I've had a way too busy day, so I'm going to go simple today and post a picture of Jason and me a couple of years ago before I had my hair cut, taken in December 2013. I was going to use this on a Christmas card but forgot. Or I think I forgot. I forget. But now you can see it. :)
Leaving our neighborhood on my way to the gym, I waited for a traffic light to change to green, and when it did I started going. A small pickup truck came roaring from the right. I thought, he’s going awfully fast to stop in time. So I watched him, and sure enough, he didn’t stop. He ran the red light, turned directly into my lane in front of me, and took the right-of-way. I slowed down to avoid a collision and he took off like nothing had happened. His truck was brand new with paper plates, so I was surprised he’d be so careless, if for nothing else but his shiny red truck. Nutty drivers. You have to drive defensively all the time. Or they’ll hit you. And when the defensive driving isn’t enough, then Someone sometimes steps in and helps. That’s what happened to me later.
Boxing Day, December 26, is the day for Lord Grantham (and other rich folk like him) to let off their servants so they can have a chance to celebrate Christmas themselves, after slaving away at the estate all day December 25 to keep the nobility happy and unaware of the effort it takes to pull off a fabulous holiday for everyone in the elite prestigious family.
When my efforts to spend time with my boyfriend in 1984 over the Christmas holiday were thwarted by his mother, I had to regroup and figure out what to do. At first, I just thought there’d been a mix up with schedules. It was beyond my comprehension that someone would so deliberately work to exclude me. Especially someone who was kind to my face (except for that episode of mocking laughter at my expense). I was too naïve to understand the machinations in play to block me from her son’s life. I was a slow learner.
By my last year of college, I’d been dating a fellow for most of five years. It was getting to a point of deciding if things were going to be “made permanent” (a phrase from the guy who was unwilling to use traditional words like engagement or marriage or love) but always feeling like I was the privileged one to have his attention or time, I certainly never would have pushed for a commitment, or even a discussion about it. So one day, when he brought up the subject and timeframe, I was thrilled. It was a dream come true, something I’d waited for with only a tiny friable hope over so many years. We were getting close to college graduation. The following year, he planned to be out of the country on a mission trip, with one visit home at Christmas time. He said then, when he was back over the holidays, was when he expected it would work out that we could make a commitment to “make things permanent,” code for getting engaged.
Some of my Quad Squad ladies were very talented seamstresses. One of them, Shirley Couger, made these outfits for the kids just before their first Christmas. Each was in their own color and had their initial embroidered on the front bib. (Pierce's is dark purple, though it looks black.) Molly's had an added ruffle with lacy edging.
Snow play was exhausting because, to begin with, we had to find so much gear in order to go out and stay warm, and then actually put it all on. Once they were set and out the door, they had to stay out for a long time. That much worked couldn't go underutilized. I couldn't possibly let them back in until all 80 of their fingers and toes were too cold to stay out any longer.
My mom, Mrs. Robinson, was a language arts teacher at the same junior high school that I attended. Her classroom was next door to another English teacher also named Mrs. Robinson. They were both in the seventh grade hall, not far from the front office. I didn’t have my own mom for my English teacher. I had the other Mrs. Robinson, who was very nice and I enjoyed her class. I can still remember her voice and face from the days she patiently taught an unteachable kid like me.
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Life with Quadruplets
As a mother of quadruplets, I've had plenty of crazy experiences raising "supertwins." I blog a lot of memories about my kids. Sometimes just my thoughts on things. I get those sometimes—when my brain works. Which is about one third of the time.