10th Round Of Chemo? Say It With Embarrassing Childhood Photos.

Dad, 

Today is your tenth round of chemo. (I'd say something pithy like "only two more rounds after this to go," but I won't. Because no one likes pithy crap like that.) 

I will say, however, that you continue to rock. And you continue to be strong and nonchalant and such a GUY about this whole thing. To which I can hear you say, "I've just gotta get it done. What choice do I have?" I can also hear you say, "I'm really gonna need you to stop blogging about me, Keel."

And while I can't do that- I really just can't- I can present pictures of us like this to the world:

This is the famed Edaville Railroad picture. And I was not having it, whatever "it" was supposed to be. And yet you never flung me onto a train track or handed me to a station attendant.

I appreciate that, Dad, I really do. That's just good parenting.

And I'm gonna go ahead and hazard this theory: if a guy can handle his pointy-hatted two year old having [what was apparently] the worst tantrum of the century in a public (and Festive, Dammit!) locale, then he can for sure handle another round of chemo.

Hang in there, Dave ["Keel," you continue to say].

You can do this.

And I can guarantee that this treatment won't be as noisy as I was.

Chicago Is- Briefly- All Full O' Summer.

For the uninitiated, this is what the first 80 degree day in Chicago looks like.

To be fair, this is also what the first 68 degree day in Chicago looks like. (By 55 degrees, we've thrown winter coats into deep storage.) So yeah, it's just as euphoric as it looks.

Take that, nine months of winter!

We Put The "Ire" In "Ireland".

As my Dad gears up for his sixth round of chemo, I'd like to thank him for my heritage. Namely, my fabulous half-Irishitude.

Back when I was a little kid, St. Patrick's Day was a major holiday in our household. (Are you catching on to the fact that everything was a major holiday in our household? We're a tad celebratory.) My Mom would make stellar corned beef and cabbage (no small feat, being an Armenian and all), we'd sit around the table with our cups full of dyed green milk (extremely Irish, that), and listen to songs that alternated between horrifically sad and raucously happy. (It always confused me that the weepy ones were about love and the hilarious ones were occasions where someone had died.)

You're right- this is not a St. Patrick's Day pic.
But I think it's pretty indicative of how festive we are.

On one special St. Patrick's Day in high school, we had just finished a great meal (and I was working on my seventh piece of soda bread with raisins) when my Dad decided to call his parents. Now, the Flynn side of the family has always prided itself on its one thousand percent Irishness. (And there are few things fiercer than an Irish family fiercely talking about their Irish heritage.) And, like many families do, they would retell the same stories to hear the same familiar towns and surnames over and over again. So this night was no different- my Dad, having placed his mother on speakerphone, asked her where her specific side of the Callahan/Flynns had hailed from.

She paused.

And mentioned the expected Counties Kerry and Cork and Galway...

And paused again.

"But my mother-" she answered thoughtfully. "She came from Paris."

"France?" Someone joked. Because obviously there must be a Paris, Ireland. Because we were NOT French. She assented yes, it was France. And that was that. We couldn't quite wrap our minds around the fact that this had never before come up. And we were all slightly stunned to be instantly [partially] French. (Except for my mother, whose one thousand percent Armenianitude was not at risk.)

And the next day, my Dad spoke with his brother and found out that he already knew. But no, we weren't French. Because even though my grandmother's mother was from Paris, she only lived there with the family who had adopted her.

From Italy.

So after spending the night as a [partial] Frenchwoman, I easily slipped into my new identity as a mostly Irish and Armenian gal with the smidgeniest of Italian somewhere in there. Like in the pinky.

But in honor of this upcoming St. Patrick's Day- and due to the fact that I wish I were celebrating with my Dad- I'm ready to be fully Irish, tell the girls about Counties Cork and Kerry and Galway (and Paris), and let everyone eat entirely too much Irish soda bread with raisins.

Dad, knock this round of chemo outta the park. Listen to some sad-meaning-happy Irish tunes and rest up until we can toast some green beverages again. I'll even let you pick.

As long as it's not green milk.

Turns Out, You CAN Go Home Again. (If You Clean It.)

On Thursday afternoon, I flew home to spend time with my folks for a wicked long weekend. I wanted to poke my Dad until he laughed during his fifth round of chemo (which is a medically and historically proven way to get smacked upside the head) and berate my mother into Feng Shui-ing the heck out of her living areas.

So yeah, you could say I was a big ol' helper.

Here are a few things I realized (and reaffirmed) about my parents and our family's home:

-If you're looking for duffel bags, Rest Of World, you're out of luck. Super sorry. But you can't have any. Because we have them all. In one closet.

-The worse the Mystery Science Theatre 3000 episode, the better (according to my father and the level of evoked laughter). Unless you're my mother. Then it's directly proportional to the times she will walk through the room and plaintively ask- Really? This episode again?

-If you're looking for CDs, vinyl, recordable media and filmed anything, Rest Of World, you're out of luck. Because my Dad has them all. In one closet. But now they're alphabetized and sorted by height.

-The plethora of decorated and drawn angels people have been sending from all around the world for my Dad's treatment and recovery could paper our home. No, for real. Rooms are papered with these pieces of awesome.

A corner of the family room.
ONE corner of ONE room.

-And any trip home (especially one sans kiddos) goes entirely too fast.

(Get better soon, Dad, or I'll be forced to fly home again and move even more of your stuff.)

My Dad Is Tough Enough For The Scrambler (With Kids).

Dad,

As you prepare to smack this latest round of chemo directly in the face, I'd like to remind you of a little story:

It's the story of a Dad. With two little girls. (Well, actually four, but at the time of this tale the smallish ones were running around and shoving things like Tic Tacs up their noses. They weren't doing real things, yet.)

And that Dad did things with his little girls that no one really wants to do. Like wrangle side-ponytail hairdos on his tweentastic daughters. Have conversations about which boys were "cute" and which ones were horrid human beings. (Sometimes the same thing.) And smush himself onto rides with two other people, at least one of whom was a rather seasick individual.

But we never knew. We didn't have the slightest idea that a grown man wouldn't jump at the opportunity to defy the laws of spatial relations and vomitude to bodily secure his kiddos from flying out of a Scrambler which- at best- would comfortably hold two human beings. THAT'S how Dude you are.

So be like that with this round of chemo.

Don't- not even for a second- let the chemo know that it's elbowing you in the face or that you can't feel either of your feet. Tell it to sit down and stop bickering. Because- yet again- you got this.

And not one person who's ever met you is surprised.

Nora Likes Wednesdays.

You know, just a Wednesday. The kind where you need to wear something fancy- but not too fancy because, after all, it is still a Wednesday. So you forgo the [detachable] wings to be a bit more rough n' ready for whatever the [Wednes]day brings. And you've got your apple tea with honey in a Big Kid Mug and literally dozens of Tag Reader books in front of you and you've JUST FOUND BOTH OF CINDERELLA'S SHOES and Baby Zu is sleeping for at least another hour. (That means you can use the safety scissors to make snowflakes because no one will even be there to try to eat the scraps.)

We like Wednesdays a lot.

Who Posts About Halloween Movies In November?

Most people who grew up with me have seen this movie and/or video clip. (So have most people who spent any time with me at college. But those were two very different types of viewing parties.) It's from a eye-poppingly wonderful film called The Worst Witch, and it features a young Fairuza Balk. Yeah, that's right, she of The Craft fame. (Typecast?)

And yes, the movie has elements of Harry Potter (kids away at a boarding school for witches) without any of those details that make us crazy for Harry Potter (i.e. a gripping story line, fully fleshed out characters, classes that last longer than three and a half minutes).

But what keeps The Worst Witch in the upper echelon of filmmaking is this one sequence. It features Tim Curry. He is the Grand Wizard. And he gets a song. Go on, I'll wait.

Did you watch it? Are you crying jubilant tears of awesome?

If not, did you see (and I mean really see) his cape change colors? Were you unmoved by the green screen effects unrivaled by Pixar (or your friend's basement studio)? Did you not see the dog turn into the cat?

Most importantly, Tim Curry has NO IDEA where his tambourine is. Are you made of stone?

They, quite literally, do not make them like this anymore. I don't even think we have the technology to make something quite so low-budget these days. Even the average camera phone has better capture than this synthed-up wonder.

But the point is- it doesn't matter. It will remain my favorite Halloween movie of all time. I will watch this clip multiple times between August and November 1st for all of eternity. (And so will my confused children and tolerant husband.)

Because it brings me back to a time when I was thoroughly blown away by these graphics. I so badly wanted the Grand Wizard to see how hard the witches had worked on the Broomstick Display. And this movie- this movie my whole family adored- could only be watched once a year when it aired. There was no YouTube. No internet to speak of. It was a lot like the radio request hour- it came on when it damn well felt like coming on, and sure, eventually you managed to tape it on VHS, but even then you missed the opening sequence because your VCR meshed it up with a cat food commercial.

AND WE LIKED IT THAT WAY. (Of course we didn't, but it's fun to be a martyr about times past.)

And my kids will never ever know the feeling of not having every single bit of media at their [hologrammed, flying car] fingertips. I envy them.

But then, when I watch an earnest clip like that and remember how special and new that technology was, I think that maybe they should envy me a little, too.

Fall Is For Dressing Like A Cowgirl.

I'm feeling awfully autumnal today (in the crunchy leaf/hot spiced cider kinda way, not the Phase Of Life way- please don't feel the need to send seasonal affective disorder lamps), so I'm posting one of my favorite childhood pix. 

Every Fall, my family would go to the Cummington Fair with some family friends- it was the countriest of fairs. I adored every second of it. That's me, by the way, in the Texas Tuxedo. That was the rule (to which my older sister and I held strongly): You HAD to look like you belonged in the country. Or on a farm or something. (Even though travelling from our hometown of Pittsfield, Massachusetts to Cummington, Massachusetts wasn't exactly your classic City Mouse/Country Mouse tale.) 

So I wore jeans and a denim shirt. Insisted upon braids. Even found a leather belt to cinch my improbably high jeans to my nine year-old waist. 

In this pic I'm clutching a family friend, and on his other side is one of my younger sisters. She looks game. (The good thing about Chel is, she's always game. I should've had that printed on a onesie for her.) She also looks good in her country overalls. 

Pretty sure this was the year I got to see the pig races. And the tractor pulls. Pet a few bunnies. Beg my parents for one. (Pout.) Eat an unwise amount of corndogs. And cheerfully fall asleep on the drive home, waking to find a denim pattern etched into the side of my face. 

All autumn events are still measured by this annual shindig. 

Even though I still haven't found anyone who'll buy me that lop-eared bunny.

First Kid's First Day.

Viva La Preschool!

Big Kid. Huge, in fact.

Susannah is confused. But stoked.

Oh, Dad. It'll be fine.

Yeaaaaaaaaah.

That's one sassy penguin pack.

Skipparoo.

This is still cool, right?

Doc Bullfrog, just for "emergencies." (Must be an emergency.)

Order? Rules? She's gonna like this place.

Little girl, humongous door.

The NoraBird in her natural habitat.

The best Reunion Face I've ever seen in my life.

The second best one. 

Big Kid Bed! (NOW Can I Nap?)

Yesterday, it happened. No more crib, no more toddler bed with a rail, no more shoving her feet up the wall and attempting to get comfy until 10pm. (Because when a kid in the 5th percentile complains of feeling cramped, you know it's time for a Big Kid bed.) We recently inherited a bed from P.J.'s fam that had been P.J.'s Mom's childhood bed- and her Dad's before that. That was exciting because a) I love family heirlooms, and b) we spent all of our moolah on a twin mattress. (SERIOUSLY. Why are they so expensive?!)

So I now present to you a li'l photo array of Before, During, and After: 

Crib/toddler bed with toddler rail removed ('cause one of us kept pressing against it until the mattress flipped onto the floor). Please forgive the not-yet-removed wall anchors from a prior shelf. Also, the weird sound-proofed ceiling. Also- oh, forget it.

The girls are a crucial part of the bed-building process.
(Says Peej, crouched in the background.)

Peej continues to build the bed, Nora continues to
bring toys directly atop the bed-building site.

Measuring for the slats that need to be cut down.
He's practically Bob the Builder. (Or Wendy.)

I get all the fun jobs: like polishing with scratch cover, and keeping
the metal part of the tape measure out of Susannah's mouth. 

Tightening the specs on the lug nut with the thing for the...
(I'm just saying it's a very good thing he had help.)

Completely dwarfed by her awesome Big Kid bed!

I think we've got a winner. Or an overstimulated kid who's been
playing with the varnish. Either way, she's got a terrific place to sleep.

8 Ways To Tell If Perhaps You've Given Up On The Whole "Limit The Kids' TV" Thing.

It all looks so real! Almost like it's animated!

1) Your 2 year-old says "Vamanos!" as you leave the house. (Passersby commend you on your bilingual teachings, but you know that it's really all Dora's doing.)

2) You've actually referred to at least one of the Backyardigans as a jerk.

3) Everyone in your household knows that there are three separate Strawberry Shortcake series- the oldest of which is the one you yourself watched as a child. (And they also know about your very real fear of The Purple Pieman.)

4) Dreams have featured the Dinosaur Train. You've ridden on it in these dreams. And it was awesome.

5) You and your husband have debated the potential detrimental effect of Elmo's "Me Speak," Ming Ming the Wonder Pet's speech impediment, and Diego's predilection for shouting.

6) Whenever you break out the tools for a repair, at least one person shouts "Yes We Can!"

7) You find yourself choosing a new show at random- just to hear a different theme song, for the love of God.

8) And- most tellingly- when writing a list like this, you hear The Count's voice in your head.

(Eight! Eight parental fails! AH AH AH.)

Is This A KISSING book?

Next, I shall paint my sister.

It's totally almost Valentine's Day. And I have plans.

Huge ones.

For starters, Nora and I have already chosen pink and red outfits for ourselves. And for baby Susannah. And for P.J. (Sorry, P.J.)

We've lined up a few messy, glittery projects for the day- among them, a fabulous Martha Stewart craft that will either a) light up our home and 'hood with sparkly loveliness, or b) burn down the block.

I'm planning on pestering my best friends, sisters, and parents with badgerly texts of enduring love. They will reciprocate. Or I will be forced to use my phone to call. Or Skype. Or hit them with it at the next available juncture.

Breakfast and lunch will be eaten off of potentially non-food-safe decorative plates and platters adorned with hearts and cupids. Doilies- the ones not shredded by safety scissors- will most likely line the kitchen table, and holiday napkins will be utilized. (And if Nora decides to eat only one bite of each thing, I will not force the issue. Because on a day of Love, we all get to do what makes us happy. And if the crusts do not make you feel full of Love, then- by all means, Nora- do not eat the crusts.)

A Valentine's Day nap will be had. For it is a holiday, and I always nap on holidays. (Always.) And even if Nora and Zuzu aren't really feelin' this one, we shall nap. This differs only slightly from the Full Of Love rule mentioned just prior to this one. (Food is food, but sleep...? There are rules.)

There may or may not be an awesomely decadent dessert project in the works...which may or may not lose all of its Wow Factor due entirely to the two year-old sous chef leaving her own special li'l mark on the treat, on the counters, on the walls, and on her little sister. But I bet it'll still taste really good.

Dinner will be a ridiculously extravagant affair, naturally. What will she be preparing, you might ask? Is it her husband's favorite meal? Nope. Her favorite meal? Not so much. It is, in fact, the toddler's favorite meal; eggplant parmesan, extra parmesan. (Getting to wash the red sauce out of her hair that evening will just add to the day's festivities.)

And there are presents, obvie. Since neither girl (to the best of my knowledge) knows how to read/has internet access...I can spill the goods. An Angel Cake friend of Strawberry Shortcake's for Nora. (Since, every time she plays with her "Strawberry Girls," her sad refrain is: "I don't even have Angel Cake.") And for Susannah, a pink sock monkey. (By the time she reaches adulthood, she'll either have a deep and abiding affection for these sock monkeys...or a definite and very real fear.) And for P.J...

NICE TRY, P.J. You'll have to wait and see. (But hint: It's covered in glitter and fingerprints. Actually, that's not so much of a hint. Everything in the house is currently covered in glitter and fingerprints. It's one of the cats- surprise!)

But I do have a list of expectations for this bright n' shiny day. And it doesn't even include flowers. (Because P.J. brought me purple tulips yesterday. He knows that Holiday Flowers are way trumped by Any Ol' Day Flowers.) And it doesn't include couples massages or fancy dinners (because you cannot get fancier than our eggplant dinner- you cannot) or jewelry or even songs dedicated on the radio (a la Live 105.5. Anyone?)

I would like a Valentine from my husband. The kind where he's actually sealed the envelope. (He's notorious for not sealing the envelope, which comes off looking like it was just handed to him on the darned train. Invest the time! Seal the envelope!)

It would be great if we could watch one of the most romantic movies of all time. Here's the trifecta: The Princess Bride, The Thin Man, and So I Married An Axe Murderer. (As You Wish, William Powell, and Haggis? I'm swooning.)

Maybe a crossword puzzle in bed. Especially if I'm allowed to hold the pen, sparing me that sideways-head-cramping-my-shoulderblade thing that always happen when people share crosswords.

I live large, I know.

Wishing you a Valentine's Day of love and unironically played power ballads,
Keely

The Five Upsides Of Hoarding.

A shovel and a watch?! MY FAVORITES!

The whole Getting Rid Of Stuff [People Tell Me] I Don't Need project is still pokin' along. I have no idea why I thought it'd be completed in a night or a weekend or before Nora's presidential inauguration.

There is still a full filing cabinet of scannable...stuff.

And a room full of sortable...stuff.


And, arrogantly enough, a pile of stuff that I'm reserving for the neighborhood garage sale. That's right. I sure as heck don't want this junk...but I'm pretty sure you'd pay good money for it.

But aside from the vaguely nagging fears that I'll one day be buried alive in a pile of old Real Simples and boots that will never fit me (except that they WILL!), here are some upsides of hoarding that I didn't fully expect.

5. I found a full 3-ring binder of notes from a guy in high school that, up until this project began, I did not recollect dating. He was an absolutely appalling writer, but it was kinda sweet to read 'good luck' notes for various cross-country meets and 'can you believe that episode of Friends' missives. And he obviously must've meant something to me since I took the time to organize his notes chronologically and capture them for the next fifteen years in binder form. But then again, maybe not. I had an awful lot of free time on my hands back then.

4. My daughter plays with every single one of my trolls and My Little Ponies. And Cabbage Patch Kids. My porcelain dolls grace her bookshelf (and dresser and end table). My dollhouses are back in Pittsfield, MA, awaiting the correct transpo to the Midwest, much to the joy of my folks and chagrin of my husband. I love that Nora loves playing with my favorite childhood things. Even moreso, I love that my husband- just last night- correctly identified not only the pony named Posey, but also which gardening hat was hers.

3. I came upon an entire desk drawer filled with old day planners. Originally intending to pitch the whole lot, I enjoyed a few moments of mirth at what I used to believe was a Busy Day. (Um, two years ago.) And sure, while I threw out most of them, I ended up keeping pages worthy of framing and/or collaging. The 50s housewife artwork pages, not my daily schedule. No one cares what time I had a failed Budweiser audition. (10am.)

2. The shopping bag full of shells that I've collected from roughly 1989 'til now. The leftover ones, that is. (Surely you don't think my collection could be contained in one plastic bag, do you?) I rolled my eyes at my excessive saving and storing...until I remembered that I'd have three little girls at my house today who LOVE to glue things! Well, two of them do. One [mine] likes to poke at shells. But whatever. With this many aquatic remains, she can fling them at the wall for all I care. One hour of the day- scheduled.

1. As was just pointed out to me by my eight year-old pal, it's good to look back and get excited about stuff you loved and saved when you were little.

Especially when you're really, really old.