Save the Corkscrew

"I am a lion." Colson claimed with a cheeky grin. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, he grew up.
Yesterday, he became a miniature man. With a 401K.

Yesterday, he explained, "I am a boy and you are a girl."

And I wanted my lion back. 

So, there is that- My delinquency in recording the sentimental benchmarks of my children's lives. 

Like how I became a mother of a tween last week. a TWEEN.  Ironically, this rite of passage coincided perfectly with a fresh web of spider veins to herald my new status. *sigh*

Eowyn turned eight.
Colson renounced his jungle throne.
Kincaid is scoring like Beckham.

And I have recorded none of it. 

To say this month has been crazy is like conceding that Ferguson, MO has experienced some racial tension. A wee bit. 

This week was the first crescendo in the symphony of chaos: Our front door- unhinged and lying askew in my living room. Throngs of neighborhood moths, mosquitoes, and mites stormed the threshold. Outside, Tanner's (party bus) moving truck streamed 90's rap like a south Philly club.

No really- it's exactly how I pictured parenthood:  Lil' Kim, me and my three kids. Perfect. 

Later that day, our car died.  Just a small thing, the transmission. We'll manage. Because -as Henry from Ghana -the wisest mover ever- reminded, at least ISIS hasn't taken my family. Trump. Card. 

Back to me becoming a mother of a tween. Mouthful to say. And "tween mother" sounds rather provocative- like perhaps I got pregnant at ten- which is patently impossible. 1) I sort of resembled a beaver at age ten but 2) more practically- I thought kissing got you preggers.

(Which is exactly what I will tell my tween daughter.)

Surfing in Waikiki last year was a tough birthday to beat, but the American Girl store certainly did its costly best.

*Public Service Announcement: If you have not ventured into the American Girl cult store yet, consider this your warning. It's the classy Vegas for little girls. Sensory overload. Dressed-up dinners. Tasteful glamour. And far less money in your dainty purse when you leave.

I'll state the obvious- Eowyn was sublimely entranced by the magical pageantry of the evening.  Tiara crowned, she and her doll "Kit" enjoyed an (underwhelming) three course meal followed by a (surprisingly not terrible) princess cake, concluding with a (financial fleecing) purchase of "Samantha" the holy grail of American Girl dolls. Cynicism aside, it was particularly poignant to celebrate with three generations of my favorite (breathing) American girls.

Previous to the American Girl store pilgrimage, we had a stream of visitors that graced our rental halls.

First, my fearless sisters braved interstate 95 in their Honda omnibus with 6 kids entrapped by Britax for five hours of transitive delight.

At least that's how road trips with young kids feel to me. *wink*

Charlottesville was our oyster during this epic cousin sleepover. They watched the new "Annie" and then choreographed the soundtrack. It was like 1988 again.  Except I look less like a beaver now.

Then, my idolized parents arrived, hailed like returning, conquering heroes. Colson rushed into their arms with relief. "Nonnie, you're finally here! (Subtext: "Save us from our miserly, spanking parents.")

And they did- outshining us like grandparents always do.

Oh and Easter. That holiday-upon which Christendom hinges- yes, I should probably make mention of that (in this blogging stream of consciousness).

Firstly, my boys, *swoon* they were nearly edible looking in their dueling seersucker suits. Naturally, my camera took the abuse that comes from having two, dapper, tiny men in bow-ties, accompanied by their plum-shaded, chiffon-swathed sister.

Egg hunts among cousins and wiffle-ball tournies enlivened the festivities. However, observing my babies impassioned singing of  "In Christ Alone" on Easter morn, eclipsed all other beauty that day.

Life has been cray-cray.  So, it's a good thing thing I saved my corkscrew from the packers.  We're going to need it. Wine (and Jesus)- you really can't move to Italy without them.

* Disclaimer: While this disjointed entry is glib, it does not ignore the atrocities suffered by those victims of ISIS- which specifically wield their violent machinations against followers of Christ. Because of this- most everything I write is trivialized and almost irrelevant.