Doing It All For My Baby

My Little Guy loves music. He loves to sing. He loves to dance. He loves banging on his piano or xylophone, or playing his plastic sax. He plays a pretty good air guitar for a two-year old, and he uses his little fingers to “drum” on pictures of drums. He’s really into it.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling a little low or tired – all I need is to hear his giggly voice singing along with Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…and I perk right up.

One morning this week, I was rushing around, trying to get everything lined up for a busy day ahead. I was going over lists in my mind, applying mascara and slipping into loafers when Little Guy ran over to his Dad’s clock radio, hit the “on” button and when the music started (Huey Lewis); he said “DANCE MOM!” and began to dance himself.

So what did I do?

Well, I danced of course. I couldn’t say no after all… not to my Little Sweetie-Pie. And every time he spun in a circle, or jumped up and down, or attempted to shake his tiny rump – a little of the day’s weight fell from my shoulders. By the second verse, we were both shaking it pretty hard, and laughing even harder. It was a perfect start to an otherwise typical day. That quick little dance was calming and healing and energizing. It was exactly what I needed & I think Little Guy had a great time too.

Laugher may be the best medicine, but dancing with a toddler to Huey Lewis comes in a solid second – for this Mom anyway.

Everyone Goes Home

This past weekend Hubby, Little Guy and I went to our local Fire Department. They were hosting a Pancake Breakfast & Open House. There were several fire trucks on display, and children were allowed limited access. Little Guy got to sit in the driver’s seat (of each and every one – he wouldn’t let us skip any). They gave him a “Jr Fire Marshal” hat, a sticker and a little drinking cup. We toured the station, ate pancakes and sausage and then sat in some more trucks. The firemen and women were all terribly kind and it was an honor to spend a little time amongst them.

The bravery of those folks often goes overlooked. I think we sometimes take for granted that there are people out there who are willing to risk life and limb to keep us safe. Firefighters, Emergency Workers, Police Officers, and Soldiers to name a few. We are so blessed to have so many who are willing to serve in such selfless fields. We are forever grateful for their sacrifice and our lives are better because they are here.

The event was fun and upbeat. There were no somber faces or sad tales told. The feeling in the air was festive and light. It was almost easy to forget the risks they take… almost. But there were reminders. The heavy boots and coats to keep skin from burning. The oxygen masks ready to help folks breathe. The hoses used to keep the flames at bay. And this simple message painted on the inside of each fire truck exit:

Everyone Goes Home

Wow. That sure says a lot, doesn’t it? It tells me that they know the risk is great, but that they are willing. It tells me that they will do all they can to bring back their brethren and also the citizens they help.

It tells me they are heroes.

I hope that our Little Guy will find men and women like these to be his role models. Super heroes and Sports figures are fine, but when it comes to finding a real hero, I hope he looks for more than a cape or a box score. I hope instead, that he looks to the local police station or fire department, the armory or the ambulance garage. That’s where the real heroes are.

I’d like to send out a big hearty “Thank You” to each and every real hero out there. God bless you all.

David's Big Sister

I was almost nine when my parents told me their “exciting” news. I can close my eyes and remember the conversation as if it happened yesterday. They sat me down, and standing there in front of me, they were both clearly happy. The air nearly vibrated with anticipation. My mind was reeling with what the news could be. A trip to Disney World maybe? A new pony? When the words came: “We’re having another baby!” my immediate response was one of tortured disbelief.

“But, WHY?” I choked. “Don’t you love ME anymore?” It was difficult for me to wrap my (until then “only-child”) mind around the idea that I would now have to share – everything. No longer would I be the center of attention. No longer would I bask alone, in the glow of my parents’ love.

I knew it was selfish, but I didn’t want to share. I wasn’t good at it. I didn’t want to be anyone’s big sister.

Time passed. The house began to fill with tiny little clothes, snuggly baby blankets, and infant furniture. There were Teddy Bears and mobiles to admire. I would watch my Mother gently rubbing her swollen belly – talking and singing to the little person living inside. I started to imagine that a sibling might become an ally, a confidant, a friend. Slowly, I began to come around to the idea of sharing my family with this tiny intruder.

And then on October 12, 1983, while watching TV at the Babysitter’s house, the phone rang. I held the bulky receiver to my ear with a trembling hand, and heard Dad proudly say, “It’s a Boy!”

And for some reason those three words changed my outlook once an for all. I wasn’t just a Big Sister. I was the Big Sister to a Little Brother. I was “David’s Big Sister”. It would be my job to protect him, to help my folks take care of him, to give him hugs and spoil him.

Even before I saw him with my own eyes, my heart filled with love for the newest addition to our family. Over all these years, that love hasn’t wavered.

Don’t get me wrong. There have been days when my baby brother irritated me beyond belief.

When they first brought him home, it became clear that my dog Lucky did not like the new baby. Fearing for David's safety, my parents had to make a tough choice.  When Dad told me that they’d found a new home for my canine companion, I was crushed….but I got over it.

As a toddler David once smacked me in the mouth with his waffle ball bat. I’d gotten braces on my teeth just that morning and the pain of a busted lip was almost unbearable…but I got over it.

When he was a little older still, and we would go on vacations, we would fight over who had more space in the backseat. He drove me crazy, poking his feet (in Ninja Turtle sandals) into my space….but I got over it.

As a teenager, he was a parent’s dream child. He didn’t stay out late. He didn’t lie about where he’d been, or make up excuses. He didn’t yell at our folks or throw things. He was a good kid – the opposite of his older sister at the same age. Was I annoyed that he was showing me up? Yes, I was… but I got over that too.

He probably has some stories he could tell too, but alas he has no blog so I guess you’ll just have to hear my side of our sibling saga. **insert evil big-sister laughter here**

The truth is that all those years ago, I worried for nothing. Yes, our family grew and I was no longer the lone center of attention. But I didn’t lose anything at all. My parents still loved me unconditionally. They were there for me when I needed them. They loved me no matter what. And they did the same for David. In a way (because of the big age gap), we were both “only children”, living in parallel sibling universes:

• When he was learning to ride his tricycle and playing with toy trucks, I was in Jr. High school – immersed in social and school activities which kept me away from home.
• When I was moving out to my first apartment, he was in grade school writing English papers and learning about the American Civil War.
• When I moved out of state for some adventure, he was entering High School.
• When he went to college, I was getting married.
• When my Little Guy was born, my brother was enjoying his first real job.

So, because our life paths have been on very different tracks since the beginning, we’ve never had to compete as some siblings do. We’ve just always been there for each other. We’ve been able to keep in touch and stay close over the years.

My Little Brother is an awesome guy. He is smart and funny and loyal and kind. He has integrity and firmly stands by his beliefs. He is a man of God. I’m terribly proud of him, and consider our friendship one of my most treasured relationships.

I couldn’t be luckier than to be “David’s Big Sister.”

Happy Birthday Kiddo! I love you.

{this moment}

Inspired by SouleMama to share one moment.... via a single photo – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember…”

Breaking Up is Hard to Do




Image from ReallyGreatToys.com



Yesterday we officially changed pediatricians for Little Guy. This will probably sound silly, but I feel really bad about saying Goodbye to Dr. R.

We like this doctor. We like him a lot.



When I was a nervous wreck of a new mother, and called his cell phone at 10pm, he answered and calmed me down. When Little Guy had a terrible rash on a weekend, Dr R opened his office on a Sunday in a blizzard to check our sweetie out. He made an opening for us each and every time I called for a last minute appointment. He took extra time to talk with us at every visit. We always knew he genuinely cared.

But then he moved his practice.

His new office is in the downtown part of our city. We live in a suburb, and the drive to his new location is not quick or easy. He now practices in the county hospital. The folks there have always been very nice to us, and we certainly have continued to receive excellent care from Dr R, but the drive was driving me crazy.



Instead of zipping to an appointment over a lunch hour, I’ve been having to use vacation half-days for check-ups. With Little Guy in and out of the doctor’s office this summer, those days have been piling up. We’d suspected we would eventually seek out a new doctor, and with winter coming (and the winters have been ugly here lately), this seemed like the right time. I hate to drive long distances in snow and ice.

We found a new doctor for Little Guy who comes highly recommended, has an office just over a mile from our home, and has extended hours (open till 8pm most nights). I’m excited to start going to her, but sad about leaving Dr. R.



I wrote him a letter, telling him how much we appreciate all he’s done and that we are only switching because of the distance. Writing it made me misty eyed. That’s kind of pathetic right? I couldn’t help it.

It felt like a break-up, or like losing an old & dear friend – and that’s certainly something I hate to do.

Best of luck to Dr R. We’ll always be grateful that he was Little Guy’s first pediatrician.

A Keeper of Things



The above Clutter cartoon found via Bing! Images

Many, many years ago (when I was a silly teenager) I often teased my Dad about his massive collection of STUFF. In hindsight – who did I think I was - making fun of anyone? To put my teenage years in perspective…think George Michael posters, peg-rolled frosted jeans, enormous bangs & braces on my teeth. But I digress. I teased him because he saved everything - and I do mean everything! If you walked into his barn or his little workshop, you would be greeted with towering stacks of boxes and crates and chunks of wood. His tool bench always seemed orderly, but it was surrounded by a steadily evolving halo of chaos. For some reason this irked me.

“Why do you save all this junk” teenage Me would ask.
“It’s not junk, Young Lady.” He would patiently reply. “I have plans for all of it.”
“But how will you ever find anything when you need it?” I would whine.
His patient, but firm reply would be, “I know where everything is. I have plans for ALL of it.”

Fast-forward twenty years, and that conversation could just as easily be reversed if my Dad took a peek into my craft room. You see, I too have become one of those folks who keeps everything (especially of the craft and sewing supply variety).
He might, for example, hold up a box of mis-matched bits of colorful cloth and ask, “Why don’t you throw this junky old fabric away?”
“That fabric is vintage feed sack material. It’s not junk, and I will use it in a quilt.”
“What about these canvases, or these bags of felt, or this jar of buttons, or this dresser full of fabric?” He might go on and on, and I’d probably be defensive by this point.
“I have plans for ALL of it!” I’d cry.

And I do. I have more projects in my head (and corresponding supplies in my craft room) than I will probably ever have time for. And yet…I keep looking for more.

This past weekend we went to a big flea market. I have been on the lookout for green corduroy (I want to make a stuffed dinosaur for Little Guy for Christmas), and found a good quality twin size bedspread in green corduroy (circa 1970s) for just $1.00! Woo Hoo! And imagine my excitement when I found an orange one right next to it, also for $1.00. Yowza! Did I plan to buy orange corduroy? No. Do I have a plan for this new orange fabric? Well, I didn’t until I saw it hanging there on that lonely hanger. My mind began to race, and now I have several ideas for what I’ll use it for…someday. So, into the stacks it goes.

My keeping things is really the product of another trait that I also share with my Dad: We like to save money. Call us cheap or frugal – we are always interested in finding a bargain. It’s this need to pinch pennies, that sends us scurrying to garage sales and flea markets before ever looking for things we “need” in retail stores. It’s the feeling that we can’t pass up a great deal, even if we have piles of other great deals at home, just waiting to be addressed.

Regarding that halo of chaos that I once poked fun at my Dad for: I have tried to keep my own disaster area (craft room) in check. I get it now. I understand that there can be order in disorder (well, to some extent anyway – Hoarders scares me).  But I also know that a little chaos is okay.  You just have to know your limit.  (I know mine, by the way.  I just haven't reached it yet!!)

Now, when I poke my head into my Dad’s cluttered workshop the conversation will go something like this:

“Oooh, what’s this one for?” I ask as I pick up a strangely shaped item.
“It’s going to be a birdhouse, I think.”
“What about this old medicine chest?” I ask, pointing.
“I’m going to restore it.” He answers.
“Nice! How about these tiles?” I stroke the dust off the stack and he eyes me suspiciously. “You don’t really plan to use these for anything do you?” I ask, sending him the little girl puppy-dog eyes, “Because I think I could…”
“Don’t even think about it, Young Lady! I have plans for everything you see! Don’t you have some stuff of your own to go through?”

And I’ll laugh and nod… because I certainly do.

Hootie PaTootie

My latest creation is this little pink hoot owl. She’s soft and sweet and kind of girly.

I made my own pattern (so this first one is a prototype). I’ll make some tweaks when I use this pattern again. I used my machine for the seams, but did the facial and belly accents by hand. She’s made mostly of fleece with felt accents and stuffed with fiber-fill. She’s about 11” tall (not counting her little feet).

Why did I make a pink owl, you ask? Well, someday I hope to open an Etsy shop, and this is the first thing I’ve made to store away until I have enough stock to make Etsy worthwhile. I don’t know what (if anything) I’ll specialize in. I like to dabble in everything, so I anticipate offering a variety of items when the time comes.


Hoot  Hoot!