Drops of Awesome

There are two things I’d like to share today, totally unrelated except they have had me laughing since I saw them yesterday. Whenever I think about them, I laugh and so I must share.

Isn’t that what this whole bloggin’ thing’s about? Sharing?

One is my brother’s facial hair and his wife’s amazing PhotoShopping skills. He had a little too much fun shaving off his beard a few weeks ago and this was the result:

Yes. I am related to this person and proud of it. I cannot stop laughing.

The second thing I’d like to share is a blog whose most recent entries killed me. I am dead. Knowing about my recent demise makes this whole blog entry all the more remarkable, I’m sure. Maybe it’s worth some money now. Weren’t all the great works by artists worth more after their creators kicked the bucket? Please send money.

I’ve been reading Goslyn’s blog Wishful Thinking off and on for a while now. She’s a great writer and very funny. What caught my eye yesterday was an entry about her own writing, making comparisons to my nemesis Ernest Hemingway and an entry about some dreams she’s had about me lately. Just mentioning the entries makes me laugh out loud. Please go read her if you’ve ever read much Hemingway or if you want to know about my psychotic dream infiltrating skills.

I received some startling news yesterday. According to our 5-year-old friend Quinn, Magoo is losing all of his teeth. At this point I’m not sure there’s much we can do to save him from a life of eternal denture-hood. From what Quinn can make out, there are only “like 3 LEFT!”

Laylee made a self-serving discovery of her own as we were driving along that afternoon.

Laylee: Mom look! Those clouds look like ice cream.
Me: Yeah, they DO! Good job. What a great imagination.
Laylee: I think we should go get some ice cream right now.
Me: Keep looking at the clouds and maybe tonight we can have some ice cream for family night treats.
Laylee: O KAY!

Hours later it’s family night. We’re all sitting around and Laylee is giving a lesson on the Creation of the world. Dan whispers into her ear and she repeats what he says. When they get to day 5 and Dan realizes Adam and Eve are next on deck, he figures he must have left something out.

Dan: Uh-oh. I think we forgot one of the days. What did we forget?
Laylee: The treats.
Dan: No. We forgot one of the things God created.
Laylee: Maybe it was one of the animal things, like pigs.

That’s IT! On the third day He created ice cream and pigs. I forget that one every time. It always throws me.

When I was pregnant, people repeatedly warned me about the increased amount of laundry I would have to deal with once the little bubba came tumbling down and out into the world.

I sort of believed them. I nodded my head and smiled. I thought, “How much extra laundry can she really generate? Her clothes are so SMALL!” And I was right. She did only create about one extra load of laundry per week, a load which I washed in special dye and fragrance-free baby detergent.

And I was wrong, because what they didn’t tell me was how many more pairs of dirty clothes I would go through myself. I am constantly covered with inexplicable goo. I can’t “explic”, for example, the dots of crusty something that are dribbled down the right leg of my jeans as I type this and I don’t much care to solve that mystery.

The mystery we are here to solve today is how to deal with this barrage of filth in a timely and semi-organized fashion and actually get it clean enough to eat off of, because that’s probably what we’ll end up doing with it anyway. (Don’t tell me you haven’t picked up a cheerio or two from your -eh-hem- “nursing shelf” and popped it into your mouth to dispose of it.)

As a mother of two small children, I could tell you what works best to keep me out of the laundry-induced cookoo bin. I actually just did type out our entire laundry routine but it was so boring and obnoxious that I deleted it. I guess you’ll have to buy the book.

Instead I’ll give my number one laundry tip. The tip is called “the special solution.” (Seeing it written out like that, it actually looks sort of sinister.) I’m not sure where my mom got this but it has been a lifesaver many many times indeed. The solution is made by mixing 1 cup of bleach with 1 cup of powder dishwasher detergent, added to a washer full of hot water. Let the water and the other ingredients agitate for a few seconds. Then add the clothes. For really bad stains, you can soak it overnight and then let the load run through.

I use this for cleaning all my whites and they come out beautifully white every time. The real joy of the “special solution” (besides it’s creepy name) is that something in the dishwasher powder makes the bleach semi-color safe. It doesn’t work on everything. It will usually fade bright colors some and sometimes makes the colors totally wonky. However, if you’re desperate, throw a stained colored item in this solution and you’ll frequently have great results. I’ve gotten impossible stains out of khaki pants and pale-colored baby clothes with this. It is a GEM.

One more tip — GOJO. It’s one brand name of the stuff mechanics use to clean the grease off their hands. I can’t find that particular brand here in Washington but I found something similar at the car parts store. It is whitish and comes in a sour-cream sized container. (Don’t get any of the orange or other fruity varieties. You just want the original white stuff.) This works wonders for getting grease stains out of clothes, even if they’ve been through the dryer. Have you ever found an empty chapstick in your basket of clean clothes, only to discover that every article is covered in tiny splatters of set-in grease? If you scrub at it with GOJO, your clothing may just have a fighting chance. Oh, and it’s super-cheap.

That’s what I got. Share yours please.

With my first child the question was “How many times a day can I change her out of dirty clothes into clean ones?” With number two I wonder, “How many times can he spit up on an outfit or get spilled on before I consider it ‘dirty’?”

Pushing antioxidants should not be a top priority Sunday morning, unless you want to head out the door to church with a child who looks like that inflatable blueberry kid from the Willy Wonka movies. This I have learned. Magoo can do some really amazing things with frozen blueberries.

Periodically I let one of the kids shower with me. I say “let” them but really I force them to shower with me so I can clean my body without worrying about how much trouble they’re getting into as the steam fogs up my brain.

Every time it’s the same dilemma. When the shower ends and it’s time to get out, I slide open the glass door letting in freezing cold air. The wet child begins to shriek or whine as I step into my bathrobe, “Ahhhh…I’m FREEEZING! HELP!” or in the case of Magoo, “AAAHHHHHH WAAAHHHHHH.” He’s not much for verbal skills.

Within a few seconds, with my bathrobe safely in place, I snatch them up in a warm cozy towel and carry them off to be clothed and cuddled. During those few seconds I always wonder, “Maybe I should wrap them up first and then put my bathrobe on.” Then I think, “NAAH! They’ll live. Besides, if I wrap them up first, then I’ll have to get them completely ready while I freeze in all my glorious mama nuditude for 15 minutes.”

It comes down to this. If I take a few seconds for myself first, I’m much better equipped to help my family for the long haul. They say (this time I’m not talking about the ominous overarching “THEY” but rather airline steward-persons “they”. Is that right, “steward-persons”?) that in the event of an emergency you should put on your own oxygen mask before helping those around you. I thought about this as I was getting out of the shower this week and Magoo’s little teeth were chattering.

I wrapped him up and started thinking about how taking little snippets of time for myself can make me a better mother on so many levels.

-Sometimes it means a quiet moment of prayer and reflection before anyone else is awake.
-Sometimes it means hunting for frogs in the middle of the night with one of my best friends.
-Sometimes it means locking myself in the bathroom for a couple of minutes to have some time where no one is TOUCHING ME.
-Sometimes it means going for a late-night drive alone along the waterfront downtown, up past the Space Needle and across the 520 bridge with John Mayer and Aqualung blasting on my stereo.
-Sometimes it means forgoing some sleep in order to get the laundry done so I can start tomorrow fresh with no leftover chores from the previous day.

As I’ve been going through my post-partum struggles this year, my mom has reminded me of that old adage about not being able to pour water from an empty pitcher into other people’s glasses. It’s true.

This year I’ve been running on half-full most of the time. If today I pour out what would have been a totally reasonable amount a year ago, I might come up empty. There will come a time in my life again where I am overflowing and able to give freely to anyone in need. I have to keep going back to the Source and I have to keep doing what I need to do to maintain my reserves and my sanity.

Whatever it takes to fill you up, do it. My real life friend over at RGLHM wrote a post today after a long blogging absence that I found so profound. Just reading it helped to top me off a little and give me the resolve to change some things in my life that need changing.

I never knew how often I said most of the annoying things I say until my oldest child started talking. Wow! I say some crazy-weird stuff. Hearing it repeated back to me, especially in the skewed way that she remembers it, is frightening at times.

One time I asked her to move as I was shutting the car door so I wouldn’t bonk her on the head. A couple of days later, we were in a store and out of nowhere she said, “Mommy, please don’t bonk me on the head, okay?” Um….yeah….I’ll try really hard to restrain myself. Let’s get out of here quick, before someone calls CPS.

Here are some responses she’s given recently because Magoo was annoying her:
-“Magoo! CHILL!”
-“What – THE – heck?!”
(These responses are only brought on when he does something hideously obnoxious like breathe or look in her direction.)

Yesterday she was obsessed with the idea of spurting grey-matter.
Laylee: You know the book with the yellow fish, the red fish, the white fish and the blue fish?
Me: Uh-huh.
Laylee: The white fish sneezes his brains out through his nose.
Me: I don’t remember that part.
Laylee: Yeah, but Daddy doesn’t sneeze his nose brains out because he puts water up there.

A little later as we’re playing a matching game on the carpet, Laylee keeps matching items that don’t go together and then laughing herself silly.

Laylee: You know what Mommy? Sometimes I laugh my BRAINS OUT!

Then I start questioning myself. Do I use the expression “my brains out” all the time?

I was crying my brains out. Stop yelling your brains out. I’m sneezing my brains out. That was so funny, I laughed my brains out. I’m not sure.

I think sometimes I can say something once and she just picks it up and latches onto it as her favorite phrase. But still…It makes me want to watch every word that comes out of my mouth.

Who wants their three year old to be the one in the church nursery saying, “That’s flippin’ hilarious” or “I’m gonna kick his trash”?

On the topic of watching what I say, I am quoted this month in Babytalk Magazine, talking about how I let Magoo act as a human vacuum cleaner, eating food off our floor. This quote reaffirms to me that I made the right decision in using made-up names for my kids on the blog.

And for all you new and potential bloggers out there, if you choose to go the nickname route with your kids, choose nicknames you wouldn’t mind being used by all of your family and friends who read the blog, including yourself. We chose these names for the blog because they were nicknames we had used every once in a while in the past. At this point, we call them Laylee and Magoo quite often and I’ve had family members tell me they have trouble remembering their real names.

The Babytalk article is great. I wish I’d read it when I was starting my blog last year. (And there’s more than a little giddiness around here about DYM.com being mentioned. Some people try to play it cool, but I can see right through them, especially since they were the ones to initiate the hand-holding.) Sadly, the article’s author, Meagan Francis’s blog went AWOL right before the April issue went to press. Her blog can now be found at momwithmore.blogspot.com.

For some weekend fun, please check out the Carnival of Kid Comedy over at Life in a Shoe. Kim does a great job compiling funny stories for weekend reading enjoyment.

And finally, speaking of reading, if you haven’t given me your favorite book choice for the great reads list I’m compiling, please head over and do it. We’re just 7 away from 100.

Well, little baby heil-y-Magoolinstein has started doing an actual wave when he greets or says goodbye to people. It is quite adorable really, with the cuteness aggravated by the fact that he gets so excited at his own hand waving that he often laughs until he tips over backwards.

But this does not get him down. Very little seems to get him down. By now he’s used to the constant mouth sweeping I do, whenever he makes that “I’ve got something very dangerous concealed behind these puckered lips and I dare you to get it out” face. He’s used to blamming into walls, furniture and doll equipment. (Yes, they have “equipment.” Welcome to MY world.) He just happily bounces along to his next endeavor.

I fear that after my mars rover post, I left people with the idea that boys are very scary beings, who should be avoided at all costs. This is not the case. In my limited experience, they’re just more curious than girls.

We finally went to see Curious George and I really loved it. It was the first animated feature I’ve seen in so long that was truly aimed at little children and full of color and fun, innocence, mishap and friendship. Laylee loved the part where George played peek-a-boo with the audience from under the man’s yellow hat. Even Magoo remained transfixed for most of the film.

I think he really identified with the main character. They are similar in that neither of them tries to wipe out entire city blocks. It just happens. They want to take things apart, touch everything, taste everything, see how it works. Often disaster ensues but they both have good hearts, sweet personalities, smiles to melt even the coldest person (like me — seriously. I’m freezing right now), and neither of them has a neck that I can discover.

Little girls are not the only people made of sugar, spice and everything nice. Just as boys are not the only people fascinated with their bodily functions.

Recently my high school friend “Jo” came to visit and brought a huge box of delicious bakery treats. Laylee chose a rather large chocolate covered coconut cluster. Worried about how she would like the coconut, I asked her if it tasted okay.

She gave me that eye-rolling look and said, “It’s COVERED in chocolate and so I like it. I like it because…..it’s COVERED in chocolate.” Okay. Chocolate=you like it. Got it.

In no time at all, SHE was covered in chocolate from fingertip to forearm, with some on the chest, just for show. I decided I liked her too, but not for eating. At the height of her chocolatude, she yelled out, “OOOHH! I have to go potty,” and started dancing around the kitchen.

Me: Okay, go then.
Laylee: OOO KAAAAY! (running down the hall)
a second later
Laylee: OOOHH! Mommy! HEEELLLP!
Me: What?
Laylee: I can’t go potty because of the CHOCOLATE.
I run down the hall and lift her to liquid safety. While she’s “pottying” (Isn’t that such a nice, feminine, motherly way of saying it? I stole it from my friend Sandra.) she gets this squinty-eyed, impish grin on her face.
Me: What?
Laylee: I just did a brown poop.
Me: Hmm.
Laylee: And brown poop……is like chocolate.

I vividly remember her telling me emphatically 6 months ago, NOT TO TASTE IT when I found her playing with the contents of her diaper. Both of these statements concern me to a degree that leaves me unable to respond.

Today, I concluded a short telephone conversation with Dan. I say it was 30 seconds. He says it was 4 minutes, according to the timer on the microwave he was using to bring his lunch to the optimum “no stirring needed” temperature. Let’s call it 2 and a half minutes, just to be fair.

I can hear flushing and squealing coming from the bathroom. I run down the hall to see Laylee trying to flush Magoo. He has his hands as far down as he can get them into the bowl of the toilet and she is flushing again. He screams out with delight, giggling hysterically and shoving them down further.

We have a moment of silence in remembrance of the carefully planned preschool lesson I gave last week on germs and hand washing. Everyone is scrubbed and bathed, not much of a punishment for people who think it’s fun to play in the toilet. The tub is just like a bigger one with more toys in it.

Now a small teaser for those of you who were part of the big order: Keep an eye on your mailboxes. If you’ve paid me, they’re co-ming…

It turns out that people who read blogs are literate. Um, dude! Thanks for the amazing response Tuesday. My reading list is exploding and my frugal reader credits are gonna be gone in no time. I will be making a list of “DYM Reader’s Choice Books” on a separate page with a link to it on my sidebar so if anyone hasn’t commented yet and wants to be included, go back and leave your suggestions.

I’m also thinking of doing a “merciful bibliophile” post later where everyone can just shotgun blast me with their top 10 or 50 and we’ll generate a giant list so we can all be set with reading material to last us into the next millennium.

Now for some geek humor. I came across this a couple of weeks ago and have been laughing every time I think about it, not because Dan is a game addict (thankfully, he’s not) but because it hits a little too close to home when I think of my blogging fixation.

I nearly always post late at night when the kids are in bed. I often postpone our already too late bed time to get my post out. “It will take 2 minutes I say,” fully knowing it will take two minutes just to upload my flickr photos, let alone write the post, let alone read comments from yesterday’s post, check my stats, alter my template in some way, put on a new hat on my floating head or go read your blogs.

So two minutes becomes 43 and I encourage Dan to take care of his oral hygiene and other nightly chores and I’ll “be there in a minute.”

As you’re watching this video clip, remember that I have operated a gun turret for Dan when we’ve played X-Box together. I’m not the only culprit here. Enjoy.

Random side note — Dan is a spelling bee on wheels. He can spell any word at any time. I don’t even use spell check anymore. I just yell out a word and he rapid-fires the correct spelling. He is freakishly good.

This is one of those “think fast” Tip Tuesdays where I ask you a question and you just have to say the first thing that comes to your mind without agonizing over it. I’d like the format to resemble the conversations the old men have in “Return to Me” while playing poker.

“Best singer of all time, alive or dead?”

They all give answers and then fight about them with fake Irish old man accents. Well, the old man part isn’t fake but I’m pretty sure the Irish is fabricated.

I’d like today to be like that, without the fighting and without the accents. List your favorite book at the moment you read this post. This doesn’t mean it’s the best book ever written or even in the top one thousand, scientifically. Just type something that strikes you as great.

Rules:
-No books of scripture can be listed. I’m sure you’re all very spiritual and read all kinds of the Talmud but I don’t want all of the answers to be the same.
-No children’s books this week. We’ll do that next month or some time when I feel like it.
-You can only list ONE, not one per genre, not one for each hand, not one for every college degree you are currently pursuing, ONE – PERIOD.

I choose Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. It’s a Pulitzer Prize winner for Non-Fiction, typically found in the Nature or Essay section of your friendly neighborhood bookstore.

Speaking of bookstores, am I the only person who gets this ache inside whenever they see prime retail space available for lease and wishes they could open a successful independent bookstore that wouldn’t be crushed immediately by the Evil Duo? Ahhhh, dreams.

I opened the book and found this random excerpt to share with you:

Catch it if you can. The present is an invisible electron; its lightning path traced faintly on a blackened screen is fleet, and fleeing, and gone.

That I ended this experience prematurely for myself — that I drew scales over my eyes between me and the mountain and gloved my hand between me and the puppy — is not the only point. After all, it would have ended anyway. I’ve never seen a sunset or felt a wind that didn’t. The levitating saints came down at last, and their two feet bore real weight. No, the point is that not only does time fly and do we die, but that in these reckless conditions we live at all, and are vouchsafed, for the duration of certain inexplicable moments, to know it.

You can open to any page and find that she weaves her descriptions of the world around her with profound insight. Ah, to write with the power of Annie Dillard, to live for one day having a mind so alive and vivid. Sometimes I feel that she sees more in one sunset than I could see in a thousand hours of plodding along through my daily grind.

Now, let the games begin. Favorite book at this moment, alive or dead?

What’s a “charger”?

This is sort of how my end of the conversation went the other day as me and the many Martha Stewarts of my congregation were setting up for the women’s Relief Society dinner.

The previous Sunday:
They ask me to bring 8 place settings and a centerpiece, all focused on a Christmas theme. It would be sort of a birthday party and I would be setting the table for the people with December birthdays.

No prob. They want 8 plates and 8 sets of silverware. Done. I have 4 Christmas plates and at least 4 almost non-clashing Corel plates I can bring.

We have the most brilliant silverware Target has to offer. It is thick, sturdy and shiny. It is 100% genuine STAINLESS steel, not your cheap-o dollar store cutlery.

For the centerpiece, I deftly plan to bring whatever cute things are near the top of the first box of Christmas decorations I can find, along with the glow-in-the-dark ice cubes I snagged at last year’s post-Christmas grab-and-run sale.

A couple of days later, I get a call from one of the sweetest ladies I know, one of the event organizers. This is a lady you want to be like when you grow up. She always looks perfect. She is always kind to others and yet maintains a sense of humor and down-to-earthedness. Our conversation goes like this:

Me: Yeah. I’m pretty much ready.
Her: Have you got Christmas dishes?
Me: Yep.
Her: Great. Did they tell you we wanted salad plates now?
Me: No, but I have some plain white Corel plates I can bring.
Her: Okay. Wonderful. You know about the soup bowls, right?
Me: Okay.
Her: Alright. Oh, and goblets. Just bring 8 goblets too.
Me: Yes, goblets. (I know Target carries goblets. We can do goblets.)
Her: So what are you doing for the centerpiece? Do you have a poinsettia?
Me: No. I’ll figure something out.
Her: I know a couple of people with beautiful poinsettias you could use. Do you want their numbers?
Me: Nope. I can handle it.
Her: Okay. Great. How about Christmas napkins?
Me: I’m not sure I can find any this time of year.
Her: I’ve got some you can use. Do you want to use my napkin rings or do you have Christmas napkin rings you’d be more comfortable with?
Me: Thanks. I’d love to use yours. (Christmas NAPKIN RINGS? ACK!)
Her: Okay.

Sweet. The thing is, the majority of my friends are these amazingly put-together Martha Stewart center-piecing table-running people. When I agreed to set the table, I thought of my skills at…well…setting the table. I’ve been doing that since I was 3 and was given no end of positive feedback from my mom.

I guess I forgot what the table looked like at the little birthday luncheon my friends threw me last year with our two-year-olds present….

Aaanyway….when I arrive at the building to set up, I walk into something that looks like Simon What’s-His-Bucket-Fabulouso-British-Guy-From-Oprah has been there in a BIG WAY. The tables are outrageously gorgeous. Fine china everywhere.

Some of the goblets are gold and silver rimmed crystal (I’m guessing a bit pricier than the 8 for $10 version I brought fresh from the Tar-zhay). I even saw some gold silverware. Here I show my naiveté about things dish-related. If the silverware looks gold, what is it really made of? It’s not gold, is it?

I nervously make my way to the “December” table at the back and hope no one notices as I pull the mismatched dishes out of my cardboard box. I attempt to shine my “silver” on a stray napkin, realizing that it is amazingly beat up after serving 4 years of hard time in an unforgiving dishwasher.

It’s one of those moments where I remember vividly being in Junior High and showing up at school in Levi orange tabs, only to be viciously mocked. If they’re not red-tabs, you’re obviously a LOSER!

The difference between that world and this one is that instead of pointing and laughing, my new friends rip the red tabs off their own jeans and rush to sew them on mine.

In no time, I’m offered a full set of Christmas china (which I end up declining, going for the “cute mismatched on purpose” look), the napkins and decorative rings, some beautiful holiday candles and finally a set of chargers.

Her: You know what? It would add just such a nice touch of color if I lent you my red chargers to go with your place settings.
Me: Chargers? (I am being offered something for my pathetic table by the most well-dressed woman in the world, who touches anything and turns it into a fairytale castle of crystal bliss. I have no IDEA what a “charger” is, but it must be good if she’s offering it, right?) That would be great. I love chargers. I’d love to use YOUR chargers.

It turns out that chargers are like huge decorative plates that you put under the real plates to look cool. They are not used for eating. Who knew? Well, all these ladies knew and you probably did too, but just zip it, okay?

Now for some other words I had heard or read in books, but was too lazy to look up for WAY TOO LONG, but sort of got the idea from context:

Espadrilles — Nancy Drew slipped on a pair of subtle pink espadrilles and headed out to chase down the thief who had stolen Ned Nickerson’s car.

Chignon — She pulled her hair up into a messy chignon and searched for the perfect pair of ear-blings for her date that night.

Cicadas — As they danced on the boardwalk, under a flickering streetlight, the screeching of the cicadas reminded her that there were many things in life more annoying than sand between your toes.

My big sister was my best friend from the day I was born. Legend has it that when she came to visit me in the hospital and the nurse wheeled me back to the nursery, 2-year-old Heather yelled after the woman, “Hey LADY! You take good care of my baby!” For the first months of my life, she nearly smothered me with love and then she started taking care of me herself.

She played games with me. She helped me learn to imagine.

She was Leia. I was Luke. (I was younger and had shorter hair)

She was the Princess. I was the Prince. (shorter hair excuse again)

She was Sandy. I was Danny. (yep. Shorter hair.)

She was Mary. I was Laura. (This one I liked. Mary was always the boring goody-goody who cried all the time and threatened to go tell Pa. Laura was the risk taker, the one who could kick Nelly’s trash. Laura married a guy named Manly. On the other hand, every bad thing that could possibly happen to a person happened to Mary. She even went so far as to go blind and, as if that weren’t enough, the blind school burned to the ground.)

Okay. End of tangent.

She swung higher than me. I looked to her to teach me.

I was the “brave one” but she was the one who let me sleep with her until I was 12 because I was so scared of the dark.

She was the voice of reason and I was the mischief. She was ladylike and I liked to jump out of trees to see if I could break my arm and get a cast.

She read great books and told me the stories at night because I was too lazy to read them myself. Besides, I still believe she told them better than the original writers. Eat that L.M.!

We went on a game show together, lost (darn you blue team!) and still remained friends.

She did my hair like THIS for the first day of Junior High.

We were, and still are, silly together.

Although we went through periods where we divided our shared bedroom with tape and even occasionally with a cardboard wall, when we got to college we chose to room together. We graduated at the same time because she had taken 2 years off to serve as a missionary.

She spent the summer with me in Quebec and told me I had a great French accent. She translated for me when I needed help. One thing I know – If someone shouts “Vive Quebec!” on St. Jean Baptiste Day, you’d better shout it back!

She dressed like a tween with me and went to see the Backstreet Boys in concert because, “They’re so lame that they’ll break up any minute now. THIS MAY BE OUR LAST CHANCE TO SEE THEM IN CONCERT!” She was a High School teacher at the time and me a Librarian.

When I found a new best friend and moved out of our apartment, she celebrated with me, although I know it was hard.

She cried when she held my baby for the first time, so amazed that her baby sister had made a person and so instantly filled with love for Laylee.

When Magoo was born and my world fell apart, she got on a plane.

We’re learning how to be mothers together. I guess we’ve been learning for a long time. I do hope we’re nicer to our kids than we were to my brother. 🙂

When I describe Heather to people, I always say, “She’s a lot like me, only nicer.” And it’s true. She is the truest friend, the most loyal and compassionate person. She is talented in so many ways. She works hard and she is hard on herself. She is vulnerable. But her very vulnerability and her willingness to share her insecurities makes her more likeable.

And no, she’s not dead. This is not a eulogy. I just like her. (Besides, her eulogy would talk more about how wonderful she is and less about Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Backstreet Boys.)