Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'....

Today marks another shared milestone with my sister...she sent her oldest child off to his first day of preschool, and I sent my oldest child off to his first day of college.

Where has the time gone? I am not one to get melancholy about the start of a new school year like some of my friends. On the flip side, I am also not doing cartwheels like other friends of mine (note: I could never, EVER do a cartwheel...which is one of the reasons I never realized my dream of being a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader...so sad...).

People always say spring is a season of rebirth. I think it's fall. The new school year brings so many new opportunities and adventures. As I send one off to college, I have Cameron (son #3) getting ready to embark on his first year of High School. How did THAT happen? I am supposed to have toddlers and elementary school aged children. I am soooooo not old enough to have these almost men as children. This only goes to prove my theory that aliens have abducted my children. I never said it was a GOOD theory...but come on, have y'all ever smelled teenaged boys
shoes? There is no way that funk is NOT alien. Anyway...

In two years, Russell will graduate from High School, and Paige will graduate from Middle School. That means in two years, I will have two children old enough for College. TWO. Years.

In four years, Cameron will graduate from High School, and JP will graduate from College. In. FOUR. Years. In four years, both of my sister's boys will be in school. The little roly poly boy who hasn't walked yet will walk into a classroom and start his school adventure.

When I was little, I used to think, "when I am 13, 16, 18, 21....things will be so different and so much better." I wished the years away. Now I look at my children's milestones, and I see how fast time really does fly. In fact, I think for every milestone, I get a new wrinkle. By the time Paige graduates, I will look like a flipping Shar Pei!

In eight years, I will be (gasp) 50 years old. By then, all four of my children (God willin' and the creek don't rise) should be out of school. Hopefully I will have a shred of my sanity left.

But for now, I will enjoy this last week of summer, and I won't even think about how many days it is until Christmas Vacation (121, by the way).

You've Got Mail

All this talk about birthdays got me to thinking about one of my favorite parts of my birthday (besides the cake -- which was conspicuously absent this year). I love going to the mail box and spying a brightly colored envelope addressed to me.

There is just something about a card, whether it is store bought or handmade, that warms my heart. With the prevalence of email and e-cards, the number of cards I get during the year is minuscule. But the cards that do come...whether it's birthday, Christmas, Mother's Day, Arbor Day make me so happy.

I admit I'm not the best at sending cards for every occasion (just ask my BFF), but when I actually do remember to that I need to buy a card, I'm the annoying twit standing in the card aisle reading card after card after card trying to find just the right one. Card buying between my father & I has reached epic proportions. He has been known to hold onto a card for almost a year if he stumbles upon a particularly funny/obscene/offensive one. I will go to several different stores to find the most funny/obscene/offensive card I can find. What can I say...the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And yes, I am also one of those "crafty people," so on occasion, I may even break into my craft vault and MAKE a card with my own two hands. Quit laughing...it's been known to happen.

Of course, once I BUY the card, getting it stamped and mailed is a whole 'nother hullabaloo. I really have the best of intentions, but sometimes I get distracted, and the card I so carefully selected, or worse, lovingly made never makes it off my desk. (If you saw my desk, you would understand - Jimmy Hoffa may be be buried in here.) But, by some small miracle, it does get a stamp, and it does get mailed and not lost in my van, rest assured it was no small feat.

Gotta run...the mail truck just stopped off at the mailbox, and I think I caught a glimpse of some colored envelopes.

Worst Birthday Present Evah!

Birthdays have always been special to me. I love birthdays. My most memorable birthday is, ironically enough, one I can remember only one thing about. My mother wasn't there. I was turning 7, which to my six year old self was a VERY. BIG. DEAL.

I don't remember the theme I picked out or the flavor of my cake. I don't remember which of my friends attended. All I remember is thinking my party was ruined because my dad had to run it.

Where was my mother? In the hospital in labor with my baby sister who would wind up being born on MY birthday. The "ruined" birthday party set the tone for my feelings toward my sister for years.

Good grief...it was bad enough she stole my birthday thunder, but then I had to have joint birthday parties with her (I am pretty sure that in reality it was only a couple times, but in my mind, they were all lumped together).

As the oldest child, I was constantly being told to be nice to her because she was "the baby," "the youngest," "my sister." She was my shadow...and an obnoxious one, at that. She cut the hair off my Chrissy doll, ripped heads off my Barbies, and wreaked havoc wherever she went. Whenever she did something wrong, *I* would get into trouble because I should know better.

And then, something happened....

She started growing up. Oh, she could still be a major pain in my backside, but when she was acting like a semi-civilized human, I noticed some things. She was witty. She liked the same music as me. She was fiercely loyal. She was fun to be around. Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! The brat who ruined my birthday was actually now my friend.

Oh, don't get me wrong...there are times when I still want to throttle her. She has a memory like an elephant, and she pops off with all sorts of things I'd rather not remember...like the time I convinced her our dog's AKC papers were actually her adoption papers (man, did I get in trouble for that).

She's married now (to a Saint of a guy), and she has two beautiful boys that I get to watch while she's at work. They are too young to hear the stories about their mother now, but there will come a day when I get to fill their heads with all of my memories. Be afraid, be very, very afraid.

Happy Birthday to the only present I still have after 35 years. :-D

The Name Game

A rose by any other name would not be a rose.

Naming a child is like navigating shark infested waters. You could get out unscathed, or you could wind up as chum. In Jason's Family, all of the children in his generation are named "J" names...as were all of their parents. Thankfully, Jason's cousin and older brother broke the "J" streak with their children.

When I got pregnant with baby #1, there was a teeny, tiny part of me that wanted to name him Barnum Nicholas Bailey. We'd call him Nick, of course, but on paper, he'd be Barnum N. Bailey (say it out loud; you'll get it...and if you don't, I can't help you LOL). I was thisclose to doing it, but ultimately decided against it. Wanting to avoid "J" names, I thought Patrick Joseph would be perfect, and we could call him PJ.

Jason's younger brother's name is Joseph, so I thought we would dodge drama by throwing that in the name. Jason didn't want there to be any hurt feelings from his older brother, so we added John to the mix. John Patrick Joseph Bailey was born. He was never, ever, EVER called John by the family. When he got to school and someone called him John, he wouldn't answer. John was not his name, and he had no problem telling people, even teachers, that.

John Patrick morphed into JP, and family and friends used them fairly interchangeably. (There is nothing more satisfying than yelling, "JohnPatrickJosephBailey, get your butt downstairs." Seriously, try it.) To us, JP was a perfectly acceptable nickname. It was not babyish, odd, or embarrassing. winner, winner, chicken dinner.

Sidebar: My brother was named after my grandfather, who went his whole life by a nickname. When my brother was born, he got not only my grandfather's given name, but his nickname as well. My cousin was the fourth with his his given name, so he, like his Father, had a nickname. When the guys hit high school, they decided to go by their given names instead of their nicknames. I still have trouble to this day calling them by anything other than their nicknames. Old dog, new tricks and all that nonsense....

When JP graduated this Spring, he announced that he wanted to go by the name John. I laughed. Probably directly in his face,if truth be told. That sort of fizzled out...he has one Uncle, one great Uncle, and one older cousin named John.

So, this week, he decides that he wants to be called Jack. Jack? His rationale was that John Patrick is too long, and he is over JP. Hmmph. He was upstairs with his brother, and I called them downstairs to do some menial grunt chore for me yesterday, and calling, "Cameron & Jack" just didn't have the same oomph for me.

I can see him introducing himself as Jack when he starts college. It may even catch on. Jack Bailey is kind of a cool rocker name, but John Patrick Joseph Bailey is an excellent New York Philharmonic Name. Just sayin'.

Then again, I could always start calling him Barnum....