Easter Egg-Dyeing Party
On Friday evening, we all went over to Mom’s house to dye eggs for Easter. Bun and I rode over to Mom’s together, and when we arrived, only Jake was there. The first thing he did (before even saying hello) was tag me. …
Tag: being an aunt
A Funny Old Story
I’m still reading my old journals (it’s one of my favorite pastimes), and today I found this funny story from the year Jake was four and Sophie was seven. As you’ll see, the kids were a real handful back then …
Remembering Bunny’s Wedding
Sophie and Tiger
I’ve been going through my old journals again, and today I came across this little passage, about my sister Bunny’s wedding back in 2006, when Sophie was five and Jake was two:
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Sophie was so pretty as Bunny’s flower girl. Her dress was the color of a butter mint–a very, very pale creamy yellow. She had matching shoes and ruffled socks. The dress was moire taffeta with puff sleeves. It was long, with a sash around the waist. Sophie wore a crown woven of silk roses and real spirea picked in Mom’s yard. And she had a little white basket full of white rose petals. It was decorated with ribbon and pink silk roses. Mom spent days making the crown and trimming the basket.
Sophie came to the wedding carrying her little basket and wearing her crown. She was also holding her best friend, her little stuffed cat named Tiger. Tiger was all dressed up for the wedding too, with a little bracelet on his head for a crown, and a whole bunch of necklaces. He wore a ring on his tail. . . .
“Ow wow,” I said. “Tiger’s dressed up too!”
Bunny gave Sophie a special gift to thank her for being her flower girl. It was a fairy doll with violet eyes. The doll wore a sheer, opalescent gown, and she had sheer, shimmering wings. Her hair was yarn, and she wore a crown of flowers just like Sophie’s. Her shoes were little purple ballet slippers.
Sophie was so excited about her fairy doll and so excited about being a flower girl. She was being very sweet. She is so passionate, and she always tries. She tries so hard with everything. She really took her flower-girl duties to heart.
Jake wore a little light blue seersucker suit with short pants. He had tonic in his hair, which was carefully combed to the side. He was sick, with a hoarse voice. He would tell you he had a turtle in his throat.
“Jake, what’s wrong with your throat?” we’d ask. “What’s in it?”
“Turtle,” he would say, very sadly and seriously. I’m sure he believed there was actually a turtle in his throat; he obviously felt very sorry for himself.
Bunny’s bridal bouquet was the neatest thing–ornamental cabbage and spirea.
“It’s so cute,” I said to Matt. “Her bridal bouquet is basically a cabbage. . . .”
“Yep,” he said.
St. Augustine: A Few More Tidbits
I want to tell you just a bit more about our last night in St. Augustine, what a jolly madhouse it was in our little beach house. Bunny and I sat around together trying to remind each other of old Christmas memories, things the other …
Pumpkin Muffins and a Camellia Show
On Saturday I was so happy just because I was free. For one precious day I didn’t have to go to work and I could do whatever I wanted. I added a sweetshrub (Calycanthus floridus) and three Elliott’s blueberries (Vaccinium elliottii) to our big bed around the pond, and Rob limbed up a lot of trees so …
St. Augustine: Day Two
On our second full day in St. Augustine the weather finally started to warm up, and I was so glad. That first night we were there, Sunday night, I had felt so sad when we passed the historic district all lit up with Christmas lights; we couldn’t get out of the car because it was too cold. I’d never seen such a beautiful, tantalizing display, with canopies of twinkle lights hovering over the little streets, and the trees and gazebos in the parks all striped with lights too.
But by Tuesday it was finally warm enough to really enjoy the city. Mom, Bun, Matt, Sophie, and I went on a tour of the Dow Museum of Historic Houses, which features nine historic houses dating from 1790 to 1910.
We purchased our tickets from the very persnickety ticket lady at the front desk. I was paying for Mom and me and Sophie, so I said, “One senior, one adult, and one child, please.”
“Child?” the ticket lady said, peering over her glasses at me. “Do you mean the student?” She motioned to Sophie.
“Yes,” I said. “Her. The child.”
“The student,” the ticket lady said. “One student.” (She was so persnickety.)
Apparently a student ticket was different from a child’s ticket (more expensive), and anyone over the age of three was considered a student.
Anyway, we referred to Sophie as “the student” for the duration of our visit.
“I hope the student is taking notes,” I said. “At the end of our tour, there will be a quiz, which I will be administering.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. She kept sassing us the whole time, saying all she had learned is that “old-fashioned people ate turtle.” She also kept herself busy pointing out hair wreaths . . . and the butt cracks of various cherubs.
At one point we were exploring one of the old houses and we found a very small door, the exact same height as Sophie. “Oh, this must be the student door,” I said, and I encouraged her to open it and enter whatever little secret passageway it guarded.
“Don’t worry,” I said insincerely. “I won’t lock it behind you.”
Later Sophie and I sat on a breezy porch surrounded by rustling cabbage palms. Sophie was grimacing and rubbing her forehead.
“Are you regretting your decision to come with us to the historic house museum?” I asked. (Her parents had taken Jake to the wax museum.)
Sophie cried, “I just have a bug bite—and no, you can’t see it!”
“Well,” I said, “I wasn’t actually going to ask to see it, believe it or not.”
Sophie and I love to play fight.
Mom was being really cute and bossy as we wandered around the gardens. When she discovered a kumquat tree full of bright orange fruit, she started giving me orders: “Now stand up there! Pick one! Try it!”
It was so funny and so typical that I had to write it down. I always bring a little notepad around with me so I can take notes.
The garden walls at the Dow Museum were so neat. Some had stone seats built into them. Others had fan windows.
There were more statues than plants in the little garden rooms.
We had lunch at Athena House. Sophie was so cute. She was so hungry, she actually ate a slice of cucumber. And most of Matt’s pita triangles. I always think it’s cute when Sophie’s hungry because usually she could care less about food. I guess I feel like I can relate to her better when she’s hungry–because I’m always hungry.
After lunch, we went antiquing. Well, most of us did. Phil opted to take Jake to some tourist shops instead.
“I think Phil’s probably still looking for his pirate socks,” Mom smiled.
The tourist shops were just down the road from the antiques shops. It was so funny. At one point I was coming out of a shop and I caught a glimpse of Jake in the distance, in the middle of a leap. He looked so wonderfully nutty and full of life.
“Hey, Kris,” I said, pointing. “I just saw Jake leaping down there.”
“I kind of feel sorry for Phil,” Kris said. “Jake’s terrible in stores.”
We had so much fun in the beach house that night, the last night of our trip. It was a mad house.
At a certain point Sophie was threatening me with produce. “Beets are for beating,” she said, with a devilish little smile.
“Matt,” I called across the house (we were sitting at the dining room table and Matt was sitting in the living room on the couch), “Sophie needs to come hang out with you. There’s wordplay going on over here. Puns and the like.”
“Oh,” Matt said, chuckling in his sheepish way, “any punny ones?”
Bunny groaned and rolled her eyes. “Matt,” she said, “what have I told you about quality versus quantity?”
We sat at the table in the dining room, playing Cheese Touch, Jake’s latest board game. While he was waiting for his turn, he kept smelling his socks. He’d raise his little stripe-y foot happily to his nose.
“Jake,” Bunny said sweetly, “I’ve noticed you keep smelling your socks. Is that because they smell good or bad?”
“Good!” Jake replied.
Kris said, rolling her eyes, “They’re shea infused.”
Jake is such a cheater whenever we play board games. About halfway through our Cheese Touch game he pretended he was quitting just so he could walk past Bunny and see the card she was holding. He walked past her all sad, his head hanging and his bottom lip protruding. But it was a ruse! It was all a ruse! He was cheating (though he would never admit it).
Jake loves to be dramatic. He loves to twist your words and then become very insulted. He loves to storm out of the room in the middle of a game of Cheese Touch. “Yeah, rub it in!” he’ll cry when nobody is rubbing anything in. Then he’ll storm off in hopes that you’ll try to comfort him by letting him have another turn.
Kris is so funny. At one point she sighed and said to me, “I don’t know what I’m going to do about Jake’s personality.”
At about 11:00 (way past my bedtime), Bunny got out her jump rope and she and I started turning it in the crowded, chaotic living room so Sophie could jump. Sophie was so cute, dressed in her little soft brown velvet pants; they’re total high waters and make her look very cute and short and babyish. Sophie always wears soft pants (she’s all about comfort), and she always wants her T-shirts to have jokes on them. When her mother took her shopping the other day, Sophie said, “If a shirt’s hilarious and it has sequins on it, then I definitely want to get it.”
Anyway, Bun and I were turning the rope and whooping, encouraging Sophie. We kept hitting the TV with the rope and getting the rope caught in the ceiling fan. We were laughing really loud and driving Matt and Phil and Mom crazy as they tried in vain to read. (There was much glaring and eye-rolling.) Sophie was jumping and jumping and Bun and I were counting her jumps really loudly and obnoxiously.
Sophie was good at jumping. She even tried her hand at running in, and hopping on one foot. The whole house was shaking. Meanwhile, Jake was sitting around in his Grinch pajamas playing one of his little handheld games and smelling his shea-infused socks, and finally he decided he wanted to jump too. He got up the courage. So gracious little Sophie let him take a turn.
Jake was good at jumping rope, even though it was his first time trying. He was so proud of himself. His cheeks were bright pink, and he had this completely delighted look in his eyes. He jumped 12 times without missing, and then Bun and I got the rope hung up on a cabinet. (We were in some very cramped quarters.)
Jake kept wanting to try jumping over and over again.
“One more time! No, two more times!” he cried. “No, three more times!”
“Mommy . . .” Sophie whined.
“Jake, don’t ruin it,” Kris warned.
“I’m not!” he cried. “I’m just excited! I’m just really proud I can do it! I can jump rope, Mommy!”
Jake kept jumping and jumping, looking so thrilled and so hilarious in his little green flannel pajamas. Finally, his mother told him it was time for bed.
Kris insisted and Jake started crying. “Mommy!” he said, in tears. “I’m seven years old! I’m not a little child anymore!”
I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see me smiling.
After Jake went to bed, Sophie jumped a little more rope, then turned into a ninja. Her transformation was quite sudden and unexpected. She came leaping into the living room, dressed in the following ninja gear: a knit beanie, a scarf (covering her face), and my slipper socks. She was brandishing a pair of Mom’s knitting needles.
“Soph!” Mom cried. “Put those down! You’ll poke your eye out!”
“Yes, Sophie,” Matt said. ”That’s very dangerous.” He confiscated the knitting needles.
But Sophie was so cute as she did her ninja kicks and leaps. She is such a late-night goofball. Apparently becoming a ninja is the type of thing she does every night when she’s supposed to be doing her homework. She’s apparently big into procrastination.
At about midnight, Bunny and Sophie and I started playing another game of Liv dolls, our biggest one yet. But I’ll have to tell you about that tomorrow. I’ll do another post–a little wrap-up of our trip.
St. Augustine: Day One
The day after Christmas my family (Kris, Phil, Sophie, Jake, Bun, Matt, and Mom) and I took a trip to St. Augustine and stayed in a cute little coral-colored beach house. It was bitter cold when we arrived on Sunday afternoon, and I was worried …
A Kimel Christmas
On Christmas morning I got up really early and planted 12 Shi-Shi Gashira sasanquas under the pindo palms near our pond. I was running around in the sparkling dew, petting Maggie and Babs in between plantings and wishing them a merry Christmas. Greg was sitting …
Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve was so exciting–because it was the beginning of everything, the beginning of all the fun, the beginning of all my days off, my sweet, precious vacation. I spent the morning happily cleaning up cat throw up.
Kris and I met at Mom’s house before driving over to La Fiesta to meet Dad for our traditional Christmas Eve lunch. Kris is always so funny. When I first saw her, she was rolling her eyes and she said, “Sophie and Jake are being particularly loathsome today.” And just then, as if on cue, the kids burst out of the house, screaming.
They were so excited about Christmas. They were just beside themselves with crazy joy. They were so wound up, they fought all the way to La Fiesta. Jake already had a big cut on his face–because he had fallen into his bedside table when he was “attacking” Sophie. (He loves to jump on her and grab her and wrestle with her. )
“Santa’s watching!” Kris yelled. And then when that didn’t work, she said, “I’m cancelling Christmas!” But the kids just blew her off.
Dad, Bun, and Matt were already sitting down when we arrived at La Fiesta. I sat next to Jake, and periodically he’d elbow me in the ribs with all his might.
He also hogged the salsa. He pulled the little cup toward himself and said, “Hands off!” So all the people sitting around him (me, Kris, and Sophie) were forced to eat dry chips.
Kris took a dry, crunchy bite: “Boy, this sure could use some salsa,” she said.
Jake ate a little salsa. Then he opened a pack of sugar and downed that.
“Ah, just what Jake needs!” Matt said. “More sugar.”
Dad started asking me about my trip to England, and I was doing so bad with my storytelling.
“It–it was cold,” I was said, grinning like an idiot.
But Dad persisted, asking in his cheerful, nervous way (we all get our shyness from Dad): “W–well, okay, but did you see anything?”
“We saw some . . . um . . . castles!” I said. I was being so boring. I’m always kind of nervous around Dad because we don’t see him very much. Plus, sometimes I get stage fright when I have to tell stories in front of more than one person.
I faced a lot of obstacles to my storytelling. Jake was elbowing me in the ribs. And meanwhile, Sophie sat across the table, adjusting her tie in a hammy, cheesy sort of way and raising her eyebrows at me rakishly. She perused the drink menu (she’s nine). “I think I’ll have a Lowenbrau,” she said to Kris.
But I went on valiantly, haltingly: “We saw Warwick Castle,” I said. “It’s the best castle in England. Castles are smaller than you’d think, but otherwise they really do look exactly how they do in fairytale books.”
I talked about other English things too, in my uncertain, boring way–Tudor architecture, treacle. . . .
“What is treacle?” Bun asked.
“Um,” I said, “I don’t really know.”
Then the food arrived.
“Could you please stop talking, Leslie?” Jake requested. “I’d like to eat my quesadilla in peace and quiet.”
Kris motioned for him to cut it out.
“I’m serious, Mommy!” he cried, and he broke a chip in what he obviously hoped would be a very serious, threatening way–but the salt flew directly in his eye, completely undermining his dignity. Sophie and Kris and I died laughing. He’s so little, only seven, and he has the chubbiest cheeks and roundest, bluest eyes. It’s impossible to take him seriously.
Dad is always totally oblivious of the kids and their shenanigans. He said, “So, Lez, were the plants completely different in England or did you see a lot that you recognized?”
“Don’t answer that, Leslie,” Jake said.
Kris was so mad at Jake; she was shooting daggers at him with her eyes.
“Um, I saw a lot of azaleas and rhododendrons. . . .” I said.
Jake elbowed me in the ribs again, nearly knocking the wind out of me. He kept leaving the table in a huff and going to sit with “the classy people” (complete strangers). Well, he didn’t really sit; he just strolled around the restaurant, his head hanging shyly. (He’s very shy, except around the family.)
I droned on about England, and Jake came back to the table in a different frame of mind.
“Now where is this England place?” he asked cheerfully, conversationally, munching on a chip.
“Right over there,” Matt said, gesturing to his left.
“All I see over there is a fireplace!” Jake cried.
“Jake,” Kris said, “don’t play the fool.”
But that’s what I love about Jake. He’s always playing the fool, entertaining us.
Our table was the craziest table in the whole restaurant. We started opening presents, and the wrapping paper was flying. Jake and Sophie had made Dad some very large, awesome cards. Jake’s said, “Marry Christmas!” It was his best card yet, done in several colors. (Usually Jake just picks up a gray marker and sticks with it. )
Matt was observing the whole chaotic card-opening scene, and he muttered to me, “Somebody needs to tell Jake your dad’s already married.”
Jake and Sophie gave Dad a picture of themselves. And Dad gave Sophie a knit hat with owl eyes, and Jake an entire set of Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.
Sophie put on her owl hat and for the next five days I never saw her again without it. Jake started reading his books aloud to us at the table. Then he remembered La Fiesta’s spacious, empty patio, and he dragged me outside to play tag. I was all dressed up in fancy shoes and a skirt, but there I was, chasing him madly around the tables. His cheeks were bright pink. Sophie joined us.
“Sophie’s playing!” I cried.
“You got your facts wrong,” Sophie said in her sassy, faux-tough-girl way. But I tagged her, and we ran around under the patio’s giant lemon tree, which was like a huge umbrella (it was ornamented with big fat golden real lemons).
Bunny came out too and wanted to take pictures of Jake and his new books. (Sophie ducked back inside.) Jake posed for one picture. “Okay,” he said to Bunny, “now you’re playing tag.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Bunny said sweetly, teasingly. “I thought I might take a few more pictures of you.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’d love to get some more shots of you reading.”
“Nope,” Jake said. “You have to play.”
Bunny took some pictures of the beautiful lemons dangling above our heads (it was such a sunny, dazzling day). But Jake was losing patience: “You said you would play, Bunny.”
“Did I?” Bunny said in her teasing, coy way.
“Yes, you did. I heard you,” Jake said. His cheeks were so flushed.
Bunny and I took just a few more pictures, and Jake somehow managed to fall over backwards in a chair. Then a table fell on top of him.
“Are you all right?” I said.
Jake was so embarrassed. (He’s so little and clumsy–and so proud.) He tried to cover for himself. “I was just trying to get your attention!” he cried.
“But are you okay?” Bunny asked.
“No! I’m bored! I want you to play tag with me!” Jake yelled.
“But I don’t know if we should really be playing out here, actually,” I said. “It might be dangerous. You know. Furniture is falling.”
Jake crossed his arms and stuck out his bottom lip. Then he stormed off after issuing these parting words: “I don’t know why I should hang around you selfish people if you’re going to be so selfish!”
But five seconds later he was back, trying not to smile: “I’ll give you one more chance, Bunny!” he cried.
So we played tag again and knocked over a few more tables.
“We’re going to get kicked out of here,” Bunny said.
Jake was mad when we tried to bring the game to a close. “Stop being so selfish, you selfish people!” he cried. “Why did you even ask me to come out here on this patio if you’re not going to play?”
“Uh, we didn’t actually ask you to come out here,” I said.
After a while we said our farewells to Dad, and Kris, Sophie, Jake, and I went back to Mom’s house. There, Jake and Sophie opened their presents to each other. Jake gave Sophie a big fuzzy hot pink and green pillow from Justice, and some nail polish that will change color with her mood. Sophie gave Jake a cuddly frog-shaped pillow. (Jake loves frogs.)
They were both so completely happy and satisfied with their gifts.
I said, “How did you guys know the perfect thing to get for each other?”
“I just saw the pillow,” Jake said, shrugging in a sweet, humble-but-proud sort of way, “and I thought, ‘Maybe Sophie will like this nice pillow.’ That’s how I did it.” (Jake was so proud of his gift to Sophie; Sophie is really the most important person in his life.)
The kids stayed at Mom’s and “snugged” on the couch with their new pillows. And Kris and I drove around to secondhand stores for a while, looking for bargain outfits.
Then we came back and we made a Christmas Eve feast: vegan chili, potato soup, homemade crackers, crescent rolls, cornbread, and all kinds of Christmas cookies. We also served Rob’s vegan sweet potato pie. (Rob doesn’t spend Christmas with us, but he did leave us with pie.)
Oh, I forgot to mention: While we were cooking, Sophie transformed into “the burrower” again. The burrower is a crotchety, testy, mostly mute little creature that Sophie invented. She bares her teeth and makes little threatening boxing motions with her small, clenched fists. You never know what might set the burrower off; her mood swings are completely unpredictable
I played the burrower’s unfortunate owner, brought to ruin by this very unruly pet, and I sought the advice of Bunny, who played a famed (in her own mind) burrower trainer. The trainer was very full of himself and kept talking about his wide experience.
“Now, sir,” Bun/the trainer said to me, “what are your ambitions for your burrower? I’m the world’s foremost trainer of burrowers. Perhaps you recognize me. I’ve been featured on the cover of Burrower Fancy 10 times.”
“I–I just wish my burrower wouldn’t break all my furniture,” I said meekly. “If she would only leave me a chair to sit on, I would be content.”
Sophie, the burrower, made little boxing motions at me. She wrinkled her nose in a menacing way.
“And–and maybe if she wouldn’t spit out all the food I give her,” I said, “maybe that would be nice. Then the house wouldn’t get so messy.”
Sophie broke character and said, “Let’s say you have a clip of the burrower spitting out the food.” And then she spit a pistachio across the table.
“You see?” I said to Bun, the famed burrower trainer.
“Well,” Bun sighed, “I may not be the man to help you. Your ambitions for your burrower–they’re rather, uh, . . . limited, in my opinion. Now you see, I work mainly with circuses–renowned ones–and the better-known fairs and sideshows. I don’t simply teach burrowers to behave, you understand; I teach them to perform. On stage. Tricks, specifically.”
“Tricks?” I said.
The burrower snarled at the trainer.
“Yes,” the trainer said. “I’m talking tight-rope walking, juggling. Trapeze. There’s solid demand for burrowers in the circus–especially your Russian circuses. Not to mention the lucrative sideshow circuit.”
“Do you think my burrower could be trained?” I asked. “Do you think she has potential?”
Sophie bared her teeth at the trainer and growled. Then she broke character again: “Tell the trainer I like to steal,” she said. “Tell her I’m good at it.”
“My–my burrower is wonderfully gifted at stealing,” I said. “She–she always steals my paycheck. Every week. That’s why I’m so hungry and dressed in these rags.”
“Well, sir,” the trainer said, “today is your lucky day! There’s always a need for pickpockets at the circus!”
“W–would this be a full-time position?” I asked.
“Twelve hours a day!” the trainer cried merrily.
“And the rest of the time?” I said. “H-how would my burrower be occupied? Burrowers are such lively and intelligent creatures–they do need to be occupied, I know.” (I was trying to placate my burrower, who was presently hissing at me.)
The trainer replied cheerfully, “She’d be confined to the boxcar in chains!”
“Well, that would save my furniture a lot of wear and tear,” I said.
The burrower was squawking and making an angry face. She smacked me with a baguette.
“And, sir, I’d never see her again?” I said hopefully.
“Not unless she escapes,” the trainer replied. “And in that case, I’d suggest you change all your locks and hire a bodyguard.”
After Kris and Phil and the kids were gone, Bun, Matt, Mom, and I sat around in Mom’s cozy little TV room, talking about old Christmas memories. Matt told us some funny things about his family.
“We always went to midnight mass,” he said.
“Did you dress up?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, “but then you’ve got to remember that I didn’t own a pair of jeans until I was in the sixth grade.”
His parents were pretty tough, I think, and strict. They were good Catholics.
He told us his family’s Christmas Eve snack was always “Velveeta on Ritz crackers.”
“Was the Velveeta melted?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said.
Mom remembered how her family always went to midnight mass, too, and then when they got home and all the nine kids were in bed, her mother (playing Santa) would put up the Christmas tree all by herself and decorate it and set out all the gifts.
“She didn’t start putting up the tree until one o’clock in the morning?!” I said. “She must have been up all night!”
“Well, people didn’t have so many decorations back then,” Mom said. “But we had some. So yes, it must have been a lot of work.”
“You never saw the tree until Christmas morning?” I asked.
“No,” Mom said, “but it was wonderful walking in there like that and seeing it all decorated.”
“It didn’t give you a whole lot of time to enjoy the tree, I guess,” Bunny said.
“No,” Mom said. “But my father wouldn’t have had it any other way. He was cheap, and if you waited till Christmas Eve you could get your tree for next to nothing. Now it might be a pretty cruddy tree, but . . .”
Mom was being so much fun, talking and laughing. We went out driving around to look at Christmas lights, just like we did in the old days, when Bun and I were kids. We drove through Huntington Estates, an ordinary subdivision that, each December, transforms itself into an enchanted Christmas village. Houses were outlined in lights, and fairy lights streamed down from the dark live oak branches like magical moss. We were oohing and ah-ing.
“Isn’t it great that it never gets old–looking at Christmas lights?” I said. “That you’re always amazed and delighted no matter how old you get?”
We went to Oven Park next and walked around in the lighted gardens–and I thought the same thought I think every year: that maybe heaven is like Oven Park at Christmas, full of glittering lemon and grapefruit trees, camellias draped in fairy lights, and music.
