Sprain, Lack of Strain

Once upon a teenage religious retreat, I broke my leg after I hung from some rafters above a staircase and landed with a thud, followed by a pop. Since then, the leg has been susceptible to many injuries, and now I am once again sounding like a blue-haired betty, rattling off my medical history unsolicited.

I provide this preface, however, so that you can understand how I was trying to get my punks into the car the other day and I unwittingly stepped down off an awkward curb and lo! Again with the epic pop.

I proceeded to ask my children to do the most kind and merciful thing that could be rendered from one human to another at that moment, which was to stop talking. "Okay, mama! We won't talk. See? I'm not talking, Mama. Tatum, no talking, okay? Mama said no talking."

I then, with the help of God's angels seen and unseen, strapped 2 punks into carseats and heaved a double stroller into my trunk. I then drove to pick up Loverpants from frisbee and the pain emanating from my ankle was, straight-up, worse than labor. I can say that on good authority. The shooting pain that was causing me to sweat like a girl scout at overnight camp at Jurassic Park was INTENSE. Fortunately, there was an ER down the road from the frisbee field, which is where we all spent Sunday Funday as a family, all lovin' on each other in the ER waiting room. Awwwww!

Wanna see how gross my ankle looked?

ankle

So gross. Turns out it was merely a sprain, so I'm rocking the aircast and the crutches, and the pain meds that make me feel tired and loopdaloop.

The next day I got to board a fun bus and venture on a recruiting trip to speak with several students at a couple of Christian academies in the Asheville, NC area. I do so enjoy speaking with the young'ns who are not afraid to share their dreams of becoming an author clown dentist that also operates a law office on the side. And works at camp every summer. Their idealism is awfully much refreshing.

Also refreshing was sleeping in a hotel bed all to myself!! Even though I couldn't jump on the bed per tradition since, hello, hard out here for a gimp. I also enjoyed unlimited HGTV and not having to fight anyone for the remote. Decadence.

I think I am becoming increasingly more extroverted. Most people would likely peg me as a natural extrovert, but it is not my default setting. I'd much rather be like Frank Sinatra whom I read was someone who "liked to be alone but with people close by." But my kids have cracked me open to delight more in the company of people, to seek it out even (rather than muddling through all the mingling and merrymaking until I can paddle my way back to the island of solace).

That's a load of blather about the happenings here. Also want to add that I adore my husband who rocks the fort while I am away, and love my kids whose video I watched many times while on my little junket away from home.

Long Enough

We traveled to Boston Took planes and trains and automobiles

Dragging Disney princesses

on rolling suitcases

behind us.

Ariel got her chance to

stroll along down a --

what's that word again?

Airport concourse.

We could only stay in Boston

for four minutes.

Four minutes was long enough to

see our two friends become one

Long enough to get our glasses readjusted

(dorks)

Long enough to swallow the

unmistakable

New England October air

and to look up at the mirror ceiling

of the hotel where

a young man asked my father

on the same weekend

seven years ago

if he could put up with

my motion sickness and

broken eyeglasses for a lifetime.

Seven years later,

my husband twirled me on the dancefloor

to Michael Buble

our flower girl daughter pouting

our angel son sleeping in the lap of Uncle Greg.

Later we would consider

passing by

our Boston real estate

where we brought home two

babies brand-new,

real estate now occupied by

some unsavories.

But then I thought how

I didn't want to spend

these four minutes in Boston

looking back

casting our life there

as some man that I had loved

but knew I could never marry.

I've had my fun/ But baby I'm done I wanna go home

*** Our host, sweet Maggie

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...and her baby sister Louise (not pictured: Louise's twin bro Calvin)

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FamiLee

IMG_6107 Flower Gal waiting

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Tater waiting

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Jeff waiting

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Lo! The flower gals arriveth

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Lo! Eunis arriveth

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Hard out here for a flower girl

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Mercy. I miss Newbury St.

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Kicking off her shoes for dancemania

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Eunis + Jeff = 4 eva

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Review: Bill Cunningham New York

I just spent some of the best consecutive 124 minutes of my life.  I watched a very fine documentary about the New York Times' living legend on-street fashion photographer: Bill Cunningham. I streamed it on Netflix (better do it quick, Quiksters, before the grand splitting of bills takes place!) and I will watch it again. I do adore the fashion and I am a terrible photographer so I have an appreciation for those who do it well.  But the heart of this documentary is neither fashion nor photography; it is about finding that which you love and seeking after it, just patching up your discount poncho and riding your bicycle like the dickens after it, taxi traffic be damned.

Cunningham is an articulate, good-humored, impassioned, sensitive, vulnerable man.  Perhaps one of the most riveting characters you will meet in a documentary film.

Let me know when you meet the man behind the man.