Posts filed under ‘Dad’

On Lube and Love

This morning I was melting some butter on the stove. I lifted the frying pan and angled it to distribute the butter more evenly. There was one lone pat of butter that had yet to melt, so it traveled around pan, leaving a trail of “lube” in its wake. And I started to snicker.

Many years ago, back in the days where I was prone to anxiety bouts, I was having trouble sleeping on a family vacation at the beach. Eventually I gave up the futile strategy of lying in bed and went outside for some fresh air.

My father, always the night owl, was outside sitting on a bench. He was overlooking a long wooden patio. I sat down next to him.

He took a drag off a cigarette. “See that slug over there?”

I didn’t see it at first. But then I caught the street lights glistening in a small sliver of slime. I followed its squiggly path until it dead ended at a small slug right smack in the middle of the patio. The slug was still and with its contracted antenna, it was looking rather dejected.

“He hasn’t moved in 10 minutes.” Dad’s voice started to get more animated, “Maybe he went all that way and ran out of lube! He’s stuck!” And then my father started to laugh, “He’s sitting there thinking, ‘Christ! I’m outta lube!‘”

Before I knew it my father was cackling speculating on this poor slug’s predicament, stranded in the middle of no where, out of lube.

And maybe it’s because “lube” is an inherently funny word. Or maybe it’s because I always found my father’s laugh to be infectious. But before I knew it, I was cackling too.

When the conversation ended (with the slug still in the same spot), I had no trouble going inside and falling asleep, though my chest did ache from all the laughing.

All over a slug.

So thanks Dad, thanks Slug, thanks Butter Slime on a Frying Pan. Thank you for a happy memory to kick off my day!

The High Hurdles in Slug World
(Photo By Andrew E. Larsen)

March 24, 2015 at 9:53 am 1 comment

Sometimes Being Called Fat Can Make You Happy

Last summer, I was at the gym and encountered a woman focused and working hard with her personal trainer. You could see the twinkle in her eye. She was sweating and definitely challenged, but she also had that thrill you get when you realize how strong and capable your body really is. Although I was a stranger, we must have had a moment of camaraderie there in the weight room because at one point she looked up at me and said, “I’ve never been so happy to have been called fat in my entire life.”

It turns out, she fancied a man who did not share her affection. He explained in simple, albeit blunt, terms why.

But she took that moment and used it as motivation. Even though months have passed and our gym is now a whole 17 minutes further away, I still see her occassionally. Still focused, still working hard.

I’m currently pushing 27 weeks with my second pregnancy. The other day I was indulging in a shower (motherhood has definitely increased my appreciation of a good, long shower). As I bathed, I found myself singing a number of 60s tunes that reminded me of my deceased father.

And then I remembered how around this time last pregnancy, there would be mornings where I would go downstairs and he would be in the kitchen cooking sausage or bacon or other red meat temptations. He would look at me and greet me with, “You’re getting faaaat!” I think at the time, I laughed politely, but it’s not exactly what a pregnant girl wants to hear.

But this week, nine months after his death, when I got out of the shower, I noticed my increasing girth in the mirror (it’s kinda hard to miss these days ūüôā ). I thought of my father getting that infectious smile of his and those mischievous wrinkles around his eyes. I thought about him calling me fat and this time, I could clearly see his underlying excitement of what that actually meant– a new grandson.

And I smiled.

Like that woman at the gym, I too found surprise happiness in being called fat.

April 9, 2013 at 8:00 pm Leave a comment

A First Birthday and a Last Birthday

My son is currently nearing 18 months, so this is a bit of a “flashback post”.

I wanted to talk about Sagan’s 1st Birthday Party. We had a small family dinner at Occoquan’s Bistro L’Hermitage. In my family we call it “The Fancy French Restaurant”. I’m certain there are other families who refer to the restaurant in the exact same manner. It *IS* a fancy French restaurant with expensive d√©cor¬†and exotic, well-cooked entrees. The menu sports appetizers such as “Seared Duck Foie¬†Gras”, “Fricass√©e¬†d’Escargots”, and “Friture¬†D’Hu√ģtres”. I believe in order that’s duck livers, snails and oysters.

This place just screams 1 Year Old, right?

Well a little bit of a back story. My father and Sagan share a birthday and “The Fancy French Restaurant” was my father’s favorite restaurant for special events. I decided on the actual birthday, we would go take Dad out to a special dinner. We could hike with Sagan the following Saturday.

There are a lot of things I know now, but didn’t know at the time. The first is this– I had no idea that my Dad only have 15 more days with us. No idea. There were many times in the previous months where I thought, “This is it. My Dad is dying.” But not then. Everything seemed stabilized, everything seemed to be looking up.

What I did know was my Dad had an extremely rough year– full of pain and nausea and more pain. I knew my father deserved a great night.

The evening was shaky from the get-go. My father had dialysis that morning, so I knew he was feeling fatigued. But I didn’t know the extent of the pain he was in that day. He had lost a substantial amount of weight in the previous months, so to add to the pain, he found the air conditioning uncomfortably cold as well.

My brother was 20 minutes late. So we all waited, admiring the fresh white linens and the candlelight. This meant we had this poor man — tired, cold, and in pain — waiting.

Then my 1 year old son gagged on a piece of hard crust and vomited…inside “The Fancy French Restaurant”.

And shortly afterwards my father, remember in great pain, started snapping at people in his typical loud voice that tends to carry and echo in small restaurants with decorative stone walls. He was even short with people he normally would not have been– like the innocent wait staff.

I was mortified. I texted my tardy brother. “Get here now. This is a DISASTER!”

My brother showed up, we ate. Although my father did get to devour the duck liver he had been coveting, as soon as he was done he retreated to the car to sleep and get warm. The restaurant brought out two free desserts for the two birthday boys. Only by that time, my poor Dad was long gone. Where my father was concerned, the evening was far from the home run I was hoping for.

And then there was Sagan. This supper that wasn’t intended for him turned out to be a blast for the little guy (besides the whole gagging on bread thing)! He adventurously¬†enjoyed sampling all the various entrees¬†which were mostly seafood. He had a fabulous time giggling at the funny chef statue outside. And then he got not one but two free birthday desserts¬†to sample. He loved, loved, loved both the free cr√®me brulee¬†and the free chocolate mousse. Oh, did I mention he loved the chocolate mousse?

Sagan's First Birthday - Eating Supper with Grandma
Sagan Tastes Grandma’s Fish

Sagan's First Birthday - Laughing at Funny Statue
Sagan Laughs at the Funny Chef Statue

Sagan's First Birthday - Eating Chocolate Mousse
Sagan Devours More Chocolate Mousse

So on the Sagan-side of the things, the evening was a resounding success!

Still, after my little birthday boy fell asleep, I was sad about the older one. I went outside on the balcony, breathed in the summer night air, and failed miserably to purge that huge lump I had in my throat. I was so disappointed. I had so very much wanted to give my father a special evening.

There is one final thing I didn’t know about that night.

As I stood on the balcony, one floor below my father was speaking to his favorite brother on the phone. This brother was my father’s best friend and most trusted confidant. He knew everything and anything about my Dad– including embarrassing anecdotes about his children’s teenage years!!! (as was aptly demonstrated during the eulogy)

That night, my father didn’t tell my uncle about the pain or discomfort. It wasn’t notable. Instead, he talked about his happiness and his gratitude. How he got to be with his wife and all three of his children and how he was able to share in his grandson’s very first birthday.

As I fought off tears upstairs on the balcony, I was oblivious.

My father, surrounded by family, had a most special evening after all.

Sagan's First Birthday - Grandma with Two Birthday Boys
Grandma and the Two Birthday Boys!

January 8, 2013 at 11:57 am 3 comments

TGFNSTTN – Thank Gawd For NOT Sleeping Through the Night

When Ryan and I are out and conversation turns to the baby, one question will invariably get asked.  Young or old, male or female, family friend or complete stranger, whoever we are talking to will eventually ask:

Does he sleep through the night?

Typically our answer is he sleeps through the night, but we don’t.¬† Sagan still “dream feeds”.¬† Although our system is completely manageable (Team work, booyah!), sometimes there is a little bit of envy when we hear other parents reveal how long their babies sleep.

Today, my friends, the opposite should be true!

My father passed away July 27th, but last night I got to have the most pleasant reunion with him while I slept.¬† We were in a hospital lobby and everyone who attended my father’s funeral was there– all his siblings, his cousins, old co-workers, bridge players and even my boss Larry.¬† Even though my father was still skinny, he had all the vibrancy and animation of his healthier days.¬† He was surrounded by all his loved ones. He was¬†telling his stories and laughing, laughing, laughing.

When Sagan started to stir in real life, he¬†had impeccable timing.¬† He woke¬†me up while my father’s laughter was still echoing in my head.¬† Waking at that moment guaranteed that it was¬†a dream that would get remembered.

When morning arrived, sure I was more tired than I would have been if I slept all the way through the night.¬† But I’m very thankful I didn’t.¬† : )

August 17, 2012 at 9:13 pm Leave a comment

My Favorite Accomplishment of May (aka When One Can Be Proud of Flatulence)

May 2012 was a busy month for me and not short on accomplishments. I got lots of bonding time in with my son. I produced 6.15 gallons of milk. I had a photograph printed on the cover of The Journal of The American Chestnut Foundation. I got a short story accepted for publication at Luna Station Quarterly. On the work front, I had bug fixes, 6 AM support calls and pesky PDF conversions to troubleshoot. I added SFTP support to a service. New test regiments ushered in new features and new reports for the food labs. I worked on not one, but two, separate migration projects. I helped secure four new projects for the following month.

But when I look back on May, one accomplishment manages to stand above the rest.

My father has been ill this year and has had more than his fair share of doctor and hospital visits. In healthier days, he was an animated story teller and he possessed one of the most infectious and booming laughs. He has cracked me up more than all the famous, high-paid actors combined. He’s nearly asphyxiated me with laughter!

But these days he is tired. These days he is grumpy.

So when I see him, I try very hard to engage him. My efforts are often a stream of consciousness– me rattling off anything and everything that comes to mind that may be of interest. Dad is following the NFL playoffs? Oh, maybe he wants to see the Tim Tebow¬†SNL video! Dad loved the movie Borat– I’ll tell him about Sasha Baron Cohen’s antics at the Oscars! In 1999, Dad discovered it is amazingly painful to watch “American Pie” when you are recovering from a broken rib. Ooooh! Maybe he wants to hear news about “American Reunion“!


Dad Laughing in 1994

I’ve had substantially more misses than hits.

One day in April, I was on a conference call and my boss mentioned the amazing shot Bubba Watson made to win the Masters.

A little light went off in my head. My Dad’s computer was live streaming golf scores!!! Dad asked me once to go check a golf score for him! This would be a talking point!

My boss coached me with what to say.

Bubba Watson, Bubba Watson, Bubba Watson” I repeated to myself.

The next day, I ran into my father in the kitchen.

“Dad!” I shouted and excitedly delivered my line, “How about that Bubba Watson?!? What an amazing shot out of the woods!”

I was rather pleased with myself for remembering the details, but my pride was short-lived.

“That was last week!” Dad scoffed and walked away.

Just a few weeks later, Dad had a particularly rough night.¬† He spent the whole night vomiting. The whole night. Ryan, Sagan and I stay above my parent’s bathroom so we got to hear each and every heart-wrenching trip. Dad sounded absolutely miserable and you are just overwhelmed with helplessness when you hear a loved one like that.

The next afternoon after work, I stopped by my parent’s bedroom to see how Dad was doing. He was huddled under the covers looking pale.

“How are you feeling Dad? Are you still vomiting?” I asked.

“No, today is ‘Pass Gas Day’.” He said and then with conviction he declared, “It’s WORSE!”

Personally, I would be hard pressed to ever classify “passing gas” as worse than “vomiting”.¬† Nonetheless, a little light went off on my head. I had a story!

“The other day Ryan and I had brussels sprouts and garlic for dinner and…well… it caused a lot of gas. Anyway, Ryan went to bed and I stayed up. So at one point I…passed gas. All of a sudden Ryan WOKE UP!¬† ‘Mmmrpf– did you say something?’¬† I just shook my head no.”

Something amazing happened. After being up all night sick and despite all the fatigue and pain and everything he must have on his mind, my father smiled and let out a little chuckle.

Sure, it is a small victory, but that¬†small victory made “flatulence” my favorite accomplishment in May. : )

June 28, 2012 at 11:20 pm Leave a comment

Wedding – Lowell’s Lecture and the Father Daughter Dance

When I was a young girl, one lesson my father frequently reprimanded me on was the value of commitments. “You can’t renege on a commitment!” he’d bark at me, “You can NOT renege on a commitment!”¬† This usually happened when I was trying to get out of a bridge game.

I was married before and when that marriage disintegrated, I returned home to stay with my parents. Although I can look back now and see with clarity the correctness of my decisions, it was extremely tough at the time. I cried almost all of the 250 mile drive to Occoquan. And when I finally arrived at my parents’ home, my stomach sank before I walked in the door. Here was this giant commitment getting reneged upon. What commitment could be more important? Most certainly, I would be disappointing my father. I braced myself for the loud opinions that were to come my way.

And I got lectured… but not about commitments. Dad expressed some strong feelings on the importance of happiness and how it isn’t something to forfeit. I cried and cried and cried.

“You only live once,” he said, “You’ve got to do what makes you happy. You’ve GOT to!”

On more than one occasion, Dad would pause his lecture and look at me absolutely dumbfounded. “Why are YOU crying?!?” To him, the situation was so clear-cut. My sadness baffled him.

I would still have internal conflicts and doubts to come, but Dad’s reaction helped immensely. I understand now why he was so opinionated. It’s so easy to see just how much happiness I had been forfeiting.

Since my sophomore year of high school my father always seemed pretty oblivious and indifferent of the comings and goings of my boyfriends. When Ryan Somma came along, my father took an unprecedented interest. And sometimes his attention was a little… awkward… like the time Dad started to grill Ryan with questions.

“Why do you have tattoos?”
“Do you go to church?”
“How are your finances?”
“Do you have a retirement fund?”
“How much is in your savings account?”
“Why did you get a divorce?”
“Did you cheat your wife?”
“Did she cheat on you?”

But then, there were the pleasant surprises.

“Vicky looks so happy,” my father reported to my mother one Thanksgiving, “It’s like night and day.”

Or the time Dad brought out his cellphone and snapped a picture of Ryan and I. He evaluated his work on his phone and smiled. “I had to get a picture of the happiest couple I know,” he explained.

When Ryan proposed, I had a rare occurrence show up in my email inbox. A very sweet, sentimental message from my father. He apparently still felt strongly about happiness. In an eight sentence email, he referred to it four times.

When you contacted me about your last marriage, I could only give general guidance. My advice to you then was that you only live once, and that you have to make the decision what would make you happy. When you are with Ryan I see just happiness. I like Ryan. Forget about the financial background check, as I suggested. You picked the perfect person for happiness. I greatly endorse Ryan to be our to-be-son-in-law. He is a very great person who will give you happiness for the rest of your life.

Lowell

When it came time to pick a song for the Father Daughter Dance, I selected an accoustic cover of Stand By Me by Jonathan David. My father was by no means the only one who supported me during my divorce. But he was the biggest surprise. I’m where I’m at now and as happy as I am in part because my father knew what was important and stood by me. I certainly hope I can do the same for him.

At the wedding reception, when my father and I stepped out on to the dance floor, the sentiment was much different than the night I was lectured on happiness. No tears were shed and actually there was very little dancing. Instead my father did what he does best– in his animated manner, he told me funny stories.

I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Wedding Weekend - Father Daughter Dance - Vicky and Dad Laugh (By Liza Franco)
Dad Cracking Me Up (By Liza Franco)

August 21, 2010 at 12:54 pm 7 comments

The Garden of Lights and the Power of Subject Matter

Today Ryan Somma and I drove up to Norfolk, Virginia and had a day full of ideals and sentiment and Christmas spirit. We started off visiting the American Chronicles: The Art of Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Chrysler Musuem. Next we caught a showing of “It’s a Wonderful Life” at the Naro Cinema (I had actually never seen that film before!). We had supper and then the grand finale– Driving through the “Garden of Lights” at the Norfolk Botanical Garden.

I’m on a Christmas Light streak! In 2006, I toured lights in Wichita, Kansas. In 2007, I got to see Ritzy’s Fantasy of Lights in Evansville, Indiana. There were some surprising similarities, particularly the Christmas Dragon.

So for 2008 in Norfolk, Virginia, I expected to see more of the same and it appeared that way as we inched by familiar looking lollipops, snowflakes and candycanes waiting to enter the park.


Candycanes, Lollypops and Gingerbread Men

But once we paid our entrance fee, there was a definite theme to the lights:

NATURE!

I had figured the “Garden” in “Garden of Lights” was simply a reference to the locale. But it truly was a Garden of Lights! They had trees, apples, spiderwebs, caterpillars, pumpkins, daisies, butterflies, tulips, roses, fall leaves, mushrooms. They even had a waterfall and a nice little lighted river.


A Netherlands section? Tulips and Windmills!


Nature: Flower, Caterpillar, Mushroom, Butterfly, Flower


Hummingbird!


Pumpkins and behind it– a very giant spiderweb


A Waterfall and a Creek Comprised of Lights (plus some corn)

The summer of 1988, my father and I played in a Regional Bridge Tournament up in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. While we competed, my mother and my two siblings went site-seeing. One day they went to this awesome wax musuem. Both my brother and my sister raved about how cool it was and all the historic characters depicted in the museum. They got to see that and I was stuck looking at the same set of 52 cards for 8 hours. I was soooooo jealous. (Note: During my bridge career I also found myself jealous of the caddies who got to sit around and shoot rubberbands at each other all day, so it really didn’t take all that much to spark my envy).

I probably pestered my partner (a.k.a Dad) relentlessly about poor me and how deprived I was because I missed out on the wax museum. I say this because at the very next bridge tournament, my father promptly found a wax museum and took me to it. So just like the Baby Cry and Dry incident in the early eighties when Santa forget what I wanted, my Daddy was the hero, right?

Well….this tournament was in Nashville, Tennessee and instead of familiar founding fathers, Dad and I got to look at likenesses of Country Music stars. Country Music, a genre I would not really be exposed to for 20 more years when I developed a fondness for Taylor Swift. So the only person I recognized in the entire museum was…Dolly Parton. Looking at wax strangers wasn’t all that fun.

I was thirteen years old at the time and my conclusion from that experience was:

Subject matter makes a difference in wax museums.

Tonight I am two decades wiser and I have a corollary. I believe subject matter makes a difference in Christmas lights as well. Don’t get me wrong– I definitely enjoyed the lights in Wichita and Evansville.

But I really, really, really, enjoyed the lights in Norfolk.

And more picture of those lights can be found on my Flickr site.

December 21, 2008 at 12:40 am 3 comments

Homeless Henry?

When I was learning how to drive, my father had a series of extra tests besides the two issued by the Department of Motor Vehicles. At our house, you also had to get certified for I-95. That wasn’t too bad. The toughest part was merging on the Interstate while Dad yelled at you. The “driving in icy conditions” certification was actually quite fun. Dad took us to an empty parking lot and had us try out emergency stops to get a feel for what the vehicle would do on ice. The one trial I despised was pursuing my Sawyer Suburban certification. There, you had to drive Dad’s giant, white, diesel-fueled suburban and he made you do stuff like back between cones and parallel park. Almost two decades later, I still have trouble parallel parking my tiny, baby, XTerra, especially when there is an audience. I don’t know how I ever managed to parallel park the suburban to Dad’s satisfaction.

Anyway, I never have to worry about my dogs driving, but I did subject the dogs to a certification process of their own when it came to camping. A number of years ago, I set up the tent up on my deck, rounded up the dogs and gave it a go. Jimmie curled up at my feet and went to sleep. Henry, on the other hand, spent the entire evening bellowing out aroos at any sound. I had no idea how “noisy” my neighborhood was at night until Henry was on full alert. Without him, I would have been blissfully unaware of twigs snapping, crickets and dogs barking off in a distance.

Here were the final results of the Dog Camping Certification:

Candidate Score
Jimmie A++
Henry FAIL!!!!

Henry failed with such distinction that I have never even given him a second chance.

Ever since then, every camping trip– Henry is always left behind with a sitter. This weekend though, I have a dilemma. I’m going backpacking at Mount Rogers. And…I have yet to successfully secure a dog sitter for Henry. Everyone is busy! Out of town obligations, golf trips, surgeries. One sitter can’t because his dog is having puppies. It’s a perfect storm.

Who wouldn’t want to watch this cute little fellow?


Aww… don’t you want to watch him?


He wants to cuddle with you.


And look at how cute he was at a puppy!

(Note: If you are actually considering it, please ignore this post and this post and this post and this post and this post and this post and oh yeah, this post, too)

We’ll see if I scrounge up a sucker Samaritan. As much as it will pain my eardrums, I may have to… take him with me.

June 3, 2008 at 4:35 pm 9 comments

The Peace Eagle

My favorite bird really didn’t do much to earn its title. It’s the chickadee and the only reason it was propelled to the top was because it was my maternal grandmother’s favorite bird. Sure they are cute, but I really did not embrace them until 2000 when my grandmother died. After that, anytime I saw a chickadee I was reminded of her and it made me smile. And from there my love of those little birds with the black caps grew.

BUT– my second favorite bird earned its right on its own volition. And, unlike the chickadee, I think it’s a less traditional candidate. It’s the turkey vulture or, as I indiscriminately call them and black vultures, buzzards. I ran into a few yesterday as I drove to Deerfield Bike Path for a walk.


Three “buzzards” just hanging out – the two on the left are actually black vultures and the one on the right is a turkey vulture.

I love these birds. A buzzard’s floating silhouette was a near constant fixture in sky when I was a child. They always looked so tranquil. Now whenever I see a buzzard above, I feel closer to my family and closer to home.


Turkey Vulture (Photo by Ms. Kathleen)

On the subject of childhood, buzzards evoke a memory that still makes me smile. One day my father was especially displeased with my younger brother. I was out in the yard with a gruff Dad, and he noted a group of buzzards circling above us.

“They know I’m about to kill Jay,” he said. ūüôā


Painting by my brother, who was not in fact devoured by buzzards.

Buzzards are also sentimental to me on the emetophobia front. In winter 2002, I was visiting my parents and had a horrible bout of anxiety and appetite loss. One morning my father asked if I wanted to go to breakfast. To me, that was a terrifying request (and not because he suggested McDonald’s).

“I don’t know,” I said with tears in my eyes, “What if I get there and I’m not hungry?”

My father was not phased by this obstacle in the least. “Well, then we bring it home and feed it to the dogs!”

Sounded easy enough. I got in the car and went with my father to McDonald’s. I cautiously ate a few bites of a Yogurt Parfait before my fearful esophagus would swallow no more.

On our way back, Dad got enthusiastic, “Oh Vicky, you’ve GOT to see this!”

He took a few turns and suddenly we were at a townhouse development. Typical to Northern Virginia architecture, all the houses looked exactly the same. But then there was one house in the row that stood out. The roof was COVERED with buzzards… and subsequently had its fair share of buzzard crap as well.

“There are here every morning,” Dad said, “And then after lunch, they go and fly across the river.”

We laughed and pointed and laughed some more. We speculated. What was it about that ONE townhouse that made it such an appealing roost? How come they didn’t sit on any of the adjacent townhouses? Did they used to have a tree in the same spot? Do the owners of the house know they have visitors while they are away?

Eventually, we returned back to the car where the yogurt was waiting in the cup holder. I was now relaxed and happy and as we drove back to the house and continued to marvel about buzzards, I finished every bit of my breakfast.

The root of my worries that day was a fear of vomit. And here a bird whose defense mechanism is to vomit on its threats was my salvation.


Vicky’s unlikely hero (Photo by Vicki and Chuck Rogers)

“Turkey vulture” and “buzzard” aren’t exactly appealing terms. The scientific name is a little better– Cathartes aura where cathartes means “purifier”. But I think the Cherokees came up with the best name. They call the birds “Peace Eagles” because buzzards don’t kill to eat. They simply recycle.

From my perspective, “Peace Eagle” is the perfect name! When I see a buzzard gliding around in the sky, “peaceful” is definitely a word I would use to describe their flight. Their ability to make me think of my family and feel as if I were home again brings along a sense of ease, a feeling of peace. And one day way back in 2002 when even a meal was a scary notion, it was a group of buzzards who brought me the most important type of peace.

Peace from one’s own mind.

May 23, 2008 at 4:00 pm 16 comments

Gwyn vs. the Volcano

I was cleaning off one of my SanDisk cards for my camera and I ran across some pictures I never processed. These are from February 22nd, when Ann, Larry, Sean and I took Penn and Gwyn to Kabuki for supper.

For the most part, the evening progressed normally. The kids oohed and ahhed at the fish tank while we waited for a table and after that they oohed and ahhed at the chef preparing the meal. Then it came time for the ONION VOLCANO!!!

Both children lean in with great expectations:

Let’s take a closer look at Gwyn’s face:


Gwyn excited about the volcano

BUT… when the volcano was actually lit, Gwyn was no longer happy:

And let’s take a closer look at that face:


Terrified Gwyn

Once the terror subsided, she watched the flames with worry:


Gwyn worried

Finally she just covered her eyes:

Know what the best part about the picture above is? That kid in the background (a stranger) is laughing at her!


Sympathetic Stranger

And in the end, it was Mama to the rescue:


Ann consoles Gwyn. Brother doesn’t look so concerned, does he?

March 28, 2008 at 7:24 pm 4 comments

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