No, I’ll not be reviewing The Adventures of Arnie the Doughnut for you today.
Clearly, the literary world realized that there was a supreme lack of decent material being published lately, so they all decided it was time to get back to business. Thank goodness.
I’ve read more this summer than I have in the past 9 years (which, oddly enough, coincides with how long I’ve had children). My Scout’s-Honest brief reviews of the things I plowed through from June to August are included below. Some are fluffier than others. Some are just plain stupid. No judging allowed, even though, you know, I’m judging these books. We can stay friends that way.
A Constellation of Vital Phenomena by Anthony Marra. Best book I’ve ever read (it pushes The Secret History out of top place; that’s really saying something). A painfully poetic, honest, brutal examination of war, love, and duty. It starts off beautifully, but then hits a fever pitch around page 20, and your family won’t see you for a few days because you’ll be squirrelled away in a corner, devouring this book. It’s brilliant.
We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler. I must admit I was scared of this one–not because of the dysfunctional family theme or the, ahem, cohabitating ape–but because of Fowler’s previously published novels, all of which are uber-fluffy, pastel covered, chick-lit titles. This one is excellent–full of psychology, emotion and dysfunction–all without being smothered by the silly, miserable women who typically populate her tales.
Crazy, Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan. Complete trash but introduced me to the crazy, rich culture of Singapore, which seems to be a hot topic lately as evidenced by the second book about crazy, rich Asians released this summer, 5-Star Billionaire, by Tash Aw (which was longlisted for the Man Booker Prize). One dose of spoiled, richer-than-God characters was enough for me, thank you very much (though I will admit Kwan’s book has a serious rubbernecker factor; these punks are so spectacularly repugnant and awful.)
The Astronaut Wives Club by Lily Koppel. I am a space junkie. Nerd alert: I once spent an entire summer reading everything from The Right Stuff to Apollo 13, from John Glenn’s autobiography to the monstrous A Man on the Moon (all 729 pages of it). It was all space, all summer; that’s about 2,089 geeky pages total–in case you’re wondering–and yes, no one wanted to hang out with me. My freakishness about flying makes just thinking about being shot into the heavens on a rocket give me an anxiety attack. But enough about me. Lily Koppel’s nonfiction book gathered a lot of buzz early in the summer, and it’s tolerable enough. But it’s also candy-coated and repetitive and, well, girly, which is the opposite of how the rest of my oeuvre of space cowboy books describe these maniacs. If you want to read about how these gals chose the dresses they wore for their Life magazine photo shoot, this is for you. If you want the true nuts-and-bolts of being an astronaut–including all the grisly bits–opt for one of the other space books.
The Execution of Noa P. Singleton by Elizabeth L. Silver. Riding on the coattails of Orange is the New Black, this novel about a death-row inmate has an interesting premise, to say the least. But then it goes nowhere. And it goes nowhere quite slowly. I might have said Noa P. Singleton was the most irritating character ever created, but I’d already read Crazy, Rich Asians by this point, and there is just no topping that cadre of idiots.
Her Best Kept Secret by Gabrielle Glaser. Ooh, I bet you just perked up. This one sounds like it would be dirty, doesn’t it? Sorry to disappoint you; it’s just the history of women and their consumption of wine. Seriously. It’s an interesting, scientific/historical read, but it’s also a supreme enabler. Nothing like reading about women drinking wine to encourage drinking wine yourself. All in the name of science, of course.
The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells by Andrew Sean Greer. Or, The Time Traveler’s Wife in half as many pages. This tale is an exercise in the willing suspension of disbelief, to say the least, and if you read Audrey Niffenegger’s book a few years ago, you’ve already covered time travel and might find yourself disappointed (See, above: The Astronaut Wives Club). Where The Time Traveler’s Wife gets under your skin and makes you think, Greta Wells flits back and forth through time with the aid (?) of the electroshock therapy prescribed to her for manic depression. Um, right.
The Silver Star by Jeannette Walls. I was burning through this novel like wildfire when Jack came over, picked it up, walked around with it, and put it down in a location that has yet to be found. This Jack, by the way, is a grown friend of ours, not my son.
A Hundred Summers by Beatriz Williams. This poor book endured a fate similar to that of The Silver Star; I lost it before I finished it. Well, actually, I lost my Nook charger which in turn means I lost this book since Barnes & Noble no longer makes chargers for the plain old Nook Color. (What the heck, B&N?) This story, set in 1930’s New England, had the flavor of Rules of Civility, and it was a lovely little bedtime read. But the best thing about this book is that it brought me back from the dark side of eBooks, and I reconnected with my best old pal, the book store. Every other book I read this summer (all listed above) are now stacked on my shelves.
Here in Atlanta, we have a ridiculous landmark: The Big Chicken.
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
photo courtesy of Wikipedia
The Big Chicken is big, ridiculous, ugly, garish…you name it. Her eyes roll around in her head, causing a distraction when one drives by (as if driving past a 56 foot tall chicken isn’t a distraction enough). She’s a landmark who’s marked her space at a major intersection here in the big city since 1963. She’s what all other chickens strive to be. She’s the biggest chicken ever.
Unless you count me, that is.
I’m scared of everything: flying, needles, tornadoes, the dentist, spiders, dislocated joints, lake water, enclosed spaces, confrontation, math, major commitments, asking for help. Fear and anxiety are second nature to me; I completely identify with another famous chicken, Chicken Little, who fretted constantly about impending disaster and what-ifs. I have a penchant for doom and gloom.
I’m scared. A lot.
It ain’t pretty.
If I take a deep breath and attempt to think rationally about this chicken-ness, I realize it all boils down to one key thing: I don’t want my children to lose me.
How terribly and catastrophically vain, no?
It’s not just my children whom I want to ensure keep their mother; it’s all children. Moms aren’t supposed to die. Not in tornadoes, not from rogue Calculus problems, not from a tarantula bite, and certainly–most certainly–not from cancer.
You want to talk about some brave warriors, some true heroes of our age, some folks capable of tapping into the superpowers others of us just dream about? Let’s talk about those who are fighting cancer.
Angie. Elaine. Ellen. Jeannette. Lynn. Marlene. Marsha. Mary Ann. Pam. Valerie.
You likely know them by other names: Friend. Sister. Aunt. Grandmom. Mother-in-Law. Daughter.
Wife.
Mom.
Or maybe even, Me.
These folks suck up courage from the ends of their eyelashes to the tips of their toenails to go head-to-head with one awful, ugly, hideous, garish bad guy. They have parts of their bodies lopped off, tubes shoved in their chests, needles poked in their arms, and yet they’ll still think to ask you how you are doing. They have poison injected into their bodies, watch their hair fall out in clumps, field the toughest questions ever from their children, and yet their braveness still shines through huge eyes and shiny white-toothed smiles. While some of us sit around worrying about whether our child will be in the same class as his best friend, they are forced to stare at a phone, cloaked in a wet blanket of anxiety, awaiting the results from the latest PET scan. There is no room for The Big Chicken here; there’s no room for the tiniest baby chick.
Kinda makes my silly little fear of commitment look ridiculous, doesn’t it?
These warriors put on a brave face and tackle the unknown, going head to head against one of the world’s worst monsters.
Now, that’s what I call a hero.
We live on a planet that has sent scientists to live on both inhospitable ends of it. We’ve sent people to the moon, astronauts to live for months in outer space. We can create a baby in a dish. We can build a robot the size of an insect, and we have unwound strands of DNA. But we haven’t found a cure for cancer.
Yet.
In less than 10 weeks, I will be walking 60 miles with a fabulous team of folks–women, men, moms, dads, sisters, wives and daughters–who all have the same goal in mind: TO HELP FIND A CURE FOR BREAST CANCER.
Feet to Beat Breast Cancer first teamed up in 2005, and since its inception has dedicated itself to raising funds to support the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. Last year alone, the team raised over $88,000. So far this year, our team has raised close to $40,000–we’re about 40% of the way to our team goal of raising $100,000 by the first day of this year’s walk in Atlanta, October 18, 2013.
So here’s the point where I, Chicken Little, tackle my own personal Big Chicken and do something very, very scary. I’m asking for help.
If a monetary donation is not in the cards for you right now, may I still count on your support and prayers as I undertake this challenge? I am excited to push myself to the limits. I’m ready to move out of my comfort zone. I know that walking 60 miles is nothing compared to that journey so many women and men must take once they hear those awful words: breast cancer.
60 miles is nothing compared to the journeys undertaken by Angie, Elaine, Ellen, Jeannette, Lynn, Marlene, Marsha, Mary Ann, Pam, and Valerie.
So far, I’ve been very, very fortunate. Among those names listed above, I also know them as cousin or friend, but not mom or grandmom or, thank goodness, me. Will you please help me help researchers find a way to let us all know these brave, brave individuals by one more name, the most important name out there?
SURVIVOR.
We can do it. We can find a cure for this monster.
Let’s do this thing.
Thank you so very much from the bottom of my heart.
Theo the Domino Maniac requested a Domino Track themed 5th birthday party.
Say what?
After watching every single domino track video on YouTube (there are hundreds; trust me), Theo and his brothers have pretty much mastered fallbacks, pyramids and all other tricky domino track maneuvers. [Yes, I realize how cool we’re looking right about now. It’s summertime, y’all. Cut us some slack.] Theo was certain his friends had spent the past 10 weeks doing the same tedious activity and as such, were ready for 2 hours of nothing but domino track building.
Even in the best of worlds, 20 kiddos about to start pre-K are not going to patiently line up dominoes for 2 minutes, much less 2 hours. Mama had to get creative. Big time creative.
our new house has a perfect place to hang birthday banners
it was so unbelievably humid that Theo’s number 5 balloon did not want to cooperate…at all
Theo, Digger, and Tucker wait for the guests to start arriving
We set up several stations for building things. The most important one, of course, was the domino track station.
see how nice and organized that is?
Next stop: the marble track area. Jack loves our Quadrilla set, but it’s not the easiest thing to build. A few years ago, I cut out all the pictures of sample marble tracks from the boxes the sets came in. We keep these cutouts in the bin with the 23,987 Quadrilla pieces.
Having these sample pictures is a must if one wants to keep a child from losing it while trying to build a track that actually works. They are lined up against the wall on the left.
Magnatiles. We learned about these in Theo’s classroom last year. Greatest investment ever. Every kid I know loves these things. Well worth the price.
The Lego area. Huge hit, of course.
While I was out running last minute errands, the boys took a brand new bag of Solo cups and decided to build a ginormous cup pyramid. Cup stacking wasn’t in the plans, but now that all [200 of] the cups were dirty, we added a cup pyramid station to the mix. Bonus points to me for not freaking out and just rolling with it.
And then we have the worst idea of the day: melty-beads. If you’ve not encountered these little drops of the devil, spare yourself. I implore you. We went down this path a few summers ago, and after picking up the tiny beads for the next 2 years, I finally cut bait and tossed the entire set out. These things are worse than Gremlins.
But I made a crucial error by taking the boys with me to Michael’s, and my creative crew begged to get another set. Jack had the idea to make miniature dominoes to use as decorations. Theo was convinced his female guests would love to make designs. It sounded like a good plan.
I put the trays and the bucket of a gazillion beads on a rimmed cookie sheet. See how smart I am? Going to contain that mess, baby. I. Am. Brilliant.
At one point, I looked over to see 2 moms hunched down on the floor trying to finish the trays their daughters had started and were nearly in tears over. At another point, I busted the dog, snout deep in the bead bin, woofing down a tasty treat for himself.
Like I said: total disaster.
Moving on to another total disaster: Theo’s cake. The child wanted a chocolate cake with whipped cream. No icing…just whipped cream. That sounds easy enough. It was easy enough.
And ugly enough.
If this were a Home Ec project, I’d have earned a C+. Maybe, if the teacher was feeling extremely sympathetic that day.
Aesthetics didn’t matter though; these are 5 year olds. One dad even told me that this was the first time his son ate birthday cake because he’s never liked it at any other party. Take that, Publix, and your gloppy, rainbow-colored, too-thickly-frosted sheet cakes.
The sparkler candles didn’t make sparkles, but again, that’s ok. Theo still was in hog heaven.
I hate goody bags.
Actually, I’ll confess: that’s not entirely true. I hate the idea of goody bags (that a kid gets a “prize” for coming to a party) and I hate the trinket-y junk that often comes with them (fake tattoos and plastic doodads that break in the car on the way home), but I like the idea of having some type of small souvenir to remind you of the party. We usually do mix-cd’s with songs that match the party, but other than Van Morrison’s fab song, “Domino”–which none of these little party-goers have likely ever heard since the song was written 36 years ago–the musical pickings are slim for this type of party.
Instead, I hit up VistaPrint and had t-shirts made with the same bright design from Theo’s invitation. Crazy? Yes. But memorable? Absolutely. And I bet none of them have broken yet, either.
Theo has the most adorable little friends.
Nice photo bomb, Buckley-Dog. How are those melty-beads treating your belly?
In the end, the party was a mad success.
However, it must be noted that this type of soiree is not for the neat freak. Holy Nelly at the disaster. Millions of Legos and dominoes were scattered everywhere. At least 10,000 melty beads were on the floor, under the sofa and inside the dog. Solo cups were in every room, upstairs and down.
But it was worth every single second of it. It was exactly the birthday party this guy had in mind when he asked for a Domino Track Party.
And with that, we are done with birthday parties for the year.
Shortly after 2 this morning, this cuteness turned 5:
When my oldest son turned 5, I was stumbling through days with him, along with a 3.5 year old and a 10 month old. I thought life couldn’t get any busier.
Ha.
The past 5 years have been a blur of days, of strep throat and broken collarbones, loose teeth and lost pets. Of crying children, of exhausted parents, of finicky eaters. Of baseball practices and school meetings and playdates. Of laughing, bike riding, rock climbing and domino track building.
That’s around 1,825 days of unrepeatable wonder.
It’s a blur of wonderfulness that’s zooming by as fast as the earth can spin, which is way too fast for me.
then…
…and now
now…
…and then
That whole saying about the days being so long but the years being so short is spot-on.
Our baby is now 5 (“that’s a quarter of the way to 20,” Russ reminded me).
That’s gonna leave a mark…
July 30, 2008
10 days old
July 30, 2009–1 year old
July 30, 2010–2 years old
July 2011–3 years old
July 30, 2012–4 years old
July 2013–almost 5 years old!
We started our day building domino tracks and playing inside with outdoor toys (a favorite beach activity, it seems). Theo has requested a nice, steamy pot of pasta fagioli for his birthday supper–just what the family wants on the sweltering 30th of July. It doesn’t matter though; when it’s your birthday, you get to pick your own supper. So I’m about to start chopping up a pile of vegetables to make my youngest son his favorite meal. I plan on using that onion as a scapegoat. Birthdays always bring tears to my eyes.
Happy 5th birthday to our sweetness, the best little brother, the happiest child, our Theodorable. Thank you for making the last 5 years the very best years of our lives…so far.
Tuck had his second surf lesson today. Dude’s got it down.
Like, totally.
Our final beach trip of the summer has been jam-packed.
Dominos. Of course.
Putt-Putt…which took a violent turn yesterday when Jack dove into a rock wall and split his head open. (OK, it wasn’t exactly split open, but any amount of blood coming from one’s son’s head is enough to rattle a mom.)
Nighttime walks on the beach with the Brown Dog.
He’s here, somewhere, trust me–off doing his best sand sniffing…in honor of Henry.
Trying out a new sport (Lord help us).
Lots of relaxing, reading (summer reading review coming soon) and regrouping before the mayhem of the school year starts.
We’ve stuck a lot closer to the sand ever since Jack overheard me telling Russ about my old college roommate’s husband’s (got that?) run in with a certain toothy ocean dweller. Little pitchers have big ears, indeed.
Seriously, why on Earth would anyone volunteer to be buried in sand? Ugh, squared.
And lots of celebrating the last days of being 4.
Big birthday post coming up tomorrow. Happy last day of being 4, sweet Theo!
It’s summer…8 weeks into summer, to be exact. We’re getting a little squirrelly.
This child’s summertime obsession has been dominoes.
Not playing dominos, mind you; playing with dominoes. This would be called “building domino tracks” to the initiated. And, oh my friends, we are not just in the club. We are the freaking Grand Poobahs of the Domino Track Club, Local Lodge #85.
I remember the days long ago when Jack went through a construction vehicle phase. Never did I think I’d know the difference between an excavator and a backhoe loader, between a jackhammer and a tamper. And who’d have ever thought a cherry-picker could send us looping back around the block for another look?
That obsession with dump trucks was nothing compared to our current one with dominoes.
We’ve seen every YouTube video on the subject. My vocabulary has expanded to include things such as fallbacks, towers and switchbacks.
It’s off the chain.
[Now, before we continue the story, let me remind you that we are eight weeks into summer break. Eight weeks, people. We are hitting the wall here.]
Jack and Tuck are gone during the days this week from 9-2. Which means, obviously, that I spend about 4.5 hours a day building domino tracks and knocking them over with Theo, which differs only slightly from the other 8 hours a day we spend building domino tracks in the fact that we have no brothers here to assist us.
By Tuesday, I was going bananas. So I decided we needed some bigger dominoes–for his upcoming Domino Track themed birthday party, you know. (Yes, seriously. Still trying to figure out how we’re going to pull that one off.)
A few Google searches planted the seeds. So off to Home Depot we went.
After some insanely complicated math (I’m a writer, not a wizard, you know), we pulled our boards: three 10 foot 1″x4″ ones.
These don’t fit in a cart.
They don’t even come close.
By the way, the only folks at Home Depot first thing in the morning are the hardcore, legitimate builders. They use all those huge rolling flatbed carts.
Pansies.
Next, after dodging multiple forklifts and half of the construction work force in Atlanta, we made it to the Cutting Center. Danger, Will Robinson.
We pushed our way into the line and stood there like we knew what we were doing. The good news is that when you are at Home Depot at the crack of dawn with your not-quite-5-year old, it’s obvious you are knee-deep in a Mother-Son project–which makes you look like SuperMom, even if you haven’t showered in 2 days, have dark circles under your eyes and are wearing unmatching workout clothes. Score one, Mom.
A regular domino is 2″ by 3″. After nearly melting my brain, I figured out that we could expand that size to 4″ by 6″ on our 10 foot board and get a yield (see that mathy term?) of 20 dominoes per board. We just needed the Super-Radial-Arm-Saw-Jedi-Master to cut each board at 6″ increments. Super-Radial-Arm-Saw-Jedi-Master then informed me that the first 3 cuts were free; after that, each cut would cost $.50.
Too. Much. Math.
Radial-Arm-Saw-Jedi-Master saw that calculating the cost of that was about to make my head explode, so he just started cutting.
And then he told us that he wasn’t going to charge us. You gotta love tough guys who are softies at heart.
Let’s pause here for a quick grammar lesson. IT’S is the contraction; ITS is the possessive. Just saying.
“The saw blade should return to it’s original position and at that time push the STOP button.”
Hey, they do math; I do English.
Clearly.
Somehow we ended up with 53 dominoes, not 60, but who’s counting? (Not “whose” counting, btw.) We also have 2 dominoes that are bigger than the rest, so maybe calling him the Radial-Arm-Saw-Jedi-Master is a bit of an exaggeration.
Seeing as we’ve just recently moved, we have a cabinet stocked to the gills with paint samples that doubled nicely as colors for giant dominoes.
My assistant pulled all 53 pieces of wood from the back of the car.
We then decided we needed to sand the edges since most of them had splintery shards poking out of them. Quality Control (a.k.a. Theo) decided this step was a bit tedious about 6 minutes into it, so he took his break back in the air conditioned house and set up tiny dominoes while the Project Manager completed the job.
It was indeed tedious.
Next step: painting.
Luckily, we have about 700 empty boxes just lying around. We spread one on the driveway, laid the wooden slabs on top of it, and began to paint.
We were ambitious out of the gate: we picked our 10 favorite color samples and were going to paint 5 dominoes with each color.
But the native got restless about 15 minutes into this segment of the project. Thus, we have several giant dominoes who maintained their natural state. They are our hippie dominoes.
Thankfully, it was about 93 degrees yesterday, so the painted dominoes dried pretty quickly.
We added a spray-coating of clear something-or-other to make them shiny. This helped them aesthetically; they went from being a weirdo’s collection of painted slabs of wood to a weirdo’s collection of shiny, giant [mostly] colored outdoor dominoes.
We are shiny. Pigeons dream about us.
I must admit: these things rock the planet.
They are way easier to stack than the smaller dominoes. They also fall slower so in the event of a bobble it’s possible to stop it mid-fall without losing one’s entire track. This also prevents the younger sect from pitching temper tantrums which is crucial to the older sect’s sanity.
The boards were $15.36, the sandpaper was $5.47 and the clear glossy stuff was $3.76, bringing the total cost of the project to less than $25. (Of course, having 18 leftover cans of paint samples saved us a ton–or cost us a ton–however you want to look at it.)
In the end, this was a project well worth doing. I even got to tell Theo about the fabulous stilts my Popster built for me when I was a little kid. I’d pay good money to have a picture of them here with me. They weighed more than I did. But that afternoon spent with my Daddy hammering and nailing wood together after our trip to Handy Andy is one of my most beloved memories of growing up. I can only hope Theo will remember our project just as fondly.
We just spent our entire morning outside building tracks.
When he was only 11 months old, we caught him on top of the dryer. He could not even walk yet. We plunked him back down on the floor, asked him how he got up there and then watched in amazement as he palmed his way up the [closed] door of the dryer and flung himself up and onto the top in about 5 seconds flat.
A week later, we heard him calling for us–clinging from the top bannister of the stairs.
Again, the child still wasn’t officially walking yet.
Those straps that come on a highchair? The ones we cut off because we didn’t need them with Jack? After Tucker flipped out of his highchair at 6 months old, we figured out why they were there.
Here he is at not quite 7 months. Jack looks on in awe.
Not enough hands for the task? No worries, man; that’s what a mouth is for.
On tippy-toes looking over a balcony in Cashiers, NC. Tuck was 21 months old, and the drop to the lake below was a good 20 feet or so.
Tuck first went rock-climbing when he was 4.
By age 4 & 1/2, he’d mastered “Route 10,” a crazy hard route which requires one to hang upside down (as in parallel to the floor which is 20 feet below), and defy gravity to shimmy across one stretch in order to complete it. He was the youngest person ever to complete that route atAtlanta Rocks.
The boy has some mad athletic skills and tons of courage.
I love the look of the little girl’s face behind Tucker in this one. He was 2.5 and would jump into the pool whether an adult was there or not.
Tucker’s first time on the SkyWalk at Stone Mountain. He headed straight for the 3rd level.
We figured he’d be a natural at surfing.
We were right.
Russ called up Pipeline Surf Shop in Fernandina and asked if they gave lessons to 7 year olds. The brave souls there had no idea what they were getting into, so they threw a valiant dude named Nick under the bus.
Nick won the surf-school lottery that day. Tuck is a great student when it come to learning about daredevil activities. Nick told us afterwards that most folks only get up one time during their first lesson (which lasts about an hour in the water). Tucker got up on his very first try…and then proceeded to have 10-15 more good rides on top of that one. The last one was amazing; there were random folks all along the beach who were cheering for the tiny kid riding the wave all the way in to the shore. You could see Tuck’s grin as he neared the edge of the beach. To say he was pumped is an understatement. The kid was glowing with pride.
“High five, little dude! That was awesome!”
Tuck’s surf coach, Nick. Tuck adored him, as you can imagine.
How Tuck celebrates a good day on the waves: a fresh strawberry daiquiri at Sliders.
Tucker is already asking to take another lesson when we go back to Amelia towards the end of summer. We can’t wait to see what he accomplishes this time out.
Well done, our little athlete. Thanks for making it look so easy. You make the rest of us want to give it a go, too! Hang ten, man. Hang ten.
(And thanks a million to Nick and the awesome crew at Pipeline Surf Shop! You guys are the best around. We’ll see you in a few weeks! Looking forward to a SUP Yoga class!)
January’s tough. It’s cold and bleary and rainy (at least here in Atlanta it is). It’s a big exhale from the hullabaloo of the holidays. It’s long, and it’s dull, and it’s washed out and gray.
Then along comes February with its promise of Spring and rejuvenation. The sun shines brighter, and the clouds thin out. You can almost taste the newness in the air: fresh, crispy, exhilarating.
And vibrant.
Trinity School’s massive fundraiser, Spotlight on Art, kicks off the month of February in a spectacular way. After a great warm-up through December and January at Saks Fifth Avenue at Phipps, Spotlight shifts into fever pitch with the Artist’s Market.
Held at Trinity School and open to the public, the Artist’s Market showcases the work of over 350 different artists in every genre imaginable. The school’s activity center is magically transformed into a massive art gallery–without all the hovering and stuffiness typically associated with high-end markets. It’s energized, creative and colorful. And it has just opened its doors for 2013!
gratuitous shot of cute boy in front of wonderful art
I’ve already stalked this collection and let me tell you: it’s going to be a tough decision on which one to bring home. Might need more than one.
Check out the terrific use of depth in the pieces below:
These aren’t the only smaller pieces at the Artist’s Market. And these certainly aren’t the largest. There are items at every price point here, making fine art accessible to all.
Aren’t you feeling cheerier already? Good riddance, January and your cold, rainy, grayness.
For native Atlantans, it’s hard to beat the nostalgia evoked by Maria-Louise Coil’s works. Hoggly Woggly, anyone? These smaller pieces could easily be tucked into a powder room or office to provide a quick burst of happy memories.
And frankly, my dear natives, I dare you to think of an Atlanta icon that’s missing from this yummy painting:
Go Jump in the Lake is back with oodles of rustic, spunky wooden signs evoking beach, lake and mountain life. Good stuff, indeed.
Oh, man, how I love these little ceramic delights. These make perfect gifts for Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day or just as a little pick-me-up. The glossy colors and classically uplifting quotes compliment each other beautifully. Trust me: these gems won’t last long.
We have one of these beautifully textured ceramic tiles hanging in the hallway outside of Jack and Tucker’s bedroom. It makes my heart swell every time I see it, and I love the gentle note of school symbolism and spirit it displays. The Trinity choir sings “The Tree Song” every year at 6th grade graduation, and the lyrics of the song are painted around one of the vestibules in the school. I promise you the Trinity choir sings it so sweetly and innocently that you feel it in your bones. (Here’s a link to the song–which does not do it justice, trust me. Imagine sitting there at the conclusion of this song and watching your child stand up and move up a row in the pews as he symbolically is promoted to the next grade. Kleenex alert again.) But I digress.
I’m not sure which set of students were questioned about their favorite catch-phrases of the day, but these tiny bottlecap magnets cover all the bases. My boys have already picked out ones they’d love to have in their rooms holding photos and reminders–just from this picture!
Check out the chewy texture on this gorgeous, Springy canvas!
Art’s not just for the walls, you know. The Home and Garden area of the Artist’s Market has your back deck and outdoor living spaces covered–along with everything in between. Hit the front right corner as you enter the Market for loads of artisan baskets, lamps, garden sculptures and kitchen items, all of which also make terrific gifts. Stockpile that gift closet now, and you won’t be stuck searching for a hostess gift come September.
If you’re a fan of true outdoor art, you’ll be thrilled before you even enter the gymnasium! You’ll be greeted by boatloads of colorful, whimsical sculptures as you walk in from the parking lot–all just waiting to cheer up your outdoor living space!
On to jewelry. My, oh, my. Head up to the stage, and take in the cases filled with awesomeness. The Jewelry section has been expanded this year (say it isn’t so!) and features many brand new artisans along with all of your old favorites.
I get that not everyone is into vibrant, crazy color. That’s cool. If clean, simple lines are more your style, we’ve still got your back.
These touchstones by Betsey Carter feature nuggets of inspiration (including the 6th grade class’s motto “SWAG”– standing for “strength, wisdom and growth”) and are absolutely meditative to hold. Picture a smooth, cool river stone that fits perfectly in your hand. And then carve a meaningful word into it and glaze it. Solid.
Ice Milk Aprons!! And Heirloom Table Linens! Gorgeous, simple, clean lines that look like they’re fresh from a Hope Chest.
The Dust Bunny. Photographed on request by Theo. I think this guy already resides at our house in spirit.
Dave Mitchell’s incredible sculpture, Tulip Poplar 4, carved from a fallen tulip poplar tree. Large in scope and heart, this stunning piece of art deserves to be seen in person.
Has this whet your appetite yet?
Here’s to living vibrantly.
Here’s to living creatively.
Here’s to living with art.
This Mark Boomershine piece gives me chills every time I see it.
Boomershine sat down one Friday night and penned and colored this (in one night; talk about talent).
Every icon of our beloved school is captured above, from the 3’s on the tricycles on Pirate Day to the recess games of 4-square
to our beloved, retiring Head of School, Mr. Kennedy.
Thank you, Mark Boomershine. Well done, our talented friend.
When you become a parent, all of your senses become heightened. This is a fact. Ask any parent the following questions, and I guarantee you he or she will answer a resounding “yes!” to every one.
1. Can you distinguish pain and hunger solely from your child’s cries?
2. Can you lift a baby, sniff his bommer, and know immediately what type of diaper you’re dealing with?
3. Can you differentiate the various shades of green on your child so that you know exactly when you need to pull over for him to yack when he’s carsick?
This list could go on and on, but the most important sense that becomes heightened when one becomes a parent is one’s intuition.
Parents just know when something’s not right with their child.
I knew something was not right with Tucker for a good 3 years before we finally received confirmation that he is dyslexic.
When he was barely 3, he could write his name, but at first he’d switch the crayon back and forth between his right and left hands. Sometimes he’d hold crayons in both hands and write letters with both hands simultaneously (“T” with left hand, “U” with right hand, etc.). This just isn’t right. “Don’t worry! He’s not determined his dominant hand yet,” educators would tell me when I asked about it.
From age 4 and on, after he’d been capable of writing his name for a solid year, he began to mix up the sequence of letters in his name. Some papers or artwork would come home with “Tcuker” on them, others with “Tckr” on them. Again, this just is not right. “He’s fine!” educators told me. “He’s just experimenting with sounds.”
Once he began kindergarten, he would not write his name with a capital “T”. So then papers came home saying “tcuker” or “tukcer”. “We’re not worried,” educators told me. But of course, I still worried.
I worried even though we’d met with Tuck’s teachers and the curriculum development head at his old school. They heard me out as I spouted pedagogical theory and other nonsense but then insisted that children aren’t even assessed for dyslexia until they are at least 6. I worried when his teacher said she’d “caught Tucker writing with his left hand.” I worried when Tucker would struggle to sound out words in a BOB book that were nowhere close to the corresponding letters in print. I worried that I, an English major and attorney, had somehow produced a non-reader.
But worrying gets you nowhere, so we plugged onward, even though by this point, my intuition was screaming at me on a daily basis.
Day after day, I fussed and chided Tuck about not capitalizing the T in his name. Day after day, I was on his case about making the most of school, especially in the morning when he’d come into our room at 5:30 a.m., crying and with an upset stomach because he dreaded having to head off to school later that morning. Night after night, we read books before bed, me forcing him to sound out words or to read every other word or just to read onesingleword. Our happy, happy child was spending more and more time crying or hiding or avoiding books altogether.
Again, this just was not right.
Finally, his teachers suggested he pay a visit to the Learning Specialist at his school. She gave him a few assessments and immediately recommended we meet with an Educational Psychologist.
Tucker spent 2 entire days with the Educational Psychologist. During this time, he completed 13 separate assessments, each consisting of multiple parts. Tucker also told this paid professional that words come off the page and go into his brain just fine, but then someone–God, or maybe Zeus–tells him to say the wrong thing. Yes, he actually told his doctor that he might be a demigod. Trust me; we all had a good laugh about that one (thank you, Rick Riordan, author of the great Percy Jackson series), and his doctor used it to prove a point. To him, the way his brain works is magical. Frustrating, but magical.
Tucker’s doctor called me back to her office at the completion of the 2nd day’s worth of testing and told me what I’d suspected for well over 3 years: Tucker is a gifted dyslexic. A few weeks later, we received the full 17-page report; while Tuck has deficits in orthographic processing, retrieval, rapid naming and fine motor ability–difficulties that have been a source of anxiety for him and are impacting his confidence and self-esteem–he is quite gifted in math, spatial awareness, and perceptual reasoning. And his spoken vocabulary is off the charts (see demigod reference, above). Mother’s intuition was spot-on.
I couldn’t help but think back to those frustrated nights of sounding out words, those days of me harping on capital “T”, and morning after morning of us trying to explain that he would be going to school for a long, long time, so he better buck up and accept it. His troubles and disgruntlement and non-cooperativeness weren’t due to him being a bad kid or having a bad attitude (things I’d never, ever even considered). He was trying to tell us something just wasn’t right.
After we met with the psychologist and were walked through the report in its entirety, I spent the afternoon weeping. At and about everything. At the flood of information I needed to wrap my head around. At the fact that my child had a learning issue. At the fact that it’s not “curable”. And especially when Frances England’s song “Tugboat” came on KidsPlace Live. I was a weepy, emotional mess of a mom…for one afternoon. Since then, I’ve gone Mama-Bear all up in here on this stuff. Bring it, dyslexia. Bring it.
As for our Tucker-Bear? He is a new child. You can visibly see that a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He recognizes that we are helping him. He understands what is going on in his magical brain, and he’s begun to tell us things, things he never could figure out how to explain before. Like this one: “Mama, I cannot get my pencil to make a big T when I’m writing my name. I know it starts with a big T, but my pencil will not do it.” This isn’t because he’s lazy or is not smart enough or is defiant. It’s because he is dyslexic. Or maybe a demigod.
Our son is dyslexic.
We may be new to this rodeo, but we’re going to be roping this steer in no time.
And what once was just not right, in the end, is going to be just fine.
Oh, no, Tucker…you are wonderful; you are the best.
Once you hit your 40’s, weddings are few and far between. It seems you spend the entirety of your 20’s and part of your 30’s attending wedding after wedding after wedding and then, all of a sudden, the wedding wave crashes, and your social calendar instead becomes populated with things like “Birthday Party at Chuck E. Cheese” or “baseball practice” or “Back-to-School Night”. None of these things feature a band or an open bar.
So when a wedding pops up, you jump for joy. And when it’s the wedding of your super awesome cousin, you jump even higher.
Cousin Kate’s wedding is what took us all to Washington, D.C. this past weekend–from San Francisco to London, folks flew in to celebrate the big day.
My cousin Leigh Ann and I are both only children, and our cousin Kate only has a brother. So these gals are my sisters. We have had so many laughs over so many things through the years. I wouldn’t trade these cousins for the world.
Proof that at one point I was taller than these two.
I used to spend Christmas Eve at my Mama B’s house, wishing so badly that I had siblings. The inside jokes my dad and his 3 brothers share are priceless. And now that I have 3 boys of my own, pictures like the one below make my heart swell. It’s a rare moment when my dad and all of his brothers are together, so Leigh Ann and I made the most of it, snapping pictures of them whenever they were in close vicinity of each other.
Then we’d show each other the picture or tag it on Facebook and both wind up teary eyed.
Brotherly love, I tell you, is hard to match.
Tucker loves a good party as much as his mom does; Kate and David’s rehearsal dinner did not disappoint.
Tuck’s had one too many Shirley Temples at this point…
The venue, PJ Clarke’s, was walking distance from our hotel, and it was packed with all the folks who love Kate and David. It was a perfect warm-up to the main event.
Tucker had the best time hanging out with his Uncle Beardy (my dad’s brother David) and the rest of his family who had flown in from London. Tuck was absolutely enamored with David’s son Nick, who not only tops out at 6’5″ but who also sports the novelty–to Tuck, at least–of a British accent. When he wasn’t climbing on cousin Nick or badgering him to death to play “Where’s My Water?”, Tuck was doing this:
Sweet Uncle David didn’t seem to mind.
Best cousins on a Friday night, post-rehearsal dinner toasts (and Tucker in the background, riding his Shirley Temple buzz like a rock star):
That would be tall Nick on the right. And short Laura on the left. Tucker is behind Nick, staring up in admiration.
January 12th finally arrived. I think Tucker was equally as excited as cousin Kate was.
Kate and David were married in the gorgeous sanctuary of St. John’s Church in Lafayette Square. Interesting tidbit, regardless of your politics: the Rector who married them is giving the closing prayer next week at the Inauguration. He is a phenomenal speaker and gave a terrific homily during the service. St. John’s is known as “The Church of the Presidents” because every U.S. President since October of 1816 has worshipped here at some point during his tenure (starting with James Madison).
The church is gorgeous, of course. Filled with vibrant stained glass windows and individual prayer kneelers instead of a kneeling rail, it exudes history. It demands reverence–which is possibly why our clan cracked up when my Uncle Bill bumped his head on a dangling, multi-faceted chandelier which then proceeded to tinkle and chime all throughout the opening prayer. He was just making his presence known, that’s all.
The first chill-bump inducing moment of the evening: Kate and her bridesmaids headed out of the hotel while we were all in the lobby bar enjoying a glass of wine (we’re Bedingfields, you know). She and her bridesmaids were all singing “Going to the Chapel,” which echoed brilliantly off the marble floors and pulled everyone out to the lobby to cheer as she headed down to St. John’s. It still gives me chills. Such a perfect start to a perfect evening.
Mr. Kate enjoyed his last few minutes as a bachelor with us.
A few family shots outside the hotel before we headed down to the church:
I love this shot. I love the angle, the wintery feel to it, the solemnity of it. It’s like bottled excitement. It’s a herd of Bedingfields off to a wedding.
Uncle Beardy and his awesome hat. I don’t think I saw him without this hat the entire weekend. I’d always thought our Papa B was the only one who could truly carry a fedora…until now.
I broke the “no iPhone usage” rule while up in D.C., and Tucker took full advantage of it.
And once you break one rule, what the heck, right? Here Tucker and I break the “no photography allowed in the church” rule.
And again we are rule breakers, living on the edge in the House of God. But this was important. Here Popster is trying to convince Tucker to let him pull a loose tooth.
During the bus ride to the reception, Tuck sat with Popster and let him do it (don’t worry; the tooth was about to fall out already). Tucker’s response? “Mama, are you sad you didn’t trust Popster enough to ever let him pull out one of your teeth?”
What does one who trusts her daddy with all her heart say to that? I told him I was proud of him for trusting his Popster as much as I do.
But what I was thinking was this: It’s not about trust, son; it’s about pain. And tooth yanking ain’t up my alley. 🙂 Check out that permanent tooth growing up through the middle of his mouth…told you the tooth was wiggly!
Highlight of the evening: Kate and David’s first dance. I already knew these two had some moves, but I doubt anyone was expecting the marvelousness that was their dance. Elvis was smiling down, that’s for sure. I’ll never hear “Burning Love” again without picturing them breaking it down on the dance floor.
The picture below is easily the best photo I took this weekend. I absolutely love that you can see Kate’s parents in the background, and Aunt Dana’s hands clasped across her heart is such a simple, beautiful expression of love for her daughter. My Uncle Sid is standing behind her, and David’s mom is the stunning one on the far right, also clasping her hands. It was beyond obvious that both sets of parents were thrilled with this marriage.
Tucker’s dance moves are a little less graceful than his older cousin’s.
Kate and David with our brilliant Aunt Debbie, the reason Uncle Beardy was wooed over to London.
Let’s see: 1, 2, 3…4! Yes, all 4 there; better grab the camera.
Our Uncle Sid is the best speaker. Here he gives an incredibly touching toast to Kate and David. Referencing Seinfeld, he called the evening our own Festivus (though I doubt any of us had any grievances to air at that point). And then he spoke of how very proud he was of all Kate’s many amazing accomplishments. He was glowing just as much as Kate. He had the crowd in his palm, just as he should. His toast was exemplary. The two other married-off girl cousins gave it mad props.
Aw…it’s the love birds, standing in the snow.
Photo booth time. It’s a good thing Tucker hit the wall a few minutes after this or else Leigh Ann and I likely would have spent the next several hours in the photo booth, assuring that Aunt Dana and Uncle Sid were getting their money’s worth on that thing. Good times, to say the least. Man, why wasn’t there something this fun to use for a wedding guest book instead of what I used close to 10 years ago?
The photo below shows only about 1/4 of the venue. You know that looks like a good party. Trust me: it was.
Back at the hotel post-festivities, Tucker had a mild panic attack about the Tooth Fairy. We had the concierge send up a fancy glass in which to put his tooth (because that would help her/him with her/his navigational skills; T was rather concerned that the TF would hit up our house in Atlanta and not the Sofitel. Such little faith in the Tooth Fairy!). The woman who brought the glass thought we were 100% insane.
The Tooth Fairy, however, appreciated the extra effort.
So now my sisters are all married off. I don’t look at them as little old married ladies, and I never, ever will even if they start wearing yoga pants everywhere and fixing hamburger helper for supper. If they wind up hosting their child’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese one day, I will shake my head at them, but still know they are only following the wishes of a small miraculous person whom they created, not selling out to the stereotypes of being a wife. They are both way more confident, intelligent and secure to do that. Neither Kate nor Leigh Ann will ever be swallowed up by being wifely. They know they are in a partnership, one for life.
But if either of them ever needs me, I can jump on the Ride-Ride and get there…eventually. And then we’ll poke holes in each other’s sandwiches, look for tornado magnets, take random road trips just for the heck of it, yell “souvenir!” in New Haven, CT, and sleep on Beulah’s cot. And all will be right with the world once again. Because sisters like these don’t come around too often (particularly with them being southern cuzzin-sisters and all). Life is so, so good.
cousins on Kate’s wedding nightcousins on Kate’s rehearsal dinner nightcousins at Mama B’s house, December early 1990’s
Thanks, Uncle Sid and Aunt Dana, for including us all in such a spectacular event. I’d relive it again this weekend in a heartbeat. The love and pride and dedication you have for your children is displayed by your every action. Well, well done. Thank you for being such good teachers, role models and friends.
Thanks, to the Kieve crew, for hosting the jam-packed and super-fun Rehearsal Dinner. You all were troopers to allow children; thank you so much for that gift. The South Georgia bunch gives a big “Hi, Y’all” to you all, all the way out there in San Francisco. Come see us or we’ll send you some onions.
To David Kieve, for being Kate’s prince, the one who gets to take our Kitty home every night. You write fantastic thank you notes because you write from the heart; I know that this is how you will live your life with Kate, too–by giving her your all, your 100% from your heart, to make sure she is happy. What a gem she found when she found you. And bonus! Look what a fun family you married into! 🙂 (After the party, it’s the hotel lobby. Toot toot! Beep beep!)
To Kate the Great, thanks for making me want to get married again. With Russ’s and my 10th year anniversary coming up in a little over 2 weeks, seeing you and David and witnessing the energy and passion you have for each other, the pure love and admiration you share…it’s good stuff. It’s the elixir of a happy marriage. So glad I was able to dance around it a bit and be reminded of what simple goodness it is to wake up next to your best friend every single morning. Always keep yourselves–your marriage–at the forefront, even when (or if) the children come along (name of 1st girl? Kairee, of course). The marriage is what binds it all together and truly makes the family. I am so, so proud of you on so many levels, Kitty. I’d give you more f-ing blood any day, sister, even if it was due to an injury sustained while running through the screen door of discretion. And, unlike Leigh Ann, I would not put you in the yucky spot on the cot.
Sir Edmund Spenser wrote a beautiful pastoral poem entitled “Epithalamium,” which describes the celebration and joy we–bride, groom, attendants, spectators–should feel at the conclusion of a wedding.
Now al is done: bring home the bride againe;
Bring home the triumph of our victory:
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine;
With joyance bring her and with jollity.
Never had man more joyfull day then this,
Whom heaven would heape with blis,
Make feast therefore now all this live-long day;
This day for ever to me holy is.
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,
Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,
Poure out to all that wull,
And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,
And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine;
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,
For they can doo it best:
The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.
Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may.
[Well, lookie there! You just read some Middle English!] The last stanza of this verse has always been one of my very favorites and was even used in my own wedding program. This weekend was holy, not just because of the nuptials, but because of the reuniting of families, and all the vivid, palpable amounts of platonic, philanthropic, familial, and passionate love witnessed by so many on so many levels.
This day was holy, and now I have written it down. I will remember it forever.
The oatmeal will be heading your way next January 12th, Kate.
A million congratulations to you, BedingKieves!!! We love you both so very much!
At the beginning the Creator made them male and female, and said, ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh.’
So they are no longer two, but one.
Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.
J, T, and Theo B. 