I’m just weeks away from having a brand new nephew. Squishy baby thighs, the sweet-smelling head, midnight feedings – I’m in love with the whole package.
I want to name him Thor, but his middle name is Thorn, and my brother is not fun enough to name him Thor Thorn Woodruff. Wilder was another suggestion, also quickly vetoed due to the strong possibility of being called “Wascally Wilder Woodwuff” a la Bugs Bunny.
Whatever name they choose, he’ll be fabulous and I can’t wait to meet him.
Thirteen is hard, but this girl is doing it well. I love her.
It’s not news that I have amazing neighbors. On both sides, even. We really lucked out.
They are warm and inclusive and flexible. They feed any child who happens to appear at the dinner table. We borrow flour and eggs from one another, but also beer and poker chips. It’s pretty close to an ideal situation.
They’re tattooed, too, which isn’t a requirement for “Best Neighbors Ever,” but it certainly doesn’t hurt.
One recent Friday night, the mamas chatted in the yard while children careened down the hill on bikes and scooters. Tricia mentioned that there was an open gym at a local Ninja Warrior Training Studio the following morning and offered to take the kids. It was a new experience, and we’re all about trying new things, so at way-too-early Saturday morning, I kissed their heads and sent them next door to catch a ride to the gym. I worried briefly that I should go with them -Ninja Warrior sounds pretty hard core.
“Nah,” I thought. “They’ll be ok.”
Looks like they were more than ok. They had a blast and came home tired, sore, and bleeding (but just a little bit) and can’t wait to do it again.
She ran UP that wall and climbed on top.
It was a good day for Team TuckerMom. Catie found a dime at Publix, Emmaline discovered 2 books on Alcatraz at the thrift shop and I received not one but TWO checks for freelance work in today’s mail.
Aspen, however, made the biggest score of the day while we were out for an afternoon walk – a barely used Vienna Sausage.
I adore live theater. It almost always makes me cry, simply because of the passion and dedication of the actors. I’m especially grateful at shows from tiny, hole in the wall companies where the actors often have to double as ticket takers and clean up crew.
It doesn’t really matter if the play is a comedy or a tragedy, a brand new production or a classic. I get teary during all of them. The entire crew works so hard – not because they will make loads of (or any) money or because they are a breath away from their big break, but because they love it. They love the art and music and joy of a live performance.
Growing up, we saw plays at least as often as we went to movies. Public library productions of Brigadoon, Arsenic and Old Lace in an old barn that a local college transformed into a theater, Fiddler on the Roof at a “real” playhouse, and many more shows dotted the timeline of my childhood and teenage years. When there was no play to go see, my siblings and cousins would put on performances of our own. (Though our company was temporarily shut down after performing Annie at the beach and wanting to hang the smallest cousin off the balcony to re-enact Annie dangling from the railroad tracks.)
Recently I had the opportunity to see West Side Story at Fabrefaction Theater here in Atlanta. Though my enthusiasm for the show was impressive and I invited half a dozen people to go with me, Catie was the only taker.
We had a ball! One of the only children in the audience, Catie was doted on by the ticket takers and shown to the best seat in the house by the manager. She loved the live music and all of the dancing. At intermission, Catie declared West Side Story her favorite musical of all time.
Perhaps, though, I should have better prepared her for the ending.