730 days later

I already have this perfectly good Saturday thingy I do, and now Hucks is going it with me, and maybe someday we'll take over the world with it, but damn it if Melissa didn't go and one-up me, with something better. Curse you, woman. I must play along.

You're supposed to repost some old, random post from your archives that you really like. Well, dude, I write utter crap, but fortunately, this one is a breeze for me.

See, I have this niece, a niece who I have never managed to meet, but 2 short years ago she took her first breath.

Baby K, your very shitty auntie who never has bothered to make the eencie little drive to Albuquerque to meet your cute wittle butt loves ya. Happy 2. Have fun ruining your parents lives.


Here's my post from 730 days ago today:

So much for dear 3of3 being the only baby girl in the family. Kaede Niamh was born to my brother and his wife around 8:20 this morning. More details and pictures are coming later.
Yeah niece!and a very proud papa...

The 16 year recap

Happy birthday to me.

Oh, it's not really my birthday, but it sorta is.

16 years ago, today, I did something brave. I did something I didn't want to do, and didn't know how to do, and didn't think I could do. I did the one thing that scared me the most; I had an independent thought. I had the very first independent thought I think I'd ever had before that day, and that thought and its subsequent choices have altered my life in a way I don't even want to think about. The alternative was completely unacceptable.

16 years ago today, I gave myself a window to grieve, to wallow, to hurt, and to let it all end. I gave myself exactly as long without that nightmare as I had with it, 16 years, to accept it, maybe forgive it, and to move forward.

16 years ago today I snuck onto an airplane and I left my mother, my family, my church, my friends and my whole world behind. I flew all day and landed one mile higher than I had departed and that moment when I stepped out of the plane into the snow and the dryness and the nighttime sky, my life finally began. I never looked back.

For 16 years I have been working through this thing, this running, this burying of anger. I have cried, I have dreamt murderous dreams in shades of red that I have never seen with my waking eyes, I have yelled and lashed out, and each day I have grown.

Today, I almost forgot about it. This thing, the very thing that formed me and made me what I am today, it doesn't own me anymore. It is a book that I read a long time ago. It is a nightmare after too much wine and chocolate. It is of almost no consequence at all.

I had 16 years with my family, and I have had 16 years without them. I hardly remember them anymore, and I don't miss them, and I almost never think about them anymore. I can't remember the smell of my mother or the sound of her voice. My brother and sister will never be older than 13. My friends will always have zits and braces.

I am totally ok with that.

Maybe tomorrow there will be more. You know, details. For tonight, raise a glass to the little girl who thought she could.

She could. And she did.

I'm gonna get killed for this one

(Updated: Yep, totally busted. Shit.)

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's Elvis' birthday. Who cares?

That's right. I just talked smack about the king. Whatcha gonna do 'bout it? I also wear tacky clothes and eat Twinkies soaked in gravy, and ain't nobody ever screamed and/or fainted when I walked on a stage. As for the whole "hip-gyration" thing, clearly you've never seen me drunk.

Anyway, today is someone else's birthday, too. I have two paths in front of me right now; the shiny, pastely, gold-plated road of adoration and the dark, weedy, overgrown path of bitchiness.

Guess which one I'm heading down.

The nice thing about having ex-boyfriends is that sometimes, if you are very careful and very lucky, you get to keep them around long after you've broken up with them in the horrid, teenaged way you did. Keeping them around is nice, because you get someone to giggle about the good ol' days with, someone who knows little things about you that even your very best girlfriends don't, someone who rocks your socks all the time. (In the laughter way, not the adultery way, you pervs.)

You know what makes it even more fun, though? Having a blog and a prideful ex, that's what. See, my ex will never admit to reading this blog, and the precious few comments he's left have been so carefully anonymotized that I had to do a bit of googling before I could figure out who they were even from. He's strange like that. I read his blog and my comments are all, THIS IS FROM MR LADY, THE FIRST GIRL YOU EVER SAW NAKED. His? Hi. This is some random reader. Shhhh.

There is a point here. Someone turns 33 today, and someone else thought she'd flip through some old pictures of him. Because, honestly, what's he going to do about it? Leave me a comment? That would totally be outing himself, and there are things Funny Ol' does do and there are things Funny Ol' doesn't do; outing himself from his cloak of invisiblogity would be in the doesn't category.

This is one of the few pictures of us together, which is odd because we dated for 3 1/2 years and have known each other for 16. In case you're wondering, we are both 19 and he is wearing a sweatshirt with, if I remember correctly, Donald Duck on it. *snicker*This is a picture I cropped out of a group picture in our high school yearbook. I was one of the photographers for the yearbook. Why? To take pictures of him, that's why. I was sorta stalking him in high school. And yes, he totally hated me for it. (I think I made up for it after high school, though.)Every single person I have showed this picture to has said one thing, and one thing only. "Suspenders?"

Be ye not fooled by the suspenders.

There are some things in life that one can do well, very well, even if one wears suspenders, by simply reading a book or two.

That's all I'm saying about that.

How Time Flys

Today is my father's 59th birthday. I honestly cannot believe that. My parents will perpetually be 35 year old angst-ridden rock stars in my mind's eye.

Those of you who have been around here for a while will know that both of my parents are alive and well-ish, but that I speak to neither of them. I haven't said word one to my father in just over 2 years. Well, except for that email I sent a few weeks ago, apologizing for my lack of communication, which he chose to ignore. Bygones.

I don't miss them terribly; I mean, I have totally replaced them with two amazing people that I really wish were really my parents, and whom I think wish the same. All is well in parentville over here. But really; sometimes a girl wants her daddy.

My kids ask about my dad all the time, and every stinking question is like a knife through my heart. I refuse to say anything nasty about their grandfather to them, so I just change the subject. It is a sad, sad situation.

But today is not about that. Today is the Friday before Christmas, and the day a 4 pound baby came into the world in Media, Pennsylvania many years ago. That baby grew up to be an amazing guitarist, arguably the best I've ever heard. He grew to be a father to an excessive amount of children, husband to 2 women, and friend to many. Here's what I remember of him:

I remember band practice when I was a little girl. I remember sneaking downstairs long after I was sent to bed, sneaking up to the couch, burying myself in between pot-smoking, beer drinking band members and falling back to sleep in a flood of guitars, tambourines and immaculate harmonies. It is my single most happiest childhood memory.

I remember sitting on the stoop one day, eating ice cream from the ice cream truck, melting in the heat, and getting sprayed with the garden hose by my dad. It was one of the few days he actually stopped to play with us, and I couldn't have been older than 3 or 4, but I will never forget it.

I remember the look on his face through his rear view mirror as he drove away, car packed, belongings shipped, on his way to Colorado. No matter how sad I felt, that look in his eye told me he was breaking a little, leaving me behind. No words could have conveyed that more clearly.

I remember turning off all the lights and sitting on the living room floor listening to Meddle on vinyl. I remember how he sat beside me, and we were both silent and motionless, and I remember drowning in the music and the Old Spice in the air and the absolute still perfection.

I remember how every year on my birthday, he would call to sing to me, even though it was totally FORBIDDEN in my religion and it made my mother go crazy. I remember how some years he'd get really sneaky and send me a birthday present. Those were my favorite years.

My dad wasn't the world's best dad, and I don't think he ever will be. He's just not wired that way. But sometimes, when he forgot about his obligations and his pursuits and his life, he was able to find a way to make me feel like the very center of the universe, in small, quiet sorts of ways. I was his little girl, and he was my daddy. There is no relationship in the world like that one. And I miss him.

Dear Leslie

(Of course I had to quit smoking the same week my period started and so all of my cranky hit it's peak on your birthday. Of course. That's how I roll. So, forgive me if this is shorter than I'd hoped for. Coherent thought streams aren't my strong point right now, unless of course those thought streams involve chocolate dipped deep fried salt.)

Dude, I love you so bad, man. SO bad. I love that you went to high school with the only girl I ever want to call sister, I love that you drank in college with my freaking soul mate. I love that the same girl that picked me up in a school cafeteria saw fit to pick you up on a college campus a few years later. I love that we have spent time in the same room and never met. I love that when I did meet you, it was through this crazy little thing called blogs where we all can lay it out on the line, because it's so easy to forget that someone else can read it. I love that the first time I ever got to hang out with you we were all so damn drunk I can't remember most of it. I love that I know what you look like in the morning. I love that we talk the same way and write the same way and think the same way. I love that we share so many friends, and idiosyncrasies, and character flaws. I love every stinking thing about you. I don't know how I made it so long without you in my world.

I wish I'd met you before kids and jobs and car payments and pets. I wish I had all the time to giggle and drink with you. But, we didn't and we don't. So, the only thing I can offer you for your birthday is this: Dude, when you come to visit, I will totally unquit smoking for you and go through this bullshit all over again after you leave. I've got a bottle of Jami with our name all over it. It's gonna be EPIC.

Your lovin',

~Mr Lady

Dude, I love the internet. Here's why.

Happy birthday, Chris.

I haven't ever met you, and I'd bet my pinky toe that I never will. I have, however, spent three years solid so damn cracked out on your blog that come Monday morning, after you take the weekend off, I end up looking like this just waiting for that haiku to come.

It's not that you're such a great dad, and it's not that you have the best taste ever in music, and it's not that you take really, mind-numblingly beautiful pictures, and it's not that you're totally freaking hot (and I can say that only because I strongly hold that your wife is hotter), and it's not entirely that you're a Sag, and it's certainly not that you have a penchant for posting really hideous pictures of yourself on the internet; it's none of those things, really.In the end, it comes down to one thing, and one thing only. There is this one common link that we share, and it is perhaps stronger than any genetic link or lifestyle similarity or political leaning. It's something few people share, and when you meet someone who gets this the way you get this, you have to hold on to them tight.

But before we get to that, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for all of your silliness, your happiness, for sharing your joys and your angst and your stories and your life with us. You will always be my first click in the morning. Even before I get to the coffee, I get to your site. Thank you for being kind and funny and insightful and interesting and did I mention hot?

And my birthday gift to you, which was given to me not too long ago by my BFF Molly, who gets it too and you should really be her friend, too, is this. Enjoy. And have a fabulous birthday.

How a comment on a blog changed my life

On April 24th, 2006, I put up a little post that simply said, "I'm moving to Canada". On April 28th, a young man from New York City left a comment. It wasn't actually directed at me; it was a response to a comment left by David. The thing is, he'd never left a comment before and I didn't even know he was reading this thing to begin with.

And so began the love affair between me and The Retropolitan.

Has it only been 1 1/2 years? It feels like forever.

I have met a lot of amazing people through this blog; David, Andy, Chris, Diane & Darla, to name a few. I have had the pleasure of actually real-life meeting a few of you, but I know that the odds are I'm never going to sit in a room with The Retropolitan. I doubt I'll ever know how he holds a fork or where he puts his napkin, but it really doesn't matter. Because I think I already know those things.

Dear Retro, thank you for leaving that comment that day. Thank you for the daily emails, the e-hugs, the random bits of insanity. Thank you for Wilco, and Sarah, and Genna, and Batman. Thank you for sharing bits of your life with me, things that there are no good reason to have shared. I've never actually looked you in the eye, or seen your eye at all for that matter, but when I talk to you, it's like you're right there in the room. I can't explain it, but I really feel like I know you somehow. You aren't just a person on the other end of and internet connection, you are someone that I know and that I love and that matters to me.

I know a lot of people, and I have a lot of relationships, but I can count on my hands how many of those people really, really get to me, how many I would jump in front of a train for. I have this thick wall I keep around me, and I use that to very carefully keep most of the people in my life at a distance, because I, well, I have some attachment issues that I'm not getting into right now. But with you, I never worried. I knew from day one that you were in, and you were in for life. I can't explain it, and I don't want to.

You were supposed to leave that comment all those years ago; I was supposed to meet you. You have enriched my life in some small way every day since I've known you. You made that whole debacle last year a lot easier, just by being around. And you let me write on your blog for a few months. I thought only Andy was crazy enough to do that.

I could ramble on and on, but I'm sure you have some birthday drinks to attend to, so I'll wrap it up. I love you and I am so very thankful for having you in my life. And as REO Speedwagon said so elegantly, I'm going to keep on loving you. Because it's the only thing I want to do.

Happy birthday my friend. Thanks for being born.

And I don't much want to anyway

Happy birthday, darling. More to come later.

Apparently, I have a price

And someone named it. And now I know something about myself.

I don't do well with large gifts. My friend Veronica once gave me every single book she saw I had on a wish list; every stinking one. I could have died. It was seriously the most randomly thoughtful thing someone had done for me in a while. For my birthday last year, Gigi and Daddy C got me an iPod. A freaking iPod. A big one, shiny and black, causing me to spiral into a whirlwind love affair of epic proportions. Of course, I had no idea how to accept said iPod, and was all awkward and nervous about the whole thing.

I just have never been good with presents. I'm not used to it. Maybe I have an overblown 'I don't deserve it' complex; maybe I am just a stinking cheap stinker.

Because of this, I always ask for practical gifts around Christmas and birthday time. This year, I have asked Santa to bring me a real vacuum or a sewing machine. One year I asked Santa for a mixer, and he brought it, and he felt really guilty about bringing me kitchen appliances even though I desperately wanted one and totally needed it.

I can accept kitchen appliances, no problem. I can also accept grocery store certificates. I am a weirdo.

Those of you who have been with me from the beginning, pushing four years now, will recall that last year someone, some unnamed and almost ex-husband, forgot my birthday. Completely. Well, he remembered it yesterday. And so, happy 32-and-234.5-days-birthday to me, I guess...You can only imagine how long it took me to stop looking for the receipt so I could return this to the store.

When I asked what in the name of Zeus would make him do something so mind-numbingly stupid as buying a brand new laptop for someone who already has a laptop (not that it's functional in any way anymore; curse you, baby, and your tiny little fingers)and never really leaves the house anyway, he said that someone who's trying to write the Great American Blog should really have the proper equipment*. I pointed out quickly that A) he's never read the blog and B) it's total crap and C) we need exactly 15, 291 other things right now.

He said tough.

He said there was no way it was going back.

He said there was no way I could give it to him.

He said happy late birthday, and I'm sorry I forgot it, and go charge that thing up already.

And goddamnit, now the pressure is on. Now I have to write something of substance. Now I have to find someone to pay me to write this thing, because there's no way I can get away with the digital picture frame I was planning on giving him for Christmas.

*Incidentally, he also said that he got it on insane clown posse discount, and since every single instructional paper that came with it is in French and French alone, I'm betting he wasn't lying.

Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little boy like you

(I know, I used the same title last year. It's a good title.)

First, Andy:

Happy birthday, dear. It's been 3 years now that I've known you. Wowzas. You have been my constant friend, and stood by my side through one of the hardest times in my life, for absolutely no good reason I can think of. But I'm lucky, and glad for it, and always grateful for your friendship and your Tron fetish and your links. You make me want to be a better writer, and a better woman, and a better mother, and most of all, the thing I ain't never gonna forgive you for...you make me wish I lived in Thornton.

I wish you beers and smiles and trick-or-treats and all the happiness ever. I wish a little more I could do all of that with you. Maybe someday, maybe someday......

Second, Josh:

Today you turn 35, and I seriously cannot believe that you are actually 35 full years old. You were just a kid when I met you, all those years ago. I guess you're not a kid anymore. It's been 10 years, today, that we have been really, not so much on-again-off-again together (we're just not going to count last year) and though you have changed almost entirely and grown and learned and tripped and fell a few times, each time you get back up the core things are still there. The donut addiction, the love of all things shoe and eBay, the fact that you cannot not laugh at a fart, your taste in books and music, your obsession with Cholula and hair products....all that is still there and in a weird way defines you more than your role as a father, or someone's boss, or your demons ever will.

Your life thus-far has been some great ups, some big downs, and through it all you just keep trying to do it the best you can, to be a better man every day, to be graceful through it all. I am honored to have gone this far through it all with you, and I am more happy than I will ever find the words that my babies look like you and walk like you and burp like you. Thank you for sharing the past 12 years of your life with me.

I love you (both). Happy Birthowe'en!

There's something in the water

My family is growing.

No, no, not me. The factory is closed, thank you very much. But nieces are a'brewing, and I have one shiny new lurker.That would be Ms. Q, born on Wednesday, happy and healthy and still tired after the big move. Q, your momma is my #1 lurker. You have some big shoes to fill, my dear.

Also, my littlest sister, my step-sister T, is 20 weeks pregnant. She found out yesterday that she's having a baby girl. Of course she is; there hasn't been a boy born on her side of the family for two generations. Little Gracie Lynn is due to make a grand appearance on 2of3's birthday, the day of Relativity, the birthday of the great Albert Einstein.

There's one more, and this one is the one I am the mostest excitedest about. Of course, I can't talk about it just yet. Soon, though.....soon....

This means I'm pushing 33, doesn't it?

Dear Auntie N,

Your birthday was yesterday (yes, I am aware that I suck and that I'm a day late). I just wanted to say happy birthday.

You know, I have a couple sisters already. I've got that one that looks just like me but it blissfully unaware that her mom & my dad got it on 28 years ago or so. I don't think she even remembers me anymore. I've got the batshit crazy one that I haven't seen since she was 11 and I'm quite happy to keep it that way. And there's the one who I have known, on and off, for her whole life; the one who isn't actually related to me but we sorta grew up togetherish just because her mom married my dad. She's 22. I'm 32. Need I say more?

So yeah, I have a few sisters running around, but I've never actually had a sister before. I always assumed that the whole giggling, secret-sharing, cooking yummies in a kitchen thing was something that happened exclusively in movies. And then I met you. And the giggling started. And then there were a few recipes exchanged. And then a couple shots later and our dirty laundry took a cycle in each others' washers.

Dude, I love you so much I don't know what to do with it. It's no accident that you came into my life. You crack me the hell up, you inspire me, you're not afraid to whack me in the head when I screw up. I wish I'd known you before the marriage and the kids and the real world all set in. I wish I knew you in college or high school or from a ridiculous job in our twenties because I imagine we would have some fabulously scandalous stories to tell our grandchildren later. But instead, here we are with life to deal with and kids to chase and dinners to cook and jobs to do and I think we will never, ever have enough time together. Me moving to Canada certainly didn't help that at all, did it?

At the end of the day, though, I am grateful for every minute I have had with you. It's really rare for me to meet someone I can relate to on any level, and yet in you I am reminded so much of myself, but not the right now myself; more like the myself I could be. We grew up in different universes, led very different lives, taken almost opposite roads, and kind of ended up at the same place within ourselves. If I can look in the mirror and even catch a glimmer of the woman you are, I am doing something very, very right.

I think that you very well may have been my Missing Piece. And so, on your birthday(ish), just know that someone out there in the Great White North really, truly, with all her heart, loves you and misses you and wishes you all the happiness in the world. And her kids do, too.

For always & ever baby....

6 going on Lawyer

Dear 1of3 version 2.0,

I talked to you on the phone today and nothing anyone will ever tell me will convince me that you are not 10 years old. When I asked you how old you were, you said 6. When I said no way, and that I was sure you were starting college, you said, "No Auntie, I just started Kindergarten." No giggle, no nothing. Just a smug little 'You poor, stupid woman'.

You have always been smarter and witter and funnier than a kid has a right to. You remind me of your dad when he was that little, just without the angst. I love you for that; for showing me what my brother should have been, what he was inside if just someone had ever been nice to him. You made him a daddy, and that was what he was born to do, and so I owe you one, kid. You got a dad, I got my brother back. Thanks.

I don't have a lot to say to you today, on your 6th birthday, mostly because I don't think even you can read at this level just yet, and I'm betting you're way too busy playing with your Transformers or torturing your little brother to read your old Auntie's blog, but just know this, little man...

You auntie loves you. So bad. I don't care at all that I've seen you three whole times in your life, and I don't give a dingo's kidneys that you wouldn't know it was me if I bumped into you at the mall. 'Cause kid, you're my family. You look like us and talk like us and walk like us and geek the hell out just like we do.

I am so proud that my kids have a cousin like you.

And maybe, just maybe, if you promise not to EVER show anyone this god awful picture of me,

maybe I'll tell you some really juicy stories about your dad someday. I love you little man. Happy birthday.

Mr Lady, party planner extraordinare

First things first: What did my kids think of Chinese Spaghetti? (By the way, I only call it that because I have no idea what else to call it. I can't call it beef and broccoli with noodles; they'd never touch that.)

We'll start with Mr. Human Garbage Disposal:

He loved it. And now to the baby toddler. Honestly, she was a dead give-away. I mean, there was broccoli in it.

I am FULLY aware that she looks like an evil undead zombie in this picture; no need to point it out to me, thanks. I asked, "Do you like your dinner, baby?" and she answered, "YUMMANUMMY!"

And now we're onto 2of3, Mr. I Would Rather DIE Than Eat Anything But PopRocks. What did my cautious gourmet think?

Well, I'll be a greased Jesus. He LIKED it!

We'll give this dinner a good 1. I think zero has to be licked plates. And so concludes this weeks' installment of Rate the Hate. (Props to Molly for the first accurate guess still the games' inception. Perhaps there should be a prize of some sort.) Next week? Thanksgiving! Canadians don't do anything on time, much less early, but we kick your American ASSES at Thanksgiving, by about 6 whole weeks! (Oh, and our dollar is currently worth the same as yours, too. HA!)

And now for something completely different: Birthday parties. Dude, I can totally throw the coolest parties. If you happen to need one planned, and happen also to be turning two, give me a call. I'll so hook you up.

Yep, that's a birthday tiera. I am a sucker for baby bling. She had 3 friends over and we made foam bookmarks. Because we're nerds, that's why.

The we headed down to the basement, which mom had filled the ceiling of with pink balloons with streamers (for jellyfish) and blew both her eardrums right out of her head to fill the floor with two shades of blue balloons (for the sea).

I'd love to show you more pictures, but those kids popped all the blue balloons and after a rigorous balloon war, they sucked every last bit of helium out of every last pink balloon. How much do you want to bet those kids aren't allowed to come over anymore?

She had the usually two-year-old snacks: Goldfish, Blue punch with lime sherbet (apparently, I was going for New Jersey ocean water there), but these were the best part:

The Nemo gummy snacks were supposed to be floating IN the Jello, but I gave up waiting for the Jello to set at 2 am the morning of the party. They skated on top. They still totally rocked. Oh, and if anyone is in need of 10 small fish bowls, I'm the girl to talk to.

She got lots of fun presents, including this sweater from South Africa:

(Gramma is in South Africa. I am certainly not ordering clothes for a smelly toddler from other continents, I can assure you.)

And that's about it. She consumed more cake in two days than I thought it was humanly possible to, and now she's two. Oh god, she's two. Anyone in the market for a two year old?

730 days. one hour and 6 minutes later

Dear 3of3,

Two years ago today, you were born. After testing positive for Down's, after a placenta in the wrong place, after 9 months of the most horrible pregnancy imaginable, you came to us with conjoined toes on one foot, a collapsed lung, not hearing and unable to nurse enough to get milk from me. 2 days later you went home a perfectly happy, healthy baby. Sometimes tests are wrong, I guess.

Your birth was so fast and so much more painful than anything I've ever experienced that I can't remember any of it; I only know what I have written down in your book. What I do remember is watching your brother, and seeing your birth through his eyes. In that, you have given both him and me the greatest of gifts. He changed a little that day. I have no doubt that if anything, he will always have a fine appreciation for women, and mothers in particular. And I, well, I got to see my son in a whole new light. I love you for giving us both that.


You have changed the entire way I have always seen myself. I have always been terrified of little girls and sure that I could never be a mother to one. See, your grandmother was awful to me. Her mother was awful to her. Her mother was awful to HER. It just goes on and on. I was determined to break this cycle by never having a girl myself. But here you are, and her I am, and I am so crazy bad in love with you that I get lost in it sometimes. That cycle certainly did stop. You are feisty and imaginative and sassy and absolutely spoiled beyond rotten, and you, my dear, are the apple of my eye. You hold the possibilities that I always yearned for but never got to reach. You make every day of mine sunny and lovely and bright.



Because of you, this man that we all love has a place in our family; a role, a title, more than just "some guy who buys us the best presents". You and your brothers have a Gaaaawdfather, an amazing one at that. He his part of our lives now, and forever, and so is his whole family, and it was because of you all that is possible. You brought two families together in a way that few things can, and we are all a little better for it.



I hope that I can always be the mother you deserve, and teach you the right way to live your life, and give you confidence and compassion and patience and strength. And when you're all grown and gone and living your life, I hope that I can be your best friend. My only wish for you is a life full, rich, and well-lived.

And remember, dear, that momma is always right here. I always have a hand for holding. I will always kiss you goodnight, as long as you'll let me.


Thank you for the very best two years of my life. I love you to the moon, baby girl.

Come one, come all

You are hereby cordially invited to a birthday extravaganza on Sunday at 3 pm for the world's cutest baby girl. There will be blue jello in tiny fishbowls with gummy fish in them, there will be pretzel fishing rods with Powerbait gummy worms attached, there will be jellyfish floating above and blue sea at your feet. There will be goldfish. Most importantly, there will be CAKE. Lots of cake.

Please RSVP by Saturday evening at 778-846-1....oh, who am I kidding? There will be pictures on Monday. She's going to be 2. I am totally going to cry.

(I just have to throw in here that I actually bought scrapbooking scissors in order to make those invitations, and I am having a hard time reconciling myself to that fact. I also completely ruined my best little pair of super sharp scissors. But they're totally cute, no? Really, I've lost all hope of being cool.)

The one day a year I'm allowed to say "I love you"

Somewhere in the ballpark of 5 years ago, I was sitting on a stoop with my friend Heidi and this car drove by. It was a little red car and inside it was a boy. In a blue suit. It drove past us and I did that neck-craning thing guys do at nude beaches, and then I looked at Heidi and asked if she saw it, too. She did. All I said was this, "Dude, that is seriously the hottest guy I have ever seen." She uh-huhed.

Turns out, that guy had the parking spot next to mine and the apartment upstairs from mine and just enough room in his life for me and a couple kids.

But, truth be told, I was totally wrong. That 24 year old boy in the car is not the hottest boy I've ever seen. The 29 year old man that loves my children and sits in hot tubs with me talking about philosophy and religion and social revolution and whose dog totally tries to make out with me, that is the hottest guy I've ever seen.

Today, Chris, you turn 29. That means that we have been stuck with each other for 5 years. I have watched you very carefully over the past years, and I have learned that we are about as two different people as you could find. I'm fairly social, you're, well, not. I can remember your name, even when I'm drunk. You have a college degree and a great job that you love. I graduated high school and threw on an apron. I have a gaggle of children, you have a dog. You like red walls, I like orange ones. You plant thyme where I'd plant mint. You lean a bit to the right, me a bit to the left. On the surface, one would be left to wonder what the hell we have in common that would make us even the remotest of acquaintances. But there is something, something deep down at the core of the people that we are, and that makes us perfect. We are moved by the same things, we share essentially the same belief structure. We both love to cook and walk your dog and play with my kids and watch off-beat movies and play music and do the crossword. We both believe in family and home and quiet. Our differences compliment each other in an extraordinary, rare sort of way you don't find every day.

We have this very rationed, mitigated relationship, you and I. There are definitely some very high boundaries that we have set up for each other. People who see us out at the same place wonder if maybe we are distant cousins or friends of friends of friends. I can't begin to explain it or understand it myself, but I love our calm little quiet friendship and I just don't need to shout it from rooftops. I have made a series of questionable choices in my 32 years, but you; creating a relationship with you, with all its ups and downs, finding a way to bring you into my family and finding a place in yours, you have been one of the smartest things I've ever done. My children will be much better people having you as a godfather and a role model. And don't think they don't look up to you and worship the ground you walk on; they most certainly do.

I have watched you grow and transform from a boy with his arms outstretched, searching for his place in the world, into a confident, sure, talented, frighteningly beautiful man who makes the world a better place just by being in it. And I have to say that I am more honored than I could ever tell you to have been seated backstage through a few of your sets.

No matter where you go, or what you do, I promise you that I will always be quietly sitting right there, in your corner, with a bottle of Beam and the daily crossword. And I think that just maybe you might also be in mine. And I don't think I could ever need anything more than that. I love you, kid.

Yours in Christ,

Sharon