I Want to Grow Old With You

I realized today that I haven't yet written a whole lot about my amazing family and how blessed I am just to have been born into it. A good place to start would be with my sister.

With only 22 months between us, my big sis and I have shared so much. It's hard to even begin the story of us, to do it any justice at all. I suppose I should regale you with stories, memories or inside jokes. We've gotten ourselves into so many binds, and, God knows, we have had some fun!

When we were about 7 and 9, we filled some of those big pong-pong balloons with water and tried to carry them up the stairs to our dormer bedroom. Both of them burst on new carpet, and we had the grand idea of sucking up all the water with our mom's Electrolux. In high school, we dressed as Elvira and a farmer for a costume party and were the talk of the night when we arrived as the only revelers in costume. I once wrote a note berating her for not letting me tag along with her and her boyfriend to dance at Davlin Lake that made her cry so hard and so dramatically that it woke my parents in the middle of the night, but left me fast asleep in my bed.

While on our way to JJ's Pizza to "hang out" after a high school basketball game, my sister took a right turn too sharply and tore off the side of my parents' sedan. We can still laugh until we cry when we think of me walking down the sidewalk that night, my long hair free under a "doo-rag," to look for the side runner we'd lost in the mishap. Some random guy on the basketball court yelled, "Hey buddy! You a guy or a girl?...... Your piece is in the yard!"

We then made it through college together, suffered without each other while working in different cities in our early careers and grew closer than I ever thought possible. Our similarities were most evident after we both married redheads a mere ten weeks apart, bought houses five lots apart on the main street of our hometown, bought nearly identical dark green Honda vans and then proceeded to have three sets of children: my daughter born four months before hers, then her son born four months before mine and finally--a twist!--her second daughter born four months before my second son.

Having her as a fellow mother warrior has been unbelievable. Our kids are incredibly close. Kim and I are known for throwing theme parties for them at the drop of a hat, for swapping kids in identical vans to keep them happy, for marathon shopping trips that we've considered successful only because we've sprung ourselves and our six kids out of our houses.

We've often had fits of giggles, many times uncontrollably and inappropriately. We've fought, but not much. We've been there for every birth, every major milestone. We choose to hang out together because we're friends by choice. My sister is beautiful, kind, funny and, inherently, good. I knew I couldn't do her justice. And I haven't.

But my sister is one of my reasons. She is a blessing a million times over. I couldn't have picked a better sister had I tried. I'm not letting go of her. Ever.

You're stuck with me, sis, and there will be no end. I want to grow old with you.

Home Tweet Home

Hi sugarpies. I'm feeling a little sour tonight (hormones from hell), so I'm going completely off me to a better subject: LAKE TWEET!

Let me tell you a story.

Lake Tweet is a man-made lake--some might call it a pond, but I won't--in Ohio's beautiful Washington County. It's on land that once belonged to my grandfather and many of his descendants before him. It's now owned by my youngest uncle, who is a mere five years my senior. Thank you, uncle, for letting us play so long and so loud at your lake!

The lake was dug in 1966--again, disputed, but I'm sticking to 1966--by my grandpa and his brothers. Notably, his brother Francis, who was called Tweet. Shortly after the lake was completed, Tweet died. In tribute, it became Lake Tweet.

I honestly can't guess at how many nights I've spent at this sacred place. I've laid on my back on the dock and watched falling stars. I've floated many an afternoon away with good friends and good family. I've hiked, played volleyball, had deep discussions and tender moments around a million campfires. I've even rolled in the pine needles a few times, if you must know.

Lake Tweet has become a very special place for many people. My own children now run the land like it's Disney World nearly every weekend. We adults sit around and celebrate life at all hours. It is more than just a place; it's a feeling, a mood and a salve. It cures what ails me.

It's also the place where I feel closest to Bernard, my grandpa, who, for the first 20 years of my life, was the man of my life. Detailing my relationship with him and the impact he had on my life is way beyond the scope of this post.

But I see you, Bernard, and celebrate your legacy. Every weekend at Lake Tweet.

Drinking from the Saucer

I have been thinking, a little under pressure, about what to write about tonight. On my way home from my first day of work in ten days, I was thinking of the quote, "I'm drinking from the saucer, because my cup is overflowing."

This was just before I picked up three hungry kids (one irate) from the sitter, drove the last leg listening to a temper tantrum, realized the ankle I twisted in volleyball resembled a ten-month-pregnant woman's cankle, was reminded of the vicious headache I had been sporting all day AND got snapped at by a grumpy husband after I finally made it home.

Whew! I was ready to throw the cup and saucer against the wall.

Alas, I have to give myself some credit here. One of my secrets to making my crazy, tragic, sometimes almost magic, awful, beautiful life work is that I don't stay mad long. I'm resilient as hell. I'm a force to be reckoned with, even when I'm mentally crouched in a corner after a day like today.

So, tonight, it's true. I'm looking past the trees to the forest. I'm drinking from the saucer because my cup is overflowing.

p.s. Our staycation was lovely.

Stay... Just a Little Bit Longer....

Well, the Roberts family is officially on "staycation." We've been at the lake all weekend and are home for a quick laundry and shower session. We've got lots to do. Most of all, we plan to do nothing. To just relax and soak up summer and each other. I'll be thinking on future posts, writing in the old-fashioned-but-never-out-of-fashion journal, and loving my family.

Ciao for now!

Keep Calm and Carry On

So I mentioned I'd had a rough month in May. I can't really tell you why; it was just one of those times in my life where there was a lot going on, the blues kept sucking me down, and I couldn't find the time to take care of myself, to be gentle with myself ... to even be by myself very much at all.

One day, as I was walking down Court Street in Athens on my lunch break, I saw this poster hanging in a store window. I'd seen this poster in a picture on one of my favorite blogs, www.nieniedialogues.com. With funds low but my interest piqued, I marched into the place and bought one of these beauties. It now dances around the various walls of my office. I can't seem to figure out where it belongs, but it does belong.

(The history of this poster is as striking as its simple design. It was produced, but never used, in 1939 by the British government at the start of World War II as a "last resort" in the event of a Nazi invasion.)

My wise junior high English teacher, Mrs. Gretchen Montgomery, once told my parents in a parent-teacher conference, "Erin sometimes gets a black cloud over her head, but we know if we leave her alone, she pulls out of it."

It's true. I've always been a bit arrogant in the way I believe that no one can help me but myself. I'm independent and headstrong to a fault. I take care of people, and I don't let them take care of me--even when I am in need of care. One of the many drawbacks of this is that people around me get used to this and quit trying.

But what I'm getting at is this: I was in more than a bit of a funk. And now, I'm out. The poster helped me, I helped myself, and, this time, I let some of you help me too.

Thank you.

Shrek Forever

While some of you might think this post is about the new box office hit I plan to see with my family next week during our "stay-cation," you're wrong.

My husband, who is like an onion with many layers, has fondly been nicknamed "Shrek" by his friends. As Fiona, if you'll allow me, I can tell you it fits much of the time. According to Wikipedia, the DreamWorks character is "a big, strong, solitude-loving, intimidating ogre." He's also got a heart of gold under all that muck and bravado.

Hence, my husband. My Shrek is six years my senior. He and I have been together for nearly 13 years and married for nearly eight years. I don't remember ever being giddy in love; we've just always had a rock-solid base of love from which all things have been endured. We've had ups, we've had downs. We're a perfect, imperfect work in progress.

I feel sorry for the people who don't recognize and embrace that marriage is a constant stream that ebbs and flows. The ebbs are inevitable. They peel back the faces we present to the world, sometimes open us raw and make us fight like hell to make our marriages survive, but, with conviction, marriages can and do survive. And thrive.

After all this time, I'm honestly not bored with him at all. I'm riveted by the man I have loved for so long. It's a joy to watch him to continue to grow and change as our lives become fuller, more blessed and more amazing with the addition of each child, through the relationships we have with our friends and family, and in the face of ever-unfolding tribulations and successes--the thickening of the fabric of our lives.

And we're getting better all the time.

I love you, baby.

The World Belongs to Mothers

The baby-with-the-fussy-cries,-the-possible-ear-infection-or-maybe-it's-just-teeth-or-maybe-it's-a-virus? on his birthday. Isn't he a doll?

It's a very rare thing, but Mommy is going off the clock for a bit this weekend. I'm headed to a hotel with a good girlfriend for a scrapbooking, eating, shopping extravaganza! Yeah me! She's an amazing friend and mother of two, and we both need a break.

I often say it, and I really believe it: The world belongs to mothers. Good mothers are a loving, influential, resilient tribe. We're up six times a night, fine after that first cup of coffee and off to conquer the world. We're often the last one to bed and the first one up. We're the keeper of the Social Security numbers, the correct medicinal doses, the shoes sizes and the ever-growing files of our children's likes and dislikes. We're the cooks, the maids, the nurses, the chauffeurs, the seasonal clothes switchers: the choreographers of our childrens' lives.

But the heart swells never stop. Just now, at 7:32 a.m., after being awake since about 5:45 a.m. after a fitful night with the baby, I see my Maxwell headed down those oak stairs. And my heart takes flight. That kid is so cute!!!! And he's mine. And now, "Mommy, I'm hungry.... Mommy, I'm hungry..."

My heart sometimes feels two sizes too big.

Now, dear readers, sometimes under this mountain of responsibility that we call motherhood festers resentment. But it's a fixable thing. It's necessary for me to take my moments, to write in my journal, to read a magazine or paint my toenails. It's necessary for me to say, "So long, baby-with-the-fussy-cries,-the-possible-ear-infection-or-maybe-it's-just-teeth-or-maybe-it's-a-virus?, I've got to go for 36 hours and find my self."

Everyone will be fine, and I'll be back.

Oh, I'll be back.