You say, "You're OCD," like it's a bad thing.

I'm going to cut to the chase.  The flat sheet on almost all of the beds in our house have a sheet cowlick.  They come out of the dryer with a crease in the most visible part—the section I fold back over the blanket.  No matter what I do, it's there.  I iron the flat sheet for the master bedroom bed, and the guest rooms [only the top 18-24 inches] but the crease is still there.  It's making me nuts.

It's difficult to see because I pressed this sheet five days ago and it now has usage wrinkles, but the sheet cowlick is there.  It's within the lower one inch portion of the folded over white sheet.

Please tell me you see it.  And if you don't, fake it.

I like a tightly made, clean bed.  Nothing's better than a cold, soft, good smelling pillowcase on your face.  I've always been freakish about my bed.  My mom never needed to remake my bed after I skipped out the door to kindergarten due to my childish manual dexterity—I remade the bed after Mother because the mitred military corners weren't tight enough or at a proper 45 degree angle.

Ask any of my college roommates, I went apeshit if someone sat on my bed.  I didn't like it messy after I made it [which I did first thing every morning] and I didn't want dirty purses, backpacks, pants, and god forbid shoes touching any part of my bed.  If I returned from class and noticed a new spot or indentation on my bed, I was wrecked and on a witch hunt.

I'm better now.  Maybe.

Mom and Dad visited me one weekend my sophomore year in college and wanted to take pictures in my dorm room.  Mom's always over-engineered photos—she still does.  She insisted we sit on my bed for the pictures.  I was panic-stricken but tried not to reveal it as I made suggestions about where and how we should sit.

Here I am, uncomfortably sitting on the corner of my own bed.

Here are Mother and Dad almost slipping off the few inches of bed space I relinquished.  It bothered me that Dad's butt was too close to my pillow, but I was proud of my genius idea to have Mom sit on his lap.  Had I been thinking and not hyperventilating, I would have had them sit on the blanket at the end of my bed so I could have laundered it easier.

There was a perfectly good desk chair in my room.  I don't know what the big deal was.  Freaks.

If anyone knows how to remove a sheet cowlick, I'd be forever grateful if you'd share your trick.

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For those who are interested...and me.  Well, me.

Almost

I'm pumped!  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy will be dismissed from school for summer break tomorrow at noon.  Sure, having two more kids in the house means more toilet, sink, and kitchen usage during a day, but overall it's less work than the rigid routine we all adhere to during the school year.  No more packing lunches, driving to and from the school [30-40 each way], and no more homework.

I don't complete my sons' homework for them, but I support, encourage and oversee their various projects and goals.  The level of parental involvement required these days in both public and private schools is a good thing in my opinion.  I've joked about it [here], but I sincerely believe kids who have involved [not controlling or micro-managing] parents are generally better off than those who do not.  Regardless, I'm looking forward to no homework...

... and more family band time.  An old friend was in town Saturday - a friend who can play almost any instrument by ear - and led us in this session...

 

Chris conducted.  Sort of.

We eventually got him to sing and he promised the boys he would contribute more vocally to our family band nights as well as lead us in guitar.  I'll do anything.  I'm not musically talented, but I wish I was.  [Don't we all?!]

I've stocked up on peanut butter, tuna, water balloons, paper towels, flushable toilet scrubbers, popsicles, sunscreen, guitar picks, and patience [send me some of that if you have any extra laying around the house].  We're looking forward to a simple but fun summer.  No more homework!  Almost...

Stubbed Toe

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

My brother turned 40 on Sunday, May 24th.  My "little" brother.  The one who I still think of as 5, or 12, or 17, or 20-ish [emphasis on the "ish"].  The one who I was able to convince to do just about anything as a young kid, including spin me around on his shoulders because I told him we could easily be on Dance Fever or get a job as Solid Gold dancers.  We had the skill!  We had the desire!  It didn't matter that I outweighed him by nearly 20 pounds... if he just caught me, held me, threw me -- he'd get stronger!  His current back problems are likely a result of our rigorous dance training, under my zealot-like direction.

I can't believe he's 40.

**********

Toddler Child stubbed his toe this weekend.  A good old-fashioned, big-toe, stub.  As Toddler Child and I inspected his big toe again this morning, vivid memories of the day my brother was brought home from the hospital flooded my mind.  My parents don't believe me that I remember.  But I do.

**********

May 1969

My third birthday was days away.  The baby was so cute.  I wasn't jealous of the attention he was getting, but I wanted him to be my baby.  I remember sitting on the green couch, my legs straight while I was allowed to "hold" the baby.  It was more tiring than I thought it would be.

I remember being on the front porch, I think Mom had opened the door to greet my grandparents as they arrived.  In all of the excitement, I stubbed my big toe.  No one noticed.  It was bleeding so I cried.  Mamaw finally realized I was upset.  She pulled a tissue from her purse that already had blood-red stains on it.  Her signature lipstick.  She sat beside me on the front porch and dabbed at my toe.  I remember thinking how pretty her tissue looked, with her lipstick and my blood.

That's all I remember.

More than anything, I remember how much I loved my brother.  He's my only sibling and we're fortunate to like one another and be friends.  True friends.

I can't believe he's 40.  It's like... he's an adult.

Happy Birthday, Joe.  I'm proud of the man you are and fortunate to call you brother, and friend.

I still can't believe he's 40.