Don’t Forget the ‘Little’ People

One of the best things about the improved verbal skills of a two and a half year old is that everyone can understand him better.

One of the worst things about the improved verbal skills of a two and a half year old is that everyone can understand him better.

This evening we dined at our local Friendly’s, a family restaurant and ice cream shop (for those of you who are unfamiliar).  One of the servers, whom we had today, happens to be a little person (I believe that’s the correct and hopefully inoffensive terminology.)

As we waited to be seated, she came over to greet us, grab menus, and lead us to our table.  Luke was clearly taken with the novelty of an adult that was close in size to him.  Karen and I looked at each other, silently and simultaneously thinking, please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything, but to no avail.

As he started walking after her, Luke turned to us and exclaimed, “Mom and Dad, she’s little!” (Emphasis his.)  It was audible and quite clear.  Then, just in case we missed it or didn’t notice her stature, he repeated, perhaps even more loudly and with the same emphasis, “She’s little!”

He may have even said it one more time before we reached out table (which was the farthest table from the entrance, giving him ample opportunity).

We hoped he had gotten over it at that point, but unfortunately, when she returned to drop off a few items at our table, he repeated it again.

Karen and I attempted to explain that people are different sizes, and it’s not always a good thing to comment on that, causing Charlotte to remark, “She’s bigger than us, but she is little for an adult.”

We hoped that would be the end of the ‘little comments’.  For the most part, it was.  (I think he may have made one more later in the meal.)

Although, when one of the other waitresses, who was of pretty standard height and weight, came by to clean a neighboring table, Luke looked at her, turned to us, and said, quite loudly and clearly, “She’s big!”  (I think he may have repeated that comment several times as well.  He’s really into repetition right now, of things he says and other people say, no matter how embarrassing.)

It’s times like these when I long for the times when only Karen and I could make out what he said.

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving of ‘mac & cheese’ (possibly served by a little person – Luke’s was).

Kaiya Papaya…

This month, we finally got to meet Kaiya, our ten month old niece.  Not meeting her for ten months is one of the major drawbacks of having family living 5,000 miles away. 

I gotta say, I’m in love.  She’s adorable (much like our other nieces).  She has a crazy mop of hair and two fat cheeks framing her precious smile.

We first met her in person at Grandpa’s 60^th birthday party, about two weeks ago.  Then we got to spend four days with her and the rest of Karen’s family in Killington, Vermont.

Charlotte and Luke were very excited.  As the big cousins on that side of the family, they take their roles very seriously.  Whenever Kaiya’s name came up in the weeks approaching her arrival, Luke would declare, with gravitas, “I’m going to play with her.”  He clearly felt that playing with his younger cousin was his duty, a serious obligation and one he was more than ready to fulfill.

The highlight of the trip for me occurred at the Ben & Jerry’s Factory in Waterbury.  Kaiya’s parents had decided that this trip would mark the occasion of her first taste of ice cream, one of the true joys of life.  How appropriate that this important rite of passage would occur here, at a Mecca for ice cream lovers?

And how even more appropriate that it occurred as I held her!  She was hesitant to try it at first, pushing the spoon away, but soon realized that the only emperor is indeed the emperor of ice cream.  I can’t help but feel that we now share an unbreakable uncle-niece/ice cream lovers bond that will bind us together (even across 5,000 miles). 

After our trip to Vermont, we got to spend an additional few days with Kaiya at our house.  We took her to a local farm, a blueberry patch, and a science and nature museum.  It was difficult to say goodbye when they departed our home last Wednesday to continue their East Coast tour, which came to an end today with a flight out of Logan to return to paradise.

Oh well, it was nice while it lasted, and we look forward to our next visit with our beautiful niece.  Until then, we have our memories.  When she was born last fall, before I started Dad’s ‘Mac & Cheese,’ I submitted a post on another blog, which I’ve reposted below to commemorate her visit. 

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving, and reserving, of ‘mac & cheese.’

 

Birthdays, September 25, 2008

I recently celebrated my 33^rd birthday, an occasion that was commemorated by two special Hawaiian packages.  I’ll start with the less momentous package. (I say less momentous because any package would pale in comparison to the second one I will mention.)

Several years ago, on a trip to visit Karen’s brother, who happens to live in Hawaii, we fell in love with Bubbie’s, an ice cream place in Honolulu that serves a divine treat called Mochi, small balls of ice cream wrapped in a flavored sticky rice paste.  Words alone can’t do them justice.  They’re something that absolutely must be tried to be appreciated as the gift from God that they are.  (http://hawaiirama.com/2006/10/obscenely-delectible-mochi-ice).  I should add that having family in Hawaii is GREAT.  You’re actually obligated to visit (especially when there’s a wedding).  Hawaii is truly a magical place.

Anyway, for the past couple of years, my brother- and sister-in-law have shipped a huge package of Mochi (in dry ice) from Hawaii all the way to Massachusetts to me and my brother-in-law Chris (married to Karen’s sister, lives in Somerville, also a BIG fan of Bubbie’s, and his birthday is the day before mine.)

Mochi in Massachusetts really does seem too good to be true.  While Trader Joe’s does sell packaged Mochi, it’s just not the same as getting them direct from Bubbie’s/Honolulu.  I almost pinch myself every time I eat one.  Not only because of the tremendous taste sensation, but because having one magically transports you back to the idyllic paradise that is Hawaii (without having to pay the exorbitant cost of the flight.)

Anyway, back to the two Hawaiian packages.  As you can guess, the first was the annual arrival from Bubbie’s on our door step on a Friday.  Now on to the significantly more momentous package (which is also birthday related, just not my birthday related.)

Our sister-in-law was pregnant with their first child, due a week before my birthday.  The same day we received the Bubbie’s package, we also received word that our new niece/nephew (no one knew), already five days late, would be arriving that night Hawaiian time, early morning EST (a c-section was scheduled for a variety of reasons.)  In addition to no one (including the future mom and dad) knowing the gender, the parents had not disclosed any names that were under consideration.  (In my opinion, a wise decision.)

We were thrilled at the news, partly because the rest of the family (who aren’t lucky enough to live in Hawaii) would be together the following day (originally to celebrate the birthdays of me and my brother-in-law).  We would now be able to celebrate the three birthdays, occurring on succesive days.

As an added twist, while we found out most of the details (a beautiful baby girl) before getting together the next day, no one on the east coast had yet learned her name.

We spent the afternoon in Providence at the Roger Williams Park Zoo (fun zoo, by the way: www.rogerwilliamsparkzoo.org), followed by dinner at Fez and WaterFire (www.waterfire.org – very cool, the kids loved it.)

We were standing by a tree near the seal tank at the zoo when we got the call from Hawaii.  Her long-awaited name: Kaiya, a Japanese word meaning forgiveness.  We (and by we, I mean I) have dubbed the tree we were standing next to at the time as the “Kaiya Tree.”  ‘We’ (see note above concerning ‘we’) look forward to someday taking our niece to the zoo and showing her the very spot where we found out her name. 

I just hope that when she does come to visit, she knows to bring some Mochi from Bubbie’s.

Welcome to the world, Kaiya!

Guilty as charged…

Sorry for the lack of posts over the last couple of weeks.  With only two servings over 14 days,  I’ve definitely been derelict in serving up the ‘mac & cheese’ of late, but not without good reason.

It’s been a crazy fortnight (give or take a few nights).  First, a trip down to Connecticut for Karen’s dad’s sixtieth birthday shindig; then a long weekend in the Green Mountains with Karen’s side of the family; then a trip to the New Hampshire coast for a few days with my side of the family; plus the wedding of a high school friend (also on the New Hampshire coast).

It’s definitely been a great few weeks, with many good times and memorable moments, some of which will be chronicled in servings over the coming week (in an attempt to make up for the recent dearth of ‘mac & cheese’), but the highlight was definitely meeting and getting to know our new niece, who’s ten months old and traveled to New England from Hawaii (with her parents, of course) for her grandfather’s sixtieth birthday celebration, including the aforementioned trip to the Green Mountains.  More on her in the next serving.

Now it’s back to the daily grind, relatively speaking. 

I am planning to return to my serving pace of two to three posts per week, but I’m facing the prospect of jury duty at the end of the week, which could throw me a serious curveball as I attempt to meet some project deadlines, get in the requisite number of work hours a week, and hold up my end in taking care of the kids and doing the household chores.

As long I don’t have to plead insanity.

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving of ‘mac & cheese.’

A stone’s throw…

Earlier in our relationship, whenever I did or said something foolish, silly, or somewhat embarrassing (which was quite often), Karen’s stock response, particularly when we were with a group friends, was, “Sorry, ladies, he’s taken,” or “That’s right, ladies, he’s taken.”  Hysterical.  Got me every time.            

We had a somewhat relatable experience with Luke a few days ago, and not in a funny way.  In a way that made us feel as though he was ‘that kid,’ the one making trouble – bad behavior that would cause other parents to say, “Get a load of that kid!  Thank goodness he’s not ours.”

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t think a day goes by that we’re not thankful for both of our children, overjoyed that they are ours.  But they do have their moments. 

One of Luke’s came at an outdoor concert a few days ago.  Luke and Charlotte were dancing and running around one of the trees in the park.  They were by two other kids who were about the same age.  They were all having a blast.

That is until Luke bent down, grabbed either one or a handful of small stones, and hurled them at the other little boy, who was about four.  Right in his face. 

Sorry, moms and dads, he’s taken.

The little boy ran off crying to his grandfather and grandmother.  Karen and I, aghast, both jumped up.  Karen hurried over, grabbed Luke, and brought him to the victimized family to apologize and make sure the little boy was ok.  They were very understanding. 

(Apparently, there were no hard feelings at all because when the ice cream truck pulled up, they offered to buy Charlotte an ice cream after a relatively long period of her looking longingly at the truck and at the people walking away from it with their treats). 

Anyway, when Karen brought Luke back to our spot on the lawn after his transgression, I asked him what happened.  “I threw rocks at little boy.”  Succinct and to the point. 

Later in the evening, hoping he had realized the error of his stone-throwing ways, we let him loose on the world again, allowing him to venture back to the tree and the scene of the crime.  They resumed their dancing around the tree with the other two little kids.  I was surprised because the little boy didn’t seem wary of Luke at all.  We were watching them like a hawk.  But apparently, Karen and I must have both looked away briefly at the same time, because before we knew it, the little boy was down on the ground, in tears.  Neither of us saw what happened, and Karen quickly pointed out it was my turn to follow-up.

The boy got up and ran to his grandfather in tears.  Again.  Great.  I asked Luke what happened, and he said that the boy fell.  Inconclusive.  Throwing presumed innocence out the window, I asked Charlotte if Luke pushed the boy down.  She responded that the boy fell down on his own.  It crossed my mind that she might have been covering for her brother, but she is a pretty reliable source for the most part, even when she herself is the guilty party.  Even so, I brought Luke back over to the family with the crying little boy, and asked, “Did my son do this?”  They said no, and then made a joke about hearing from their attorney.

Not long after, we sheepishly packed up our stuff, embarrassed but thankful that at least it was just one incident.  Walking away with our beloved little rock thrower, I couldn’t help but think it.

That’s right, moms and dads, he’s taken.

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving of ‘mac & cheese.’

Some people call him the space cowboy…

This summer, we’ve been enjoying the free outdoor concerts in local parks.  We’re regulars.  Hence, we can identify the other regulars.

One of the other regulars is classic.  He’s an older gentleman with a pretty cool walker.  It has wheels, storage sections, and a spot to sit.  But here’s the topper – the man wears a cowboy hat. 

When Luke first saw him making his way across the park lawn, he was riveted, his eyes glued to this intriguing figure, hunched over, slowly making his way toward where we were sitting.  Then the man stopped, turned around, and sat on his walker seat right near us.  Luke was thrilled.

He turned to me and said excitedly, but in a hushed tone (thankfully), “Cowboy!”  I don’t think it was Luke’s intent to be discreet – he was just in awe because he believed we were in the close proximity of a real, live cowboy.

I tried to explain that he probably wasn’t a real cowboy, that he was just wearing a cowboy hat, but Luke didn’t seem to care (or to believe me).  Because, partway through the concert, the man had left his spot for a short time and when Luke noticed, he turned to me and asked sadly, “Where’d the cowboy go?”  Needless to say, he was thrilled when the Cowboy returned.

Then, the next week, we went to another concert series at a different park, and there was the Cowboy.  Luke was thrilled.  But thankfully, he did not make a scene.

Until this week. 

Luke and Charlotte were probably about 50 feet from us, dancing and running around a tree, when the Cowboy made his appearance, walking slowly across the lawn.  His route took him right between the kids and us.

I was hoping that Luke wouldn’t notice. (Or maybe I was hoping he would, I’m not sure.)

But Luke did.  And it happened to be when the Cowboy was directly between me and Luke.

Luke started shouting to me, “Dad! Dad! Cowboy! Cowboy!”

He repeated this several times, loudly and pretty clearly for a two year old, just in case I missed it the first few times he did it.

But the man didn’t even seem to notice.  Calm, steady, unfazed.  Cool as a cucumber.

I guess that’s just how cowboys are.

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving of ‘mac & cheese.’

Somersaults and Cartwheels…

Tomorrow, Charlotte is going to the birthday party for one of her friends and pre-school classmates.  It’s actually a gymnastics party and will be held at a local gymnastics studio.

Charlotte couldn’t be more excited.

Although, when I mentioned the possibility that I would be engaging in the gymnastics, she became somewhat concerned.  I’m tempted to classify her feeling as mortification, but that’s probably too strong a word (at least at this point in her young life – give her some time).

Granted, I did announce to her that I would be giving a demonstration to show her friends how it was done.  She informed me that it was for the kids and that I would not be able to participate.

Later in the day, while I was at work, I heard a knock on my office door.  Charlotte was standing there with the invitation, printed by the studio.  Apparently, she had asked her mother to read it to her (again).  She was quite gratified to hear that the following line was included in the invitation: Parents are welcome in the gym but must refrain from using any of the equipment.

So there she stood, invitation in hand, to inform me that I would not be allowed to perform gymnastics.  She stated, “You can’t do gymnastics at the party tomorrow.  You’re too big.”  She then added, “Mom can do gymnastics tomorrow because she’s not as big as you,” adding, “You’re too heavy.”  (Karen loved that part.)

Refusing to be deterred, I staged the following phone conversation, pretending to call the gymnastics studio with Charlotte listening attentively:  “Hello, this is Charles Putney.  My daughter Charlotte has been invited to a gymnastic party at your gym tomorrow.  I was wondering if … (pausing) oh, you’ve heard of me?.. oh, you’d be delighted if I performed a demonstration for the kids tomorrow?…  Certainly, I’d be happy to.  Thank you very much.”

Turning to Charlotte, I said, “So what do you think of that?”

Her response was, “It’s good,” while smiling her impish smile.  I think she’s on to me.

Charlotte’s interest in gymnastics calls to mind one of my first posts as a blogger, for a different site, about a year and half ago.  I’ve pasted it below for your reading pleasure.

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving (and re-serving) of ‘mac & cheese.’

 

Somersaults, January 14, 2008, MassMoms.com

My two-year old daughter looked at me expectantly and repeated herself:  “Dad, your turn.”

For some reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to do a somersault –  I had some type of a mental, or physical, block.  I was bent over, poised, hands on the ground, ready to propel myself forward, but it just wasn’t happening.  Part of it was a concern that my long, awkward frame would topple off to one side and hit the bureau, the wall, or the bed.  “Charlotte, I’ll try later, when we’re downstairs.”

Somersaults are one of her new favorite things, and she’ll often exclaim, full of excitement, “Let’s do somersaults.”  Other times, on a whim, she’ll bend down and roll over, often coming up far short of a full somersault and falling off to the side, but still rising triumphantly to revel in her ability to go topsy-turvy.  When I was a child, I could also do them with ease, and I had wrongly assumed it would be like riding a bike.  

I’ve always considered myself to be very connected to my inner-child, but even in the wider expanse of the downstairs playroom, I struggled to propel myself over.  I was finally able to do one, relatively successfully, and forced myself to do one or two more.  Unfortunately, it didn’t get any easier with each roll.  I had hoped once I had done one, the block would be broken and it would be somersault city for me and my daughter.  But alas, I often forfeit my turn, encouraging her to go again.

Somersaults are just one of the many ways in which my kids have literally turned life upside down.  Charlotte’s “somersault” request is sure to be the first of many.  I look forward with great joy and significant anxiety to the many future “somersaults” that are sure to follow.  I’ve quickly learned that my son and daughter have the ability to get me to do things I would normally not try or even consider.    

I’ve never been a thrill seeker and have an overwhelming fear of heights (and now, apparently, somersaults.)  Early signs indicate that Charlotte will be a big fan of roller coasters, which terrify me.  Although she can be tentative at times (thankfully), my daughter seems to have far fewer qualms than I do.  (I blame my wife Karen and her side of the family for what I consider to be our daughter’s “daredevil” personality.  Karen broke her arm three times before she reached the age of 10). 

Regardless of my trepidation, I’m very excited about the many new experiences my kids are sure to expose me to.  Charlotte, when she was barely older than two, announced that she and her brother would be playing football.  She’s also shown an interest in soccer, dance, theater, home improvement, musical instruments (particularly the trombone, which her mother plays), parades… and the list goes on, some of which I know a good deal about and some of which I know absolutely nothing about.  Regardless, it’s sure to be an adventure.  You might even say a rollercoaster.  Needless to say, I look forward to each successive, “Dad, your turn,” with both dread and expectation.

Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo…

Lately, we’ve been working with Luke on his manners.  He’s getting much better about saying, “please” (although sometimes he still needs to be prompted).

But he seems to have gotten the wrong idea.  He thinks it’s a magic word, in the literal sense  — that its imbued with magical powers of persuasion.  He waves it like a fairy godmother’s wand, expecting it to change no’s to yes’s.

For example, one of the first things he said after getting up the other day:

 “Dad, I want a lollipop.”

“No, Luke, you’re not having a lollipop.  You haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“Dad, I want a lollipop, please.” 

And then he walked to the cabinet as if having a lollipop was a foregone conclusion.

I can understand that he might think the only reason we said “no” in some instances was because he didn’t say “please,” but he also seems to think it will work when there’s absolutely no way we would say “yes.”

I present the following pre-dinner exchange:

“Dad, I want candy for dinner.”

“Luke, you are NOT having candy for dinner.”

“Dad, I want candy for dinner, please.”

He’s also tried it with cookies for dinner and with watching television at various times throughout the day, as if reality would be suspended based on a combination of his latest whim or desire and the word “please.”

Wouldn’t it be great if life worked that way?  If we could get raises, out of speeding tickets, great deals on cars, and a reasonable mortgage simply by adding “please.”

But hey, Luke is pretty cute.  Maybe he can pull it off.

I’ve noticed there are several other words that some kids seem to think are magical, including the words “sorry” and “oops.”

Luke seems to think “sorry” is a free pass.  He’ll smack Charlotte and then almost immediately say, “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”  He then goes on with his life as if nothing happened.  It seems to escape him that you can’t do something intentionally, with malice, and then expect all to be forgiven just by saying, “sorry.”

The same phenomenon occurs with, “oops.”  A child will purposely throw his or her milk or other food items on the floor, look down at the mess, and say, “Oops.”

Similarly, if someone throws a ball directly at someone’s face, saying “oops” doesn’t make it an accident.

Although I do suppose adding a “sorry” might make it ok.

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving of ‘mac & cheese.’ (Please?)

Dance like EVERYBODY’s watching…

The free summer concert season has begun… and so has the wild rumpus.

There’s something magical about watching kids dance.  They don’t seem to care who’s watching or what they think.  As the saying goes, they dance like no one’s watching. 

Charlotte and Luke definitely love to dance.  They’ve both got moves.  Luke’s newest move is particularly entertaining.  He slowly walks backward to the beat while making shooting/pointing motions with his hands and sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth as if he’s concentrating intently (which he may be – walking backward isn’t easy for a two year, never mind the coordinated arm motions).  The combined effect is fantastic.  It’s his own version of the moonwalk, and it’s out of this world.

Charlotte’s newest dance move is also interesting.  It looks as though she’s throwing her legs out of her hip sockets.  (I said ‘interesting,’ I didn’t say it was pretty.)

They both will jump up to dance at the slightest provocation.  I take great joy in their love of music and dancing, and I hope they never lose it. 

I also hope that they never grow self-conscious about it.  Luke in particular seems to have the type of personality where he might never care if people are watching him dance.  In fact, he might revel in it.  He may, like his father, love the glory of the spotlight.

Whenever Karen or I have gone to a wedding or dance, I’ve always preferred to be the first ones on the dance floor – there’s more room (and more attention).  Karen, not so much.  Me, I like to dance like EVERYBODY’s watching. 

I came to terms with my physical awkwardness years ago.  I’ve embraced it.  I’d like to think I’ve got some moves myself (whether or not I actually do.)

A few years ago, pre-kids, Karen and I went out with some of her co-workers to a bar with a live band and dancing.  Let’s just say I took control of the dance floor.  I also took control of/borrowed a cow bell from the band.  (I’ve been bringing ‘more cowbell’ since before ‘more cowbell’ became a catchphrase.)

The next day, Karen got an email from a co-worker saying how I was a regular John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever.  That’s right.  John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever.

It made my day.  Nay, my week.  Actually, I’m still basking in the afterglow.  I’ve chosen to disregard the fact that the woman who admired my dancing happens to be deaf.  Literally.  I’m not joking.  Deaf.  She couldn’t hear the music to which I was dancing.  At all.

I suppose in the land of the deaf, the man without rhythm can be John Travolta.

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving of ‘mac & cheese.’

Born on the Third of July

Karen has three siblings, all older, two sisters and one brother. 

Her brother Mike is celebrating his 35^th birthday today.  He could be classified as something of a free spirit and independent thinker, someone who marches to the beat of his own drum. 

I remember when I first met him.  Karen and I (we’d been dating for a year or two and were still in school) were waiting for him in front of the Boston Public Library.  He had moved to the Boston area after graduating from college in DC and was living in a house outside the city with some friends.

He’s about six foot five and, when I first saw him, had HUGE pork chop sideburns.  He informed us that he had been growing them in honor of Elvis since the anniversary of his birth. 

I also remember him as having long hair and dreadlocks at the time, but in actuality, I don’t think I ever saw him with dreadlocks.  He did have them at one point, but it was before I met him.  I think I merged the two different incarnations of him, ‘Elvis-Mike’ and ‘Marley-Mike,’ because it’s such a compelling visual image.

Needless to say, he made an impression.  He’s a great guy – the life of the party with a unique sense of humor and generous to a fault.  He has a certain mystique about him – free spirited, offbeat, unbound by the usual chains of convention.  As time went by, the mystique continued to grow.

Not long after I met him, the house he and his friends were living in was sold (apparently, it was owned by a relative of one of its inhabitants).  At this point, he decided to essentially live out of his car (which was about 30 years old), camping at a different location on a suburban college campus each night and showering at the Y.  At least the weather was warm, because he was basically homeless for a summer.

Around this time, he and his college sweetheart (now wife) had decided to get back together.  She lived in Hawaii.  His plan was to drive cross-country (in his ‘car’), stopping at assorted points of interest and national parks, to catch a flight to Hawaii. 

His ‘car’ made it to Connecticut before dying.  Fortunately, he was able to hook up with one of those companies that hires people to drive cars across the country.  The good news was that he drove a pretty nice car to California.  The bad news was that he was on a timeline and couldn’t meander from spot to spot as he had originally planned.

So he makes it to Hawaii and is living in paradise (literally and figuratively).  He gets a job working part-time as a waiter at the California Pizza Kitchen.  His girlfriend is a flight attendant.  He has a lot of free time to surf, golf, play volleyball, etc.  At one of Karen’s family functions, when the topic of Mike came up, there was some concern expressed because he wasn’t building any equity, at which point, one of the male relatives says the following:  “Hold on a second!  He lives in Hawaii, he works part-time, his girlfriend’s a flight attendant, and he spends most of his time surfing and playing golf?  What are we doing wrong!?”  Following this statement, one of the people in attendance declared Mike his hero and requested a poster of him to hang at his house.

So why am I telling you all this?  Well, first of all, because I find him interesting and the idea of him extremely entertaining.

Second of all, because today is his birthday.  (So happy birthday, Mike, if you ever read this, but if you do, it’s pretty unlikely it will be on your birthday, so, rather than ‘Happy Birthday!’, I guess it’s, ‘Hey, Mike, hope you don’t mind me sharing details of your life from my skewed perspective with the blogosphere…”) 

Third of all, we haven’t seen him and our sister-in-law in awhile.  Perhaps more importantly (sorry Mike and Lori), we have yet to meet our niece, who was born in September.  Thankfully, we may very well be meeting her (and seeing them) this summer*, which we’re VERY excited about.  We’ve seen lots of pictures, and we’ve done some web cam calls, but it’s just not the same.  It kills me that my niece is almost ten months old and we have yet to see her or hold her.  But hey, 5,000 miles is quite the distance. 

Charlotte and Luke are also very excited to see/meet their newest cousin.  They mention her frequently, and they take the role of cousin very seriously.  They also miss their aunt and Uncle – we visited them last year, and also traveled to Hawaii for their wedding (Charlotte was the flower girl, Luke was in utero) the previous year.

So it will be a happy day indeed when we do get together. 

Have a great Fourth July! 

I hope you enjoyed today’s serving of ‘mac & cheese’ (while holding a sparkler).