Love for Grandpa

We all know I'm an overly nostalgic person, but I've been feeling particularly connected to my grandpas lately. Last week, our kids' school celebrated their first annual Country Fair. (It was awesome.) Our PTA president, myself and many other parents from our school are also alums and we opted to bring back the Country Fair theme (to replace the Medieval Faire, because really, what about the Medieval time period screams "children's fair"?), but also because the Country Fair was the theme of our youth. Again with the nostalgia. The fair was great; a lot of work, but also a lot of fun. I was in charge of game booths. It was a great job for me and a crummy job for me. I loved deciding on the games, naming them, creating them and working with our co-chairs on the layout. But I despise nagging people to work their one-hour shifts. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. As the fair got closer, I was more and more unhappy with the job, so I decided to do a little something for myself, and this is what I came up with:

Sorry those pictures aren't great. For some reason it never occurred to me to take a picture of them. I know. Duh.

The whole process got me thinking a lot about my grandpas. My dad's dad, Grandpa Bill, was a sign maker by profession. He created the stencils which would be used to paint a sign on, say, the side of a truck, for example. And he was a calligrapher and lover of all things hand-made. In his retirement, he perfected calligraphy, jewelry making, painting, copper on enamel plates (some of which are hanging in my dining room to the left of me as I write), gold leaf and furniture restoration, just to name a few. From him I inherited my love of all things hand-made and a love for the process of creating something with my own two hands, as well as the appreciation for things made by others. I especially learned a love for creative, beautiful lettering. I wish I had a fraction of the talent he had and hope that some day I will have the time to practice and focus more on the art. I also inherited from Grandpa Bill a desire for perfection, which is something I fight against every day! :) This project was meant to look "unperfect" so it was great for me!

Thinking about Grandpa Bill also got me thinking about my Grandpa Joe, my mom's dad, whom I knew much better. From Grandpa Joe I inherited my love for sports, particularly baseball. He was a wonderful athlete, who would be so proud to see his grandson (who bears his name) finally excelling at sports and really learning to love the game. We also share a love for Boston, his hometown, which we never visited together. I hope that my own parents have the chance to share their hometowns with their grandchildren. What better way to learn their history and stories. And my gramps loved to tell a story. From him I learned the joy of hearing and telling a great story (sometimes over and over to the same people). We love to make people smile. And the man cried. A lot. Nostalgic, loving, sentimental, just like his granddaughter. And stubborn as all hell. Yeah, we share that, too.

I'm missing my grandpas terribly lately. How I wish my Grandpa Bill could see that, though I never perfected the art of calligraphy, for nothing I do is ever perfect, I have grown to love the process, and find great joy and peace in the craft. I never see a hand painted sign which doesn't make me think of him. I wonder what he'd think about Pinterest and etsy. In a day and age of quick and cheap and plastic and free shipping, would he appreciate online resources for a reconnection to the past? If he were a generation younger, would he have his tech-savvy son helping him set up his own etsy shop? I wish I'd paid more attention in those calligraphy lessons, lived closer so he could have taught me cloisonné. Taken a trip to Vermont with him to admire the gold leaf signs. And my Grandpa Joe I miss every day. I wear my Boston Red Sox hat for him and wish we could have enjoyed a game at Fenway together just once. He never got to see Zachary play "real" baseball, but I know nothing would make him happier than playing catch with him just one more time. I wonder what he'd think about watching Annalise and Juliette dance. I can hear him laughing and cussing and maybe even doing a little imitation just to get a laugh. But I know he'd be proud of them, too, even proud that his granddaughters are great athletes, too. (He was slow to come around to the idea of girls playing sports... not one of his best traits!!)  I'd love to hear his ridiculous stories just one more time, even the ones I've heard a hundred times, seeing his blue eyes fill with tears. I wish I had another chance to meet both of them again. In my old age, I've realized just how much I learned from each of them. I wish I'd learned that sooner.

On to the signs...

So I stole a pallet. Well, I didn't exactly steal. I asked permission first, then parked illegally, and shoved that puppy into the back of my van. It was much bulkier than I thought and I was glad I'd talked a friend into helping me shove it in. And then Jason took it apart, which really was not a pretty process. At all. Perhaps we should have looked at the online tutorials on how to take apart a pallet first. Anyway, we got it apart and Jason cut 24 pieces, of varying lengths for me. No pictures of this part. Like I said, not so pretty.

Then I painted the pieces poorly. The idea was to make it look like the signs were old, so using a pallet was perfect, as was painting them quickly and sloppily. This was so super easy and fast! (Which was necessary, since this was all done two days before the fair.) I used regular pre-mixed house paint from the hardware store... No time to be picky about colors, though I did add some gray to the blue, as it was a little darker than what I wanted. Here are some of the painted pieces.

You can see how the pallet was perfect for this because it made each piece a little more interesting.

While they were drying, I went to my computer. I wrote out each name I wanted on the signs in Word and then I selected which font I wanted to use for each. This way I could be somewhat brainless about painting and just copy the different fonts. I downloaded a few new fonts for the process (which I love to do anyway). http://www.dafont.com is one of my favorite places to look for fonts. Then once the base paint was dry (top and bottom and all sides, since I knew they'd be seen from every direction) I started to paint. I made eight signs in each color, used white paint to write on the blue and red signs and either blue or red for the white signs. Here was my first sign:

It's one of my favorites, too. I love the hole in the sign. The font for this one was American Typewriter and I used just a cheapo paintbrush that I got at the hardware store for all the lettering. Nothing fancy, just copying the computer! Here's a close up of some of the white on red signs:

See how imperfect they are? It doesn't matter. The impact of all of the signs together was the important part. And the imperfection was a clear reminder that things used to be hand-made. Here they are all together. (Again, sorry for the quality of the pictures. Thank goodness for iPhones, though!)

If you look closely, you see all the imperfections, but as a whole, I think they went with the tone and feel of a small town Americana Country Fair.

To hang them, we next bought two 2 inch (I think!) square long pieces of wood. I banged them up a bit with both sides of my hammer, and then painted them poorly with white paint. We installed them with zip ties to other poles either on the playground or the large rented "town square" tent. My husband pre-drilled holes in each sign approximately in the middle of each one so we could easily install in place with screws. The signs more or less pointed in the direction of the various games.  Here they are again:

A little piece of Americana, twenty minutes from downtown LA, in our own small town USA.

I hope a little bit of nostalgia maybe will bring you some joy as it brought to me!

A Big Kid Kind of Day!

Six years ago, Annalise started kindergarten. At the time, I was pregnant with Juliette. It seems so hard to believe, but today that kindergartner started sixth grade. And that unknown baby, merely a bump in my belly, is now a kindergartner.

This morning I packed three lunches (well, actually only two lunches and one snack), filled three water bottles, double checked three backpacks, braided two heads of hair (no braids for Zachary!), spread sunscreen on three noses, and sprayed three heads with lice spray. I did not load up a stroller with school supplies (all the big stuff -- packets of printer paper, Clorox wipes, Kleenex) because I don't own a stroller anymore. But our big wagon was full and we dragged that thing down the hill. We had to leave extra early so that we could have time to drop kids off in three different classrooms. Excited, and not even too tired or hot (We did go to Magic Mountain yesterday and it is August 12th!!! The humanity!), they smiled for pictures in front of their classrooms, hugged friends and said goodbye.

I knew this day would come. In some ways I looked forward to it. I even remember thinking when Annalise started how in six years I would get time to myself every day! Six years!!! That seemed like a whole lifetime! I wasn't sure I'd make it to six years! That was double Annalise's age! And yet, here it is. I did make it. I will (OK, in theory!) have time to myself every day. And I'm not really sure I want it. Yes, it will be great to be able to exercise every day. Go to coffee with a friend. Go to Target by myself. Work on the house a little bit. (That's as far as my brain can stretch right now. What am I going to do?) My house is quiet right now. Too quiet. I miss my little munchkin and her constant chatter.

My kids are getting bigger. The crib and high chair are long gone. The stroller, packed away in Grandma's attic. The rocking horse has a new home with my nephew in San Francisco. Tomorrow I will pack up the preschool shirts and tote bags  and drop them off for an excited three year old who will start at St. George's on Tuesday. The transition has been slow and subtle, but there's no mistaking it now: this is a big kid house. We have braces and swim caps and soccer balls and ballet shoes and protractors. We listen to Macklemore and Maroon 5 and not to Baby Mozart or Beethoven's Wig. We watch Goonies and Back to the Future. Four fifths of us have read Harry Potter. And I am one of those veteran moms at the kindergarten yard who, six years ago, really looked like she had her shit together. Those moms who were comfortable sitting at the PTA meeting. Who knew the other moms at the gate. Who knew where to go. I remember thinking, "In six years, I'll be one of them. One of the old moms!" I'm one of them now. Only I don't feel old and I definitely don't feel like I have my shit together. I'm the same mommy who came home and cried, just like I did six years ago. Just like I did three years ago. The only difference is this time I walked up the hill alone. No stroller. No tiny hand in mine.

Tomorrow I will take a yoga class. Yoga!!! And be thrilled that I have the opportunity to do so. Tomorrow we will start up our morning dance parties again and I will be SO happy that we aren't dancing to The Wheels on the Bus! Tomorrow I will have an uninterrupted conversation with a friend! But this morning, I will take the time to miss my little ones. All three of them. And I will mourn the fact that my babies are growing up. And tomorrow I'll celebrate!

Gotta go... Time to go pick up that big girl! Can't wait to hold her hand while we walk up the hill and she tells me all about her big day!

Open Letter to My Daughter's Teacher Who Doesn't Understand Why I'm Nervous About Her Flying Across the Country with Her Class

Dear Mr. H,

Before we get started, think of yourself and the control freak that you are. Soak that in. Own it. Don't try and deny it.

OK, you got that? Now imagine that, control freak that you are, you have a child.

Imagine wanting something so much and then for some reason you can't explain, God gives that thing to you. A baby. For some reason the universe has trusted you to carry a baby. (I know this is a stretch; work with me here.) And for the next nine months your only role, the only thing that matters, is to keep that thing alive. And you do.  And you're in the hospital and you're like "Yes!! I totally did that! I made that kid out of thin air and here she is in the world!"

And then they let you take her home. And you're like, "No, seriously, people, I don't know what the f*&% I'm doing here. Don't make me leave!! WHY ARE THEY LETTING US TAKE HER HOME??? DON'T THEY KNOW WE ARE MORONS???" But they do. They make you take that baby home.

And then you get that baby home and you look at her and think, "I can't even keep a plant alive. I'm not to be trusted with a goldfish. I give this kid a month at best." And yet somehow, you make it through that first month. And then another. And another. Purely on the power of milk from your own breast. (Again, work with me here. Use your imagination.) And then you're like, "Dude! I kept this thing alive ALL BY MYSELF!!" And you do a little bit of fist pumping, because this is by far the biggest thing you've ever done.

But you're not done yet. That kid keeps growing. And growing. And she starts doing things. Chewing on things (other than your breast); rolling over; babbling; crawling; walking; talking; analyzing shirt sleeves. (OK, maybe your kid wouldn't do that , but my toddler was super obsessed with spaghetti straps and cap sleeves. But she's kinda freaky like that.)

And she's so much like you. She looks like you. She laughs like you. She's sensitive like you. And you think, "Wow! She's just like me. A mini me!"

And then you realize she isn't just like you. You realize your spouse is in there, too, and maybe some distant relative or maybe something that is uniquely her. And then comes the hardest part for us control freaks... YOU HAVE TO LET HER BE HER! She's not you. She's her own unique person with her own unique qualities and hopes and talents and fears. And, as a parent, it's your job to let that all come through. To let her be the person she's meant to be.

And so you learn to let go a bit. You take her to preschool. You drop her off for playdates. You let her take trips with her grandparents. You let her walk by herself to school.

And you still teach her everything you know.

And then one day you'll realize she can do things you CAN'T do. She knows about cells and the American Revolution and things you probably knew at one time but don't anymore. And she can run a mile in seven minutes (which you're pretty sure you never could do). And she can do a pirouette. And a double pirouette. And a triple. (And you know you have to use spell check to even write the word pirouette, much less know how to do it yourself.)

And this is the joy of being a parent: knowing that you could have control-freaked that kid into being someone just like you, but letting go enough to let her become who she is meant to be. You'll still be in there: in her looks, in her snarky sense of humor; in the way she writes. But she will also be completely her own person. And this is not only ok; it's beautiful.

But, my fellow control freak, it's not easy. It takes a lot of faith in the world. Faith in her teachers. Faith in the people in your neighborhood who drive too fast. Faith that kidnappers stay the f*&% away. Faith in her. Faith in God. Faith in the universe.

And this week, it takes every ounce of faith I have to let that child get on a plane without me, and let her travel all the way across the country in a metal tube. Let her sleep in a dorm room with only one other fifth grader. Let her travel by bus over snowy roads. And travel back home to me in another metal tube. And faith that my heart won't break from missing her so much.

But I DO have faith in her. Faith in the universe, faith in God, faith in the tube, faith in the bus driver and faith in you. I know you will look after my baby and keep her safe. I know you will. But this isn't easy for me. And I think if you looked at this trip through my eyes and saw all the things which are out of my control and even out of your control, you'd understand why I'm, you know, a teensy bit anxious. Why I've sent too many emails. Asked too many questions.

That's my baby up there in that tube with you right now. My flesh and blood, who grew in my belly and nursed at my breast. Who has a great laugh and a kick-ass grand jete. Keep her safe and bring her back to me Friday a little wiser, a little funnier and full of awesome stories to tell. I can't wait to see her again.

And thank you. You'll never know how grateful I am.

With Love,
Christa