PHOMSITHI'S PLAYGROUND

The title is a lie. Calendar words are so 2019. No one knows what a “week” is any more.

But here’s what I’ve been up to kind of recently.

I ordered haircutting scissors from Amazon. They should be here Thursday. So should the ear piercing kit I ordered. My 11-year-old shaved her eyebrow a couple of nights ago, so if things go south, I can always say, “Yeah, but at least I still have two eyebrows.”

I don’t have curtains, though. I mean I do, but they’re in my kitchen floor now. They went from the wall to the floor when I somehow sat on them during a school board meeting I was Zooming into. I mean, they didn’t fall straight to the floor. My head slowed their speed considerably.

I still go into work four days a week, and I work from home on Fridays. Unless I have a fever, and then I work from home on those days, too. We have a drive-thru temperature check station set up at work, and we’re required to get an “all good” from the nurse manning the station each morning before we’re allowed into our offices. The line was a few cars long one day last week, and I got bored. I pulled out my phone, watched a bit of TikTok because I’m cool and not at all old, and ate some ice. You want to know what happens when you eat half a cup of ice before getting your temperature checked? The nurse has you put the thermometer under your armpit like a toddler because your mouth is too cold to register a temperature. But my deodorant smells like vanilla fields, so that was probably a nice surprise for the nurse.

I’ve resigned myself to making my own entertainment lately. It’s not husband-endorsed entertainment, but whatever. One of my favorite people suggested we buy megaphones and go yell at some people we know. “It’ll be fun,” she said. “They’ll enjoy it,” she said. “Grab a wig and your crown,” she said. Okay, well she didn’t say the crown part, but how often do you get to wear a crown in your 40s? So I borrowed a purple wig from my daughter, a bullhorn from my mother, and shined up my crown. It’s vintage, I think. Circa 1994. My friend created a route that hit a lot of houses, and I just followed her in my van because I LITERALLY don’t know my left from my right.

When we got to the first house, a very chill teacher we love came outside when we sounded the sirens on our megaphones. It was a pleasant visit. Same with the second, third, fourth, and fifth houses. Somewhere around home six, maybe, we pulled up in front of house, turned on our sirens, and no response. So we did it again. Nothing. Third time for the sirens, and a curtain moved. And then a man opened the door. Either our teacher friend was hit hard by isolation, or this wasn’t her. The man yelled, “I don’t know you!” and started walking toward us. In quick form, we realized it was her husband, explained ourselves, and my blood pressure when back to normal. Crisis averted. And by crisis, I mean prison. A few more houses, and we called it a day. Except we didn’t because there was a wreck that caused an hour-long delay on the way home, so we drove through McDonald’s. And someone may have peed in someone else’s driveway, but on the plus side someone avoided a gas station pandemic potty. And that was just day one.

We begin the next day with a travesty. My friend had locked both her megaphone and car keys in the car, but, because we were so successful the first day, we found a way to press on. I made up my mind to go to her husband’s place of employment to get the spare keys. I took all the precautions. I put on my gloves. I covered my face with a mask. I would’ve added a cap, but I have an abnormally large head. I had Germ-X in the car cup holder, and I took a wipe out of the container so that I could clean the keys immediately. I got a call following the retrieval wherein my friend said, “Hey. Don’t worry about picking up the keys. We remembered my husband could unlock the car from his phone.”

In hindsight, this is probably where we should’ve decided day two was a bust, had a good laugh, and taken our ridiculous wigs home. But what’s the fun in that?

Houses were hit or miss at first. You’d be surprised at how many people aren’t home during times of self isolation. And then we went to a house that was the wrong house, and that’s always fun when you announce your arrival with sirens. After we hit some homes in town, we branched out a bit. We took some dirt roads. We went over the mountain. We visited some private properties. I began to notice one commonality as our destinations became more and more remote: people who have no neighbors save for livestock are a bit leery when you show up on their properties driving large cars with tinted windows, blaring sirens, and dressed in costume. I have no idea why. Each time we chanced adding one more house to our impromptu parade, people took a bit longer to answer the door. And then I remembered that people who owned land and cows also owned guns. It’s an inherent truth. I got scared. I started to picture people loading their guns and my impending demise. This was not how I imagined myself dying — dressed in a wig and crown because I needed to entertain myself during a pandemic.

And then my friend’s kid had to pee, so we skipped the last house, retired our sirens, and returned to our respective homes.

Later that night I hinted on Facebook that I was scared someone was planning on shooting us. Turns out the long lag time between sirens and door openings was attributed to looking for undergarments, not bullets. Yep, my friends wanted to make sure that everything where was where it belonged when they thought they were being kidnapped. That’s just respectful.

Realizing our adventure had drawn to a close, and seeking out a new plan with less socialization and fear of jail time, I suggested to my friend we surprise our community with postcards of us dressed a la Glamour Shots this week. But, for whatever reason, she said, “That’s a hard no.”

 

High school graduation is a funny thing. It’s like someone decided that, come May, a whole group of kids with strikingly different personalities, athletic abilities, intellects, and social skills would one day wake up and know how to handle adulthood. Every year, it’s May. Unless you live in the north, I suppose, and then I guess it’s June. Must take longer for our friends who frolic in the snow to “man up.”

 

Well, it’s here. It’s May. And my first baby is graduating tonight. This is the kid who waited patiently for the better part of a decade for his superpowers to come in. This is the kid who watched YouTube videos on how to fart in class without being caught, and then taught his baby sister the tricks of the trade. This kid, all too recently, called me and said he couldn’t get home because it was too foggy to drive, only to realize that the “fog” disappeared once he defrosted his windshield. It’s times like these that make me hold my breath and wonder why someone picked “May.”

But there are far more times that I know he’s ready. He’s smart. If I want to know something about nutrition or exercise or anything I should’ve picked up in science class or through common sense, I call Tyler.

 

He’s kind. He’s always made sure the new kids were taken care. He doesn’t let people carry something that he can handle easier. He’s prayed with and for his friends, and then he’s carried those burdens home and asked for advice on how to best help out in a million different situations.

 

The kid is the most family-focused person I know. I wanted to skip off to Florida for Thanksgiving a couple of years ago, but Tyler said no “because we’d miss lunch with family.” Tyler never walks past a grandparent he doesn’t hug. He’s going to school nearby so that he can watch his sister and brother grow up.

 

And Tyler knows what he wants to do with his life. He wants to help people live their own best lives. He envisions himself landing in nuclear engineering, mixed with some personal training and perhaps a bit of ministry. I’m not worried about the particulars — they’ll fall into place.

 

I’ve always known that I would miss Tyler terribly once he became independent. And I’ve always known the goal was to get him to independence. It’s a crazy double-edged sword. At every birthday, every holiday, every last day of school, I’d tell myself we were one year closer to, well, tonight. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to hold onto time, though, it still finds a way to slip through your fingers.

Tyler is obviously the graduate I’ll miss the most, but he’s far from the only one walking tonight who I’ll miss. I’ll miss the kid who drove over our lawn furniture, then followed it up by knocking out a taillight. I’ll miss the kids who stop by my office at school for snacks and the kid who shows up like clockwork when Xay makes pho. I’m gonna miss the “gamers” who bring their own tvs to my house and drink four gallons of chocolate milk a night. I’m going to miss his football family. I’ll miss the girlfriends — and the girls who are friends. My favorite sound in the whole world is one of my kids laughing with their friends. I’m going to miss the laughter that the class of 2019 has brought into our home and our lives.

When Tyler got hurt in September, a room full of kids packed his hospital room. There was so much laughter in the room that night, the nurse had to ask us to quiet down more than once. What could’ve been an awful memory was turned into an incredible one because kids showed up to spend their Friday night with one of their own who was hurt. The love that these kids showed my son made this momma’s heart burst with joy. Kudos to the moms and dads who raised this bunch.

When Tyler got hurt in November, the evening was much bleaker. Because he had stopped breathing in the hospital, the medical staff had to bag him and give him Narcan to get him back to us. He obviously wasn’t feeling well when they transferred him from the ER to a room that night. And, you know what? Those same kids showed up that night, too. They got him wet rags and held pails as he threw up. They rubbed his back. They brought him pillows. They were much quieter, but they stayed in an attempt to lift his spirits. It was that night, as I watched a room full of teenagers jump in to help out, that I knew these kids had grown up. Even though we hadn’t reached May.

 

They’re going to make it. And I’m going to miss them.

 

 

 

 

I’m pretty much a failure lately. It’s okay. It happens. Life has mountains and valleys, and I’m stuck on a muddy dirt road somewhere. I’ve done more wrong than right lately. I feel like crap all the time, and, for some reason, people have taken to telling me I look like crap all the time. I generally try to mumble an apology in reply, but I haven’t worked out how to eloquently say, “Sorry I look like hell. It’s not the look I was going for.”

And I have excuses for this. Some of them are even valid. It doesn’t matter, though. Time is fleeting, and I’m quite unintentionally making a mess of this time of my life.

Please don’t think I’m saying this to make you feel sorry for me. I imagine most of us have been stuck on the muddy dirt road of life before, spinning our wheels until things dry up. I can guarantee you that anyone who has a kid who is nearing graduation, one in Pull-Ups, and a middle child with the mouth of a sailor has certainly set up residence on the muddy road a time or two before.

Let me offer you my life in a nutshell:

• Tyler won’t spend every waking minute with me, because he wants to spend time with “his people” before he graduates, and I’m having no luck convincing him I’m his people.
• Ava is teaching Andrew parlor tricks, the newest of which goes something like this: “Andrew, what do you want to be when you grow up?” And then that sweet baby looks his ten-year-old sister dead in the eyes and says, “Black.”
• No one has seen Xay since we started building a house in March. Of 2018.

Each day I wake up with grand plans, hoping that today will be the day I’ll have my stuff together. I have no intentions of being a Pinterest mom, but I do pray on the daily I’ll find a clean bra. And, on Sunday evening, the clouds parted. For a second I could see a route out of the mud.

I had been painting at the new house, and Xay, who was working alongside me, said, “What’s for dinner?”

This is a particularly odd question, because my husband, wisely, generally refuses to eat anything I cook. But that day, I took it as a challenge. I’d go home and cook a meal, we’d set up a plastic table and gather some lawns chairs. We were going to eat a family meal in the new house. It’d be a nice break for Xay from working on the new abode, and it’d be the first family meal we’d had together in ages. It was a golden vision, and I was going to be the one to bring it to life.

When I got home, I cooked hamburgers. I grilled hot dogs. I took French fries out of the freezer and stuck them in the oven. I even remembered to pack condiments and plates. Ava dug out quarters, and we filled a small cooler with sodas and waters from a vending machine in town. We loaded up the van with dinner and started on the fifteen-minute journey to the new home.

When we got to the new house, Tyler and his girlfriend helped us unload dinner to the table they’d set up in the midst of construction chaos in the living room. We unfolded lawn chairs, passed out plates and drinks, and placated Andrew by giving him way too many pickles.

Weather-wise, it was a perfect day. The sun was setting. We opened doors and windows and blinds and enjoyed the breeze that wafted through the house and the smell of springtime in the evening.

Xay cleaned his hands of grout and took a seat at the table.

Soon Tyler was offering hot dogs and hamburgers, and I was passing out cheese. Ava grabbed some fries, and ketchup and mayo were being passed around the table. It looked like the end scene of a movie about family, one where the camera pulls away and a softening filter somehow heightens the happiness. I was smiling, and that felt nice. Xay opened a small Pyrex dish and helped himself to a slice of tomato. Then he picked up the glassware holding lettuce and said, “Why did you bring shredded cabbage?”

Cabbage.

Y’all, I was so close.

But I’m still in the mud.

 

Twenty years and three kids ago, I got married for the first time. So did my husband. I think it was probably for the last time, too, but then again I thought the second time I had a kid would be the last time I had a kid, so there’s that.

Xay is still as handsome and ornery as the day I fell in love with him. And, just when I think I may want to throw a brick at his face, he smiles at me, winks, and all of my defenses come undone. That’s love, right? When, no matter how hard you try, you can’t help but laugh, even if you want to be angry?

I had to go to Houston for a conference this past weekend. Xay drove me. Also, he didn’t complain when I woke him up at 2:30 in the morning so we could start our drive home in time to watch Ava play some pee-wee basketball. It’s a good thing we got there, too. Little lady saved the game with a couple of well placed free-throws in the final seconds, which led us to a win by one point. I could care less about sports as a general rule, but, boy, did I love watching her shine. And I love that Xay does, too. Our favorite seasons are whatever sports season our kiddos are in.

When I held my breath and got up the courage to tell Xay that I was pregnant with Andrew and that we’d be starting over at 40, he said, “I kind of figured that. I’m actually pretty excited.” My heart melted. It was then that I began to feel peace that this unplanned pregnancy was actually a beautiful blessing.

And when Tyler went into respiratory arrest on a Friday night this past November, I was a puddle on the hospital floor. I thought I was watching my baby die; we thought it. I just kept saying, “I can’t do this.” It was Xay who held me, tried to comfort me, when he was in just as much pain as I was. Those were the longest minutes of our lives.

Xay’s been there for the glorious highlights — and he’s been there for the times that all we’ve had to hang onto were prayer and each other. He shows up. I couldn’t have picked a more perfect partner.

I’ve not seen my husband a lot this year. We’re building a home, and he devotes his evenings to working on it. It’s slow-going, but we’re saving a lot of money. I love this about him. He’s hands-down the hardest worker I’ve ever met in my life. People say if you can survive building a home together, you’ll survive anything marriage throws your way. If that’s the case, he’s got me for life. Y’all, it’s been a breeze. He makes life a breeze.

Happy twentieth anniversary, husband. Thank you for sharing your life, your humor, your encouragement, and your good-looking kids with me. Love you.

Everyday Jenni has, admittedly, devolved over the past couple of decades. Most notably, Jenni Phomsithi looks as if she ate Jenni Isely. And Jenni Isely had some chub to her. College Jenni tried to tan in the 90s, but instead she turned into one giant freckle. Mid-thirties Jenni awoke one day to random facial hair. All of which is to say that on any given day I’m fat, white, and possibly unintentionally hairy. But, because I have a rather large, and completely unwarranted, ego, most of this doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should. In fact, I mostly forget about my looks, so long as I can avoid pictures and mirrors. So, while Everyday Jenni is by no standard pleasing to the eyes, Vacation Jenni is akin to something you’d see on the People of Walmart site. While most people spend their lives evolving, I devolve for a week every summer.

The de-evolution of Vacation Jenni began about four summers ago. We spent the Fourth of July in San Antonio. At SeaWorld. And I wore black yoga pants all day long. To make matters worse, I agreed at about 10 a.m. to sit in the Splash Zone of a whale show. I was thinking it may cool me off to get sprayed a bit with some tap water. I was not thinking whales live in saltwater, idiot. Do you know how long it takes black cotton yoga pants, which have been soaked in saltwater, to dry in the Texas summer sun? Me neither. They were still damp in all the wrong places when we left the park twelve hours later.

On the way back to the hotel, I made myself two promises. Promise number one was that we’d stop at a Walgreens to buy aloe vera and medicated body powder. (Um, no thigh gap here.) Promise number two was that I’d, forever after, wear only shorts on summer vacation — white jiggle be damned. And, despite a long record of failing promises to myself, this second promise has panned out over the last few years. Probably because it means some wind occasionally drifts up my shorts, thereby lowering my chances of developing that dreaded condition known as swass.

I now own six pair of shorts, which come out of hiding once a year. I own a pair of black cotton shorts and a pair of the same shorts in navy blue. I own really short black linen and pink linen shorts; each year I try these on, am reminded they’re so short that I can’t see them under my shirt, and I stick them back in my drawer in hopes that the laundry fairy will add some length to them before next summer. I also own a pair of black and a pair of khaki shorts — I bought them at Walmart, so those shorts are kind of the hot dogs of the clothing world, in that I have no idea what they’re made of. Four of the six get packed in my suitcase every summer, along with rolls of quarters for the laundry machine. I also throw in some t-shirts. Most of them say “Danville Little Johns,” as I work at a school and our mascot is corny. Others are freebies from technology conferences. I pack a lot of shoes, most of which go unworn. My favorite shoes for perusing theme parks are my Crocs flip-flops and Chacos. In addition to the aforementioned, I pack assorted swimsuits, all of which have some kind of dress component to the bottom, my hair straightener, and every piece of make-up I own. I throw in one gold necklace and one silver necklace, just in case. I try to balance practicality with, well, not wearing a fanny pack. And the only reason I don’t wear a fanny pack is that I can’t fit an umbrella in it.

Let’s take a look at this year’s vacation outfits. We drove to Universal Studios in Orlando, and I wore my favorite black yoga pants on the way there.

My hair was straight, and I kept up my make-up, as I knew we’d have to run into a restroom every couple of hours. We arrived at noon, and spent the first day shopping and swimming. When we went to dinner at Joe’s Crab Shack, I switched into navy shorts with a white tribal shirt. My flip-flops had some bling, and I wore a gold necklace to compliment the summer outfit. It was perfect chain restaurant summer attire. We went for a night swim upon returning to the resort, and I had a fresh bathing suit and cover up ready to wear.

The next morning I awoke an hour earlier than the rest of the clan. After all, I had to iron an athletic gray t-shirt and black Walmart shorts. I shower at night because I’m too lazy to use a hairdryer in the morning, and, as per normal, my hair had dried wonky, and I had to use the straightener on it. I carefully applied sunscreen before my make-up. Being the Irish part of an inter-racial family, I’m the only one who ever has to worry about this. I looked as good as I’ve ever looked in the Florida summer. I should’ve taken a selfie, but that’s never good for my self-esteem. Enjoy, instead, a picture of the family eating turkey legs that afternoon.

Although none of them look sweaty, my Irish head was sporting a ponytail and two bobby pins by this time. An hour later, and I’d have the Frogg Toggs cooling towel, in peach, around my neck. So, day two, and the de-evolution had begun.

By day three, this attractive waterproof ticket and keycard holder graced my neck (which was again exposed to the wind, thanks to a ponytail holder).

Day four:  Make-up? Who needs make-up? We’re just having a beach day. All I need is a damp bathing suit from last night’s swim and my favorite Crocs.

Day five was back to the parks, where the kids managed to look incredible.

Me? Well, I looked clean, after having spent until 2 a.m. doing laundry. And by “clean,” I mean I showered and brushed my teeth. Long gone were the days of ironing, straightening, and apply mascara and lipstick. My perfume of choice was Banana Boat, because red isn’t a good color on my skin.

That night, I hit a low point. I was tired. I’d stayed up until 2 a.m. and then gotten up at 6 a.m. to get a jump start on the Harry Potter nonsense. I don’t even like Harry Potter! We’d done water rides that day.  If you’ve never done a water ride at Universal, then grab a friend, take him outside, have him strap you to the deck chair and spray you with water for five minutes without relenting. The water rides at Islands of Adventure are used for torturing terrorists at night. Y’all? I could’ve poured water out of my panties following the Jurassic Park ride. Anyway … that night I was tired. The husband wanted to eat at an all-you-can-eat crab legs place, and the seven-year-old daughter wanted crawfish. The teenager? He just wanted meat.

We ate at Boston Lobster Feast. For the mere price of $50 a head, we had unlimited lobster, steak, crab legs, crawfish, and more. The hubs, who is allergic to shellfish, started with a plate of oysters, followed with a bowl of crab legs, and finished with four lobsters — and some Benadryl. The kids ate their weight in seafood and steak, too. I ate enough to be miserable. And, after a trip to take my daughter to the restroom, I felt even worse. Because we soaked our park outfits, I’d just pulled randomly from my suitcase for my evening attire. People, we ate a $200 meal, and I was wearing a burnt orange shirt and cotton navy shorts with an elastic waistband. I had on Chacos, no make-up, and damp hair. I took a backpack in instead of a purse! If the bathroom mirror were to be believed, and I suppose it was, as I hadn’t drank a thing, I’m not even sure I looked female!

So, day six saw the resurgence of make-up, as did day seven.

I had a relapse on the way home, though. We drove to Perdido Key and spent the night crabbing with the cousins. As this was somewhat unexpected, my beach clothes became my pajamas, became my drive-home-to-Arkansas clothes the next day. So, that was fun.

I’ve been sick since we returned home, though I’m sure it’s unrelated.

I know how to do some stuff. For real. For example, I can make the perfect nap space. You’ll need two fans, three standard size pillows, one of those long snuggle pillows that you can tuck between your legs, some sheets with a bit of thread count, and a memory foam gel mattress.  Turn off the lights, lock the kids out, and take a nap. It’ll be fantastic, promise. Especially if you can drown out the screams of “Mommy!” coming from the hallway.

Also, I can make the perfect cup of apple juice. Start with a no-sweat cup. Sweaty cups suck. Add crushed ice and Mott’s apple juice. If you forget the crushed ice, you’ve screwed this up, buddy.

And the third thing I can do is plan a perfectly miserable birthday. For myself. Please allow me to share my talents, in case you’re interested in a ruining your next birthday.

Three days before your birthday: Call in your happy pill refills, but forget to pick them up. You know, the ones that keep you content and alive.

Two days before your birthday: Think, “I’ll be okay without those pills until tomorrow. Also, this bed and apple juice are heavenly.”

One day before your birthday: 

• Pick a fight with your husband. When he asks if you’ve taken your happy pills lately, say yes. Then make an excuse to sneak off to town and pick up happy pills. Arrive at the pharmacy nine minutes after closing and cry. Drive back to the house and eat a cookie.
• Take your son and his girlfriend out for his first date. Your baby is dating. Sure, it’s highly chaperoned, but you’re old enough that your kid wants to spend time with a girl that isn’t you. Sneak off at dinner and cry in the bathroom for a few minutes.
• Go to a movie with your husband. Ask him if he wants to make out. Accidentally hit him in the nads when he says, “Thanks for asking, but I’d rather keep playing Panda Pop on my phone.”

On your birthday: 

• Turn thirty-eight. Congrats, you old hag, you’re officially in your late thirties! Your mom will start to call you “my forty-year-old daughter.”
• Let your son, who recently turned fourteen, invite thirty teenagers to your house to celebrate HIS recent birthday. Now you have to clean the house, clean the deck, and finish building the fire pit. Cleaning is fun any day, but especially fun on your birthday.
• Go to the deck to wipe down the tables, stub your toe on the step, fall to your knees sobbing. Whimper, “No one even cares that I’m dying!” Go to your bedroom. Cry some more. Wipe your tears on your shirt. Your still in your pajamas, so, whatever.
• Consider taking a nap. I mean, it’s warranted, considering it’s your birthday, nobody loves you, and your thyroid pills are hanging out in the pharmacy with your happy pills.
• Field two “happy birthday” phone calls.  The first is automated and from your pharmacist. The second is automated and from your gynecologist.
• Host a group of teenagers at your home and watch them throw cans in your yard. Feign an illness, and spend a large amount of time in the bathroom — alternately crying and sobbing, of course.

The day after your birthday: 

• Position yourself strategically in the pharmacy parking lot so that you’ll be the first customer of the day.
• Take four happy pills. Chase it with a bottle of Mott’s.

I’m thirty-seven.  Well, for a couple of more months, at least.  There are things that I’ve accepted about myself at this age.  Things I don’t expect to change, but would welcome change if it came along.  I procrastinate, but I get things done.  Just give me a deadline, let me start the night before, and I promise you’ll be pleased with the results.  I eat like a toddler.  It’s true.  My daughter once asked if I’d rather eat a pickle or cottage cheese.  I don’t even want to look at a picture of either one.  I wish that “or be put in a barrel of crap-covered rattlesnakes” was an option, because I’d absolutely choose the barrel.  And I avoid situations that make me cry.  I don’t read sad books, I won’t see sad movies, and I make incredibly inappropriate jokes at extremely inappropriate times as an attempt to stave off tears.

Alas, life isn’t all poor jokes and rainbows.  There are times I have to “adult up,” and I’m not good at it.  One of those moments happened early this week.  My Grandpa Isely died Sunday morning.  I’ve been crying for three days, and tomorrow is the funeral, so more tears will follow then.  No one ever wants me at a funeral.  I cry louder than I should, and I’ve yet to figure out a way to stop it.  Even if I’m not close to the departed, one look in the direction of their surviving family, and I’m gone.  Just pass the Kleenex, because some sordid salty tear and snot recipe will be mixing on my freckled face.  As such, my plans for tomorrow include things to take my mind off the event at hand and, hopefully, minimize snot.  I plan on: counting pews, counting whatever the ceiling is made of (beams? tiles?), reading the memorial pamphlet backwards (which is not nearly as sad as reading it correctly), and sharing Kleenex with my son, who I’ll be hugging tightly.  Bless his heart, he’s just as emotional as his wreck of a momma.  And he fights for the underdog, just like his Grandpa Isely did.

Sunday night, I had to “adult up,” again.  Sunday night, I sat in my parents’ living room and wrote Grandpa’s obituary.

In the obituary, I wrote:  “William Arthur Isely, Sr. of Morrilton passed away.”  I wanted to write, “My Grandpa died.  My Dad’s hero is gone.  Grandma lost her soulmate, the guy she married at sixteen and made a family, a life with.  The man whose hand she’s held in bed at night for sixty-five years.  He’s gone, and I still want him here.”

I penned that he’s survived by “eleven great-grandchildren.”  I wanted to write, “Six-year-old Ava had an uncanny love for Grandpa Isely.  She stopped several times a week to pray for him and only him.  She loved to kiss his hand, hear his stories, and visit him daily when he was a patient at the local hospital.  How many six-year-olds connect that way with people eighty-seven years their senior?  Thank you, Grandpa, for loving my kids.”

The obituary says, “Mr. Isely was born in Morrilton.”  I should’ve said that’s where he was called to his eternal home, too.  In his home, surrounded by his family, within one hundred feet of where he was born.  He’ll be buried tomorrow about a hundred yards away from his house.

I wrote, “At 22 he joined the military, where he was a decorated Marine Raider who fought in the South Pacific during World War II.”  I should’ve said, “Grandpa was a total bad ass.”  Turns out newspapers don’t print some of the vocabulary that runs through my mind, but Grandpa wouldn’t have flinched at it.  He knew it was true.  In the Marines, they called him “Lightning” because he was so fast.  The chances of survival in his specific situation were slim, but he made it back to the States.  In his bedroom is a framed Bible.  The Bible has a hole in it where mortar struck him.  The Bible was in his pocket, over his heart, during the attack.  God knew Grandpa had more work to do here.

The obit says, “Isely built more than 2,300 houses.”  It should’ve said, “and he hired the people who needed jobs to do it.”  He hired African-Americans when people didn’t.  He hired people that he had to bail out of jail.  He knew what it was to struggle, and he didn’t want anyone to have to.  There was always room for one more at his table, a lesson he learned during the Depression from his mom, “Other Momma.”

Obits just don’t cover a life.  They say who passed, but they don’t say who passed.

In the obit, I wish I could’ve let people know that Grandpa was hilarious.  And his kids are hilarious.  Often inappropriate, but so funny nonetheless.  I remember sharing a meal with Grandpa at the Olive Garden twenty years ago.  I was holding my legs together as tight as I could; I was positive that I was about to pee myself because I couldn’t stop laughing.

I should’ve let people know that he could read the Bible one minute and cuss a blue streak the next.  He said the Lord’s Prayer every day.

I should’ve written about his love for aprons, penchant for wearing Christmas socks year-round, the skinny chicken legs he was so proud of.

I should’ve told our Christmas story, how every year the entire family gathers at Grandma and Grandpa’s home for Christmas Eve.  When I was little, my dad would take us to town after dinner.  We’d look for Rudolph as we drove, and we’d inevitably find him, his red nose lighting up the sky beside the radio tower.  When we’d return, Santa would’ve delivered presents enough to crowd their large family room.  Christmas Eve at the Isely home made me believe in magic.

And people should know that whenever we spent the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s, we’d wake to Grandma cooking bacon. The smell wafted from the kitchen throughout the house, and to this day the smell of bacon makes me smile as I’m brought back to memories in their home. We’d sit at the breakfast table with our grandparents, and Grandpa would point out the window.  “Look!  A squirrel!” he’d say, and as we looked away, he’d sneak bacon off our plates.  We still play, “Look!  A squirrel!” in my home.

And Ava still tells his stories, the stories he told her, to her baby dolls.  And Xay still pictures him cooking beans in the kitchen.  And Tyler longs to visit with him, to have another “man talk” one more time.  And I miss my strong, loyal, hilarious, bad ass Grandpa.

I’ll see you soon, Grandpa.  Until then, may you rest in peace.  You deserve to enjoy the bounties of Heaven.

I woke up this morning blowing my nose.  I’ve done this so much over the past month that there’s now a trash can on my side of the bed.  If it bothers you, you haven’t said anything.  Also?  You were snoring again.  And, as annoying as that sound is, it’s also reassuring.  How lucky am I to crawl into bed with my best friend every night?

I’ll leave for work before you wake up, though not until after your phone alarm has gone off once or twice.  It sings that annoying song that I can’t make out unless my hearing aids are in.  Something about either sipping drinks on the beach or hanging in the hood?  What kind of idiot would choose the latter?  I liked your choice of music better when we both listened to Boyz II Men and Shai and Sukiyaki by 4 P.M.  You introduced me to Dan Hill, and we used to cruise town listening to one of his cassettes in your little green sports car.  Sometimes I wish we could revisit those days — when we were seventeen and had curfews and the anticipation of seeing you on Friday and Saturday nights made me smile Sunday through Thursday.

Those were the days before hearing aids and alarm clocks.  Before grocery lists and doctors’ appointments.  Before mortgages and after-work meetings and disciplining our children.

Those were the days before our children.

It’s always at this point in my thinking that I change my mind:  I’d never trade these days for those days.  I can’t imagine going back to a life that didn’t involve a thirteen-year-old son and a six-year-old daughter.

When we were seventeen, I didn’t think I’d ever be any more in love with you than I was at that point; my heart couldn’t grow any bigger, I reasoned.  It was the summer of 1994, and I knew I had found my soul mate.

And then on a summer day in 2001, Tyler entered our lives a few weeks earlier than we were expecting him.  When I saw my sweet baby, my heart grew.  And when I saw you hold him, it doubled again.  You know how in the movies time moves in slow motion sometimes?  That’s what happened when I saw you hold Tyler.  I can still picture it vividly nearly fourteen years later.

I can also remember your smile when I gifted you a pair of baby shoes in November of 2007.  Such a grand smile crossed your face when as the realization of what that meant hit.  Your smile was just as grand the day that Ava completed our family in July of 2008. I don’t know how my heart didn’t physically explode at the joy of that day.

So, sixteen years.  Two kids.  A couple of dogs — the one who thinks she’s a cat is snuggled in my lap right now.  A house I want to sell, but will miss terribly if we do.  After all, we’ve nearly a decade of memories down Corinth Road.  A minivan.  I drive a dirty black minivan.  And you know what?  I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  The minivan life means I have a family who is still under my roof.  We can load the van and head to Texas or Florida or the Carolinas, snacks between the kids, movies playing in the backseat, iPads stored behind the driver’s chair.  Or we can pick up the kids’ cousins or friends and head to the movies or bowling or a ballgame.  That’s what minivan-ownership lets us do.  It lets us make memories.  Us, who have been married long enough to build a family, but not so long that our babies have moved out of our home yet.  Us, who have been married sixteen years.

I love you, husband.  You know people think it’s corny that I call you that?  Husband.  I’m just so happy you’re mine, though, and I want people to know it.  We chose to spend our lives together, and what a fantastic choice that’s been.

I love that you are so passionate about your work.  I love that you laugh with your kids.  I love that you’ve never said anything about my weight, though it has climbed steadily since our first date.  I love that you have horrible taste in movies; the way you out-laughed the elementary bunch at Paddington made me smile.  I love how willing you are to help family, friends, strangers.  I love your fantastically full lips, your engaging smile, your strong hands.  I love your story — where you started and how far you’ve grown.  It takes a strong person to do what you’ve done.  I love that you provide for us.  I love us.

Happy sixteenth anniversary to us.  Almost twenty-one years since our first date.  Let’s have another date tonight, husband.

I was in Staples about 8:30 this morning with my mom and sisters.  There’s no picture of this, because we looked like we had been out Grey Thursday/Black Friday shopping for hours.  We started at 7 a.m.  While there, I thought, I’m going to buy some Christmas cards this year.  And then I laughed, because, let’s face it, that’s kind of an adult thing to do.  I make it a habit not to do adult things (though this is largely unintentional).  I circled around to the printer ink, which is not discounted on Black Friday — or ever, in my experience — and saw some Christmas stationary.  Then I had another thought:  I’ll do a Christmas newsletter!  But then I remembered that nobody can afford printer ink, never mind stamps, plus I don’t really know anybody’s address, so that plan was out the window, too.  It was then that I remembered that I had this blog that I pay a grand total of fifteen dollars a year to keep, and I thought, I’m hungry.  But I also thought, I could just write out a holiday newsletter and post it on my blog.  I’ll just have to remember not to cuss.  So here we are.  An online “Happy &%$!@#$ Holidays” to you, dear reader, and an update of what the Phomsithis have been up to over the past year.

Let’s start with the man candy that is my husband.  Xay ate turkey legs this year.  I’m tempted to stop here, because anyone who knows him knows this takes up a large chunk of his time.  Any time we ever visit a fair or a theme park, his sniffer immediately goes into overtime as he drags a travel-weary family toward a turkey leg stand.  It’s an uncanny trait, really, but he seems to be passing it onto our spawn, who both seem to enjoy eating meat off a bone while standing in line for a roller coaster.

Xay also toted his food trailer, Sy’s Stir Fry and Egg Rolls, around to several festivals.  When it’s not at a festival, he keeps it parked on 4th Street in Russellville.  His dad runs the trailer daily, as I make Xay keep a real job.  I’m a fan of things like health insurance and electricity.  Fun fact about the food trailer:  He serves Asian food, but I really didn’t want him to.  I thought it’d be much more fun to fry assorted stuff in egg roll wrappers and that be the whole business.  The menu would include standard egg rolls, a refried bean and cheese egg roll, apple cinnamon egg rolls, macaroni and cheese egg rolls … you get the idea.  Okay, maybe that wasn’t such a fun fact.   Maybe it was just a tiny passive aggressive thought leaking out of my fingertips.  Also, he continues to snore loudly.  I’m putting that out there so that no one will want to steal him, because other than that, he’s perfect.  Well, that and the fact that he won’t let me list our house.

Let’s get to me.  I want to sell our house and have pretty much obsessed over this all year.  I’m tired of living on a dirt road.  I’m tired of finding stray goats and horses and poultry in my yard.  I want neighbors that aren’t furry or edible.  I want to walk to work and school … which is the same thing in my case.  The house is for sale by owner, if anyone is interested.  (Xay is hoping you’re not interested, because he’s kind of in love with his shop.)  I switched jobs this year at school; I’m the instructional technology facilitator for kindergarten through twelfth grades.  I love it.  I even loved it the other day when, after being crouched down beside a third grade for five leg-cramping minutes helping her solve a problem, I asked if she knew the answer, and she said, “No, but you’re sweaty.”  We have secret pals at school, and mine is the best.  We filled out survey at the beginning of the year, and one of the questions was, “What do you collect?”  I answered “dirty laundry,” so her first gift to me was dryer sheets.  That was when I knew I loved her, though I don’t know who she is.  It’s kind of like the plot to a Meg Ryan movie, only less whiny.

My kids are still awesome.  Tyler is fearless and outgoing like his dad, but emotional and needs some alone time like me.  And he has freckles, which are totally adorable, but he won’t let me kiss them anymore.  He’s taller than I am.  Taller than his Grandma Randy, too.  These are recent developments that I’m not entirely comfortable with yet.  I was just holding him on my hip yesterday, and today he’s shaving.  (Though he sometimes forgets to wear deodorant.  And he’s not a fan of weekend showering.)  Tyler stood up in math class this year and said, “Ms. Bettis, can I call my mom and tell her I need new underwear?”  This is why he is awesome.  Not because he needed new underwear because he’d worn silk boxers on game day, but because he’s so open.  I think out everything I say before I say it, and then I generally think of how to apologize for saying it, after which I dwell on how dumb my apology sounded.  I’m completely socially inept, but Tyler is always comfortable, whether in a crowd, a small group, or by himself.  And he loves me.  He loves his dad and his sister and his dogs.  He loves his friends and his teachers, and he’s absolutely the most stand-up dude you’ll ever meet.  He fights for the underdog and has the biggest heart.

Tyler loves animals, and we picked up two dogs this year.  We bought Daphne, who is not a shih tzu, from a lady who said is in a Walmart parking lot.  Because we’re dumb.  Daphne was a baby in this picture, but now she’s as big as our first grader.  Daphne and Tyler are great friends, and they both like to shed in my bed.  Our other dog, Cory, thinks she’s a cat, which means she’s my favorite hairy buddy.

Our other kid, Ava, likes both dogs equally, which is to say that she likes to wave ham in their faces and then shove it in her mouth hole and yell, “Bahahahahaha!”  Ava loves to read and write, like her mom, but in every other way she’s Xay’s little buddy.

Ava was “published” this year, though she doesn’t realize it.  Our conversation was featured on HaHas for HooHas.

She’s always this hilarious.  She was born understanding sarcasm, which is a real plus in our family.  Other developments in Ava’s life include losing two teeth, learning to do a back bend, round-off, and kick-over, and cleverly avoiding taking any Accelerated Reader tests for three weeks.  She loves to read, but says the tests are boring.  Her favorite books, actually, are boring.  She’s read Floods, Road Pavers, and Simple Machines, lately.  Girl loves her non-fiction.

It’s been a great year, really.  Any year I get to spend with the people I love is a great year.  I hope that each of you had some celebrations this year and that your holidays are festive and full of laughter.  As for me, I’d better log off.  I have an Elf on the Shelf to move.  (A very adult responsibility, if I do say so myself.)