The Story of the Convertible Girl

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A Letter to Santa

Junius wrote his first letter to Santa this week. I'm not sure who was more excited about it -- Junius or his daddy.

Thanks to some really wonderful coaching from Abby, they did a great job -- not sure if you can read Daddy's translation of Junius's drawings in the letter (shown left), but here's what it says:

Dear Santa, I have been good this year. Lightning McQueen and Chick Hicks [illustrations of the cars that he's asking for]. Please bring toys to other children too. Merry Christmas to Santa.

After they wrote the letter, we all went up to North Hills (a convenient substitute for the North Pole) and mailed the letter in the special Santa mailbox outside the toy store.

The whole thing was very sweet, but it left me feeling a little conflicted. I grew up "believing" in Santa the same way I "believed" in Pippi Longstocking, the Narnia siblings and the Muppets -- another great character to enjoy. I never felt deprived of the magic of Christmas, but also never had the crushing he's-not-real-and-everything-is-ruined moment.

As a kid, I loved watching Christmas specials, singing carols, decorating the house, waiting for my grandparents to arrive (which really signaled the beginning of the holiday for me). On Christmas Eve, we'd go to mass, then come home and open one present. Once we were in our pajamas, Granny would start looking anxiously out the window declaring, "Oh my stars! I think I see some reindeer out there -- you kids better get to bed!" In retrospect, I'm sure our holidays were filled with plenty of stress for my parents, but for me it was all fun and good times -- even though I didn't really believe that Santa was real.

Now as a mom, I'm at a total loss about how to create that same fun-without-the-pressure for my own kids. They'll be excited about Christmas morning no matter what -- doesn't matter who the presents are from. What I worry about (after listening to my 4-year-old for the past month) is my kids believing that Santa will automatically bring them every gift they want. I'm more worried about their disappointment in Christmas if they believe too much.

At the same time, I don't want to ignore Santa completely -- and I couldn't do that, even if I wanted to, given that he's everywhere and that so many people really want to believe. It's a tough call -- wish I had the answer. I know I'm not alone in this struggle -- see Erin's post at Triangle Mamas.

So tonight, after the kids go to bed, we'll put out a couple of presents under the tree from Santa. And I'll watch them in the morning to see their reaction. And then I'll be thankful that I have another 364 days to figure it out for next time.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Mama Wisdom for the Holdiay Break

Preschool is closed until the new year.

I should probably be excited about the opportunity to spend two whole weeks with my beautiful children, playing and celebrating the holidays. Instead, I'm a little bit terrified.

Did I mention it's two whole weeks, plus two more days?

But instead of quaking in my slippers and trying to figure out how to get Sesame Street to play on continuous loop, I'm making plans with friends and remembering this note that came home from Junius's preschool teacher last week:

"As my children get older, I struggle more and more to fit into their schedule. It doesn't seem that long ago that they were happy to sit with me on the sofa and watch Charlie Brown or read a Christmas story. At the time, I remember thinking that what I really needed was time to run to the mall or wrap a gift. I didn't realize how quickly the time would fly. While your children are small and still think you are the greatest thing ever, please take the time to make those memories that will last. Make cookies together, let your child help you wrap gifts for the family, read a Christmas story, sit on the bed and tell your child what Christmas was like when you were a child. Before long your children will be grabbing the car keys and running out the door. You only have them for a short time -- make it count!"

So now we're heading out for a fun morning with friends at the Museum of Life and Science, where I won't be distracted by my computer or the 782 things that need to be done around the house before everyone arrives later this week. We'll have a great time with minimal whining (by me or them) and lots of activities.

And hopefully all this fun togetherness will have another side benefit -- a good naptime for the kids so I can still have a few minutes to myself when we return home.

Friday's Five: Shop Local

If you think you might be getting a Christmas gift from me this year and you'd like to be surprised by said gift, you should stop reading now. Seriously -- grandparents, this means you. Go read today's Advent meditation from my neighbor's mama, Pastor Margaret, instead.

Okay, for the rest of you still reading, here's a list of five of my favorite local spots for holiday gift shopping (none of which have offered me anything to write this post). I try to avoid the mall most of the year (unless I have a gift card to Ann Taylor Loft and a babysitter), but especially in December -- it's a serious holiday cheer destroyer for me. In past years I've done most of my shopping online, but this year I'm trying to buy local as much as possible.

1. Quail Ridge Books and Music: If you didn't already know this would be first on my list, then you really haven't been reading my blog (click the "books" tag on the right for more links). Go super local and look for authors like John Bemis or David Sedaris and musicians like Tift Merritt and Big Bang Boom while you're there.
2. Revival Antiques: The furniture at this great store is all beyond my gift budget, but they have interesting smaller items too -- lamps, perfume bottles, tin wall hangings, jewelry and tea cup sets, to name a few. Plus the store is never, ever crowded and you get bonus points for "recycling" the antiques.
3. Logan Trading Company: From ergonomically designed garden tools to bird houses to holiday decorations, this store has lots of interesting items. And you can have lunch at the cafe while you watch for the train to pass by.
4. State Farmer's Market: When all else fails, give food. I've got a couple of people on my list who are really tough to buy for (ahem, Grandpa) -- but I've never seen them turn down a tasty treat.
5. Raleigh Flea Market: Spend your weekend wandering around the fairgrounds and find a little something for everyone -- I particularly like the antiques and quirky crafts, but there's also food, toys, books, clothes and more. Parking and spectacular people-watching are free with every trip.

For more ideas in Raleigh, check out Ilina's post on Triangle Mamas -- and share your local favorites (for wherever you are) in the comments below...

Photo from Revival Antiques & Accessories.

Dinner's Ready!

For all of you spending the day cooking, prepping, shopping, sweating and generally working your tail off to get ready for the big meal tomorrow, I have three words:

The. Fresh. Market.

Their traditional holiday meal comes pre-cooked with turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry relish and rolls -- all I have to do is heat it up and set the table. The best $80 we spend all year.

I mean, I know I've gotten all domesticated this year, what with the meal-planning and the cooking chicken and the trying new recipes. But seriously, people -- I do not find joy in spending three days slaving over a meal that will get devoured in about 20 minutes. I know that some of you do, and I respect that -- but I have no plan to join you (unless, of course, you want to invite me to your house for dinner).

After our children were born, my husband and I implemented a pretty firm no-traveling-for-the-holidays rule for our family. There have been a couple of years where we went to our parents' homes for Thanksgiving, but otherwise we've enjoyed the luxury of staying home. That policy also means that we've extended a generally open invitation to our parents to join us at our house for the holidays -- thus, the need for The Fresh Market.

My mother is the one who taught me this trick, after years of doing it all the hard way -- and I expect my children will be stunned to discover (years from now, when they get invited to a boyfriend's or girlfriend's home for Thanksgiving) that not all turkeys arrive pre-cooked with the fixings from the store. And I'm totally fine with that -- I'll just tell them I was supporting the local economy (The Fresh Market is based in Greensboro) and ensuring that I had more time and happiness to spend with them.

Happy turkey everyone!

Note: As always, I received no compensation from The Fresh Market for this post. However, if they offered me a gift card or a discount for my Christmas meal, I wouldn't say no.

Round 1 Goes to the Pip

Today I thought I would be writing a post about how I spent my first night away from Pippi last night -- I had to be out of town for a meeting, so she and Junius were home with my husband and my in-laws. Although I've spent a few nights away from Juni, it was the first time that Pippi and I slept under different roofs in her entire little life.

But as it turns out, my night away was pretty uneventful for both of us -- and I had to be up so early for the meeting that I didn't even get to enjoy some extra sleep.

So instead, I'm going to write about this cute little outfit (shown at left), which is what Pippi was supposed to wear to preschool today. As it turned out, she wore the pants -- along with the pajama top she'd slept in the night before.

Why? Because she flat-out refused to take off her pajamas. I wasn't here to witness the struggle, but apparently neither my MIL nor my husband could wrestle her out of the jammie shirt. My husband (wisely) determined that it was not a battle worth waging.

After I stopped laughing at the vision of Nonna and Daddy trying to pin down our not-yet-two-but-thinks-she's-a-five-year-old daughter, I tried to figure out two things:

1. What about the cute outfit was so offensive to her? Did she remember that (although it's a Carter's brand) I bought it at Costco? Does she think mixing pink with chocolate brown is too trendy? Was she worried the leggings made her tushie look big?

2. How many battles are she and I going to have about her clothes over the next 16 years? And will I have enough sense to let her win the ones that don't really hurt anything so that I have the energy to conquer her stubbornness in the wars that make a difference?

At the end of the day, it really didn't matter what she wore to preschool today. In fact, some of her toddler clothes aren't so different than her pajamas -- and I'm sure her teachers love her no matter what she has on. But I can see the day coming when what she wears (or doesn't wear) Is going to make a difference in how others see her -- a skirt that's too short, a shirt that's too tight, a face-piercing. Ugh. I am so not ready for her teen years.

So I think I'm going to start working out now. Because clearly I'm going to need to be a lot stronger than she is if I'm going to win the wrestling matches yet to come.

Making Music Together

When I was four years old, my mother took me to Kindermusik classes -- some of the first in the U.S. My mom then became my first piano teacher, starting me on lessons that would last through three other teachers until I graduated high school. I also studied flute and sang in school and church choirs. Later, my mom became a Musikgarten teacher, singing and dancing with other moms and babies.

Given that history, and the fact that my kids really love all sorts of music and dancing, I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that I finally took Junius and Pippi to our first music class last week. But better late than never -- all three of us had a great time singing, playing, dancing and jumping along with Ms. Angela and the nine other mommies and 12 other children. In addition to being great fun in a musical learning environment, it's also one of the few activities I could take the kids to at the same time -- not a lot of kids programs are open to both a 4-year-old and a 19-month-old.

During the class, Ms. Angela encouraged all the mommies to sing regularly to their children. "No matter what you think your voice sounds like," she said, "your children will think it's the most beautiful sound they've ever heard." I liked that advice and decided this was a good time to stop listening to NPR in the car and start singing along with our new Music Together CD.

So on our way to Nanna and PopPop's house last week, I put in the disc -- the kids were smiling and clapping and trying to sing along. And I'm thinking what a great mommy I am that I can take them to this fun class and then sing with them in the car and how happy they must be to hear my beautiful voice.

Then Junius pipes up from the back seat. "Mommy," he says. "When you are singing...?"

And I'm waiting for him to say how much fun it is when I sing and he can sing and Pippi is learning to sing and how much he loves me...

"Mommy, when you are singing," he says, "I can't hear the music. Mommy, please don't sing."

His comment left me speechless, thus having the desired effect.

I'm just hoping he won't complain when I start singing even louder in class this week.

Image from Music Together.

Floyd, Fear and Flying Far

Ten years ago tomorrow, I boarded a plane at the Greensboro airport en route to Cardiff, Wales.

I was terrified. I don't like to fly under the best of circumstances, but my connector flight to D.C. was to be the last (tiny) plane out before the airport closed due storms from Hurricane Floyd. The turbulence from bad weather alone would have been enough to tie my stomach in knots.

But my fear of going halfway around the world to live for a year -- without my family, friends or even a passing acquaintance -- meant I hadn't eaten or slept much for the few days preceding the flight, leaving me a weak, sniffling disaster with a passport and a whole lot of luggage. If not for the support of one of my dearest friends who waited with me at the D.C. airport and another BFF who made a care package to keep me entertained on the flight to London, I might not have survived the trip.

When I arrived at my flat in Cardiff the next day, alone and exhausted, I was certain I had made the biggest mistake of my life. That night, I began my first journal entry with these words:

"I am courage. At least that's what Mom said when I called her from my host Rotarian's house sobbing at 5 p.m. She said that courage isn't being unafraid; it's being afraid, but still facing your fears. So, here I am, facing them."

She was right, of course (moms usually are), although it took several weeks before I believed her. And the year, spent studying magazine journalism at Cardiff University as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, was one of the best decisions I ever made.

In celebration of that decision and in thanks to my parents for helping me find the courage I needed a decade ago, I'll be posting excepts from my year abroad over the next month -- some snippets from my journals, but also copy from feature articles I wrote while I was there. Since I wasn't tech-savvy enough to be on the forefront of blogging in 1999, I'm taking this opportunity to relive the experience now -- hope you don't mind coming along on the trip.

Thankful for Blue Skies

Friday's Five will return next week. Today's date simply required a different post than usual.

Today is a day for remembering, a date that has become a proper noun -- Nine-Eleven. For many people, today means mourning the loss of loved ones, recounting stories of where they were when they heard the horrible news, honoring those who worked so hard to save the lives of others, wondering how eight years have passed so quickly. It is a day that reminds us of endings.

For me, today also brings memories of beginnings. I got married on the Saturday after 9/11, on what would have been an ordinary, blue-sky wedding day but what became a much-needed reminder that there was still life to celebrate in spite of the extraordinary tragedy of that week.

Although several family members and friends were unable to make it to our wedding (no flights from California or Texas -- and as my brother-in-law said, by the time their flight was officially canceled, they couldn't have driven to North Carolina in time), we were fortunate that our "big day" still took place as planned. And we were truly honored by the extra effort many friends and family made in order to be there with us, driving long distances or (in the case of two friends) catching the first re-scheduled flights out.

It was a beautiful day, that Saturday. I was a crazy bride, and probably owe apologies all around, but it really was beautiful. And it was such a blessing, on that day of all days, to be able to sing and dance and laugh and love and kiss and hope and be thankful.

This photo, taken by my cousin on the afternoon following the wedding, appears to be simply a shot of the country club where we had our reception -- at first glance, I thought this picture did nothing more than show how perfect the weather was that day.

But look closely -- although it's hard to make out in the scanned-in reproduction, there are two telling signs of the week captured here. See the flag? Even four days later, it is still at half-staff. And just above it? A fine white line of jet exhaust. Flights started taking off from PTI that morning.

This picture captures nothing of the ceremony or the celebration that kicked off our now eight years of marriage. But I treasure it as a reminder of how fortunate we are to be living a beautiful, ordinary, blue sky life.

My Body, Myself, My Daughter

When I was about 12 or 13 years old, we were visiting my grandparents on the Chickahominy River one summer. I vividly remember walking out onto the pier in my one-piece swimsuit, when my Nana saw me and declared, "Why, dahlin' -- look at you! You've got hips!"

In retrospect, I am certain that Nana meant it as a compliment. At the time, I was mortified. Horrified. Wanted to melt into a puddle and slide off into the river and sink deep down into the muddy bottom. At that age, I was self-conscious enough about my body and the effects of puberty (or lack of effects, in some areas) that the last thing I needed was to know that someone else was noticing me -- even if that someone was my grandmother who loved me very much.

Now, more than 20 years later, I'm still afraid that people might look at me in a swimsuit and critique what they see. The truth is that probably no one is paying that much attention to me and that I am my own worst critic.

But I'm trying hard to get over that -- after two babies, I'm starting to realize that I actually looked great in my 20s, so I trust that I'll think I looked good in my 30s when my 40-ish self is looking back at photos. That's the thought that motivates me to put on a bikini when I'm at the beach -- that, plus the fact that it makes my husband very happy to see me in one.

But what worries me even more than how I look is how my body-image issues might affect my daughter.

Right now, Pippi is roly-poly round and absolutely gorgeous -- her toddler belly pops out in front of her, she has tan-lines in the pudgy creases in her forearms and thighs, and every ounce of it is beautiful. She's also completely uninhibited (see photo -- she's preferred to be topless at the beach all week, too) and has no thoughts about what her body should and shouldn't be. I want so much to help her stay like that, to always believe that she is beautiful and that her body is exactly how it should be.

But given that I haven't managed to feel that way about myself in three decades -- and given all the forces around her that will shout about the need to be thin or have big breasts or look a certain way -- how do I teach her to hear a different, stronger voice inside her head?

I think it might start with me, my voice, and the voices of other people who love her. Maybe if her father and I and her grandparents and our friends all talk about being healthy and confident, then she'll have some defenses built up to fight against those other voices.

When she was a newborn, my dad would hold her and say to her, "You are SOOOOOOOO beautiful," in this sweet, sing-song voice. She always smiles at him when he says that, like she knows exactly what he means. Hopefully, when her Nanna and Nonna comment on her pre-teen body one day, she'll smile and say, "Thank you -- I think I look so beautiful, too."

Remembrance of Summers Past

It's not as elegant as Proust's madeleine, but I had the strangest moment last week when I fixed the beverage shown above.

The glass is one of those Looney Tunes glasses that you used to be able to get with a purchase at Burger King or McDonalds back in the 70s and 80s. My favorite one was a Miss Piggy glass (she's on the motorcycle bursting through the stained glass window in The Great Muppet Caper) -- found this picture on Ebay that shows the whole set; sadly, my glass broke when I took it to college.
Anyway, back to the Looney Tunes glass, which I inherited from my Nana after she died more than 15 years ago. I always loved using those glasses when we would visit her house on the river. She'd fill them with ice and Pepsi-Cola to take down on the pier. As strange as it sounds, that was a luxury -- we didn't drink sodas at home when I was young.

So the other day, I needed some caffeine to avoid joining my kids during their naptime, so I popped open a can of Diet Coke. It was room temperature, so I reached into the cabinet and pulled out this Foghorn Leghorn glass without thinking about anything in particular, added some ice and poured in the drink.

Then I stopped and looked at the glass, suddenly filled with memories of my Nana, of playful summer afternoons by the river, of being young and finding great pleasure in the smallest treats. I was so grateful to have had the sort of childhood that could be summoned up like that. And I imagine that my parents and my in-laws are creating little things like that now for my children, without even knowing it, that will become the catalyst for their own fond memories one day.

Firsts Night

Saturday night was a momentous one filled with "firsts" for our little family. The big event was Junius's first camping trip -- he went to Hanging Rock State Park with his dad and Grandpa (my FiL). They hiked to a waterfall (see photo of Juni and Daddy), rowed in a boat and slept in a tent during an overnight rainstorm. Juni had a blast, and the big guys had fun sharing the experience with him and each other.

Pippi and I stayed with Nonna (my MiL) while the guys were out roughing it. We took naps (or at least they did while I got some contract work done), went shopping, ate dinner in a restaurant and slept in our beds. It was lovely and civilized -- and too bad that Pip isn't yet old enough for pedicures at the salon.

But even though we weren't out camping, Pippi and I still had our share of firsts...

• It was Pippi's first night without Junius since we brought her home from the hospital. Seems funny to imagine, but in her whole life (minus the first couple days), she's never had dinner without her brother, never had breakfast without her brother, never gone to bed without her brother in the next room. She had an unusually tough time in the restaurant during dinner -- could have just been crabby, but I honestly think she was starting to miss Junius. She was VERY excited to see him when they returned home on Sunday.
  
  
• It was possibly my first night in almost nine years without saying goodnight to my husband. We've certainly spent nights apart because of business travel or weekends with friends, but I don't think I've ever gone to bed without at least saying goodnight to him. Felt really strange and kind of icky.
  
  
• It was probably the first time I went 24 hours without talking to my husband. I expected to get a call sometime during their trip since both my husband and Grandpa had their cell phones with them. When I didn't hear from them, my brain leapt straight into the deep end -- car wreck, bear attack, rock slide, lightning strike, whatever irrational disaster you can think of. The rational part of my brain told me they simply didn't have any reception in the park (which turned out to be true), but sadly that tiny part was no match for all the crazy scenarios that nearly drove me over the edge waiting by the phone. I was so relieved to see them arrive home on Sunday that I proceeded to yell at my husband for not making a Herculean effort to call me and tell me that they were neither injured nor dead.
  
  
• It was only my fifth night away from Junius (out of 1,483 days in his life) -- of the other four, one was a getaway with my husband (so luxurious and restful!) and the other three were spent in the hospital when Pippi was born (neither luxurious nor restful). Don't get me wrong -- I'm looking forward to a night away from both of my children sometime this year, but it still just felt weird not to see him, tell him good-night, tuck him under his blanket before I went to bed.

The good news about all of this is that Junius has convinced his dad that they should bring Pippi and me along on the next camping trip -- might be the ONLY way I'll ever get invited to camp again with my husband (I'll save that story for later, but let's just say the first trip didn't go well and may have caused him to reconsider his intentions to marry me). Honestly, I'm not a huge fan of sleeping on the ground, but at least I won't be waiting by the phone if I get to go along for the ride.

FREE ICE CREAM! Or, What It Looks Like to Host a Party for the Neighborhood

"The Aftermath"
______________________________________

96 people (including 41 children)
+ 2 scoopers (thanks to my husband and Monsieur D!)
+ 17 cartons of ice cream (plus 2 leftover for the host family)
+ 36 single-serve cups of ice cream
+ 2 bottles of chocolate syrup
+ 4 bottles of sprinkles
+ 4 folding tables (borrowed from helpful neighbors)
+ 2 containers of wipes
+ 9 scoops and scores of spoons and cups
+ 2 yards to play in
+ 1 beautiful sunny blue sky
=
The perfect way to celebrate a wonderful neighborhood.

We're thinking this might need to be an annual event.
Thanks, Edy's!
______________________________________

Junius scooping some ice cream for his Mommy.

Pippi... well, I think the picture says it all.

Timber! Or... Why I'm Apologizing Again

I owe my mom an apology.

Actually, I owe her many -- seems motherhood hands me something to apologize for nearly every day. It's amazing how my understanding and sympathies change as my children show me what I couldn't see in my own mom as I was growing up.

But this one is not parenting related. Today I want to apologize for thinking my mom was over-reacting when she and my dad had several trees taken down around their house last year. She called me or sent me text-messages with photos probably six times that day. At the time I thought, "Why is she being so dramatic? These trees should have been taken down years ago. She's lucky they haven't already crashed into the roof. And it's not like they don't have dozens more still towering in the yard."

And then yesterday I found myself huddled on my neighbor's front porch with my children at 8:30 a.m., my heart racing, tears in my eyes, and a sick feeling in my stomach. The angry sounds of an enormous crane, multiple chain saws and a wood chipper rang in my ears. By 10:30 a.m., five 90-foot pine trees had disappeared from my front yard -- and that was just the beginning.

My reaction caught me off guard. My husband and I had planned to take the trees down from the minute we moved here -- it was exactly what we wanted to do in order to let more light in the house, have a better view, and not live in fear that we'd wake up with a pine tree in our bed during the next hurricane.

But standing there watching, it suddenly seemed more like the execution of an unsuspecting giant than a land management decision. As I choked back tears like it was double-header night at the chick flick festival, I thought of my mom. I felt suddenly selfish, sad and guilty about the trees (a sentiment only exacerbated by the fact that my husband had walked through the yard the night before, touching each tree to say good-bye and teaching Junius to say thank you to each one). And I felt like an idiot for underestimating the power that such tall creatures could have on a mom who had lived under them for more than two decades or even just 12 months.

_____

Today I've settled down again. I'm enjoying all the new sunlight in my yard. I'm imagining new landscaping in the front and more space to play in the back. And I'm thankful for the opportunity to learn yet another lesson from my mom, who is a great teacher and who always loves me in spite of myself.

In memory of a profound life

My dear friend's mom died this weekend after a valiant struggle with cancer. I want to do something for her -- make her a casserole or give her a big hug or tell her a story of my latest parenting foibles in a feeble attempt to make her smile. But she is in Alabama with her family, so I can do none of those things right now.

Instead, I will share with you my favorite story about her Mama (as she is known). As you read it, imagine my friend putting on her best Mobile drawl as she tells the story. I may get some of the details a little off, but the punchline is still fabulous.

_____

When S. graduated from her master's program in education, her mom -- also a lifelong educator -- pulled her aside to tell her something very important before she began her teaching career.

Mama took S. by the shoulders, looked deep into her eyes and declared, "Dahlin', some days... you will be profound." [For full effect, say "profound" loud and in three syllables.]

"And some days," she paused dramatically, before continuing in a low voice, "you will show a movie."

_____

S. - We love you. We love your Mama for the person she helped you become. And when you get back home, I'll be bringing casseroles and giving you big hugs because I won't know what else to do.

Becoming Grandparents

One of the many interesting things about becoming a parent has been watching my parents become grandparents. The transition appears to have been a fun one for them, but it's a joy for me, too.

Last weekend was our first beach trip with Nanna and PopPop since Pippi was born, which made it all the more wonderful to be there with them. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is to be at the beach with a sand-eating, shell-tasting, seaweed-sampling toddler who likes to wake up before sunrise (literally).

Even though it was supposed to be my parents' vacation, they happily took my two little crazies on bike rides around the island and walks on the beach, built sand-roads and sand-hockey arenas (no castles for Junius this year), shared watermelon and cooked meals. They snuggled and wrestled and raced and practiced yoga together. It must have been the most exhausting three days of vacation my parents ever had.

But no matter how much we must have worn them out, they were really enjoying their role as grandparents and beach playmates. When we left on Tuesday so that they could have the last part of the week to themselves, I actually believed my parents when they said they'd miss us.

Still, I think they'll somehow find a way -- between watching peacefully from their deck as the sun rises and sets over the sound -- to get by without us.

My Life (2003-2008, Abridged)

Here's my attempt to edit five years into 50 words:

Four years after falling in love with our first house and our Raleigh neighbors, my husband, son and I moved away for a job.

Eleven months later, we moved back, with a new baby.

When our friends appeared as the moving truck arrived, we knew we'd made the right decision.

Now it's your turn.

My personal shopper

Mothers-in-law get a bad rap. I won't admit to complaining about mine since she reads this blog, but I hear plenty of stories from friends about their crazy, although generally well-intentioned MILs.

I actually get along pretty well with my husband's mom -- she's kind and smart (and allowed to be a little crazy from time to time, given that she had four children under the age of 7 by the time she was 25). But we spend a lot of time and energy dancing around in an effort to be overly agreeable with each other, which often makes mountains out of mole hills for no good reason. I'm not sure why we do it and we've even tried to joke about it, but somehow it's hard to let go and trust that we'll be fine by just being ourselves.

One of her favorite things to do is shop, especially for bargains. She'll often call from a great sale to ask if we need anything, and she rarely shows up for a visit without some gem for the kids from the dollar bin. So earlier this week, I took her up on her offer to pick up purchases for us at JC Penney, since she gets an extra discount there. I sent an email with detailed info about our purchase, being sure to be polite and not impose and all those things she and I do to make a small request longer than necessary.

A few hours later, her email reply arrived -- with just the laugh I needed to remember that she and I can both relax.

So thanks for the smile, personal shopper! And here's the response from my MIL:

Your order has been received. You shall hear from our local shopping center within the next 24 hours to see if either set is in stock. Thank you placing your order with us. You are a valued customer and we appreciate your business.

Your Winston-Salem personal shopper,
M.