That Time I Pulled The Car Over

Dear Hagen,

Your dad was in San Diego with the Navy last week, which always makes life a little harder for me. Being a single mom - if only temporarily - is no joke, and it's tough when I have no one to spell me when the sheer volume of words going into my ear (half of them: Mommomomomomom?? MOM!") becomes too much. After about day 4 of this, my patience is usually thinner than normal, though I typically pride myself on not losing my cool.

It's a classic parenting line: "Don't make me pull this car over." But Sunday morning, I did it.

You have a water gun. You love the water gun.

Sunday morning, Grandma Sue invited us to join her at Perkins for pancakes. Your brought your gun in the car for the ride to the restaurant. Because I'm fun and there were no pedestrians around, I rolled down your window at a stoplight and let you squirt it out the window. Then the light changed, I rolled the window up, and we kept going. No big deal. We ate pancakes. Fun, fun. But somehow, we got back in the car and everything turned to crap.

"I wanted to shoot it two times!" you wailed. "What? When?" I asked. "Out the window. On the way to pancakes!" you sobbed. "We didn't have time," I explained. "BUT! (a bunch of unintelligible shouting) FUCNWWLHDHppppffffttt!!! (big gasping inhale) TWO TIMES!!!" "It's not okay to talk to me like that," I said.

Well, that went in one tiny ear and out the other, cause the next thing out of your mouth started, "YOU'RE THE ONE WHO DIDN'T..."

...And that's when I squealed to a halt in the adjacent bank parking lot, threw the e-brake on that sumbitch, walked around the car, opened your door, snatched that gun out of your hand and yelled, "SEE THIS?!? THIS IS MINE NOW! AND I LOVE MY NEW WATER GUN!"

You lost your mind. Screamed all the way home. And I didn't care, because I was done. I had become the kind of person who gestures wildly with a purple plastic gun in a bank parking lot. Possibly not my finest moment. 

Later, I called your dad in San Diego and told him the story. "When you stopped the car, why didn't you just squirt him with the gun?" your dad asked. "I guess, because unlike you, I'm not the valedictorian of war college." So, see? Coulda been worse. 

You've since apologized, cried, napped, and gotten your water gun back. 

And your dad has come home. 

And all is right with the world. For the moment.

Love,

Mom

American Ninja Warrior

Dear Laney,

When Karen was visiting a few weeks ago, she showed you the YouTube clip of tiny, 5 ft-tall contestant Kacy Catanzaro completing the semi-final round of competition on the reality show American Ninja Warrior. You LOVED it.

You were already begging us to walk you to the park after dinner every night so you could practice on the monkey bars and the rings, but this new ninja angle really amped up your competitive spirit. We made up an obstacle course through the playground: The monkey bars! To the bridge! Up the rope! Over the rings! Down the stairs! Current time to beat: 56 seconds.

You spent your whole recess period performing feats of strength, until - even though I sent you to school with a box of Band-Aids - your hands looked like this.

I did a little online shopping, and you're now the only first grader I know who packs a pair of junior bodybuilding gloves in her bag for school to wear at recess.




We went paddle boarding last weekend, and discovered that you're more than strong enough to paddle your own board around. So we let you. In fact, we gave you and your friend Jude each a half of a 2-bladed kayak paddle and told you two 6 yr olds to go exploring. Then, a while later, we watched you two get stuck in a bramble on the other side of the pond. We decided we'd let the two of you find your own solution.

About ten minutes later, we saw Laney paddling the two of you back to our side of the pond, with the kayak paddle snapped back together into a single paddle, and Jude just holding on. You two explained that Jude knew how to put the paddle back together, but Laney was the good paddler. It was just SO COOL that two small people had figured that all out, and that it was totally reasonable that the girl could be the stronger one.

Then, just a few days ago, you were at a new playground with my friend Katie, and she sent me this video:

Don't know where this is all headed, but we think it's awfully impressive.

Love,

Mom

Golf

Hey y'all - 

Earlier this week, at Laney's insistence, we went to the driving range. Your dad took a saw to an old set of clubs that he had and whacked them down to your size and made new grips with electrical tape. 

At his best, Hagen was hitting the ball about 16 inches, so your dad really overshot with buying two full buckets of balls; we ended up bending down and retrieving the same one over and over. 

Laney's grip and overall technique improved tremendously over the course of the afternoon. 

So much cheating. So much chatting.

 

So much fun. 

Love,

Mom

Flat Jacob

Hey y'all -

Have you ever heard of Flat Stanley? It's an activity some elementary students do around the country; you mail off a flat (paper) version of yourself to friends or family members, and they report back on the adventures they had with Stanley. It's a cute way for kids to learn about far-flung cities.

A few months ago, we got a Flat Stanley in the mail from my newest and youngest cousin, Jacob, because we live in such a (comparatively) exotic location. Our job was to take Flat Jacob with us whenever we went anywhere interesting and then mail him back a few months later.

Here's how our project for Miss Fuller's class at Coosada Elementary School in Millbrook, AL turned out:

Sure, I've already blogged about a lot of this stuff, and I'm basically recycling content here, but I think Flat Jacob's two costume changes (costume changes, y'all!) give me a pass.

We'd better get an A.

Love,

Mom

Mandatory Merle

Hey, y'all,

Merle Haggard died last week. He probably wasn't on your radar, but I was a fan of his music. When I first moved to LA from Alabama, I was absolutely homesick for the South. In fact, not long after I arrived, I was quoted in The New York Times Magazine (I am not making this up) thusly:

In those early days, I used to wake up on Sundays to listen to the webcast of the Frazer United Methodist Church service out of Montgomery, which Reverend Earl Andrews would always start by saying, "We'd like to welcome those of you today who are worshipping with us through television, radio and the internet." And I'd deep fry something, just 'cause. 

Thankfully, I soon found a group of fellow displaced southerners who happened to be musicians, and I ended up going to see them play at their weekly gigs. They had a policy called "Mandatory Merle," which meant that they were obligated to play at least some Merle Haggard at each show. Usually "My Favorite Memory." I loved it, because as far back as I could remember, Granny Jack had been quoting Merle to me, often in a card addressed to my college apartment with a lifesaving check tucked inside and a note that read, "It's like Merle says: 'If We Make It Through December...'"

As a bonus, the southern actor Leslie Jordan was usually in the audience of those shows, and had a brilliant habit between songs of yelling "PLAY THAT ONE I LIKE!!" so whatever song came next - by default - was the one he liked.

All that to say that I totally associate Merle Haggard with those early days of life in Los Angeles, and like my youth in general, I was sorry to see him go. 

Two things that I really appreciated the day the news came out were the stunningly beautiful Merle tribute cover of The Tennessean newspaper, and a voicemail I received from friend Clay Mercer. I combined them here: 

The only way Clay could have made that message any more southern would be to say he "passed" instead of "died," and if he'd reminded me not bring something sto'-bought to the memorial. 

I'll miss you, Merle. 

Love,

Brooke

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: