New Moon cradled in its impeccable story arc approximately one expression. And it was this one.
It wasn’t terrible, no. I was kinda impressed at how the music worked like a color code for emotion when paired with this astounding tribute to non-verbal communication. I mean, thanks to the film score I was immediately able to recognize the following moods: happiness, distress, arousal, ire, jocularity, horror, and moderate to heavy depression or elation.
If Music had two legs and could walk down a red carpet, I’d have a better idea of whom to thank for making New Moon the movie to see on the day after Thanksgiving.
Bx: “Could you try not to tell the wrong kid you love them today?”
Me: “Oh. That wasn’t you screaming ‘I love you mom!’ yesterday?”
Bx: “No, it wasn’t.”
Me: “Well, why weren’t you screaming that you loved me?”
Bx: “I said it once already.”
It starts young, people. Repeat after me: It’s okay to say “I love you” more than just the one time.
I’m dedicating today to my little boy, Beaux. Some of my FAVORITE pictures and moments.
This was Beaux’s first brush with death. I was eight months pregnant (yes, eight) and when the (probably rabid) chipmunk came and sat next to us, I couldn’t even open my eyes to witness our grizzly end.
Minutes old and beautiful. Six pounds and some-odd ounces (it’s been six years, y’all, give me a break!).
You don’t have to remind me that newborns are exhausting. I remember.
The longest year of my life. Kansas, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, this was taken in California, and then we were off to Canada. Exhaustion was my constant companion and Awkwardness was my best friend while I had to learn how to nurse stealthily in a 15 passenger van full of college boys. “Ummm, Beaux’s cranky and the beatboxing doesn’t work anymore so distraction is futile, can we pull over and crank some music to drown out the feeding noises? Thanks!” (You have to maintain a little dignity by using big words like “futile” sometimes.)
But, ohhhh the smiles!
They…
…make…
…everything…
…worthwhile! (And, this one will always be my personal favorite.)
He’s wild and rambunctious (like a boy SHOULD be, in my opinion).
He likes speed.
And living on the edge.
He gets in the way sometimes, but the x-rays we had to get after he was trampled at the basketball game that one time were AWESOME. Intriguing, yes? Don’t you just want to touch all those little bones? Do your fingers itch like mine do? I’ll settle for running my hands all over his face every chance I get.
When he’s tired, he’s TI-RED.
And he works as hard as he plays.
Thinks he’s bad to the bone.
Loves his daddy. Heck, he WALKED like his daddy when he hadn’t even earned the strut at a year old.
And he messes up my insides every time I turn my thoughts in his direction. He’s taught me about selflessness.
And about awesome underpants:
“Mom, what shirt should I wear to match my underwear?”
*sigh* “I don’t know. Something… Spiderman-y?”
“Ugh. No, I mean something BLACK? Or…”
“Oh. Something black, maybe?”
“That’s what I already said! Nevermind… I’ll find something on mine own.”
I love this kid. I’m so thankful for the chance to meet him and watch him grow, even if it does mean I have to find more fabric every year to keep him adequately and modestly covered. Forget about the fact that he’d prefer to spend every day of his life in underwear and little else.
Happy 6th, Beaux Bear! I love you with mine whole heart!
Crap-aaayyyyy diem!
Have I been living under a rock? What a bit of genius. When I’m having a crappy day, I generally seize it in the same way I seize upon a can of squirt cheese. When I still can’t get ahold of the thing, I’m gonna start asking myself, “What would Fonzie do?”
I bet it works every time. Better than squirt cheese? That I don’t know.
“I swear I put them on the Bible right inside his front door,” I respond with my hand at my forehead. Maybe if I compress all the information in my brain, I’ll be closer to finding the answer.
“Okay,” my Aunt Fran says, “We’ll look there, now that we can get to the keys on top of our fridge.”
“Oh!” I say, greatly relieved. “You made it into your house?” Maybe I hadn’t completely exiled them to the out-of-doors for the night.
“Yes. After we drilled the lock, we made it inside just fine.” She says sweetly.
I can tell she’s smiling, laughing more like, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. “Your Uncle Wayne says you did exactly what you were supposed to do. No one was getting in this house.”
At least no one without a drill, that is.
You can find a certain satisfaction in looking through a peephole from inside a dead-bolted door.
You see them, but they can’t see you. You there, with your canned soda and bare feet, hold all the power between your thumb and forefinger. Will you un-throw the bolt, or won’t you? They’ll never know, because they can’t see you. Unless you do, you know, un-throw the bolt…
There’s no satisfaction to be found in locking someone else out of their own home with their own deadbolt and now you’re more than an hour away and couldn’t help them if you drove back up to Stroud and gave it your best shot, or your best flying leap through that back bedroom window you remember leaving unlocked the night that it rained and you were trying to find out if the coyotes were cuddling up under the eaves and you decided it was really, really cool that they weren’t, but then you found out the roosters were and you decided that really, really stunk, so you quickly shut the window and realized you needed to use the restroom really, really bad and FORGOT TO FLIP THE LOCKS.
But, you did remember to flush.
We held a Twitter festival last night to benefit a charity called White Fields. A lot of people pitched in and made it a success! We were able to bring in over $2,000 and all of it will help provide equine therapy for severely abused or neglected boys in permanent custody of DHS in Oklahoma City.
Okay, here’s where I become one of “those” mothers. I’m proud of my little boy. Of the two of us, he is the one with the most patience (as is best, since I could try the patience of a freaking SAINT).
This was our promotion video for Twestival. I fed Beaux the lines and he tried them over and over until he found the verbiage that worked best for him. “I’m going to cut that in half!” he’d say, and proceed to word the thing better than I had done.
I gave birth to this. I wish I could take credit for his sweet little (patient) heart, but it’s all him.
Thank you baby doll!
Ahem… honey, I know you hate it when I call you “baby doll.” I just can’t help it.
Now, come here so I can pinch those cheeks. Wait! Where are you going in such a hurry? Well, hey, can you bring me a soda when you come back?
Don’t mind me. I’m just gonna have a little lie down. I’ll be up and at ‘em in no time.
Hey, while you’re there, could you rub my roots? I’ve been on them ALL DAY.
I was standing quite confidently. I do that sometimes - stand confidently.
Next thing I knew, this gate had me face down in the gravel where it proceeded to destroy every bit of my standing confidence by eating my foot. There was nothing I could do about it, and that’s what hurts the most. If I could, I would apply ice to my “do something about it” instead of my foot.
Gates should not weigh more than people. Or more than me, anyway.
