60 Epic Hours: Part III

Dear Laney,

This was just the coolest.

For Karen's last night in town, I had registered us for a 5K race: The Griz Glow. It's a nighttime glow-in-the-dark race around the University of Montana golf course, and it raises money for summer camps for kids. I thought a 5K sounded like fun - it's an actual race, so you get to tell people about it and sound semi-athletic - I'm 40 years old and I can still break into a trot! - but it's short enough (3.1 miles) that the average tourist at Opryland could drive it on a L'il Rascal scooter in under 40 minutes. Just our speed. Still, Karen and I wondered if we would embarrass ourselves among Missoula's notoriously outdoorsy/go-get-'em population. I mean, SOMEBODY has to come in last place at every race, and there was a strong possibility it would be us.

The day of the race, I got a robo-call from the race organizers that said I could register any child under 10 before the race at the registration table. So on a whim, I asked you if you might be up for running a 5K. You thought it was an awesome idea, and we set about putting on our glow make-up (you did mine):

We had glow bracelets and glow necklaces and flashlights.

Every half mile or so on the course, they'd have a "glow station" with some fun glow-in-the-dark element - University Athletic trainers fighting each other with light sabers, or a phosphorescent dance station, or even people twirling hula hoops of fire. 

Your dad and Hagen hung out at the finish line and waited for us.

I asked you after the first mile (and the second) if you wanted to quit and go sit with your dad, but you didn't. Man, was I proud. I wouldn't say we were speedy. There were a LOT of walk breaks, and a lot of complaining about "Oh, this makes my hips tired!" or "Woo! This is hard on my knees" from the elementary schooler on our team. In fact, at one point, Karen picked you up and gave you a piggy back ride between Mile #2 and #3. But still! We stayed on the course and we crossed the finish line and Dad and Hagen clapped and hooted for us, and the look on your face was priceless:

We did not come in last, though we WERE passed on the course by several energetic Missoula moms pushing strollers. 

We stopped on the way home for a bag of chicken tacos from Taco Bell (your favorite food in the world) to celebrate... and broke out in a victory dance while we waited for our order.

Karen left Missoula at 4am or so the next morning, probably feeling like she'd been hit by a truck. 

Love,

Mom

60 Epic Hours: Part II

Hey, y'all -

On the first full day of Karen's 40th birthday getaway, I got up early, put on my ski bibs and woke Karen up with a whispered reminder of her promise to go downhill skiing. I know we are good friends because while she opened her eyes and looked at me like I was being dumber than a box of hair, she did not actually use any profanity.

We drove to Lookout Pass on the Montana/Idaho border, about an hour and a half away. I would say that between the long, windy mountain road and the ghost of St. Patrick, we were not feeling 100%.

Still - bless her heart - Karen put on skis and a helmet and hit the bunny hill for her first-ever day of downhill skiing. 

Keep in mind: she still hasn't been in Montana for a full 24 hours. 

We hustled back to Missoula, picked up the kids, changed clothes, and walked downtown to see Lyle Lovett and Robert Earl Keen in concert.

It was a great show. Those two have been friends since they met as students at Texas A&M in 1976 (the year Karen and I were born). They told some great stories. Robert Earl Keen sang "Merry Christmas From The Family," his infamous ode to redneck holidays. The chorus goes:

Carve the turkey, turn the ballgame on,

Mix margaritas when the eggnog's gone.

Send somebody to the QuikPak store;

We need some ice and an extension cord,

A can of bean dip and some Diet Rite,

a box of tampons, some Marlboro Lights.

Hallelujah, everybody say "Cheese!"

Merry Christmas from the fam-i-ly.

He said that the song wasn't half as embarrassingly redneck as his actual family, because he remembered one Christmas in particular when his sister brought her friend with a prosthetic leg, and somebody accidentally set the Christmas tree on fire, and the friend took her leg off to try to beat back the flames, and then they had to put the leg out, because it was also ablaze by the end...   Lyle asked him who had covered that song, and Robert Earl said something like, "Those jokers in Montgomery Gentry came in with their stupid duster jackets and 30 gallon hats and recorded the song, but they were worried about offending somebody, so they changed 'tampons' to 'Pampers.' The record company asked me what I thought about it, and I said, 'Hell, I think they need to put on their big-girl Pampers and just say tampons.'" Big applause for that one. I love Missoula so much sometimes.

OK, that 'bout sums up Karen's first 24 hours.

Love,
Mom

P.S. Sometimes when I'm on the ski lift and it's a perfect sunny day, or I'm at the top of the ski hill about to cruise down and the distant mountains are just so beautiful, I find myself thinking "I bet Granny Jack would like this. I wish she could see it or feel what it's like to go scooting through these trees..." But then I remember that your mid-80s isn't a likely time to take up downhill skiing. So I borrowed Hagen's camera chest mount, and I wore the GoPro for one run down the mountain, just so I could show her. This one's for you, Granny Jack:

60 Epic Hours, Part I

Hey, y'all -

Lordy, Lordy, look who's 40: my dearest/oldest/bestest friend, Karen. Karen lives in Los Angeles, so as a fun birthday surprise, I bought her a ticket to Missoula. She got in the Thursday night of St. Patrick's Day and left at 4am the following Sunday morning. We packed an INSANE amount of activity into just 60 hours. The itinerary is even more ludicrous if you stop to think that we're both middle-aged moms who like to go to bed at 8:30pm.

Cleaning out my desk a few weeks ago, I found this picture of Karen:

As I recall, we were in our mid-20s in Key West. Danger, danger. I like to joke that if she dies before me, I will have "What Time, And Who's Driving?" engraved on her tombstone, because I feel like I spent most of my 20s and early 30s pitching her ill-conceived getaways, and she never once said, "Why, no! What a terrible idea!" Instead: "Hey, Karen - want to go to Laughlin, Nevada? It's like Vegas's ugly little brother, but the Ramada has a mini train you can ride!" Or: "Wanna go to Bakersfield and see Buck Owens at the Crystal Palace?" Or "Ever heard of the Zucchini Festival in Hayward? There's a bull we can ride at the local honky tonk after!" Her response? Always: "What time, and who's driving?" Once, we didn't even make it to our destination because we drove past a county fair and thought it would be more fun to have some beers and ride the Zipper.

As a callback to our well-spent youth, I thought we simply MUST go out on the town for St. Patrick's Day. But because we're moms, we MUST do it at 4:30pm.

Yes, my head is perfectly round. You'd need a compass to draw that sucker. I blame my father. 

Karen and I went out on the town (in the snow) and had a great time. At our first stop, we spotted this guy with the beer can helmet across the bar and instinctively knew we'd like that guy, in the same way we appreciate anyone who's in full-tilt party mode while the bank is still open. 

We saw an Irish band called Malarkey. We watched Irish dancers perform crazy jumps. We passed a parade of bagpipe players, and when Karen tried to covertly take their picture, one of them yelled "Go ahead! We don't get this dressed up for nothin'!"

We ate a ridiculous collection of fried things and danced in the street until your dad came to get us (note that it is still daylight out because we are MOMS GONE WILD...at 6pm. 

Your dad joined us for one last party stop, which is when we got the crazy idea that we should all go downhill skiing the next day. "We can get there and back before the kids get out of school!" I said. "This is a perfect plan." True to form, Karen did not point out that she'd never been skiing or that getting to the Idaho border and back by 3pm was a harebrained idea. Instead, she was up for the adventure. What time? 8:00am tomorrow! Who's driving? Thor!

On our way out the door, we spotted the guy from our first establishment and insisted on a group photo. By then, it seemed like we'd been everywhere in Missoula. My fitbit said I'd walked 15,000 steps at that point, and it was fun to bring the night full-circle. We went everywhere! We did everything! We were home by 9pm!

What I REALLY wish I had a picture of is the look on Karen's face the following morning at 8:00am when I gently woke her up and whispered, "Hey Karen...you ready to go to Idaho and do some skiin'?"

Spoiler alert: We went skiing. Tune in tomorrow to see how that went!

-Brooke

Guppies...And Guppies

Dear Laney,

GUPPIES, PART I:

This past winter, you and your friend Amya entered the "Guppies" swimming class at the local YMCA. You performed whatever skills were necessary to graduate (front stroke, back float, hang on the wall and gossip) and now you're ready to join the next class level. Which reminds me: I need to call the Y. Or hire an intern with really low expectations who will handle this kind of scheduling task. 

You guys were fearless and fun and I loved watching you every week. Can't wait for you to become an Eel or a Stingray or an Orca or whatever. 

GUPPIES, PART II

You wanted a horse for Christmas. Our family friend Clay Mercer owns Tucker the horse and even though you haven't seen Tucker for a few years, he still made a surprise appearance on this "List of Things I Love" that you wrote in early December: 

NO idea how Ella got top billing.

"Let's start with a goldfish," I said. "And we'll see how that goes, and then we can maybe start working our way up."

Grandpops bought you a small fish tank for Christmas, and in early January I took you to (God help me) Walmart,  where you picked out three 27-cent fish. I don't even think they're officially goldfish; I think they're meant to be feeder fish that you'd feed to other, bigger, prettier fish. I suggested we buy three because I figured one or two would die immediately. The lifespan of a 27-cent Walmart fish could probably be measured in hours, I figured. 

Nope. 

Like everything else in our house, the fish put on weight immediately and are almost annoyingly healthy. You named them Silvers and Goldie and Poppy, and they are filthy little poop machines. The small, reasonably-sized tank that Grandpops gave you needed to be cleaned every week, which became my job. I don't know if we have discussed this before, but I have a fairly advanced fear of fish. I do not like to swim in water with fish in it. Sometimes your dad has to tell me "There are no fish in this section of the river," which is a ridiculous lie that makes absolutely no sense, but because he's a by-God Hydrologist (and gifted enabler), I choose to believe him. When I was your age, we'd go to the beach for vacations and the little ocean minnows would swim up to my feet and I'd scream and run in place and Granny Jack would say, "It's okay. They just want to nibble on your toes." Why she thought this would help, I DO NOT KNOW. 

I do not like dealing with these fish. More often than not, this is how that tank cleaning went: I'd somehow get the fish into a separate holding container...Mason jar, etc...and then clean out the gravel and rinse off the plastic plants and neon cave and refill the tank with clean water. Then, in the process of transferring the fish back into the newly-clean tank, one of them would go flopping out into the kitchen sink into a dirty frying pan. You would scream your head off and start crying because your precious fish who had triumphed over adversity by making it out of Walmart was now convulsing on top of some hash browns. I'd confront my fish fears, grab a serving spoon or spatula, scoop it up, and drop it into the tank in the nick of time...along with about two tablespoons of leftover hash browns. 

Goldfish eat hashbrowns, turns out.  

Silvers, grumpy as hell after the Hash Brown Incident.

Poppy (top) and Goldie (below)

I decided I couldn't take the weekly near-death experiences, so I went back to the store and bought a bigger tank for our fat fish, one that comes with a filter so I won't have to do so much fish-transferring. You insisted on the Spongebob Squarepants pineapple house, and have created a replica of Spongebob's neighborhood in the tank:

I am now $40 in to three 27-cent goldfish. There is a metaphor for parenthood in here somewhere.

And when those dumb little fish finally do go to the Great Pineapple In The Sky, I'm going to be totally bummed out. 

Love,

Mom

Hot Springs

Hey, y'all -

It's Spring Break this week. We decided not to go on an official vacation because it seems like we just got back from Disney World, and your dad has to work, and we have a LOT of adventures in the pipeline between now and the end of summer. Instead, I've been staying home with you and trying to come up with small daily adventures that will keep you entertained. I'm also a little paranoid that your teacher is going to ask you on Monday, "What did you do on your Spring Break?" and you're going to say, "I watched 63 episodes of 'Sherman and Peabody.'"

Yesterday, we went to Quinn's Hot Springs. It was lovely.

We went to the restaurant first, where Hagen ordered a cinnamon roll. I figured it would be the smallest thing on the menu. WRONG. It came out on a platter and was approximately the size of a loaf of bread.

You dad couldn't go with us because he had to work, but we kept him in the loop re: the big accomplishments of the day:

Yeah, Hagen, you ate a roll bigger than your head.

Laney, you and your friend Jude had a great time swimming and the two of you shot a little movie mostly by yourselves, featuring all your best tricks. Just watching it makes me smile. You're becoming an awesome little swimmer (an an even better friend). So proud of you. 

Love,

Mom

Quirks

(30 minutes pass)

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GoPro, Down Low

Dear Hagen,

A few weeks ago, we were invited to your friend Calia's 5th birthday party. Her mom, Ms. Julie, is one of your teachers and we love her. For the occasion, she had a bounce house in her yard and we all enjoyed a fun bonfire and cupcakes.

As you might remember, your dad gave me a GoPro camera for MY birthday this year, and I've had fun shooting little clips of you guys sledding and skiing. Little Calia likes seeing herself in videos so much that she had her mom call and ask me to PLEASE bring my camera to her party and "make a movie of it." Side note: One of my favorite things to yell when I'm frustrated on the set of a TV show is "YOU'RE RUINING MY MOVIE!" It's just great fun to pretend you're Orson Wells when you're really making basic cable.

Anyhoo, a few days before the party, I ordered this ridiculous box of GoPro accessories from Amazon for $30, because it included everything from a scuba mount to a helmet doohickey to a mini tripod...and it also included a chest harness, known as a "chesty." After a few beers at Calia's party, I thought it would be hilarious to rig you up in the chesty and set you loose. You took it VERY seriously and told everyone around that you were making a movie (which means you are already halfway to being a self-important reality television producer - congrats!).

An hour and a half later, I realized you were still recording. When I got home, I found myself facing 14 GB of footage, enough to crash my computer.

And let me just say...it was some eye-opening footage, and every parent ought to try something like this at least once. First of all, it's incredible to be reminded what the world looks like from 30-something inches off the ground. It's just a sea of grown-up knees. Often, you'd have to do a little front stroke swimming motion to carve yourself a path between grown-ups. There were times at the party when you'd check in with me to ask what you should shoot next, and I'd say "How about the bounce house?" I now have about 18 minutes of raw footage of the air compressor that fills the bounce house. I'd forgotten about your dedication to investigating how things work.

In the year 2000, a music group called the Baha Men first recorded the now-classic "Who Let The Dogs Out?" I wish I could go back in time and tell them the answer is: Hagen Burbach, at Calia's party. You also caught on camera a grown-up smoking a secret cigarette on the side of the house, but for $20 I have agreed not to make her identity known.

So from 90+ minutes of footage, I've picked more or less at random these 3 minutes to give you a taste of a 4 year old on the loose at a backyard birthday.

Enjoy.

I know I did.

Love,
Mom

P.S. I didn't outsource EVERYTHING to you; I took some pictures at the party, too: