My Family's Ridiculously Close Call At The Boston Marathon.

This is not my story. It's my family's story.

My family was in Boston on Marathon Monday. My entire side of the family. My marathoner sister Rachel- who raised over 11k in honor of my Dad for Dana Farber- my parents, my sister Emily, Rachel's best friend Barry, my sister Kate, her husband Tom, and their three little boys Quinn, Cole, and Declan.

I wasn't there. I was at Disneyland. (More on that bizarre juxtaposition later.)

When the first bomb went off, my family was seated in V.I.P. bleachers at the finish line. As fate would have it, they had recently been gifted these stellar seats by a wonderful family friend, otherwise they would have instead been mere feet across the street to watch Rachel cross the finish; the spot where they normally stand and cheer, the exact location of the first bomb.

In fact, Kate and the boys were standing on that spot only the day before, cheering on Tom for a 5k he ran on Sunday.

This picture- which made the front of the New York Post and Boston.com- is an image of my family fleeing the bleachers. They're the ones looping around and running down the stairs. This photo simply haunts me.

Photo credit: David L. Ryan/ Globe Staff

If they had been standing in their usual viewing area, I might not have my family.

If my Dad hadn't decided to stay back at the hotel because he wasn't feeling well, or if Tom hadn't decided on a whim to run the last two miles with Rachel, or if Tom hadn't brought his cell phone, or if Kate- at eight months pregnant- hadn't been so quick to grab Declan, or if Emily hadn't taken off work or Barry hadn't decided to adjust his plans or if Emily and Barry and my Mom hadn't been so quick to grab Quinn and Cole, and if and if and if.

Back in Anaheim, P.J. had been holding my phone and saw that a call was coming in from my Dad. We were on a gigantic carousel with the girls at the time, and more than a little confused as to why my Dad would be calling right around the time Rachel was hitting Mile 24.

"Something's wrong," P.J. told me.

As it was, "we" were very lucky. Tom helped Rachel finish her marathon- albeit by the waterside- and my family members eventually all met back up after taking convoluted routes through Boston, staying well away from the crowds and main thoroughfares. As Kate told us- "Clearly someone crazy had planted devices in the area, so how was I to know which way to go?"

I'm grateful that they were able to contact Tom (whom, as Kate informed me, never runs with a phone) and Rachel, diverting them from the finish line and letting them know everyone was okay.

I'm angry that Rachel, after training so hard and earning this for herself and our Dad, was denied the thrill of crossing the finish line for her first marathon.

I'm devastated for the innocent victims and their families. Crushed. Horrified.

I'm guilty that I was so incredibly far away, waiting in line at the tea cups and pretending normalcy for Nora and Susannah, while simultaneously waiting on reassuring texts that the group had found one another. Watching people shove to the front of the churro cart while refreshing our browsers and feeds.

I'm saddened for my nephews, who saw and smelled and felt things which no one should ever have to experience.

And I'm grieving that this- which is not my story, but instead a retelling from someone standing at multiple "30 minutes to ride from this point" signs- is a slap in the face to the marathon and Patriot's Day and everything Boston holds dear.

I'm so lucky to have my family safe and sound. Others weren't lucky. This is a national tragedy and a horrifying state of affairs and the stuff of nightmares. But right now, I can't help but feel lucky (and all of those messy emotions which come along with it) that they're okay. That a series of coincidences added up to have each of them in the right place at the right time. And I have to go with that one. Blessed. Fortunate. Providential.

Lucky.

Norman Rockwell It Ain't.

Happy Easter!

Love,
The Confused Todder (Awake Since 1:45am)
The Jellybean Thief (Vibrating With Sugar In The Background)
The Crab Apple Gal (Pondering A 4th Cup Of Coffee)
And The Determined Guy (Having A Magical Day, DARN IT.)

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.)

Happy Anniversary, You Crazy Kids!

This couple.

They met and decided to go have some wild adventures and then he built her a house on Cape Cod.
Then they had a kid.
(And then they had this kid.)

And then two more kids, which everyone agreed was a) not "a little brother" and b) not "a trip to Disney World."

Then came two more houses, at least three business ventures, and a whole menagerie, which [eventually] included five dogs, five cats, two hamsters, and at least thirty fish.

And they are now these folks. (Smushed in the back.)

And we clearly no longer allow them to take pictures by themselves.

Today is their 39th anniversary. (40th for dating.) Here's what I wrote to them two years ago. And it's still all true. (Especially the bit about my Dad not being able to brush a decent ponytail. But since he's more than come through in other aspects, we'll continue to let it slide.)

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. May you have another 40 [gazillion]. The traditional gift for "39" is lace. But I think we all know what your hearts desire...

A much bigger couch.

Trees And Panic And Church. And Drinking.

"I have no idea what's happening!"- Suzy

I've been feeling very behind, rather frantic, and Not. In. The. Holiday. Spirit. At. All.

And as ads (and Facebook) have been reminding me...there's only a few short weeks left to get it all done. And this made me panic.

Until I realized that it's December 3rd. THIRD. Not twenty-third. This is actually the official start to the Christmas season. It's true. Think about it: When you were a little kid and read (or watched) aaaaaany story that concerned Christmas...did it take place in October or November? Nope. It was somewhere smackdab in the middle of December. (And generally somewhere smackdab in the middle of the Midwest. I don't know why these shows always concerned families residing in Indiana or Illinois, I just remember that they did. Maybe I'm thinking of John Hughes films.) 

Anyhow. I'm trying desperately hard to enjoy this season. We got our tree this weekend (at the traditional Home Depot tree lot) and as we pulled into the parking lot I had to reassure myself that there would still be "good" trees. On December 1st. (There were.) Nora was stoked beyond belief to choose a tree that "wasn't too thin." Susannah was rather confused but determined to enjoy herself. (And P.J. did that Guy Thing with the tree man where they spun the tree and banged the trunk officially.) 

That night, the girls were positively vibrating off the ground with tree ornament excitement. Zuzu's job was to walk across the room with larger ornaments, hide them under a shoe, squeal excitedly at them, and then fling them in the general direction of the tree. Nora's job was to carefully suspend nine ornaments on the same branch, roughly two inches from the floor. They did this for an hour and a half. And honestly? That was magical. 

Everything you need to know is
going down in this very pic.

The next day we went to the 10am mass, which was being said for my Dad. (Thanks, Kris!!) P.J. was actually the one who got to say the intentions for my Dad, which was rather special (even though, at the time, Nora was attempting to raise and lower the kneeler onto the pregnant lady next to us and Susannah was preoccupied with peeing through her outfit onto my shirt). But being there made me think of the Christmas stuff I treasured doing with my family growing up- and especially my Dad. Like getting the tree. Hanging the lights. Watching the favorite TV specials (over and over and over). Having him read The Night Before Christmas to the four of us girls. And then the four of us girls and the five grandkids. Having a cordial glass of peppermint schnapps on the rocks in front of the fire (which, as he's repeatedly told me, is the perfect Christmastime drink). 

I would so love to be sitting in front of the fire drinking something with him right now. I'm sure he'd dig that, too.

Because I am his favorite.

But for now, I'll try really hard to slow down and not feel the Christmas Panic every morning and night.  I bet a schnapps would help. 

Maybe just a [singular] schnapp. 

Thankfulitude.

Today, I am thankful for so many things. My adorable (and adoring) husband. My hilarious (and edible) children. A job I love that [sometimes] pays. A job I love that never pays (but one which I want to keep doing until the cows come home). My sister and her husband and my sister and her boyfriend and my sister. (I realize that this sounds like a lot of men for one sister.) My nephews. Extended family. Bestie friends, both far-flung and near-flung. Our kitten-cats. This blog. The tamale lady on our corner. 

But today I'm extra-special-thankful for my parents. Because today is her birthday and he could use a bit of bolstering.

And because they're still young and in love.

And because he taught me everything I know about music and she taught me everything I know about Golden Age movies.

And because even with a house full of four kids (and later their boyfriends, husbands, kids, luggage, and a small legion of sippy cups and used towels)...they've never once told us to go away. [Out loud.]

And because- for all they've done for us and will continue to do (because we're not leaving)- they deserve all the love and blessing and thanks and positive energy this world can muster. 

Starting with me. (And hopefully you.) 

Happy Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Party, Part 1.

The aunts and uncles are arriving! And they have boundless energy!

Pops are always good for a story.

When all else fails, put on a movie and someone
will most likely toss a blanket on you.

Over The River And Through The Woods...

We could've saved a ton on beds. 

Early Saturday morning, the four of us took off for my folks' house in Massachusetts, a roughly seventeen hour drive. (Because a 2k pricetag to voluntarily drag my kids through holiday week airports didn't quite compute.) My brain, spine, and eyeballs have yet to fully recover (from things like stopping three times in the first two hours)...so for now, here's a few key highlights of the journey. 

-Adding to our Thanks A Lot, Ohio, list: We were pulled over for doing a bit more than sixty in a sixty zone. Which P.J. erroneously believed was a seventy zone. (But it was even a slight bit more than seventy.) Double unfortunately, we were seven hours into the drive and the girls had just fallen asleep. P.J., fearing that his wife would divorce him over the potential for their crabapple children to awaken, whispered to the state trooper and asked if he could step out of the vehicle because of his sleeping kids. The trooper wasn’t impressed. Told him to stay in the car. Seemed disproportionately annoyed. And handed out a whopper of a ticket.

-Checked into a Red Roof Inn in Erie, PA. P.J. and I took one bed, Nora [happily] took another “stretch out” bed, and a pack n’ play for Susannah was shoved between the two. Which would’ve worked out fine, if not for the fact that Nora WAS SO EXCITED until about midnight (roughly two hours after her father began the Dead To The World snore) and Zu was curiously peeking over the side of her crib like a concerned meerkat every half an hour throughout the evening and morning. Let’s just say that, if this were The Little House On The Prairie, Livin’ In A One Room House era, we would’ve lasted precisely one night.

-Entering into New York state and immediately seeing picturesque trees and shadowy hills, all encrusted with fairylike frost. P.J. and I excitedly pointed out the new landscape to the girls…who were wildly unimpressed. Nora purported to see “nothing.” Susannah grunted unhappily and filled her diaper.

-Shortly thereafter, I was humongously unprepared to see a deer pass us in the righthand lane. Quite dead. Strapped to a bicycle rack, posed in a questionable Superman position. I informed Peej that I needed a bit of warning for that type of peripheral ambush, but he didn’t share my dismay. “That deer is flying like Superman! He is having a great time!”

-We stopped at a recently renovated McDonalds in Owego, NY. The reopening of this establishment had been written about in the Pennysaver, and apparently caused the whole town to come out and wait in hourlong lines. Also, every single person interviewed was over-the-top enthused about reclaiming their Mickey D’s, a fact that brought me to Ugly Tears with its genuine Americana pride.

More later. But for now, more coffee. More [amazing] food. More forced naptimes for kids who aren't exactly sure in which time zone they currently reside. 

But no more car for a little bit.

When Did Monday Become "Photo Essay" Day?

It's now officially Fall, so this weekend was mandatory Drive Your Kids Across State Lines For Apple Pickin' Day (Observed). We went to a super sweet orchard in Hobart, Indiana, and had a great time- even though there weren't any actual "apples" on the "trees." Due to the awful growing season, they had to think outside the box. Er, branch. 

So they rigged- I kid you not- gutters between the trees and filled them with apples from all over the Midwest so people could still feel like they were "picking." The gals all had an amazing time because, while living in our neighborhood, they've seen far weirder things hanging from trees and houses and cars. 

And as my friend Tim observed- Bad season for the apple growers. Excellent season for the plastic gutter industry.

Mom, I have ONE tooth.

Apple Dumpling herself.

Confused Dumpling.

C'mere, doll. Eat this thing in your face.

Hey big girls- can I have some?

No, for real...can I have one?

Mooooooom...

Owww...

Fine. Here. Eat this apple. Just take it.

Psych!

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.

Cincinnati In REALLY Short Spurts.

Due to my jaw-dropping new levels of lazitude, I'm feelin' more like posting a few of my favorite pix from this past weekend (as opposed to blathering on for a thousand words) AND haven't had a chance to watermark any of these photos, either. So, if you're like the one person who keeps trying to steal these images...do me a solid today and leave 'em alone, yeah? 

Without further ado (oh, who am I kidding- there's always "ado" for days around here)...I present to you: Pictures From Our 36 Hour Jaunt To Cincinnati In Order To FINALLY Meet The Newest Members Of The Family. 

A bluegrass festival was attended. Nora, who protested her nap for a goodly two hours,
fell asleep as we hit the parking lot. Peej, ever-game, laid on the steps with her like a
good pair of street urchins. Susannah looks really weirded out.

Oh, Pop-Pop. You're hilarious.

I love this pic because they look a) simultaneously really
involved in something,and b) like a pair of twins, size-wise.

Everyone spent the festival teaching the baby how to toast her
sippy and yell "cheers!" THANKS, EVERYONE.

Dorrie is the Pied Piper. Boden, Mikey, Nora, and baby
Finn are having a blast. Dorrie is more than a little dizzy.

The babies themselves! Peej's Mom snuggles Rian, while P.J. holds Miss Finley.
(Note- I did not try to steal them, but I did spend an inordinate amount of time smelling
their baby heads. Seriously, people, seriously. Baby Head Smell.)

Zuzu gives pat-pat-pats to Grandma Jane. (Which is good, because Nora roundly snubbed Grandma in
favor of attempting to fall into the fish pond. She later came back with a dandelion for her-
to match her sweater- but then promptly took it back to give to me. So, uh, thank you
Susannah. Way to bring a little charm to this team.)

'Not Gonna Labor' Day.

In honor of Labor Day, I'm gonna do what I do every Monday of a long weekend:

Complain that we didn't get as much done as I had wanted...

And wonder why I completely lose my drive and energy as soon as there's one more adult in the house.

Don't be like me. Enjoy this day to its fullest! Eat some ice cream.

Stop and smell the flowers.

And don't even think about doing the laundry.

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.

Travel Tips.

Our [sandy] nomadic days have come to an end. We've eaten and road-tripped our way up the Eastern seaboard and here is a smattering of the things I've learned:

-Outdoor showers (while totally amazing-feeling) never quite get one fully clean.

-For that matter, no matter how many loads of laundry one does while staying at the beach, one will find a veritable desert of sand in her washing machine at home.

-Even though my mother purports to hate a fuss being made over her, she'll cry with happiness at each new surprise partygoer walking through the door (with a combination of joy and anger that I'm going to go ahead and term "janger." Example: "This is ridiculous. You did not have to travel all this way to see me," she exclaimed jangrily.)

The birthday girl with her favorite daughter.
Also, an epic photobomb by Rachel.

-The new Trivial Pursuit Bet You Know It game is incredibly fun but- like any other game which requires placing bets against other players' knowledge- is incredibly detrimental to a marriage. (One of us may have thrown a wedding band against a couch.)

-Susannah does not want to leave the water, whether the ocean is in Massachusetts or Maine. So don't even try that junk anymore.

-Nora has eaten all of the chocolate munchkins on the East Coast.

-My Dad has purchased for Nora all of the chocolate munchkins on the East Coast.

You missed a crumb there, kid.

-Lobster should be Maine's chief export. (Is it?) Or maybe it used to be, before I ate it all.

-Watching Olympic gymnastics makes me feel a) patriotic, and b) like maybe I could have actually participated in Olympic gymnastics.

-If, for example, one nannied for a family for nine years, extreme shock will occur upon the realization that the eldest is almost as tall as the nanny and the youngest is quite good at walking around with the nanny's baby.

If they're this grown up, that makes me...close to nineteen years old. 

-Vacations with one's children are not as restful as traveling without one's children (but a thousand and two times more restful than traveling with someone else's children).

-And finally: if the traveler has the childlike sensibilities of sheltered ferret, it will take roughly one week for the traveler to not bolt upright at every little sound on their godforsaken street at 3am, wondering whose bed/cat/baby is in the room, and inform her husband that ocean sounds "a little weird."

However, if the traveler's husband is anything like mine, he is no longer surprised by anything the traveler says or does, nor is he alarmed by the possibility of a weird ocean.

Which makes him a key element in future travel plans.

"Weird ocean? Sure thing, honey. I'll take care of it."

Somewhere On The Eastern Shore...

Here are a few of the reasons why I'm not so awesomesauce on the posting/responding this week... (Please forgive. I'll save you a drink.)

The ratio of people/faces turned towards the camera is astounding.

Squnch.

Gleeful sandbarring.

Totally could surf on her own.

Think she digs it.