Dad Pics

My sister-in-law, Erin, created a custom book about my dad to give to Violet when she was born. It was the best idea and it’s such a cute book. Yesterday I found in my drawer the little stack of photos I had found at E’s request, which she used in the book. I have been meaning to give them to Mikey. They’re amazing. Here are just a few:

*Four photos of Dad, Mike, and various cars. In most of these they are posing with the most comically serious expressions:



*A hilarious pic of Mom, Dad, and their beloved baby on some carnival ride, where Mom and Dad are having a ball and 5-year-old Mike is clearly the only one aware that there’s no safety bar in front of him:



*Two more vacation photos. I love the one on the left, where Mike is exactly copying Dad’s pose. (If you go back to the car pics, you’ll see him still doing that in his teens.) Mikey took one look at the pic on the right and said, “Look at Dad’s expression. Something definitely just happened with me and that fish, and he’s trying not to lose his mind.” Also please enjoy Dad’s cutoffs.


*And finally, this photo was taken somewhere in Ireland, and it is one of Mike’s favorites because of the weirdness of the bunny ears in the background. I just love it because Mike, Erin, and Mom are all smiling happily for the picture… and Dad has that unmistakable “shenanigans ahead” look on his face.




    Looking at Dad

    The kids are all getting their bedrooms redone for Christmas, so we started the process by having them clean out their closets and dressers. This is a horrifying ordeal and, if I had to choose between this and our drive home with Dave needing to vomit every 50 miles… well, I’d really have to consider my options.

    I was in Cammy’s closet and I found an old photo of my parents with the kids at Mardi Gras; I’m going to say it was probably 2008. Addie looked cute– you guys, she was seriously the cutest– however Gabby looked like she had to pee, and Cam was awkwardly trying to pose with a plastic alligator. It wasn’t their best look to say the least. I took a pic of the pic and texted it to Jill.

    Her response? “Awwww.” I laughed out loud when it came through. I replied, “Are you serious? Look at C and G. They look like dorks here.” And Jill texted back, “I was looking at Dad.”

    Here’s another great pic of Dad, taken that same year:

    Dad at Mardi Gras, raking it in as always.

    Dad at Mardi Gras, raking it in as always.

      Happy New Year! Here’s an Epically Terrible Road Trip!

      I am writing this post from my kitchen table, after a great holiday with family and then a beautiful week spent at my sister’s house. Everything went pretty much according to plan: the kids liked everything they got (Cam found me at the end of the day on Christmas, hugged me, and said, “Everything is perfect. Thank you so much,” which was pretty bomb to be honest). We had fun at my in-laws’ house on the 23rd, then at my brother’s house on Christmas Eve, and finally at my mom’s house on Christmas Day. We road tripped to Jill’s house the day after Christmas; the trip there was fast and we had a great week with her family. We kept to our plan of always doing something new every time we visit. Most of what we did, though, was low-key: we played games. The kids swam. We saw Rogue One. We went to a NYE party complete with (pretty dang professional-grade) fireworks. It was a great week.

      And then.

      It is well-documented that Dave and I each prefer to drive the car. We basically trade off for the most part, but we have worked out some ground rules– for example, Dave is the leadoff driver on road trips. Therefore he got behind the wheel early yesterday morning after we said our goodbyes, and we headed to Starbucks. I went inside to get drinks. When I came back, Dave asked me to drive, saying he felt a little off. He fell asleep almost immediately, along with the kids, and I spent the first hour of the drive enjoying the gorgeous scenery, filled with a sense of well-being and happiness.

      Then Dave suddenly sat up and urgently told me to pull over. We later discovered that the NYE party had been Ground Zero for some kind of vicious stomach bug, with 8 or 9 people from the party coming down with it at the same time as Dave. Can you imagine taking a road trip in that condition? We pulled over… let’s just say “frequently…” and in-between vomit stops I would drive really really fast– trying to both make up time and get home before any of the rest of us got sick. I was afraid to give anyone any real food, so the kids had to survive on crackers, granola bars, and water all day while I called out. “Everyone okay? Anyone feel sick?” every 20 minutes. As the only functioning driver, I was afraid to eat anything at all. Meanwhile, poor Dave was trying not to die in the passenger seat, stretching out the time between vomit stops as long as possible (once he gambled and lost, by the way. That was not a great moment.)

      But we did get home and no one else ever got sick. Our friend Kat brought over dinner for us all, which was the best, best, unexpected pleasant surprise. This morning everyone, Dave included, is feeling fine. We are doing a little bit of unpacking and a lot of relaxing. I went to the gym. Cam is downstairs, stringing lacrosse sticks. Dave and the J are putting together her new shelving units. Gabby is watching old-school Children of the Corn for some reason. It’s really nice to be home.


        The Impossibility of Gifts for Dave

        When I was a kid and we asked Dad what he wanted for Christmas, he always told us to buy him razor blades and shaving cream. We always thought that was bullshit. “But I don’t want anything else,” he used to protest. “If I want something, I get it.” It was always frustrating to figure out what to buy for him.

        Fast forward to me, now. I’m married to the busiest, happiest DIY-er in the world. Nothing makes Dave’s day more than a pile of supplies and a free weekend. This year he’s done extensive [at first I accidentally wrote ‘expensive,’ ha ha ha] work in the back yard, including adding a fire pit where the swing set used to be. Last year he began a basement hangout room project for the kids, and he did a little more work on that project as well. Finally, he continued his ongoing “replace the trim throughout the downstairs” project.

        Side note: did I tell you about our back door? Dave removed all the trim in preparation to have our new back door installed. Then the door guys came to measure, and long story short: the door we chose won’t work and we need to choose a different door. I am acting like a baby about that, since the door we chose had everything I wanted, so that project has been dead in the water for 3 months. The back door, denuded of trim, looks really nice in the meantime. (No it doesn’t.) This is just his thing: Dave loves home improvement projects. And fortunately he is very handy and does beautiful work, and– just as important– knows what he can do and what he can’t.

        Okay, so. I had had it in mind to get Dave a watch for Christmas. The kids were helping me choose one, and by “choose” I mean “find the least practical, bulkiest watch that looks the most like it was stolen from Batman.” So I finally went to the source and told Dave what was up. “I feel like you maybe should have a say,” I finished. And Dave’s say was essentially “razor blades and shaving cream:” he asked for flannel pants, and maybe some new work shirts, and a circular saw with a sliding arm. “I wear a watch because I feel like I should know what time it is without taking out my phone, but that’s all,” he said. “I like my watch just fine. What I would like, though, is some more stuff I can use to work on the house.” And then he was off, describing what he wants to change and what he wants to add and what comes next and what comes after that.

        How do you wrap a circular saw with a sliding arm?

          Morning Conversations

          [It is 6:23am.]

          JULIE: I think we should get shoes for the dog.

          DAVE: Okay.



          JULIE: ….Is that the first thing I’ve said to you so far today?

          DAVE: Yep.


            Random Sunday Interaction

            JULIE: I have a burning hatred for autoplay.

            GABBY [walks up behind Julie, starts crunching ice in her ear]: You should come up with a better word than “burning.” You need to improve your vocabulary, Mom.

            JULIE: ….I need to improve my vocabulary??

            GABBY: Yeah, you do.

            JULIE: [knocks Gabby’s cup of ice out of her hand and across the floor]

            DAVE: Ha, Gabby. Now you have to pick up all that ice.

            GABBY: What?! Mom did that!

            DAVE: You antagonized her.

            GABBY: … OH MY GOSH. The system is rigged!


              Life With Gabby

              22-118 Himalayan Salt Big.jpg

              This is the exact jar. It still contains salt.

              GABBY: Hey Mom:

              JULIE: Yes?

              GABBY: Can I have that jar that the pink salt is in?

              JULIE: What do you need it for?

              GABBY: I’ll find something appropriate to put the salt in?

              JULIE: ….Um, before I address that idea: what do you need the jar for?

              GABBY [casually]: Oh, I have some animal bones in my room.


              GABBY: I have a bird skull– remember the bird skull I found?– and I have a rabbit’s foot with some fur still on it, and I have some bones from when we dissected the owl pellets in class. They’re in a Ziploc, wrapped in a paper towel, but I’d like to put them in this jar like specimens.



              JULIE: ……No.

              GABBY: …..Are you going to write about this?

              JULIE: …..No.

                The Fifth Christmas

                We had our annual holiday brunch over the weekend. As usual, it was a great day celebrating the season with our friends and family. That evening, I logged onto Facebook to see that, exactly five years ago, we held our brunch on the same day. Here’s the photo I posted from that day, in which we expressed our feelings about cancer:

                Suck it, cancer.

                I didn’t know it then, but December 3, 2011 was the last time Dad was ever in my house. He stayed all day and into the evening (the term “brunch” always ends up being a euphemism with this party), being fun and chatting with people and just ruling the party. My oldest, dearest friends Georgann, Ann, Jane, Sheri, and Ali (all of whom Dad loved) saw him for the last time that day, although they didn’t know it then. We took that group photo that day, which would be one of our last photos with him (although we didn’t know it then). He was just fun and amazing the whole time. I know now how sick he was, and I understand how difficult it was for him to even get dressed to leave the house– but while he was clearly ill, you would never have known just how sick he felt. He was the same on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day 2011: fun and loving, and– although I didn’t know it then– dedicated to giving us the gift of one more precious holiday together. Now– on the other side of this great divide in our family’s life– I am beginning to understand the great heroics performed by Dad in those last days, rising above his illness to immerse himself in the holidays with us, this last time. I have great memories of that last holiday season. None of us was wearing blinders– Dad’s illness was present at all times– but we worked around it, and we found joy in being all together.

                We have spent four subsequent Christmases without Dad, and we’re on the cusp of the fifth. In some ways it’s hard every year. However, as time goes by, I remember more and more Dad’s determination to give us all one last great Christmas. I was lucky enough to have 39 years with Dad– almost twice the number that he got with his own father– and a lifetime’s worth of happy Christmas memories. I’m going to try to be as strong and brave as he was, and honor his gift to us by focusing on the good.

                But for real, still and always: suck it, cancer.


                  Mattress update

                  Yesterday, we thought our new hopefully-dreamy-and-perfect mattress was being delivered. Dave tore apart our room and put our mattress in the hallway (this is a really classy look, by the way).

                  No mattress.

                  Now it’s supposed to arrive today. Meanwhile, I’ve been reading about people who have bought memory foam mattresses and then say things like, “I love it…. now,” or, “It took me about a month to stop missing my old mattress,” or, “This is just what we have now, so I sleep on it.” So I’m utterly convinced that last night was my last night of comfortable sleep. Don’t tell Dave because he’s really excited about the new mattress… and also: if I have to get used to sleeping on the bed equivalent of packing peanuts, then honestly let’s just get the show on the road.

                  It is currently 2:55pm and still nothing. (We did get our new printer yesterday, though, and our new club chair will be here on Friday, thus preventing us from having to explain to everyone at our annual party, “Um, that chair is going to be thrown out next week…” –so we’ve got that going for us.) My guess– since the mattress is supposed to require 4 hours to fully expand from being compressed under tremendous pressure (I’m hoping that the “expansion” is more like a “cartoon explosion,” so I want to be home to witness and photograph it)– is that it will arrive tonight around 930pm.

                  I’ll let you know!

                    Gabby, the dancer

                    Gabby’s big competition was yesterday. The one that takes the best 150 Irish dancers in 14 states (well, this year the number was around 150, if you take out the no-shows) and tries to find the best of the best. Every year, Gabby has worked hard and qualified to dance in this competition (through her performance at other regional competitions, this sport is so complicated). All the girls dance two rounds, and then they keep the top half to compete further. Gabby has only made it into the top 50% one time in the 6 years she has competed. Yesterday was not that time.

                    One of the other mothers texted me later, calling Gabby a “such a strong dancer and a fierce competitor.” I got that text while sitting on the couch, Gabby’s head in my lap. It was about 7:30 last night. She had gone through all the nerves and the anticipation and the letdown and the tears- followed always by her resolve to try again. Gabby believes in herself more than anyone I have ever met (not always a helpful trait, by the way). She IS a strong dancer and a fierce competitor– in part because that kid just will never, ever, ever, ever, EVER give up. I read her that text last night. I told her last night that hundreds of girls fail each year to even qualify, and she should be proud to make that high benchmark every year (she has already qualified for next year). I reminded her that it’s about the journey too. I said that it was okay to be disappointed, but not okay if she allowed her disappointment to be the most important thing about the journey. I reminded her of the hours she had spent in the studio with the other girls, supporting each other and laughing and getting better every day, and I said that that was the most important part.

                    And she said, her voice muffled by the blanket in which she was wrapped, “Thanks, Mom. I don’t want to make you feel bad, but I’m okay and I’m trying to watch The Walking Dead.

                    “Also, can I bring cupcakes to dance this week?”

                    –So she’s fine.

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