Mother’s Day! Yay!

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mommas out there!

But especially Happy Mother’s Day to my mommy.

I’ve blogged about my mom before for her birthday. I could blog about her for the rest of my life because she’s just that wonderful, but in order to get everyone to brunch, I’ll keep it relatively short.

My mom is a summer gal. (Though she’d say her favorite season is fall for the leaves.)

Every summer she always has a list a mile long of changes she wants to make on the house, gardens to plant, vacations to take, books to read, and, of course, spending most afternoons at the pool. Now, usually this doesn’t all get done. (Sorry, Mom.) However, an amazing amount of this list is accomplished because my mom is always going and always making time for the “most afternoons in the pool” part.

I was going to tell a story about me calling Mom daily from my high school teacher’s phone to apologize for being snippy on the way in, but I actually think that says more about me (though it was probably inherited from her).

Instead, I want to talk about two moms in stories I’ve read/seen lately.

I recently read The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. I know. I’m a little behind. The prose in this book is incredible, and the characters are amazing as well. (Mom, you wouldn’t like it.)

The mother in the book is sad. She’s sad about her place in life. She’s sad to be a mom. Now, I know I’m talking about being a mom when I’m not one, so feel free to shove the screen away. But I am talking about this from the perspective of growing up with a mom who made me feel really, really wanted.

Now, to be fair to the mom in the book, she goes through unspeakable tragedy in her daughter’s death. (This comes out in the first ten pages.) But it becomes clear throughout that she didn’t want any of this mother business. I understand. Well, the best I can, I understand. Don’t all moms sometimes feel trapped? Feel inadequate? Feel like their kids took everything good from their lives?

(My mom is saying “no” and wondering where this is going. Me too, Mom.)

Anyway, I get that moms don’t always feel like supermoms. But the mother in that story leaves her family. And there was something missing there that I couldn’t figure out. Like, it asked a question, but it gave the “wrong” answer.

Then, yesterday, I saw Moms’ Night Out.

By myself.

At a matinee.

I was the odd singleton surrounded by moms’ groups.

Now, the movie was really cute and unabashedly Christian. (That’s kind of refreshing sometimes.) And there’s a mom in the film who feels very similar to the one in The Lovely Bones. The mom in the movie makes it clear that having kids was something she really wanted, but she’s just not happy.

The mom in Moms’ Night Out feels a similar sense of drowning, of never measuring up, of missing everything good in the chaos, and of making mistakes. A lot of them.

(I should say that I don’t think the film was without its issues, even with the concept. Could they make a Dads’ Night Out movie? Because dads don’t “babysit” their own children. They’re their children! Thank you to Mrs. Denning, Jill‘s Mom, for setting that straight.)

The mom in The Lovely Bones leaves. She decides she’s inadequate.

The mom in Moms’ Night Out decides that she’s been equipped. Every day might not be sunshine, but she’s doing the best she can, she’s loving her kids, and she’s spending her afternoons in the pool, figuratively.

Oh, I know you’re not supposed to compare moms. I don’t mean this in any malicious way. Both stories have their place. Also, the mom in The Lovely Bones went through A WHOLE LOT, and I don’t even begin to know how I would handle something like that.

But I do think that mother represents this question in culture of moms. Both of the moms in the stories ask the question of what do you do when things get rough. One mom leaves. The other stays.

I know my mom must have some of these feelings. It’s a mom thing, right? She would never tell us (or show us) that, but I think it’s normal for moms to feel like they’re screwing up their kids’ lives.

But it’s incredible thing when you get a mom who not only chooses to stay every day as the wrangler of four children, but who also chooses to have fun with it all too.

My mom is not perfect. (Sorry, Mom.) But like the movie said, “I don’t think the good Lord made a mistake in giving your kiddos the momma He did.”

She’s the perfect mom for me, and I can’t believe I’ve been so lucky to have her.

So, after some very convoluted thoughts on motherhood, which I am on the outside of, to all the moms (and especially mine), here is your honest Mother’s Day wish:

I know it’s not always easy. I know sometimes you feel like a failure. Or you feel like you’re kiddos are sucking every ounce of fun right out of you. Or your kids are truly sucking every ounce fun out of you.

But you are capable.

You are loved.

And doing the best you can means you’re the perfect mom for your kids. So breathe and get to the pool most afternoons, figuratively (and literally, when you can).

Or ocean. Ocean works, too.

Mother daughter look at ocean

Advertisements

Bikes & Co.

Today was not a great day.

Today, I screamed in my car twice.

I went to the bank three times.

I wished I could have a do-over about 400 times.

Today was supposed to be the day when I went on a run, finished two novels, made my entire apartment shine, read three books, and solved world issues. (This is how informed I am. I say, “world issues.”)

Okay, so I had high expectations, but by noon, I was left with the first four sentence of this blog post.

Maybe today was bad because a lot of emotional, big changes are coming my way. I have a hard time with change. It can be fun and adventurous and what life’s all about, but it is also really, really hard.

Next week, classes are over. In June, I will graduate, and then it’s…

I have no idea.

I could go home to Indiana and do…

I could stay here and…

I could…

I could…

I HAVE NO IDEA!

This is a nerve-wracking time. It can also be depressing. Suddenly, I feel I haven’t learned anything in the past two years/my whole life.

The reality of that thought pounded and beat on me today. I haven’t gotten better. I never get better. I’ll never get better. 

And then, something happened.

My family is into bikes, not in a competitive, spandex way, but in a three-year-olds-without-training-wheels sort of way. Biking was the summer go-to. It was the transportation of choice to ride to the gas station (that often ran out of gas) to buy Bazooka Joe gum. It was the only time our neighbors got angry from kids ruining their yard (which happened to be a short cut on the way to the gas station). It was the most dangerous thing Mom let us do with smallest list of warnings (that still included: wear your helmet, those better not be sandals, stay in the neighborhood, stay with your brothers, stay with your sister, not too fast, don’t be out too long, etc.).

During those summers, I learned how to do quite a few tricks on my bike: the side-saddle, the no-feet, and the classic feet-on-handlebars.

Okay, so I wasn’t doing BMX, but still, I was decent. There was one trick, though. The one I always attempted, but could never do.

Remember that scene in City of Angels where Meg Ryan lifts her arms out while riding her bike (cough and then dies cough)?

bike

Well, I really wanted to do that. The hand thing! (Not the other thing.)

But I never could. Each summer, I would try and try, but I could only ever do the one-handed, which isn’t impressive at all.

Today, when I was riding my bike back from my car (don’t even get me started on that), I thought I should try the no-hands. There was no way it would work. It had never worked before. But I couldn’t stop thinking, just try.

So I lifted a hand and then the other, and then the bike stayed steady. I put my hands in my lap, and the bike stayed steady. I put my hands out to feel the wind, and the bike stayed steady.

And the most lovely thought entered my head.

I am better at something. 

It wasn’t writing or planning or job-having or anything important. It didn’t make my apartment shine, or fix every (or any) problem in my life. But, there it was.

I got better at something.

Today, I thought I was a big failure who couldn’t have a good day, let alone a good life, but tonight, I know that if I keep going, I might just get the hang of some of these impossible tricks.

Tonight, I know that I’m getting better every time I try. Sometimes I forget that.

IndyCar vs NASCAR

Indianapolis 500

I was recently having a discussion with FAC + Rob (an honorary member) about the types of people we went to high school with. Because the four of us are from very different parts of the country, we had different groups of students at our schools. (Jill had cowboys. Real cowboys!)

When I did my impression of the kids who rode on my bus, I think the others were more than impressed. I basically said, “Hey, man. NASCAR!” over and over again. (This is disturbingly accurate.)

(I realize this is making fun of those people. I liked pretty much everyone I went to high school with, but those hillbilly kids were mean, if that makes it any better.)

Anyway, after we stopped laughing–I’m exaggerating. No one has to “stop”  themselves from laughing at my jokes– Jill asked me, “Hilary, do you watch NASCAR?”

I gasped. NASCAR? Me? HOW COULD SHE?!

“OF COURSE NOT!” I said, “IndyCar is totally different.”

Then the four of us got into a discussion about whether or not IndyCar and NASCAR have differences. I claimed that IndyCar is so much classier (and cooler and better) than NASCAR. No one agreed.

Katie tried to come to my aid (bless her) and said, “IndyCar had that girl, Danica Patrick, didn’t they?”

“No!” I said. “She moved to NASCAR, and IndyCar is better for it!” (Sorry, Danica fans. Although, you’re probably NASCAR fans, so never mind.)

Now, maybe I see the stark differences between NASCAR and IndyCar because I’m from Indiana, where we literally have class projects based on the Indy 500. (See my 5th grade, spray-painted, milk jug race with its egg passenger.)

But I don’t think so. I think IndyCar is genuinely different (and genuinely A LOT BETTER). Let’s look at 5 facts:

1. Racers.

When I think about the people racing in NASCAR, it’s Ricky Bobby and bad mustaches and lunch boxes from Walmart with bright numbers painted on the side.

With IndyCar, you get international wonders (see Tony Kanaan), Indiana Jones fans, and etsy t-shirts.

Indianapolis+500+Qualifying+Z75CYpjLQUWl
Marco Andretti, aka the David Beckham of racing. (I bet you didn’t know that.)

2. Celebrations.

The Daytona 500 ends in champagne being sprayed everywhere. Civilized? I think not.

The Indianapolis 500, aka The Greatest Spectacle in Racing, ends with the winner drinking milk and pouring it over himself. It may be messy, but at least it supports calcium consumption.

3. Cars.

Let’s look at these babies.

NASCAR’s cars, i.e. the taxi cabs.

Daytona 500 Practice

IndyCar’s cars, i.e. artwork.

forza-indyjpg-30ba63_640w

See?

4. Famous people.

Alyssa Milano plays in a NASCAR fantasy league.

IndyCar owners include Patrick Dempsey and David Letterman. And also Patrick Dempsey. And also Patrick Dempsey.

5. And also Patrick Dempsey.

052207_4

 

the world’s best window

I love the ocean, but let’s not start there.

When I was around eight I got my own room (for the second time).

My parents remodeled our upstairs floor to be a very cool loft split in two: one side for the brothers and one side for the sisters. I love my sister dearly, but this situation made things tense. We shared a waterbed. The bed was wonderful; it made that great sloshing sound, and you pushed up when someone else got in. The bed was also a point of contention. I liked to cuddle and Heather didn’t. The tension escalated when in the night I touched my foot to her sun-burned calf, and she immediately slapped me. I’m pretty sure that was the last night I slept there.

I moved back downstairs, and relationships were restored. When I had my own room (again), Mom gave me three framed artsy photos to put on the wall: two girls walking with their arms around each other (which I am realizing could have been a message), a girl standing in the rain, and a group of girls looking out a window. (You should know that I originally wrote “winder” for “window.” Hoosier-talk.)

In the third picture, the girls’ backs are facing us as they sit in a windowsill. Most of them are huddled together talking in a group, but there is one girl sitting on the end, staring out of the glass. Mom said I reminded her of that girl. Now, it could be that she had the same haircut and color as mine, but I think it had more to do with that feeling.

My whole life I’ve been staring out windows.

Life makes sense when I stare out a window. There’s so much going on, so much beyond whatever is happening inside.

I feel the same way about the ocean. Things make sense with the ocean. It’s on its own clock. The ocean is calm and powerful and incredible, and seeing its majesty makes whatever I’m worrying about seem pretty inconsequential. Watching the ocean is feeling a part of the miracles of every day, the ones that are all around.

The ocean is the world’s best window, and I never tire of looking because looking at life on the outside makes you see life on the inside that much more clearly.

“For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea”
-ee cummings
I love the ocean. Let’s end there.
picstitch(1)

I don’t get GIFs

I don’t get GIFs.

I don’t mean that I don’t get why they’re used or funny (like the way I don’t get the usefulness of mason jars).

I mean that I don’t get how they exist. Aren’t they straight out of Harry Potter?

The_Daily_Prophet_-_1991_Break_in_at_Gringotts

Where do they come from? How are they made? I can’t be the only one with these questions.

“You’re not!” screams Jill. Jill is going to figure out how to make them, and I expect a lesson. *riding her coattails of knowledge*

Katie is excellent at using GIFs for comedic measure. I asked her how they exist, and she said, “When a mommy GIF loves a daddy GIF…”

That’s not an explanation, Katie. Nice try. Mom beat you to the punch there. I don’t quite get that either.

James-Franco-Confused-Look1

But that’s an entirely different direction. We will not go there.

GIFs though. So many questions.

Is it GIF, as in Guh-if? Is it GIF, as in choosey Moms choose GIF (Jif)?

pronounce-gif

I was using the GIF (Jif) pronunciation (which could have something to do with my love of peanut butter), but some super cool people say GIF (Guh-if). I just don’t know!

When I ask people they say they don’t know either, but in that way that makes me think they really do know (and they’re just not telling me).

tumblr_mk8acgSudN1qjemo2o1_500

Also, writing “Guh-if” makes me think of Guh-Linda, which makes me start singing, “No wizard that there is or was is ever gonna bring me down. Ahhahahahaaaaa.”

tumblr_mamhh0Je301rqojfvo1_500

How does a GIF act like an image? If I search for GIFs (which I almost never do because I’m afraid of them), I look in the “images” section of Google. This doesn’t make sense; they’re like miniature videos. There should be a “magic image” section of Google for GIFs.

tumblr_miga11jDaa1qzyt3no1_250

I don’t get it! How? How? How? Seriously, the only conclusion I can come up with here is that wizards are real.

tumblr_mc0q70E7CY1rzhv5ho1_500

obsessed

One could see my life as a series of obsessions: times (varying from a week to several years) when a subject, movie, book, or show consumes me. One could also stop using “one” as a pronoun. One could try.

There’s a fun read by Polly Shulman titled Enthusiasm that speaks to this sort of crazy, following a character as she discovers Jane Austen.

I had a Jane Austen phase, too.

I don’t know if “phase” is the right word. Phase implies an end. Once I’m obsessed with something it never really goes away. The pain is just lessened. The intense heartache I feel in the middle of an obsession is eventually replaced with a dull twang.

Back to Jane Austen. Back to writing letters that began: “To My Future Mr. Darcy.” Back when my children’s names were planned to be “Fitzwilliam” and “Georgiana.” Mom doubts this is not still currently my plan. (Maybe I do, too.)

There have been other author enthusiasms and other book obsessions.

Boston Jane. A little series that made me like cherry pie, and I HATED cherries.

Ella Enchanted. Ella and I both “frell” for Char.

Harry Potter.

John Green could fall into this category as well, but it really all began with the vlogbrothers and not with his books. The land of Nerdfighteria is deep and fathomless, and I’m still a little in there.

There have been movie enthusiasms.

Mom says my very first obsession was with Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken (or as I call it, “Diving Girl”), a movie about a girl who rides a horse into a pool. It inspired me to befriend my imaginary horse named “Wilburt with a ‘T.'” Obviously, this obsession ran over into the period of Anne of Green Gables enthusiasm.

There’s my killer whale stage, aided and instigated by Free Willy. I had a blow up Keiko -Willy’s real name, people- for the pool. I aspired to be a marine biologist. I considered the ways in which I could fill the lake outside our house with saltwater to properly accommodate a whale. Certain recent tragedies of SeaWorld have all but crushed my image of riding an orca (but now that you mention it, said whale would obviously be my best friend and have a super clever name like “Free Hilly.”)

There was the Age of Star Wars, one of my longest obsessions, strongest from ages 8 to 14. Highlights of this obsession include: attendance at Star Wars Celebration, a Queen Amidala Halloween (or maybe two or three), and several Tatooine-themed sleepovers (with only myself).

Does watching Mutliplicity at least once a day for several months count as an obsession? Add Multiplicity then. I’m not proud.

For television there was 7th Heaven, a show I recorded on VHS tape for my sister when she went to medical school. I thought she was probably going crazy without watching. (She wasn’t.)

There was the three months of watching every I Love Lucy episode multiple times. I read both Lucy and Desi’s autobiographies, watched several documentaries and miniseries about them, imagined living at Desilu Ranch, and cried several times over the couple’s failed marriage (and not over the fact that they are both deceased). I was 20.

The Young and The Restless. I blame Mimi (my grandmother) for starting this, and I blame the Nick/Sharon breakup for ending it.

There were the more odd obsessions.

Presidential trivia. In my memory, it was a blast to utilize on family road trips (but I have a sneaky suspicion that I am the only one who remembers it that way).

Crock pot recipes. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say it involves a “crock pot pancake.”

Crocheting. Two Christmases ago I made everyone in my family a scarf. I haven’t crocheted since.

Kristen Wiig’s Target Lady, which just consisted of me using that voice and severely embarrassing myself at actual target check-out counters (because the cashiers didn’t watch SNL?).

When I get into something so heavily, I often get hurt. Please see my fourth grade reading of A Bridge To Terabithia for evidence. **I devoured that book. Ate it up. Then I cried so hysterically that I literally made myself ill.**

Fortunately, I’ve learned to simmer down my tendencies to go bat-crap crazy over something. I do things to protect myself. While reading Divergent over Thanksgiving break, I got pulled in hard, so I looked up the ending when I was halfway through the second book. I know, I know. It was sacrilege, but knowing the end meant I didn’t have to go all in.

Going whole hog insane over something is a very selective process at this point in my life. There are farther stretches between obsessions, and when I do go there, I try to be very intentional about the amount of time I spend thinking about things like roast beef sandwiches. Because when one falls in love, one wants to really mean it (especially in the sandwich arena).

V1.10000

fandango depression

Fandango is depressing.

I’m not talking about the Kevin Costner movie. Did you know there’s a Kevin Costner movie titled Fandango?

I’m talking about the movie tickets website. I visit Fandango on the regular, but lately, Fandango is depressing. Is “on the regular” a saying?

Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic. There are, in fact, several things in the western world that are more depressing: that Sarah McLachlan commercial, long TSA lines, divorce, etc.

However, every time I look at Fandango I get a pit in my stomach, a melancholy ache, because every time I search for showtimes, the locator is never where I am. When I’m in Indiana, it looks up times in Malibu. Malibu! I love the ocean. When I’m in California, I see the Mooresville Movie Theater as the number one result. My home! There are probably people I know seeing that movie at 2:35. Even when the locator is close to where I’m at (i.e. the same state), it’s usually super far away. Those are the nice theaters! I can’t even enjoy this movie now because I know that 50 miles away is a superior theater.

Fandango is just the worst.

But it’s not. Not really.

It just makes me homesick for places I’ve been, places I love, and places I know people are having fun at. Living apart from people you love is like going to sleep early. You hear you’re family laughing in the living room, and you feel like you’re missing out.

I guess that’s not wholly Fandango’s fault.

But it is. It really kind of is.

For the love of dark chocolate -I do love dark chocolate- I need to figure out how to take the zip code preset off of Fandango before I destroy it (which would probably result in just destroying my computer a la Ron Swanson.)

my 2013 in numbers

This post is not very creative. Please see Jill’s post for confirmation of this unoriginality. Okay, 2013, here we go:

8 plane trips slept through or cried through

3 flat tires

1 popular webseries participated in as associate producer, co-star, and -let’s not forget- intern

380 phone calls to Mom

1 half marathon

45 blog posts

1 new close friend (not sure if I should be worried by or proud of this number)

38 years of marriage forgotten for half a day

25 “sorry’s” said for forgetting Mom & Dad’s anniversary

3 people who decided to rid me of my “sorry’s”

99 Parks and Rec episodes

0 new nicknames (I’m okay with that)

30 instances when answering the phone was followed by Thad saying, “What up, gurrrrrl?”

4 Universal Studios trips

1 Disneyland trip

1 Disney World trip

1 hysterical cry at Disney World shared with 2 siblings

10 new crock-pot recipes

6 new crock-pot recipes I will make again

10 uncontrollable giggle fits (approx.)

1 novel poorly written, but written nonetheless

4 scripts written

1 wedding attended (appalling low)

2 trips outside the U.S.

0 passport stamps

1 coffee addiction formed

2 instances when I told Rhett, “It’s like I’m Michael Scott talking to Michael Scott.”

4 trips to The Griddle Cafe

1 writers’ group founded

4 times I was determined to grow my hair out

3 haircuts

2 million times I’ve been thankful for my friends

3 billion times I’ve been thankful for my family

1 really good year

five stages of flying

For being a child born during George H. W. Bush’s presidency, I began the plane-taking journey rather late in life. I flew for the first time when I was fourteen and didn’t go again until I was over twenty. This caused some personal misconceptions that I have slowly unraveled over time, revealing the truth about flying, the ugly, disgusting, beautiful truth. Using the Kübler-Ross model, I give you the five stages of flying:

1. Denial

I’m not really flying, no. Those aren’t actually homes. That’s the Peter Pan set from Disney World.  Trust me, I’ve been there.

This lasts until that woozy feeling you get when the plane dips a little, making it seem like you’re on a roller coaster for about 0.4 seconds. Then you realize you are on a plane that’s up in the air, and you didn’t really listen to the flight attendants’ instructions, did you?

2. Anger

So anger didn’t really come until I was twenty.  (This is a surprise when we consider that I was stuck in an airport for three days during my first plane trip. However, when you’re fourteen and going on your first plane trip, you’re never really stuck anywhere.)

At twenty, I had a glamorous view of life in the air.  Last time I flew, I had matching capris and tennies. This time though. This time I would fly in style. I’d probably be asked to model the plane, I’d be so beautiful. (I don’t think I understood that planes are different than designer clothes.) I dressed up, complete with heeled shoes that were difficult to get on and off in security (and therefore made everyone hate me).

I boarded the plane, and no one else dressed up. No one would ever be dressed up. In fact, the lady walking through the airport in heels is a beacon of inexperience blinking at anyone who looks at her feet.

Why aren’t people dressed up?  Why isn’t flying this glamorous thing?  Anger.  So much anger.

3. Bargaining

Okay, okay. So the dressing up thing didn’t work out.

How about I just meet someone really great on the plane, huh? Like, obviously he’ll be my soulmate and we’ll live happily ever after, and I’ll never mention the dressing up thing again.

Be careful with this stage. This is how you end up making a birthday card out of a barf bag for a semi-cute, semi-smart, full-on-socially-awkward young man that you will (hopefully) never meet again in your life. True story.

(I should mention that some people really do fall in love on planes. Jill says so, and I believe her wholeheartedly. Yet, I have to let this stage go. I just have to, or I will know too much about the correct way to fold a barf bag.)

4. Depression

This happens when you’ve full-on given up on flying.

For the longest time I had the incredible ability to wait just long enough for everyone in my row to be seated for takeoff before I fell asleep for the ENTIRE flight.  It was a thing to behold.

I wore sweatpants and mismatched socks (if any socks), and I didn’t shower beforehand. Sometimes I’d bring massive amounts of smelly food to eat (because the whole cabin was going to smell terrible soon enough), and I didn’t even bother trying to say “hello” to the people next to me.

It was kind of a sad stage, really.

5. Acceptance

This is the healthy stage of flying (I think). This is where I’m finally at.

In this stage, you make chit-chat with the individuals around you, but you aren’t offended when they don’t want to talk (and you don’t go overboard and make them a barf bag card when they do).

In this stage you do a lot of reading on planes. You do a lot of laughing and crying on planes. I read Hoosier John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars on a plane. Yikes. Talk about giggling hysterically and then sobbing hysterically as I was literally 🙂 wedged between two strangers. But that’s okay because that’s flying.

That putrid smell wafting through? That’s flying, too. So are the delays. So are the missing bags. So are the incredibly intimate moments of falling in love with a book while strangers surround you. That’s flying. Heck, that’s life. And in three hours, you’ll be home, and that’s magical.

star-brother wars

You know that thing I did a couple of times where I related a favorite movie to a favorite person?  Oh, you don’t have my blog memorized?  How dare you.

 

Well, I wanted to relate a movie to a person, but I almost feel bad connecting this movie to this particular person. However, this person used to put his finger in front of my eyes and repeatedly tell me, “I’m not touching you,” so I don’t feel too bad.

star-wars-episode-i-the-phantom-menaceImage VIA

Star Wars Episode !: The Phantom Menace.  For a long time I was completely behind this movie.  I mean, up until my most recent viewing in July, I was completely behind it.  I now will concede that it could have been better.  However, to Hil at 8, this movie was… epic.

 

This was the first midnight premiere the Millers went to, but Mom determined I was too young to go to it on a school night. Mom wisdom strikes again!  I was upset, like really upset.  I remember being at Thad’s baseball game when Mom told me I couldn’t go and thinking about how sometimes life isn’t fair.  I think this says something about how I was as a child; I didn’t get rude that I couldn’t go to the Star Wars midnight showing, I got introspective and philosophical.  I was a joy to be around.

Enter Rhett.

599074_10152631375070328_696599910_n

Rhett is my older brother (the oldest of the two). (Also, it was his birthday on Saturday– Happy Belated, bro!) Rhett said he would take me to the movie the next day.  Granted, at this point, Rhett still thought this film was going to blow his mind.  After the midnight showing, the fam was a bit disappointed, particularly the older half who were less impressed with Queen Amidala’s wigs.

 

Rhett didn’t think it was good either, but he still took me.  I think this says a lot about the person my brother is.  He’s the person who sat through Episode One twice in theaters just so I could see it.  He’s the person who played Wheatus’s Teenage Dirtbag on full volume just so he could use his whiny voice to make me smile.  He’s the person who helped take care of me when I stayed home sick (including the clean up of the most projectile of all projectile vomits).  He’s the person who would do anything for the people he loves, who is a great uncle, who literally makes everyone’s day better, and who will make a fantastic husband and father someday.

 

Gear switch. Once, when we were watching The Polar Express, I asked Mom what the four of us siblings would do if the train stopped at our house.  Would we stay? Would we hop on? She went through everyone until she got to me and said that I would do whatever Rhett did.  I can only hope this is true in real life.  I’d love to be anything like the guy I’m so lucky to have as a brother and so proud to have as a friend.

Did I mention he watched Star Wars Episode One twice in theaters?

I’m not touching you!

Photo 1