For Mary's Mother

Sometimes I wonder why I've kept on posting the same random, frivolous drivel here day after week after month after year after year after year . . . Almost nine years now I've been writing inconsequential stories about my small life and sending them out into the ether for no reason whatsoever.

Except they are not inconsequential. Because people read them. And to some people, they become quite important indeed.

One of those people was Mary's mother. Mary is a friend of the MiL's from way back. Mary's mother lived in an assisted living facility, and Mary visited her mother almost every day. At some point, Mary began printing out and reading my blog to her mother. And those stories that I put very little thought into became a part of both of their lives.

Mary's mother--I never met the lady and in fact don't even know her name--particularly loved the stories about Cubby, Charlie, and Jack. She followed along with all their births. She laughed at their antics and their proclamations. She watched them grow up, even though they never met in person.

Mary's mother died yesterday. Mary was with her at the end, and when the MiL sent me the news about her mother's death, Mary specifically wrote to me to let me know that her mother asked about "the little boys" until the end, making up stories about them based on the expressions she saw in the photos I posted.

This made me tear up. And it reminded me that those little boys are precious in so many ways, to so many people.

So to Mary, I extend my deepest sympathies. And for her mother, I offer one last photo of "her boys," whom she never met:

Rest in peace, Mary's mom. With love from the Family Blackrock.

My Birthday Gift From the Universe

I went to a bar last night to celebrate my birthday.

To appreciate how out of character this is for me, you should know that the last time I went to a bar was probably seven or eight years ago. But it was kind of a miserable day yesterday, what with the pouring rain and the (STILL, FOREVER) snotty children and I really, really wanted to get out of the house. The options around here are pretty limited, so the bar it is. I e-mailed a couple of friends and asked if they could meet me at the bar in the village around 4:30 for a drink.

It was very last minute, and both of these friends have their own three kids each, so getting all three of us there would have been something of a miracle. Turned out one couldn't make it at all and the other couldn't get there until about 7 p.m.

So I put all three kids to bed a little early and left at 7 p.m. I got home at 9 p.m. and the first thing A. told me was that shortly after I left, Charlie vomited all over his bed, and himself.

We had spaghetti for dinner. It was an ugly scene.

Charlie has never thrown up before, and was understandably upset. Hysterical might actually be a better word. But A. and Cubby (who is actually very solicitous and helpful in situations like these) got him and his bed cleaned up and got him back to sleep relatively quickly.

There were no further wake-ups, although he did apparently throw up again a little. I discovered this when I went in this morning to gather up the laundry and found another little puddle on his pillow.

He had to have a bath this morning and I had to scrape a sour-smelling mixture of spaghetti and carrots off his pillow and sheets, but! BUT!

I was not here for the hysteria and vomit-covered three-year-old at 7:15 last night. I could feel guilty about this, but . . . I don't. Instead, I feel relieved and grateful that my friend's schedule meant I was at a bar when the excitement started and I didn't have to deal with the hysteria and second-hand spaghetti all over the bed.

Call it luck. Call it fate. Call it a divine plan. Call it whatever you want, but happy birthday to me.

A Cocktail Party in a Box

Today is my birthday.

I'll wait while you type out the congratulatory comments. Done? Okay.

I didn't ask for any particular gift, so my mother and the MiL just got me what they thought I might like.

The MiL ordered five pounds of snacks from nuts.com: a pound of pistachios, a pound of cashews, a pound of pecans, a pound of dried apricots, and a pound of something called chocolate coconut haystacks.

After ten years of living with me, she definitely knows what I like.

My mother, in a pleasing and totally unplanned complement, sent me a box of top-shelf liquor. Because although she hasn't lived with me in way more than ten years, she knows my love of a good cocktail. So I am now the owner of three bottles of liquor I would never buy myself: a bottle of Tanqueray gin, a very classy-looking bottle of brandy, and a bottle of blood-orange liqueur.

Yes, blood-orange liqueur. I know! Fancy! I can't tell you how excited I was when I saw that. I'm going to have the most exotic Sidecar ever.

So between the snacks and the liquor, I was basically sent an entire cocktail party. Except I'm not having a party, which means it's ALL FOR ME. Well, and A. I'll let him have a drink, too.

Congratulations to my mom and the MiL, who pretty much hit the ball out of the park with this year's birthday presents. And happy birthday to me.

Cheers!

The Madness In Photos

The joyful tearing of paper is the soundtrack of Christmas Day.

The only photo I got of everyone, in which half of the family look as if they've been caught doing something illegal.

The future Band of Brothers: Cubby on guitar, Charlie on drums, Jack on tambourine.

Cubby practicing his rock star face, and Jack displaying his rock star flourish.

All that's left now is to play with all the gifts. (And read them, because the most popular gift in our families for our children is books, mostly non-fiction about animals, and they received a total of fifteen new books yesterday. We have a lot of reading to do.)

This Is Gonna Be Awesome

The tree is locked and (over) loaded . . .

Within those packages are a guitar for Cubby, a drum for Charlie, and a whole percussion band-in-a-box for Jack, courtesy of my parents. I actually requested these items on behalf of my children. The cacophony--I mean, the sweet music--should be really impressive tomorrow morning.

The stockings are filled . . .

And I don't have a picture, because my camera needs batteries*, but they're filled with a truly festive collection of office supplies. What, Santa doesn't bring your kids tape and pencils? That's too bad.

T minus 10 hours before the wrapping paper explosion. I can't wait.

* I have some, I just didn't put them in the camera yet. I will, though. Don't you worry. There will be sufficient blurry photos to document the mayhem in the morning.

The Excitement Runs High

One of the things I most enjoy about having three small boys is telling people that I have three small boys. The reactions are always amusing. The less tactful just say, "I'm sorry." (This is kind of offensive, by the way, and you should never say this, even as a joke.)

The more diplomatic say something cheery like, "Wow, you're a busy lady!" The other day, someone replied, "It must be exciting at your house."

Well, yes, I suppose it is. Also, it is very loud.

Also also, there are a lot of improvised weapons.  Like that missile launcher behind Cubby there that is taking aim at the stuffed puppy suspended from the rocking horse.

No puppies were harmed, because Jack managed to liberate Puppy before the missile could be launched.

A Gift for Words

Cubby slept unusually late this morning. He doesn't have school this week, so there was no reason to disturb him. When I finally went in to check on him about 8:45 a.m., he opened his eyes, but made no move to get out of bed. A few minutes after that, I went back upstairs to put Jack down for a nap and found that Cubby still hadn't moved from his bed. So I asked him if he was planning on getting up and dressed anytime soon.

"I can't," he said, his voice muffled by his down comforter. "I'm suctioned to my bed."

Son, I know exactly what you mean.