Oh snap!

Sometimes motherhood is a bear.  It seems it is not enough to merely confess that I have no idea what I am doing.  I think it is more accurate to say that, indeed, I am part of the problem.  I know what to do and do not do it and leave undone the things which should be done.  (I'm pretty sure there is a prayer of confession that says just that.)  Were I to go to a deserted island, a perfect utopia, an Eden, upon my arrival chaos would insue.  Motherhood really is the blind leading the blind.  And folks, we are lost.  Lost, I tell you.  I am ever so grateful that God is far more concerned about the hearts of my kids than I am. And in fact, He has the power to do something about it and has done it.  It is not flippantly that I say "Hallelujah!" to this notion.  The big work of parenting, the dealing with sin and anger and selfishness, has been done and not by me.  Can I get an Amen?!?

I've come to this place by way of my son's mouth.  In typical 2 year old fashion, Henry is a biter.  In fact, last week at Bible Study, I saw a little girl in Henry's class with a big gash on her face and thought, "Whoa, dude, I'd hate to see the other guy."  Imagine my horror when upon picking him up, I find out that Henry is the other guy.  We explained to Henry that a)we don't bite, b)we especially don't bite girls, c) we especially don't bite on the face where everyone can see it, and d) we especially don't bite the daughters of Judges.  We laughed at the last two instructions, but as I did, I recognized that what was really troubling me, more than my son's own errant behavior, was my attaching my own value to it. The fact that I was more concerned about what people would think of me as a parent than I was the selfish heart of my son.  Because it is all about me, right?

Drat.  Double drat.

And so we are attempting to love him and discipline him through this phase without giving weight to our own embarrasment and shame that our kid is the biter.  This morning in class he pushed a kid.  I explained to the mom that I didn't mean to seem excited my son hit her son, but that at least we were moving in the right direction.  Apparently, in my mind, pushing is a more socially acceptable form of dealing with one's own anger, right?  I mean, he is two. 

It has not gone unnoticed that his temper arrived about the same time as Gracie.  And he does stuggle finding the right words sometimes.  I'd like to think that once he gets a better grasp on his language this will all go away.    I've even bandied about the idea teaching him to cuss, because let's face it, isn't that what I do?  I think I'm going to teach him to say, "Oh snap!" when he is mad.  Because it isn't crass and quite frankly, it would be down right hilarious.  I tried to tell him to say, "Oh man!" but then he told me he was going to act like Swiper the fox.  No, Henry, I don't want you to be a thief. 

Someone also suggested that perhaps Henry does not know he is hurting his friends and that I needed to "bite him back."  I understand the logic in this.  And I appreciate that you think my son will be loving once he knows he is hurting people.  The problem with this idea is that I've met his mother and I've seen the way she speaks to his father and his grandparents.  And if my own behavior is any indicator, education will not be my or my son's salvation.  The fact that my words hurt is one of the reasons I say them when I am mad or when you get in my way, or when perhaps, you are unaware that this is the portion of the day where you are to be worshipping me. 

The issue at hand is that my son and I both have a problem.  A problem SO big and grotesque that God Himself had to step in and do something about it.  We're sinners.  OK, let me just confess my own sins, here.  I am a sinner.  Not just because of what I say when I am mad, but because of who I am.  A fellow parent, trying to encourage me, said that I just need to teach him a way to accept not getting his own way and how to deal with his anger.  Are there classes where they teach this?  I need this class.  If I wait around for Henry to be okay with not getting his way, we'll still be waiting when I die.  I'm not okay with not getting my own way.  In fact, I've created this whole mythical place called Elizabethtown where I am Lord apparent. 

See my problem?  See why I am the blind leading the blind?

So I am coming at this from a different way.  Yes, I am his mother and authority figure.  This authority comes not from my own wisdom or deserving of it, but from God.  Yet, I also pray to be my son's Sister.  And it is with this freedom I am approaching the situation.  Every time Henry and I meet in a bathroom to repeat the phrase "No biting" and pray for a kind and gentle mouth, I am adding my name to the prayer.  That in as much as I list things that God gave us mouths for--laughing, singing, telling the truth, praising God, eating candy, I am preaching to myself these very things.  Every time I tell Henry to ask for forgiveness for biting, I ask for forgiveness as well.  I'm not a biter, it is just my own need to be God manifests itself in more social acceptable ways--sarcasm, silence, and some phrases far more caustic than "Oh, snap!".  And yet, as I'm finding out, these ways are not just unacceptable to God, but down right offensive. I don't think that God really cares if I change my words from four letter words to the faux curse words parents love--fudge, dagnabit, cheese and rice, WTF (or What the Kiffin in my Tennessee fan mode...)--because beneath these cutesy cuss words lies the bile in my heart.  And that bile is what is offensive.  I can wrap it in a pretty bow, but it still gift wrapped poo.

But, oh snap!  How great a thing it is to know that God is still forming His image in me.  That while I am not content to let Henry bite all his classmates, God is not content to let me bite either.  That His love for me and my son is so intense and passionate, He has provided a way, in Jesus, to receive ample mercy.  That we are not only forgiven, but made RIGHT!  (Because being right is sooooo much better than simply being forgiven.)

Dear Lord, Heal the mouths of the Phillips family.  Forgive us for wanting to be You.  Thank you that we are not. 

Because Lionel Richie is Da Bomb

*******Warning.  This is the premier post for one of Elizabethtown's newest blog contributors:  Gracie Phillips.  She found out Henry has posted before and also that her one true love Grayson was a blogger and she wanted in.  The following comments do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions held in Elizabethtown, but are the sole property of the aforementioned Gracie Phillips.*****************

Hello!  Is it me you're looking for?

I would like to take a pause to tell you that I am three months old now, people, and so I have some wisdom to share.  The first is that I have discovered a way to get what I want in terms of wardrobe--and it is easy like Sunday morning, yo.  I am writing this down so my teenage self will remember--when Mom dresses you in something you don't want to wear, poop in it.  And I mean really grunt and groan if you have to.  Get that poo all the way up your back.  Don't be afraid of the poop.  Who cares if it collecting in the bottom of your tights or gets in your hair?!  Whining is for amateurs.  If you really want to drive the point home, poo as soon as your diaper has been changed.  If you poo enough, if it is really stuck on you, you will get a bath.  And bathtime is what I like to call Awesome time!  Am I right?

My mom wanted to take my three month picture in this "G is for Girl" shirt and giraffe jeans my Aunt Pam gave me.  Don't get me wrong.  I look super chill in this outfit.  The jeans have a giant pink bow at the waist.  It is just that, well, I really wanted something a bit more girly for the photo shoot, seeing as I am three times a lady.    So I pooped on my shirt.  Not my pants, mind you, but my shirt.  Because I like to see Mom be confused.  So then Mom changed me into this little bunny outfit with purple leggings.  Also cute, but not the look I was going for.  So I pooped on them before we even got on the matching cardigan.  And then I looked at Mom and said, "Ha Ha Ha!"  Mom said because I am young I can get away with such blatant acts of disrespect, but sooner or later she would drop the hammer and that laughing at her would not be tolerated.  Whatevs, peeps. 

All that being said, I would, however, not suggest pooping this often for a week.  I got so good at pooping that I kind of have forgotten how not to.  I kind of like to poop during every bottle.  And everytime I sneeze.  Mommy calls it "poop soup". She had stuck me on some type of probiotic junk.  This apparently did not stop my pooping so she called the doctor and now it is Pedialyte for me.  Now she is going to starve me.  Maybe this is what her dropping the hammer looks like?  She and brother get to have pizza and meet Auntie Robin at Palani Drive and I'm stuck with unflavored Pedialyte. 

Which brings me to my second bone to pick with the 'rents--my weight.  You see, I like to eat.  I like to eat A LOT.  As in every four to five hours, and sometimes every three in the daytime, I like to have 7 or 8 ounces of formula.  I have been getting better about sleeping all night long.  I sleep through the night now about half of the time.  I never sleep through the night when it is Daddy's turn to get up with me.  Mommy thinks it is because I love her the best.  It is because I think Daddy is very handsome and he lets me watch shows like Modern Marvels.  Mommy justs sits with me in the dark and says things like "Night time is for sleeping".  I swear I've even seen her nod off mid bottle.  I really question her parenting skills. 

Also, I would like to take this opportunity to set the record straight.  I'm not fat; I'm thick.  It's a cultural thing.  So please, could you stop calling me "chubby bunny", "chunk-style", "chunkaliscous", "Mommy's little Sumo wrestler", or "Buddha".  My preferred nickname is "Brickhouse".  Because I am mighty mighty and I like to let it all hang out.

Shake it down, shake it down now.

Gracie Grab Bag

Gracie is a daddy's girl.  She loves nothing more than to help Daddy bring home the bacon.  Me and Henry?  We like bacon, both figuratively and literally.  As in when I cook it, Henry runs into the kitchen and yells "BACON!"  It's like he's that dog on Beggin' Strips commercials.  I think it is from the large quantities of the yummy pork product I ate while preggers.

And some of you have asked to see Gracie's room. (Nice transition, huh?) Here it is.

  I like to think it is a bit Pottery Barn Kids, a bit Target, a bit hand me down, and a bit yard sale finds (like the white Vintage Samsonite luggage I'm using as storage in her closet I got for $10.) 

This was my grandmother's bed that we're passing down to Gracie.  The quilt at the end of it was made by my great grandmother.  I blatantly stole it from my Mom's house.  But it looks great, right?  And I'm making a decoupage collage birdy to hang above her bed. 

And just in case your cute quotient hasn't been met today.  Get ready for this one.  You're gonna die...

This is the face I get to kiss anytime I want.  God is so good!

Let Reedom Fing! (Or What MLK day means to this white woman)

This afternoon, the Phillips family started a new tradition--The King Party. When I told Gracie we were having a party, she got so excited she pooped in her pants. She was really excited--there was poop up her back and even in her socks. And then she pooped again while I was changing her diaper. I think she just wanted to take a bath, do her hair, and put on something pretty for the party.  What a diva!  (Like mother like daughter...)

I told Henry, "This afternoon, we're going to have a party. A King Party."

"McQueen party?"

"No, Henry. KING. McQueen can come. All are welcome at the King party. But we will be having a birthday party to celebrate Martin Luther King's birthday."

"Presents?"

"No. There won't be presents?"

But what the heck would there be? I sort of came up with this idea while in a vomit induced haze over the weekend. Hmmmm. What does one do to celebrate MLK day?

Well, as everyone knows, a party must have some entertainment. Originally I envisioned me reading Henry the speech while he and his sister lovingly sat still, sitting cross legged on the family room floor. But then I woke up and knew that wasn't going to happen. Maybe someday, but not this year. Instead, I opted for reading a Martin Luther King, Jr. book and also a children's Bible story version of The Good Samaritan. I read the Good Samaritan because I want my children to know that King didn't come up with this idea himself. No, King was a spokesperson for the God he loved. A modern day prophet, called to speak God's truth that we are all created in God's image. That when we hurt another person for the color of their skin, we offend and hurt the very heart of God. God created men and women of all different shades of brown and white and yellow and red to reflect His nature. Even God is diverse in and of Himself--three in one and all that jazz. So it is only when we come together to work, play, serve, and worship can we reflect His glory.

(Can you tell that Henry was more interested in the jelly beans than having his photo taken?)

After reading the stories, we colored for awhile. Because there is usually a craft portion to children's parties. Then we watched King's speech on You Tube. This was managed by me slowly dolling out more jelly beans and popcorn while Gracie and Henry sat on my lap. (Because what is a party without candy and popcorn?) Henry would point to the screen and say "Martin! Martin!" (In the story book, they called him Martin. I tried to get him to call him Dr. King, but in Henry's mind there is only one Doctor and that is Doc Hudson.) When people would clap, Henry would cheer "Hooray!" and my personal favorite was toward the end of the speech when Henry chanted "Let Reedom Fing! Let Reedom Fing!"

So I think from now on we will have "Reedom Fing" parties. This will be particularly embarrassing for Henry when he is a teenager. Bonus for Mommy. We tried inviting some friends over for the party, but their Mommy politely declined coming over to the vomit house for at least another week. But next year I'm hoping to have over a couple of families and perhaps make cupcakes.

A good party also has good music. So we danced to Stevie Wonder, Sam Cooke, Michael Jackson, Jack Johnson, and John Denver. Because good music knows no color.

And we wore party hats. Just 'cause.

Ok. So this year's party was a little lame. Just me and the kids. But it is a start. I don't want my kids to see this holiday like I did growing up--just an excuse for a three day weekend.

You see, I realized, that if it weren't for King, and men and women like him, my family would be illegal. And so part of the purpose of the Reedom Fing party is simply to celebrate our family that God so beautifully knit together. I want my children to look up to Dr. King, not because he was a Civil Rights leader, but because he spoke the truth. Because he saw Sin in the world and chose to act against it. Because he did not let fear or other's people's lies rule his life.  Because he spoke for the disinherited.  Because he was a man after God's own heart.  And I want my children to dream big dreams that only God can cause to happen.

A lot of people don't know the Bible well enough to know that large chunks of King's speech are Scripture. That it is God King is invoking to exalt the valleys and make mountains low. Or that when he tells us that "we will not be satisfied until 'justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream" he is alluding to the prophet Amos who basically brings the hammer down on those who oppress the poor. That the life of Christ is the very picture of unearned suffering being redemptive, of "meeting physical force with soul force".

I am very thankful to not be able to imagine a world where it is okay to not let people eat in your restaurant because they are black. My friend was trying to explain the holiday to her 5 year old daughter, Anna. And Anna kept saying, "I don't understand. Why would people be so mean?" And all my friend could come up with was "I don't know. Isn't it crazy? We celebrate this man because he told them they were wrong and being mean and that they shouldn't do it anymore." Anna was very happy that Dr. King set things aright. And so are we.

Thank you, Dr. King for dreaming big. For dreaming that one day little black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys as sisters and brothers. The Phillips family, if ever so feebly, is living that dream.

Of course, I have a dream too--that one day my little white son will take the hand of my little black daughter and they will clean up after themselves...

I blame Ann

I would like to say that I am the hostess with the mostess.  And maybe that is true if by "mostess" you mean gastrointestinal problems...

Friday, I watched my dear friend Ann's daughter Emily for the day.  Ann picked her up a bit early because Ann got sick at work.  Thus begins the story of the dozens of texts between my house and Ann's describing our sickness. 

Our beloved friends Jackie and Cary drove down from Baltimore with their two kids, Natalie (2 1/2) and Jackson (8 months).  We had planned a weekend of girl time, Wii time, and serious pajama wearing time.  I made yummy salmon for dinner on Friday night.  And then, promptly, around 9pm on Friday, I felt yucky.  By 10 pm I was in the bathroom, where I would spend most of Friday night.  And to be clear, having eaten salmon does NOT make one's vomit smell any better.  It does, however, make it pink. 

I stopped counting the times I puked after 16. 

On Saturday, I stayed in bed, not wanting to spead the funk.  I was very lonely, with no one to talk to save the texts from Ann.  Jackie and Cary took Natalie and Henry to the playground down the street, while Sloan stayed home with Gracie and Jackson.  Henry refused to eat his lunch and fell asleep while playing around 12:30.  This is NOT typical behavior for him.  Sloan started feeling queesy around 4.  Jackie and Cary decided to go home around 5.  Which is about the time I started feeling human again.  (If you don't count the fact that my neck and back are killing me and I'm almost positive I have a bruised if not broken rib.)  By the time I was out of the shower, it was 6 pm, my house guests had left, and the other three Phillips' were asleep in their beds.  Knowing Henry would be afraid if he did get sick, I bunked in with him and enjoyed some cuddles.  I am ever so glad he has a queen size bed.

Henry puked on me around 9 pm.  It was BRIGHT green.  And I was correct, it did frighten him.  But unlike my husband (and Ann's husband), Henry is a trooper.  A sick person extraordinaire.  As soon as I put him in the bath tub and brushed his teeth, he was all smiles again.  Puny and  cuddly, but all smiles.  And even happier when I let him watch Curious George while I changed his sheets.  Happier still when I brought the portable DVD player to bed and he got to watch Cars at midnight.  (Because he had spent most of the day in bed). He was such a great sicko that he earned a new Lego train. 

But now we are all fine.  Henry is napping, having spent the morning playing with his Lego trains and watching movies he picked out.  (It was a rodent themed morning--Over the Hedge, Alvin and the Chipmunks, and he fell asleep on the couch while watching G-Force.)

Sloan is feeling better and has gone on the road for work.

But Sloan did call me to say on his way out of town he saw a minivan pulled over on 288.  A mother was helping her 2 children puke on the side of the road. 

You may not want to come to Richmond.  Ann has gotten everybody sick.

Hooked on Phonics

Remember when I was worried that Henry wasn't talking?  Hmmmm, yeah, what was I thinking?  Not only does he talk all the time, he has proven that perhaps he is too smart for his own good.

If Henry has been in the right mood and you live in Richmond, you may have heard Henry perform my favorite trick of his.  This is the correctly identify all the letters of the alphabet and their sounds routine.  It goes like this...

ME:  Henry, what does an A say?
HENRY:  aaaa
ME:  What does a B say?
HENRY: Buh.

And so on.  That's right, folks, my two year old knows all the letters of the alphabet by sight and their phonetic sounds.  He has even, of his own accord, begun to sound words out.  Important words like "Wal-Mart",  "Gas", and "ESPN". 

So as if his running away from me in McAlister's Deli yesterday wasn't enough to grab disaproving stares, his screaming later during the meal took the cake. 

Close up on me, Henry, and Gracie in car seat at a table in McAlister's Deli.  Across from the boy's high chair, is a television screen hanging from the ceiling.

HENRY:  H!  L!  N!

ME:  (Turns to find out what he is screaming about)Yes, Henry, the TV is turned to HLN, Headline News.

HENRY:  S!  E!  X!  S!  E!  X!   sssssssss eeehhhhh  cs  cs  cs.  ssss  eh?  cs!  Sex!

ME:  (Turning)  What the?!?  (Notices that according to the headline across the bottom, they are running a story on Sex Offenders.)  Good job, Henry.  You are reading.  Now can you stop screaming?

HENRY:  S!  E!  X!

ME:  I'll give you my chips if you stop screaming.

HENRY:  Okay.  (whispers)  S.  E.  X.

ME:  Awesome.  Thanks for obeying me, buddy.

End of an Era

Today was the last "lunch bunch" ever and I am sad. "Lunch bunch" began soon after I had Henry.  I was lonely and lived minutes from our church.  And my friends, Ann, Shannon, and Robin worked at the church.  Often, when bored, tired, and/or deprived of adult conversation, I'd simply call up the church & ask who was going to be there at lunch time.  I'd pick up food at the Mediterranean Deli and we would all have lunch in the Church's conference room.  This was the beginning of the Henry Marshall Phillips Fan Club, my children having three Godly women who genuinely feel that they have some ownership of my kids, and quite possibly, the most important friendships of my adult, if not entire, life.  The first to quit working at the church was Shannon.  She went from serving the Hispanic community at our church to serving her twin boys, Will and Hudson.  Next to leave the church was Ann, who has gone from running the church to raising my daughter-in-law, Emily.  The last to go, is Robin.  Robin is moving on to better pastures in the financial world.  And I'm a wreck.  No longer will Robin get to be in my Bible Study group, nor will there be lunch bunch meetings.  We're commited to getting together for dinner once a month or so, but it will not be the same. 

Before the Fairy Godmothers came into my life,  I will admit there was a strain on my marriage.  My best girlfriend moved to Cali and then Dallas two months after Sloan and I got hitched and so suddenly Sloan was it.  He was pretty much my one and only friend.  To be clear, Sloan is still my bestest bestie.  I like him more than anyone on the planet.  Even more than I like myself.  And I like myself a lot.  But Sloan does not like to speculate about which are the nicest brand of fake Uggs--Wal-Mart, Target, or Kohl's (FYI--Wal-Mart's are more comfy but sometimes squeak).  Nor does Sloan think "I can't decide what to eat for lunch" is an appropriate reason to call him at work.  He also will not speak to me at length about my hair, accesories, or how smart I am.  He refuses to have entire conversations about Jim Halpert from The Office.  He seems to believe that Jim being a fictional character means that he is not real. 

Robin believes that Jim is real.  We talk about him.  Robin tells me I'm wonderful and always knows the right thing to say.  If you are upset because you have lost your wallet twice in one day, she will confirm that it really is that bad and even give you permission to cry.  She has the uncanny gift to encourage me in the trite snafus of everyday life that always seem to boggle me down. 

Like this morning.  I was so proud of myself.  Sloan is out of town and yet I still managed to sleep in, bathe, do my hair, dress cute, get the kids dressed and bathed, put the stroller in the car, and remember to pack all seventeen bags required to get this family to Bible Study.  (OK, not 17.  But I AM a bag lady--2 diaper bags, a bible bag, and a purse.)  And I do all this running about 15 minutes early!  Yeah, I am awesome--the most efficicent and responsible mom person in the world!  Then I pull up to Dunkin Donuts and order my Latte Lite with 2 Splenda and a box of Munchkins to take with me for the ladies.  I pull up to the drive-thru window.  I even have a dollar off coupon!  I am on fire this morning!

BUT.......

I do not have my wallet. 

So at the DD window, I'm clawing through my purse (which is really just a bag full of receipts, chapstick, and matchbox cars without a wallet), the diaper bag, and my bible bag.  Nothing.  So I have to just say, "Sorry" and drive off.  When I get home--the wallet is nowhere to be found.  A lot of times it gets left by my computer from having ordered something.  Nope.  Nowhere.  And now I'm running about 20 minutes late.  Remembering I had to have had it to go shopping yesterday, I get in the car and start calling.  Booyah!  I left it at Wal-Mart and they are holding it for me at Customer Service. So now, even though I'm running late, I have to take the kids out of the car in the windy 30 degree weather and take them into Wal-Mart.  Henry demands to carry with him into Wal-Mart 2 Lightning McQueens, a Lightning McQueen book, and a lizard.  With only 2 hands to hold all that stuff and crying to be carried by his Mommy, Henry was having a rough go of it. 

So, I call Robin to let my group know that while I will be late, I will be there.  I tell Robin of the Wallet debaucle.  Of how I'd been so proud of myself and here I go again leaving my wallet at Walmart.  What was Robin's response? 

"Oh, EJ.  Losing your wallet was the dumb thing you did yesterday.  Today you've been awesome.  You can totally still count yourself as having it all together.  You found your wallet!"

"Well, I really have been sort of a super sleuth, haven't I?"

"Oh my gosh, yesterday's you should be paying today's you for how smart you are."

Yesterday's you should be paying today's you for how smart you are.

This is why I love me some Robin.  May you all have besties as good as mine.

No Statues this Year

It is day 10 of the New Year and I'm once again out of the running for Mother of the Year.

Yesterday, the words "If you don't stop whining, I'll give you something to whine about" came out of my mouth.  Because historically, yelling at someone who is upset calms them down, right?

As a special treat, we went to IHOP for breakfast.  Henry's whining began because he only had 2 slices of bacon.  Then continued when he found it difficult to eat his pancakes with a spoon.  We tried explaining to him that a fork would be the better tool for the job, but he would have none of it.  To top it off, two pieces of the aforementioned pancake fell onto the floor (because it was just in a spoon, mind you!) and we would not retrieve it for him to eat.  Literally, my son was crying because I would not let him eat off of the floor. 

People were staring at us.  And I know what they were thinking, A) Geez, I wonder how many days it has been since that lady has taken a shower, and B) why doesn't she have control of her kid?  To answer them--2 and I have no idea.  Before having children I knew EVERYTHING about how to control children.  Post parenting I am an idiot. 

After going all retro on Henry with the threat of "something to whine about" we went into the bathroom to settle down.  Praise Jesus for Safety Dance being on the stereo in the bathroom and my son's love of dancing.  Of course, once we did get settled down and back to the table, Henry would only remain calm if we completely ignored him.  If we complemented him on his manners and readjusting his attitude, he balked.  When I offered him more juice or my last slice of bacon, he hurled a fork at me (seeing as it wasn't being used and all...).  So literally, Sloan and I had to look the other way for 15 minutes, ignoring him and making sure our waitress ignored Henry too.

I was wondering where Henry gets this from--the freaking out for no good reason--chalking it up to the terrible two's and low blood sugar. And then later that afternoon I yelled at Sloan for standing in the wrong place while he put away laundry and cleaned out his drawers.  Apparently, he was standing in the only place in our bedroom that I was able to stand and fold laundry. 

So I'm out of the running for Wife of the Year as well. 

Pray for my family.  Elizabethtown can be a dangerous place to live.

In Memoriam

As some of you may know, Henry was named for three men.  Primarily, he was named for Sloan's paternal grandfather, Henry Phillips.  But secondarily, he was named for my friend Sarah's dad, Henry Levinson, and a seminary professor, Henry Simmons.  On Monday, January 4, in the evening, my friend Sarah's dad died. 

So why did I love Dr. Levinson so much? 

Perhaps it is because he was diagnosed with MS shortly after my brother.  It was the late eighties, no one knew much about the disease, and suddenly Sarah's family and mine had something in common.  Not as cool as sharing a vacation home, mind you, but something that we have consistently asked about over the past two decades. 

Perhaps it was the fact that Dr. Levinson was a college professor, thereby giving him the freedom to always be around.  Sarah's house was the fun house in high school.  Okay, let me be a little more clear about that.  We took advantage of the fact that Dr. Levinson was always around so we never had to lie to our parents when they asked if someone's parents would be home.  We just failed to mention that Dr. Levinson was unable to go up the stairs.  Yes, we were that horrible.  We partied upstairs while Dr. Levinson and his cane stayed downstairs.  I used to feel horribly guilty about this.  But seeing as he was a college professor and all, I dare say the man was not an idiot and knew what was going on with all those giggling girls upstairs.  Besides, at some point, he had to realize that the Vodka in the liquor cabinet was being refilled with water.

Perhaps it was the fact that Dr. Levinson was one of the few men I knew that adored his wife. My parents are grotesquely handsy with one another.  Still.  After 46 years.  And the Levinsons, not unlike my parents, were obviously head over heels in love with one another.  Even as teenager, I knew this was rare.  I don't think there has even been a woman alive who wouldn't want to be looked at the way Dr. Levinson looked at Mrs. Levinson.

But I think, maybe most of all, my love for Dr. Levinson began in the first grade.  It was Sarah's birthday party, back at their old house off of Church Street.  We'd just broken the pinata and suddenly, out of nowhere, I heard something.  It was an unfamiliar ring-a-ding-ding.  What could that be coming up the driveway?  That's right, folks, Dr. Levinson introduced me to the Ice Cream Truck.  Do I need to remind you how I feel about Ice Cream Trucks?  I think they're freakin' awesome: a modern day sign that God is at work in the world.  And truth be told, this would be the ONLY time in my entire childhood that I would get to purchase Ice Cream from an Ice Cream truck.  So not only is it my favorite memory of Dr. Henry Levinson, it has simply become a favorite memory from my childhood.

So it was with a broken heart that we trodded back down to Greensboro on Monday.  And with heavy arms that I hugged my dear friend Sarah.  I thought my high school buddies and I were in the Baby Shower stage of life.  This stage, the burying of parents, came too quickly and quite frankly, I don't think I have the stomach for it.

Please pray for the Levinson family.  Please also pray that my Henry loves to laugh, learn, and kiss his wife the way Henry Levinson did.

Han Solo has Boogers too

We've also been sick.  I've got a sinus infection which has shown up in Henry and Grace as colds.  To better explain how this has fully impacted the Phillips family, I will recount to you the following play scenario witnessed this morning.  Please also recognize that Henry changes the tone of his voice when he is himself and when he is Han Solo.  Love it.

LIVING ROOM.  Focus on tufted ottoman.  See young boy (Henry) playing with Lego Han Solo who is riding a Lego Car that has wings.

HAN SOLO:  I fly car.

HENRY:  Whoosh.  Whoosh.

HAN SOLO:  Achoo.  Achoo. 

HENRY:  Bwess you, An Ollo.  Now Henwe wipe nose.

HAN SOLO:  No!  Don't wipe nose.

HENRY:  STOP eye-ning!  Henwe wipe nose.  An Ollo has boogs!

I kid you not.  Apparently, we are so sick that even our toys have to blow their noses.  And don't you just love the compassion that Henry shows Han Solo when he tells him to stop whining?  Hmmm.  Wonder where he heard that?

4th Annual Carolina Girls New Year's Bash

Jenna Cowley (3) holds sweet baby Grace. 

Can you tell she is a professional big sister?  Look at the way she is holding Grace's head.

Every year some of my sorority sisters get together in Huntersville, NC for New Year's.  We didn't last year because, apparently, being 38 weeks pregnant meant Janell couldn't host.  Boo.  If it weren't for the fact that she once hosted us 2 days post emergency gall bladder removal surgery, she'd be dead to me.  For my college friends who read this, in attendance were Janell (Swindler) Cowley, Margaret (Gilbert) Harkness, Adrianne (Helms) Morris, Lori Beth (Bohannon) Sanbourn, and me.  That's ten adults, one dog, and nine kids 3 and under.  Unanimously, Gracie earned the best behaved child award as she was the only child who did not have a meltdown at some point in the weekend.  Of course, the fact that she stayed in the swing pretty much the entire time helped.  Caroline Harkness (18 months) almost won it, but she tried to pull off Noah Sanbourn's (14 months) manhood.  It did not help Noah feel better about the situation when everyone started laughing at him.  Caroline's daddy Jarron wasn't too happy about the laughing, either.

Thankfully all of our husbands get along.  I'd even go so far as to say that Sloan has a bit of a man crush on my friend Margaret's husband, Jarron. 

In the past, before everyone had multiple kids, we used to line them up in Carolina garb and take photos.  Well, a photo of the mayhem while the kiddos watched Tinkerbell and the Lost Treasure while we all regretted staying up past midnight is as good as it gets these days. 

Pictured (from bottom left to right):  Lori Beth with daughter Bennet (3).  Peyton (11 months) eating the remote.  Jarron holding Caroline (18 mos).  Margaret (who is going to KILL me for posting this photo).  Henry (2 1/2), Jenna (3), Ava (3), Maddy (18 mos), and Noah (14 mos).  And that's Adrianne walking in the background.

New Year's 2010

In the morning of New Year's Eve Day, Henry played with his Auntie Ann and girlfriend Emily while Sloan and I took Gracie in for her 2 month check up.  The great news is that she has gained so much weight that she can come off of the High Calorie formula that is uber expensive and gives her gas.  She weighed 12 lbs, 3 oz.  That's 75% percentile, folks.  She certainly is chunkaliscious.  However, she is only 3rd percentile in height.  We're resting in the fact that the pediatrician assures us this is the least scientific of all of their measurements.  But since we've just learned that her biological mother is a quarter Japanese and only 5'2'', it stands to reason that my baby girl isn't going to be too tall.  That's okay.  That's why God invented high heels. 

And that's right, I said Japanese.  It is has taken 2 months, but we finally had our first "oh, she must be adopted" moment with a stranger.  We were in Wal-Mart, Henry in the seat of the cart and Gracie in her car seat in the actual basket of the cart.  An African American women looked at Henry, commented on his long eye lashes and then looked at Gracie and said, "Oh, she's dark!"  Henry responded, "Baby Gwacie, I wuv her."  My response?  "Um......yeah?"  Then the lady proceeded to ask me what she was.  A baby?  As I pushed my cart past her I answered, "Japanese" and kept on going.

And to celebrate the fact that Gracie is part Japanese, thereby assuring her placement in a future Benetton ad, we went to Kabuto for dinner as a family to ring in the New Year.  (Okay, we had plans to do this prior to finding out about G's ethnicity.  But you'd better believe I'm going to play the 'sharing her culture' card when it comes to explaining why we just HAVE to eat Hibachi Shrimp so much.)  Henry cleared his entire plate of food.  I think he left three onions and half a mushroom.  According to Sloan, the poopy diaper the next day was one for the record books.  I was convieniently unavailable to help him out for that one.  One of my New Year's resolutions is to delegate more of the parenting to Sloan, mainly in the crappy pants category.

It should also be noted that I was 7 books shy of meeting my "read 52 books in one year" goal.  I blame Gracie. 

Get off my back, already

Stop emailing me that I need to update the blog.  I get it.  I'm fully aware that I'm too busy living life to write about it.  So seriously, stop emailing, texting, and facebooking me.  The plan is to get a new laptop with Christmas money so I can update on the go, but as it is, I'm still tied down by my 6 year old desktop which makes holidays and being on the road a bear.  So really, cut me some friggin' slack. It's been a crazy New Year.