The Pittsburgh Pirates

I have been to a Pittsburgh Pirates game every year I have been here. I think they have won one out of those four, maybe two. That’s pretty typical for that team. Once a powerhouse, they haven’t even been to a World Series since I was born. Probably a curse of some sort. Don’t all baseball teams have a curse to blame for continually loosing?

Win or loose, though, taking two kids to a baseball game was an adventure. We certainly didn’t sit down much. And our hopeful search for the Pirates Parrot was in vain. We got to see him but not meet him as he tends to hang around those who can afford brilliant seats – a reality poor Emry doesn’t quite understand yet. Still, she took the disappointment well. After all, cotton candy will cheer just about anyone.

And hotdogs. Because those are essential at a baseball game. The night was clear and pleasant. Ethan was fascinated whenever a long ball was hit. Emry loved the lights of the city. Both got to stay up way beyond their bedtime, crashing almost as soon as they were fastened into their car seats. All in all, a fun and memorable family outing.

Ethan observing the field.

Emry enjoying her hotdog.

All of us at the famous Roberto Clemente statue.

Happy Birthday, Katey!

I’ll be kind and not say how old you are today… J

My Husband

Today is my husband's birthday. I won't say which one, but if you know how old I am you can figure it out with this one hint: He's five-and-a-half years older than me.

Actually, he doesn't mind his age. Except, perhaps, when I remind him that we'll be in wheelchairs by the time our kids graduate from high school. (Well, okay, let's hope not. But we will be the parents on the sidelines who are asked which kid is our grandchild.). I don't mean to make him feel bad about his age as much as I am thinking aloud of my own. And the grey hairs that seem to multiply the closer I get to forty...

The truth is, I realize that I often take Ed for granted. Anyone will tell you that being married isn't easy. I would have to say that it's harder for me than for him. We were both single for a long time, but I have a much more independent and happy-by-myself disposition. I don't think a moment goes by when he's not happy being married while I would pay big bucks for a whole quiet hour to simply enjoy a good book - alone! And, I confess, sometimes I think I shoulder the whole parenting thing all by myself. After all, am I not the one feeding, dressing, discipling, instructing and generally putting up with our two kids 95% of the time? While most days the answer to that question is a resounding YES!, note the word most.

Just this past week, I was reminded of what a good husband and father Ed is. For he was the one up with our teething Ethan more than once this week so I could roll over and go back to sleep. And the one night Ethan was crying and fussing every half hour (teeth? growing pains? who knows!), Ed was the one who went downstairs to hold and settle him around midnight. Finally settled, it wasn't a few hours later before Ethan was screaming again and Ed cuddled with him on the couch for a couple of hours until he finally dozed off again. That our kids are awake like that is rare, but when they are Ed shoulders the load just as much as I do. And I love him all the more for it.

God has truly blessed me in my marriage. It's not perfect. You'll never find me saying Ed is perfect. But neither am I. We're two sinners who, by God's grace, are trekking this path in life together. And I'm very grateful for him.

Bee Stings

Maybe one of the major reasons I don’t have Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or whatever the newest and greatest is I know nothing about is because I simply don’t enjoy telling every moment of my life to the entire world. Honestly, nobody cares that I stopped by Starbucks some random morning. Or that I did my hair differently two weeks ago. Or the truly embarrassing scenario at work last week the involved my keyboard and…yeah, I’ll stop there. Ethan’s teething again and I’m living on five or less hours of sleep a night. At least, that was my excuse. 

So, if Facebook had been around 23 years ago, I would have been very loathe to share the story of my first (and only) time of getting stung. It involved sitting on the bee, high leaps of dexterity over car seats and lots of screaming. To this day, it is one of the few stories about me my siblings bring up quite often with great joy. For getting stung by a bee is not embarrassing in and of itself, but one’s reaction may very well be.

This summer, 23 years of not one sting later, I have been stung twice. The first time was the very day I vainly attempted to cut off my finger with the immersion blender. That afternoon, the kids and I were outside enjoying popsicles when a bee simply landed on my hand, stung me and flew off. Really? It was very minor – not even a stinger to pull out – but after all I had already been through with that same hand that day…really?!?!?

The second time was at my parents a couple of weeks ago. We enjoyed a wonderful morning of apple picking and were completing the pleasant time with a tractor ride. Just as the driver slowed down and told us he was quieting the engine as we passed within twenty or thirty feet of the bee hives, a bee who apparently thought the engine was not quiet enough and it was my fault somehow landed in the heart pendant of my necklace and got stuck. Initial reaction: swat at it. A lot. This caused my necklace to fly up towards my lips where the really angry bee happily stung me. Now I was as angry at it was, swatted it more until it fell out onto the floorboards so I could end it’s life with a hard stomp. Apparently, the stinger was just hanging there so my dad pulled it out. Yes, I confess I was a bit hysterical and shed a few tears. The only thing anyone had to put on it at that moment was some lip balm my sister Jenny handed me. The lip balm was made my Burt’s Bees. Oh, the irony.

I felt like I had just left the dentist office after having a tooth pulled. It didn’t look so bad in the mirror, but it felt three times the right size. It did itch for a few hours that day. Strangely, a week later, it started itching again and became swollen for about 36 hours. I don’t know what that was about, but now all that’s left is a small bump where it stung me that no one can see. And a determination to go another 23 years before I get stung again.

Raising Boys - Raising Girls

Our political world would have us believe there is no difference between a boy and a girl. One can choose which you want to be. As if our biology books should be tossed out a window. Sometimes I wonder if they realize how ridiculous they sound.

All that aside, though, it suddenly dawned on me last week that is very obvious that Ethan has a sister. I don’t mean he’s girly. Far from it. He loves cars, trucks, motorcycles, trains and planes…especially when he causes them to crash into one another. He mimics the sounds he hears around all day long. He loves to wear his bath towel like a cape and run around the house. He picks up every stick he can find, swinging it about like a sword. And he would far prefer to throw his stuffed animals around than play house with them. Simply put, he’s 100% boy. However, he can name almost all the Disney princesses…

Now Emry is not a princessy sort of girl exactly. She likes to wear sparking things and pretty dresses, but not every day or all the time. She doesn’t play princess except to recreate the movies she has seen with her Disney Princess Little People, but more likely you will find Cinderella and Rapunzel going camping in the Little People camper than dancing in their castle. But she does watch Beauty and the Beast, Frozen, Cinderella and Tangled often enough. And since Ethan is always around…

Honestly, I think he likes Cinderella because he finds her name fun to say. But he is nearly obsessed with Anna. He points her out anytime there’s a picture of her somewhere and flipped to the one page with her on it in an Olaf board book we got from the library recently. Don’t ask me why. He just likes her.

And so, yes, Ethan has a sister. And Ed has decided he needs to be educated in makes and models of cars. Something I don’t think you actually have to teach a boy. Certainly neither of my brothers sat about with car magazines or books studying up on the things and yet they could point them out by make, model and Honestly, I think he likes Cinderella because he finds her name fun to say. But he is nearly obsessed with Anna. He points her out anytime there’s a picture of her somewhere and flipped to the one page with her on it in an Olaf board book we got from the library recently. Don’t ask me why. He just likes her.

And so, yes, Ethan has a sister. And Ed has decided he needs to be educated in makes and models of cars. Something I don’t think you actually have to teach a boy. Certainly neither of my brothers sat about with car magazines or books studying up on the things and yet they could point them out by make, model and year as if they were written in bold letters across the back of them. (Okay, so the make and model kind of are, but the year? I wasted precious hours of my life trying to figure out where the years are printed on a car that my brothers would know that with merely a glimpse. Of course, they’re not…so how do they know?!?!?) And since Ed actually does sit about with his car magazines, I’m pretty sure there is great hope for Ethan…just as soon as he figures out that Impala is almost as fun to say as Cinderella.