The Girl

The girl started fourth grade today. She's grown from the nervous first grader that I walked in everyday to the kid that throws herself from the car each morning with gusto.

I shout, "win the day!" as she unbuckles.

"I will!" comes back at me as the door slams.

She's nine. An experienced nine. Far more mature than her age. She's very comfortable in most conversations with adults and has a biting wit. Biting. She doesn't much look like me but... the personality. That's mine.

Eight years ago today she got her first haircut. Her baby mullet removed. In the easy days of a quick brushing and a plastic barrette. Now it's in her style (just hanging there) with a streak of some color as 'all the other kids' have one.

Mullet Removal.

Now, I can remember a lot of things. But, I didn't just off the top of my head remember the date of the baby mullet removal. No. I have Facebook to thank for that.

Those Facebook memories have a nasty habit of punching you right in the feels. This morning I was greeted by that cute little baby getting her first haircut by my mom while my dad distracted her.

My dad who was hopelessly in love with his little Tinkerbell.

She hasn't been called Tinkerbell in a long time. Thankfully she remembers that and him. He is and will forever be known as 'the grandpa that called me Tink'.

Tonight we'll do 'high/low' at dinner and she'll tell us about her day. Then she'll read and go to bed, exhausted from being back into the grind of elementary school. She and the cat will be sound asleep and I'll peek in and creepy watch her for awhile.

I'll revel in her nine-ness. I'll will her to remain a kid for just awhile longer. Beg a little even. Just like I have so many other nights.

Unfortunately, it never works.

On her way.

The Lonely Plant

About a year ago I bought a succulent. Pretty basic little short plant. He, yes, he's a he. He was planted in an old metal measuring cup. Dented. I liked the look of it. And, for a year or so he just sat there. Didn't change. Didn't grow. Nothing. Every once in awhile a leaf would fall off. He was pretty pathetic. Kept him watered. Put him in the sun. Put him out of the sun. Near a window. Away from a window. Still nothing.

A couple months ago, the boy and I were wandering around Lowe's. It's one of our favorite places. I like to picture all the things I could do if the project budget was infinity dollars; the boy likes to picture himself with his own show on HGTV.

Maybe someday.

On our rambling shopping adventure, we came upon some succulents. A four pack for four dollars. They were all small. One looked mostly dead and another one probably dead.

I figured what the heck. I like succulents. They are pretty popular. And for that price, there wasn't much risk.

Took our little four pack home and put it on the kitchen counter. I didn't have time to plant them for a couple days. Almost instantly the mostly dead and probably dead ones died. Out of desperation and in a hurry, I stuffed the two still alive into the metal cup with the other super-lame-refusing-to-grow-plant.

Good luck guys, that metal cup may be the kiss of death.

Rapidly outgrowing their cup.

And then, a strange thing happened. The original little plant started to grow. And grow. He's more than doubled in size in two months. His leaves are open. He actually looks happy. The other two have grown too.

I think the little guy was just lonely.

He, like most of us, needs his friends.
















*If you think it's weird that I just wrote a post about a plant, don't. It's not the first. Plants are cool.

Identity

So, there are things you don't really think about until they are upon you.

Getting to the 'new world' involves a lot of forms. A lot. (Money, too. But, let's focus on forms.)

There is a line and a check box on one of the many forms:

Return to Maiden Name?

Well, yes.

But. But, here's the conundrum. I sort of don't really have one. I mean, I have one. As stated in previous posts, I was born. Not hatched or anything.

The trouble is... the parents. They divorced. Like about 70% of the parents of the 70's. I had my dad's last name. We weren't close. I felt abandoned. Because I was. Well, we were.

After one particularly terrible phone call with him I changed my last name. Took my step fathers last name.

In the early 90's this was easy. You got a new student ID, new social security card and new drivers permit. Took an afternoon.

You had a new identity.

Then I got married. Turned in a form. Took the married name.

Now, what follows is my opinion and my feelings. I don't care if you changed your last name or didn't.

I did. I got married really young.

I didn't really think about what that really was. Or meant.

As I got older I thought about how much I didn't like it - not the name, per se, but the idea that I took it and was now sort of owned. It seemed so old fashioned. Having the same last name doesn't make you any less or more married.

I didn't dwell on it. And I didn't really think about my birth certificate name. Until I applied for a passport.

Post 9/11.

You see, my dad was adopted. The name on his birth certificate isn't the same as his name on my birth certificate. My birth certificate name appears no where else and there is no legal document stating that I changed my name from one to the other prior to marriage.

I walked the woman at the courthouse through this. A few times. She nodded and said 'I can totally see the path. There must be a good story here.'

'Oh, there is.'

And so, a few years later, I sat filling out forms, staring at that check box and line. I do want to return to my maiden name. But, I also don't really know who that is. Or which name to choose.

I thought about it. A lot.

Tried them both on. Practiced saying and writing them.

Staci Lynne Crow.

Staci Lynne Larkin.

Staci Lynne Crow-Larkin.

Stewed.

The other day the boy was trying to get my attention. His preferred method is to say mom. Over and over and over and over and over again. A la Stewie.

"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom. Mom. MoMMMMMM. Mama. Momma. Mom. Mom"

Then finally, "Staci Crow, will you answer me?"

And there you have it.

Signed the form.

Hair

This is a turn your cheeks red post. If you don't want to have red cheeks... turn back now.


Sitting at dinner last night. Tired after a long week, hot, worked at the office and then at home on a messy project. Needed pizza and a beer(s). Schmizza it is.

Two adults. Four kids. The table is loud as is typical with four kids. I am so hungry I can only focus on my slice. And guzzling my beer.

The boys start talking about hair. As they are 13 and 11, this is coming up more and more.

11 year old says, 'I didn't use any gel today.'

My boy says, 'I usually just brush mine back into a queef.'

I freeze.

Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh. 

...too late....

OK. Laugh. But don't make eye contact with the other adult at the table. That would be suicide. Just look down.

The boy, confused by my hysterical giggles, follows it up with, 'You know, a queef. It's a hair style.'

I jerk my head up and we make eye contact. Shit. I start to choke. I grab my napkin and cover my eyes. I let myself slump over and giggle. Loudly. So loudly. Tears running.

He's now really confused and saying things like, 'wow, my mom has totally lost it!'

I can't breathe.

Finally, I muster all the strength I have and say, loudly, 'you have a coiffure!'

'Oh, yeah, that's it!'

Yes. That's it.

And it's a much different thing.

You'll have to look the other word up yourself.

me casa es su casa

I have been the worst blogger ever. Literally. The worst. I have been so slow at writing. Sort or uninspired of late.

(And, I don't really consider myself a 'blogger', more of a story teller, but... you get the drift.)

Vodka also works.

Two things happened today. One, I used some new soap I got for Christmas - yes, I have that much different soap it takes me seven months to get to it... most importantly the soap is called 'soap for writers block'. Maybe it actually works. Two, I am actually beginning to process the amazing whirlwind European trip I was recently on. Time to take pen to paper. Or, keys to monitor...

Day one we flew into Frankfurt. From there we headed to Rothenburg, in Bavaria. It was beautiful. Completely amazing. Even better, we got to meet up with some of my college friends who are currently residing in Germany. We had an amazing dinner, beer, dessert and a tour of the town. And, in what I consider an added bonus to the tour, Deb also heard my accent. You know the one... the one I only have when I'm with Jeanna Brown.

"Um, did you just start speaking with an accent?"

Me, giggling, "maybe!"

"Wait until she says sandwich!"

So, while our dinner and evening with friends was awesome, it also meant that we had separated from our official tour. One of our friends and fellow tour goer arranged our room and took our luggage in for us. (We clearly have very good friends!) We received a text: when you go in go up the stairs, you're in room 102.

Seems simple enough. And thanks to GPS and The Browns we were delivered right to the doorstep of the hotel.

"We'll wait here to make sure you're all set."

This is called foreshadowing, if you couldn't tell.

The hotel had a welcoming wrap around porch. The large front door was propped open. We could hear talking and laughing coming from inside. We entered the wide hallway, with a view of a bar and a woman filling a beer stein from a tap in the wall.

We're on the high of the day.

So excited. We're in Germany!

As we turned to go up the stairs, the woman called out, "Can I help you?"

"No. Thank you, we're just going up to our room." Always say thank you... we don't want to be perceived as ugly Americans...

She was standing right next to us now. For a rather large German woman, she was incredibly fast.

In her thick German accent, "Uh, no. This is my house."

20 feet away. Just 20 feet.

Or 6.1 meters. Away. From the hotel door.