Two years ago...two heads of lice. Compliments of an "epidemic" in the Minneapolis school system.
Last year...Annika was home on the first day of school due to yuckiness.
This year...a freak accident involving a backed up main drain, two inches of water on the basement floor and a running naked post shower teenager resulted in this:
While Miss Annika posed excitedly for her first day of middle school:
Miss Autumn sat with her fresh stress fracture on ice.
To be immediately followed by this: rashy, pukey, strep throat.
Between the slip and slide fun and the strep throat, we did manage to get a first day of school photo:
But I think we are both calling tomorrow her first official day of high school. This is Autumn's first major do over and has she earned it.
If you think of it, send a little love her way today. It's not easy being the new kid in school especially when you puked in the hallway on the 3rd day:(
Sometimes, despite best intentions and love and joy...stress stays and takes a seat at the celebration table. The bastard sits at the table and refuses to let us forget...even for a moment. Forget loss and frustration...refusing to let one bask in the bright light of living in the moment. The blinding joy that sends you into orbit. If you've ever truly just paused to take in what is going on around you.. without regard for what is next, without planning what comes after, you have ridden that light into orbit. And stress hates it when you learn to do that. It wants you to worry, fear, fret and stew, it needs you to because without that kind of control, it's powerless.
I say this only because I was so hopeful the girls would have an amazing first day of school and we recently had a kick ass weekend, and stress tried it's best to take a seat at both tables. We beat it back again and again, but it keeps coming. And as passive aggressive is NOT my style, I feel like I need to take this opportunity to publicly declare war on stress and all his minions (broken pipes, stress fractures, mystery rashes, late party starts, lost phones, water, water everywhere).
I just declared war on ...stress. What is that? A feeling? A thing? A condition? Anyway....war on stress. Can I get an amen?
Launching my first missile....BAM!
A gaggle of insanely cute babies. Specifically...our babies.
Regardless of their age, I call them our babies. I suppose it could be said that their reaching each milestone means they earn the right to be called something else. But it doesn't feel right to me. Breast milk or orange Fanta, curled up peacefully in a sling or begging for a Vespa, playing in my makeup or wearing it...she is my baby. They are our babies. Their ability to venture away from us, does not change the fact that they are from us. And as often as they will leave us, they are welcome to return to that safe familiar spot in the "sling" whenever they need to.
Our babies are communal babies. It takes a village right?
Despite stress's best efforts, we gathered our families to celebrate my Grandfather's 90th birthday. 90th.
Look at this handsome devil and his stunning bride:
They have been married for 67 years. 67. Of all the things they have taught me, what I still need to learn is how they did that.
On the way home, I asked B "If I live to be 90, how long will we be married?" 54 years. Can a modern day marriage, founded in 2007 survive 54 years? If anyone's can, ours can. I feel that in my soul. And if it doesn't, no one will be more surprised than us.
For the record, this was us when we first met:
It will be interesting to see what we will look like after 54 years together. Stay tuned.
So we gathered once again at the farm, each from our own separate corners of the universe. More separated now than just 30 days ago, when two of our families could share the ride if we wanted to. We move away, we come home...we leave again. And even as the miles expand and contract, the relationships grow and grow. And much as that bastard STRESS would like to find the crack in our armor and make one of these expanding and contacting cycles detrimental...he won't. because we always, always come home.
This trip home, my little Aries tomboy found her farm groove big time. She has been desperate to leave the city and live closer to nature for as long as I can remember. Remember her fishing peace?
And now this:
Like a fish to water, there was not a moment's hesitation. Uncle Chad took over with BB gun safety 101 and she was a sponge. And a pretty damn good shot.
Followed by a little toad and snake catch and release.
Calling her in at dusk, to wash up and get ready for some serious card playing reminded me so much of my own childhood on the farm. There was even popcorn and Lawrence Welk. You think I'm making this up...but I'm not.
As long as the farm is here, someone will bring their babies here to learn how to catch a tree frog. Someone will make popcorn and find Hee Haw on TV. Someone will take their cousin, niece, nephew, mom , dad, brother/sister in law for a sunset walk down the lane. Beers in hand.
And stress...can bite me.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXO
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