A Utah Family Travel Writer's Adventures with Altitude
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And so is my childhood crush, Jimmy. Only he’s not looking quite so adorable these days.
Oh wait. Neither am I.
Dearest Hadley,
Happy 3rd birthday! I cannot believe how fast you are growing nor how quickly this year flew by, taking into account that your first year was the longest of my life. But I think I already said that in last year’s birthday letter. And I really am still recovering from it all.
But you have bloomed into a beautiful little girl so full of vigor, independence, fun and excitement. At times, you remind us so much of me until you throw one of your infamous “I can do it myself” tantrums and then it is confirmed.
Even when in the womb, we knew you were going to be feisty. Nine days before my due date, work-stressed Daddy promised you that if you were born the next day, he would buy you a car on your 16th birthday. I don’t know how you did it but you ensured my water broke at 7 a.m. the very next morning and made the deadline by your 11:05 p.m. birth. And if you had your way right now, that car would be pink because that “is the color of girls.”
But you’re not a girly-girl. Sure you love to play dress-up and think there must be something wrong with those friends who do not want to change their clothes 10 times a day. But you also love to get dirty and come back from our regular hikes even more sullied than those woosy boys. This is after you blew them away on the trail. You may get filthy but you’re fast. And you even throw in a few side bouldering expeditions just to rub their inadequacies in their faces–another trait you have obtained from your proud mama.
In addition to hiking, you recently took swimming lessons where you finally learned you were not going to die if you put your head under the water. At least not immediately. This summer, you will take gymnastics followed by dance in the fall, thereby proving that someone in this family besides your father actually has rhythm.
Even though you are dying to play soccer, we will wait to enroll you until next spring. Y’see, you have a little sharing problem and it’s not what one would think. Since baby Bode was born, we have constantly drilled you to share. Of course, you try to ignore our wise counsel most of the time because this is not a communist society. The only time when it becomes of the utmost importance is when we are teaching you to play soccer and you accusingly explode that we are not sharing. And your father and I just don’t think that would go over too well on the playing field.
Your biggest fan is Bode and you can make him laugh like no one else. He loves to come wake you up to snuggle and then play with your beloved Thomas the Trainset with you. And for the most part, you adore him back. Sure you occasionally push him over during his attempts to stand because “that is how he is going to learn.” And never mind those times you drag him away by the jugular after he tries to sneak up the stairs. You are, after all, saving his life.
You are surrounded by people who love you and if you had your way, you’d probably divide your time up between your grandparent’s houses. We live in a fantastic neighborhood and you are blessed to have many friends with whom you play everyday. Friends with toys. Lots of cool toys. You are learning at a very young age that sometimes superficiality can be beneficial, especially if it snags you a ride on your neighbor Gabe’s sweet Quad.
You will start preschool in the fall and though I admittedly look forward to a two-day reprieve from my little Hurricane, I am also cognizant how quiet and lonely our house will be. You fill it with such laughter, energy and love. And destruction. You are, after all, labeled as a natural disaster. In the nicest possible way, of course.
We will celebrate your birthday tomorrow at Casa Bonita, your favorite place on earth because of the sundry of activities and half-naked men cliff divers. Your birthday presents include your wooden playset and an Elmo bike.
Grandma and Grandpa B. generously pitched in for the swing and also sent you $6 whole dollar bills. You immediately announced you wanted to go to our favorite store on earth–Target. I wondered what you would spend it on: Cookies? Candy? A Garmin eTrex Vista Cx GPS?
But then you announced clothes. And it was confirmed that maybe you aren’t much like me.
And we thereby won’t need to send you to therapy after all.
Happy Birthday!
Love,
Mommy
Is anyone else having a stressed-out week?
I’m barely treading water these days. It isn’t bad enough that we’re in the middle of this landscape monstrosity but we are throwing a Memorial Day party so we have a deadline. On top of that, we have to buy gifts and attend three birthday parties this week, one of which is Hadley’s. Evidently, August is The Month to Conceive. Nothing like summer lovin’.
On another note, I recently gutted Hadley’s closet of all her outgrown clothes with the intent to donate them to a local children-in-crisis organization. I was thrilled when my friend generously offered to pitch in items that had not sold at her garage sale. In all, we must have had more than 100 pieces of clothing.
Well, the organization never came to pick them up so this gargantuan box sat on our porch. And sat. And sat. I didn’t know what to do because I wanted to ensure the clothes went to someone in need. Plus, that box was really big.
Fast-forward to last weekend. Jamie and I hired a hard-working friend who is out of work to help with the yard. To make his situation even more stressful, he is the father of four boys and his sweet wife is pregnant. While we worked, I asked him if they knew what they were having. Ecstatic, he replied they had just found out they were finally having a little girl.
A light bulb went off as I thought about that box that had been sitting. And sitting. I offered it to him and he gratefully took it. I was on Cloud 9 the rest of the day.
Later, I told Jamie about how perfectly it had worked out.
“You know, I think I was really inspired to hold off on moving that box.”
“Either that or lazy,” he joked.
“I like my explanation better.”
Love Is:
While you are at work in your air-conditioned office, asking your busy wife to haul about 500 pounds of dug-up sod down the ditch, up over the hill and then hoist it over the fence into the empty lot…
…and thoughtfully covering up the sod with a tarp during a rainstorm so your sweet wife does not have to haul 1,000 pounds of mud.
(Thanks Honey but flowers will do next time.)
Requited Love Is:
A busy wife who hauls about 500 pounds of dug-up sod, nearly breaks her back throwing it over the fence and loses control of the wheelbarrow on the way down and runs over a few of her hubby’s prized plants….
….as an eternal reminder of their love.
Is anybody else’s husband lawn-obsessed?
Hunky Hubby is in serious need of attending L.A. (Landscaper’s Anonymous) for the hours he pours into researching plants and flowers. In my opinion, having to put in your own yard is one of the major drawbacks of building a home. That and the mortgage that follows.
Granted, I may be a small part of the problem due to a little deadline I gave him to build a retaining wall, fill in our ditch, cover it with rubberized mulch and then build Haddie’s playset on top of it. All by next Friday for Hadley’s birthday. Really, that isn’t too much too much to ask, is it? After all, Rome was built in a day (my blog, my interpretation).
I should have seen the early signs of his mania. Even when the snow was still flying, he was already obsessing. Case in point: the kids and I were playing outside in the snow waiting for him to come home. When he arrived, I went to finish dinner and asked him to help the kids remove their clothes. Sure, no problem.
Until he saw The Package. The package that contained the first seedlings of the season. He voraciously tore into it.
A few minutes later, the abandoned abominable snowchildren started protesting.
“Umm Jamie, did you leave the poor kids by the front door? They really need help getting their snowpants and boots off!”
“Yes. But my package. Came!” (The man is rendered unable to complete a full sentence during his trances.)
“Honey, they haven’t seen you all day.”
“Yes, but I haven’t seen this package…ever.”
Photo: Jamie shortly after we moved in with his leftover pile of crap compost.
After seven days, Jamie finally brought in the cooler from his car. Any guesses for how many more it will take to remove the rotting food? 
On Friday, we attended a murder mystery dinner. Jamie was the perfect Groucho Marx and I was none other than the illustrious Marilyn Monroe. This is the second time in three months I have played a skank. On our cruise, we did a murder mystery and I was the loose woman who had an affair with the ship’s captain. Coincidence or typecast? Hmmm….
Our friends, Eva and Jon, went all out for the occasion. I mean, it’s not everyday you have John Wayne, Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire, Joni Mitchell, Elvis, Jimi Hendrix, Patsy Kline and Judy Garland at your place. We were greeted with a red carpet, showered with gifts and indulged in delicious food. Oh, and did I mention there was a murder?
As “perfect” as everyone thought I was for the role, I was no Marilyn. I’ve never watched any of her movies nor had a fan blowing up my skirt for more than 10 seconds at at time. But I put forth a good effort and even straightened my hair for the occasion. Too bad I had an allergic reaction to my hairspray. This, after spending the entirety of the 80s with the mother of all hair-sprayed bangs.
Even worse was that when prepping me on her voice, my little Groucho made a better Marilyn than I.
I had a grand time acting out the murder. How could I not with lines like “I’m sooooo sick of being a sex symbol and my hour-glass shape.”
Coincidentally, I said the same thing just last week.
Or the very revealing scripted conversation with none other than Groucho (because who could resist that profile?): “Such lovely men at the party like you, Groucho. You’re a kook but such a kind kook. Let’s go find a room somewhere and I’ll show you why blondes are soooo special….Sorry baby, but some gals have a seven-year itch, mine’s more of a seven-minute itch.”
Jamie wishes I said the same thing just last week.
In the end, none of us solved the mystery. Part of it was the script wasn’t very well written (minus my memorable lines), the other part was we’re s-t-u-p-i-d. On our invitations, we were given clothing suggestions. Everyone except for Jimi Hendrix who was required to bring a guitar and wear a large ring. Coincidentally, these were also the murder weapons. Don’t look for us on C.S.I. anytime soon.
When not making our pathetic attempts to solve the murder, there were also memorable dinner conversations. Ginger proudly announced that her daughter won student of the month and her son received early admission into high school algebra.
As we all himed and hawed in admiration, good ol’ Groucho made an announcement of his own:
“Hadley had diarrhea last week and then rubbed her butt all over the wall.”
I could not have been more proud….
I love cuddling up to a good book but these days all reading seems to be dedicated unto Dr. Seuss. So I had to chuckle when Lynn Bowen Walker contacted me of all people to review her book Queen of the Castle.
Until I noted the subtitle: 52 Week of Homemaking Encouragement for the Uninspired, Domestically Challenged and Just Plain Tired. Now that is something with personal application, especially when it has a chapter heading Housework, Done Correctly, Can Kill You.
And just when have I found the time to be inspired reading her book, you may ask? On this queen’s porcelain throne. I’m sure Lynn would be thrilled to know I garner inspiration during potty time but hey, whatever works.
The book is broken down into weekly vignettes consisting of humorous tips, stories, recipes and the all-important Chocolate Breaks. Oh, and not to be forgotten are her enlightening vocabulary words such as TORPID–Deprived of the power of motion; dormant. As in “Kids, let’s not spend our entire summer like torpid blobs in front of the TV set.”
Deep.
But what I’ve really enjoyed are the inspirational quotes. In honor of Mother’s Day, I thought this address Barbara Bush gave at a Wellesley College commencement when she was First Lady was absolutely perfect:
“For several years, you’ve had impressed upon you the importance to your career of dedication and hard work. This is true, but as important as your obligations as a doctor, lawyer, or business leader will be, you are a human being first, and those human connections–with spouses, with children, with friends–are the most important investments you will ever make.
“At the end of your life, you will never regret not having passed one more test, not winning one more verdict, or not closing one more deal. You will regret time not spent with a husband, a friend, a child, or a parent…
“One thing will never change: fathers and mothers, if you have children…they must come first.
Your success as a family…our success as a society…depends not on when happens at the White House, but on what happens inside your house.”
Along the same inspirational lines, a closing vocabulary word: CALLIPYGIAN–Having beautifully proportioned buttocks. As in “Honey, does this bathing suit make me look callipygian?”
Sure beats looking fat….
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. Learn More