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Almost August (and everything after)

Nostalgia and rain have the same smell, so the monsoon season in the desert alway feels personally cathartic — a little sad, a little relieving, a lot refreshing.

I’m an Arizona native, so it’s no wonder I am in love  with the rain.  It’s a serious relationship. When I can, I invite it to tea. I’d throw its party, snapping a picture of it blowing out its 4.54 billion candles. I’ve caught the flu for the rain. If I could, I’d send it roses just because. I haven’t used an umbrella in years, and it’s not just because I live in Phoenix.

A raindrop falls from the sky and it’s in your hair. In your hand. On your neck. It seeps through your t-shirt and leaves a mark before being absorbed by the cotton, then your skin, then your blood, then your bones. It’s in your heart.

And then? Evaporation.

The most harrowing thing you’ll ever do. You have to let it go. And you’d think, living in Arizona, that evaporation would proceed quickly amongst the scalding temperatures. But of course that’s not the case. Oh no, your personal humidity and just how very stagnant the air around you has become makes the process slow down to the point of ludicrous visibility. In other words, you can feel the rain leave you. You can see it float away. Life’s logic is rather unreasonable at times.

Just keep the faith. It’ll rain harder. It’ll rain better.

In the mean time, however, there’s no shame in taking my heart out back and shooting it.

Kidding, guys! Just seeing if you were paying attention. Sheesh. It’s just a keyboard and a little melodrama.

Can’t believe summer is coming to a close. Well, summer break, not the season, if we’re being specific. The past few weeks have been a hot, messy blur of so many happy memories.  Lots of swimming, G-rated movies, dinner after dark, wine before 5, watching Big Brother with my big sister, and everyone (EVERYONE) being pregnant. So, this is what it’s like to be 27. Sweet.

Other items on my mind include this poem:

Second Helpings
by John Brehm

I wear my heart on my sleeve,
or rather both sleeves, since
it’s usually broken.
Sometimes when I join my hands
to pray, the jagged edges
briefly touch,
like a plate that fell and cracked
apart from being asked
to hold too much.

…these links:

Sometimes Reddit, you do it for me. 

What exactly are Jay-Z’s problems? — I don’t know, but this cute old lady isn’t one of them. 

By Pitchfork, but for movies. 

A song in a restaurant. 

You are my wild. 

Kind of funny.

…and cereal.

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Blue and Brown

Dear Carter,

You are two and a half now. It hasn’t really sunk in yet, but I’m trying here.

Mr. Magoo

First things first. I am really, really sick of looking at your pee. I know “Mommy! I went POTTY!” is the sound of heaven’s bells to some, but I really just… I can’t. All day long, I am cleaning out your little toilet — or helping you get situated on the big one. A couple weeks ago, the whole process magically clicked for you, and we’ve been 99% accident clear since then, including #2s, which you are particularly happy about. At any rate, my quota of urine-viewing has been filled several times over, and anytime you’d like to lose the novelty, I will fully support you there.

Next topic: you slowing your role a little bit, short stack. Hit the brakes some, half pint. Ease up on the growing up, small fry. You told me yesterday that you wanted to go to kindergarten. When I told you you weren’t old enough yet, you were ready with, “How ’bout preschool?”. How about you’re two, and, as pictured, you are still tempted to eat paint. Still, there’s no hiding the fact that you are more and more kid and less and less baby. Your voice has been getting very little-boy. You smell like little boy lately. You didn’t cry during Fourth of July fireworks or during your last hair cut. It was weird. Nice, but weird.

Not so sure about this…
Great success.

You and I are having quite the summer. We stay busy with play dates and movies and church and copious pool time and our doses of “culture” (namely the library and discounted museum tickets). You are making so many friends. By making friends, I mean that you allow others to play in your general vicinity, occasionally offer them some of your snacks, but typically orbit solo.

Jolie and Skye
Cooper
Kissing (2nd) Cousins

Bird, you continue to eat me out of house and home. You love food, so much. You’re up for any adventure if it includes snacks. You and me, we understand each other there. But sometimes, you gross me out. Like when you want scrambled eggs and a side of peanut butter for lunch. Or today, when you dipped your pecans in blueberry yogurt. Oh well. You do you, son.

You are tall and skinny. Brows and knees. Eye lashes and long legs. Round cheeks and square teeth. You get nine second winds a day, at bare minimum. You are exhausting. Handsome. Funny. Smart. Holy smart. Like the kind of smart where you are still under three feet and can count over fifteen, identify obscure shapes (trapezoids, semi-circles, crescents, parallelograms), and memorize books. It’s disarming. You also have this way of slowing the pace and raising the volume of your speech while simultaneously nodding up and down when talking to people. To be honest, Carter, it’s a bit condescending and you should probably knock it off. We all know what you think of us.

Opened my camera roll to a bunch of selfies. Well played, kid.

Science Center with Erin and Kami Rose

You love your family and your cousins and your second cousins. Every night, you pray for Baby Sean, Landry, Miley, Kami, and Cooper and “new baby” Emery Grace. After that, you tell me you “forgot something”, and we go through all your friends’ names, too. You are very concerned with the habits of the sun and the moon and how they “change places”. You love Team Umizoomi and the Little Einsteins, the colors of the “rainbows” dancing through the windows, your blankie/significant other, popsicles, and shooting hoops with your new “Carter-Size” basketball (not to be confused with “Exer-Size” balls). You talk. You talk nonstop. You dance every day. We draw and play blocks and read and shoot hoops and cuddle a lot. You hate time outs with a fiery passion.

You are my pride and my joy and my wonder. You are blue eyes and summer-brown skin and all the best things, and because you are you, I am me.

It’s you and me, Carter Patrick, and we make the best team.

Love you, always.

Mom

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Ohana.

Suffice to say, I have done an awful job of updating this summer. Been all sorts of distracted — but mostly in the best sorts of ways. Long, drawn out lunches with the girls, jibber-jabbering with the smallest Bird, lazy mornings watching the first sunbeams sneak into the room and choosing to stay both in pajamas and under the ceiling fan. That sort of thing.

But, oh! Hawaii. Four thousand miles and a rather uneventful plane trip under their collective belt, the Langes took one epic family vacation this past month in order to celebrate Papa and Gramma’s 30th wedding anniversary and Papa’s 50th birthday. Here are just a few peeks into our adventures.

Going…going…gone. Carter’s first plane trip. He’s such a busy boy, he rarely cuddles these days. My arms were so full and happy with my sleeping boy.

Patrick and my dad after swimming with sharks. (!!!!!!what).

Not a bad view to wake up to.

My whole heart.

Landry was hysterical the whole trip. Such a trooper, and she started crawling to boot.

❤ Patio Eats

 

30 Years. Where has the time gone?

Best friend.

Megan and Patrick and a Sean Patrick bump.

My longest best friend. Carter’s longest best friend.

Mang-an

Beauties.

That face.

There’s a group of Langes under that waterfall.

Grandma’s girl.

On the train at the Dole Plantation.

Peach checking out pineapples.

Lange kids and their kids.

New mama

Carter and his ‘Patch’

 Mike Lange catching a wave.

Miley telling off a peacock

I hope a look that good when I’m 50. Whatever, Dad.

My baby brother.

Polynesian Cultural Center

Our sweet tatts.

Patrick and Meg after he led our tribe into the chief’s hut.

My ham.

I made the cutest french fry eater.

D’aww.

Ready for the flight home!