Hug-ease for boys

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Hugging our favorite boys is one of the highlights for PawDad, Aunt B, Aunt Andie and myself each time we have the pleasure of seeing Bubby and Baby Mac.

When they visited last month, the hugging went far beyond just our little clan, though, as the boys were blessed with abundant squeezes from extended family and more.

Bubby and Baby Mac appreciated—or, in some cases, at least endured out of obligation—the hugs from each and every hugger. It was pretty darn clear, though, that Great Aunt Debbie was their favorite hugger of all, the one with whom they were most at ease:

While I don't like to play favorites in any way, I must agree with their assessment: My sister Debbie is indeed one of the very best huggers around.

Today's question:

If you could hug only one person today, who is most in need of your hug?

Toddler bowl

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I am an awesome bowler. On the Wii. I get spares, strikes, even "turkeys" (that's three strikes in a row, for you non Wii bowlers). I continually impress—and surprise—my family with my Wii-bowling skills.

Too bad my prowess with the Wii pins doesn't translate to real-life bowling.

We took Bubby bowling for his first time last week, and Gramma didn't light up the lanes the way she thought she might. Bubby, on the other hand, did great. With a toddler-sized ball, bumpers in the gutters, and pointers from Mommy and PawDad, Bubby granny-rolled 'em like a pro.

Bubby rocked the lanes, even delighted us all with a spare. He scored a 52 for his first game ever. Pretty impressive for a toddler beginner. He did even better in his second game, rolling double that. Well, MOMMY rolled double that...while Bubby napped. Seems one game of granny-ing it was the bowling boy's limit for the day.

Maybe next time we hit the lanes as a family, Baby Mac will get to join in the fun. Although, just being passed back and forth between the bowlers was fun in itself.

At least for those doing the passing.

Today's question:

When did you last bowl and how did you do?

October expedition: The North Pole

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As you likely deduced if you saw yesterday's photo, our family made the highly anticipated trek to the North Pole last week. What a jolly time it was! So much to see and do, including a ride or two with Bubby down the Peppermint Candy Cane Slide I waxed once upon a time.

This slideshow was a casualty of my site makeover but you can find it in my Brag Book: NORTH POLE — 2011.

After the delightful outing, I've decided October is definitely the best time to visit the North Pole. Not only is the early autumn weather perfect for an afternoon halfway up Pikes Peak, the aspens on the hillsides all around are just beginning to change, lines for the rides are non-existent, and Santa has plenty of time for long visits plus strolls throughout the park during his breaks—which meant we ran into the Big Guy on several occasions, and each time he remembered Bubby by name.

 

I'm so thankful for the holiday-themed expedition with my very most favorite people. 'Twas a memorably festive occasion, indeed.

Today's question:

What percentage of your holiday shopping have you completed...or considered?

Time is on our side

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Cousins

Nearly 20 years ago, I tried to steal my sister's son. Well, steal isn't quite the word. More accurately, I tried to save my sister's son, my nephew.

Nearly 20 years ago, my youngest sister was young, divorced, and had two sons—the youngest lived with her; the oldest, with his dad in the Pacific Northwest. Her life was, to put it mildly, a mess. She was in a drug-fueled relationship with an abusive maniac who thought nothing of beating the hell out of her, of shooting a gun right next to her head as he held her against a wall and threatened to kill her if she considered leaving him.

Which she didn't consider because, as such stories go, she loved him.

She loved her son, too, though, and knew the situation was a dangerous one for the little boy to be in, to witness. So she often asked me to babysit him. Which I did. Often. Little J stayed many a night at my house, ate many a meal with my family, was a welcome part of my family.

One particularly bad time, my sister asked me to have J stay at my house for the night, as Wacko Boyfriend was wackier than ever. She also asked that if she didn't call me at regular intervals through the night, that I come check on her. She wouldn't not go home for fear her boyfriend would come after her, so I had no choice but to agree.

My sister called once, then twice, as she was supposed to. Then no more calls. As my fear and panic became unbearable, I asked Jim to stay with the kids while I went to see if my sister was still alive.

When I arrived, the door of her apartment was slightly ajar. I knocked, I called out, I begged for my sister to answer. Which she didn't. I was scared to go inside, just in case her boyfriend was there with a gun to her head. I was scared to not go inside, just in case her boyfriend was there with a gun to her head. Or worse.

I couldn't bring myself to go in alone, though. So I knocked on the door of a neighboring apartment. An enormous black man who looked much like the linebackers I'd seen on TV answered. Inside were a few of his friends, also similarly large and scary-looking to this silly white girl begging for help in rescuing her sister. After a few fearful glances at one another, the big burly guys agreed to accompany me to my sister's apartment.

It was the scariest experience of my life. I was scared for my sister. Scared of the strangers I asked for help. Scared we'd all be ambushed by a freaking maniac if we went into the apartment.

We knocked. We slowly entered. We tentatively searched the apartment. We found no one.

Then, out the patio door, I saw my sister take off running and jump into a car with her boyfriend. I quickly thanked the linebackers, raced to my car, and took chase after my sister, believing she was being taken against her will.

When I finally caught up with them, my drugged-up sister pointed at me through the window and laughed as the car sped away. The joke was on me. A horrible, heartbreaking horror of a joke.

I returned home devastated, worried about what was happening to my sister. Most of all I was worried about what might eventually happen to my nephew. So when my sister called the next day, acting as if nothing had happened, as if she could just drop by and pick up her son, I told her I wasn't letting him go with her, that I was keeping him until she straightened her life out.

Surprisingly, there was no resistance from her.

Then, as Jim, my daughters, and I—along with my nephew—got ready for church, my sister pulled up in front of my house. With a cop. A cop who told me I had to give J to his mother. My sister wouldn't look at me, just stood by her car. The cop told me he understood how insane this was, but that legally I had to hand over my nephew. That his mother, as crazy as her situation—as she—apparently was, the boy was hers and I had no right to keep him. He knew it was wrong, the cop said, but it was the law.

I surrendered J to his mother. To my sister. Who had seemingly lost her mind.

Not long after that heartbreaking weekend, J's dad came to town to take custody of J. I honestly don't recall exactly how it all transpired, who had contacted him—such holes in my memory being the reason I could never write a memoir—but he came to save his son. Something I couldn't do. He had J's brother with him, kindly brought both boys to our house to tell us goodbye. Then he took them away.

We never saw either of the boys again.

Until yesterday.

My sister had thankfully pulled her life together several years after losing her boys. She got rid of the maniac boyfriend—after having three children with him. Three incredible children, all pretty much adults now, who are better off because their mom ran and hid and healed. Better off because, harsh as this sounds, their father died in a car accident before they knew the horrors of him.

My sister's contact with her two boys in the Pacific Northwest was sporadic and strained over the years, the pain and lies and misunderstandings too hard to overcome. Not long ago, though, they did overcome them. My sister finally visited, hugged, talked earnestly and honestly, offered apologies and explanations.

That was this past spring. This past weekend, the two boys came to visit their mom and half siblings. A party was held yesterday so as much extended family as could make it would also reconnect with the two boys. Two boys we hadn't seen in nearly twenty years. Two boys who had grown into bright, delightful, funny, interesting, and admirable young men.

I've not yet found the words to describe it. I won't even try.

I will, though, give thanks. Because although time—regardless of what anyone says—does not heal all wounds, it does lead to some level of forgiveness, some degree of grace, some appreciation for the time that is left.

I give thanks that forgiveness was offered. I give thanks for such grace. And, especially, I give thanks for the time that is left.

Today's question:

Who would you like to reconnect with in your extended (or immediate, even) family?

Still haven't found what I'm looking for

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I'm looking for something and having one <cuss> of a time finding it. And it's making me crazy.

Comments from this post last week led me to an idea for a new post that I can't wait to share, one related to that one, one telling you of something I have done that you likely would never believe. To assuage your sure disbelief, I plan to include in the post proof of my claim. Proof of something awesome. Proof that comes by way of a certificate.

But, alas, I can't find that <cuss> certificate.

And it's making me certifiably crazy.

When you live in one place for a long time, you inevitably end up with things you'd forgotten about stashed away in spots you'd forgotten about. But Jim and I haven't lived in this house very long, and I've been pretty good about organizing where things go now that the nest is empty and all spaces are Jim's and mine for stashing.

Yet I still haven't found what I'm looking for. And, like I said, it's making me crazy. Especially because I've found everything related to our family history except that <cuss> certificate, unexpected finds such as:

• The hospital wristbands worn by each of my girls when they were newborns

• The baggie of tissue-wrapped teeth the Tooth Fairy removed from under pillows (all in one baggie so I don't know which teeth belong to which daughter)

• The Congratulations on Your Baby Girl card Jim's stepmom and now-deceased dad sent when Andie was born ... with the bicentennial silver dollar they included still taped to the card

• A collection of fingerpainted artwork created by my girls when they were toddlers, using homemade fingerpaints whipped up by yours truly

• Decades worth of handwritten letters from my dear grandma who recently passed away

• The "proof of account paid in full" documents showing we finally, after seven years, paid off Brianna's birth, having had no health insurance at the time

• Every paper related to the seemingly millions of dollars in PLUS loans taken out for the sake of providing our daughters considerable educations

• A manila envelope stuffed full of newspaper clippings and memorial booklets related to the explosion of the Challenger, postmarked 1986 and sent from the Rocky Mountain News

• The 1988, 1989, and 1990 calendars I was missing from my calendar stash

• Three Certificates of Award to my oldest brother from his high school that certify him in 1977 as: 1st place for senior that skips the most and gets away with it, 2nd place for senior class clown, and three-way tie for 2nd place for senior with the most leadership (Don't ask...)

• An undeveloped disposable camera from Megan's wedding, courtesy of Jim's brother

• The commencement program from when Jim's sister and mom graduated from the community college ... at the same time

• The "Beauty Culture/Manicurist" certificate awarded to me in 1991 upon completing the required number of beauty school hours to hold hands with strangers do manicures and apply artificial nails

• The undated Certificate of Appreciation my Girl Scout troop presented Jim for being the troop's Cookie Manager during cookie-sale season

And more. So much more.

But no certificate of the awesomeness I wish to share with you. Nowhere.

At least not yet.

It has now officially become my mission: I will find that certificate.

Then I will write a post about it.

And you will think it's awesome.

Once I find the <cuss> thing.

Once I stop considering and crying over all the memorable things I have found on my mission.

Today's question:

Fill in the blank: Something I unfortunately lost and never found again is ____________.