Ritual

It’s an important aspect of RosieLife. We have daily rituals of mealtimes, bedtimes, and mornings. We follow rituals of reading together, praying together. These rituals keep our family running smoothly. We all play our part in the whole.

We also have rituals of which I am not especially proud. We have the after-school-kids-get-in-a-fight-mom-loses-her-temper-and-yells-kids-storm-off-to-their-room ritual. And after that there is the I’m sorry/I forgive you ritual. There is the ritual which, after four pregnancies and four births, I’ve learned is unavoidable. It’s the one that comes with a three to five week old baby and all the hormones and lack of sleep. It’s the weepy mom who is over tired and impatient ritual. Don’t worry, I have a strong man to lean on during these days. I know from experience that it will end soon.

I’m sure there were many rituals in my childhood household, but today, in honor of my mom’s birthday tomorrow, I am going to discuss the ritual of Mom’s Fountain Drink.

Picture this:

We are in the car going through a fast food drive through. We have all placed our orders, and my mom has her usual Diet Coke. As she takes her first sip, she exclaims “I don’t think this is Diet! Did someone else get my Diet Coke?” We all shake our heads “no” and she takes another sip. She turns to the person sitting closest to her. “Taste this,” she says. “It’s not Diet.” This person sips my mom’s drink, replies that it does, indeed, taste like Diet Coke and hands it back to her. The drink is then passed around to Every. Person. In. The. Car. and we all affirm that it is Diet Coke. Only after we have ALL tasted mom’s drink is she convinced that she got the right drink. And though she may only have half left, she is satisfied.

This is truly a ritual. This is the experience virtually every time my mother orders a fountain drink through a drive up window since my early childhood. It’s a ritual I count on, and a ritual I miss when I’m not with her.

Happy Birthday, Mom! Here’s to sharing your Diet Coke with everyone in the car. I love you.

And for the rest of you, here is a photo fix:

George 3 weeks (couldn’t you just gobble him up? Yes, Christie, he does smell as good as he looks, and you are welcome to come and sniff him all you want. Bring your kids, I think they would be great playmates for my little ragamuffins.)

Fun in the back yard.

Papa and baby bear. or toad. Whatever.

It’s a tough job being the glue . . .

. . . that holds it all together.

Three weeks ago, my 17 year old brother moved in with me and started at our local high school. My evenings have been consumed with Spanish, Absolute Values, American History, and “have you started your book report yet?”s

Since Ed chose to move in with me, my mother decided that she would change her plans as well. She had planned on staying with me for a month or so to help with the baby, and then she was going to move back to Salt Lake and continue her employment with Nordstrom. With Ed being here, she felt that her place was here as well. She is now looking for a local job and sharing a bed with my 3 year old daughter. Stella kicks. She talks in her sleep. She is not a great bedfellow. Last night, in the middle of the night while sound asleep, she said “Mine is bigger than yours. Ha ha!” Poor grandma.

Ed’s ride to my house from Texarkana was with my other brother, Scott. My family is so much fun to be around, and, well, let’s face it, we are pretty much WAY AWESOME, and so he doesn’t want to leave, either. I hope he doesn’t.

We also now have a cute little dog named Frankie (who came with Ed) to whom Jack and Bob are both allergic.

Oh, yeah, and I gave birth to a beautiful little guy named George two weeks ago.

Are you counting? Our Rosie household has doubled in size in the past three weeks. We were Mom, Dad, Jack, Creed, Stella. We’re now Mom, Dad, Jack, Creed, Stella, George, Ed, Grandma, Scott, Frankie.

I guess we had better start work on finishing a few bedrooms in the basement. Feel free to come and visit, but you had better bring your work clothes if you do!

At home stitches on Scott’s eye. He was trimming a branch on a tree in the backyard so that he could hang some gymnast rings, and missed his eyeball by mere centimeters with the clippers.

George’s lips are purple because we had Thrush and I tried a homeopathic cure. If you have never had Thrush, be glad. It feels like your baby has needles on the end of his tongue that he pokes you with every time he eats. At least it wasn’t Mastitis.

Watching the Klockenspeil in Pella, IA.

Spring Tulips and Spring Babies.

Baby resting in a giant pair of wooden clogs.

Okay, I am officially in love . . .

Ch. . .ch. . .ch. . . Changes.

George Andrew

Born Apr 29.

Taken this morning.

This is Bob typing again.

We named the little guy George Andrew. He is doing great. He does not fuss at all. Just sleeps and eats. Liz is doing well other than needing to feed the baby about every two hours.

The kids cant get enough of George. I would have thought they would be bored by now, but they laugh at everything he does.

Referring to his cowlick Stella said, “Oh look daddy, George has a lollipop on his forehead.”