The Odd Broad

I am a happy auntie...

For Lukey The Wonder Nephew can say my name!  For reals.  Oh Reader, he is so sweet.  xoxo 

Gratitude

Thanksgiving weekend was a lovely, crazy little whirlwind.

To put it in CliffsNotes form:

Turkey dinner with my family on Thursday.  Fleeing in the middle of the night back to Boston with Sissy and Lukey the Wonder Nephew, who it turns out had contracted a nasty ear infection just in time for his very first birthday.  One fender bender on Mass Ave on Friday on the way to turkey dinner with Hubby's family, who'd flown in from California, Louisiana and Arizona.  Happy Birthday's on Friday to Dad, Nanny and Lukey the Wonder Baby!!  Lukey's 1st birthday bonanza on Saturday, then visiting and Scrabble on Saturday night with Hub's family.  (The Broad used all seven of her letters on guardian and won the game.  That's fifty extra points, y'all!)  Our weekend concluded with a special service for aunt Kathy, who was ordained as a reverend yesterday.   

On the way to Luke's party on Saturday I turned the dial to Oldies 103.3 so I could serenade my husband with Christmas cheer.  (Apparently they've been playing nothing but Christmas tunes since after Halloween.)  As we drove along, Lukey's gift wrapped up in Sesame Street paper in the back seat, I felt an overwhelming wave of happiness wash over me.  Life was...wonderful.

So much has changed since November 28th of last year, the day that precious little baby came into our lives.  Sometimes it really blows my mind.  Our Thanksgivings in New York were happy, relaxed occasions that I will always look back fondly on.  (Like the time we discovered a frozen turkey requires longer than an hour or two to thaw. We ate chicken that year.) 

But lovely, crazy little whirlwinds are nice, too.  xoxo

It's love

I just waved good bye to Lukey The Wonder Nephew and I have to tell you, he is as amazing and personable as ever.  Oh Reader, he melts my neurotic little heart. 

The Friday before Labor Day I unexpectedly learned that work would be closing early.  Suddenly an unprecedented, wondrous thought occurred to me- I was free to go to Sissy's house and visit with her and that gorgeous little baby.  I was mere minutes away!  It was as feasible and simple as that. 

This was the moment when it finally dawned on me: we had moved to Boston.   

I walked into Sissy's house and there was my Godson, sprawled out in an impossibly adorable position.  He looked up at me like he always does, with that split second of mischievous recognition flashing across his enormous eyes, as if to say oh, it's you. 

These days when he laughs he shows off four itty bitty baby front teeth in addition to his bottom two.  He is charming, sweet smelling, infinitely entertaining and ever evolving.  The latter never fails to amaze me.

People keep asking why I left New York after eight years.  Inevitably, my answer always boils down to Luke David, the most perfectly wonderful little person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. 

Auntie adores you, forever and ever.  xoxo

Bonding Time

This past weekend brought me back to Massachusetts for my friend Amy's baby shower.  You can bet I snuck in some quality time with my godchild, Lukey The Wonder Baby.  Oh Reader, can this child get any cuter?  Is't possible?

On Monday afternoon, while Sissy was on the phone, I laid down next to Lukey and sang:

A peanut butter sandwich, made with jam

One for me, and one for Lukey David

A peanut butter sandwich, made with jam,

Sticky, sticky, sticky, sticky, STICK!

For some reason he really seems to respond when I use my child star voice.  My heart could burst, truly it could.  Let's face it, this sweet baby's mere existence is enough to get me to relocate.

Now, I know which is good and bad, but the best which that I ever had

Was a peanut butter sandwich, made with jam

Yummy, yummy, yummy, yummy YUM!

(It seems that since my visit, the Canadian phenomenon Raffi has taken up permanent residence in my brain.  But it's cool.  We've learned to coexist and stuff.)

The God-mutha

This post comes to you a bit late in the day, Dear Reader, but for a worthy cause.  Luke the Wonder nephew has been baptized!  We just got back from Massachusetts a little while ago.

Being Lukey's Godmother, I wanted to give him something really meaningful as a gift.  I walked over to the Saint Patrick's Cathedral gift shop on my lunch hour last Wednesday hoping for divine inspiration.  What I ended up buying was a very pretty night light and a Saint Luke prayer card, but what I told my sister I'd bought was...a twelve inch statue of Jesus, Our Lord and Savior. 

I don't even know what possessed me to do this.  I got back to my desk and emailed Sissy that I'd bought a statue at Saint Pat's, not too big, only like twelve inches or so.  I later modified this and said that the height was actually fifteen inches, since unbeknownst to me, the ruler I'd used to measure was oversized.

I could tell Sissy was nervous.  Her tone was cautious: "Um, did you really do that?  I kind of think you're joking..."  I told her I most certainly wasn't joking, and that I'd had the statue blessed so there was definitely no returning Him now.  I also suggested that she could perhaps put Him in the back yard, if they ever move to the suburbs. 

As a final flair, I added that the Jesus statue also kind of matched the baby's bedding.  This is when Sissy frantically called our mother, who wondered if Jesus was clad in polka dots and multi-colored stripes.  I cleared up the confusion immediately by informing my sister that Jesus was wearing a sage green robe.  (Very tasteful and totally within the color scheme of the room.)

I don't know why things like this amuse me, but they do.  As the days wore on, news of my very special gift was spreading.  On Saturday morning my cell phone rang.  It was my cousin Keely:  "Did you really buy the baby a life size statue of Jesus?" 

I got to Sissy's apartment and told her the statue was in the trunk and we'd need help getting Him out.  (Apparently He'd grown over the past few days.)  She was relieved when I finally exposed my ruse.   

The Christening was lovely.  My eyes welled up as I stood next to my sister and her husband on the alter, rubbing Luke's chubby little baby arm and kissing his head, which smelled like olive oil from all that anointing.  He was very angelic up there on that alter. 

The hopes and dreams and love I feel for this baby are infinite and ever increasing.  He is more beautiful and sweet than anything I've ever seen.  Ah, Reader, I adore being a Godmother. 

At the suggestion of my dear friend Amy, all I need now is a pinky ring.  xoxo

Inertia

My sweet nephew Luke is just over three months old.  On Monday I bought him a onesie that says If you think I'm cute, you should see my Godmother!  Label me a hapless consumer, but this was way too specific an item to pass up.  That's right.  I'm a full fledged Auntiezilla.

You would be too, if you knew Lukey.  This baby is sweeter and more lovable than I ever could have imagined.  In fact, I'm finding it increasingly unbearable to live in NYC while he's in Boston.  These past few months have launched me into emotional overdrive.  A pity party where the dj never stops spinning, if you will.  (And this dj only plays smooth jazz.  He's ruthless, I tell you.)

On top of feeling painfully out of the loop, mostly I just miss everyone.  It's not that I don't visit, but visiting is all so temporary and always goes by too fast.  I long to idle away the weekends on Sissy's couch watching infinite episodes of Rock of Love.  (Incidentally, Sissy called me at work this afternoon with news of a most disturbing nature.  Namely, when Brett Michael's hair (wig?) was pulled back and he wasn't wearing any makeup, Sissy found herself thinking he might possibly be semi-attractive.)  This troublous news alone should be impetus enough to make me move home.

Moving home.  The phrase loops constantly in my mind, taunting me, a song that won't get out of my head.  (A catchy Fergie number, perhaps.)  Still, the idea of starting anew is daunting.  What would we do?  Where would we live?  More importantly, what would we live on?  Hubby is certainly in no hurry to leave NY and I'm not entirely comfortable with being the one who campaigns for the big move.  Do I really want that kind of marital decision on my shoulders?  This is the most confused I've felt in ages. 

For now, I will settle for the little things.  The moments when Sissy puts the phone up to Luke's ear and lets me talk to him.  This activity has become my favorite thing to do as of late.  (Usually I'm just repeating auntie sissy loves you over and over.)  The other day Sissy pulled the phone away from Luke and asked, "What are you saying to him?  He's doing big eyes and smiling and kicking his feet!"

I was singing.  You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are gray...

And Reader, he does.  This kid really delivers.  xoxo

The New Man In My Life

Part 1: The Baby

If I ever write a memoir, perhaps I should entitle it Weeping on Public Toilets, since you could say I have a habit of doing this.

I wept on a work toilet (paper seat cover down, of course) Wednesday morning after I learned my only sister was going into labor. 

Hubby and I were already renting a car on Friday to drive to MA for my cousin's wedding, so I could meet the baby then.  Surely I could wait two days? 

After my bathroom breakdown I called Hubby, who had absolutely no confidence I'd be able to wait.  Immediately he was searching Amtrak, Expedia, Travelocity, offering to drop me off a suitcase on his way to work.  He even apologized for not buying me an open ended ticket.  God I love that man. 

I told him I could hold out.  Not long after, I got myself a plane ticket.  By the time I was in the taxi on my way to JFK, The Tadpole had already made his glorious debut: eight and a half pounds, with a dimple in his teeny little chin.  I have a Godson!  His name is Luke. 

An hour later, I'm about to get onto the Jet Blue shuttle bus when the lady with the walkie talkie says no.  Apparently the shuttle bus was on fire.  About ten feet away.  Curiously, they wouldn't allow us onto another bus, yet they also weren't advising us to back away.  In the end an angry fellow passenger wearing a red blazer started bossing, Everybody back!  Now!  Everybody move!  Ordinarily I'd feel the urge to punch her in the face, but my NY impulses were extremely subdued that afternoon.  After all, I was on my way to meet the new man in my life. 

After three taxis, one non-burning shuttle bus and a bumpy plane ride, I was knocking on the door to Sissy's room.  Two seconds later, I was sobbing, washing my airplane hands, sitting down and holding the most beautiful little baby I'd ever laid eyes on.  I knew he'd be a boy, and I knew his face would look the way it looked, since I'd had several dreams about this baby.  (Did I ever tell you I was psycho psychic?)   

I realize women give birth every day, but my sister doesn't.  I am in total awe. 

Incidentally, last week when a cleaning lady at work asked if we knew the baby's gender, I said we didn't, but I had a feeling it would be a boy.  "I always dream of a boy..." I said, to which she replied, "A healthy baby, that's all you should dream for" and gently squeezed my arm as she got off the elevator.  Great.  Now Mary the cleaning lady thought I was one of those freaks who prayed for boy babies.  It was too late to say, "Wait Mary, when I said dream, I literally meant dream, not hope!  Not wish!"  Ah well.  Such is the life of the misunderstood.  You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

Luke is a dream, though.  He is gorgeous, amazing, and utterly perfect in every way.  I don't know how I'll ever return to New York now that he's arrived on the scene, in all his sweet cuddliness.  I am in love, Dear Reader.  My heart is so full. 

There's nothing more to say.

xoxo

Please stay tuned for Part 2: The Wedding.  I pray my husband doesn't leave NY without my bridesmaid's dress.  I've reminded him several times, but now even he seems skeptical.

The Tadpole

For much of the Spring and Summer, I've been actively campaigning for the role of Godmother to my only Sister's first born, whom we've been lovingly referring to as The Tadpole.

In truth, Sissy already promised the position to me many years ago, although I've yet to be formally appointed, as there are still over four months before The Tadpole makes its grand entrance.

In light of this, initially I wondered if I was being presumptuous when I'd refer to the baby as my Godchild.  After all, Sissy's husband has three Sisters of his own, in theory all potential contenders.

This demure attitude didn't last long, however; earlier this month I bought Sissy a picture frame that says "I love my Godchild."  She was amused: "Shouldn't you keep this frame, though?"  "No," I explained, "I want you to display it in The Tadpole's room, with a picture of me holding him or her."

I am head over heels crazy for this child already and cannot wait to lavish him or her with toys and gifts, and cute onesie outfits with catchphrases like, "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner." 

If you haven't already caught on, Dear Reader, The Odd Broad has been feeling rather maternal lately.  And not just with cute dogs, cats and other people's children.

Up until now, I have yet to seriously feel this way, perhaps because none of my close friends have had babies yet.  I do think that makes a difference somehow.  Currently, though, my best friend from high school is expecting, my best friend from college is trying, and my older Sister, my ultimate life-long peer, has a bun in the oven!

Seeing Sissy look so adorable with her baby bump and fashionable maternity ensembles, I can't help but think perhaps motherhood is something I could handle after all!  What was once my lovely, very far off dream is slowly morphing into something tangible. 

In addition, I'm totally interested in being able to unapologetically flaunt my belly.  It would be ever so lovely to saunter around town with a bump on my mid-region without having to explain to every Tom, Dick and Harriet that I am not knocked up, just simply bloated, slouching, or wearing an empire-waisted flowy top.

Futhermore, it would amuse me greatly if I could coax Hubby into referring to me as his baby's Mama.  I think that alone would be worth going the nine months without Riesling.

Nobody is more surprised to hear me talk this way than myself.  Of course, the reality of me becoming someone's Mother is still very far off on the horizon, only to be realized when I move from this Godforsaken city back home to the bosom of my family.  I mean, honestly, who's going to babysit for us here, the crackhead panhandling in front of Chase Bank?  No, that wouldn't do, that wouldn't do at all.

Before I leave you, allow me to touch upon one last subject: Dearest Reader, is anything more off-putting or putrid than the phrase, "we're trying"?  Trying to do what, exactly? What this phrase specifically implies holds no place in polite conversation, wouldn't you agree?  In light of this, when I mentioned earlier that my friend from college is "trying," please know that she herself would never have me publicly refer to what her and her husband are doing (gettin' it on) as trying, nor would I myself.  Not without prior warning or explanation, at least.  There.  Glad we've cleared that one up.

XOXO

The Beaches in Arizona

You know that wise old saying, think before you speak?  The Odd Broad hasn't quite mastered that one yet.  Sometimes I think I never will.

I once asked a cousin's (now ex) girlfriend, who happened to hail from Arizona, "How are the beaches in Arizona?"  They're still talking about that one.  In my defense, this girl wasn't much of a talker and I was strapped for conversation.  I guess I'd never really contemplated the fact that the beach is actually the ocean.  As in, the edge of our fair country.  Guess they don't call it the coast for nothing.

My husband wants to make sure I tell you about the time we were thinking of taking a trip to Canada and I told him I'd like to visit the American side.  (Niagara Falls!  I meant Niagara frigging Falls, OK?)

I really had a doosie the other day, though, while on the phone with my Sister.  We were casually discussing her pregnancy when I made a comment about the baby being able to hear singing while inside the womb.  What followed was especially cringe-worthy, even for me:

Me: "It's nice that the baby can hear music now.  The Tadpole can probably even hear me now over the phone, right?  Well, wait..."

Like most asinine statements, though, once they are spoken they can seldom be retracted.

Sissy: "What?!  If you were on speaker-phone then maybe the baby could hear you...but you're not on speaker!  Did you really just ask me if the baby could hear you through my ears, from inside my womb?"

In hindsight, I suppose yes, that is exactly what I had asked.  It hurts Sissy a little to laugh, but laugh she did.  She laughed until she almost cried.  I made her promise not to repeat this little story to anyone, not even to our own Mother.  But I suppose it's OK now that I've told you.  You won't tell anybody, right?

I'd like to add that Sissy often does put me on speaker-phone, because it makes her feel like I'm in the room with her.  Athough I suppose this doesn't alter the fact that she didn't have me on speaker that particular afternoon.

Anyways, where are you from, Dear Reader?  Do they have nice beaches there?  XOXO