Magic

Originally published July 24th, 2010. 

I knew a man who was magic personified.
 
Many little kids believe in Santa Claus while growing up, and I was no different. The only difference, is that I had my own personal Santa Claus. I knew he was the real one. His cheeks were always the perfect shade of pink, he wore bells around his wrists, his blue eyes sparkled, and his smile never faded. He was the real deal. I knew all of those Santas at the malls were just helpers, since the real Santa was busy up at the North Pole, getting ready for Christmas. Yet, he was never too busy to visit my brother Tim, and me.

Every year, a couple weeks before Christmas Day, he would show up, always unexpectedly for Tim and myself. Sometimes it was close to bedtime, other times it would be on a weekday afternoon. My brother and I always wanted to follow him out of our house when he left to watch him fly off the roof, being carried away by eight magical reindeer - but my parents always stopped us, the magic wouldn't work if we were watching, they said.

Tim answering the door to one of Santa's surprise visits.

Our Santa was also very crafty, just as Santa should be. He was very good at making things out of wood. One year, my brother had asked for a train set for Christmas, and when he came by for his pre-Christmas visit, he brought Tim a train whistle made out of wood. A few years later, I had asked for a doll house, and when he stopped by a couple weeks prior to the holiday, he brought me a wooden dining room set, perfectly sized to fit in a doll house. It was magical.

There was a brief year when I was a little unsure about this guy, but I came around.

My Santa gave the warmest hugs. He smelled so wonderful too, sweet and pepperminty, just as you would expect Santa to smell. It was better than meeting any movie star or celebrity; I was good friends with the SANTA.

Tim getting a hug from Santa.

Going over my wish list.

So who was my Santa? His real name was Bob Comingore. My mom found him through an ad in the newspaper in 1985, and hired him to play Santa at our house for all of the neighborhood kids. They all got along so well, that he kept up the part, year after year, even coming to visit us each time we moved to a new home, in a new city, no matter how far of a drive it was for him in his red truck (not a sleigh with reindeer).

Bob and his wife, Gloria were probably in their sixties when Bob became our personal Santa Claus. Though they were never able to have children of their own, they loved kids, and after I found out who he really was, they both became like a third set of grandparents to me. I admit, the first time we had them over for dinner as the Comingores, it was a bit strange for me, but Bob had a light and warmth inside of him so enveloping, that I couldn't help but be captivated by his presence. As Santa, Bob brought so much magic and fun to my childhood, and I hope he knew how much he meant to me.

In August 2005, shortly after my brother got married, I wrote Bob and Gloria a letter. I hadn't talked to them in awhile, and I thought they would get a kick out of hearing that the little boy they had known from the time he was three, was now a husband. I never got a response. A few months later, my mom heard from Gloria, and she relayed the sad news that only a couple weeks before I had written that letter, Bob had passed away. I was heartbroken at his passing.

Bob Comingore was a truly special human being; people like him are few and far between. He was just a genuinely kind, warm-hearted person. When I think back on my childhood, having my own Santa Claus, and all of the wonderful memories he gave me is something I will never, ever forget.

Gloria is still alive, and lives in Oregon, near a nephew of theirs. Earlier this year, she mailed my mom a box full of wooden toys that Bob had made before he passed. Most of the toys were little cars, although there was also an adorable wooden airplane that my brother's daughter now has. These wooden toys are so simple, yet they hold so much meaning for me. I can imagine Bob carving them with patience and care, and smiling at the thought of the little children who would enjoy them. I love when my sons play with the cars; I can't wait for the day when I can tell them all about the great man I knew. My only regret now is that Bob never got to play Santa to my own kids, so I am especially grateful for these toy cars, as they are a link from him to my children.

A few years ago, my mom gave me this figurine, to always remind me of the joy my Santa brought to me as a little girl.
I put it out every Christmastime, and whenever I see it, it reminds me of the wonderful man who brought so much magic to my childhood.

Elf on a Shelf

Christmas was always magical for me as a kid. My parents went all out in talking up Santa and his elves. I have written about our own personal Santa, who was so believable and awesome that I literally believed in Santa until I was 10. In fact, if my mom hadn't told me the truth I would probably still believe in him today.

Not only did we have our own Santa though, but we had our own elf. Ohhh yes. His name was Elmo, and, according to my dad, (who claimed he saw him once, OMG!), Elmo had red hair and very red cheeks. We never saw Elmo, ourselves, but every December, it never failed, we would hear this high-pitched, delirious giggle ring through the house, and my mom would tell us we needed to hide because Elmo was at our house, and we weren't allowed to see him. So we would hide, and a few minutes later, my mom would give us the all clear, and then we would go through the house looking for the little presents he would leave for us.

It was never anything big, usually something like a toothbrush or toothpaste, but the fact that Elmo, Santa's Elf brought it for us all the way from the North Pole, made it that much more special.

I like to think that our family was unique in that we had our own elf, but nowadays, any kid can have one: it's called Elf on a Shelf. And it kind of makes me wonder why my own parents didn't invent it themselves. It's a small elf doll, that arrives every December to keep an eye on the kids in the house. Every night he reports back to Santa on whether the kids are being good or bad, and since the elf leaves every night, when he arrives back the next morning, he, of course, needs to be in a new location.

Every family gets to name their elf. Ours is Sprinkles.

He's been in some funny places this month. I'll admit there have been a few mornings where I think Sprinkles got a little lazy and forgot to move to a new location, so he would covertly jump to a new place while the kids ate breakfast.

Our boys are still a little young to fully understand all of this Santa/Elf stuff, but they enjoy looking for Sprinkles each morning, in fact, that's usually the first thing they ask me. "Where's Sprinkles?!" And then they race around the house until they find him.

Here are a few places the boys have awakened to find Sprinkles this month:

On a picture frame

Hanging outside their bedroom door

On the TV

On the coat rack

On a curtain rod

On the Christmas tree

In a stocking

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the chandelier

 The boys have really had a better understanding of Christmastime, and opening presents this season. Sprinkles has played a big part in encouraging them to be interactive in the festivities. It makes me that much more excited for next year, I think they will really be into all the fun and magic that Christmas has to offer.

Now I'm off to drink my weight in egg nog and peppermint white chocolate martinis while it is still socially acceptable for a few more days. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Zebra needs to die.

     So, if you could kill any character in "Madagascar", who would it be?

     Easy. The zebra.

    Really? I think for me, it would have to be the giraffe.

    Oh, no way. I like the giraffe, he actually has some good lines. Plus, it's
    Ross from "Friends", you can't kill off Ross. It has to be the zebra.

For ages I tried in vain to get my children to sit through a full-length movie. I tried everything - "Cars", "Toy Story", all the favorites; nothing worked. And then one day I came across the "Madagascar" DVD in our house. I didn't even know we owned the movie, and I had never seen it myself. I wanted something to distract Bug for a few minutes, so I put it on. 

 90 minutes later, Bug was still watching the TV as the credits began rolling.

Did this just happen? Did he actually watch a full-length movie?! I couldn't believe it. And, even more shocking, when Binker came home from preschool later that day, I turned it on again and they BOTH watched it. All the way through!

The boys enjoyed the movie so much that they began requesting it on a daily basis, and I was happy to oblige. Sometimes they even wanted to watch it twice in a day. Normally I don't like to have my kids just sit in front of the TV, but between packing our house for the move and having a new baby to attend to, I decided to bend the rules a bit. It was awesome for me to be able to have something I could put on for them that would keep them busy for a good hour and a half. Plus, I had to admit that the movie was pretty cute, even funny in some parts. 

It was probably around the hundredth time they watched it, that I began to get a little bored with the same jokes. And by the thousandth time, I could pretty accurately recite the movie line for line along with the characters.

Now of the course, the children have watched it, oh I don't know, five hundredy jillion times. Husband and I have made every possible sarcastic joke to each other about the plot, lines, and characters. We tried humor at first to keep ourselves sane, however, even that doesn't work now. Which is what led to the conversation we had this morning over which character needs to die first.

Please. I am desperate. I need recommendations for movies that your kids like. Obviously mine are hard to please, as this has been the first and only movie to hold their attention, but I am open to any and all suggestions. 

My sanity is at stake here, people.

Flashback Friday - The Girl on the Milk Box

When I was about three years old, several different friends of my parents began asking them if I had modeled for a milk company. My parents had no idea what they were talking about - I had never done any sort of modeling, but their friends were adamant that there was a powdered milk box in grocery stores, with the image of a little girl who looked just like me. My parents were intrigued, and when they went to the store, it didn't take them long to find the milk box they spoke of.

And there was no denying the resemblance of what I looked like at that age to the image on the box.

*Courtesy of Google Images

For years we kept a box of the product in our house, even though we never used it. And every time I saw it in the store, I would joke about how they owed me several year's worth in royalties for reproducing my image.

Ironically, while searching for an image of the milk box, I came across this article, which states that the product was discontinued three years ago. Which, I have to admit, made me a little bit sad.

But just as this company was ending their decades-long use of my likeness on their product, another company began using an image similar to Bug on theirs.

*Courtesy of Costco online

I've always thought the kid on the Kirkland Brand, size 6 diapers looked a lot like Bug, and this was confirmed yesterday when my almost 2 year old niece was at Costco with her dad, and she pointed at the box and shouted my youngest son's name.

So where does this leave us? Still waiting on our royalty checks, and wondering who in our family will be exploited next. Binker on a diaper rash bottle? Husband on a cereal box? Only time will tell.

Lovely Summer Nights

I love summer evenings. Stepping out front around 8pm and it's still light out. There's the last bit of glow from the sun in the western sky. Outside it is fresh and warm, with a slight breeze that whispers at the ends of your hair. The air is thick with the scent of lilacs and fresh-cut grass.

In the distance you can hear the repetitive chu-chu-chu of a sprinkler, and maybe one lone neighbor mowing his lawn a few blocks over. Older kids, who are allowed to stay up this late, are still out on the street playing basketball or hide and seek, and their laughter intertwines with the peace of the night, as you take it all in...

On these perfect summer nights, it seems that nothing bad could ever happen. No matter how old I get, these kinds of nights always stay the same, and they make me feel like a kid again. It is all timeless, and there is something so beautiful and comforting knowing that while the world is constantly changing, some things do remain. Lovely things.

Know

I was sitting in my kindergarten class. 

Most of the moms were visiting that day. Our teacher was reading the book, Love You Forever.

The lines repeated throughout the book are, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

I looked around, and all of the moms had tears running down their faces, kleenexes bunched in their fingers. My mom was no different. I looked at her blankly.  

Why was she crying? Why were any of them crying? 

Moms could be funny, and I didn't get it.

I've always been close with my parents, we have a great relationship. They told me often that they loved me, no matter what. But I didn't really get it until 4:07am on the morning of April 24th, 2008 when my first son, Jacob, came into the world.

In that moment, I understood the love my parents had always professed for my brother and me. In that moment, I came to know absolute, pure, unconditional love.

Sometimes at night I pick my children up out of their cribs and rock them in my arms. I hold them close and I feel almost suffocated by all the things I want to tell them.

That I love them in a way that no language can express. 

That I would die for them without a moment's hesitation. 

That I pray they never have to suffer any pain in their lives.

Growing up, when I did something wrong, I would be afraid to tell my parents. I'd imagine the worst possible reaction they could have, and it usually included them writing me off or disowning me.

Because I didn't get it.

If I could have known the depth of their love for me then, I don't think I would have been fearful in sharing my misdeeds with them. (Well, not as fearful anyway, because I still got punished).

As a parent, I want my children to know that I love them no matter what. It doesn't matter what they do, or what they say, or what they think. I will continue to love them. It is beyond my control, and I couldn't stop loving them if I wanted to.

And yet, I doubt they will get it either. 

Until the day comes when they hold their own firstborn child in their arms and they fall desperately in love with that perfect, precious baby.

Then they will finally know.

Burn Victim

I wrote in this post earlier in the summer about Jacob's favorite stuffed animal, Lion. They are inseparable. If anything, Jacob has become more attached to Lion since I wrote that post. He now likes to take Lion on walks with us in the stroller, as well as on car rides whenever we go somewhere. Lion is his constant companion. He sleeps with Lion every night, and plays with Lion every day. One of his favorite games to play is "Go Lion", where he throws Lion as high in the air as he can while yelling "go Lion!" and then he has to find where Lion landed.

He was playing just this game on Saturday morning when Lion landed in the lamp in the boys' bedroom. Lion landed directly on top of the hot lightbulb. It took me a few minutes to notice, and by the time I did, Lion was stuck to it. I had to rip him off of the hot bulb, only to find that Lion's "fur" had melted and in its place were three holes, exposing his stuffing.

I was devastated. I know that Lion is irreplaceable - literally - he isn't sold anymore. So I had prepared myself on how to deal with a situation where Lion might get dirty, or torn, or even thrown in the toilet. But I had not prepared myself for the event where Lion would become a burn victim.

I enlisted the help of my mom, and she  performed emergency "surgery" on Lion's damaged backside. The whole time Jacob kept coming over to me, tugging on my arm and saying, "Lion? Lion?" I knew he was wondering where his little blue friend was, and it broke my heart.

Once my mom finished the stitching, the big moment came when they were reunited. I was so worried Jacob wouldn't accept Lion with his new "band aid", but he barely even noticed; he was just happy to have his Lion back. 

Lion is holding up well, and things seem to be back to normal for the time being. Thank goodness for needle and thread! 

Oh, and thank goodness the house didn't burn down.

A Peak in the Combat Information Center Aboard the USS MacQ

As a kid, I loved making forts. My brother and I would use any found materials we could get into our grasp. Oftentimes, we would simply drape large sheets over the backs of chairs and the couch, and then we would play for hours in our "fort", or simply hang out in there watching TV until one of our parents would tell us we needed to take the fort down.

Living near the beach, we also got to make forts out of driftwood at times, or, even better, we often would come upon one that someone else had made, allowing us to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

I remember one time, I was so desperate I took one of my mom's huge umbrellas out on our back deck and sat under that while reading a book, and it was my makeshift playhouse. 

The best material for making forts or houses though, are boxes. Large boxes, like those for appliances or huge Christmas presents are the most useful.

So when a large box came in the mail last week, I quickly emptied the contents of it, cut a hole for a door and two holes for windows. I figured the boys couldn't be in a "playhouse", that's more for girls. So instead, it became the Combat Information Center aboard the USS MacQ.

The boys weren't so sure about it at first, I had to show them how to get in and out of it, and once they realized how awesome it was, they both instantly wanted to be in it - alone. There was a bit of pushing and non-sharing going on, but in the end they really had a lot of fun with it. It didn't take long for a stash of their favorite books and toys to be hidden within the CIC, and by the end of the evening I had to literally pull them out of it.

I could only obtain pictures from outside of it though, because apparently, the happenings within the CIC are so top-secret that even mommy isn't allowed inside!

Camping

When I was a kid, few things were more exciting than getting to go camping.

I think I fell in love with camping because my brother was a boy scout, and he got to go camping all the time. In fact, when I was younger I used to want to be a boy scout. I even wished we lived in Canada, because someone once told me that in Canada, girls are allowed to join the boy scouts. 

And I didn't want to be a girl scout, because everyone knows they're super lame. While the boy scouts got to do awesome stuff like camping with mountain lions, archery and rafting, all we got to do as girl scouts was make shirts using puffy paints, and visit nursing homes.  

So, clearly, who wouldn't want to be a Boy Scout?

The only thing good about Girl Scouts are their cookies, but those aren't even available year-round.

So since I wasn't a boy, and therefore, wasn't allowed to go camping with my brother's scout troop, it was always a treat for me when we'd get to camp out at our house. This usually involved my brother, my dad and myself sleeping in our tent in our fenced-in back yard.

On rare occasions though, my parents would actually pack up the tents, and all of my brother's campsite cooking gear, and we would head out for a night of real camping in the woods.

I loved it. 

We would build a campfire, roast marshmallows and my dad would tell us stories that would scare me silly. I didn't mind sleeping on the hard ground, my head resting on a jagged rock for a pillow. 

I didn't mind using the campsite restrooms that didn't offer soap. Or warm water. 

I didn't mind waking up in the morning, freezing from the cold, and soaking wet from the dew that had leaked through the tent's sides. It was all part of the grand experience!

As I got older though, my love of camping waned. I preferred a warm, comfy bed to the hard, cold sleeping arrangements of the great outdoors.

When Richard and I were dating, I actually asked him if he liked camping, because the last thing I wanted was to marry a man who would make me go camping with him all summer long, and I'd have to pretend I loved it. Because like 15 years into our marriage we'd be having an argument one day and I'd be all, "Well ya know what? I NEVER liked camping!" And then his whole world would be shattered it would be just a big, ugly mess.

So I was relieved when Richard told me that he too, is not a fan.

I can't remember which was my last camping trip: the one where my brother and I hiked down to the beach and got attacked by sand fleas, or the one where I drank too many Mike's Hard Lemonades, woke up at 3am, couldn't find the restroom and had to pee in the dark, bear-infested woods. Either way, I haven't gone camping in nearly six years. I think I'm done with all that out-doorsy stuff.

We have two sons though, and I was certain that around ages three and four they would probably get the desire to camp out in the back yard. 

But I think it may have happened sooner than I was expecting.

Recently, I ordered two miniature tents, which are meant for traveling with. I am planning to take them with is when we travel to Hawaii and then Illinois this winter. Since both the boys can climb out of cribs now, I wanted them to have something to sleep in that they cannot escape from, so that I won't have to stay up all night guarding our hotel door making sure they don't take off with any strangers...or let one in.

They love the tents. 

I mean, it must be some genetic thing in boys. Like, they just know they are supposed to be into camping out and roughing it and stuff. They were playing in the tents all weekend, so Saturday night I decided I would indulge them a bit.

And we camped out.

Mommy-style.

Their tents:

My tent:

 Okay, that's just my bed.

Our campfire:

(Battery-operated candles).

There were even wild animals roaming around the campsite:

 

It was some legit camping up in here.

Except that it was a pleasant 70 degrees, and I didn't wake up wet from dew, bitten from sand fleas, or hung over from Mike's Hard Lemonade. And my bathroom was two feet away, offering me more than enough soap and warm water.

I think I might just be in love with this whole camping thing again.

This is Totally Random

I'm kind of paranoid when it comes to my front teeth.

I'm always afraid that they're going to be knocked out from one of my kids head-butting me, or from me clenching my teeth so hard at night, I even had to get a night guard. Yes, I look super hot when I go to bed...a little something like Tina Fey from "Date Night", if you know the scene I am referring to. 

All kinds of hotness.

Anyhow, my fear probably comes from the fact that my front teeth have been knocked out several times in the past.

It started with my baby teeth. My brother is actually responsible for both of those.

The first time, we were on a family vacation in Florida in the spring of 1989, and we were taking a boat ride. I was laying on one of the benches on the boat, and my brother was leaning over the front rail, trying to get a good look at the swamp below. The captain told him he needed to sit down. So like any normal person, he just backed up, without looking where he was going, and he sat down.

Right on my face.

Tim: 1, Front teeth: 0.

I cried and cried, but then we went to Disney World and I forgot all about it.

A few months later we were back home, and Tim and I went to the park one day with friends. We were throwing a football around. I don't think Tim really wanted his little sister hanging out with him and his buddies, so when I asked him to pass me the ball, he threw it a little too hard and it hit me right in the mouth.

Tim: 2, Front teeth: 0.

Only, that tooth didn't get completely knocked out.

I walked home, with my mouth bleeding, tooth hanging by a couple of nerves. My dad had to pull it out with pliers. I'm thinking I must have blacked out or something, because all I remember is him showing me the pliers, and then nothing after that.

So a few years went by and I had my fancy permanent teeth. It was the fall of 1993 and I was playing outside with my dog. The ground was wet and I was wearing Keds - not exactly known for their traction.  The bottoms of my shoes were wet and I didn't realize that I was literally walking into the perfect storm of slippery shoes meeting cement flooring.

I ran into our garage, and had only take a couple steps when I slipped and my face smacked against the cold, hard floor. I immediately knew something was wrong, and I was terrified. My mom made me open my mouth, and I could tell she was trying to control her reaction, so as not to upset me more. She later told me that she thought my teeth were irreparably damaged.

My two front teeth were broken, so that there was a gap that looked like a large, upside-down "V". It was brutal.

Thankfully, my dentist opened his office that Sunday evening, and was able to put fillers in, so that it looked like I had normal teeth again. I had those fillers until 2003, when I finally got veneers.

While my teeth look and feel real, I know that they are not as strong as actual teeth, and every time that I bump a glass against them, or Ryan knocks his head against my mouth, I think that they're going to break.

I try to be cautious. 

I avoid Gobstoppers and peanut brittle, and when I eat an apple I cut it into thin slices, rather than eating it whole, and I keep my dentist's number handy. I also remember as a kid hearing that if your tooth falls out you are supposed to hold it in place while drinking milk? Or something? I don't know, but I always make sure we have milk in the house too. Although, I'm not sure if the milk thing would work since my teeth are pretty much just tiny pieces of fine China.

Oh, and I don't let my brother get anywhere near me, with or without a football.

Flash Back Friday - Like Father Like Sons

My friend Chris very kindly pointed out to me that I have been neglecting to do my "Flash Back Friday" segments. 

I admit, it's been harder to do than I originally thought. I had planned to put a lot of old diary entries, and college papers on here. But, as it turns out, most of those college papers aren't very interesting to read, and as for the diary entries - let's just say I won't torture all of you with the musings of a dramatic 15 year old girl.

But I think it's fine for me to put pictures on here, which leads me to this week's theme.

When Richard gets home from deployment I am planning to blow up photos of the boys, and put giant words on them that say things like "Welcome Home Daddy!" and, "We Missed You!", etc. Then we're going to place the welcome home signs along our street leading up to the house.

I took these pictures of the boys yesterday evening, wearing miniature Sailor uniforms. These are the photos I plan to use to make the signs:

Jacob in his Sailor uniform

My kids are so patriotic

After I uploaded the pictures to my computer though, I was instantly reminded of a similar one taken a couple decades ago...

Richard, wearing a similar uniform. Awww!

 

 It's funny though, because I have always thought that Ryan most resembles Richard, but when comparing the photos I took of the boys, to this one of Richard, I kind of think that Jacob looks more like him, at least at that age. 

I really see the similarities in this photo in particular:

Happy Flash Back Friday!

The Evolution of a Straight-Laced Girl

I hate getting in trouble. 

When I started school, I was terrified of having my teachers get mad at me or (Gasp!) send me to the principal's office. I'm pretty sure I would have straight up died from the fear of having to face the principal, I was so scared of punishment. Because of this, I was pretty much the best student a teacher could hope for. I never talked when the teacher was speaking, and I sat at my desk looking ahead to the blackboard with my hands folded neatly in my lap. 

Breaking the rules never even entered my mind.

In second grade, I was heartbroken when my teacher, whom I really liked, yelled at me for sitting on my desk. I took it personally. Oh, and I almost puked at the reality of actually being yelled at. I was such a naive kid that when a classmate in third grade offered me ABC gum, which stood for Already-Been-Chewed, (although I didn't know that at the time), I quietly whispered, "I'll take some after class", because, you know, we couldn't chew gum in class. 

The kid looked at me like I was a nut case.

In fourth grade we had the "Card System", where everyone started with a green card for the day, and if you misbehaved once you would get a yellow card, as a warning. If you acted out again, you would receive a red card, which either got you detention, a visit with the principal, or some other horrible, life-ending result.

One day I was talking with a friend, and didn't hear the teacher calling the class back to order, and I guess she thought I was ignoring her, so she gave me a yellow card. I turned beat red, and had to contain myself from completely breaking down into a puddle of sobs. A yellow card?? I felt destroyed.

Thankfully I learned to loosen up over the next few years. I was still a quiet, well-behaved kid, but I didn't have a freaking heart attack every time a teacher looked at me the wrong way. 

By my senior year in high school, I was pretty much tired of school. Well, I was tired of high school, that is. Tired of the cliques, the drama, the immaturity of it all. I began taking college classes and only had to show up to high school for the last period every day. One day I got to school and saw that the last period was cancelled because the school was having a mandatory pep assembly. 

When I started high school I was all about pep assemblies - I would deck myself out, head to foot, in blue and white, our school colors. I would put ribbons in my hair and paint my nails and face. I would write "GO MAVERICKS" on my jeans and cheer as loud as I could at the assemblies. I was a glittery mess of school spirit. After three years of that though, I was pretty worn out and just didn't have it in me anymore. 

I was dreading going to the assembly when my friend Sara approached me and suggested we just skip out. 

Skip out? As in, ditch school? At first I was horrified by the idea. Only bad kids skipped school. But then I got to thinking. At that time I was in the, I'm 18 years old, I'm an adult, I can do whatever I want, stage of my life, (the one that parents just love, I'm sure). So I decided, what the heck. And we left. 

And it was THRILLING! As we sped out of the school parking lot, hoping the security guard didn't see us, and that no one would miss us, I couldn't help but wonder why I had never taken any chances before? Why had I lived my entire school career being so straight-laced, so by-the-book? 

That day changed me. From then on out I took a much more relaxed view toward school. The two classes I still attended at high school were Yearbook and Drama. When I felt that I had done enough work on the yearbook, I would just quietly slip out, leaving school 20 or 30 minutes early. And if I was in Drama, but I knew that I wasn't going to be asked to rehearse any scenes, I would escape through the back door of the theater which led, conveniently, right into the parking lot and to my car.

By the time I got to college I would sometimes opt for taking a nap rather than going to class. Don't worry, mom and dad, I didn't do that too often. And I only napped through unimportant classes like P.E., and that lame class on sociology that was taught by a drug addict who had mother issues. 

That dude is another story for another day. 

I still managed to graduate college a year early with honors, so I don't think I did any damage to my educational career by taking a few classes off here and there. It's funny for me to look back at the way I was when I started school, where if a teacher would raise their voice to me, I would practically pee myself. By the time I finished school I wasn't looking to be any teacher's pet, I just wanted that shiny degree that promised me a job that paid lots of money. 

So that's my story. And now I'm totally freaking out that my parents are going to yell at me for skipping classes. I hate getting in trouble.

While They Were Sleeping...

I remember as a kid, my parents telling me how they would sometimes come check on me at night when I was asleep.

I never understood why.

Did they think I was going to run away? Did they think aliens were going to abduct me (even though they told me aliens didn't exist)? I mean, why did they come into my room? It didn't make any sense to me. I just assumed that primetime TV must have been pretty dull in the 1990's if it was more entertaining for them to simply watch me sleep.

Well, a few years went by, and I eventually became a parent myself. All of the sudden, I developed this fascination with watching my boys sleep. As infants, they were so tiny, and I was terrified that they might stop breathing at any minute, so I really couldn't look away. Then they got a little bigger, and watching my chubby babies as they snoozed in bed at night was just hypnotizing; it was the cutest darn thing I've ever seen. Then they got a little bigger. 

Jacob is nearing two and a half and Ryan will be 18 months on Saturday. They are so busy during the day, running and jumping and climbing and yelling. They are full of such non-stop energy, that when they do finally pass out at the end of the day, in their cute pajamas, with those sweet little faces set in such innocent expressions, I cannot keep myself from checking on them every now and then. 

Yes, I want to make sure all is right in their perfect little worlds, but I love it. I love just watching them in that peaceful state. I talk to them, and tell them how much I love them, and how I want them to have every joy in this life, and never know a moment of pain. And when I know that they are both content, and hopefully dreaming pleasant dreams, I leave them to their sleep.

If I was half as cute as these these two are, then I totally get what my parents were doing now.

Flash Back Friday

Today I am introducing a brand-spankin'-new concept on my little blog here. Flash Back Fridays! It's like my own version of going to watch a black and white movie on a Friday night...except that instead, I will be posting vintage stuff on here every Friday. This may include old writings of mine - diary entries/school papers, old photos, or even some old videos if I can get my hands on them. I just thought it would be a new, fun thing to try! Hope you all enjoy it.

So, to start us off, here are some vintage diary entries of mine:

July 4th, 1999

Hi again...Tonight I spent with my parents and brother watching the firework shows all around Edmonds and such. It was pretty cool...I love spending time with my family. We always have such a great time, and we sure do laugh a lot. I think my family is just so great, I only pray that someday I will have my own family that is as great and loving as the family I have now...Sometimes I worry myself. I think about the future so much, and I'm afraid I am trying to grow up too fast, and someday I'll look back and wonder where all the years went, and why they are so blurry in my memory. Sometimes, every so often, I just get the most wonderful feeling, and I realize how precious and short and GREAT life is. I only wish I could always feel like that, cause I truly appreciate life more in those few minutes than in any other time...

July 23rd, 1999

I sometimes think I'm dyslexic. I mean, I can't tell you how many times I have switched letters in words. I don't know...Maybe I don't have a clue what I'm talking about, and I just mess up on words sometimes. I mean, that's normal, right? Oh well! Right now Backstreet Boys is on the radio with their song "I Want it that Way". I tell you, as long as I live, I will NEVER understand what that song is talking about....Oh, you know what? Today I drank a teaspoon of Habanero sauce. EWWW!! Sick! It burned my mouth for probably 15 minutes after, even though I drank a ton of milk and even some ice cream. I HATE IT! I put it in my mouth and it started to burn and I just started running around the house SCREAMING while my "loving" family laughed hysterically.

August 27th, 1999

Hey!! So school starts in a little over a week. I personally can't wait! Oh, on a good note: I passed driver's ed! I'm sleeping in the family room tonight cause I was just laying in bed and I swear I saw a spider crawling toward me. Tim is out here watching TV, and he says I am being crazy, but I know what I saw!...Guess what? Tim left the front door WIDE open for like over an hour and now I'm like freaked that there is a psychopath in our house. Lalala...So, like is great. I'm serious. Lately I've been feeling SO wonderful. I've never felt this terrific!! Everything is just great!

-Kellyn

Sadly, these were among the most entertaining of my entries. As you can tell, I had some seriously exciting things going on in my life. Oh, and in that last entry, I can't tell if I was on something or suffering from undiagnosed ADHD. Holy smokes.

Anyways, this was just a taste of what I've got in mind for this segment. Hopefully Flash Back Fridays will get more exciting as we go along!

Wonder

I have this thing about hot air balloons. I love them, always have.

When I was little, younger than two years old, we lived in Redmond, Wa., and hot air balloons used to fly over our house all the time in the evening. I don't remember this at all, of course, but my mom says that anytime one would fly over, I would hear it - the hot air being blown into the balloon, and I would stand up in my crib and start yelling "Hot air 'boon! Hot air 'boon!" (Or something along those lines).

Sometimes they would get me out of bed and the four of us, my mom, dad, brother Tim, and me would all sit out on the front porch and watch them fly overhead. Their huge, brilliant colors floating through the sky were hypnotizing to me, and still are.

I went to college in Billings, Mt., and once every year there would be a festival where dozens of hot air balloons would fly over the town. I could sit and watch them for hours, it was beautiful. It filled me with wonder.

I have never been in a hot air balloon, and strangely enough, I don't really have a desire. I think that would take some of the fun out of it. The joy, for me, is in watching these giant, colorful balloons set against the horizon. It's fun, and brings me back to my childhood when I see them now.

My last evening in Tennessee, I wanted to have a final look outside my 11th floor window; I wanted to take in the scenery one last time, since I knew it would be dark when I left the next morning. I pulled back the curtains, and saw this:

And is that cloud not totally awesome??

I apologize for the poor quality. I didn't have my good camera with me, and I was shooting through a window, but you get the idea. I was pretty stoked when I saw the view, it was a nice ending to a wonderful weekend.