I get to live here.

...and what's more, I get to look at this on my early morning commute. See ya' later Moon. Happy Friday.

I'm just gonna stuff my face into this candle for a bit, is that okay with you?

We're 30 something hours from September and it was 83 degrees in Nederland at 9am this morning. The way I see it, the air damn-well better be crisp if any part of my day is going to be obstructed by a school bus. And I want it to smell of apples and spent foliage.

Now hear this, you... weather, you. Hot evergreen and dirt is the "eau de Rocky Mountain July," and I'm ready for scents that make me want to simmer pork loins in apples and butternut squash. Now fix it.

The only thing keeping me sane is Yankee Candle's new scent, Treehouse Memories(tm).

Speaking of "fix it", Courtney posted photos of Owen and his hats. I confess to be the source of the hat that kept popping off his head of its own accord. It was preemie sized, but I never gauge check, so there are two things that could explain this phenomenon; either I sized it for a premature kitten rather than a 4 lb human, or Owen has inherited a Wilson cranium. Being blessed with Weeks feet is bad enough.

Weeks Feet + Wilson Head = A Lot of Time in Specialty Stores.

The good ladies of the NICU were kind  enough to give Owen a more appropriately sized hat for his forays out of the Giraffe. Not to look a gift horse in  the mouth or anything, but the hat teeters dangerously close to USC colors. And as everybody who is anybody knows, nobody likes USC. Not even USC fans.

Nana to the rescue.

There. Fixed it. 

He's got a Packers hat in transit, and now the Fins. Next will be in honor of the SUPER BOWL CHAMPION NEW YORK GIANTS, and after that will be the Washington Redskins. They're going to be last because I need to give everyone a chance to forget that this all started with colors that teeter dangerously close to those belonging to USC. And nobody likes USC. Unless they're playing Notre Dame.

Bye, Little Band-Aid.

If the Rainbow Bridge is real, I expect that when it's my time to go into the light, I'm gonna get flattened and covered in dog spit. 

That is heaven.

In which 13 is very, very old.

In April of 1999 we lost two incredible cats within a few days of each other. Beethoven suffered a saddle thrombus in the early hours of a terrible Saturday morning. The pain had to be unbearable; I didn't even know cats could make that noise.

We bundled him up and brought him to the emergency vet near our house. The staff was amazing. It was "all hands" as they cleared the table and hooked up an oxygen tube to dangle near his nose. All at once the howling stopped as Beethoven... got utterly transfixed by the wiggly tube shooting a breeze at him. "Hey, a toy!!"

The giggle everyone got from that was short lived as pain over took the poor boy and he began howling again. We went home to get Courtney, then back to the hospital to say goodbye to one special cat. I think that was the first time I saw a doctor cry.

Back at the house, Ripley was still pressed hard up against the fireplace - the "terror" position she took when Beethoven's event first took place. I patted her a little bit, kissed her nose, and let her be, assuming she'd calm down after a bit.

Ripley had been with us since our return from Germany - a little more than eleven years. In that time she'd lost a number of best buddies to coyotes (Jones and Rex) and idiots speeding down Cedros Avenue (Suds and the irrepressible Pete Krusty LeMieux (aka, Sweet Fluffy LaHoo)). After each loss, Ripley would go into a period of mourning; sometimes deep enough to threaten her own health. It took a few years for Ripley to decide to even be friends with Beethoven - I think she really got tired of having to say goodbye - but when the two of them did bond, it was exceptionally strong.

But by Monday we knew it was more than mourning, and after a number of visits by our wonderful veterinarian, Cathy Eppinger, we decided that she didn't deserve the indignity of the treatment required to keep her alive with failed kidneys.

Ripley left us five short days after Beethoven did.

After lunch on the following day Phil and I stopped by Petland in the old Crossroads mall. I know, I know, don't buy pets from stores in malls, but, but... while Phil was trying to awaken a Golden Retriever puppy without tapping on the glass, this fat little lab mix puppy in the cage below stopped mauling her brothers, stood on her hind legs and said "HEY MISTER, DOWN HERE!" Phil redirected his attention and the rest is history.

Really, who could resist?

We all fell in love with Gracie immediately - even Otto, our Newfoundland mix treated her like a hallowed gift for which he was entirely responsible. She was our family Band-Aid, mending the wound left by the loss of Beethoven and Ripley.

Gracie is the smartest dog I've ever met. Her training essentially consisted of a sit down meeting in which we enumerated the do's and don'ts of living in the Weeks house. We negotiated a few - like couch time and that any food not consumed in the time it took Otto to finish his own dinner would revert to his possession. This kept Gracie svelte for many years.

Yes, she was svelte and black at one point. 

Grace was our athlete. She perfected the rules for The Greatest Game in the World. Our inability to fully understand the game's mechanics has resulted in a final score 84,287 - 2, with Gracie as the Grand Champion. In her youth, Gracie was a jet engine on land and in water. She didn't run across the grass, she'd lower herself and pull the earth under her. There was no stick too far, and no frisbee too high. (This is not to imply she was any good at catching them, but she was crazy-good at stopping them with her face.)

In the years since, Gracie graciously tolerated the arrival of new kittens, even the fearless Scuff, who thought he'd be able to tear Gracie limb from limb and feast on her for months. She was less gracious about the arrival of the infant Hagrid, who was intolerably adorable. However, once she realized she was allowed to play with him (a hilarious story, likely to be shared at some point in the future), she fell nose over paws in love with him, a condition that holds true today.

Ow. No really, Ow.

It seems like only yesterday that we were giving baby Gracie a boost into the house. Just last weekend that she could flatten herself like a squirrel to get to her pile of golden treasures under the deck. Just this morning that she stood on a sea wall utilizing her vast psychic resources to will an elderly gentleman's ice cream cone to the ground.

But in the real world, what this morning brought was her slow progress up the stairs to the living room. Pained grunts and the drag of grossly arthritic joints and atrophied muscles. Gracie's given up on being embarrassed by incontinence anymore, a condition that, today, has expanded to include anything incontinent-able.

At thirteen plus years, the very best thing about a Labrador Retriever becomes the very worst thing about a Labrador Retriever. Indomitable joy, relentless hope (hope = a cookie in every hand), and a constant smile from ear to ear. Sadly, I think all Gracie holds now is hope. And while a cookie is always welcome (there's a reason Labs grace so many cookie and kibble packages), Phil and I are starting to realize Gracie, sweet, old, grey-faced Gracie, is hoping for the pain to go away.

We procrastinate, and Gracie keeps wagging that crooked, arthritic tail. Phil left a message for Dr. Eppinger,  who isn't technically practicing medicine right now, to see if Gracie's first vet could maybe be her last vet. We haven't heard back, and maybe we hope not to hear back - at least for a while.

Joy and sorrow. Joy and sorrow. One magnifies the other and as time passes, you sometimes wonder if there's ever an in-between. Of course there is. And off we go to enjoy some in-between time.

A really great photo.

We've all been tossed about in a tempest this week, but as Saturday draws to a close, I'd like to share this peaceful little shot of Owen and his proud parents, of whom I simply could not be more proud.

Sweet dreams, little Owen. Sweet dreams everyone.

This Nana Stuff is Easy

See - I already have Mad Skillz at this technology stuff... Nana Style...

Hang in there past the point where I recognize that I'm a moron, and you'll see one of Owen's early temper tantrums. Owen loves tummy time, but when he wants to roll over, he means now. Now, dammit. We need to capture video of him trying to flip himself over. It's a valiant enough effort that even the nurse's eyes got crazy-big. He's 5 days old, two months early, and is already focused on mobility over breathing.

It's good to see Owen's got goals already, but like Jim Gaffigan says, "Where ya gonna go? You can't even reach the door knob."

Owen also came with Kung Fu grip. Mom and Dad have each experienced this first hand (maybe first finger?), as well as the drama that ensues when they attempt to retract a finger currently in Owen's possession.

New from Mattel! Owen Karkkainen with Kung Fu Grip!!

And based on the following photo, it looks as though Owen has inherited Grandad's feet. Grandad Weeks. Both generations of them. This cute little nubbin of a heel is going to turn into a tube sock wrecking-ball some day. He needs to get out of this box so I can kiss his little toes before they become terrifying. 

And one last note that should tickle a few Wilsons. Owen has successfully removed the pulse oximeter from his hand. The nurse moved it to his foot while we were standing there, and no sooner did she pull her hands from the Giraffe, and he'd begun pulling his foot over the edge of his little bed trying to get it off. I figure this is Dad's oh-so-Bob way of saying he's keeping an eye his Great Grandson. 

Nana is a Nana

Nana's first post as a Nana is bittersweet.

The sweet part: Owen Thomas Karkkainen was born on Monday, August 13, 2012. He's around 16 inches long, and four and a half pounds. He's beautiful. Owen is his daddy's boy - you can see the Karkkainen in him - although he may have inherited his skin-tone from his great-great, uhm, great grandmother, Nana Cesario, the source of all things Sicilian in my husband's life. A little olive-skinned Finn with a Celtic first name.

I so want to smooch his little toes, his little neck, his perfect little ears, but he's going to spend a few weeks in his Giraffe - a Star Wars-inspired incubator with a top that raises robotically. You kind of expect it to make a swooshing sound and poof a bit of vapor when they open it up.

Of course, Cork and Adam would want one in their house if it did that.

The sad news is that little Keira passed in utero due to an umbilical cord hemmorage. It's very rare; the doctors say it's just something that happens sometimes. That's a terrible explanation, but you can see the doctors' frustration in having only that to offer, so they can be forgiven. It sucks to be human in a job where people expect you to be gods.

There are little comforts to be found everywhere. And tears are cleansing. And somehow, every bout of tears ends with a smile of a sort.

And here, without further adieu, is the little comfort of comforts, Mr. Owen Pouty Pants.

Getting Started.

For the final decade or so of my parents' lives, Dad called Mom "the General." If I were truly kind I would say the nickname was a reflection of Mom's commanding presence, or her take-charge attitude. I would relate one of her comrade's observations that when duty called, Mom would marshal her posture in such a way as to make her seem like a giant marching into battle to stop whatever mayhem might be breaking out down the hall.

No doubt Mom was effective at being, well, Mom. But that wouldn't lay any groundwork for Nana's Furrowed Brow. No character development. It wouldn't establish any base for how I got this way.

And, it wouldn't be true.

No, Dad called Mom the General because she'd sit on her duff and bark out orders and directions for even the most mundane tasks. Like putting groceries away. Or lighting a burner under the kettle.

"You want to turn the gas on... thaaaat's right..."

or

"Just put the milk in the fridge... thaaaaat's right..."

Saying "yes, General" was Dad's way of not saying "ohmygodI'vebeendoingallthegroceryshoppingandcookingsinceNineteenSeventyFrickinSeven.soHUSH."

On the oh-so-rare occasion that Dad would (accidentally?) refer to her as the General out loud and within earshot, what Mom would hear was "ohmygodI'vebeendoingallthegroceryshoppingandcookingsinceNineteenSeventyFrickinSeven.soSHUTUP."

All you could really do at that point was duck and cover.

Some years ago, during one of my parents' annual two-week visits, I promised myself (and my husband) I would never become my mother. The incident that made me want to carve the promise in stone and sign it in blood followed a really terrific July 4th barbecue. A dozen or so friends, tons of homemade salads and breads; a giant red, white, and blueberry cake, flowing wine and beer, illegal fireworks, and the coup-de-grace, my husband's glazed ham, done up and dripping with brown sugar on the barbecue. After the guests left, I invited my parents to relax and let me take care of my messy, sticky kitchen. They chose the kitchen table as their relaxing spot, which shouldn't have been an issue until Mom started offering helpful tips like "run a little water into that" and "oh, that will need some soap." The advice came in a barrage; rat-at-tat-tat missiles of gems like "there might be meat stuck between those tines," and "wrap that in foil."

I smiled graciously the few times I turned around to face her while she offered her sage advice, until something inside me went *boink* when it was suggested that I save the ham bone for pea soup. I turned and smiled again, but it must have come across more like bared teeth, because Mom dropped her tissue on the table as if it were being dismissed, and huffed "well, I guess she doesn't want to make pea soup."

I exploded. My internal editor packed up and left for the evening as I went off on how I love to make pea soup. That I make the best damn split pea soup I've ever had. I spewed how it was better, in fact, than hers. I mused with a cynicism that laid bare my New York roots on how it was a miracle that I'd made through 15 years of marriage, motherhood, and my own home without her telling me to run a little water into a dirty pot; how a spot of soap will take grease off a plate; to wrap leftovers before refrigerating them; and above all, don't run with scissors.

I know it's hardly a unique promise, and one that's broken more often than not, but with my half-century mark on the horizon, and with another generation on the way, I think I might make it.

I just want my grandchildren, and anyone else who matters, to know that if Nana's brow is furrowed, odds are it's got nothing to do with them unless they've painted my cat or dressed my Frankenstein figure in Barbie's Kimono. I want them to know that, for the most part, Nana files stuff under the broad label "shit happens and then you fix it or move on," and the furrow is no different than an activity light on a hard drive. Working. Working. The data has processed, and the result is "meh, whatever."