This weekend my Dad brought my Aunt Mongie up to visit and watch some baseball. They are both troopers. They woke up before the crack of dawn, drove 5 hours, watched 2 baseball games that we lost miserably, spent the night, watched another game, ate lunch and drove home.
I love my Aunt Mongie. I don’t have any idea how she became Mongie. Her name is Rose. In our family there’s lot of debate how you say her name. My cousins call her Moe-jie. My sister and I call her Moan-gie. I tend to think we’re right.
I have very vivid memories of her growing up. She looked like this:
She had long flowing hair, that she always wore in a loose half pony tail. She’s the aunt who would paint my nails and french braid my hair. She’d give me and my cousin a bath and lube us up with baby oil and then wrap us like a burrito in a towel. Her house was the fun house. I’m sure probably because my grandparents lived with her. I remember putting Hot Wheel cars on their very long driveway and her little Dodger Blue VW beetle running over them, smashing them flat and her threatening to do some bodily harm. I remember watching many Dodger games with her and attending Mass in Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish.
I have vivid memories of endless Happy Meals, frozen White Castle Hamburgers, and Lean Cuisine Spaghetti. I tried all of these foods as an adult, and let’s just say, in my memory they taste much better. Hands down, she still makes the best beans and rice. She’s tried to teach me. I think she must do some kind of magic, because they never come out the same.
She taught me how to cross stitch and crotchet.
My Aunt Mongie buys the best presents ever. She never disappoints. As a little girl I got things like a complete Strawberry Shortcake village and an American Girl Doll. As a sulky teen she always bought the coolest name brand clothes. As an adult, she always buys me the gaudiest, most obnoxious, noisiest, fiber optic Christmas decorations. I think if she ever stopped I might cry.
Even now, we could change her name to Aunti Claus. She brought the kids a pitching net, a bucket of softballs and wiffle balls, 2 insulated coolers, and ice chest, a baseball T, an ipod, a Tupperware cooler, Tupperware, Corning ware. The list goes on and on and on.
When I was a teen, she lost the title of “Best Aunt Ever”. She was opinionated. She was strict. She had no problem calling me out. She was brutally honest.
These are all qualities that I love about her now. She’s the kind of woman who will go up to a coach and demand her nephew get more play time. She’s the kind of woman who is still the best gift giver. Ever. She’s the kind of woman who has no problem sharing her opinion about anything. She’s also probably the bravest, strongest person I’ve ever known. She’s the kind of woman who nursed my dying grandma for what seemed like forever. Then she turned around and nursed her own sick husband while he lost his battle with a terminal illness. Admits it all, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her complain about it. I have no idea where she finds her strength.
I love you.
This morning I was slowly recuperating in my big office chair in front of the computer. I ran (okay, mostly walked) and it kicked my butt. I don’t know what it is about pushing a double jogger, but it makes running/walking ten times harder. It doesn’t even have to do with the weight of the babies. It’s more that I am so incredibly uncoordinated that it’s hard for me to push and run at the same time. Then when I start thinking about pushing and running/walking I get all flustered and really throw the rhythm off. Not that there was much rhythm to begin with.
I love that you call me Mommy. I love that you can entertain yourself. I love that you play with your “guys” and have some elaborate scenario set up that only you know. It may involve lots of frustration and screaming, but I love it nonetheless. I love that you carry a baby doll around. Sometimes it might be by the neck or a leg, but I still love it. I love how you sit them at the table while you eat or next to you while you play. I love that you’ve named a couple of them. I love how you cuddle up with your bear every night, and when I come in to make sure you’re still breathing, you’re still cuddling with your bear.
Ha! I have two sippy cups! Ha! I’m wearing my pajamas at 2 in the afternoon! Ha! I’ve found a great new hat! Ha! Everything is interesting to me! Isn’t it great to be two!
WAAAA! I’m not getting my way! WAAA! Mom won’t let me paint with milk all over the kitchen table! WAAA! I can’t have an otter pop for breakfast! WAAA! I fell off of my scooter while precarioulsy perching ontop of it trying to reach something that isn’t meant for me! WAAA! This is the fourth time I’ve fallen this morning! WAAA! I’m so tired and cranky and it’s only 10 in the morning. It’s hard to be two! WAAA!
When Marshall was little I remember he loved wearing his sister’s ruby red slippers. Many things made these ruby red slippers appealing. They were sparkly like Dorothy’s from the Wizard of Oz. They had a little heel on them. The best part was they made a really loud clomp, clomp, clomp sound on the hardwood floor. Grandpa Wayne HATED when Marshall wore the ruby red slippers. I’m pretty sure that he was the reason they disappeared.
A small fish in a vast ocean.
I think they actually needed to be close. They drew comfort having their brother so close. They slept together, they nursed together, they did every thing together. As they grew, they no longer fit in the same baby gear together. They had to take turns swinging and bouncing. As they become more and more aware of their bodies and how to manipulate them, they’d accidentally roll over onto each other or kick with a little more force. We had put them into separate cribs.
I only get the urge when I’ve spent a whole day in the car. A whole day shuttling kids back and forth, to and fro, here and there, hither and yonder. Then I wouldn’t ever have to leave our house. I’d just have to move the house around.
When did the happy little girl turn into the sulky preteen?
I frequently get this look. Sometimes it feels like for no reason. I’m sure there are reasons, good reasons. Things like enforcing personal hygiene and correct grammar. Things like merely existing, or just being the mom, aka the fun sucker. Seriously? How the heck did she get to be so big?
We bought a foreclosed home. From the outside, our house still looks foreclosed. Except for all of the random kid paraphernalia strewn about. Our front lawn is dead. The weeds can sometimes get knee high. Our bushes double as high rise spider apartments. One neighbor parks a large motor home in front of our house a few times a week and another neighbor parks a large moving van. I can’t say that I blame them.
They made a race track for their raingutter regatta boats. This mud pit consumed the first half of their day with racing and modifications. The second half was consumed with cleaning up all of the mud that had ran down the patio and driveway. A boy couldn’t ask for a better day–a sunny day, a huge mud pit, a homemade boat and your best friend.
Overactiveovaries 