and I attempt to resurrect a conversation already disjointed from interruptions while fielding requests for milk or retrieving spoons flung on the floor, we burst into applause after Gus’ latest gulp. It’s been twenty whole seconds since we last glanced in Greta’s direction. She’s been ignored long enough.

Gigi somehow plants a foot spitefully on the table edge, waiting and hoping for a reaction. We’ve been here before. The first time she pulled this stunt, I surprised myself by taking as strong a stand as I did. I actually raised my voice, which I hardly ever do, and spontaneously proclaimed the imposition of a new household edict while uttering the almost one-word: “GRETA-JANE- TERAVAINEN, DON’T-YOU-DARE-PUT-A-SINGLE-TOE-ON-THIS-KITCHEN-TABLE-AGAIN-OR-YOU-WILL-BE-IN-A-TIMEOUT-IMMEDITATELY!” as my eyes bulged and I breathed heavily. She sheepishly withdrew her foot, and I felt ashamed at what was probably an overreaction. Why was I getting so worked up?

On one hand, I of course know that I don’t want to be in a restaurant with Greta in ten years when she suddenly kicks back in the middle of an entrée with her Manolo Blahniks or Nikes (who the hell knows what’ll be in for twelve year-olds then) in my salad. But on the other hand, what probably bothered me more, was my imposition of a new rule that would compel enforcement with regular consistency or otherwise risk undermining my authority as co-CEO of the family henceforth. The prospect made me uncomfortable.

Since the time I was a teenager, I bristled whenever I sensed an adult’s imposition of an arbitrary or seemingly pointless rule. (The “no hat” in school bullshit, for example, always struck me as ludicrous.) College, therefore, was a most welcome emancipation. I spent the next decade and a half reveling in not being told what to do. No accountability to anyone but myself. Spontaneous drunken adventures with buddies that occurred without the need of four weeks’ notice and 57 e-mails debating over dates and locations. Entire Saturdays spent on a couch in my underwear recovering from the previous night’s follies.

Then I began dating THE WIFE and a new order of rules gradually ensnared me like a pumpkin’s ivy tentacles. By the time we were married, I was back to living under a Taliban-like rule. (Here’s one for you – we can’t listen to classical music because it reminds THE WIFE of horror movies and scares her – seriously.)

Fast forward back to today, and suddenly I’m yelling at Greta for putting her feet on the table. I feel like such a hypocrite. If this was ten years ago, we’d both place our feet in the pizza box we were eating around and pull cheese out from the cracks. But instead, I’m scanning the table like a hawk to ensure that no sparkly rhinestoned sneaker graze the vicinity of the Dora place mat. What has my world come to?

Gigi, I hope we can laugh about this twenty years from now. It’s just one of those things I have to do, which I swore I’d never do, but I feel compelled to make you suffer through it, as your loving father. Hopefully, we’ll clink our wine glasses and chuckle, which would be sweet – so long as your feet are not on the table.

The Fruit of My Loins

Like Canadian geese flying north, or crocus buds poking through thawing earth, spring has many harbingers announcing the new season’s arrival. At Chez Teravainen, the seasons have officially changed when THE WIFE trades her hot coffee for iced and her Pinot Noir for Sauvignon Blanc. Welcome, spring.

As spring itself transitions from normal to monsoon, it will come as no surprise to anyone that both of the kids have grown and developed rapidly in all respects with each passing month. However, Greta and Gus recently manifested different physical changes for which I feel genetically responsible. Specifically, Gigi got the Gap and G-man got the Big Eye.

The Gap is about a quarter-inch space between my two upper front teeth. While my Gap's definitely not in the neighborhood of say Michael Strahan, it is wide enough to put me on the same page of say, Anna Paquin or maybe even Condoleeza Rice. Over the course of my life, the Gap has evolved from a dental defect of which I was completely unaware during childhood, to a source of self-conscious insecurity during puberty, to an eventual state of acceptance during college, and ultimately to a personal symbol of pride for my imperfection.

We Gap folks are like Jeep owners and Harley riders. When we pass each other on the street, we respectfully nod or subtly wave with two fingers only. It’s kind of an unofficial fraternal order.

Gigi definitely qualifies as a rank and file member of the Gap team at this moment but her eligibility may be premature. Time will tell if the space reduces as her molars come in, or if the current Gap distance changes when the baby teeth are replaced by adult ones. For the time being, I’m happy to emphasize an appreciation for the Gap’s advantages such as the access it provides for easy gleeking, or the ease with which we can whistle. As for whether Greta opts someday for braces, I will happily acquiesce – especially if she inherits her mom’s bucky beavers in which case we'll have a dental hot mess.

On the other hand, the Big Eye was a phenomenon that developed when I started wearing glasses around 7 years old. My right eye was fine, so the right lens was clear. By contrast, the left eye’s prescription was so strong that the lens was just a giant magnifying glass.

Since I was a kid constantly outgrowing shoes and clothes, my parents figured, “Let’s get him glasses on the bigger side, so he doesn’t outgrow them quickly." Consider also that this was the early 80’s, so large frames were de rigeur. As a result, when people looked at me closely, they’d realize I had one normal sized eye and another that was borrowed from an angry giant squid. I'm traumatized whenever I look at photos from 1982 to 1989.

G-man’s left eye also now requires specs as the eye doctor suggests that use of the glasses on the earlier side may help improve the little man’s vision in the long run. As you may suspect, ten month old kids are not big fans of wearing glasses. Consequently, we will invoke a technique popularized by pioneers Kurt Rambis and James Worthy from the NBA’s glorious years of the 80’s: the rec specs with elastic band around the head.

Fortunately for him, the Aug-Dawg looks way cuter and cooler in his glasses than I ever have. THE WIFE checked out a few prototypes and we’re waiting on them to arrive. I am optimistic Gus will not be upset when viewing pics of himself from 2011 and beyond. Simply due to the small size of his face, I think G-unit will be safe from any Big Eye situation in the near future. But when the time is right, I’ll show him how we can burn ants with our left eyeglass lenses. Great bonding.

Like father, like daughter and son.

Mowing Another Woman's Lawn

After the end of my sophomore year at the prestigious Universitas Viritis Montis, I was leaning towards staying in Burlington for the summer. During the school year, my parents had no objection to paying my rent. But once summer came, my dad said, “You have a free place to stay at home. If you don’t want to stay here, you pay your rent until the school year starts.” Fair enough.

Fortunately, I had G-money. G-money was going home to his parents’ house for the summer, but the room in his apartment on North Street was paid for already. He could have demanded that I pay him rent for the summer, and either pocketed the money or given it to his parents, but instead he told me to just pay my portion of the utilities for the summer and enjoy. Done deal. I was staying.

Meanwhile, my bartending job was only one or two nights a week. I needed a full-time day job to supplement the income. Enter Karen.

Karen ran a landscaping company as well as a horse and buggy service out of her home in Underhill, a small Vermont hamlet tucked just below Mount Mansfield. (The commute to and from Burlington to Underhill is still my favorite of all time.)

One of my fraternity brothers had been working for Karen already and told me she was looking to hire someone else. He introduced us. She asked what experience I had landscaping. I told her I mowed my parents’ lawn but not much else. She asked where I was from in New Hampshire. I answered. “Flatlander, eh?” she replied in her Green Mountain accent while sizing me up skeptically. She hired me anyway.

Karen is about ten years older than me. We haven’t seen each other in years but I remember her kind of like the big sister I never had. She was a strong and rugged woman yet unquestionably feminine. She was just as comfortable changing the oil and sharpening a mower blade, as she was getting gussied up for a night out with girlfriends. While she loved her horses and her pick up trucks, she also enjoyed making pretty flower gardens. One of my favorite Karen quotes was that she needed a husband so he could do the dishes and clean the house while she ran her businesses.

Karen had a wild and crazy fun side that showed up when the time was right. She’d throw a couple of us guys in the back of her truck as we drove around her pasture. We were supposed to be searching for missing horseshoes because the blacksmith was coming to shoe the horses. While we held on for dear life, she’d hoot and holler while accelerating the truck over hills all while honking the horn as horses galloped wildly around us.

Karen once arrived at a job where we had been working already to check on the progress with the customer. Like the idiot that I’ve always been, I avoided wearing a shirt whenever possible partially to fortify the tan but also to put any young ladies on notice that the gun show was in town. Karen preferred that we keep our shirts on whenever customers were present but she didn’t care if it was really hot or if our crew was working alone.

As Karen and the customer walked around, she flashed an urgent look in my direction. I couldn’t tell if she was mad or what. I was worried I planted a flower in the wrong spot or something. Or maybe it was because the shirt was off. Once the customer was out of earshot, I asked her what was wrong. “You’re damn pubes are sticking out of the top of your shorts!” she said while shaking her head but laughing at the same time. (I don’t remember owning much for undies in college.)

At the end of a summer work day, as the setting sun turned the sky orange-pink and stretched our shadows longer and darker, Karen would duck out for a short bit. A few minutes later, she’d reappear with a beautiful six pack of Molson, Moosehead, or Labatts (it was always an “Ice” brand of beer) to reward the crew on a job well done. That was the whistle ending our shift for the day.

After two summers, Karen and I logged in many hours together. Lots of laughs. Many great times. Before we met, I’d never operated a weed wacker, an axe, a chainsaw, a hedge trimmer, a rider mower, a tractor, or a truck with a trailer attached to it. I had never planted a flower, a bush, or a tree, for that matter. She was the first to teach me how to do any of that manly stuff. Of course, there were the occasional rough patches when I broke something expensive and we negotiated how much of it she’d have to take out of my pay. But we got over it and moved on. After all, she wasn’t just my boss anymore. We were friends.

A few years after I graduated college, I called Karen to tell her I was coming up to VT for a visit. I didn’t have a car and I was taking the bus. In classic form, she told me she’d leave a truck for me downtown with the keys on the tire. I tried to object but she wouldn’t hear of it. When I got to town, of course the truck was waiting for me. I had wheels for the weekend. That’s just how she rolls.

Now that the weather has improved, I’ve begun dusting off my own landscaping tools and oiling up the rusty skills. Not much has changed except that I’m more likely to weed with my shirt on. And I can’t help but think of Karen every time I either plant something nice, or break another rake.

Hey Karen, I know you are out there somewhere in the world working hard and enjoying life. If you happen to be in the neighborhood some time, I hope you swing by the casa on Gawaine Road. Just give me the head’s up so I make sure the lawn looks good before you come. Here’s a toast to you with an “ice” beer, and hoping this finds you well.

The Huffinpuff

Before THE WIFE and I procreated, she had the reputation of easily logging in ten to twelve hours of sleep any night given the opportunity. Obviously, that dynamic has changed dramatically since February of 2009, and even before then for that matter, considering the preceding nine months of vacillating body temperatures and various extremities kicking and scratching from within the uterine confines.

As for me, I can’t deny that the occasional weekend morning sleep-in past 10 was quite enjoyable. Two kids later, though, my internal alarm generally alerts around 5:30 a.m. whether the clock radio is set or not and whether it’s Wednesday or Sunday morning. It’s some kind of cruel curse.

Fortunately, Greta and Gus take after their mom (knocking on many surfaces of wood around me) in the sleep department and crush it with day naps and uninterrupted night sleep. Currently, Greta logs in one afternoon nap every day from 2 to 5 and then she’s down at 8 until between 7 and 7:30 the next morning. Sometimes, Gigi will even pull an 8 to 8 such as last night. That’s some serious Rip Van Winkling.

G-man is a bit less predictable at least during the day. He goes down between zero and three times per day for naps that average between 30 minutes and two hours. At night, Gus is usually out by 8:30 and up between 7 and 7:30.

Irregahdless, THE WIFE and I realize we’re fortunate that both kids are pretty good sleepers and we generally can’t complain.

Keeping that in mind, there are occasions when one or both of the peanuts wake up in the middle of the night for a myriad of reasons. Every once in a while, it’s a diaper situation. But mostly, it’s totally random.

A few weeks ago, for example, Greta was crying. Each of us responded at different intervals. Both times, Greta said a butterfly woke her up. We calmed her down and she fell back asleep. Peace however was not yet restored in the master bedroom where a middle-of-the-night, loud whisper debate occurred as to whether a bat had been flying around in Greta’s room or not. (You can probably guess who thought a bat might actually be in there and who disagreed.)

This week, G-man woke up for no apparent reason at like two in the morning on a Wednesday. I was in a wonderfully deep and sober sleep totally oblivious to his crying but fortunately THE WIFE heard Gus and rescued him from the crib. She brought him into bed with us, which might not be surprising except that it’s a rule she’ll bend maybe as often as Jillian Michaels eats a quarter pounder with cheese.

From somewhere around the 5th sub-floor of Inception, my mind jolted my body to real life as a small finger poked multiple times into my eyeball. When my lid lifted, I saw my little G-man smiling back at me mischievously. I smiled back at him exhaling heavy hot sleep breath into his face. He politely did not notice as he lifted his legs at a ninety degree angle and pulled at his own toes, as if bragging of his flexibility.

To be clear, these occasional sleep interruptions don’t bother me at all. It’s part of the parental package. I get it. You just find that extra gear in the heat of the moment and deal. It’s the same impulse that fuels a Clark Griswald to continue driving in the middle of the night while everyone else is passed out in the family truckster.

Now segue to the distinctly different dynamic of spousal bed-sharing. I’ve heard many a nightmare story of wives enduring husbands who aspire in their sleep to chop down Sequoias and Redwoods with rusty axes. These boys try to suck all the air and furniture out of the room through their nostrils and mouths followed afterwards by some bizarre exhalation of gurgling and/or whistling noises escaping back through the mouth and nose. In defense of these wives, I’ve unfortunately experienced many a drunken weekend away with these boys who sound like a symphony of log czars chainsawing their through an Amazonian forest.

In sharp contrast, I sleep more like a mime or a ninja - virtually silent (barring the occasional fart) with the exception of whatever sound the sheets make as they rise and fall with my inhalations and exhalations. To enhance sleeping conditions even more, I’ve slept with a fan, humidifier, or other pleasant white noise-maker almost every night since I was about 14 years old.

Admittedly, there are two, very infrequent exceptions to the example of my asleep-in-space-like patterns. One, if my allergies are bothering me and/or I have a cold, there may be a snore or two during the night if I’ve turned onto my back. Two, if perhaps I’ve had one or two more drinks than I should have consumed, a snoring incident may occur. Those isolated instances result in what THE WIFE eagerly calls the “disgusting, open-mouthed snore.”

About two weeks ago, I experienced the rare double whammy: I had a cold and one too many beverages before bed. I vaguely recall being elbowed in the vicinity of my thoracic spine about two or three times as I slept otherwise peacefully that night – until of course, the dreaded huffinpuff came out.

The huffinpuff is a technique created and patented by THE WIFE that she employs when she is annoyed that I’m sleeping and she’s awake. Ironically, the huffinpuff is its own loud and distracting sound of exhaling in a distinctly, complaining manner often accompanied by pillow punching and thrashing around in the bed so the vibrations jolt me out of my position. The huffinpuff has about a 99% success rate of ruining whatever peaceful sleep I may have been previously experiencing.

Naturally, THE WIFE huffinpuffed me awake during the hybrid allergy-drunk snore I exhibited last week on a Saturday morning. After I couldn’t fall back asleep, I went into the kids’ playroom, wrapped a holey afghan around me, and surfed the web until the family finally woke up.

The huffinpuff situation would be fine, except that every once in a rare while, the kids and I will still be asleep when THE WIFE wakes up. Due to her particular sensitivity to any noise at all, one may think she’d considerately exit the bed and go downstairs to be quiet. But no. Instead, she pulls the Blackberry into bed and starts Facebooking/Googling/e-mailing away. Clickety-click-click-click. Clickety-click-clack-clack. Then, quiet for like ten seconds. Then, clickety-click-click-click.

It’s an ever-so slight noise but it’s so effective in ruining for me what was a previously peaceful late morning snooze. When I hear this noise, I want to smash her phone with a baseball bat into a thousand pieces. The double standard drives me nuts.

But yet, what do I do? Absolutely nothing. I’m too cowardly to complain. Plus, I’m on my third glass of vino tonight and a second bottle could be opened before bed tonight. Perhaps I'll have my revenge after all...

Two Years Later

Two of Grandma Kirk's three leprechauns, above.

My Grandma Kirk passed away two years ago, this Wednesday. In that time period, she has assumed a celestial watch over three great-grandchildren, not just the 4-week old peanut she met shortly before her passing.

Since she's been gone, there is a lot about my grandmother that makes me reflect.

On the deeper side, I have just one major regret. The last time I saw Grandma, she was in her hospital room smiling and laughing with other family members. Even with her health ailing, I couldn't believe that she might not pull through. She always came out on top before. It dawned on me for a second that I might not see her again. But either due to denial or naivete or haste, I neglected to tell her exactly how much I loved and cared for her before I left. Even though I know she knew then and cosmically knows now, my failure to seize the moment still haunts my insides a bit today.

On the lighter side, I can still hear in my head the exact way she said my name. Even though I asked my relatives to stop using my nickname when I was too "old" for it at about 12, I never minded when she continued to call me "Denny." She just pronounced it in her way. Perhaps the thought of hearing her pronouncement of my name induces some type of a Pavlovian response that anticipates imminent spoiling, or grandmotherly love and affection.

There is so much more about which I could write, but I'd rather just post what I wrote back then because it still rings true and reading it makes me feel a bit better. Love you Grandma!

"Ireland's Gift to my Family" - March, 2009

My Grandma Kirk used to call me "pet" when I was a little boy. The memory warms my heart. If something made me cry like my brother breathing on my side of the back seat, she might say, "What is it pet?" in a sweet voice that still hinted of her Dublin roots. Obviously, I wasn't the only pet of her seven grandchildren, but I relish that I was first.

Grandma's wit often escaped me as a child such as when she'd say "You're in the will!" after I did something to amuse her. I always thought it was some kind of Irish saying that meant "Good job!"

Even as a 20 year-old, Grandma's humor flew over my head. We were on a vacation together (known as "Kirkfests") when I was off socializing with some ladies. At some point later, I rejoined our family and Grandma asked innocently "Chasing the birds, Denny?" My literal interpretation of her comment must have been apparent in my facial expression because she politely explained that she wasn't talking about the birds that fly.

Grandma and Grandpa never miss a birthday, a Christmas, or any other important event without at least a card and a gift. Never. Ask Grandma if she's ever attended any of her grandchildren's graduations and she could probably lead the band in "Pomp and Circumstance."

Recently, my aunt relayed a story to me that she and Grandma were at the beauty salon when a conversation arose about whether she had any great grandchildren. If I remember correctly, her lighthearted response was something like "Why do you think I've been holding on?"

A few hours after Greta Jane was born, I called Grandma to tell her that her new title was official: she was a great grandmother. She gleefully exclaimed that our little Gigi would have to call her "G.G." It was a special and private moment for me.

Pauline Cullen Kirk passed away peacefully yesterday in the warm company and thoughts of her loved ones. My grandmother's warmth, wit, thoughtfulness, and generosity are only a few of the indelible impressions she left on me just by being herself. I will miss her dearly. But rather than dwell on the sadness accompanying her departure, I choose instead to focus on the happiness of her presence.

Two weeks ago, we shared our last special moment when I introduced Grandma to her great granddaughter. On any given day, the situation may not have been particularly significant from the perspective of a passerby: an elderly woman holding a newborn child. But in those precious few minutes, I didn't care about anything else in the world. And for that, I am so grateful to G.G. that she waited to see us before she moved on. We love you Grandma. Rest in peace.