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Without a doubt, the best Red Velvet Cake I’ve ever had! Maura found a recipe and we whipped it up yesterday afternoon for Zia’s birthday. The kids gave it OK marks. I cried a little when I realized it was gone. That cake was GOOD!!
(OK—so before you ask, no we did not eat the entire cake last night. But—–there’s not enough left for everyone to get a piece this morning. And I don’t feel bad about admitting that either!)
My littlegirl.
My Curly Sue.
Your tiny heart is kept in a sachet, loosely pinned to your shirtsleeve. It’s easier for you to share it from there. Forget that it’s also more vulnerable there, this does not concern you. Your little soul is much more content to give than to guard.
You are learning to write, to read. I find it warming that the first words you chose to pen were love and flower. You are both to me, personified. Quick to cuddle, content with quiet.
“What can I do? I want to help?” These phrases spew forth on an endless loop, for it is in you to be there, to give.
The aww’s and the tears that flow at bedtime I have come to believe are real. For you truly do not wish for the day to end, there’s life yet to be lived and the setting sun is but an obstacle.
I hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet long after lights are out and I know that it is you continuing to dance, to dream out loud. And I can’t help but smile.
Happy Birthday, Zia! I love you, Curly Sue!!!
Related Posts: Today Belongs to Zia
Happy Birthday, Zia!
Duty dictates that I stand at the ready. On alert. Prepared. I wait for the “all clear” or “I’m done” before performing my assigned tasks.
A double check from me, a confirmation that indeed the deed is done and I’m allowed to swoop in and complete the necessary paperwork.
As I helped Zella to the potty the other evening she began. Then, through clenched teeth, furrowed brow and intermittent periods of breath holding and straining she looked up at me and waved me on.
Shooing me from the bathroom she said…
“I’m gonna need some alone time.”
“Three….four….,
what comes next, Zander?”
“Se-ven.”
“No, Zander. It’s five. Five comes after four.”
“Oh,” and letting out a mischievous giggle he exclaimed, “there’s a red
truck!”
Maura had been diligently working with Zander putting together a puzzle
and then counting the pieces. Zander apparently was not
cooperating. To him, life is a game and must be treated as such
at all times. He’s a happy kid and content. Learning to
count is not one of the barometers by which he measures success.
And he’s pretty much OK with that, much to the dismay of Maura and me.
Zane happened into the room and asked what they were doing. Maura
explained to Zane that they were working on counting and learning
numbers. And then she added, “Zane, you need to help your brother
with his numbers so he can learn to count and be as smart as you are.”
Zane paused for a moment, looked at his brother, chuckled and said, “Uhm, yeah…..He’s not gonna be that smart.”
I took this picture on our Spring Break Southern Heritage Tour. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do with it or how I could work it into a post. I found a way.
Where are these kids standing? Leave your guess in the comments before clicking here to find out.
Oh, there won’t be any prizes for correct answers, but on your deathbed you shall achieve total consciousness. So you’ll have that going for you.
As a parent, our mettle is tested constantly. I’d like to think that one way we earn our parental badges of honor is how we respond to the constant barrage of questions posed by our kids.
How much information is necessary to impart? Are specific details necessary? Has the question actually been answered? Does the child understand the answer and have they been enriched by the answer provided? Is an answer necessary at all or does the question warrant deeper, more significant moral teaching?
Every once in a while they throw you a curve ball. They’ll toss out a question that you are really not prepared for. True valor is earned in the trenches.
Take Easter Sunday and this question posed by Zella.
“Mom, can you help me find my sword so I can kill Zoë?”
How do you respond to a question like that!? How would you? Maura was clearly taken off guard and unable to immediately respond. (She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.)
I was forced to step in and take control. In my most fatherly voice, summoning every ounce of seriousness I looked my little daughter directly in the eye and said, “Did you look in the basement?”
“Hey Dad…”
“Yes, Zoë.”
“Remember that time? On vacation?”
“Uhm, yeah.”
“When we were at the battle field?”
“Yeah.”
“And there was that hill with the big guns? The cannons?”
“Yes, Zoë”
“And Zane and I were running up and down the hill?”
“Yes, I do remember that.”
“That was fun.”
We had a blast on our recent road trip. After much thought, I think I’ve come up with a name for it (because doesn’t every road trip need a title?). There were some good ones in the mix: The Spring Break Trek, The Great Southern Heritage Odyssey, or the just missed the cut Let’s Poop in a Coon Dog Cemetery Take One. All excellent choices as you can see.
However, I think I’m gonna go with The Spring Break Southern Heritage Tour 2009. I’ll be interspersing tales of our journey here as well as over at UpTake.com so if you haven’t done so already, make sure you subscribe to their feed. Here’s the link to sign up.
As an added incentive, there’s money in it. Well, not for you. But it is worth something.
“That’s it. Lean in just a little bit more. Focus. Focus. Ooh! Did I blink? I think I blinked. Better get another one just to be sure. Come on, lean in. Really lean into it. That thing about the rail was more of a guideline than a rule. Seriously. Come on! What are ya? Chicken? ”
It has been a whirlwind of a Spring Break. Ten days, five kids, the Dodge Caravan and my compass pointed south. On a dare, I packed up the kids and took them to Louisiana.
OK, so that’s not entirely true. She didn’t dare me, rather just stated, “You should take the kids to Louisiana during their spring break.” It took me all of ten seconds to start making the travel plans.
Rather than drive it straight, as I am prone to do, I pulled a page from my dear mother’s travel guide and took the scenic route. We hit six states in those ten days and there were stops in each of them. More about that later. (I’m still trying to upload the nearly 1000 pictures we took. I may still be a while.)
One thing the south has that we in Ohio do not (at least not in my yard) is Fire Ants. I am intimately aware of why they are called Fire Ants, some people call them Red Ants, and made sure to warn my kids of their ferocity. For the most part, I think I did a pretty good job.
For the most part.
I made the mistake of showing Zane how quickly the ants become frenzied when their bed is disturbed by simply putting a stick into one of the beds. He thought that was the coolest thing in the world and continued to disturb the ants each time he found a new anthill. To his credit, he got pretty good at it.
At my brother’s house in Louisiana, I left the kids outside to play while I went in to shower and get some laundry done. I specifically made a point to tell the kids to leave the ants alone before I left. It was only a matter of minutes before Zane came running up the stairs, grimmacing and holding his finger.
“What’s the matter, Buddy?”
“I got bit by a Fire Ant.”
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” (I replied in my most caring and concerned fatherly way.)
“Yeah.”
Then I chuckled, patted him on the head and sent him on his way. As he started back down the stairs I called to him, “Zane. How many Fire Ant hills did you think you could destroy without getting bit?”
“All of them,” came his reply.
“And what do you think now?”
“…..not all of them.”
I think my work here is done.
Tripping With UpTake
