Not on fire, anyway.

My Mom had five kids. Even though every one of those kids was planned for and loved, when you have five, parameters must be set.

“If no one is dead and nothing is on fire than you better let me finish this phone call.”

That’s the line my Mom used on me the day my brother and I built a see saw in the backyard. I jumped on my end before he was ready and a two by four flew up and hit him in the face. There was a lot of blood. Sometimes the line she used included a part about blood, but not that day. When I ran inside to get her, she dropped that on me and I ran right back out. A second later Steve staggered in, bleeding all over the place, pointing at me.

“Why didn’t you tell me Melanie!” “He’s not on fire! And he’s not dead!”

I keep wondering when I’ll bust that sucker out on my own wild ones.

A wedding in 36 hours

I was married young. I am thirty years old and just celebrated my tenth wedding anniversary. Really, really young. Sometimes I tell Jared that it is sheer luck that despite our age and the general dumbness that accompanies that part of one’s life, we married the right person. Lucky, lucky, that’s what I say.

Because of this, I strictly forbade any of my sisters to even think about getting married before the age of twenty five. They all signed the contract in blood and thanked me for hard earned wisdom. Or they walked out of the room before I finished my thought. One of those ways, for sure.

So when my little sister called me Wednesday of last week and told me she was going to get married on Friday, I couldn’t argue. She is past the 25 mark. They really love each other. We all love her Ryan. He really loves her son. We all love his family. Really, there was far too much love going on to be anything but happy. Her original plan was the classic courthouse move, but as evidenced by this blog, our family likes a party. So we planned a wedding in 36 hours.

It was beautiful. A family effort. We cleaned multiple stores out of candles, and filled the place with pumpkins and leaves. My sister got to catering, my sister in law got to flower arranging, and my brother got to anything and everything that was asked of him. The music was provided by my grandma, who played the piano like an angel. One of my sister’s best friends happens to be an official officiate. My cousin had his camera in his car, so poof, photographer. Her mother in law has a salon so the wedding party prepped there. My mom made the wedding cake and Christi and Thomas brought everyone’s favorite salad. Everything just worked.

I don’t have many pictures, not even one of the groom, because I was too busy enjoying the wedding and trying to help everyone make sure that our candle wonderland didn’t turn into a raging house fire with the assistance of five crazy boys under the age of five.

She was beautiful. There were tears during their sweet, impromptu vows. So perfect. Happy marriage little sis! I hope you enjoy many holidays, weekdays and even sick but not very sick days. I hope that when you wake up, even on those crummy days, you look at each other and realize you have someone on your side, always.

Babies, cougars and fire

There are logical questions one must ask themselves when camping. Such as, will I be eaten by a mountain lion?

The posted signs say it’s possible. They say they are drawn to small children. I smell like small children. No amount of showers can ever truly erase the smell of cheerios and Desitin. They are going to eat me. My last meal is going to be deli meat and giant marshmallows. I am going to die with black boogers.

Jared’s internal dialogue is a little different. I haven’t seen anyone for the last five miles. Where are all the people? Do we have the whole forest to ourselves? Sweet! Wait, that doesn’t seem possible. There must be someone else out here. Where are they? They’re hiding. Hiding in the trees. In camouflage. Armed. Do I have a knife? They have guns and scopes and shiz. Oh crap, we’re totally going to be datelined while we sleep.

Even still, we camped. Twice in the last month. For our tenth anniversary we left our babies with my amazing parents, hopped in the car and headed for the coast. We spent a portion of our time in San Francisco surrounded by people and the other half in the hills above Santa Cruz in total isolation. It was so good! We watched the sun set and rise beyond the mountain lion infested hills, over the ocean. We saw no one except for a couple of turned around hikers for a brief minute. It truly felt like we stepped back into pre kid days. I have a habit of counting down while on vacation. “Only four days left, bummer.” “The day after tomorrow I’ll be back in my office.” I didn’t do it once. I really enjoyed every minute.

I imagine even the very best marriages go through moments where you feel disconnected. Like a couple of people who just happen to be wrestling the same kids into bed every night. This alleviated that. I’m still on a high a month later. Nothing like the fear of being hacked or eaten by wild animals to throw you back into the proper groove of things.

Jared must have enjoyed the whole thing too. The second we got home he went all consumer report crazy and bought a tent. We had borrowed equipment from my Dad for our trip, but now we are the proud owners of an eight man tent. Really, what other size would you purchase if your family consisted of two adults and two children who weigh under fifty five pounds combined? It’s bigger than our living room.

We tested the thing out in our backyard where the wild ones were able to climb inside and run laps out of the inclement weather for a couple of hours. After they broke that sucker in, we were ready for the real thing, the inaugural run. We attempted to go Friday, but in midst all the hoopla, forgot the star of the of the show. We left the tent at home. The tent.

So we tried again Saturday. We made spaghetti and meatballs in the woods. Hotdogs, I tell you, hotdogs are the way to go when you camp. It is much easier to keep a baby neat eating a hotdog. No post spaghetti bath in the woods. I almost tried to dunk the kid in the creek but he pulled out his best scare tactic on me and spouted off hypothermia stats while reminding me how high my insurance deductible is. Dirty baby won.

“Everything is more fun with kids!” we said as we set four little rocks by the fire to sit on. “Everything is better with kids!” we said as we ate cake mix dessert out of a dutch oven and told ghost stories. “Sooo much better with kids,” we said as we bundled those loves up and watched them giggle and dive in blankets and sleeping bags.

“Kids suck,” we said as we tried to get Gray to sleep approximately one thousand times between eight pm and five thirty am when we finally gave up and Jared drove the kid around the campground blasting the heater and NPR. Nothing puts a one year old to sleep like The Prairie Home Companion.

I still can’t decide if it was incredibly fun or traumatizing. Phin loved it, so I guess we’ll chalk it up to childhood experience gone right.

John Buck

When I look at my babies it always feels like they are exactly the age they were meant to be. Then a month or six or a year passes and they're different. Still, the feeling persists. I can't picture them older or changed. They are just one and three. It seems they are perfectly suited to be one and three and they will always be one and three. My own little defense against the time machine we live in. Other then brief feelings, imagining them 10 and 12 or 41 and 43 is so difficult. And 82? Never. Never can I picture them losing their little boy voices to puberty and manhood and then, eventually, to the crackle of old age. I wonder if that is how it is with any other mothers. If picturing them past the age they are is reserved for the times you fear you won't see it.
My Grandpa passed away two months ago. His mother has been gone a long time, but I wonder if she looked down on his final days and marveled on how she went from staring at a tiny baby to a man who lived completely.
John Buck has always had a big personality. He was voted most outstanding boy in high school. I mean, c’mon. Most outstanding? Pretty sure they made the category up for him. He was an all star in every sport. He played college football and basketball.He had five beautiful babies with my Grandma and was able to see four of them grow. He played handball with his college buddies for as long as I can remember and there was one fantastic moment where he danced with his pants on his head. You haven’t lived until you have seen your Grandpa do the running man with pants on his head.
He’s always told it like it was. One of our favorite Grandpa lines came on Christmas morning. He opened a package and stared down in silence. Somebody asked him what he thought and he said, “I don’t like it and I won’t wear it.” Tossed the unfortunate gift aside and that was that.
One last memory. When I was in high school I found an old letterman sweater of his. It fit like a dream and I wore it frequently. Years after I came into it's possession, we found a very old video of him wearing the same sweater while he was in college. It was taken on the old yellow film that people try to replicate with phone apps these days. He’s outside doing backflips, goofing around and looking very much like a silly college kid. I remember putting on the sweater and trying to picture it's past. It was once brand new and his. He threw it on as he was running out the door once. Maybe he wore it on a date with my grandma. He wore it when he had no idea what he would be doing when he was thirty or forty or eighty.
I called my grandma today, heard his voice on the answering machine and for a second it felt like he might have just stepped out. When he passed away the world lost something great. My uncle said it best, he was a real man. A real person. And I am going to miss him so much.