Yes, ma'am, we are relations

I had grand delusions about all the project doing and people seeing I was going to accomplish in Ohio where I spent the last week. Among these was spending time in the photo annals of our family albums. I only managed to skim through one album, but it netted me this choice picture. I showed it to my stepfather and he asked who the little girl was with Madigan. Bing Bing Bing! Here I am with my baby sister, Christmas 198something in our rustic kitchen in Lakewood, Ohio.

And here is my daughter, Summer 2010, snacking per usual.

Blood. It's thicker than water.

Hi from Church Camp

I didn't attend Vacation Bible School when I was little. Catholic doctrine every school day for nine months plus Sunday mass must have seemed adequate for my Jesus learnin'. Summers were for hanging out with heathens anyway, right? Needless to say, I didn't know how to explain Vacation Bible School to Baby Girl. I told her all day that we were going to Bible camp. Girlfriend knows that certain books in our house are called Bible, but I'm not sure she knows the theological weight they carry. What I do know is that every time this one particular gal pal comes over, who happens to be Jewish, Baby Girl goes and fetches her children's picture Bible and insists our friend read it aloud to her. Sneaky little evangelist, that one. Anyway, I wasn't sure if she would dig Vacay Bible Pow-wow Boot Camp Thing since I wasn't able to give her a sense of the what, who, how, why...only the when...but on our way there tonight, she said, "We're going to church camp?" Duh, mama. Why didn't you just distill it like that?

It was a little over her head, the games and skit-making and so forth. And she kept looking for the organist. But there were juiceboxes? So maybe we'll go back tomorrow?

Trophy Babies

This is my trophy son wrapped in a frog towel.

This is my trophy daughter who once upon a time was swaddled in that same towel.

This is my trophy son demonstrating male pattern balding.

This is my trophy daughter with her movie star hair and superstar shades.

This is my trophy son taking a nap and looking like he could be rotisseried.

This is my trophy daughter interrupting that nap.

This is my trophy daughter so tuckered out that she fell into naptime half seated on a comfy chair.

This is me proudly holding one of my babies as if he were a trophy, and the truth is that he is hardly such a totem.  A trophy is sought after and earned, flaunted, and then stacked high on a shelf or shielded in a case to be admired and perhaps forgotten.  My babies are on lease to me, I didn't earn them, they are not mine to flaunt or showcase.  But you can be sure I will never ever place them on a high shelf.  At least not one that can't be reached with a stepstool.