The Rainbow Connection

One of the more interesting aspects of my job is...hmm...well, let's call her Judy.  She is the devoted grandmother of one of my babies.  This particular baby comes only once a week, on Mondays, and Judy always picks her up.

Interactions with Judy are always unique.  She has a very...dominating...demeanor.  The volume of her voice is permanently set at a level that sounds as though she is trying to have a conversation in a crowded bar on a Saturday night.  When she's not talking, her face looks like she's trying to get peanut butter off the roof of her mouth with her tongue.

Like I said, unique, but this most recent Monday, we moved to a whole new level.  Judy arrived at about 4:30.  She was talking on her cell phone when she flung open the door and yelled "Where my baby at?  Where my baby at?" She saw her granddaughter, and came into the room, leaving the door wide open, oblivious to the fact that three babies were crawling rapidly towards the newly discovered escape route.  She stopped in the middle of the room and started raising the roof with her hand that wasn't clamping her phone to her ear.  "It's Granny!  It's Granny!  Granny's in da house!  Granny's in da house!  Granny's in da house!  Hey, girl!  I'm picking up my grandbaby.  Hey, Boo!  Come here, Boo!  My God, y'all got babies up in here!"

Having a strange woman suddenly standing in the middle of our room screaming was, understandably, startling for some of the babies.  One of them started to cry and crawl frantically towards me, her eyes pleading and wide.  Judy's response was "Oh, you shut up over there, crying for no reason."  I, with much restraint, replied "I think you startled her."  I was ignored, as Judy had decided to continued with her phone call, bark orders at my coworker, admire the other babies in the room, and make nonsense noises at them.

So what follows is pretty much verbatim.

No shit.

"No, man, no.  Where her pacifier at?  I don't know.  When you coming?  You coming, right?  When you coming?  Oh, you on Facebook?  I don't really know how to do that.  Oh, look at these babies!  Look at that little Chinese baby over there!  They even got Asian babies in here!  Look at you, girl!  Doo doo doo da da blah blah blah!  Deedeedeedeedeedeedee!  My name be Kitty Katrice on Facebook.  I be too scared to put my name on there.  I ain't got no pictures or nothing.  Where's her pacifier?  Nothing on there.  Kitty Katrice.  Yeah, man, I be on there, but I don't know what I'm doing.  Ooooooh!  Look at that little black-ass baby over there.  Just black as he can be!  Hey, man!  Hey, man!  Deedeedeedeedee!  Are all her bottles in there, girl?  I've got three friends on Facebook, man.  Look at that little black girl trying to get away from me!  She saying 'Who that loud woman over there?'  Oh, girl!"

At this point, one of the other parents enters, to pick up her "little Chinese baby". 

"Ooooohhh, girl!  That your baby?  She so cute.  Ooooh, you tiny, girl!  I be talking to her, making her smile!  She so cute!  She so little!  They got Asian babies in here!  They got black babies in here!  They got everything!  It be a rainbow up in here!  Yeah, man, you look me up on Facebook."

She, having had all of her granddaughter's items diligently collected by my coworker, buckled the baby into the car seat and made her way towards the door.  Since we have a no shoe policy in the baby room, the other parent's shoes were by the door.

"Girl, look at these little shoes!  That shoe disappears when I put my foot over it!  These your shoes, girl?  Little Asian shoes!  Oh, my God, it be a rainbow up in here.  Bye all you babies.  You all have babies everywhere in here!  Y'all have a good week ladies!  Bye, now!  It be a rainbow in there, man."

Then, in a whirlwind of blue flip-flops and black weave, she was gone, leaving us convulsing with the laughter we were trying so hard to hide.

The Long Overdue Christmas Post

I know, I know. It's been a long time. But here's the thing. I don't know what to write about Christmas. I didn't know last year either.  But what I will say is that Christmas was delightful. New Year's is another story, but oh...Christmas.

I love Christmas. And just in case anyone is reading this who I haven't forced to listen to White Wine in the Sun, you should listen to it. No, really. I'll wait.

...

So good, right? It is my favorite Christmas song. Maybe just my favorite song.

I started with baking what I think is technically known as a "metric shit-ton" of cookies and then drove all over the Metro area delivering them to friends, who very graciously allowed me to intrude upon them pretty much unannounced. It was a good night.

Then it was out to Ortonville for some family time. A lot of family time.

Interspersed with all the craziness and cooking and tantrums and games of monster vs. super-monster vs. super-duper-monster were the little quiet moments that are my favorite things about being alive.

Like seeing so many watercolor sunrises and sunsets, it was hard to keep track of them.

A walk on a frozen slough with Ricardo and Mother.

Finding the nativity set I made when I was little. Its shoddy/adorable craftsmanship never fails to reduce me to tears of laughter.

Setting out all the presents after the littles had gone to bed on Christmas Eve.

Waking up early on Christmas day, but waiting until I heard the pounding of little feet running down the stairs to get up.

Just my mom and dad and me in the kitchen, finishing up the filling for the chicken pot pie.

Teaching the little ones the art of setting a table for company.

Cat (and dog) naps.

Another walk on the frozen slough, but alone and at night. And because of the cracking and shifting ice and the howling coyotes, it sounded like a Stephen King horror novel. Alone. At night. In the very, very dark. It was exhilarating. But the best part was climbing back up the hill towards what will always be my home.

You know. Quiet little moments like that.

Much Obliged

I headed out west on Thursday morning, dessert in hand, for Thanksgiving. Due to a variety of unforeseen circumstances, the family traditions were slightly uprooted this year and we ended up in Benson, at my brother and sister-in-law's house. It was, despite the change in venue, like Thanksgiving always is in my family. Great food, lively conversation, lots of laughter.

And this year, with the addition of three new children celebrating their first Thanksgivings, perhaps just a little bit louder. But in a good way.

After the party, as I was continuing on to my parents' house, I was struck by the scenery. There is a certain barrenness to the landscape of Western Minnesota in November, before the empty fields have been covered in their white blankets of snow. The land seems to go on forever and combined with the infiniteness of the sky, it gives one the feeling of being very, very insignificant. Broken silhouettes of abandoned farm houses, collapsing barns and tiny country cemeteries sit in sharp contrast to the brilliant sunsets while their contents sit undisturbed, gathering an abundant coating of dust and grime.

As I drove past several of these empty homes that were at some point undoubtedly filled with the same life and love I experienced that day, I wondered who lived there. And I wondered what they did for their last Thanksgiving.