A poem for today, for Myra and Janice

To the Women I Love Who Turn Seventy This Year

You were girls, of course, before you were mothers,
in saddle shoes and crinoline, singing along with the radio.
But motherhood suited you.
Though we're all past thirty now,
you still call us babies: remember braiding our hair,
teaching us the alphabet,
how to eat our vegetables and love one another.
Between you, you've mothered every child in town,
every child you ever met.

1943 must've been
an especially good year
for baby girls.

Yet you have both lost so much:
your parents, your husbands,
your brothers and sisters and friends.
There is much and more to mourn.
And seventy year old bodies complain
more than you expected,
as young strong-armed mothers,
or teen-aged Minnesota girls
dreaming of Minnesota boys.

You both still plant your gardens,
and reap what you sow, richer
in flowers and friendships both.

As you begin your eighth decade, we are so glad
to have this time with you. We will share
your cold beer in the Minnesota summertime,
while you dance with your grandchildren
in these gardens full of love.

First Day of First Grade

 I'm a bit late, though this photo did make it to the Facebook on the day itself:

A few notes: the pose and the outfit were her idea. She has never cared much about the clothes I buy for her, or how they are paired, but I had set out a totally different shirt and she switched it out for this trio of owls. And the knee socks? All her. Seriously.

She was not thrilled to go back to school. When a girl has sensory integration issues, public school presents all sorts of excitement and challenges: loads of kids packed into a small space, teachers with booming voices, and fire alarms. It turns out, though, that her teacher was her kindergarten teacher last year, just moved on up a year, and about half of her class last year has come along for the ride. This means year-old friendships get to continue, and so do some year-old heartaches (it's hard for mama. "What do you mean, you won't let my amazing hilarious daughter be in your girls club? Jerky jerk 1st grader mean girls." Only I don't say that. Yet). So far, she's hanging in there. Often literally: she looooves the monkey bars, and before last spring had blisters. She's working back up to them now. As soon as they make the monkey bars an Olympic sport, we are so all over that.

I remember my first grade, and I hope hers is at least as good. With socks like that, though, how can it not be?

All's Fair...

We're pretty boring. Just like last year, we did the Fun Slide...

 And the Ferris Wheel....

 This year, V did a few more rides on her own....

 Because she is almost 52" tall.

She rode this Ferris Wheel all by herself....

 And Shaun pointed and waved. I smiled tightly and held my breath a little. A lot. (hello to the random family walking past in this photo)...

It was a really good day.

Holiday philosophizing

After a lovely trip to look at the holiday lights and enjoy some Mexican Village food as a family, V and I found ourselves alone in the TV room with a little "Kung Fu Panda." She had some questions.

V: How did the world begin?
Me: Um, well, some scientist believe in "The Big Bang Theory..."
V: What do humans believe?
Me: Uh, scientists ARE humans.
V: Oh.
Me: ...and some people believe that a God created the whole universe and...
V: Yep, that's what I think. I think he made the whole world.
Me: You think there's a god, and that he's male?
V: Yep.
Me: Oh, crap.

Apparently I've not been doing my job as well as I'd hoped. Sigh. Parenting is harder than it looks.

Edited to add: The point of this post is that despite the fact that we are raising V outside of the church, she soaks it up somewhere anyway. I was raised Lutheran, and Shaun was raised Catholic, and as an anthropologist I am respectful of a wide swath of beliefs. I just hadn't expected my own child to adopt such a mainstream point of view without me teaching it to her. I didn't really say "oh crap" out loud to V, but instead told her she could believe what she liked, and everyone had a right to decide for themselves what they believed. But it's hard when your child believes something you don't. That's all I'm saying.

Cookie makin'

Shaun's previous cooking experience has been limited, so for his birthday, V and I got him America's Test Kitchen: Let's Get Cooking for his Nintendo DSi to help him expand his talents in the kitchen. The first recipe we tried was a smashing success!

Yum!

And then, out of the blue...

My last post detailed rich memories of home, but it was surprisingly not hard for me to let the place go, really. Unlike so many people, who have to say goodbye to their childhood home because of a divorce or death, my mom is in relatively good health and chosing to leave, so I'm sure that helps make it seem less like a loss.

My dad died back in 2002 (holycrapIcan'tbeliveit'sbeenalmosttenyears), but even then, he had lived in the nursing home for ten years before he died. Sorting through his stuff was difficult, but not in a home-based way. Our loss was palpable and awful, and when the Salvation Army guy asked me if I wanted a receipt I sorrowfully said "Sure, if you want to put a price on my father's life, go right ahead." (I'm their favorite donor, I bet). But it wasn't entirely unexpected, and we had grieved parts of him since the stroke in 1986.

So I was taken aback when, in cleaning out the last nooks and crannies of Mom's kitchen, I found Dad's keys. I mean, I wasn't surprised they were there. It was the kind of thing we'd set aside after the stroke, in case we needed them again. Nearly 26 years later, here they are: keys to buildings that have long since been torn down, to PO boxes we no longer rent, to paddlocks misplaced or cut off years ago.

 Below, the laundromat keys, I think. Certainly those round keys went to the washing machines we had in our basement my whole childhood.

I remember him letting me hold this ring of keys. He showed me the bolt with the tightened nut, which kept his keys lined up the way he wanted (I don't remember what the broken key went to. Maybe the old Pontiac? Probably from before then.). The front one, with the words almost worn off, was for the lumberyard's north door.

 He carried these keys in his pockets for over 30 years, and they, along with a few dollars of loose change, made him jingle when he walked. They are worn so smooth, now, they feel almost soft. Polished metal, made so solely by my father. They were a part of him.

I slid to my knees on the kitchen floor and wept, for him and for all of us.

I miss him so.

"I come from a town, the kind of town where you live in a house 'til the house falls down, but if it stands up you stay there."

My mama has moved. If you go to her house in Hendrum, she can't make you waffles anymore. She's gone south, two blocks south and one block east, to the apartment house across the street from the church which is across the street from the elementary school. She'll probably make you waffles over there, though, if you ask nicely.

I get inordinately attached to places. I always have. But I was surprisingly cool with my mom leaving the house where I grew up. People are more important than things, of course, and moving is a good choice for her. The house is heated with fuel oil, which can cost her up to $400 a month in the dead of winter. That's insane. And she swears it hasn't had a new roof since the late 1970s. The garage needs to be painted again, and the basement gets a little water (or more) every spring. Add in property taxes and home owner's insurance, and it's cheaper for her to rent (I blame Tim Pawlenty, but that's not the point right now).

To top it off, she never chose this house. My dad came home one day when she was 8 months pregnant or so with Jess and said "I bought us a house. It's next door to my mother." And Myra's been there since 1974.

So here we go. Bear with me on a little nostalgia, a little history, and a lot of photos, won't you?

 Above, a corner of the bedroom Jess and I shared for most of our childhood (here it's acting as Myra's craft room). The walls were unfinished, but Dewey had the materials to do the finishing, so we and our friends were allowed to draw on the walls (in crayon, marker, whathaveyou). The stroke (and skillful procrastination, earlier) kept the panelling from ever going up, and we just kept writing on the walls.

 Below, sorry for the blurry photo, but it's all I got: in high school, a couple of talented friends painted me a zodiac mural. I love it, and slept under it for years. The unfinished pine below the mural was part of built-in storage Dewey had framed up before the stroke.

 A copy of the first money I ever made for writing poetry. $10.

 A wall in the hallway that became my room, then Jess', when we couldn't stand sharing a room anymore. My dad had a way of using up scraps, and this flowered paneling is evidence.

See how worn the wood is here? All the edges smoothed off. My grandfather built this house & my grandmother's house next door (with his brother? I can't remember who helped him) with wood from the original Hendrum School, torn down in 1925.

 This photo doesn't do the stairs justice. Most people find them the steepest steps they've ever climbed, but the stairs at my grandmother's are even worse. Ours are uncovered wood, though, and falling down the stairs takes on a whole new aura of danger when you can get a sliver in your butt.

 One of my first household chores was washing these steps, edge to edge. I've been slacking lately, as you can see above...

Above, the hallway on the way upstairs. I love that wallpaper. Actually, I think it might be contact paper. I remember when my mom put it up, when I was very very small.

The stairwell coat-hanging area. My dad built that red shelf. This is the wall he had to cut into when I was six and Bambi, my elderly hamster, got out of her cage and scratched here until my dad woke up and decided he'd have to find her or not sleep until she died.

 Above and below: my mom's kitchen. After Dad's stroke, we had to add on a bedroom and make the kitchen wheelchair accessible, but the house was still not really "hers." A few years ago (7? 8? I forget), Jess and I gave her a kitchen makeover with the help of our friend Carla and other sneaky collaborators. We did a mosaic on the backsplashes, painted and all those fancy things.

 Below, the only window in what was my parents' small bedroom. After the addition, it became a piano room, and after the piano, it became a guest room. In the mid-90s, Myra decided she wanted a room with floor to ceiling fabric on the walls, and this was the winner. It's hard to tell, but this room is yellow with white lace trim.

The front door, inside the porch. I will always remember the feel of that doorknob. My uncle Harry added the deadbolt after my dad's stroke. Before the stroke, we never locked our doors.

Below, the hallway to the backdoor and the basement. Isn't that gingham wallpaper awesome?  

 The light to the basement is up above the stairs, and when I was too small to reach it, I would lay on the landing, stick my arm through the spindles, and flip it on from above. I tried this method again when I was seventeen and almost got stuck there permanently. See the ledge above the stairs, to the right in the photo? That was a favorite place to hide puzzle boxes to keep guests from "cheating."

 The view from the back entryway. That green carpet used to go all the way through the kitchen.

Our little house on the prairie. We'll miss it, but not too terribly much. It was a pretty good place to grow up, overall.

  

*I have another post on this subject, but this was getting ridiculously long.

**Quote in the subject line from the song "Mira," from the musical Carnival!  It's a great little song.

***If you know someone looking for a little house of their own, 28 miles from Moorhead, we hope to have it on the market by May. It'll need a new roof soon, and the garage needs paint, but I'm pretty sure it's not haunted and I know it was filled with love for many years.

School Pictures: Kindergarten

Picture Day! I feel old, because when I was in school it was just us and Larry Harrington and that plain blue background. V's got new fangled photos, with about 40 different background choices. We let her pick which one she wanted, and she picked her outfit, too, so it's certainly...distinctive. But look at how cute she is! I can't hardly stand it! And she's so grown up!

I swear my heart grew three sizes when I saw these. Our own kindergartener.



Six

The day after the first day of kindergarten, V turned six. Six.

She makes up songs everyday.
Loves cheese pizza.
Wants to be a doctor when she grows up.
Thinks playdough is really awesome.
Has no idea what "September 11th" means.
Is not sure if heaven's a real place but is excited for the tooth fairy to visit her.

I can't remember life before her.

First day of kindergarten

I know it's not new. I know every mama who sends her first born to kindergarten exclaims how quickly time goes, how soon she'll be all grown up...I've said it myself repeatedly. But still, she only gets one first day of public school.  Compare her here to the first day of preschool. She's a giant! Enormous!

V chose the dress herself. When I showed it to my mom, weeks ago (after I nabbed it a thrift store bag sale), Myra shook her head in dismay and said "Kids don't wear long dresses like that anymore, Jenny. Don't make her wear that." So it was with tremendous satisfaction that I helped V button up the back of this dress this morning, at her own insistence.  She feels like a fancy princess, fashion trends be damned.

Public school is so different from Montessori, and V's got so many quirks, I can't help but worry. But she was so excited this morning, it was easy to just be excited too. I don't know if we'll ever catch up with her, but we'll have fun trying.

Diagnoses

Oh, universe. I am sorry I've upset you so.

For those of you who've been following our family craptacular, here're the updates.

Myra: the bilateral temporal artery biopsy (used to diagnose Giant Cell Arteritis) did not confirm GCA as a diagnosis. Which is good, we guess, but she may still have GCA, or she might have something else, and no one seems to know yet. She's got several upcoming appointments for blood work and other stuff, and hopefully we'll get some answers within the next few weeks. But you never want to be the patient who stumps the experts. I guess we're just lucky.

Shaun: perhaps because I blogged about it earlier, or maybe it was gonna happen anyway, Shaunsie had a full-blown nervous breakdown this past Thursday. As in an ER visit wherein we discovered they won't admit a patient to the psych ward unless they are psychotic or suicidal. Luckily he was neither, but he couldn't get the help he needed anywhere, it seemed. His amazing therapist, though, stayed after hours to meet with us Thursday evening, and Shaun fortunately had gotten his Christmas bonus a few days earlier, which he put towards a 2 day hotel stay, where he could recuperate and get his bearings back. V and I even got to visit and have a little swim on Saturday. He has another appointment with Amazing Therapist today, and is feeling, overall, much better.

V: Yesterday we had our appointment with the neuropsychologist. As I mentioned in that earlier post, I was nervous as all heck about labels and diagnoses and what it all meant. But it turns out my fears were misplaced: V has been diagnosed with nothing. She is very intelligent, the tests showed, though we already knew that. She also shows some behaviors on the Asperger's spectrum, like sensitivity to light and sudden loud noises, and has some OCD-esque behaviors, like sorting and laying things out in a straight line repetitively, but none of these symptoms manifest themselves as completely "vital" to her: if she gets interrupted, she can often be redirected; they're not severe enough to merit a diagnosis. What does that mean for us? It means we have a strong willed, stubborn girl who knows how to get what she wants. It means we need to consider a different preschool, and consider accepting a really really unsavory diagnosis if we need her to have a para in the classroom. It means a therapist  of her very own.

My non-doctoring ways kick in here, and I think it's silly. But I also know that when I was a little girl, I struggled mightily with many of the things V struggles with today: anger, and reactionary-ness, and sensory integration issues. I remember at 6 thinking if only someone could talk to me, could explain to me in a way I could understand, maybe I would feel better. Shaun, too, had struggles as a little boy, and ended up in the hospital with uncontrollable vomiting (from anxiety, he later discovered) for the first time at 5. If a doctor had just suggested talk therapy, how different could our lives have been? How much less suffering would we have had to endure? That's what we're shooting for here: to help our anxious, stubborn, smart child put those emotions and tendencies where they belong.

Perhaps you find this post self-indulgent. That's okay. In some ways, this blog serves as a quick way for us to get information out to all our interested friends and family, and though it's more public than a personal phone call, it also takes a lot less time, and we can be more thorough and thoughtful. I'm not looking for pity here, honestly (though I was in that "I'm so tired" post, just to be clear). And I know a lot of this stuff is still not widely discussed: mental health issues, especially, still feel deeply personal and a lot of people get uncomfortable with this topic. But therapy and depression and anxiety are major factions of our lives, and ignoring that won't make it go away. This blog, as a reflection of our lives, is going to have to acknowledge those factions as well as the crafty, Rock Band, salt-free cooking factions.

List #5: Things I love about V

That last list was kind of a downer, wasn't it? Let's try a more upbeat topic this time.

I know that most every parent thinks their child is the best one yet, at least some of the time. We're no different. Here are some of my favorite things about V lately.

1. She can read really, really well. She uses inflection and reads dynamically and it's really fun to hear.

2. She loves dancing. She just loves to spin and swing her arms and stomp her feet. I know in a couple of years she'll be too self-conscious to dance like that, but for now it's just absolutely beautiful.

3. She draws in that perfect 5 year old way right now. She's just started adding fingers to the circles she calls hands. I very much want to have one of her self-portraits from the last year or so tattooed on my ankle.

4. When she says she really, really wants something (like a new toy), she's completely satisfied if I tell her we'll put it on her birthday or Christmas list.

5. She plays things obsessively, over and over. She's still loving Alice in Wonderland, and lately we've been playing Spirited Away meets Alice in Wonderland meets everybody in the whole world. As you can imagine, with such a large cast, these conversations can go on and on and on and on and on.

6. She is usually kind. She likes to talk about all the people she loves, and we've been working on our holiday gift list lately. She is gentle more often than not, and I love that.

7. She's the least picky eater I know. She's not crazy about chicken, unless it's a chicken leg, but otherwise she'll eat most foods most of the time. Carrots, peas, spinach, potatoes, apples, kiwi, strawberries, bananas, cheeseburgers, smoothies...plus, she's almost always hungry, so this flexibility is helpful.

8. She has an amazing memory. She remembers things clearly from 2 years ago, when she was only 3, which freaks me out a little. She remembers people she's met only once, and places we visited for just a short time.

9. She thinks her Daddy and I are the best people on earth. I have no illusions that this will last forever, but as for right now, it's a tremendous honor. She thinks we know all the answers. I wish we did, for her.

She drives me crazy sometimes, sure. She is an only child, and usually certain the whole world waits for her to show up. But she is gentle and hilarious and silly, and she is ours, and we are so lucky.

Cousins

I had a boatload of cousins around me growing up, and they were like siblings, but better, because we never had to share a room or a parent. So I'm always happy when V gets to hang out with one or more of her four cousins. Will, at 17 days her junior, is the closest to her in age, and they get to hang out fairly often.

 

 She is headstrong and determined, but when she's around Will she often lets him lead. Here, they're playing POP THE BUBBLES! which must be spoken loudly and with great excitement. They do a good job trading back and forth, deciding what to play and how, and though they do fight sometimes, they usually get over it quickly. Since V won't likely ever have a brother or sister, her cousins are the ones who will remember her childhood with her.

They really love each other. I'm so glad.

Picture day

Monday was picture day at V's preschool, and of course we were warned well in advance, but I can't be expected to remember everything. Besides, on Mondays, Shaun gets up with her and takes her to school, so it was 10am before I realized I hadn't sent back the envelope (which clearly states "envelope MUST be filled out completely and payment enclosed in order for the child to be photographed) and check. Luckily, my sister is V's teacher, and just one frantic phone call later and we were set.

Except I had no idea what she was wearing, or if her hair had been brushed or not. And if it hadn't been, I was pretty sure she wouldn't let some stranger with a comb come anywhere near her.

But she did. And the reddish-orange t-shirt doesn't look as bad as I'd feared, either. Suddenly, I feel a bit inconsequential in this whole process.

Forced heterosexuality and other American ways

"Dear America, when you tell gay Americans that they can't serve their country openly or marry the person that they love, you're telling that to kids too. So don't be shocked and wonder where all these bullies are coming from that are torturing young kids and driving them to kill themselves because they're different. They learned it ...from watching you."

~Sarah Silverman

As a co-advisor for our campus's LGBT group at my college, and as a longtime supporter of gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and questioning students (and non-students), I've often had to talk to homophobic people about their point of view. Usually in class it comes up as a student says something is gay, as in "That movie was so gay." I generally start by asking them what they mean: does that mean the movie only finds other movies of its same type attractive? Does that mean some movies are so straight? As an English instructor, I tie it back to the power of language, and how if we're going to use a sexual orientation term to say something is stupid or lame, it will by association suggest that the sexual orientation we're referring to is also stupid or lame. Students learn quickly that I don't let those comments slide in my classroom.

But recently in class, I had a conversation that I'd never had before. We were talking about V's birthday, and how she was turning 5. One of the students said "Just wait until she's turning 13, and obsessed with boys." Much of the class laughed in agreement, but I said, quite honestly and without thinking, "or girls." The entire class gasped (except for the lesbian in the front row, who quietly applauded). I've never shocked an entire room of students so thoroughly and unexpectedly! We talked about it a bit more, and aside from pointing out that sleepovers would be a whole different deal if she's a lesbian, the students listened to my thoughts on the matter and no one stormed out, so I'll call it successful.

I always find it disturbing when parents or any one, espeically if they've never met my daughter, assume they know V's sexuality. I mean, she's freaking five years old. Maybe she does know which sex she'll want to marry, but I certainly don't, and I don't want anyone telling her that what she feels is wrong one way or the other. And I've seen it play out over and over and over, among my friends and my students, that a big part of the heartache of being LGBT is the family expectations, and the feeling that they are letting their family down. I don't want V to be sorry for who she loves. I want her to make good, affirming choices, and find loving healthy partners, and be comfortable in her own skin.

Last year, I had a gay student in the PSEO program, meaning he was a senior in high school, taking college courses. When we talked about V over a year ago, and I said I didn't care if she was gay or straight as long as she was happy, he said "But you'd still rather she was straight, right?" I get this a lot from people, but from him I was a little surprised. No, I said. I want her to be happy and love whomever the hell she wants, as long as they're good to her. Huh, he said. As a man who'd been aware of his own homosexuality for years, he was still astounded that a parent could say this about their own child. His family is a type of "christian" who view homosexuality as a sin on par with child molestation. They are very good, though, at loving the sinner and hating the sin, and when he came out at 15, his family and church supported him, provided he didn't act on his "sinful urges." When he got his first boyfriend at 17, his parents kicked him out of the house.

This young man was not a rebellious student. He loved his family and his church, but he also knew unequivocably that he was gay, and he couldn't change that. He lived with his non-denominational aunt and her family for awhile, and his father threatened to yank him out of classes, and took away his car. They stopped paying for his cell phone. Eventually, he had to move out of his aunt's house, and got an apartment with 6 or 7 other students. He worked hard at his part time job. He ran out of money over and over. He missed his family. He and his boyfriend broke up, and within another month, he moved back home. He promised to give up his "gay lifestyle" and petitioned to get back into the church. He dated a woman, but whenever he told me about her, it was obvious to me that his interest in her was tied to pleasing his family: I've never forced myself to have sex with someone to impress my parents, but that's what he was doing.

The last time I talked to him, he was hopeful that his church would change, and come to see homosexuality not as a sin. I couldn't bear to tell him that it's unlikely to happen in his lifetime.  I told him that he was in the highest risk group for suicide, and made him promise to call me if he needed me. In another class, one of my colleagues told him she hoped, despite the rejection from his parents and his church, that he had someone who loved him unconditionally. He said he did. He said my name.

He's transferred, now, to a different college, and he still lives at home. He was engaged to marry his girlfriend, and I could see a light fading in him (though I've since heard that they've broken up). He doesn't want to leave his church, but he will have to, eventually. Or he'll live a lie.

At first when I started to get to know this student, I was furious. I wanted his parents & church brought up on child abuse charges: how is this not profound emotional abuse? But I know that will never happen. Most of the churches in America take a similar stance on homosexuality. Just look at the ELCA, who, when they agreed to allow openly gay and lesbian clergy (but only if they were in long-term relationships, which I find crazy), lost many congregations. I don't understand how much fear and hatred can be tied to an essentially private, personal matter, but I have seen more than once the ramifications.

I know V will feel pressure from the rest of the world to be a straight girl. And I know if she's not that her life may indeed be more difficult than her straight friends. But I don't want an ounce of that difficulty to come from her family of origin. In the meantime, I will vote for people willing to overturn "Don't ask, don't tell" and offer marriage rights to any two consenting adults. And I will allow V to figure out what sex she finds attractive. Because it's not up to me, or anyone else.

Birthday post. For Reals.

There are so many photos, I should break this into separate posts. But I won't. Nobody has dial up anymore, do they? If you do, I bet you've quit reading my blog by now. At any rate, the really marvelous photos were taken with my sister's fancy camera, mostly by my sister.

So we had originally planned this shin-dig for a fabulous gazebo in the park 4 blocks from our house: a sweet, rolling view of the river, and an historic bear cage nearby, and, hello, playground equipment! But it rained for 3 days solid before the party, so the puddles were too much for us, and we moved it to our town's mall. Which, I know, sounds lame, but our mall is so under utilized that it was perfect. We had a fancy mall fountain, and sky lights, and cobblestone walkways, and almost no one even looked twice at us. Plus, there was a Maurice's, a GNC, and a gun shop all around us. What else does a girl need for her fifth birthday?

Above is most of the food table: cake, cupcakes, olives, jelly, pb & jelly, and pickle sandwiches, crackers and cheeseball, grapes and strawberries and kiwi, and cheetos cheese puffs. What's not to like? The cupcakes say "EAT ME." Alice in Wonderland references snuck in lots of places.

Here're some food close ups, to make you wish you'd been there even more.

I love party gift bags as a theory, but in practice I always forget to give them out. Kid parties are great that way: kids can smell a gift bag from 50 paces. We filled ours with plastic tea set parts (I bought five 12-piece sets & split them to fill 10 bags), notepads, and a pirate eyepatch. Originally we were going to have a Mad Tea Party, but then V decided it should just be a Stuff V Likes in General party. So it was.

I sewed the gift bags from some orange gingham yardage in my stash. First, I cut big rectangles, and then V and I stamped this fabulous Alice in Wonderland stamp that Jen Aasen had sent me many years ago. I chain straight-stitched up the sides, sewed a casing for the drawstings, and ran a double length of thread (it's cotton string, really) through, and called them done. Very simple, but they feel nice and look substantial.  

We had about a dozen pink flamingos that people got to bring home, too, as favors. They're technically dog toys, and all of our friends with dogs got at least one; some of our friends without dogs are happy to let their kids play with dog toys. That's how we roll.

The Cheshire Cat card, above, is one of about 90 that we hid around the space. Well, not so much "hid" as "taped." It was a game: whoever fouind the most won a prize.

Here's the kid's table, about halfway through. Everyone got up and wandered, which was fine: I used a vintage sheet for the table cloth and laid the gift bags down the center. In the background you can see Maurice's, and the wee merry-go-round.

Here's the lovely Sara.

I made party hats, from these instructions, tweaking a bit for my purposes. I made them 12" high, for example, because that wasted less paper (and gave them more of a dunce-cap look, which I enjoy).  The lace was the easiest by far, because I didn't have to scrunch as I sewed.

Sweet Oscar.

Oscar's sister, Matilda, workin' it for the camera.

Beautiful Beth, Shaun's little sister.

Beautiful Jess, my little sister.

Nancy and Crystal, surrounded by sippy cups that don't belong to either of them, at the coloring/eating table.

Shaun gives V a ride on the Merry-go-round

Michael, who we invited to a) up the adorableness and b) show our multicultural skills. (He's on his mama, Sara's, lap).

McKenna, who's smile is absolutely angelic, or wicked, depending on how you look at things.

Phil, who is so dreamy and in a band to boot.

Emerson Claire in her party hat.

Carla and Shaun making goo-goo eyes at Tilda.

We played a pretty cool egg-carrying game that didn't use real eggs (note the Cheshire Cat in the background).

Lotsa hats! (Will, McK, Eli)...

I like this picture of my friend Jenn, partially because it really captures the Mallness we were looking for.

Pinata. Did I mention there was a pinata? Several people mentioned that they especially enjoyed Shaun holding the pinata in the middle of our space, calling "Children! Children!" to get the thing opeed up. There's just something funny about a big man who looks a little like Charles Manson beckoning youngsters that warms the heart.

All in all, it was a marvelous party, with marvelous guests, excessive gifts (were my childhood birthdays this lucrative?? Jeez), and enough handmade stuff that my martha stewart itch got scratched real good. And that's what a good party should do, isn't it?