sisters

Today is my baby sister's 40th birthday. It's hard to believe that we are in our 40s. How did that happen?! But it's also amazing to revisit the wonderful, rich, roller-coaster relationship that we've built over the years.

I'm guessing based on the Christmas tree that this photo was taken just a
few days or weeks before Tiffany was born. My last Xmas as the only child. I think that was probably
the best gift I got that year, even if I didn't know it.

I think I was excited to be a big sister till the day she was born (or came home, in some kind of freaky plastic torture carseat - and PS, nice shorts, mom) and realized I would have to share my parent's love, attention...my toys!

What was this business? I can't say I was that lovey dovey nurturing big sister that I wish I had been. But I seemed to fake it well. Isn't she so cute and tiny. She must have been about Carter's age in this picture.

Spaghetti face! That curl on the top of Tiff's head is trademark. Those natural curls started early!

I wish I had more of our growing up photos digital. Many of them were awkward. Bad hair, bad glasses, bad outfits. Much like our relationship. We fought. A lot. I remember getting punched in the face over a dead hamster. Screaming matches over clothes and Barbies. Blaming our dog Poco's broken leg (the result of a "let's play veterinarian" game I cooked up) on Tiff. And, seriously, punching in the face was pretty normal. We did not get along AT ALL. Until we did. And then we were roomies and training partners and best friends. Sisters. Sure, we still have our knock-down-drag-outs sometimes, but here's what I know. 

Prepping for the triathlon. I was ready to bail on this one
and Tiff kept me going. When I don't have enough strength for myself,
she's always there to fill the void.

Tiff's 5th Ragnar. With a smile on her face. She inspires me every day.

We walk for breast cancer, because there are no ass-cancer walks.
She never had to wear a hat or a color to support me during the tough times.

My sister is amazing. She is brilliant and tough and loving and patient and caring. She is talented and sweet and adventurous. She runs tri's and half's with me. She'll hike, waterski, snowboard, babysit, wine taste...whatever. She loves her musicals and movies. She is my best friend. My sister. And I can't imagine my life without her. Sometimes I wish I could rewind some of the past so that I could have more of the amazing moments we've had as grown-up sisters. But I'm not sure it would be the same. Some of the beauty of us today is all the shit we went through back in the day.

This face is the one I love. Just like all of her nieces
and nephews...they all adore Aunt Biff!

Run. Drink. Medals. This girl is a winner.

Happy Birthday, Tiffany! I love, love, love you! You are one of my greatest gifts. I hope that your birthday and your 40th year will be amazing. Just like you.

12 day of pain-mas

For some reason, this holiday season has been a little more painful than most. It started 10 days ago and it seems like somehow there’s been illness, injury or owies pretty much every day since. So here goes our rendition of the Twelve Days of Christmas...the painful version.

12...Barfers Barfing. Sloane gets the stomach flu at 2 in the morning and pukes for 6 hours. Including twice in our bed. Why does it always look like corn?

11...Pukers Puking. Sloane gives her stomach flu to me. I spend 7 hours curled up on the bathroom floor barfing, to the point where I may never eat mashed potatoes and gravy again and my back hurt for two days afterwards. I counted it as exercise and part of my holiday diet program.

10...Husbands Heaving. And then Scott got it, so he started throwing up just as I was vacating my residence in the bathroom. Good timing. But having just finished 36 hours of gross-ness, the last thing you want disturbing your much-needed sleep is the sound of violent yakking through the bathroom door. Especially when you don’t even have the energy to be comforting or help at all. Good luck, hubby. Welcome to hell.

9...Ladies Falling. Yep, tripped in my high-heeled boots and fell down the stairs. Boot heel broken, ankle just sprained.

8...Kids-a-Coughing. Tagg, who miraculously avoided the family puke fest, starts coughing and then spikes a 104 degree fever. Thanks to Tylenol and a day home from pre-school he’s back on the mend a few days later. But lots and lots of "honey medicine" for his throat, education about the value of coughing into his elbow as opposed to my face, and soothing for the sad, sick child.

7...Fish-a-Floating. The kids decided to “feed” our Beta fish. Granted we don’t like this fish but filling its bowl with an entire jar of fish food and the copious amounts of change in our family swear jar seems borderline cruel. And the kids did it three times in just a few days. Feeling bad for Dory the fish, I bought it a little plastic plant for its bowl while I was buying round two of fish food. At WalMart. I would like to believe that the over-feeding, coin toxins took Dory out but I have been informed that these sweet plastic fish plants meant to spruce up Dory’s bowl may leech toxic China-WalMart chemicals into the water. Either way, the damn fish is dead. Tagg thinks he/she’s on vacation at Vanessa’s house.

6...Goose-Eggs-a-Laying. I’m doing a little cleaning up in the basement and start moving a wine rack that’s perched on a high shelf which has just a couple of vintage bottles that I save for memory’s sake, including an empty $500 bottle of 1982 Chateau Margaux that some Vegas sugar daddies treated us to years and years ago which still holds the record for the most expensive wine I’ve ever had. Sure enough, the rack tips and that particular bottle cracks me right on the forehead. Almost knocked me out. Bleeding and Cars bandaids follow. And then I get to rock a ping-pong ball size, goose-egg lump on my forehead for the next three days. Apparently, just in case I had any illusions, my Vegas sugar-daddy party days are OVER. And that's the worst headache I have ever had from a bottle of wine.

5...Sharp Knives. Never try to cut the strings off a roast when the knife is aimed right at your wrist and there are a gazillion people in your house. This will not end well. Especially when your helpful husband distracts you at a critical moment by admonishing you with a “hey, be careful.” A) Don’t distract me when I’m doing something dangerous and stupid. B) Don’t tell me what to do. I WILL stab myself in the wrist, dangerously close to major veins and tendons just to prove you wrong. At least I didn’t bleed on the roast. I didn’t want to get Chopped. Apparently I should have gone to the Instacare to get stitches but I didn’t so….

4...Tetanus Shots. Well, just one really but still, a shot. In the ass. Hence another bandaid. And the nurse said that my butt was my biggest "muscle." I wish I could have tipped her.

3...Banged Heads. A kid at school threw a train at Tagg’s head, so now he and I have matching head wounds. He also favors Cars bandaids.

2...Tequilas Down. Okay, it wasn’t tequila. It was really expensive High West Silver Whiskey which I was making into an adorable gift basket for a friend who likes their “Lemonade.” I had the recipe printed out, farm-fresh honey, a couple of organic lemons, fresh herbs, this over-priced whiskey which is made in Utah, all packed into a cute tin bucket with crinkled paper shreds. All I had to do was pull the cellophane around it and tie a festive ribbon into a lovely bow. I touch the bottle to move it into primo-wrapping position…and the entire fucking neck of the bottle breaks off in my hand. Breaks. OFF. And cuts my finger. I am bleeding, again. Gift, ruined. Surely there’s glass shards and/or my blood in the over-priced whiskey, and perhaps in my finger. Seriously? How did I get the one bottle of whiskey that was pre-destined to shatter on contact? 

1...Hangover on My Couch. I'm not going to lie. There's a pretty good chance this holiday season of disaster, the 12 days of Pain-mas, may drive me to drink entirely too much one day here soon, so I will likely be laying on my sofa watching football or bad 80s movies while feeling like shit. I think I deserve it. And, let's face it, there's a fairly good chance that I won't do anything that requires stitches while I'm couch-bound so that's a good start to the new year. 

awkward family photos

My kids are adorable, and I don't think I'm just one of those biased parents (even though I totally am). She's gorgeous, he's handsome, they are picture perfect. So, imagine our surprise when we get this for a school picture.

 

What the fuck?

Seriously, photographer...I am no professional but there is no way you looked through the lens and said OH YEAH, this one is a keeper! If you can't do something dumb or crazy enough to get a smile out of both of them at least ask someone to tidy up her hair or push her bangs to the side so she doesn't look like she just rolled out of bed. And maybe, just maybe, see if you can get the little guy not to smile like he just ate a jalapeno, or a green bean. 

This hideous school photo is worthy of a submission to Awkward Family Photos, but I feel like I need to wait till they're 18 and can truly appreciate the beauty of it all. I KNOW they were cuter than this when I sent them out the door, and I KNOW it's going to make for some equally awkward embarrass-their-first-date moments down the road. Hilarious.

Side Note...can you believe how BIG both of them look?! What a difference 2 years (and a good photographer) makes. Spend the money, people. Spend the money. And don't put your bald-ish daughter in a ridiculous knit cap with a fake flower barrette because that's almost as dumb.

night night time

I was putting Sloane to bed tonight, which is one of my favorite times of the day. We have a little routine. We read three books, usually Dora-related although I try to sneak in some of my favorites too. Then we sing three songs starting with Good Night Moon, the song Tagg and I made up years ago and has since become a family favorite. 

Sloane and I made up our own verse so it's her song too: 
   Good night moon.
   You're here too soon. 
   I'm not ready to go night-night. 
   I'll get my jammies, we'll sing some songs,
   give everyone a kiss good night.
(at which point she gives me like a dozen open-mouth, adorable, sloppy, toddler fish kisses). 

We usually follow that up with You Are My Sunshine, and then Twinkle Twinkle or Soft Kitty.

Tonight was a little different. We finished Good Night Moon and then Sloane told me to get in the bed, her little tiny toddler bed which is already full of crap - blankets, dolls, animals, books. But I thought she wanted to cuddle so I curled right up. So sweet. Incredibly adorable. I can't wait for the snuggles. And then she slid out of the bottom end of the bed and headed for the door. 

Me: Where are you going, Sloaney-boo?

Sloane: It's night-night time, mommy. Sleepy time. I turn off light and close door. 

Totally ready for snuggles and cuteness, I'm thinking this is the most adorable thing EVER. Until she turned off the light, and closed the door. 

And then left. 

Apparently she was putting me to bed for a change. 

Well played, dear girl. Well played.

it's a comfort thing

Sloane likes to put the tassels of her blanket in her nose and twirl them. It's her little comfort thing. Part gross, part adorable. We've tried to put a stop to it but, in the grand scheme of things, it seems kind of harmless. And, let's face it, sometimes you just need something that makes you happy, no matter how odd, adorable, or cute it is.

One of Tagg's pre-school classmates turned five today and is graduating to the kindergarten class. He was talking about the bus and "real" school and seemed excited about it, but a little sad he was moving on so I thought I'd ask him about it. Here's how that brilliant idea went down...

Me: Tagg, do you like school?

Tagg: No.

Me: Really? Why not?

Tagg: Because I like Nickelodeon.

Me: What?!

Tagg: I'd rather go to Nickelodeon school.

Me: Mayday. No more cartoons in the morning, or he'll be graduating from VH1 high. 

shoplifting

The kids and I were meeting our old nanny at the mall for dinner and she was running a little late, so we took the opportunity to scoot down to Naartjie (one of my all-time favorite shops) to get a birthday present for my niece. In just 10 minutes, Sloane had managed to destroy several precisely stacked display tables of pants and shirts, rip the tags off about 3 items of clothing and peel the size stickers off another half dozen. This is while I’m trying to look for proper sizes in a matching outfit on the sale rack, a borderline impossible feat, while Tagg is running laps back and forth to the front of the small store. 

And then he doesn’t come back. Or answer when I call him. Panic. I’m running around the store, enlisting the clerks to help find my lost son – which they did in about 30 seconds. Apparently the front window is a favorite hiding place for errant kids. Completely frazzled, I pay for the gift along with a few other things I couldn’t live without and we head off to the restaurant.

As I’m pulling Sloane out of the stroller, I notice a pair of pants that were tucked under her bum. Size 3-6 months. She’s shoplifting at 2 years of age. And not even for the right size stuff! Our nanny burst into laughter and agreed to watch the kids while I did a walk of shame back to the store. As I passed the stroller, I noticed a pant leg with a tag hanging out of the bottom. 

No she didn’t, I think.  

Yes, yes, she did. The entire stroller basket was stuffed to the brim with probably 40 pairs of pants and shirts in all sizes. So now my walk of shame is complete, as I hurry down the mall with an armload of stolen merchandise and, disgraced, hand the pile of clothes back to the same clerk with the condescending smirk who just helped me find my lost son in the window.

I will be withdrawing my application for mother of the year tomorrow. 

And, seriously, if she's going to shoplift I need to at least make sure she's stealing the right size stuff!