Where in the world is Stie?

We find ourselves away from home again in a very beautiful city. Care to take a guess as to where? All guesses will be thrown into a hat and the winner will receive a prize.

Here is a clue:


Happy speculating!

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Red one! Blue one! Green one! Black one! (and that's just my right arm)

I remember the first time I saw this commercial. I really liked it then and mentally praised the brilliant ad agency who came up with such a gem. I may have even laughed out loud (though I am sure I did not LOL. I never LOL).

But that was before.

Before my life became this commercial. Before my arms sported permanent bruises in the shape of my children's fists. Before I could ride in the car and not panic with fear every time a car drove by.

For, you see, my kids take everything to the next level. Not only do they punch for VWs, but they invented the notorious "BM-Punch-You." And, "Hit You Honda." Then they even made up "Jeep Weep," named aptly for the crying you inevitably do after you are punched.

This pretty much means that I am getting slugged in the biceps every time a car passes us.

You know, like every 1.2 seconds or so.

And if you think for one minute that those punches don't hurt, then you've never been on the receiving end of Hannah's little fists of fury. Girlfriend packs herself some power in those scrawny little arms.

I am sore, and I am so over it.

So much so that I am selling my car and will now be calling my friends for rides. Plus, I'm drafting a court order for the neighbors across the street that will prohibit them from ever again opening their garage door.

You know, the garage that houses their GREEN ONE!

Stupid, clever ad agency. I'm not laughing now.

My Maren

The year was 1996, and we were nervously loading all of our worldly possessions into the back of a very small U-Haul truck. The Husband and I had been married two short years, but I thought of myself as a supremely experienced woman when it came to married life.

Ha. What I'd like to go back and tell my naive self if I could.

But graduate school for the Husband was in Minnesota, and so there would I be also.

I had never lived more than two hours away from my childhood home in my entire life. People I knew didn't do this. They didn't move away from friends, family, and familiar. I had no notion of what it would take to make friends in this new life of ours. Quite simply, I had never done it. The six girls I grew up with, were the six girls I went to college with. I had never really been outside of my comfort zone, and I was prepared for the worst. Planning, rather pessimistically, on spending the next three to four years with no one for company but the Husband.

Then I went to church in my new city and met these girls.

(my scary, huge, fat, pregnant self in pink. Maren is next to me on the right)

Married to husbands that were also poor, starving students, we instantly bonded. Widows during finals week, we kept each other company. We spent every weekend together and knew all there was to know about each other's lives. We saw each other through jobs, morning sickness, car accidents, pregnancy, childbirth, illness, and graduation.

One of these fabulous women was my Maren. Hers was the house I went to on my afternoons off to scrapbook with. Her baby was the one I played with when I was so hungry for one of my own. She was the one I traded books and recipes with. It was Maren who happily picked my mom up from the airport when she came to help with newborn baby McKay.

Quite quickly, she became my family. The sister I never had.

And a few years later, when the time came for them to pack their own moving truck and drive to St. Louis, I thought my heart would break in half. Saying goodbye to Maren and Stuart was one of the hardest things we'd ever done. We hated to see this perfect world of ours disbanded and scattered all over the country.

But, as it inevitably does, life marched on. Our own moving day came a year or so later, and we were off to start a new adventure - this time ready and experienced in starting over. Christmas cards went back and forth, and we always found joy in catching up with Maren's little family every year. Ten years passed in the blink of an eye.

Then there was a job opportunity for us in St. Louis. Our first thoughts were to call our old friends and find out everything we could about the city, the schools, and the neighborhoods. Maren, not wanting to influence us in the decision, gave objective advice without firm direction on where we should live. When we coincidentally ended up buying a home just around the block from them, both families were ecstatic.

It's been three and a half years since then, and I am still awestruck at the wonderful blessing that having this family in our lives has been. It's like coming home. It's having family in a city where there is none.

My kids think of her kids as cousins, and our husbands dive in enthusiastically to converse whenever we get together. I know I can call her for just about anything (and frequently have). It's as though we were only apart for a day. Instead of a decade.

My life is definitely richer with this family in it.

So here's to good friends - be they near, far, or just around the corner. You just never know when you're going to end up back in their lives, and they in yours.

His thirty-eighth

Today was a very ordinary day as far as days go. He got up. He went to work. Maybe a little extraordinary in that his wife actually got up with him and made his breakfast.

Early. Not sleeping in like she usually does.

Because she loves him. And he's worth it.

He went to work and returned calls. He worked on documents. His co-workers got him a cake and sang to him in the middle of the day. He undoubtedly shrugged and blushed, embarrassed.

He came home early, refusing to let his wife man the grill. After all, the man really should cook the meat. She made fresh guacamole and got the good chips to go with it. She cooked fresh corn on the cob and cut up lots of fruit.

She made him a cake with help from his kids.

It definitely looked homemade. But it tasted delicious.

He laughed at it, then enjoyed a large slice with a smile on his face. His kids beamed with pride before diving into their own slices.

He got his mother on speaker phone, so she could continue the tradition she started years ago: The telling of the birth story. His kids laughed, incredulous at life in the old days. She told the story with the enthusiasm and vigor that makes all of her stories so fun to hear. Even his father chimed in to add his part. His kids stared at him in wonder - amazed that he ever was anything other than the man before them.

His wife cleaned up the dishes, and he helped her - in spite of her insistence otherwise. He hugged her and thanked her for a fantastic day.

She hugged him right back and thanked him for a fantastic life.

He had a good day.

He is loved.

Oh, you'd better believe he's in the doghouse for this one

Remember the awesomeness that was the mohawks? You know, the ones that after four years I have finally embraced?

Well.

Somebody decided that we were done with them for this year and took the scissors to my poor boy's head:

No, it was not McKay, as you can see in this terribly out of focus picture. [Sorry. I was in a hurry.]

It was definitely not Chase or Hannah. Not even our cousin Emmie, who is fond of playing barbershop on her own bangs from time to time, committed this travesty. It was not the two-year-old boy who lives down the street.

Though we would expect such behavior out of him.

IT. WAS. THE. HUSBAND.

As you can see, he took the scissors to my little Mack's head, chopping to the scalp in some spots. One would THINK that a grown man would not attempt such a juvenile, foolish, and insensible act of vandalism.

The tragedy in all of this is the damage was unfixable by the barber. Not even the fine specimens one finds at the local Super Cuts could fix what the Husband had done.

So sadly, for the next month or two, this is what my darling boy will look like:

And believe me when I tell you, the angry look on McKay's face is mirrored exactly by my own.

The one bright spot in this bleak storm of blinding rage was Chase's comment to McKay. He said, "Don't worry, Mack. It takes confidence to wear a buzz. You'll see. You'll feel great by the time it grows back in."

Unfortunately, that will be long before I'm ready to forgive the Husband.

P.S. Have you seen my other blog lately? There are some amazing sessions for your viewing pleasure. Stop by and take a peek.

Living with Chase

You know you're living with Chase when...



June 6th is celebrated with all the fanfare of a national holiday.

And in spite of yourself, you know exactly what Operation Overlord is referring to.

You know you're living with Chase when you spend your Sunday morning listening to facts about the D-Day invasion, with him not sparing any of the gory details.

No matter that you're eating breakfast.

You know you're living with Opa's Mini-Me Chase when a first-edition book by Bill Mauldin shows up on your doorstep from the Opa. And is immediately devoured by a blue-eyed boy who treasures it with a reverence not usually seen in kids his age. Especially when it comes to things like old books.

You know you're living with Chase when you are encouraged forced to make a flag cake in honor of the fallen heroes.

And you are told that it must have no more than 13 stripes and no less than 50 stars. "Because anything other than that would be an insult to our country, Mom."

You know you're living with Chase when the phone rings early Sunday morning and it's Opa calling to wish your son a happy D-Day. A call which leaves him beaming from ear to ear, proud and thrilled to know that someone out there feels the exact same way that he does.

And, finally, you know you're living with Chase when you realize six months ahead of time that the next important holiday in his world will roll around on December 7th.

So you'd better get working on your stars. We can't have crooked stars on the flag.

Even if it's only a cake.