Uh Oh, Looks Like Rain

Day Zero

Soon after one crosses the Hooksett-Manchester border traveling south on D.W. Highway, the commercial establishments that pop up (at least in the 1990’s) were all to a driver’s left because Dorrs Pond, its surrounding woods, and Livingston Park were all on the right leaving no room for any business developments.  The landmarks on the left that were of any interest to me were basically just Luisa’s (damn good calzones), Cheung Kee (great chow with plenty of MSG), Chantilly’s, Puritan (ice cream), and the Backroom (chicken tenders.)  Chantilly’s was a pool hall, for lack of a better term I guess, which was in the Maple Tree Mall.  It might still be there.  I have no idea.

Anyway, there was a pinball machine in Chantilly’s that had something to do with rain storms or weather disasters.  A voice used to say, “Uh oh, looks like rain” and another one said “The storm is coming.  Go back to your homes.”  The pinball game wasn’t really fun.  The voices weren’t really that funny.  But of course my buddies used to (and continue to this day) to quote this pinball machine at random moments, which makes me smile because it reminds me of being 15 years old.

So what does pinball have to do with the price of tea in China?  Well, T-Family Vacation version 1.0 (with the full Party of Five) kicked off on Friday and I found myself saying these two quotes repeatedly during my inner monologue.  Let me back up and set the scene.

Friday afternoon.  Easton.  By the time we’ve completed packing up the family truckster, rush hour has begun.  Traffic maps on the Internets showed swaths of bright red to indicate that highway travel was gridlocked.  Obviously, the most sensible option was to wait and do dinner at home.  We could bathe the kids, put them in PJs, and hop in the FUV when the traffic has subsided.  If we left at 8, we’d probably get to Madison by 10:30 p.m.  Naturally, we decided to leave at that moment instead.

I ducked and weaved (yes I was driving – I’ve surrendered) on and off the highway to make decent time as far as the Ashmont exit of 93.  Unfortunately, the inevitable crawling pace of traffic stymied our merge onto the highway.  Ever so slowly, we passed through the tunnel and hit the Tobin only to somehow move more slowly.

Right around Kappy’s Liquors on Route 1, Greta announced that she had to pee really bad.  All I ever associate with Route 1 are the ubiquitous chain restaurants, chain stores, and independently owned exotic dancing small businesses tucked in between.  I figured we could go a little further and pull over any second into a semi-decent eating establishment before Greta really had to go.  Worst case scenario, we might crash an amateur hour at the Golden Banana to use the bathroom, but of course, that was only a worst case scenario.

Cue the rain.  And the pinball machine quotes.

After we encountered what seemed like a ten mile stretch at 1.5 miles per hour with literally zero eating establishments (does such a void actually exist on Route 1?) Greta started to ring the alarm.

GRETA: My belly hurts really bad. 

Yikes.  I decided internally that “I’ll just pull into the next establishment I see, whatever it is.  If it’s the Cabaret, so be it.  Greta and I will just run in there, pause only slightly at the stage, then continue running into the bathroom.”  Or maybe not.

Finally.  Signs of life.  Great.  I was just gearing up for the turn into a parking lot.  If only we could move faster than a half mile per hour. 

It started pouring around then, by the way.  Hard.

Just as I activated the blinker, THE WIFE and I encountered our worst travel nightmare…  The Golden Arches.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

We’ve made it almost three and half years without resorting to eat with any of our kids at McDonald’s or the like.  Was this our moment when we finally gave in?  Was I about to order a quarter pounder with cheese, enjoy the four minutes it took to inhale, then regret the decision for the next three hours as it wreaked havoc on my intestines?  Scenes from Braveheart flashed behind my eyes.  Mel Gibson/William Wallace yelled.  “Hold.  Hooold!  Hoooooooold!”

I kept driving.  Greta yelled openly in discomfort.  Soon we were driving in a typhoon.  My cell phone beeped with a severe weather alert text message.

“This is ridiculous,” I said to myself in the echoing space that my brain should occupy.  “I’m seriously pulling over in whatever stop is next that may have a toilet.” 

Suddenly, a beacon of light flashed like an oasis in the desert, or at least a potty for a small child whose bladder is on the verge of bursting like a water balloon.

WIFE: There! 

ME: It’s not open.

WIFE: Yes it is.

Fortunately, she was right and I pulled over.  We arrived at the Mexican restaurant chain whose name makes me repeat it incessantly while wondering what it means and whether I’m pronouncing it properly: Chipotle.  [“Chee-poat-lay,” is where I’m leaning, for the record.]

As we skidded the mini to a stop in the parking lot, the rain began to fall Hollywood-style when star crossed lovers run towards each other to apologize about whatever transgressions they’ve committed because they just want to be together forever.  Greta and THE WIFE parted the Red Sea as they flew through the entrance.  I ferried G-man and the Tills inside.

Long story short, we averted disaster.  Gigi evacuated.  We ate fairly healthy food.  We also had our very first dinner as a party of five in public.  And we didn’t seem to ruin anyone’s meal.  No meltdowns occurred in public.  Granted, Gus ate only tortilla chips, pulled the old arch-your-back-while-sitting-on-my-lap move, and licked a ground-level window after watching Greta do the same, but overall it was a success. 

We pushed off from the dock and steered north.  After hydroplaning through the “Nohth Shoah” of Massachusetts, the deluge began to subside once we caught Route 16 in Portsmouth.  And traffic finally relented.  Before long, all three of our peanuts were snoozing.  We arrived at Pep’s house about an hour earlier than if we left at 8 o’clock.  But we made it. 

Day One - Is It Bedtime Yet?

I opened my eyes.  Greta was beaming beautifully next to me.  It was 6:40 a.m.  I was desperate for more sleep.

ME: Greta, it’s too early to get up.  Get into bed with me and mom.  Let’s cuddle for a few minutes.  I’ll buy you an SUV, only slightly used, when you turn 16.

GRETA: No.

ME: Please.  I’ll pay your first year of college.  No strings attached.

GRETA: No, daddy.  I want.  To go.  Downstairs. (strong intonation on the last syllable and possibly stomping a foot)

ME: (seeing that THE WIFE is awake) Can you please handle this?

Amazingly, I didn’t wake up again until about 7:45.  THE WIFE was a rock star and apparently took Greta somewhere out of the house because they were both gone.

Like a morning rooster, the Tills-inator beckoned me to wake.  Dazed, I stumbled up the carpeted stairs to get her.  I missed the last step and shanked my back.  Still cursing under my breath while rubbing my back, I looked over the pack-n-play.  Tilly-Vanilli was grinning ear to ear.  I grabbed her, changed her diaper, and laid her in bed next to me.  Suddenly, THE WIFE appeared again like an angel from above and grabbed our baby.  I went back to sleep.  (Rock star status, continued, for Mrs. T.)

At 8:15, guilt and a Tilly cry got me out of bed.  I rejoined the family.  G-man got up not long after.

We breakfasted.  THE WIFE and I decided to divide and conquer.  I’d take the older two to the beach.  She’d take the baby to the grocery store. 

Rather than wait for a ride in the FUV, I decided to walk.  Seeing that I was holding Gus, our bag, two floaties, a foldable blanket with shoulder strap, and a basket of toys, Greta graciously offered to carry something.  Two minutes later, she complained the toy basket was too heavy.  I was relieved she at least agreed to walk on her own.

For the next two hours, I ran closely behind Gus as he drunken sailored his way around the beach.  He ate about four mouthfuls of sand and packed another handful or two in his bathing suit.  Greta dumped a shovelful of sand into my ass crack for good measure, too.  The three of us played in the water, built sand castles, sat wrapped in towels after our dip, etc.  You know the drill.  Once Gus’ lips began to blue and shiver, I packed up our gear.

Back at HQ, we rendez-vous’d with M&M.  After lunch, Gus went down for his nap.  In light of our vacationing status, I decided to nap too.  The girls decided to take their own adventure to the beach.

Two and a half hours later, I woke up stunned and confused.  The siesta did me right. 

Downstairs, I could hear the girls in the bathroom after returning from their excursion.  Once G-man woke up, I took the killer bees (my term for the two younger kids, more on this another time) out of the house for a drive so that THE WIFE could cook dinner.  (Rock star status for her part III on the day.) 

After steak and a birthday cake, we skyped Nana and Aunt Carol.  Next, baths, books, and songs followed.  Finally, the beasts fell asleep.  THE WIFE watched Toddlers and Tiaras Dance Moms, which blows my mind on so many levels but I can’t even comment.  And here I am.  Typing these words. 

I think I’m finally relaxed.

Talking Eyeballs

[Editor's note: forgive any grammar/typos this week. I'm solo with the Tills this morning and her nap just ended but I was too close to done to not post.]

As much as I enjoy chatting with most anyone - particularly commiserating with fellow parents about kids and parenthood - I’m paranoid of becoming one dimensional in my reservoir of topics for random conversation. 

We were up in Vermont for a big party thrown by our friends last weekend.  It was a good opportunity to catch up with close buddies and their kids whom we hadn’t seen in a while.  The visit was also an occasion where we socialized with friends of the host family friends whom we never met before or did not know very well from prior interactions.  As I’ve reflected on my conversations with some of those less familiar faces, the video replay of my brain taunts me internally by saying that I was too lame, boring, and/or negative in my interactions with the masses.  In other words, I spoke or complained about my kids too much.

While I chalk up this paranoia most likely to just being out of the loop from shooting the shit with less familiar acquaintances, I so don’t want to be that guy who is only capable of discussing topics somehow related to their kids.  While I’m un-embarrassed and even proud to be a sort of “daddy blogger” – not to mention actually being a father – I still desire to simply being, well, at least nominally interesting I guess. 

So that’s my awkward transition and inspiration for the direction of this week’s post…

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Anyone who’s ever been in a relationship knows that facial expressions alone can communicate sometimes even more effectively than a verbal exchange.  The longer the history with the significant other, of course the more extensive the non-verbal language. 

I’ve compiled a non-exhaustive list of these talking eyeball communiques, so feel free to supplement with any of the more common examples I’ve omitted. 

For starters, let’s go with a universal lay-up that everyone knows and employs.  You and your mate are across the room from each other at a group event.  Lots of chatter or other ambient noise deters you from just blurting out a loud “Hey, how are you?” inquiry that may suddenly focus unwanted attention on the both of you.  Instead, you exhibit the very simple smile acknowledgment in the direction of your partner along with a simultaneous backwards nod.  Essentially, you’re saying without saying: “whattup because I care?” 

The corresponding response to this question also speaks volumes.  You hope for the reciprocal smile back so you know all is well in their neck of the woods.  Less encouraging is the shoulder shrug with twisting open hands and the mouth contorting to one side.  That says “comme ci, comme ca.”  The worst response, though, is the wide open eyes and slow head side to side.  That of course means all is not good in the hood.

Now picture the two of you are attending a party hosted by your companion’s family or friend.  You’ve reached your limit and would really like to go, but you don’t want to be the guy or girl who’s conspicuously rushing to leave.  (This is especially true in the early period of dating when first impressions are still forming.)  An overt departure could easily invite gossipy speculation amongst those remaining behind.  No one wants to be the inspiration for the dreaded “I don’t think he/she was having a good time, so he/she shanghai’d the other into leaving early” whisper by the resident pot stirrer. 

The solution of course is the more subtle “are you ready to leave this party yet?” look, when the coast is clear.  Generally accompanied by raised eye brows and maybe even a twist of the head, it’s an expression that shouldn’t last more than three seconds so as to minimize risk of discovery by a passer-by.  If you’re getting this look at the party of your relative/amigo, but you’re still having a good time, you might ignore this look altogether and carry on.  (This is a textbook move by guys in particular who are on their sixth or seventh beer who are looking to double the intake by night’s end, and would prefer to do keg stands in the absence of their date.) 

The much wiser response is the ole private check-in when out of earshot to request a “ten more minutes” extension, which is always parlayed into at least another half hour minimum. 

Or maybe you too are ready to go, so you simply nod and announce “hey, we’ve got to hit the road because we’ve got that thing to go to.”  The resident pot stirrer of the group will still probably speculate that the new significant other was to blame for the early departure, but at least the cover story will stand.

What else?  Well, we certainly can’t overlook the “what-u-talking-bout’-Willis” glare.  Usually, this is just a playful gesture of dismay or perhaps a feigned display of dissatisfaction with one’s significant other.  Perhaps you’ve just openly criticized the other’s cooking or sense of fashion.  It’s kind of an assurance to any bystanders that “I’m just kidding about being annoyed right now, but I can’t let that comment pass without at least objecting publicly.”  Okay we’re losing steam.  Two to go.

This next one might just be unique to my experience, but who knows?  It’s the “did you seriously just fart right now at this most inappropriate moment – slash – is the carcass of a dead mammal decomposing in your colon because it smells so bad” glare and frown of disgust.  What?  Doesn’t look like I’m getting many amens on that one.  Truth be told, I’m the flatulent one in this example (shocked you are, I’m sure) that unfortunately occurs at an alarming frequency.  Elevators, small medical offices, cars, bed, phone booths (yes the two of us often enter one to make calls together – on a side note, is there anything more distracting than having a cell phone conversation at the same time as someone else five feet or less away), and generally any confined space with a dearth of air circulation are essentially like kryptonite to my sphincter.  Other than the “did you seriously just puke from drinking too much at a 3 year-old’s birthday party?” look of horror/shame, that ranks as one of the most dreaded expressions of all time. 

Last but not least, and perhaps not the smoothest departure point from a fart discussion, there’s the “I’m frenching/undressing/seducing you with my eyes right now, so don’t fall asleep” smirk and slow nod with smoldering (not Rene Zellweger) squint.  If all has gone well, this look will be followed by the “come hither because it’s time to get after it and we’ve got a hotel room so we’re sleeping late and not making the bed tomorrow” grin.  If all has not gone well, the look will transition into an exaggerated eye roll or possibly even the furrowed brow/scowl that nobody likes to inspire.  Here’s hoping you see the “come hither” next time opportunity knocks. 

There.  I am now leaning back in my chair with arms behind my head slowly rocking back and forth with self-satisfaction.  This week’s post is complete.  End of discussion.

When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong

As evidenced by the lack of posts lately, I’ve been in a funk the last month or so at Casa de Teravainen.  No one really likes to listen to a complainer so rather than write in a poopy pants state of mind, I figured it was better to just hunker down and wait out the storm.  On prior occasions when we were going through some kind of phase with the kids, THE WIFE and I have come together and picked up whomever was struggling the most.  To survive the storm, we just hunkered down, sucked it up, and got through it.  Eventually, once the inclement weather (a sick kid or kids, teething, no sleep, etc.) passed, the sun came out and birds finally began chirping again. 

This month, though, has felt like one of those nights from a Survivor episode when everyone is sleeping in a dilapidated bamboo hut and a typhoon suddenly strikes whatever remote island Mark Burnett have selected for that season.  No one can sleep because the gale-force winds are pelting each person’s face with giant rain drops flying sideways.  The contestants are huddled together to stay warm and cursing the one jackass who claimed he was in construction when the Wooteeny tribe entrusted him to design the suddenly very leaky hut.  Typically, this scene occurs at least once a season but is edited to last only half an episode at most.  Unfortunately for us, our family’s most recent tropical storm seems like it has lasted for four whole episodes – and feels like it may never end – much to the chagrin of the executive producers.

There is no particular issue going on.  It’s just the daily/weekly grind of handling three kids three years old and younger.  Every meal is a juggling act.  A trip in the F.U.V. to a pool party requires a Herculean effort.  Putting on clothes and/or diapers typically involve multiple crying fits and debates equivalent to health care reform.  The routine is exhausting and taxing on the psyche. 

Gradually, weeks passed without any post.  Instead of just ignoring the shit storm, it became clear that the blog needed updating if only to maintain the true integrity of our family’s chronicles.  In other words, I needed to write the bad not just the good.  Supposedly, these are the “good” years to treasure before the kids become teenagers and suddenly hate us because we don’t know anything. 

The resulting challenge evolved into a situation where I knew it would be a struggle to write honestly without alienating THE READERS who aren’t interested in hearing someone bitch and moan?  (See above – complaining is boring.)  Plus, I find nothing is worse than answering someone’s question during a coversation, then realizing they’ve stopped paying attention while you’re still half-way through a response.  Still, I much rather prefer to tell it like it truly is – at least to those who genuinely care. 

After many a family meal replete with whining, crying, food-throwing, clothes-stripping, meltdown-happenings, I’m-ready-to-peel-out-of-the-driveway-and-abandon-the-family-any-second, a solution manifested while scrubbing apple sauce off of our kitchen wall recently:  prepare two answers to the same question.  The first will be the fake and polite response to people who don’t really care/aren’t listening.  The second will be the true and blunt reply, particularly if that person is a prospective parent who might still be on the fence as to whether to have children. 

We kind of maintain this duality of communication in our regular life anyway, right?  If a co-worker asks how your weekend was as you wait your turn to use the photocopy machine, you generally don't tell them “by Sunday night, I wanted to lock all three of my children in a padded room so I could complete a sentence while speaking to my wife.  And to eat a taco without interruption.”  Instead, you’re likely to respond “Kinda quiet.  We just hung around the house.”  If your best friend asked the same question, however, you’d possibly ask them to come with you to Home Depot to buy supplies in preparation of building said padded room.

So here goes.  Again, I’ll pose a question, then answer it two ways.  The first response will be the politically correct, tell-them-what-they-want-to-hear answer.  The second response will be the knee jerk, I probably should not have said that out loud response.

Q: Hey Den, how are things at home?

A1: Great.  All good.  Peachy keen.  Couldn’t be better.

A2: When I wake up in the morning to go to work, I sing “Zippa-dee-do-da” and click my heels with glee as I jog to my car in the driveway because I’m so happy for my day pass from Alcatraz, I mean 20 Gawaine.  When it’s time to go home, I tear up and want to puke.  Other than that, I’m fine.

Q: How are those sweet children of yours?

A1: Wonderful.  They warm my heart every day.  It brings a tear to my eye just thinking of them.

A2: Could I actually give you one of my kids for a month or two?  Pick any one of them.  In fact, I will pay you.  How about my entire 401(k)?  I’ll kick in a mint condition rookie Rickey Henderson Topps card and a rubbish bin full of redeemable bottles and cans, too.  Deal?

Q: What is it like when you come home from work?

A1: Kind of like Mad Men minus the THE WIFE in a house coat smoking a butt.  I walk in the door and my oasis awaits.  THE WIFE hands me a scotch, I sit in my favorite chair with my feet up, and I do a crossword until dinner is ready.  After I’m done eating, I leave my plate at the table and watch television until I fall asleep in my easy chair.  I’m not even sure how many children I have but THE WIFE takes care of their baths and puts them to bed because that’s just how things are.

A2: Kind of like the end of Return of the Jedi when multiple battles are taking place simultaneously in three different locations.  The aerial assault on the Death Star is eerily similar to our family dinners.  Gus is launching food in all directions like the Millenium Falcon’s cannons engaging the enemy.  Greta and I cross our light sabers like Luke and Vader.  (ME: Greta, please put your clothes back on when you sit at the table. GRETA: Never!!!!!!!!!  ME: If you don’t put your clothes on, you’ll never see an episode of Olivia ever again.  GRETA: Nooooooo!!!!  And so on until Greta wins the duel and cuts off one of my arms.)  Tilly is an Ewok and I am a storm trooper.  Nuff said. 

Q: How long does it take to get in the minivan and drive somewhere with the kids?

A1: Oh, it’s not that bad.  Just a few minutes.  It’s really quite pleasant.

A2: Glaciers and erosion move faster than we do.  Peace in the Middle East moves faster than we do.  Legislation in the American Congress moves faster than we do.  A CVS cashier on her cell phone moves faster than we do.  I could go on, but you get the picture.

Q: How is sleeping going at the house?

A1: THE WIFE and I get something like twelve or thirteen hours of sleep a night.  Plus a nap during the day.  I’m very relaxed.

A2: Between the heat, my allergies and associated coughing fits, Tilly’s ability to roll over onto her stomach but inability to roll on to her back, and the occasional bad dream/bedwetting accident by Gigi, we are lucky to get six consecutive hours.  The rings around my eyes make me the perfect extra to be on the set of The Walking Dead.  If I’m walking around with my fly down, please tell me the barn is open. 

Q: Do I need to call the Department of Social Services?
A1: DSS?!  What are you talking about?  There’s nothing to see here folks.  Everything is fine.

A2: That depends.  Can I buy a tranquilizer dart gun for doses appropriate for children on the Internet?  Nevermind.

Q: Do you think your pity party has lasted long enough?

A1 and A2: Yes, sorry.

Q: Do you feel better?

A1 and A2: Yes.

Q: Do you need a Braveheart speech about the obligations you undertook before consciously deciding to become a dad and have three kids?

A1 and A2: No.  I’m ready.  Just needed to get that off my chest.  Thanks for the kick in the ass.

And there you have it.  I’m a terrible person and an awful human being.  I love my kids, but they drive me to the edge of insanity.  I feel like I’m yelling at them all the time and I just want to have fun with them.  I should stop now before I dig a hole any deeper.  Maybe it’s just me that needs the padded room.  

High Intensity, Short Duration

On July 8th, I'll be running in the Mad Marathon to help raise money for a Vermont-based non-profit, Hannah's House. Located in the Mad River Valley, Hannah's House is dedicated to the cause of helping individuals and families with emotional disorders. Please help me support this very important and worthy cause. Any amount is appreciated. For more info or to make a pledge, you can visit: 

http://www.crowdrise.com/teamhannahshouse/fundraiser/dennisteravainen

Paging George Glass

THE WIFE just volunteered to take all three kids to the supermarket so that I could write.  I better get to work before she drives the F.U.V. through our living room because I’d probably do that after an hour of grocery shopping with our three little ones along for the ride.  She’s a saint and slightly insane for being such a trooper.  Without further ado…

I suppose there is a certain credence to Jan Brady’s “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia” rant.  The oldest sibling gets to wear the clothes when they’re brand new.  Photo albums of the oldest as a baby are probably ten times bigger than that of their younger siblings.  The big sister or brother is the one who breaks the ice for mom and dad on almost all of the monumental “firsts” in a small child’s life.  Thinking back, Marcia did seem to get more plot lines written into episodes compared to Jan.  (The only episode I really ever remember centering around Jan was the one about her fabricated boyfriend, which I think was the same one when she got her glasses if I recall correctly.)  Anyway, you get my drift.

More to the point, Tilly is due for some well-deserved attention in the blog before we move on to her older two siblings.

The little Beverly Tillbilly just turned four months old.  She is chubbier than a pregnant Jessica Simpson.  I can’t even count the number of folds in her chunky quadriceps.  You’ve heard of double chins, correct?  She’s got about thirteen.  It’s foolish to resist kissing her beautiful puffy cheeks.  Her smile is so contagious, it melts me even if I’m seeing that grin at four in the morning during the (now only occasional) squawk for a binky.  Did I mention she’s a little chunker?

As for milestones, Tilly’s begun to do the rotation thing where you leave her laying in the crib at the six o’clock position and when you see her next, she’s at quarter of three.  She’s also starting to do a half-crunch where she pulls her body up and forward from her bouncy seat to reach for something dangling in front of her but isn’t quite strong enough yet to hold the pose and falls back.  She laughs a lot, especially when Greta feels like getting her going.  THE WIFE announced we are starting with cereal this week.  And the best part about our little lady?  She doesn’t talk back or whine.

As for number two, the G-man had tubes put into his ears a few weeks back.  Although he hasn’t had ear infections, his inner ear canals are so little that secretions have nowhere to go so they were accumulating and hardening.  The obstructions were impairing his hearing and possibly his balance, which in turn made speech and walking more difficult.

Since Gus was going to be under anesthesia, the doctors took the opportunity to look in his throat and see if anything was present that may be contributing to his swallowing problem.  (We’re still thickening his fluids so they go down the belly pipe, not the wind pipe.)  They also decided to take tissue samples to rule out any digestive disorders.

Long story short, the procedures were a total success.  The tubes went in without issue.  The doctors removed a bunch of ear gunk.  They saw nothing in Gus’ throat, so we are left to presume that the swallowing issue is most likely due to his lower muscle tone that we are confident will improve as he continues to grow and strengthen with age.

As for Gusto’s milestones, he’s scoring little victories every day.  His vocabulary is slowly but surely increasing.  He’s signing more and waving a lot - especially to passers-by our house as we eat our dinner.

The Lion’s walking is getting better and further every day, too.  Basically, he’ll step from point A to wherever you are waiting with arms open, except he likes to lunge forward when he’s close enough rather than taking that last extra step or two.  It’s a bit terrifying but also exhilarating to watch. 

THE WIFE and I are a bit obsessed with getting Gus to walk between the two of us when the opportunity arises.  We clap and cheer when he’s made a trip successfully.  But we love it even more when we’re not paying attention and suddenly we see him walking without our help like a drunken sailor wobbily negotiating each step until he just suddenly plunks down on his bum.  Baby steps, literally and figuratively, keep us and him going every day.  He rocks.

As for the queen of our trifecta, Greta never ceases to amaze us with her ever evolving personality and interests.  At the same time, she drives THE WIFE and me towards the brink of temporary insanity with her near constant attempts at testing our patience.  I’d say Greta is kind of like a werewolf with a lunar calendar that changes by the minute. 

In the wonderful moments that make me want to hug her forever with love, Gigi walks around on her tippy toes, with no pants on, and humming happy hums, while wearing a tiara and several band aids.  She will suddenly declare that her name is not Greta but Rapunzel and address you as “mother” regardless of your gender.  Or she may announce matter-of-factly that tonight after dinner, she is having ice cream or Reese’s.  Or she may excuse herself from the dinner table because she needs to check on one of her dolls who’s in the middle of a nap.  The list is endless.

By contrast, in those moments when I wonder if convents or nunneries still exist, Greta would be the sweetest girl in the universe only three minutes prior.  But then out of nowhere, a full moon has arrived, and so has a werewolf that was previously my daughter.

For example, just getting the little fashionista dressed is now a major effort.  I fought with her for twenty minutes one morning this week to agree on a shirt that matched her green skirt and pink belt.  I held up a tee.  “No.”  I held up a long sleeve.   “Noooo, Daddy.”  I held up a hoodie.  Annoyed and resistant, she cocked her head to the side and shrugged the corresponding shoulder towards the ear while rejecting my suggestion and stomping around her bedroom.  I was caught up in the moment of debating with a three year-old about how red and pink kind of clash when it suddenly dawned on me how foolish I sounded.  I just threw up my hands and left the room.  By then, I didn’t care if she wore a Fubu parka or a Hampton Beach 1986 neon mesh half shirt, so long as something covered her upper body. 

And just like that, the full moon waned and my precious sweetheart appeared again, asking if we can go “at” the swings today.  Then, she pirouetted and skipped out of the room in her plastic heeled slippers asking mommy to put a braid in her hair, which is Greta’s new go-to look for the summer incidentally.

That about brings you all up to speed on the peanuts.  I think the minivan just came to a screeching halt in the driveway so I better go.  Peace.

Living Gracefully

Happy Mother's Day to all moms out there.  Special wishes to my mom, my mother-in-law, and of course my babies' mommy.  Hope all of you have a nice day this Sunday.

I've been meaning to write a little something special for my grandmother Grace Teravainen.  She passed away at the end of March this year.  The Mother's Day holiday was an appropriate moment to reflect about her.

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Her hands.  As much as she loved to brag about her legs, I'll always remember those hands.  Soft and delicate veins protruded like tiny raised branches from the wrists to her fingers.  I remember sitting next to her at mass and staring at the rosary bead entwined in her hand, while thinking I wasn't praying enough.

I loved holding Grandma's hand, especially if she was feeling cold - which was often - because she would rub my arm and marvel loudly about how warm I could possibly be.  I liked when she would place her arm in the crook of my own.  Sometimes when she stood next to me or another loved one, Grandma might just rub one of our backs gently as we observed the family card game or whatever other craziness we were witnessing together.

But don't let those tender images deceive you.  Grandma Grace wasn't afraid to give you an unexpected arm grab or jabbing poke in the side with one of those bony fingers if she wanted your attention, along with a comment that sounded something like "hay-eee."  I recall those grabs and pokes affectionately.

Grace Triano came from a large Italian-American family that included many siblings, which wasn't unusual back in that time.  The photographs of her as a bride when she married my grandfather Allan prove that she was a stunning young woman on her wedding day.  She was attractive through her senior years as well.

Grace and Allan tragically lost their first son when he was two years old, though they eventually brought four more boys - the third being my dad - into their world otherwise known as Brooklyn.  Based on the many family stories I've heard over the years, I picture a home with four wild animals running around wreaking havoc on furniture and each other's body parts as my grandmother ran closely behind cleaning, tucking the boys' shirts back into their pants, and refereeing by force when necessary.  No wonder those legs got so strong!

When finances at home got tight, my grandmother went to work at a bank where she remained for many years.  So not only did she bring bacon home, but she cooked it too.

And cook she did.  The moments waiting for dinner in her Ocean Avenue apartment were practically torture because it smelled so good and I wanted to eat so bad.  As an Italian, of course her gravy was delicious.  Manicotti was one of her specialties.  But her sesame seed cookies, piled between layers of wax paper in a circular tin, will always be my favorite.

My grandfather passed away when my dad was still in college.  After Grandma's boys became men and started families of their own, she remained in Brooklyn where she lived and worked without ever acquiring a driver's license.

After Grace survived a scary break-in of her home, her boys agreed it was best for her to move somewhere safer.  She eventually moved to Rochester near my youngest uncle's family.  She developed a close and special relationship with my aunt and cousins during her remaining years there, while maintaining close ties to all of her twelve grandchildren.

Grandma always sent a gift or a card on birthdays or special occasions, in which many of the printed words of love were underlined and followed by a thoughtfully sweet message.  Despite the distance between our residences, she visited during holidays and other events every year.  She came to Vermont for my college graduation and Boston for law school.  In fact, I still have the card she gave me back then which is vintage Grandma.

"God has blessed me with wonderful sons and lovely grandchildren.  And strong legs."  Classic.  She also surprised me with a generous gift that she somehow saved to give on special occasions for all of her grandkids.

I made a visit to Grace in Rochester one time and we caught up in her kitchen.  She proposed that we have a drink and directed me to her spare bedroom closet where she stashed some hard stuff.  She told me to make one of those cocktails I made for her at Rasputin's.  "A sex-on-the-beach, Grandma?" I asked caught off guard.  "Is that what it's called?" she replied chuckling.  That moment makes me smile.

Grandma and my family members share many of the same interests, which is probably not a coincidence.  She was an avid reader and an enthusiastic world traveler.  She loved a game of cards.  ("I could spit," she would say if dealt a bad hand.)  She liked to chat and tell stories.  But most of all, she just loved her family.

All of her descendants (even her oldest great-grandchild appropriately named Grace Teravainen) have many special memories and stories about our fabled matriarch.  However, Grandma's most enduring legacy will be the bond that she fostered among her four surviving sons and their families.  While it may be uncommon to some, our tribe of misfits by blood and marriage who live all over the country invent all sorts of excuses to get together as frequently as possible.  When we are under the same roof (or large tent for that matter) for whatever the occasion, it's a chaotic, hilarious, and euphoric party full of love.

Grandma, thank you for your role in laying the foundation for this wonderful family in which I've been so fortunate to belong.  As my father said after your passing, I hope that you are enjoying your seat at the celestial table where the best card game around is happening.  We will miss you and love you always.  A la familia.

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For a little tidbit of the Triano side of my family, I blogged about our annual reunion in 2009 here: http://waitingforbabyt.blogspot.com/2009/07/reunited-and-it-feels-so-good.html.

One More While We're At It

I hijacked this from my pal MDP's FB status...

I am overwhelmed by the the generosity of my friends -- THANK YOU to everyone who has donated so far and for all the kind words and encouragement! It means so much to me...

This September I will be walking in the MS Walk: Cape Cod Challenge Walk 2012 for hope that we can win this fight against MS! I will be walking 50 miles over 3 days. I chose to walk for those who sometimes can’t. The funds raised from the MS Challenge Walk will not only support research to help create a world free of Multiple Sclerosis, but also provide programs which address the needs of hundreds of thousands of people living with MS right now. I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in March 2006. I just passed my 6 year anniversary and I am fortunate that my diagnosis has been mostly positive and I am living a happy and healthy life with MS. There are many others, however, who are not as fortunate and struggle with their daily lives because of this disease. The progress, severity, and specific symptoms of MS are unpredictable and vary from one person to another. Today, new treatments and advances in research are giving new hope to the 400,000 Americans and 2.5 million people worldwide who are affected by this disease. The definite cause of MS is unknown and there is no cure.

I am humbly asking for a donation to help this cause that is so close to my heart. Any amount, great or small, helps to make a difference in the lives of people with MS. You can make a donation online - just click on my personal webpage listed below.

If you would like any information on doing this walk with me, please feel free to email me! I appreciate all your love and support and thank you from the bottom of my heart!!


Go to here to check it out:  http://main.nationalmssociety.org