On our most recent visit our manager was a frenetic fellow who behaved has if his bonus at stake. Each session requires two employees; a photographer and an assistant to coax smiles out of the wailing children. We began with my niece who, while not wailing, was slightly suspicious and was not inclined to smile just because there was a camera pointed at her with a strange woman dancing behind behind it. The manager jumped into our session to replace the assistant in no time. He wasn’t messing around. He had in his arsenal a well rehearsed routine that involved a stuffed kitty flying through the air, landing on someone’s head and flopping around. On at least one occasion the head was mine and Peppy, our over-caffeinated manager, paid no attention to my carefully coiffed hairdo. He proceeded to shuffle us around, using corny lines to manipulate the bewildered children. “OK, can you cross your legs for me? Criss cross applesauce” he said as he crossed my nephew’s legs for him as if he were a Gumby doll. I’m not certain, but I may have seen my nephew’s first eye-roll. If not I was internally eye-rolling enough for all of us.

When the time came for to the full family photo (in which I was included) the photographer began to position us. Just as we had assumed our places, Peppy returned from a smoke break to rearrange us. He sat the core family members in an simple arrangement and then asked me to sit on a large block behind them. The resulting portrait makes me appear to be some crazed family portrait crasher. We took several photos in this configuration and then I was dismissed. I was banished to the Lego table to sit with the families waiting while their anticipation turned to dread.

Once all the photos had been taken it was time for the sales pitch. The previously affable photographer morphed into a mildly pushy salesman right before our eyes. The sales pitch involves sitting in front of a computer screen while the salesperson begins to display the photos in a fashion not unlike the way the optometrist gauges your vision, but more quickly. “Which one do you like better? This one or this one? Is this one better or this one? Better or the same?” Once you have selected your photos you are obliged to chose the “Package” that you want, none of which really fit your desires.  Oh, and did I mention that it is at this point that the children traditionally run out of steam and begin to meltdown. These places must make a mint while stressed out mother’s agree to purchase many more photos (mostly in useless wallet size) than intended.

As we drove off to have lunch, my sweet photo obsessed sister in law absolved me of the obligation to attend future portrait sessions.

Yeah, that is probably a pretty good idea.

Goose does not have that type of identity crisis. He knows he is a dog. The issue is Goose thinks I am a dog as well.

Sometimes this misconception manifests itself in really cute ways. Goose almost always sleeps with his head touching some part of my body. The other morning he curled up around my head and actually rested his little head across my neck and went back to sleep, much like the piling puppies do when they are new.

The problem arises when he tries to engage me in some kind of play as if I were another dog. When he is amped up, and Mike is out of reach, he will paw at me to get my attention. It isn’t a gentle action; it actually leaves marks and hurts. When I don’t react, he begins to whine and make all sorts of noises. If I still don’t engage, then the yelling begins. OK, technically I guess it is barking, but it sounds an awful lot like yelling to me. See for yourself:

I don’t know who is more frustrated in this clip, me because I don’t know what his deal is or Goose because he is being very articulate about his desires….. just in DOG.

It isn’t about the love at all. We love these, our godchildren, with total abandon. They are adorable and sweet and, but for the occasional tantrum, (my nephew is 2 and 1/2 – tantrums are in his job description) really well behaved. For me it is about the patience. I don’t so much have it. I don’t know where my sister-in-law and brother get it. Maybe there was a patience supplement in the prenatal vitamins and she shared them with him. Or maybe there was a particularly compelling chapter or two about patience in one of the many parenting books they’ve read. All I know is I’ve known my brother a long time – like his whole life – and this patience thing he’s got going on is new.

Some people are, however, meant to aunt and uncle. And Bob and I are definitely in that team photo. Bob had a head start on me with his five nieces and nephews, but they were all in their teens by the time I came along. I can only conclude that my highly skilled aunt-ness makes me some kind of prodigy.

Uncle Bop Bop, as he is know by the under three foot crowd, taught our nephew to catch. And not only to catch, but to catch a football! I know, right? It was epic. Bob considers it his responsibility to nurture any athletic tendencies that the little guy displays. My brother is not without athleticsm. He is just from more of a golf, tennis and soccer background, where Bob hails from the football, hockey, baseball neck of the woods. And while my sister-in-law has made it abundantly clear that my nephew will not actually play football, Bob wants to nurture any and all sporty leanings. I think it is because he has seen me run and worries that my spaz gene might somehow infect the kid.

I played my share of monster trucks with my little gear head, though apparently I did it wrong because my version of play was met with “No! Aunt Di Di! Like this!” followed by a demonstration of the correct method (which really didn’t differ significantly from my original version, leading me to believe that monster trucks is a very nuanced game.) I learned what an excavator was and how it is pronounced in toddler-ese. I even found a t-shirt with an excavator on it that was just someone’s size (no, not Bob’s).

My niece, at nine months old, is too young to be indoctrinated into Uncle Bop Bop’s sports program or the delicate ballet of monster trucks so we mostly just bonded over hair: her lack of it and my abundance of it. I think her plan was to pull enough of mine out, one tiny fist full at a time, to fashion her own wig. Or quite possibly she thought all my hair was unsightly and was just trying to tidy me up to look more like her. Either way there was hair pulling. There was also peek-a-booing, giggling and some really good snuggling.

But the thing about these two charming little people is that when they are awake, they are in motion. They are almost always in need of something: a diaper change, a book to be read, a bottle, a game to be played, a sippy cup, a nap, a snack or the removal of a foreign object from their mouth. And it never ends. I was only left alone (and by alone I mean me and Uncle Remote Control) with them for a total of three, maybe four hours tops. I didn’t break them or anything, but I am pretty sure I couldn’t do that full time.

It was a wonderful, relaxing and bonding week. As I do each time I visit with my brother’s family, I was left with such admiration for them as parents and such gratitude for the amazing experience we get to share with them, however briefly. I was also glad to come home where it is totally acceptable for me to put my rambunctious “child” in his crate while I tend to the laundry or take a nap.

Bob, his mom and I just returned from a vacation to the happiest place on earth, Disney World. I might beg to differ – my happiest place on earth being the fur-covered sectional in front of the flat screen with my boyz all around – but you know, po-tae-toes – po-tah-toes.

Bob’s mom, Virginia, was unfortunately in a wheel chair due to a recent back injury. She was able to go on some rides, but we had to keep them pretty tame. What a lucky break for the world’s biggest ride weenie! I was spared the humiliation of watching Bob and his 84 year old mom hop on Space and/or Splash Mountain while I waited, holding the purses. (Almost as humiliating as asking a bunch of seven year olds to make way for me to come down the ladder at a water slide – not like that’s ever happened – cough, cough.) We rode It’s A Small World, saw the Country Bear Jamboree and enjoyed an amazing Lion King production. We saw a Finding Nemo play, watched movies about Canada and America and rode the much touted Soarin’. Soarin’ was beautiful, but that was about as much height and movement as I could handle. Did I mention that I am the world’s biggest ride weenie?

Also I met my favorite Disney character ever:

Eyore is the stuffed animal equivalent of George Clooney. I got all shy.

Goofy was a perfect gentleman. He escorted Virg back to her chair and kissed her hand.

We saw Fantasmic which as far as I can tell was a production based on some acid flashback that Mickey had.

The weather, while forecasted to be all sorts of rainy and stormy, was beautiful. We spent a good deal of time enjoying the sun and the pool as well as the hoola-hoop and cannon ball contests, while we didn’t participate in either. Apparently the people at Disney’s Wilderness Lodge Resort are ageist and only allowed children to compete. I would have protested but I was very busy sunning and we adults were clearly outnumbered.

On another note, we decided to participate in Disney’s prepaid meal plan, which sounds like a good idea before you understand it. Well really, it sounds like a good idea before it confuses you so much that you begin to pay cash for things that are probably included on the meal plan because you are too embarrassed to ask the cashier to explain it to you again. This plan, which includes snacks, quick meals and dinners, is the least user friendly system ever.  Everything that isn’t a snack includes a dessert, but appetizers aren’t included at dinner. And dessert could be a brownie or a cup of soup. If it is categorized as a snack then it is considered a dessert in quick meal terms. Yeah, I know, right? So we ended up with a bunch of uneaten desserts in our mini fridge, lest we decline any offer of food we had already paid for. We also undoubtedly left a bunch of money in Mickey’s pocket for meals that we were too confused to consume.

As with any good vacation, when Saturday rolled around and it was time to head to the airport, Bob, Virginia and I were all looking forward to getting home. I had a suntan, Disney treats for our godkids and a sincere desire to return to a non-Disney meal plan and my very own happiest place on earth.

I am always surprised to hear young women speak about marriage as if it is a conclusion. It may be the end of a search for a mate, but it is just the beginning of the real journey. That awesome wedding is a distant memory of a great party five years in when you are having the same argument for the twenty-seventh time. Compromise becomes crucial and meaningful conversation requires honesty and vulnerability.

Don’t get me wrong: most of the time my marriage makes me feel loved, safe, happy and cared for. We are usually on the same team working toward the same goals. I am blessed to be married to my best friend in the whole world. The downside of that scenario is that when your best friend in the whole world hurts you, it’s hard to know where to turn. Ultimately you have to turn back to the source of the hurt, knowing he hurts too, and work it out.

I love my husband and my marriage; I just hate being a grownup sometimes.

The desperation that one must feel to take one’s own life is unimaginable. The pain that makes death seem like a solution must be unbearable.

While I have struggled with depression, I thank God I’ve never been suicidal. My mother, on the other hand, made several unsuccessful attempts to take her life and both my stepfather and my uncle succeeded.

My heart breaks for those that knew this man. His loss will leave a hole and so many more questions than answers. Could they have prevented this? What consolation could have saved him? Did he really want to die or was it a cry for help? Why couldn’t he have articulated his pain and its magnitude rather make the choice he did? These are all questions that I still have about those that I lost so many years ago.

While his family and friends sift their way through their loss, I pray that at least the young man found the peace he sought and that his pain is gone. And I pray that in time those who loved him find the peace as well.

Some wounds are the memories. Mom’s cancer diagnosis: inoperable. The night before the treatment was scheduled to begin when she collapsed and her heart stopped beating. The 911 call and performing CPR. The drive to the hospital following the ambulance: we hit a deer. And the day that we said goodbye and turned off the machines. My tool for these wounds is storage – I don’t bring these memories out very often. They are still too raw, even after thirteen years.

The other wounds are tied to loss. The loss of a best friend and a co-conspirator. The loss of Mommy’s laughter. The loss of the unconditional love that only a mother can give. The loss of the mother-in-law and grandmother she would have been. Those children will never know the loss of her boundless love. Those wounds can’t be stored  and I am still finding my way through them.

I am not without consolation. Mommy’s life was a struggle. She battled mental illness, loneliness and demons of all shapes and sizes, real and imagined. She was facing, at the time of her death, a course of treatment that would have kicked her ass both mentally and physically. I am consoled by the fact that she is “in the arms of the angels” and is at peace. She has been reunited with family members, old loves and cherished pets. She is safe from disease, both mental and physical, and is now able to feel the joy that evaded her here.

My life is full and happy, but Mommy’s absence is ever present. She would love my husband. She would be crazy for my dogs. She would really like my home. She would adore her grandchildren and daughter-in-law. I do find some comfort in reminding myself that she may actually experience all that, just not with me.

And still after thirteen years, I wish so much that she was with me.

*Sarah McLachlan

They were very excited and once they had traded toys several times with minimal growling, they set about to the real work of disemboweling their new toys. First, locate and remove all squeaking objects. Second, pull out all stuffing and separate limbs from torso. Lastly, diligently attempt to defleece the poor toys.

As we opened gifts the boys were given some good tasting treats to occupy them.

Mike finished his early and wanted to help open gifts.

After the gifts were opened the boys engaged in a rousing game of tug of war with one of the sad fleece toys.

By midday we had all hit the Christmas wall and it was time for a family nap.

It was clearly a very happy holiday.

I still live by those words and I really do my best to be certain that anything that means something to me is out of canine reach. And when a possession falls prey to a pooch, I usually move past it by scolding myself for its placement. I also provide a cornucopia of approved chew toys:

That said, I may have underestimated Goose’s animosity towards throw pillows:

And I was unaware that  he had developed a taste for leather or maybe it was cashmere:

But I have my limits and these are just a few of the canine casualties of Goose’s puppyhood. The good news is that each time my blood pressure begins to rise and I contemplate calling a parental help line, this is what is looking back at me:

And seriously who could be angry at that face?

I love the holidays in theory. Each year I decorate and make holiday plans and shop like everyone else, but there is an underlying angst that won’t dissipate. I love the idea of Christmas and finding the perfect gifts for my family. The music and the cheer are nothing if not uplifting. I actually enjoy the wrapping of the gifts and putting hints on the tags the way my mother used to.

Both my mother and the grandmother who helped raise me passed away on or around the Christmas holiday. These life-altering events are difficult enough to deal with, but when they occur during the “happiest time of the year” it knocks the jingle right out of your bells. Time has passed and the wounds aren’t as raw as they once were, but they haven’t healed. I have accepted that they never will completely. The really no such thing as “closure” when it comes to the loss of a loved one.

Each year I attempt to embace the Yuletide-ness, but my inner sad catches up with me in some chaotic ways. Some years Christmas sneaks up on me and is over before I have even had a chance to try to enjoy it. Other years I have collected gifts for my far-flung family, but have not managed to send them on time or at all.  My friends are no longer surprised to receive cards bearing New Year wishes due to my holiday procrastination. I tend to feel overwhelmed from Thanksgiving to New Year’s every year.

Meanwhile I live with one of Santa’s honorary elves. Bob is a Christmas fanatic. He can’t wait for the easy listening station to change over to all-Christmas-music all the time. We own more than a dozen Christmas movies as well as the Honeymooner’s Christmas special, each of which he tries to watch during the holiday season. If he had the time or the patience, Bob would gladly give Clark Griswold a run for his Christmas decorating money.

Since the universe (or the retailers)  are unlikely to reduce the frequency of Christmas to accomodate my issues ( although I know for a fact that I am not alone in my desire to celebrate maybe once every other year), Bob and I have created our own Christmas traditions. And I do my best to forgive myself for my holiday handicaps. So what if my family receives very extravagant Easter gifts wrapped in red and green.