39 and Counting

Yesterday was my birthday.  Goose forgot to make me a card.  She told me this on our way home from cheerleading.

On another note, her impetigo (oh my!) is looking much, much better.

This is what I woke up to this morning.

I officially forgive her for not making me a card yesterday.  I love this child.

I realized yesterday that my mother did not offer to cook my favorite dinner for my birthday, as she does every year.  Upset, I called my sister and berated my mother for this gross oversight.  My sister reminded me that my mom and dad are having their kitchen remodeled and have no appliances.

But still.

I reminded my sister that both she and I had fully functioning kitchens.  Why, then, couldn't mother come to one of our houses to make my special dinner?  IT'S MY SPECIAL DAY, DAMMIT!  My sister, always the peacemaker, agreed to pick up all of the necessary ingredients and cart them to my house, where she would make said favorite dinner.  I love my sister, too.

I can't believe that I am not ashamed to admit that the single most important ingredient in my all time favorite special dinner is this:

OK.  Maybe I'm a little ashamed.

But not so ashamed that I didn't start salivating when my sister lifted this glorious tub of grease that makes my special dinner so special out of the bag.  I might have even whimpered a little bit.  When she spooned out heaping globs of the stuff into the electric skillet (that she also brought from home, knowing my kitchen is not particularly well-stocked and lacks basic appliances), I thought my husband was going to throw up.

My husband does not love my special dinner.

Too bad it's not his special day.

And cubed steak fried in Crisco for longer than recommended (so as to get it particularly crisp and tasty) is what I want for my special dinner.  I get it once a year.  Twice, if I'm lucky and my baby brother Michael requests it for his special dinner.

So cubed steak we had.  And it was so delicious that I didn't wait until my special dinner was completely cooked before I started sneaking little cubed deliciousness.  I swear I ate half a pound of meat before it officially hit the table.  Of course, that didn't stop me from piling several more pieces on my plate AND dishing out a separate bowl of gravy so I could have gravy laden deliciousness with every bite I took.

I might be a little sick now.

But it sure was nice going down.  Cubed steak paired with a nice Malbec may be heaven on Earth.

The empty glass is my mother's.  I'm still working on mine.  Follow it up with a birthday ice cream cake (and a separate serving of my favorite, mint chocolate chip ice cream) and I think I may have died and gone to heaven.

I should be in a food coma by now.

We had such a good time.  My children love to see their Grammy and Pop Pop.

(One reason they may love Grammy is because she bribes them with Goldfish.)

No.  I think the love is genuine.

My mother and father not only showed up for my special dinner (on a night of some serious college football, including our beloved USC Gamecocks), but they also came bearing gifts.  Gifts in small packages.  (The best kind of gifts.)

Opal is my birthstone (duh) -- and I have had many a love affair with opal jewelry.  My Nana, who recently passed away, gave me a stunning opal ring a couple of years ago.  The earrings will go quite nicely with the ring.  I can't remember the last actual "birthday gift" my parents have given me.  It's not that they aren't generous, because they are.  They just don't heap birthday gifts on adult children.  These were a very, very nice surprise.

What a wonderful day.

I can't believe that I have transformed from this:

To this:

It literally feels like a blink of an eye.  It sounds so trite, but I wish I could slow the hands of time to allow me to savor the moments, the small moments that make the fabric of my life.  Moments like these.  Moments in the kitchen, watching my sister fry up my special dinner while my son is running wild in the family room with his grandparents.  Moments spent watching my Goose and her cousins jumping on the trampoline with the Georgia/Florida football game playing on the television.  Moments spent in the dining room with my mother, who looks just as beautiful now as she did when it was her 39th birthday.  Moments at the table with my father, who I am still convinced is the smartest man on Earth.

I am trying like hell to drink it all in.  We all should.  For the moments are passing.  More quickly than we think.

Happy Birthday to me.  And it was.  A happy birthday.

Just the facts

12 months, 9 days old

Five ouchies (shots)

31.25 inches tall.

24 lbs 5 oz

17.76" head circumfrence (not sure why this stat is important -- but apparently my boy has a peanut head).  I don't think he looks like he has a peanut head.

OK.  Maybe he looks like he has a peanut head here.  But the boy was only 4 months old.  And his evil mother had just shaved his head.  Poor thing. 

And he kind of looks like he has a peanut head here.

But he was just seconds old.   And all babies look funky when they're seconds old.  That whole "being born" thing really does a number on most babies' heads.  Except C-section babies.  Their heads are beautiful.  Sigh.

He does not look like he has a peanut head when he is wearing his sock monkey costume hat.  [By the way, it is incredibly safe to leave a 12 month 9 day old baby on the counter by himself.  Especially when he's holding an open can of root beer.]

He hates that sock monkey costume hat. 

He does not hate pot roast. [Again, note the incredibly safe counter positioning.]

Indeed.  He loves pot roast.

And I love him.

Food covered dragon shirt, bare feet on my counters and all.

Impecunious: SAY WHAT?

I went to a meeting earlier this week at a law firm whose office space is more palatial and grand than any place I have ever been in my entire life.  And I'm not exaggerating.  Think "fancy".  Then put "fancy" on some serious steroids.  Here's a picture of the entrance to the lobby from the elevator bank (thanks to one of my former law students for posing for this pic).  Do you see this?  You have to walk through a space age looking thing to get in and out of the ELEVATOR LOBBY.

That's where I was.  With a bunch of really, really intelligent people -- many of whom are in academia and have a lot of time to pontificate on nuances of the finer points of law that, frankly, make little difference to those of us more basic lawyers who are actually getting dirty in the trenches.  Lawyers like me, who are handling cases against real adversaries in front of real trial judges in real courtrooms in real counties all throughout this great state of ours.  I have no time to pontificate. 

Hell.  I have no time for anything.  I'm the woman who forgot to pick up her son's birthday cake from the bakery.

Ooops.  Good thing he'll never know.  Unless, of course, he reads this blog.  He's only 1 so the chances of that are slim.  For now.

Back to my point.  During the presentation at this fancy pants meeting I had the privilege of attending (and it was certainly a privilege to hob-nob with these very smart people), one of the older lawyers gave a very passionate speech about our obligations as lawyers to help impecunious people.  When he used that term, I immediately looked around to see if everyone was as confused as I was.  Did everyone know this word?  Am I the only dumbass in the room?  That appeared to be the case. . . as everyone was nodding in agreement.  It intrigued me.  And it scared me.  Are these people really this far out of my league? That they speak in a language that is so foreign that it may as well be. . .well  . . . foreign.

I had to call my sister to give myself a reality check.  She's in college.  And she's very well read -- I figured she would be a good "test" to figure out if I really am the only dumbass in the room.  The conversation went something like this:

Me:        "Hey, sister.  What's up?  Do you know what the f&*ck 'impecunious' means?"
Sister:     "Ummmm.  Are you speaking English?"  [Banging phone on table to ensure we have an appropriate connection and she heard me correctly.]

Sigh of relief.  At least we're a family of dumbasses.

Of course, I get to my office the next day and quiz two of my partners about the word.  They both knew what it means.  And they looked bored and not particularly amused by my lack of knowledge.  Do you know what it means?  I'll tell you what it means. 
im·pe·cu·nious

adj \ˌim-pi-ˈkyü-nyəs, -nē-əs\

Definition of IMPECUNIOUS

: having very little or no money usually habitually : penniless

— im·pe·cu·ni·os·i·ty \-ˌkyü-nē-ˈä-sə-tē\ noun

— im·pe·cu·nious·ly adverb

— im·pe·cu·nious·ness noun

 

So my question is:  why didn't the speaker just use "broke" or "poor" or "lacking in resources".  Why would he have to use a word with an origin in 1590?  Haven't we come up with newer, better words in the past 420 years?  And why do my partners know what this word means and I do not?  (Yes, I know that's more than one question.)

 

Probably because People Magazine and Matt Lauer (my prominent news sources) don't use terms like "impecunious."  Maybe I should re-think what I'm doing in my spare time.

 

Wait.  I don't have any spare time.

 

I have this instead.

 

 

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Football, Horses, and Impetigo. Oh my!

It's Monday morning.  I'm back at my desk -- and really should be working. 

Instead.  I'll update my blog.

Friday Night: 

Friday was the last football game in our "regular season".  As you can tell from the photos, Goose is a cheerleader for the peewee Panthers football team.  And I, Goose's Mom, am the coach of the cheer squad.  For those who know me well, this is hilarious.  Despite the skepticism of my family and friends, I have thrown myself into being "cheer coach" this season -- and have had the pleasure to work with 9 girls, ages 5 to 8, in teaching them some very basic cheers and leading them through their halftime routines on the 50 yard line this season.

Here is the squad, holding the banner for the very eager boys to run through.  The boys particularly love this part of the game, charging at the banner full speed ahead, then ripping it to shreds to show their manliness on the field. 

It has actually been more fun than I originally thought it would be.  Here's my girl at Homecoming.  She was escorted by the boy on her left.  So sweet.

I'm sorry to report that the Panthers lost on Friday night, despite the excellent cheering from the sidelines.  The regular season has come to an end.  I'll report about the playoffs soon.  I know everyone will remain on the edge of their seats until then.

Here's Goose doing a split (and sporting a very genuine smile) on Friday night when we got home.

I'm throwing in a shot of me and my boy - also taken on Friday night -- once we got home from the game.  Yes, I am wearing sweatpants that have holes in them.  Welcome to my life.

Horses:

Saturday, a girlfriend of mine and I piled our respective children into my minivan and headed to a local horse farm that was hosting a "festival" fundraiser.  I have much more to say about my girlfriend and her daughter.  They are such an important part of our lives.  Stay tuned for more information.

Here's a shot of Henry's first glance at a horse:

Do you think he and his sister liked it?

A good time was definitely had by all.  [Yes, we did pay $1 to have that young man push Goose around an obstacle course at full speed in a wheelbarrow. Poor fellow.]

Goose even got to ride a horse.

And an "action shot":

Henry was particularly fond of the cones. 

And the leaves.

And pretty much anything he could pick up.

Henry is one happy little boy -- especially when outdoors. 

Henry and Goose then went to my parents' house, Grammy and Pop Pop's, for dinner and play time while Whit and I went to my law firm's fall party -- a Low Country Boil held in our firm's back parking lot.  The music was great (and loud) the drinks were plentiful and the crab legs were drowning in butter.  A pretty good end to a nice day.

Impetigo:  Oh My!

I realized yesterday that the rash on my Goose's face was not contact dermatitis, as I had originally diagnosed.  My girlfriend (who I will write more about later) informed me yesterday as our girls were riding bicycles at the park that it was, in fact, impetigo.  YUCK.  Here's my girl before I realized she had some nasty infection on her skin:

And here she is after we went to the urgent care center and got an RX for antibiotics:

She looks pretty upset in the pic.  There's a reason for that - and it doesn't begin with "impetigo."  Goose was upset because her mother yelled at her as we were leaving the doctor's office.  I mean.  Really yelled.  She was trying to hand me my new beloved iphone (that I love so much it may be sinful) and thought that I had it in my hand.  I didn't.  She let go.  It fell.  The case cracked.  I felt a piece of my heart die.  And I snapped.

Poor thing.

I have since apologized to my daughter.  And told her I love her. 

Mothers snap. We're not perfect.  I'm still pretty new at this motherhood thing.  And I ask for my sweet girl's patience for the times when I sometimes lose my cool.  Because.  Lose my cool I will.  I am part Sicilian and part Irish.  That's what we do.  It doesn't mean we love our children any less.  Indeed, I cannot imagine a mother who loves her children more.  I can, however, imagine a mother with a calmer disposition.  Bless my children's hearts.  A calm mother they certainly do not have. 

My Boy's First Birthday

My boy turned one this week.  I won't lie -- it completely broke my heart.  Henry is my "baby".  I will never again in my entire life be able to say that I am the mother to a [insert number between 1 and 11] month old.  Whit has made it perfectly clear that we are DONE with making babies.  Poor Henry must bear the burden of being the *baby* for the rest of his life.  Bless his heart.

In thinking about my son's first year and how to describe how our lives have changed since his entrance into this world, I realized just how hard it is to express the depth of my love for that child using mere words.  Before I was a mother, I had no idea it was possible to love someone so fully and completely and unconditionally.  Then I had Goose.  And that changed.  I honestly believed I would NEVER love another child as much as I do Goose -- even right up to the moment when I delivered Henry.  I just consoled myself by telling myself (quietly so no one would think I am totally crazy) that Henry would simply never know that I didn't love him as much as I love his older sister.
 Then Henry was actually here.  In my arms.  Looking at me with those deep brown eyes.  And I realized then that what every mother of more than one child told me was really true.  It is totally possible to love more than one child exactly the same.  I can't explain it. I can only say that it is the most powerful love I have ever felt.  

I realized in an instant that Henry is worth all of the heartache we endured while trying to have our "second child" (that I secretly thought I wouldn't love as much.)  Every single negative pregnancy test I cried over in the course of two years; the time, emotion and money invested with our fertility specialist; the agonizing months of morning sickness; the unconscionable weight gain that I am still struggling to lose; the pain associated with trying to deliver a 9 lb 8 oz bouncing baby boy; and the 10 months of sleepless nights after his birth -- all of these things have magically disappeared.

I would do it all again, a thousand times, to just have one minute with my boy against my chest, his little hands curled around my fingers. To breathe in his scent and watch his eyelids flutter as he dreams the dreams of childhood. To feel the rise and fall of his back with each breath he takes. One of my favorite bloggers (Ree Drummond) posted a quote once that rings so true for me:   "Your girls are yours forever. But you will cherish that boy."

And I do. I cherish him.

So Happy Birthday to my darling son.  I love you more than I ever thought possible. 

My first post

I'm new at this so bear with me as I venture into the bold new world of blogging. I have wanted to start this for years - but I've never actually taken the time to sit at my computer and . . . create.  So today I will start. 

I have created. 

Yes, it's basic.  I'm new at this -- remember?  So cut me some slack. 

Now I have to go and think about what I'm actually going to say now that I have a world wide voice.