couldn't go home if we wanted to

I'm happy to report we had a great time sledding as a family last night. I'm also happy to report that I'm not the one who lost our car keys.

On the sledding hill.

In the dark.

It happened alright, and Greg realized it as we stood on top of the hill, watching the boys do belly slides down the now half-melted muddy snow. They had fallen out of his pocket 'somewhere on the hill,' according to him, which translated to 'they could be anywhere.' He realized we had no way home about the time I realized my thighs were like two giant popsicles and momma needs some hot chocolate.

Stat.

So we began our search, combing the snow, while I thought to myself A) I'm gonna kill Greg B) It's a loooong walk back C) I'm gonna kill Greg, and yes...all in that order. Yet, Greg came through and after 5 minutes of me panicking, he found the much-needed keys at the bottom of a hill. And we all lived happily ever after.

Even Greg.

letter to my 5-year-old

Dear Hayden,

Soon, you'll be turning six.

And though you don't like to sit in one place for long, I watch you when you do, taking in your little quirks that bring a smile to my face. Like the evening you colored diligently, making sure to stay within the lines, with furrowed brows and a tongue peaking over your bottom lip, pausing long enough to look up for reassurance. Your shy smile gives no indication of the bold personality you possess, the one that says, 'That's what I'm talkin' about,' when you learn I'm making breakfast for dinner.

I love the questions you ask me, like why the male host at the restaurant is wearing guy-liner, how Santa lost weight from the time you saw him a week ago, and if we can ride around the neighborhood to watch a movie on the DVD player in our new car. Sometimes my answers aren't satisfying, and instead of the usual 'Why's that?', you often rattle off phrases of disgust, as in 'Well, that makes no sense,' 'That's just stupid,' or 'Really...mom?', as if to say...that's all you got?, then you dash off to find a football helmet that you will inevitably wear indoors for the next thirty minutes.

The little things in life are what make this world go round, and you live for 'em. Gumball machines near the exit doors at restaurants, couch time with your Dad, and a sucker from a Meijer employee are all grounds for a good day in your eyes. Simple things aside, you're the only boy I know who likes a ziplock bag full of bacon in their lunchbox, will happily skip dessert, and who blushes when the waiter asks to take your order.

I am proud of all you've accomplished over the past year, and wish you a bright future full of happiness. Much like the happiness you bring your family, including your older brother who giggles at your silly ways, like the time you snuck his sports glasses to school and wore them all day long. You're the bounce in this shindig called life. Here's to you, Hayden.

Happy Birthday, blue eyes.

how an almost 6-yr-old thinks

Him: Look, Mom...it's President Obama's wife on tv.

Me: Yeah, that's her. That's the First Lady.

Him: The First Lady?

Me: Yep.

Him: She was the very FIRST one ever born?

read this today and loved it

I miss my Dad.

Miss him all the time, but especially now that we're smack dab in the middle of the holiday season. Read this today, as the boys played in the snow with our neighbors and Greg, no surprise, swiffered the floors.

Thought I'd share...

THE SEND-OFF

My parents had eight kids: two boys, followed by six girls. Often, after dinner, Dad would allow us girls to do whatever we wanted with him...comb his hair, put it in curlers, or paint his toenails. He was like a real live doll for us to play with. He didn't mind, sometimes he even fell asleep during his beauty treatments.

Every summer his company had a picnic. One year, when it was time to go swimming, we begged Dad to get into the pool with us. As he took off his shoes and socks, his co-workers couldn't help but notice Dad's toenails were painted a bright shade of pink. He just laughed and said, 'Those darn girls.' I'm sure he didn't care who saw it, and he didn't bother to offer a fuller explanation.

This happened almost forty years ago. About ten years ago, Dad became very sick and had to go to the hospital. We agreed to take him off life support, and we arranged for it to happen when we had all arrived at his bedside. As the priest was giving him his last rites, we six girls agreed that it would be fitting for Dad to enter heaven with his toenails painted. Each of us painted a toe, and amid the tears, we all burst out laughing. The hospital staff must have thought we were crazy, but we knew something they didn't:

Dad would have loved it.

-Debbie Moore

from the book Wisdom of our Fathers, by Tim Russert

i've watched it 20 times now

Working in radio, I often come across a new song that I like enough to play over and over again. And then one more time after that.

And I love it when it's a fairly new act trying to get their name out. Let's face it, talented artists are everywhere and not everyone ends up on the cover of magazines or photographed while buying Starbucks. I also love it when it's an act just different enough to not blend in with all the others.

So meet Thompson Square.

I dig 'em.

20 years later...

Visited my old stomping grounds at Butler University last week.

I'd been asked by a former professor to speak to his class about my career in radio, and found the experience to be very rewarding. Sure, its been 20 years exactly since I first rolled on to campus in my parent's Explorer van with carpeted interior walls, but somehow time stood still and I found myself feeling like that big-haired freshman who wasn't shy but anxious all at the same time.

I met my prof in the C-Club, the place we used to grab a bite to eat between classes, the place I spent more money than allotted by my parents, the place decked out in Bulldog Blue and booths to avoid sitting in. It hadn't changed a bit.

Neither had my professor.

He looked exactly the same, though I love that he admitted to wearing a sportcoat he had worn when I was student. I, fortunately, had traded in the legwarmers for slacks, the White Rain hairspray for a flatiron, and we chatted about our lives, where I met my husband, the ages of our kids, and admired photos of the boys with toothless smiles. Eventually, I was handed his dreaded grade book from years gone by. Dreaded because though I was a decent student, those years are cloudy to me, possibly from lack of sleep these days or an attention span that is shorter than, wait, what was I saying? So imagine my surprise to find I scored a B in my professor's intro class, and an A- in his advanced class two years later.

Yay for me.

Speaking to his class was great, as I love, love, love my job and believe in finding personal satisfaction in what you do, whether it be radio or driving a school bus or staying at home. The fulfillment is what brings a smile to my face, though maybe not when the alarm first screeches me out of bed.

And so my visit proved to be more than educational for a classroom of glassy-eyed students, it was rewarding in other ways.

I appreciated comparing notes with my prof, from radio to parenting to the benefits of minivans. My visit also triggered flashbacks of the person I used to be, that worrisome girl who stepped into my professor's classroom with no idea of what to do with my life, and no idea of how to get there. Life has no checklists to follow, no guide to keep us on the right track, no map of how to reach our destination. Somehow, catching up with my professor in the very place I often lost my keys, ran across campus to turn in papers on time, and occasionally called my parents feeling homesick was like watching flickering slideshows of the former me. Me...the person who didn't know what to do with her life, but hoped I wouldn't fail trying to figure it out.

Not sure what to call it, but I drove away from campus with a big smile on my face. A big thanks to my professor, Scott, for the opportunity to catch up and see life sort of before and after.

Minus the big hair and hot rollers.

dentist=misery

That being said, I would like to immediately make it known that I like my dentist. But good dentist or not, a visit to their office is no walk in the park. I liken it to volunteering to have your fingernails ripped out. And PAYING for it. And that's exactly where I found myself last week.

I exited the office looking like I'd just tangled with that 8th-grade girl who threatened to beat me up after swim class, minus the chlorine-soaked swimsuit. Reading over my instructions to eat only soft foods for the next 48 hours, I jumped at the chance to suck down a milkshake. Liquid lunch, loaded with fat grams, and no guilt...after all, doctor's orders.

Big mistake.

I pull up to the drive-thru window, hear the request for my order, and proceed to rattle off which fat-laden flavor would suit me best:

Me: Yesth, I'd like a cookiesth-and-cweam milksthake, pleasth. With no whipped cweam.

Speaker guy: Um, excuse me?

Me: Yesssth. A cookiesth-and-cweam milksthake...no whipped cweam. Pleasth.

Speaker guy: Yeah...uhhh...I can't really understand you. Would you mind pulling around?

Mind? Oh, not at all. Nothing embarrassing about having you see me face-to-face and sounding like I still suck my thumb. And so I do, and thank you for not laughing, Speaker Guy, at least not until I pulled away with my shake in hand. I proceeded to take a bite with the provided spoon, miss my numb mouth by a good mile, and watch the shake dribble down my sweater. That's when I realized something very important.

Should've asked for a bib.

he wants to 'fuhgetabout' it

My husband's attempt to be friendly left him with the taste of a rubber sole in his mouth during a recent chat with a work associate. He called me afterward, feeling mortified and describing the very short conversation that had just taken place:

Him: Sooooo, when are you due?

Her: I'm...Not.

OUCH.

I've had library books longer

Well, howdy strangers.

I was given a friendly reminder that I'm overdue on posts, and well, I'm overdue on posts. Wish I had something creative to offer regarding my absence, like I forgot my password to this site or I've been trapped in tangled Christmas lights, but I got nothin. Instead, life just got busy.

I've missed writing.

It brings satisfaction to the end of my day, and I've made a point of pocketing daily observations to eventually share, including when my 5-year-old asked Indianapolis Mayor Greg Ballard last week if 'he had a girlfriend.' His response eased my humiliation: 'Well, if I do, I'd better not tell my wife.' Let's hear it for the Mayor's sense of humor.

Changing the channel, Thanksgiving came and went, happy to be with family, but a family that is incomplete without my father. Memories of dad were fondly recalled as we decorated our tree over the weekend. My son handed me an ornament with a photo of my father inside. He kissed Dad's face, saying 'I miss you, Papaw,' yet tears were quickly dried by Greg's frustration over the concept of a prelit tree, as in 900 lights, with 600 that work. My husband suddenly channeled a little Clark Griswold, slightly losing his sanity as he ranted about the two dark sections of our tree and threatening to throw the entire thing in the trash. I propose these prelit trees actually be called 'Prelit: But you'll still add lights, Moron.' Seems fitting, don't ya think?

So, we're the house with the tree that doesn't light up in the middle, at least for now.

Happy Holidays.