mom

On the street where you live

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‘Going down Memory Lane. Literally.’

Their Haight-Ashbury dwelling bursting at the seams with the addition of another objectively adorable baby, The Child and the SIL recently moved house. Which means that, so far, as a couple, they have lived in four different places.

Not counting the almost-year during Covid when they lived in this camper van (!)

This got me thinking about all the different places I’ve lived. I’ll start at the very beginning — because, as we all know from The Sound of Music, it’s a very good place to start.

I was born in Champaign (I love saying that out loud) where my Dad was getting his engineering degree at the University of Illinois. I’m pretty sure that, at the time, they were living in a room above a garage. There is additional family lore that my bed was a dresser drawer. Alas, there is no photographic evidence. (And, *sigh*, there is no one left to ask. See “Holidays on Edge” for bittersweet deets.)

This could be at the dresser-drawer place or, more likely due to my size, at “Vine Grove, Tuckey” (which is how I adorably lisped it)

But I do have a picture of my next residence. That’s it at the top of this post. The photo was in a batch sent to me by my Favorite Only Sister; written on the back in Mom’s handwriting is “Vine Grove, Kentucky.” This is where we lived while my Dad was stationed at Fort Knox. (He was in the Air Force.)

Chilling on the porch at Gramma’s house during my full-time tenure there

I don’t remember anything about that place, but I do remember where I lived next, because it was my Gramma Peterson’s house. We stayed there while my Dad was stationed in Korea. (How he got sent there is a pretty good story — involving secret papers and handcuffs — you can check it out at “Kissing Daddy Goodnight.”)

Mom (stage right) and me with the whole Peterson Crew: Gramma, Grampa, and my Aunt Marilyn, who was in high school and, of course, still living at home

After my Dad got back (in one piece, thank goodness) we moved back to Champaign and lived in a little bungalow in sort of a compound where a bunch of other glamorous-looking young married people had bungalows too. Everybody had little kids. I remember running in a pack following this guy Casey on his great big riding lawn mower. Heady stuff when you’re, say, four.

Mom and some of her many equally-glam friends

My parents had just built a little house — I remember it was painted blue — when my Dad’s company transferred him to Memphis. My mother was so unhappy. She told me that, during this period, she had absolutely no friends. Sorry if you’re from Memphis, but she said people were “friendly, but not your real friends.” Also, she got mistaken for a stripper. (Which, BTW, is an excellent story: “My Mom, the ‘Party Girl.'”)

Me in Memphis with the Cat that Never Had a Proper Name. We just called him “Kitty.” Oh — I have never been mistaken for a stripper *sigh*

Actually, I rather enjoyed the Memphis Years. I started school there, which is always a big deal, and had some cool adventures. Like, Elvis Presley called me a “cute little girl.” (Yup. You can read about that, too, in “The King and I”.) We lived in three places in Memphis: the big house near the college where we had a couple of college-boy renters, a ranch house somewhere where one of the college boys continued to live with us .(He roomed with my Middle Brother Roger, explained in “That’s My Bob”.) And, finally, we lived in a rambling place ever-after known as The House on The Lake. This place was memorable. My Mom found a snake behind the washing machine and another time a mouse ran up my brother’s pant leg.

All three extant Henry Kids gussied up for Easter outside the House on the Lake

This takes us up to 1960, when we moved to Carlyle, Illinois. This is where my Favorite Younger Sister and Youngest Younger Brother were born and where my family lived for the next — gasp — 47 years. The Carlyle Years surely deserve a post all their own.

Soon.

Amagansett, New York. August 2026.

Pregnant pause

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‘A brief interlude when neither The Child nor any of her friends were expecting’

You may have read some alarming pieces lately saying that the birth rate is low and going lower, and blaming this decline on everything from the economy to iPhones.

Using our iPhones to FaceTime with both babies at once

Well, the people who are writing these stories must not know my daughter or her friends. She and her cohort, iPhone-users all, are busily working on a new demographic, popping out babies right and left.

Most of The Child’s buddies have at least one youngster and several of these, including Her Childness herself, have a second.

The SIL, AKA Dad, enjoying both first and second baby

Things seemed to be slowing down a bit, gestation-wise, when Dude-Man’s nephew and wife came for a New York visit. I had even stashed my baby-sweater patterns and teensy needles.

Second baby (and sweater-recipient) belonging to one of The Child’s friends

But not so fast. The young couple had just stepped through the little red door of the Ken and Barbie House for a pre-dinner cocktail when my eyes were drawn to the Young Missus’s midsection.

She noticed my gaze, nodded and gave me a beatific smile. Needless to say, The Dude and I were thrilled. I was also vastly relieved that I didn’t have to guess whether she was pregnant. I’ve been burned before — once with an Aunt (“But Mom! She looked like she was having a baby!”) and once when I asked a fellow elevator passenger when she was due. “I am NOT pregnant,” she huffed. It was a icily silent ride to the 22nd floor, where we both got off and proceeded to a conference room where we spent four tense days judging an advertising creative show together.

Pregnant or not? The Child was actually preggers in this photo. She just hadn’t told us yet

From that day on, I never ever ask if anyone is pregnant. The person could be howling and panting on the floor, and nope, my lips stay locked. Though I have to say, it’s harder to tell these days since there seems to be no real distinction between maternity clothes and regular clothes-clothes. The bathing suit in the photo at the top of this post is not a maternity suit per se. Though I suppose it has to be, since The Child is pregnant while wearing it. See? Confusing.

The Child wearing an actual dress repurposed as maternity clothes. And yes, that’s a Waymo

In my case, which I’ve written about before, in “Burn this, please”, I only owned one piece of actual maternity clothing, making due with oversized items in my own closet and borrowing from The Dude’s as well.

This is me, hugely pregnant and wearing the only thing that fit at the time — the soon-to-be-burned overall

I was somewhere in my eighth month — when nothing fit but that godawful stone-washed overall and when I could no longer shave my legs or tie my shoes — when I realized that any fear I may have had about the actual birth process was completely gone. I was so tired of being pregnant I would have gladly given birth through a nostril or even an enlarged pore. Anything to get that baby out.

And here she was.

Just hours old, The Child in all her stonewashed-stretching glory

New York City. June 2026

 

 

 

If you see my sister tomorrow, please don’t wish her “Merry Christmas”

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‘Wish her “Happy Birthday” instead, and watch her face light up.’

It’s tough having a December birthday. Everyone’s so gosh-darned busy decorating and caroling and partying that they tend to forget that some people actually celebrate their natal day this month. People other than the Christ Child himself, I mean.

Like my sister. Her birthday not only falls in December, it’s on December 18. Which means it’s exactly one week before Christmas Day. Talk about atrocious timing.

Baby Laura. Not celebrating her birthday, but looking extremely cute

To her credit, our late great sainted mother would make an appropriate fuss on Laura’s birthday, as she did for all our birthdays. I remember that we kids used to say that “Christmas was for everybody, but birthdays were only for us.” Having a special day — with its attendant special fuss — is important in a big family.

A bit of our family hullabaloo on a random Christmas morning. And this isn’t even all of our family

We’d get to pick what we had for dinner on our birthday night — I can’t recall any of us choosing liver — and we also got to pick what kind of birthday cake we wanted. My Oldest Younger Brother Scott always specified a birthday pie because he was fonder of pie than cake. (Yes, his pie was adorned with candles.)

Laura and our sainted mom on her birthday last year

But back to my Favorite Only Sister. This year she celebrates not only an Important Big Milestone year-wise, but she is celebrating being a grandmother.

(I simply must digress here. It is nigh onto impossible for me to wrap my head around the fact that my baby sister who, in my mind’s eye is about eight years old, is now a grandmother.)

Favorite Only Sister Laura as she appears in my mind’s eye

Yes, Laura’s daughter Natalie has a freshly-produced bouncing baby girl, little Sydney. This girl is the spittin’ image of her mama and is already not only extremely adorable, but extraordinarily chatty:

I think she’s saying “Happy Birthday, Gramma!”

So. If you’re lucky enough to see my sister tomorrow — or any time this month — please do wish her a very happy birthday. She will love it. Just don’t add that you’re going to get her “one big present” for both her birthday and Christmas.

Amagansett, New York. December 2025

 

 

I can highly recommend my grief counselor

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‘AKA the Emotional Support Baby’

Well. We finally made it out to see The Child and the SIL and Mr. Baby. We tried to go visit them in Flagstaff a few weeks ago, but they got colds. Then we tried to visit them in San Francisco, and Dude Man caught a cold. (Actually, more like “the crud:” icky snorty sniffy symptoms that stuck around for what felt like forever — especially for The One Who Had to Keep Hearing About It.)

The Little Family in Flagstaff, before colds were caught

And boy, did we need this visit. Dude Man because he hadn’t seen His Babyness since Thanksgiving. And me because I lost my Mom not even a month ago. (Feel free to read my bittersweet little ode to her, “Beautiful Swan,” if you are so inclined — and have access to tissues.)

The Child was diligent with FaceTiming her Gramma. Here is a screenshot from one of their *sniff* last sessions

I have to say, even if this baby were not the most attractive baby ever to be born to any human, this trip would still have distracted us from fits of sadness and/or grief. What with all the activities we packed into three measly days, we were literally too busy to be sad.

Scott and Mr. Baby engage in a charm contest

We walked in Golden Gate Park, we went to Petaluma to play with Uncle Scott and Aunt Susan, we hiked on Mount Tam, we visited the Palace of the Legion of Honor.

Grampa and Mr. Baby resting along the Mt. Tram trail

Why, on Friday alone we spent three hours visiting Alcatraz, then marched from the pier up more than 1000 steps to reach Coit Tower. And after that, we prowled City Lights Bookstore. I’m exhausted just writing this paragraph!

The Child springs Mr. Baby from solitary confinement on Cell Block D. He was in the joint for stealing his Gramma’s heart

We still had lots of time to chill and engage in baby horseplay. These days, the Baby in Question is keen on chewing on his fist(s), grabbing anything orange, yellow or red, wriggling around while kicking mightily, and lighting up when he sees a person he likes. Which is practically everyone. I liked to glance to the rear as we were tooling about, to catch the gobsmacked expressions of the baby-spotters in our wake.

Mr. Baby appreciates a painting. But not nearly as much as the museum goers appreciated him

Grampa Wayne taught him to say “oooohhh” and Uncle Scott taught him the joys of peek-a-boo. And a splendidly good time was had by all.

Mom would have loved it.

Mom and I share a Baby FaceTime on my last visit

New York City. March 2025

Beautiful Swan

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‘Remembering Mom. With a story or two’

Perhaps you’ve heard. Perhaps you’ve heard about it too much. But, in case you haven’t heard, my mother died. On February 16, to be exact. I posted an obituary on FaceBook just last week.

I can’t figure out how to share the darned FB story, but here’s what it looked like

If you’ve lost a parent — or even if you haven’t  — I’m pretty sure you’ll understand that it can take a while before you can attempt to be amusing again. So I haven’t posted a story since my last one a couple of weeks ago, which, ironically, was about my last visit to see her. The one where we force-watched some line dancing. (It was called  “My Mom Likes Line Dancing About as Much as She Likes Yodeling” in case you missed it.)

Our last *sigh* photo together on my last Mom Visit

That post was pretty well taken up with line dancing and yodeling, and I ran out of room before I could share some Mom stories. Which I have a million of, as you can imagine.

So I thought I’d take a crack at sharing some. First up is a story that Mom used to tell. It has to do with a hair bow and some roller skates. (Mom was somewhat of a hair-bow expert. She used to tape one to the top of my follically-challenged two-year-old pate so that people could tell that I was a girl. And check out her young fine self rocking a hair bow in the photo at the top of this post.)

I keep that photo on a shelf at the Ken & Barbie House with other prized possessions, like the tiara Laura gave me and drawing by The Child

But back to Mom’s story. It seems that one Christmas, young Mom yearned for some roller skates. I’m not sure if an actual letter was written to Santa, but she told one and all that she wanted roller skates more than anything. And, sure enough, come Christmas morning, there was a heavy rectangular gift-wrapped box under the tree with her name on it.

Mom and Laura admiring the last batch of Christmas fruitcake. Well, unless Laura and Dave keep making it, which they probably will, having had plenty of practice these last few years (!)

Her Uncle Warren happened to be over at Mom’s Grandma’s house with the other aunts and uncles and cousins. (I remember Uncle Warren. He was missing an arm — lost in a farm accident involving, I believe, a baler — and used to give us kids little cubes of Chiclets gum he would squeeze one-handed out of the package.)

Anyway. Uncle Warren saw Mom handling the package, testing its heft for roller-skate-content possibilities, and said, “Hey, I bet that’s the hair ribbon you’ve been wanting!”

Mom enjoys a laugh…perhaps at one of her own stories

Poor Little Mom. She believed her Uncle Warren — even though the box was waaay too heavy to contain something as insubstantial as a hair ribbon — and burst into inconsolable tears. But of course, the package did indeed contain her roller skates, so all’s well that ended well, Christmas-morning-wise.

A Christmas featuring large collars, but no hair bows

I bet about now you’re wondering what the title of this post means. “Beautiful Swan?!?” (Well, Angica knows. Hi, Angica!) As much as I’d like to tell you that “Beautiful Swan” refers to my mother and her childhood bow-bedecked loveliness, it is, in fact, a card game. A card game we played at Laura’s kitchen table on my last Mom Visit. The game involves bluffing about the contents of your hand and is actually called “BS.” Which, of course, stands for “Bullshit.” (And it’s an actual game. I just looked it up!)

Mom in a kitchen, but not playing cards. This is when she met the SIL

A player declares, for example, that he or she is discarding two threes, and the rest of the table has a chance to say “bullshit.” Which means you are calling their bluff. If you are correct, and the player was bluffing, they have to take all the cards piled in the middle of the table. If they weren’t bluffing (er, bullshitting) then you have to take them, the object being to get rid of all your cards.

Mom at Mo’s, enjoying some chowder. But not playing cards. Though she certainly looks like she’s just won a game

The game is called “Beautiful Swan” at my sister’s in homage to her friend Lori, who wanted to play the game with her young children without exposing them to bad language. (“Bradley and Kaitlin, I’m going to teach you a card game called ‘BS!'” “What does ‘BS’ mean, Mommy?” “Why, “Beautiful Swan! That’s what it means–Beautiful Swan!'”) 

And Mom was ruthless and competitive and very very good at it. Farewell, Beautiful Swan. I’ll be back with more Mom Stories as soon as I stock up on tissues.

Mom looking beautiful — and rather swanlike — at Nephew Phil’s wedding

New York City. February 2025

My Mom likes line dancing about as much as she likes yodeling

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‘Which is to say, “not one bit”‘

Again with the excuses for not keeping up with my posts! But these days I have two unbeatable ones: 1) visiting my grandson, and 2) visiting my Mom.

Visiting grandson and mom at the same time via Facetime (!)

A couple of weeks ago, I got to do both in person. I’m finally settled down enough to write about these visits, so let’s start with the one to see Mom.

Mom recently moved to a new apartment at her senior living place, and this was the first time I got to check it out. I’m glad to report that it is as cozy as her former pad and even brighter and sunnier — and much more quiet, once I figured out how to get her heater to stop clanking. (Speaking of clanking, her old place overlooked the loading dock; it’s a good thing I like to wake early, since beefy guys were out there clanking and yelling every morning around 5:30.)

A view of Mom’s former building, with her room (second floor, corner) overlooking the loading dock

Anyway. New apartment = new friends. I got to meet a bunch of them at Mom’s breakfast table. (Hi Eugene! Hi Ann-Without-An-E! Hi Candy! When I mentioned to Candy that I had never met an actual person named “Candy,” she said that her mother wanted to name her Denise, but that her aunt said “there’s no way I’m going to have a niece named “Denise!” and that was that. Read that last phrase aloud with a Sopranos accent to see what Candy’s aunt meant.)

Mom may have changed rooms, but Snoopy and Woodstock were still on Christmas duty at this house on my morning walk

Anyway (again). This place is kind of like high school; Mom has “her” table in the dining room, and we sat with these new friends at Happy Hour on Thursday. Happy Hour starts at 2:30 in this joint (since dinner is from 4:30 to 6:00), and is very popular, with real booze (a popular cocktail is half Sprite, half “blush” wine) and live entertainment. This Happy Hour featured a singer attired in a fancy pearl-buttoned western shirt who played guitar and sang cowboy songs. (One of these was a chestnut called “I Am My Own Grandpa.”) My Mom rather enjoyed this one. But then Mr. Singer told a story about once having the great pleasure of hearing Eddie Albert sing — and yodel. Now, if you don’t know what yodeling is, you can, in my opinion, count yourself among the lucky. But if you are curious, you can watch this video with guys in cowboy outfits yodeling away.

I wonder if Mr. Baby is smiling because he just heard some yodeling?

And not only did this guy yodel, he invited us all to yodel along. Now, my Mom hates to be asked to sing along, so you can imagine how she reacted to being asked to yodel. Well. Not only did Singer Guy’s enthusiastic audience yodel along, but some of them got up and started line dancing. 

Now. My mother hates line dancing about as much as she hates Whoopi Goldberg. Which is right up there with her hate for Robin Williams. Or root canal. But line dance these folks did. While yodeling.

Now, I’m betting Mom would have loved the line dancing at The Child’s wedding (see photo at the top of this post, and the video, below). But then again, maybe not. At least they weren’t yodeling.

There was room at Mom’s table for a few more music-listeners, not just Mom’s pals. There was a couple seated to my right; the man was an enthusiastic yodeler. When the yodeling at last reached a screeching halt, I leaned around the woman and said to the guy, “Hey, that was pretty good!” After which the woman (I’m assuming it was his wife) looked me right in the eye and said, “Thanks a lot.”

Shortly after the line dancing/yodeling session at Mom’s, I was on my way south along the coast for the grandson half of my visit…to be continued!

Amagansett, New York. January 2025

Forgive me for not posting in a while.

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‘I’ve been a bit, well, distracted.’

I was on the phone with a friend the other day (remember phone calls? remember friends?) when she said, “Gosh, you haven’t posted a story in a while!” Which is how I knew that A) She was, in fact, a friend, and a very good one at that, and B) that gosh, I haven’t posted a story in a while.

Well, I have a very good excuse. I mean, besides the fact that Dude Man and I were in Australia for five weeks. (That’s right, folks — five weeks. Four in Australia, plus one in Tasmania.)

Five weeks, people. Five weeks. But we sure covered a lot of ground. (And air)

My excuse? His name is Alexander Whitmore Leakos, and he was born on October 5, when we were roaming Little Desert National Park somewhere on the Southern half of the Australian continent. The New Parents were in San Francisco. (In spite of the time difference — it was 5:00 AM for us and noon the previous day for them — we were able to participate in a very satisfying Facetime call.)

The photo that greeted us at 5 AM

Needless to say, Dude Man and I are thrilled beyond measure to be grandparents. As I told The Child, “Now I can die; I have fulfilled my biological imperative. My genetic material (such as it is) has been passed on.”

My genetic material (or some of it, anyway) made flesh (fresh flesh, at that)

Of course, there isn’t much of my genetic material that’s discernible in this tiny person. This grandkid (shorthand for whom is to be GK) bears an uncanny resemblance to his father. It’s like someone took the SIL and put him in the dryer–on high.

I rest my case. All that baby needs is a teensy little beard

But who knows? Maybe he’s inherited my sparkling wit and/or engagingly hilarious personality. Heaven knows I’m glad he did not get my Swedish Head. (In case you don’t have one, and/or don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, read “What’s that in the road — a head?”.)

Baby doing his Thinker Thing. Note nicely-shaped noggin

Anyway. One of the first things The Child did (after our Facetime, that is) is invite us to join a shared photo album, where she’s been posting photos of our little GK practically every day. I’ll shut up and share a few:

Baby meets Grampa Wayne

Baby meets Uncle Scott (make that great-uncle) and Susan the Great

Baby meets Halloween. We weren’t there for this, but they still had the Mama, Papa and Baby Bear costumes

And one of the first things we did after we got back from Australia — well, actually it was the first thing we did — was visit all three of them in San Francisco. Quite literally it was the first thing. We got on a plane in Hobart, Tasmania, at 6:00 AM, then flew 14-some hours to SF, landing at 6:30 AM and Lyfting our way to their Haight-Ashbury pad in short order.

Baby goes out to dinner

More about our visit — oh, and some stuff about Australia too — when I can catch my breath. And when I can stop scrolling through that shared album.

Can’t resist sharing just this one more. Till next time!

Amagansett, New York. November 2024

Vancouver, I miss you already

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‘And my Mom and Sister too, of course’

Guess what? This plane has WiFi (!) And I’m stuck here for upwards (hah) of four hours with a choice of watching a movie or writing this post. Heck, the flight is so long I’ll probably have time for both.

Anyway. I wrote last week about how lucky I was to get to go visit my Mom. I’m lucky because A) I actually have a Mom, and B) she’s very nice to visit. Time spent with her at her senior living place in Vancouver, Washington, is very mellow.

Mellow random shot of Gary Cooper from Instagram. Just because *sigh*

So mellow that, when Oldest Younger Brother Scott phoned to tip us off to the presence of a great basketball playoff game on TV, Mom and I ended the call with, “Thanks! Now we need to get back to doing nothing.”

The school still hasn’t hired a proofreader. I’m available

We did watch that game. Forgive me, for I am not a dyed-in-the-wool hoops fan like Mom and Scott (and Laura, for that matter). I believe it was the Timberwolves and the Nuggets. The Wolves basically gnawed those Nuggets to shreds. Must’ve hurt their teeth something fierce.

Hit “Guide” a couple of times, and a whole TV World reveals itself

We also watched the Kentucky Derby. Which I found by discovering a cool trick on Mom’s remote. If you hit “guide” twice, you get a menu of little icons for stuff like movies and game shows and news. Then, if you choose the “sports” one — it looks like a little football — you can find any sport you like. Even horse-racing. (I know, I know. This is super-boring. Sorry. But it made our day, which should give you an inkling of what our days were like.)

First three-way Derby photo finish ever. Or practically ever; forget which. Mom picked the winner!

My days started with my walk through Mom’s nabe. If it was raining, I waited for “the window.” You’d be surprised how many people do the same thing. I said “hello” to a nice mailman one otherwise-raining morning, who merrily said, “Gotta take advantage of the window!” right back at me.

Blossoms and trash bins adorn this Vancouver street during a “window”

We didn’t get around to Scrabble this visit. Too many sports events to watch. Lots of Happy Hours too. There were two regularly-scheduled ones during my visit, plus one Mexican Fiesta in honor of Cinco de Mayo. They have entertainment (besides wine and cheese, and margaritas for the Fiesta) at these hoedowns. You know you’re getting old when they play “All The Leaves Are Brown” and “Downtown” at your Mom’s senior living facility.

I’d love to know the story here. Or maybe not

There is a hardcore group of line-dancers who never fail to get up and do their line-dancing thing at Happy Hour. I swear they’d line dance to the Star-Spangled Banner. They kinda drive my Mom crazy; we have to position our chairs so as not to see them.

Other than the line-dancers and the bossy woman who planted my mother’s paper whites outside in the January cold and who Mom has sworn to never speak to again, everyone is terrific chez Mom. At this point, I’d like to give a special bye-bye shoutout to Jeff and Leonard and Carole and Betty and Renee and all the various Shirleys: Shirley with the dog, Shirley with the purse, short Shirley, Shirley who lives down the hall, and Shirlee with the two “ees.”

I miss you all already!

Bye bye, Mt. Hood and Mt. Whatsits. I also saw Mt. St. Helens

En route from Vancouver to New York. May 2024

“Lucky”

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‘I have a mom and I get to go visit her today’

Whenever somebody in our family does something that my Middle Younger Brother Roger wishes he could do, he says, “Lucky.”

So I’m crediting him with the comment before making it myself. But this time I get to do the lucky thing, not just hear about it: I get to go visit my mother.

Me, hanging around JFK prepping for a previous Mom Visit

I’m getting on a plane in a few hours — writing this post is one way to keep from pacing around the very small Ken & Barbie House and wearing a path in the tile — so I may have to cut this post short. But maybe not, especially if I keep it short.

I should take this card along with me. Or maybe get a “keep calm” tee shirt. Or maybe just get a manhattan in the Delta Lounge

Basically, what I do when I visit my mother is sit around with her, drinking coffee and/or wine and reading and knitting. Talking a lot too, of course. Reminiscing. Gossiping. Solving the world’s problems.

Oh, there’s also walk-taking. Since I get up super-early (I’m on Eastern Time but even at home I’m up irrationally early), I go for a long walk through Mom’s nabe while she’s still sleeping. Then later, fueled up by coffee, we go on walks together. I do a lot of walking on these trips.

I can hardly wait to walk by this school again so I can check the grammar on their sign

Sometimes, if we’re feeling really frisky, we play Scrabble. (That’s me celebrating a seven-letter word in the photo at the top of this story. Talk about lucky.) But Scrabble is more fun with more players, so we usually skip it and do more reading.

My lucky necklace. I wear it every time I fly. Guess who gave it to me? No, not Mom. But close: my one and only Sister

Oh, did I mention that I sleep on Mom’s pullout couch? Actually, it’s much bigger than my bed at the Ken & Barbie House. But it is in rather close proximity to Mom’s fridge, which rumbles off and on through the night.

But hey. Those are not problems. Not at all. I have a Mom — and I get to go see her. Nyah nyah nyah.

Added bonus: A Sister Sighting! Here’s Mom and me with Laura

New York City (but not for long). May 2024

 

 

What do you call the father of your daughter’s husband?

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‘Other than a really nice guy, I mean.’

So, okay. It’s been ages since I checked in with you lovely readers (hi Sally!) and I’d better get a wiggle on before this year runs its course too.

“Enough already” you’ll be thinking if I start whining about how fast time has been whizzing by, so I won’t go there this time. Suffice it to say that I just put my Christmas-tree-scented candle away — and I didn’t get around to lighting it even once this season.

No need to put up a Christmas Tree; there’s one right outside our window. Have to go outside to sniff it though

So what was I doing instead of sniffing fake evergreen? Well, Dude Man and I got a snootfull of the real thing out in Flagstaff, Arizona, where The Child and her hub The SIL have put down roots.

Dude Man strolling around Flagstaff. That’s the giant pine cone hanging from that building across the street. On New Year’s Eve, they “drop” it

It’s a really fun town (cool shops! hot restaurants! wine bars! more wine bars!) and in the middle of a lot of Natural Wonders. The last time we were there (Christmas 2021, which, yes, feels like two weeks ago, not two years) we climbed down a mile into the Grand Canyon. (And yes, climbed back up.)

Me, looking determined but mighty relieved, climbing out of the Grand Canyon

This time, we “did” the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest and the Meteor Crater. After all that we were just too goldarned tired to make it to the Lowell Observatory. Next time.

We also did a bit of Christmas shopping. Here we check out the display of Cheap Plastic Shit (Note Child decked out in non-plastic Mom-knit hat)

We also hung out around the house, where I continued my Hat Attack by knitting one for The Guy Who Is My SIL’s Dad, otherwise known as The Child’s Father-in-Law. I love this guy; I really do. No sooner had I whipped it off my needles, revealing that it was for him, when he grabbed it and put it on his head. “I love this hat,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. (Conversely, my SIL, whom I adore in spite of this, took one look at his hat, thanked me, then dropped it into a basket of many many hats. Sigh.)

Mark and his son James (my SIL) not wearing their handknit hats, but looking extremely cute anyway

Which brings me to the ostensible subject of this piece: what to call this guy. “The Child’s Father-in-Law” is accurate, but not very snappy, though I suppose it could be shortened to “The Child’s FIL.” Nah, no one will get it. Then, as noted above, there’s “The Guy Who Is My SIL’s Dad.” Still no good.

Huge petrified log — and Co-Father-In-Law, Dude

I googled, and here’s the best I could find: “A father-in-law is the father of a person’s spouse. Two men who are fathers-in-law to each other’s children may be called co-fathers-in-law, or, if there are grandchildren, co-grandfathers.” For mothers-in-law, same deal.

They used to train astronauts at the Meteor Crater, hence the spacecraft

But google as hard as I could, I could find no citing for the relationship between me (a mother-in-law) and him (a father-in-law). “Parents in law?” Blech. I guess I’ll just call him Mark. (And yes, speaking of the name “Mark,” I did tell him the one about the guy at Starbucks who told the barrista he was “Marc with a ‘C'” and got a cup labeled “Cark.”) He laughed, which is yet another reason (other than wearing the handknit hat) that I like him.

Painted Desert and Mother-in-Law, Moi

Oh, he’s not perfect, by any means. He leans Libertarian (which endears him to The Dude), and, at one point, he regaled the occupants of the Ford 350 with the entire history of the iPhone which he read from the screen of (yes) his iPhone.

Christmas Hike: The Child and Me, flanked by two Co-Fathers-In-Law

But he’s sweet and funny and a great cook who cleans up after himself (see top photo for proof) so he’s aces in my book. I doubt if he really cares what you call him. As long as you call him for dinner. Or a new knit hat.

Mark’s hat during a rare moment not on his head (It’s topping a teapot)

Amagansett, New York. January 2024