Whew

I'm happy to report that our little patient is recovering well from his medical ordeal. He has really powered through the discomfort and pain with great fortitude, and shown enormous restraint in hoarding the consumption of frozen sweet goodness over his brother. Sleeping is a real challenge, but during the day he's pretty happy and chipper. That may have to do with his steady diet of television, board games, snuggles, pain medication and copious amounts of high fructose corn syrup at every meal.

Additionally, Max is doing a great job on inventory management. Each day he monitors any potential inequity of Sam's diet (liquid and sweet) over his (solid and full of vitamins and minerals). When Max leaves the house he's prompt upon return to inquire as to how many servings of ice cream his brother has had, how many t.v. shows he's watched, and diligently counts the empty juice boxes in the recycling bin. I'm honestly not sure which is more trying - keeping up on Sam's pain meds or making sure that Max feels that he hasn't been jipped of the greatest opportunity available to small children. We've tried to explain to Max that he's the one receiving the good deal here as he's riding the popsicle/Penguins of Madagascar wave right along with his brother, yet without the loss of glandular tissue. But each time we offer up a Danimals yogurt smoothie to Sam, Max's shoulders shrink down to his dairy-allergic belly and his lower lip quivers from the injustice of it all.

Sam handled all aspects of his brief stay at the children's hospital with his usual subtle humor and low key one-liners. Without argument, but with clear disdain, he put on the hospital gown that was covered in ridiculously animated dogs, shaking his head at the nurse "But my don't like dogs. And..there's a hole in the back", as if she hadn't noticed about that tying action. When she offered him a green stuffed bear with a soccer ball on it that he'd be able to take home after the surgery, Sam just shook his head and said "No sanks. Max he will just take it from me" (a valid point). Instead, he chose the bland beige bear with "1999" lamely embroidered on it, proving that he's the only child in 11 years who was able to overcome impulse and was willing to take the plain and boring bear rather than deal with the painful fallout of his older brother's anticipated drama.

With the gift of childhood innocence, Sam seemed pretty un-phased by the somber nature of our time at the hospital. During the pre-op exam in which they asked me about his medical history, Sam looked at the nurse with a completely straight face and told her "My only allergic to monkeys". After requesting a "Little Mermaid Night Night Story" from the anesthesiologist, Sam took the masked-man's hand and walked right with him into the operating room, Scooby Doo doll in hand, bypassing the nurse/gurney that was ready to rip him from his nervous mother's arms.

Modern technology allowed us to view the progress of surgery much like the status of an order of fries and a cheeseburger: each child is given a random number and it's posted on an electronic screen in the waiting room. It's color coded to let you know when your child is in pre-op, surgery, incision closure, etc., and then onto the recovery, which can be an additional hour before the child can be seen by anxious parents. Sam knew that time line just wasn't going to work for me, so he made it pretty clear that any recovery that he was going to have needed to be in his parents arms. Which, of course, was just what I needed and he knew that.

This little episode has proven to us we are enormously blessed to have a thoughtful, tough, and hilarious little son. And that hopefully, however enlightening they are, our trips to the hospital will be few and far between.

Sunday Night Bath

Who ever knew the poetry of bath time could be so sweet?

Morning At The Monkey Ranch

Our new camera arrived this week to replace its worn and weary predecessor who has opted to no longer point nor shoot. As soon as my new toy was out of the box I took these photos. I love how they reflect the peaceful (albeit rare) moments around here when the boys are engrossed in their world and I in mine.

Summer Nights

This is what I'm gonna remember come February when I haven't seen the sun for 93 straight days and the lawn is too wet to walk on, let alone lay down and dream upon:


I'll remember this ordinary, yet magical, night when the boys came home from swim lessons and launched their new foam rockets with the force of air and laughter and joy.


I'll remember how they burst over and through the ripe blackberries with the fuel of giggles and cheers, smelling of summer's magical mixture of pool chemicals and fresh tomato sauce. I'll remember how Summer serenaded us with birds in the woods and speedboats on The Sound.

I will remember the far-away laughs of neighborhood children and the nearby tackles and songs of my Monkeyboys launching their rocket ships to the heavens as they aimed for the nearest cloud.

And I'll remember how we all seemed to sense that nights like this were going to end soon as the days grow cooler, damper and darker and school and responsibility creep upon us. And I'll remember how, on this ordinary and yet magical night, we all wished that we could have this feeling forever.

Freedom's Just Another Word For Nothing Left To Lose

Among Sam's many charms and endearments is the adorable way that he says his age, "My Free" and holds up five fingers.

Our little "free"dom rider has been in quite a state of three this week. He's been defiant, objectionable and veeerrrrryyyy whiny. Part of this may be attributed to the lack of sleep he's been getting as he's transitioned to a "big boy bed" and has been staying up very late reading and playing. He's also been deprived of his normal nap ritual this week due to some scheduling craziness surrounding his brother's sports camp. Sensing that he really needed some quality sleep last night, I put Sam to bed back in his crib and watched him fall into peaceful slumber faster than you could say "Meltdown at Target".

He awoke this morning and yelled from his crib "Mommy! Get me out of here! Right now!", then proceeded to kick me and wiggle out of my arms whining about how he didn't want to be carried. Charming. Clearly, he wants some independence and to be a big boy, and yet, sometimes, he's all about being the baby.

This attitude continued this morning as I made the wrong breakfast, put his bowl down at the wrong chair and did, in general, all the wrong things. I made it clear I didn't appreciate the way he was acting. Then, he brought me over to the fridge and asked me to pick him up and talk about the picture of me and my Grandpa Ralph on the horse.

He asked if it was him and his Grandpa. When I told him (for the umpteenth millionth time) that no, it was me when I was a baby , he said oh so sweetly..."When you whined?"

I smiled and hugged my impressive little man. Yes, Sam, that one time that I whined. That one time that I felt conflicted and confused and not quite right in my skin. That one time that I didn't quite know who I was or how to act or why people were expecting so much of me. That one time that I was learning all sorts of new vocabulary and trying to figure out a new schedule and just really wanted to hug somebody all the time but also felt like I needed to act like I didn't need a hug all the time.

Kind of like that one time when my first child started Kindergarten. Kind of like that time when I have to start thinking about putting the kid who cheers for firetrucks! and cement mixers! and garbage trucks! onto a school bus while praying that he gets from my hugging and high-five-ing arms into the arms of someone else who will love him, understand him and honor him as much as we do. Kind of like learning about late-start Wednesdays and manipulative math curriculum and literacy boxes and lunch boxes and peanut free zones and filling out a field trip permission slip for the child who still can't even make a trip to the bathroom without some parental assistance.

Kind of like that time that I whined.

Freedom, Sam. It's not *just* another word for nothing left to lose, as Janice Joplin said. It's a little about loss, and also a little about something to gain. Like more time to spend with your sweet little face...

Simply Splendid...

One Stitch, Two Stitch, Red Fish, Blue Fish

I'll admit that I've been enjoying sewing recently, but I really wasn't a big fan of yesterday's new stitch.

On the back of Max's head.

Thankfully, Grandpa Tom was able to take us to Urgent Care where he gave us some moral support and even some bonus commentary on Le Tour de France.

He also snapped a photo while we waited for the analgesic to take effect.

Nothing like a little bump in the road (or head) to make me realize how fast it can all go downhill, and how grateful I am for my pit crew. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Now, where did we put that helmet?

Shark Camp

I'm a veritable machine of efficiency this afternoon as I enjoy the first quiet moments in my house in over two weeks. Sam took a nap (bless you, dear boy) and Max got packed off to "Shark Camp" at the local zoo for the afternoon. Two hours of Nirvana and accomplishment for me.

The quiet stillness coupled with the ability to complete a phone call or task (of which there are many) without someone crying, bleeding, sneezing or fighting is positively motivating. Which is why I'm logged onto this here Internets.

Alright already, Laundry. I hear you whimpering down there.

Photos taken at the Maritime Festival earlier this month.
Video of trout gut removal to follow at a later date.

Finally

Really? Has it been THAT long? I guess it has been a while since I've updated on the getsitement around here. Forgive me, peeps.

Summer is in full swing, the sprinkler giggles with nearly naked tots, and I am soaking up sun, dirt, and fresh summer fruit like it might go out of season. The garden beckons at all hours and I find myself resenting the staccato of constant interruption that is the soundtrack of life with two small boys.

We wound up the school year two weeks ago with a mad bonanza of sewing projects, good-bye events, thank you gifts, play dates, and then...Wham-Bam! Right into some out-of-state air travel -- standby style.

We actually did relax a bit while visiting my folks and the rest of my family on a slow, unexpected and relaxed pace. In addition to all of our relaxing, we also managed to squeeze in some swimming with the cousins, a Solstice Water Soaker Fest, Father's Day, multiple Farmer's Markets, a round of antibiotics (Sam), a triathalon (Mr. Wonderful) and a raging bout of GI distress (party of four).

Sure feels good to be back home again...

Carry That Weight

My grandmother, age 93, is resting comfortably today after undergoing surgery yesterday to remove a cancerous tumor. The burden on my father to coordinate her care and fill the void of last year's enormous loss of Grandpa has been great. Dad has rallied, organized and supported a team of cousins, friends, nurses and doctors to help manage his mother's care; all from nearly 2,000 miles away. He does so with humor, friendship, love and a remarkable capacity to curb his frustration as he deals with the bureaucracies and complexities of caring for a loved one from far away.

The love that my father has for his mother -- and her for him -- is a beautiful example of our capacity as humans to experience devotion and respect and appreciation throughout a lifetime. Just five minutes with them offers a glimpse of tenderness, concern, love and usually, a hearty laugh. She gave him the gift of total, unconditional love as she raised him and now he offers it back to her in spades.

The decision to operate on my 93-year old grandmother has weighed heavily on Dad, and it was hard for him to consider putting her very fragile body under the stress of surgery and recovery. I know he questioned it and worried over it, but apparently, it was the right decision to make. The relief for my father, and those who care about him and Grandma, is enormous.

++++++++++++

Some might consider my father's interest in YouTube videos to be yet another addition to the eccentricity column for my old man. On a semi-regular basis, Dad finds videos that he considers might be of interest to our boys and e-mails them to me. Over the past year, I've probably lost nearly a day of my life watching home-made videos that he's forwarded of animals at "watering holes"; tractors plowing wheat fields at record-breaking speed while backtracked to an Aerosmith song; and ancient folk singers scratching out decades-old recordings on tinny black and white film. Many of them I've viewed while shaking my head at my old man; many others have remained neglected in my in-box.

Today he sent us this little diddy from his i-phone, "Ikey", with the note that I may or may not want to share it with my boys. This generally means that they would probably get immense pleasure and delight from it, but that I might not want the behavior replicated in my living room.

He's thoughtful like that.

In fact, my father is one of the most thoughtful people I've ever known. Quirky, for sure, and absent-minded on occasion, but truly at the top of the list of thoughtful and caring human beings to ever walk this great, green earth.

And so today, while I watched this video, I thought of my Dad. Not just because he sent it, and not even because the Beatles will always remind me of my childhood lived to the soundtrack of Abbey Road. I was reminded of he Christmas when our family received a book on juggling and Dad learned a few tricks. Wham-bam, next thing you knew, the guy was constantly in motion. Oranges, apples, softballs, and small animals were tossed in the air -- much to the delight, laughter and cheers of us small kids.

I also thought of my dad as the man he is today: Juggling his mom, career, marriage, fatherhood, grandfatherhood, and the enormous heart of his that feels so much joy and pain. Carrying that weight a long time.

But, no matter how many balls in the air, TJ still makes me laugh and cheer for him.

This morning, Dad is sitting in a hospital watching over Grandma's golden slumbers, hoping to make it back home soon, and searching Ikey for some distraction. And I am still laughing and cheering for him.

Thank you, Dad. Thank you for showing me that the love you take is equal to the love you make.

+++++++++++++++++
In honor of my Dad and his 65th birthday that I did not acknowledge on the internet last week, I offer you this four minutes of spectacularness:

Fountain of Youth

I've found the secret to feeling like a 5th grader = get a new little bike and a cavity filled on the same day.

Who says you can't go back?

Time Marches On

Oh, thank goodness it's March already! I had been fearing that February would last forever. It's not even the end of the first week of the month and we've already jumped some big hurdles that were hampering us last month.

On Monday, Max got to spend some time at the hospital getting tubes in his ears to help ward off the transient synovitus that rendered him unable to walk twice during February. He's happy, healthy and selectively tuning out my requests for him to wash his hands while simultaneously jumping off the furniture. Never again will I take his bionic hearing/jumping achievements for granted! Additionally, both of our cars were returned (finally!) from the collision repair shop where they each had multiple visits due to our "his and hers" car accidents of February. I will forever fear the little red corvette (baby, you were much too fast) and won't ever again curse a safety restraint after both boys escaped unscathed from their first vehicular bang up. No one has fallen down the steps yet in March, and the sun is shining in all her Springtime glory. So far, March is singing a pretty pleasant tune.

And today, I registered my baby for kindergarten. I'm not sure how it is that I was able to unstrap him from his infant carrier and watch him bound into the gymnasium of an elementary school, because I swear he just spit up all over my nursing bra. Gaaahhhh! Where is the damn pause button on these kids????

Our tour of the elementary school went exceptionally well and I was delighted to see how eager and curious Max was about all the new places to discover at school. His favorite was the library where he found books on diggers, dinos and whales faster than you can say dewey decimal. I think he'll do just fine.

To celebrate his foray into academia, we went out for a warm cocoa in the sunshine. We talked about all the neat things we'd seen at the school, what he was getsited about, and then gulped down the whipped cream while contemplating the sweetness of life.

While sipping my coffee and smiling at my big kid smeared with cocoa and cream, I looked out the window of the cafe at a group of moms who were gathering with strollers and tiny tots with fists full of cheerios and sippy cups and blankies tucked warmly around their pudgy red cheeks. Some of the babies were nodding off, others were fighting the restraint, and the moms all had a familiar look. Distracted, eager and exhausted. Ready for some exercise after being up for seven hours already and desperate for the fellowship of a kindred soul who was sleep deprived but still making a go of it.

I watched them gather, hug, and coo; recognizing myself in each of them. And I suddenly ached. I ached for the stroller that I no longer push. Lumps formed in my throat as I tried desperately to swallow my coffee; struggling with balancing the passage of time and a hot caffeinated beverage. The next thing I knew, all the patrons of the coffee shop joined in singing the chorus of "Sunrise, Sunset" while I watched my former self out the window and saw the reflection of my current self tearing up.

That was when it hit me. Max is totally ready for kindergarten, and I am so confident in his ability to thrive and shine and learn and discover and wonder. He will be fine.

He will be fine without me pushing him along, handing him Cheerios and cheering for the garbage trucks, airplanes and doggies. He's no longer a tot in a stroller with floppy hat tied underneath his three chins. He's a running, jumping, getsited big guy who is ready to learn and discover and begin a new voyage.

All aboard? I guess so...


3 days old, which was really just last week. I swear it was.

Happy Golden Days of Yore

I've been searching in my ornament boxes for something to put on our tree that doesn't have wheels, treads, propellers, a sword, or a corn cob pipe. Even my favorite glass icicles, dangling all shimmery and oh-so-breakably, add a rather phallic tone to the Man Tree in our living room. The Man Tree is complete with a star on the top of it that Max made in preschool out of an empty roll of toilet paper covered in aluminum foil. If an empty roll of toilet paper doesn't scream male to me, then I don't know what does.

While plucking through these boxes of Christmases-past in search of something that represents the feminine in our family, I came across a picture.

A family photo taken ten Christmases ago, when my brother and I both had hands without gold bands and not even a glimmer of the little monkey boys who would one day change the holiday season forever for us. We look well-rested, unfrazzled, and well, calm.

It was the Christmas in which Mr. Wonderful asked me to do him the honor of becoming his bride, and my grandparents had come out to visit. Grandma has on a festive vest and I'm sure she told Grandpa to wear The Red Shirt. Or maybe she didn't say a word, but after fifty Christmases together, he knew.

We went to visit my mom's cousin and his family and shared our last Christmas with my Great Aunt Valerie, who had a tradition of sewing matching night gowns and night shirts for me and my brother every year. We joked about sleepwear while drinking martinis and eating cannelloni by candlelight. My little cousin, who now towers over me and knows all the songs being played in the Brass Plum section of Nordstrom, was five and she BELIEVED. Her mom believed, too. We all believed that year.

The next year, for the first time in my life, I didn't come home for Christmas. Mr. Wonderful and I shared our first Christmas tree and started our own family traditions that continue now and will continue for our boys in the Christmases to come. Hopefully some of these traditions and memories will even remain well after I'm no longer in the picture.

The holidays, while certainly merry and bright, also bring out the ghosts of Christmas Past, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. The ache can be overwhelming, especially at a time of year when we're supposed to be happy and bombarded with imagery of family and sentiment and mournful versions of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".

Today I send out hugs to all who are missing dear ones. Whether that footprint is fresh or old, it still leaves a mark. Polaroids don't replace the hugs and laughter shared over a glass of eggnog. But I'll offer a toast to those no longer decorating the tree, and to those who still make it merry and bright while feeling the pull of the past.

*Clink*

It's not just my tree that needs more angels.

All The Way Home

It was a Winter Wonderland at our house with about six hours of snowfall today. The view was beautiful and bright and beckoning to our little boy who just cannot resist Mother Nature and Her gifts; wintry and otherwise.

Shortly after waking, Max was out the door in the falling snow without shoes, hat, coat or mittens. And back in. And out. And in. And out. Cheering with glee and getsitement and proclamation and anticipation while I was making eggs for a sobbing, starving and very impatient Sam.

Out and in. Out and in. The golden jingle bells hanging on our front door announced his indecision each time, until the door slammed and there was a crash and a "MOHHHHM!"

**********************

On the floor next to the door lay a crippled wooden horse that used to hang in my grandparents' farmhouse welcoming their guests. With two freshly broken legs. It's a sentimental item, and, along with the countless other holiday items that are missing feet, arms, wings, hats, etc. due to little hands dropping or squeezing them, kind of broke my patience. I burst into tears and mumbled about how everything gets broken around here and I can't have special things out and Wahahhwaaaahwaaah. Totally ridiculous, but thoroughly shocking and unexpected - for both them and me. The boys became hushed and apologetic, exchanging worried glances and wondering, hopefully, if I was just laughing.

Max even suggested that I might need to go to my room until I could stop crying.

Dude. If only I could.

My frustration was brewing faster than my eagerly anticipated morning coffee until I looked out the window. And what to my wondering eyes did appear?

A reminder...

That in the midst of the chaos and the cold, in the bleak and long gray days when I am stuck in the house with the ricochet of two preschool-aged boys, there is beauty. And stillness. And a tiny imprint of what will one day be much bigger and won't return back to my door in such a rush.



Wooden horses? Those can be replaced. These little piggies?

Irreplaceable.

Mahalo

I could not let this day go by without some heartfelt and way overdue gratitude.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for caring for the little keiki while we sunned and snorkled. Your gift was immense and will be treasured always. Now go sleep.

Thank you, Mr. Wonderful, for saving the tiny umbrellas from our Mai Tais and promising to return them to me in the dead of winter when I'm rainlogged, overrun by muddy and stir-crazy boys, and my eyeballs are receding into my skull from the absence of sunshine.

Thank you, Max and Sam, for understanding that Mommy and Daddy needed some time to finish their sentences, meals, thoughts, and laughs. We even managed to talk about a few things other than the two of you.

Thank you Ocean, for your soothing sounds, salty silences and tireless reminder that the constants in our world roll back to us like waves. Some days are gentle and warm, others are fierce and chilling in this limitless sea called LIFE. Waves return, though never in equal form, and it all rolls on.

Mahalo nui loa.

"You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose...

But you can't pick your friend's nose."

A little wisdom passed down from Grampa Tom. Not really all that enlightening, but it was a guaranteed giggle or groan inducer when I was seven. At thirty seven, I still find myself thinking it and mentally smacking my head back and forth to make the rhyme go away.

And yet.
Still.
It's there.

Max and I had a rough bout before bed last week that involved a re-occuring toileting issue that just grosses me out. I'll spare details, but the boy got to learn how to clean a toilet seat. Enough said.

Needless to say, I think he got pretty down on himself and he felt ashamed and I felt badly. So for a bedtime story I read a favorite book of his and then picked "I Like Me!" by Nancy Carlson. Generally not a favorite of his since it involves a pig in cute tu-tu outfits and frilly dresses and absolutely no excavators, but the theme is sweet and I thought offered the right "tone" after our little feud.

The theme of the book is the pig is her own best friend, takes good care of herself, and has a healthy body image. I asked Max a few questions and got something like this in response:

Me: Do you have a best friend, Max?
Max: Sammy. Sammy's my best friend.

Quick, grab a bowl, a towel, something! I need to collect this melting pool of my heart off the floor. I'm wrenching from the tenderness, the love, the blatant and effective attempt to bring me back into his camp.

Me: Look, (pointing to a picture in the book), She's brushing her teeth and taking good care of herself. You do that!
Max: But... you do the best job of taking care of me, Mom.

Okaaaaay, um melting, tender, and feeling really sad that I upset him earlier. Yes, fiddle, I am being played like you by a 4 year-old maestro.

Me: Piggy likes her curly tail and round tummy. What do you like about your body?
Max: How my finger fits right in my nose. (Demo follows)

I am now a giggling seven year old. A giggling seven year-old being played like a fiddle and loving the sound of our song.

Pick your nose, pick your seat, pick your battles.

But I just couldn't pick a better kid.

Unmodified - Genetically or Otherwise

Corn has been KING near my grandparents' farm since I was a child. Perhaps (gasp) even before that. But in the age of ethanol and high-fructose corn syrup and corporate farming and corn subsidies and sugar tariffs and a myriad of other modern developments that may eventually lead to our downfall, corn is now higher than any elephant's eye and is everywhere. Regardless of how one may feel about genetic engineering and the decline of the family farm, even our youngest family member is noticing that something peculiar is happening in America's heartland.

I made this little video while out for a drive with my grandparents last month. My brother quietly drove, my grandfather told him where to turn, sometimes without words and only the point of a thumb, and my grandmother gripped Sammy's delicious thighs and kissed his chubby cheeks with the silence of a cat tracking a mouse.

Sam, as you can see, does not subscribe to the virtue of a peaceful Sunday drive.



And for that, and so much else, I am truly grateful.

Sailing through the heavens

Today we buried Grandpa.

We lay him into the fertile farmland not ten miles from which in came, in the very month that gave him life 89 years ago. We set him down in the cemetery surrounded by family and brown corn stalks tinged with the memory of green. We listened to Taps on a lone bugle, serenaded by the whistle and hum of the 2:20 train. He would know that train. He would tap his watch to that train. He would mimic its whistle, as if to announce that which we'd already heard. Just as the VFW did when they presented Grandma with a perfectly triangulated flag on behalf of a grateful nation. It was so long ago, so deeply buried, and yet not. Still fresh. The whistle of a train. Still stuck in sorrow and honor and the knowing of that which has just passed.

My soft, sweet, gracious and ever-loving grandmother said goodbye to the good man who had held her for seven decades. The man who opened the door for her and wore the sailor's uniform of a grateful nation when she was a wavy-haired young mother standing in front of a Buick with the excitedly constant movement of her four year old boy, just as I do today. She poured her heart into that tender child and give him all her love and nutrient and heart and let him know that he was the light and love of their lives.

Together, they raised that sweet boy who would become my dad. They guided and loved others that they collected along the way; continuing to feed and harvest the fruit from their own family tree. Grandpa, with the arms and hands the size of tree limbs and the strength of a machine, could hold and hug and laugh and dance as if it were his last. And yet, it never was.

Today, as the autumn sun angled lower over the last of summer's red-ripe fruit, we put Grandpa back into the very earth that had borne him and sustained him. We honored him, loved him and recollected about him. And in that honor, we acknowledge those who created him, molded him, loved and accepted him. Those who escorted him into the dark days of passage and made his farewell a gentler goodnight.

And yet, we also say good morning. To the four year old boys who love tractors and snow plows and horses and harvesters. Good morning to the sisterhood of widows who will hug, and hold hands, and pour over the recipe books of family memory and life not yet lived.

As the County road intersects with the State highway, I merge onto something new. Just paved, fresh and dark and unmarked. The rear-view mirror reminds me of the cornfields from which I have been and the dark clouds through which I have passed. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The blinker acknowledges my airport exit and I say goodbye.

Fair winds and following seas, Grandpa Ralph. Much love and laughter to the original R.W.

Champs and Grips

If you're ever looking for the right medicine to deliver to a nursing home, I highly recommend bringing something like this:


Ice cream is optional



Well, maybe not.

Sam and I took a trip back to the Midwest to visit my grandparents after getting some sad news about my grandpa's health. My brother joined us, which was very special considering that he and I shared so many memories of visiting the family farm together as kids. Now the farm has been sold, we've grown and created the cousins for our kiddos that we never had, and age is catching up with all of us

But corn is still king, my grandparents are still our biggest fans, and hey, how 'bout them Cubbies?


Sam cruised around Pinecrest Manor in style, rotating between my grandpa's ever-present silly side effects (always a hit with the toddler set), and my grandmother's fleece blankie on her lap.


We took the folks for a ride in the country, and I totally forgot to warn Sam about "The Grip", my grandma's trademark move.



I'm not sure what this yoga move is called, but I'm calling it "Showing Off At The Nursing Home". He likes to call it "Rook at me, guys"


It was a very memorable visit for all of us. No better medicine.




Ok, Cubs, let's go all the way for RW.