Sunday Morning Song of the Moment

I wish I knew how to adequately start this post.
Quite frankly, I'm a wreck.
I'm smiling.
I'm joking.
On the outside.
On the inside, I'm trying to make pieces fit.
And the fact that Connor is with us and is OK, should be enough.
But there are things that come back to me in my mind's eye that I can't shake off.
There's the knowledge of the fact that your son tip-toed on a razor's edge.
And seconds, which seem so insignificant in the course of days, years, and lives could have made all of the difference in my world.
And they have.
We were lucky.
We are lucky.

If you've been reading here for any length of time, you know just how important music is to me. Upon the birth of both of the kids, I have made several, several CD's for them.
And the song that always brings me back to being a first time Momma, huddled in the soft cocoon of Connor's nursery, rocking and holding for what seemed years on end was and is Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy) by John Lennon. I wanted to save this song and share it on his birthday. But I think it is most fitting to share today.

Again, thank you all for your thoughts, prayers, and well-wishes. It means so much. You'll all never know just how comforting it has been.

Enjoy the song :)

Not Yet Time To Fly

Weighty things have been on my mind.

I find myself worrying about William on particularly steamy evenings.

I find myself wondering if my new girlfriend will show up on my doorstep again. Though I know she must be telling her coworkers that this is a friendly neighborhood, because I've seen quite a few in here lately, bumming rides, work, money, telephone calls.

I find myself worrying about funds and the stress of that worrying making it's mark on my face. To the extent where I don't even recognize it anymore. The lines, the deep crease in my brow from furrowing.

The growing number of people murdered in the city of Philadelphia.

The list grows.

It's the other things, though, that hit you right between the eyeballs like a lawn dart you did not see coming.

The things that sneak up on you while you're trying to pick up the pieces of your broken blog - that you inadvertantly dismembered. Hours spent huddling around the glowing box putting the pieces back in place. The amount of time that you realize you've spent making this thing what it is. What it was.

Rav comes downstairs and stands next to me. He recalls what transpired between himself and Connor just a mere seconds before. Because I ask him why Connor was crying like that. That being unusually sincere crying. Rav tells me that Connor asked him what would happen when I'm older - when I'm a grown up?

Rav tells him When you're a grown up, you'll go and live in your own house, doing grown up things.

At this, Connor becomes distraught. And he begins to sob. But then I won't remember you!!

Rav assures him that he will remember us. That we'll still see him.

At this, Connor calms down a bit.

And Rav tells me that Connor wanted to talk to me for a minute.

But I didn't hear that.

Because I was so engrossed in getting my blog put back together.

From upstairs, I hear my son wail. More than just a few minutes have passed since this conversation between my first-born and my husband. I look over at Rav and say in an irked tone What is he crying for???

Rav says He wanted to talk to you for a minute. I told you that.

And as I bound up the stairs, I feel oh-so small.

I sit on Connor's bed. I take him in my arms. He is now getting sweaty from crying so hard. I ask him to please tell me what's wrong.

He says as he sobs I don't want to be a grown up. I don't want to move away from you and Daddy. I want to stay here.

I tell him that You'll be with us for a looong time. You won't be a grown up for a very long time. That you'll stay with us until you're a grown up.

This does not soothe. And thinking about it after I said it, it's really not comforting news at all.

It's quite lame, actually.

He looks at me with those dark chocolate eyes and says, still sobbing But I don't want to leave. I want to stay here with you and Daddy.

Then the best I can come up with is Connor, you can stay with us as long as you want. Until you are ready to leave. You don't have to go anywhere. No one is leaving. Gracie isn't leaving, you're not leaving, I'm not leaving, Daddy's not leaving. We will all be together. And you don't have to go anywhere until you are ready to.

In this, I have flashes of my 40 year-old son taking that piece of information to heart and thinking of it warmly as he settles in bed under Rav's & my roof.

Purely for amusement purposes on my part - in my head....to ease the tension.

The tension of having realized just why you are here right now. What your purpose is right now.

The tension of knowing you are the whole world to someone right now. The noose that we try to avoid for much of our late teen to early adult lives. Then becomes something we couldn't bear to live without.

The tension of being taken down a notch. Of wanting to do anything to help my son not feel any sense of being left to his own devices for survival, well-being, and security.

The tension of knowing that my son, at 4 and 1/2, is just as anxiety-ridden as I am.

He worries of weighty things.

The tension of wondering if I'll ever get this right. At times, I feel so good at it. Being a mom. And other times...

like when I'm so engrossed in my blog....

that I don't hear my husband....

telling me my son needs me....

That heady feeling of being a good mom bursts like a balloon. The loud pop!

It hurdles you back into reality so suddenly.

He is mine for a reason. And I am his for a reason.

And I do the best I can with this fragile boy that we have to mold into a man.

A man who I know will carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

A man who I know will probably be insanely loyal.

A man that can be proud of his mom.

Even when she can't always hear him.

But feels his every move, his every breath, his every tear, his every smile

With every fiber of her being.

Thereby The Grace

I blog a lot about Gracie.
I sat and asked myself why the other day.
The other day, after she heard me say fuckin' in the car.
And in her sweet, toddler, song of a voice say FUCKIN'!!
We all burst into laughter (totally inappropriate, I know).
The look of joy (and new found respect) for his sister, lit Connor's face up like a million stars.
Rav, trying to be the rock, stifled laughter while telling Gracie That's a bad word. Please don't say it.
And me. Me laughing so hard, I'm trying desperately to hold my bladder. And having to pull the Land Rover over because I'm laughing so hard I can't see the road.
And in that sweet, song of a voice again: FUCKIN'!! That's not a bad word. Fuckin'!! That's not a bad word. Fuckin'!!!! (repeat chorus 5 more times).

I finally pulled myself together enough to say Truckin'!
Rav chimes in with Pluckin'!
Connor adds in Duckin'!
See, isn't this fun!? We're rhyming!
Fuck is a word so overused by moi that I didn't even realize that I had said it. It has become a part of my vocabulary like the word the has. Deb, I know you would be so proud.

Anyway, back to Gracie. I've been thinking a lot about her as she approaches three. And, Connor will be turning five and heading off to kindergarten. And I'm sure I'll be panic-stricken over that. But right now, my mind is weighted down with thoughts of
Gracie.

Gracie, who has a fire inside of her.
She also has a heart full of love, of passion (yes, I can see it already), of care and concern, of good, of songs. Oh, god. That girl is full of music.

I get her.
I look at her free spirit, her independence, her wild abandon.
And I see what I must have once been.
Before the seas of my life weathered me and made me soft and rounded. Yet hard like a sea stone or piece of driftwood.
I get her.

I see a girl. Untouched by age, hurt, faded dreams, time. She is free. She has a wide, open road. She is all that I once was.
And so much more.

I see the joy at the discovery of a new song that hits her in just the right spot. I see her dancing in her car seat - head bobbing from side to side - as she has learned to feel the music. I smile and well with pride, when she hears Forever Loving Jah and looks at me and says Who is this? And I reply Bob Marley and the Wailers, honey.

I know what that feels like.

I see how fragile I once was. In the little body that stands before me, I have a mirror. A mirror that looks at me everyday with wide, expectant eyes and an open heart, a thirsty mind. A mirror that reminds me to tread with care, to love like there will be no tomorrow, to play music, to be silly, to laugh, to lead her down roads that weren't as bumpy as mine. But roads that will, indeed, leave her wanting more and hungry for what is around the next bend. Roads that are open only for her. Roads that might be lined and littered with people telling her she can't, she shouldn't, she's female.
And on those roads my voice will rise even louder to say She can, she should, she IS female.
Roads that will give her voice. Her voice to stand strong, to say exactly what she should and exactly what needs to be said, a voice to soothe, to heal.

I know that my dreams might not ever be made a reality.
She may never turn out to be the person that I see budding before me.
It could be trick of the light in the mirror.
And I do hope, on one hand it is.
Because in her I can see all that I could have been.
In her I see what I am. What I was.
And see what I have left undone, but that she may pick up and run away with.

As long as she is given a chance.
To be.
That's the most that I, her mom, could ask for.

Room Inside For Me

I was recently asked to reflect upon the things that I love about myself and the things that are unique about me.
I can't help but feel a tad like running head first into a brick wall.
See, I don't think I've ever thought about it.
And truly it isn't something that I would typically blog about.
But the person asking me to do this is quite special.
And I know there is a pretty good reason that she has asked me to do it. And she cared enough about me to ask me to do it.


The thing(s) I think I love about myself would probably be that I'm not what people would expect. I'm very short - all 5' 1" of me. I used to be pretty thin. Before Gracie got ahold of my body, anyway. And I've always looked rather young. I'll probably get carded for some time to come, though the crow's feet around my eyes may give me away pretty soon. I think what people would expect from my compact package is a limp noodle, a wee maiden, a demure, quiet, lamb.

But I think I'm pretty strong. Physically. And I do thoroughly enjoy manual labor. I like dirt. I like working in dirt. I like being sweaty. I like working until my hands and fingers burn from fatigue. I like a challenge. I like working at something difficult and getting it done. I like operating heavy equipment. I drool over brand new Bobcats and tractors are sexy.



I also am a bulldog when it comes to something I believe strongly in. I'm passionate, steadfast, and stubborn. I'm animated. I am full of life. I am sunshine. I am light. (Despite what you may think or what you have heard.)
And I love that about myself.


I love that when my friends or my family need advice or are having a personal crisis, they call me. They open up and they count on my opinion/thoughts. They know that I will always be there to listen.


I love that I am an open book. I have nothing to hide. I love to share. Be it my thoughts, my experiences, my food, my home, my belongings, my emotions. All of it.


I love that I am in love with the world.


I love that I am perceptive and that I can feel what someone else is feeling. I love that I can see through things to what will happen, what someone will say, what someone will do. I'm not going all out and saying I'm psychic. But I just know things. And I love that my ability to feel what other people are feeling allows me to have the wide-open heart that I do. I love that I want to fight for those who can't fight for themselves - or who just need a cheerleader.


I love that I know how to embrace dark times, as well as, light, happy times. The dark times leave me feeling washed up, but that is when the biggest and best changes occur. I love that I can take them for what they are, make my way through them, and move on to enjoy the good.

I love my name. I used to hate it when I was a kid. But I have come to love my name. And I love that my Dad named me. Because I know that it means something to him. (And no, he didn't choose it because of Bewitched).


This was really, really hard for me to do. And I'm not sure that it came out the way I wanted it to. It's not eloquently written like I wanted it to be. It's just me. In black and white. But these are the things that I love about myself.
I really needed to hear myself say them.

(I almost feel like Stuart Smalley)
:)

Baby Mine

When I was very pregnant with Connor, I remember being startled awake by a bad dream. (I had many a bad dream when I was pregnant). I remember waking up to the feeling of being totally unsafe. And that my unborn baby was unsafe. I remember rubbing my big, swollen belly as I was coming down from the adrenaline high of the nightmare. And fear, dread, worry, anxiety, and reality fell upon me like a concrete rain.

This world is a harsh, cold, scary place sometimes.
And as much as I wanted to meet my baby and see his precious, innocent, little face...
I knew how safe he was
nestled all snug and cramped in my den de utero.
I wanted him to stay in. Where I could keep him safe forever.
Such was my intense desire to protect my unborn cub.

Obviously, I can't fight natural processes and biology.
He came to us in a flurry.
In all of his pink, wrinkled, wide-eyed glory.
And my fears were forgotten.
Momentarily.

But mostly I delighted in my baby boy.
We played.
We laughed.
We, scratch that, I sang.
We toddled.
We messed about.
His entire mode of entertainment was wrapped up in mommy and daddy.
Yes, he made friends and joined school. Where he, very awkwardly, made his way through social interactions.
And that was all OK. It was within my safety zone.
Playdates have been highly supervised, they are somewhat within my control. I set the course, to some extent. All of Connor's friends live far away. We don't really know anyone in our neighborhood. So, it has made this whole safety thing a little easier.
I had tricked myself into thinking that I found a way to keep my baby safe, even though he's baby stepping his way through the world.

One of my favorite pictures. Gracie was only about 1 month old or so.

Sunday afternoon, reality came a-calling.
Something so innocent, a milestone I had not even thought about & was not yet prepared for came knock-knock-knocking on our door.
Our neighbor's 8 year old son, and his 6 year old stepbrother asked Connor to come out and play.
Come out and play?
What is this crazy talk you speak of, child?

I instantly perked up and thought that was so nice. I hadn't yet begun to think clearly.
Rav told the boys Connor wasn't feeling well. Maybe another day.
You nasty, white-liar, you. I first think to myself.
Rav shut the door.
We had a brief discussion about the kinds of kids they are.
And that was the end of it.

Fast forward a few hours & Connor sees the kids outside & wants to ride his bike.
OK. I tell him. But I'll stay outside with you.
Rav & Gracie join us.
Connor is doing great staying on the side walk with his tricycle.
While this miscreants have the audacity to scoot down the street on their scooters with wild abandon. Wild, I tell you. Wild.

Connor is pedaling his little heart out to keep up with his new friends. But his tricycle is no match for the speed of these scooters. (And remember..his scooter was stolen.)
**I'm not insinuating they stole it. I know they didn't. I was just saying that because Connor now has no scooter himself.**
His handle bars begin to thrash wildly, the front wheel is gnashing to and fro. He begins to veer off into the street, then NO! it veers back onto the sidewalk and crashes in our yard.
He's OK & no worse for the wear. In fact, he probably enjoyed it. He probably got a rush.

But our sidewalk is so close to the road.
Cars drive like maniacs down our street.
And remember how bad I want to protect my wee one.

I want him to have friends. I do.
I want so for him to be outside on beautiful 80 degree, sun-filled days.
I want him to ride his bike.
But the thought of something happening to him is almost more than I can bear.

I don't consider myself to be a recluse or one of those nutty people who is completely consumed by fear.
That was until the day that little boy came into my life.
And my everyday existence, while filled with many meaningful things, is now wrapped up in the caring and loving of these not one, but now two precious,little beings that I had a hand in creating.

How did something as simple as playing outside become such an ordeal?
Are mothers hiding in their homes thinking the same thing? Or are they not even aware that the time will come when kids will come knocking on your door. Requesting the presence of your child. To play. And you look out toward the immediate world...the cars, the streets. And know that your baby is growing up. Things are changing.
Or am I totally bonkers (wait, maybe you shouldn't answer that - even though I know the answer)?
I don't want to keep him from community.
Or from living life.

I want to give him strong wings to fly & soar.
But his mommy is trying so desperately to hold on.
I can almost feel what it was like to hold him on my chest and know that I would lay it all down for him.
I guess for now all I can do is hold my breath.
Hope for the best.
And watch my babies as they are just...

beginning to fly.

My Heart Just Stopped

It is the ass-crack of dawn, & I am awake. Today is going to be a rough day. Can't really get into details, but it will be keeping me away for the next few days. I just wanted to "report" on a few things.

I got my paper finished by 10:30 a.m. yesterday. It probably wasn't one of my better papers, but whateva.

The awards assembly was........awesome. Connor was so happy to receive his award. I swear, I don't think I've ever seen my baby boy that happy before. I was completely overwhelmed. I couldn't contain the tears. Yes, I think I must be one of those nutty mcnutster moms.
However, as soon as we walked into the school office & signed in, upon arriving at Connor's school, I knew it was going to be an emotional day.

This little girl we encountered, I haven't been able to get out of my mind.

When we walked into the office to sign in, there was a little girl standing in the office. She couldn't have been any more than 9. And there was a school "official" talking to her - I wasn't really paying them too much attention. And then I heard...

Sweetheart, I'm really sorry your mommy died.

And then the little girl said:
I know. Her heart just stopped.

I felt the tears welling up, my face fell, and I seriously wanted to hug that little girl so tight. I looked at her face as she was walking by me and she looked so....serene. She looked so strong.
But I know inside, that little girl has got be a wreck. Even if she doesn't know it.

Rav & I turned our backs to look at pictures in a display while waiting in the office & when I turned back around, that little girl was reaching out to touch Gracie's hand (who was in my mother's arms) and was talking to Gracie.
And my heart stopped.
The emotions that washed over me as a mom - for this little girl. A girl I don't even know. Watching her reaching out to my daughter. I was beyond words.

The emotions of the day were almost too much for me to handle & process.

Such sadness & then the next moment, such happiness.

I think I will be thinking about that little girl for quite some time.

Grace Is As Grace Does

For those less observant readers, this week has been really rough. I have woken up everyday thinking this is the day that Grace & I will start to feel better. But no. Not just yet. I'm at the stage where, when I bend over, my eyes feel like they're going to pop out of my skull and land on the floor like 2 splattered egg yolks. And when I stand up, my wish is that the top of my skull does finally explode - just so some of the pressure would be alleviated.
But I'm not whining.

Our days have been filled with sleeping in that deep sleep that only a sick person can sleep. Waking up to that sweet little tickle in our dry, scratchy throats, easing that tickle, then crawling back into bed for another sick nap. We're wearing disgusting, dirty pajamas. Our hair is standing up at all sorts of weird, greasy angles. It's just boooootiful.
But really, in this sick haze I had something happen that I've been clinging to. I've had this experience that I want to make into a really beautiful post. Whether or not I can accomplish the really beautiful post part, I'm not so sure. But I'll share this little moment of sweet, sweet love.

During one of our sick naps, Gracie & I were sleeping in my bed. I guess at some point, she had awoken while I slumbered on. I was in this black, floating, sleepy abyss. No dreams. No sounds. Just sleep.
But then there was something.
And then again.
And yet again.
This light, gentle sweep - a tender brush of skin.
I lay very still, processing where I am and who is next to me.
Through the thin slits of my eyelids, I see my daughter. Resting on one hand and leaning over me.
With her tender little toddler-girl fingers, she is caressing my hair.
In the most feminine fashion, she rubs my shoulder.
Then moves back up to my hair.
She is caring for me in a way that paralyzed me with so many emotions.

I instantly got a smile on my face. Watching her as she did this. In the most quiet, loving way.
Then my heart swelled up at how pure my daughter is. How sweet of spirit she truly is.
And then I was afraid to move. I didn't want this intimate, tender moment to end.

Being the smart girl that she is, she realized I was awake. And like a bubble on a blade of grass the moment burst into thin air. There was left nothing but the feeling. The knowledge that it had happened.

It made me think back to how incredibly devastated I was when I found out I was pregnant a 2nd time. And just how devastated I was by the results of my ultrasound. See here how the lack of a pronounced penis is not evident? I do not have a good view, but if I were to bet, I'd say you're having a girl.

Oh, shit.

I had flashes of princess-stuff (oh dear god, how I hate that shit).
Absolutely, under no circumstances are you to buy us anything with the words/images of a princess, tiara or any such nonsense. Thank You!

I began to panic as I saw millions of frilly dresses, patent leather shoes, frilly socks, laced-bottomed what-nots, and faux fur embellished shirts. Ick.

I began to panic when I thought of the disconnect in my own relationship with my mother. How time has healed things over, but it's not the relationship that we both might have wanted over the years. How was I supposed to form a relationship with a daughter when I haven't been properly shown how to do so?

I relaxed a bit when my dad was ecstatic at the idea of not only another grandchild, but...
a granddaughter.
(Dad, I expected more out of you, really.)

I mean Easy-Bake Ovens. The very thought grosses me out.
Barbies. By their very nature make me want to hurl. I mean, I used to chew the feet of the two I happened to have, for cripes sakes.

I thought I had taken the time to get all prepared. My daughter can wear purple and pink...but other colors as well. She'll enjoy dirt and heavy-equipment (tractors, motorcycles, etc). The whole princess thing? Not here.

But then, she came. And I wondered how I ever had such dire thoughts about having a daughter.

And all of those things are true. She's a girl. I've managed to keep the whole princess thing at bay. She hasn't yet discovered that she can't live without Barbie. She enjoys being dirty and even tractors. When she sees Darth Vader or R2D2 she says, Ooh, Look! Star Wars!

But nothing could have prepared me for what, people like my dad, already knew.

The sweetness. The ability to look at you and melt you like a chocolate bar on a hot, summer day. The propensity to make you feel adored in a way that you've never felt before. The hugs and the squeals and the giggles that can only be so sweet coming from your own little girl.

The way in which she can be so good to me. She sits so patiently in the bathroom while I'm showering chattering away, asking me to sing songs. And as soon as I turn the water off, she's standing there, with my hair towel in her hand and a big smile on her face.

She gives without realizing that it could be painful.

People keep saying to me that I'll eventually lose her. That my time with her will be up soon and it will all be about Daddy.

On days when I'm exasperated by the close proximity of a needy individual whose whole world is wrapped up in me and only me - that is comforting news.

But the rest of the time, it is news that brings me to my knees.

a valentine for The One

Sweet Air
By: me

He admires her walls,
her delicate confusion.
He watches the changing-of-the-guard
The emotion, the mind-set,
checking out
While the next shift man their posts
And begin their vigile.

He has no expectation
or no wayward intent.
He just wants to be
in close physical proximity.
Because he thinks the
air near her smells sweeter.

He asks for nothing.
And he gives her
Everything.

As he treads so
softly, yet strongly
Around her,
He is quiet.
But yet she can hear him
so loudly.

She takes notice that
the air smells sweeter
Where he is.

The guards march on
to man other gates.
And there he is...

Her strength,
Her steadfast,
and gentle man.
The gentle man who is
strong enough to pick her up
and carry her away.

Thank You, Mrs. Salt

Warp speed.
That's how the Ravioli family rolls. My head is spinning.
It's reeling from all of the fog. And then traveling at warp speed.....that can do a girl in.

Thursday I had my follow-up with my PCP, so that he could read the results of my blood work. Good news is that the blood work was all perfectly normal.

The bad news?
That it all came back perfectly normal.

I do have my health. So that is something.
We discussed what could possibly be causing my hair to fall out by the handfuls. We discussed my appointment with the GYN and he sent my healthy ass on my way.

As I was traveling the road toward home, I called Rav to tell him that there isn't a GD thing wrong with me - medically speaking. And his voice sounds funny. He sounds as if he is teetering. He then asks me where the dustpan and hand broom is.

It's in our room, I reply. (as I had been cleaning the mutant dust bunnies earlier that day).

Okay, he says. Then proceeds with:

You won't believe what our daughter - you're daughter has done.

Me: Oh, god. What'd she do?

Rav: Well, she has sprinkled salt from the kitchen, all the way up to our bedroom. It's everywhere. You can't escape it.

Me: (beginning to belly laugh)

Rav: Oh my god!! It's everywhere!

Me: (full-on laughter)

Rav: Go ahead and laugh your ass off because it's all over your new iHome. Awww.....OH shit! It's all in our bed. F*&% it.
I'm not even trying to clean all of this up. Maybe it's good luck. And since we'll be laying in it, it'll always be over our left shoulders.

Me: Bwaaaaahahahahaha.
Okay, honey. You sound like your hands are full. I'll just talk to you when I get home.

Rav: Yeah, okay.

That's the funny thing about kids. You just never know what they're gonna do next. You never know what you'll find in your bed, what you'll find in your toilet, that that squishy stuff is that you just stepped in bare-footed, or why in the hell there is a slotted spoon in your underwear drawer.
There is, I'm convinced, a method to their madness. The imaginative, eccentric uses of the most everyday items becomes an art form. It becomes a great source of distress, possible catastrophe and amusement.
And it is all too fleeting.
Thank goodness for it all.
For it is divine.

The Thing I Think I Love Most About Rav

Ravioli is many, many things. He comes from a family who are somewhat tall (tall when you're a hobbit) and thin.
He's short and stocky (yummy).

Ravioli is cool as a cucumber. He's all perspective and reason. He's cool-headed and even-tempered.
(This is fascinating to me because I'm so not that way. I guess that's why we work.)

He is humble and a little cocky. He's silly, funny. He has a great laugh. A smile that makes me feel funny in my tummy and eyes that I want to curl up in and stay awhile. Stay forever.

He stands with me, wraps me in his arms and then sets me free. And as I look back over my shoulder, there he is smiling. He likes watching as I float along and find my way.

He is childlike, but all man.
He makes me laugh, he heals my wounds, he lifts me up and sails choppy seas with me.

He has a hard time finding the broad-side of a bull. It drives me crazy sometimes, but it is endearing. His serenity, his 'sit-back and wait' attitude makes me want to throw a temper tantrum. But most of the time he's 100% correct. He's not afraid to speak his mind or call someone on their stuff. It may not happen at that exact moment. But he will. He's just biding his time. There's something to be said for waiting for the right moment.
I often admire how calm he can be. I've asked him repeatedly what it would take to get him fired up. Then I saw him coaching his kids at a wrestling match.

I heard this man yelling at his team, at one of his wrestlers. I was curious who it was. They sounded so loud, so passionate. I looked in the direction of this booming voice.
It was Rav.
And not only was he yelling, he was pacing, his hand was clenched in a fist and moving across his body in an upward motion. His face was red, his eyebrows furrowed, and I believe he may have let a little spit fly out of his mouth.
My jaw dropped down to the ground.
And I got hot.

Wrestling is somewhat interesting to me. I admire what the kids have to go through physically. The athleticism. It's a sport you do have to be totally devoted to. I attend the matches when I can, try to learn what I can so I can follow Rav through the nuances of the language. I am there to support the team, sure. But the main reason I go, the thing that gets me in the door & sitting on hard-ass bleachers is
Rav.

Because seeing this super-amped up version of my calm crab is (one of)the thing(s) I think I love most about my serene, cool man.

Turn My Dial and Turn Me On

Sorry, devoted readers, for my absence the past few days. Life has been moving at a manic pace. The distraction from some of the static we've received the past week and a half has been welcomed. But....

Rav's wrestling team has a tournament this weekend. A tournament that requires them to stay overnight at a hotel.

So me being hard-up, hot and bothered, I took it upon myself to make arrangements for the kids to stay with their Mimi & PapPap overnight. I'll be on the road today, making my way to my man and a hotel room with ONE BIG BED.

It is, quite possibly, pretty sad that our big over-night out is piggy-backing off of a wrestling tournament. BUT I DON'T CARE. We haven't had an 'adult' night in a long time.

Oh, yeah. That's the spot. Right there.....

Bow, chicka, Bow-wow. Mmmmhmmmm.

Hope you all have a wonderful weekend!
I know I will ;)

Breastfed On Momma's Milk, Music and Love

Just a few minutes ago, somehow, I ended up on the floor, singing loudly and terribly to songs on my play-list on the computer, sitting on my knees. Gracie was sitting on my lap, facing me. Snuggling up against my chest. Where she hung-out for so long, in her first several months of life.
She was clearly enjoying this time. Revisiting her old haunt.
She always seems to enjoy it when I sing.

If you heard me sing, you'd have to question Gracie's taste.

I breastfed both the kids.
Went well with Gracie.
Not-so-well with Connor.

Gracie liked to eat.
A lot.

Gracie only liked to be held by mommy.
And no one else would do.

She has since outgrown some of that.
She still likes to eat.
But other people can touch her now.

When we brought Gracie home, she & I occupied the living room as our new bedroom. She was in the pack-n-play, and I on the couch.
Norah (Jones) would come to visit.
As would Alison (Krauss).
And Nickel (Creek).
Dixie (Chicks), Jack (Johnson), Bob (Marley).
Just to name a few.

We had a veritable party going on. To celebrate my baby girl's arrival.
I would nurse at all hours of the day & night. Singing along to music. Right in baby Gracie's ear.
Rarely did I actually speak to her. It was, most always, in the form of a song.

I gave to her so freely. I gave her my heart, my milk, my thoughts, my songs. And she took them. She placed them inside her little baby heart and her little baby mind. And she took them for what they were.
The best of me that I could possibly give.
She did not turn away or cry out in horror at my horrible singing voice.
The warmth of my chest, the tightness of my arms around her, the bare-bones love that flowed back and forth between us was all that was important. The world around us was placed inside of a glass bottle and floated away over all of the oceans and the seas.
We were an island of love, acceptance, humble giving and graciously taking.

Every song I gave to her, was a testament of my love for my baby girl. And just when I thought I had no more songs to sing, I would find another.
Just when I thought I had no more milk to giver her, I was replenishing the stores.
And just when I thought I could not muster up another ounce of love, there it would come. Like a tidal wave, rushing all over us. Receding and then rushing in......and crashing all around us again.

I've had to draw on these simple, beautiful, quiet times. Because I have felt my best self battered a bit. And just when I think I am the worst version of myself, I have to stop.

And I look into the eyes that have been fed on Momma's milk, Momma's love and Momma's music. And in those eyes, I can see that the best of me has been deposited there. It wasn't taken from me, it was handed over lovingly. Where it can bloom and grow and be even bigger and better.
Better than I could have made it.
By myself.

A Moral Imperative

This morning started out a bit rough. Beginning with me being grumpy. After I poured myself a cup of coffee, I began to search the web for some writings and images of Martin Luther King, jr. I immediately found a video of his "I Have A Dream Speech". And instantly a calm washed over me.
As soon as I started the video, Connor excitedly yells out, "Hey! That's Martin Luther King! It's his birthday!!" My eyes filled up with tears and I'm still picking up the gelatinous pieces of my exploding, melting heart.

Way back in the day, I attended a rather new school in our district: Martin Luther King, jr Elementary. We studied Dr. King from September-May. Because of this new school, the name, the legacy, we reaped some pretty cool benefits. Coretta Scott King came to our school and gave a speech. Jesse Jackson visited as well. Though we only heard a few words from him as he passed through the hallways of our school. I have always felt that if I were at any other school, this would not have happened. We wouldn't have learned so much for so long. We might not have necessarily got to actually see Coretta Scott King in person or actually hear her words coming from her mouth only a few feet away.

As I listened to Dr. King's speech this morning, his words rested upon somewhat wisened ears. And so many thoughts came rushing forward. First off was how no matter how many times I hear that speech, it continues to give me goosebumps. Second off is that his message was inclusionary. He wasn't about lifting African-Americans up and pushing Caucasians down. He was about everyone living together because we are all from the same place. We are all, essentially, the same. I mean, you can't get any simpler than that. Then that got me thinking about my race. And some insights that I have been privy to. I've probably been privy too all along, but have just now allowed myself to actually digest them.

For example, in my History class last semester, we began talking about the Civil Rights movement, the women's movement, and John Kenneth Galbraith. We also began discussing the 'new face of poverty' - women and children, primarily. And a young, good-looking, well-dressed guy in my class of my race says, "Well, we don't have abject poverty in this country anymore. People aren't struggling like they used to." I almost fell off of my chair. And I don't know why. Because only a white person could say something so ignorant. And I mean ignorant in the actual definition of the word. I, of course, couldn't keep my mouth shut: "You mean to tell me that you believe abject poverty doesn't exist in this country? Has Katrina taught you nothing? And of course, many people don't think it exists because it's not a picture that this country is happy to hang on it's walls." His response was something that went along the lines of "Well, people are poor now because of Katrina."
Oh My Dear God.

We are so led astray by what is really going on. By our own government and media that I do not know why we are not rioting and marching again.

Which leads me to the next stream of thought. Where are our leaders today? Where are our MLK, jr's and our Rosa Parks'? Is is that they're out there, but they are essentially being censored, shut-down and shut-up? Or is it that no one is willing to stand up for the good of people? I'd really like an answer to this question. I know I'll probably never get it.
I want to feel hopeful that we, as a country, have not become complacent, that we have not moved backward in time. But it is my observation that
we have.

Some would argue that racial justice has been fought for and won.
Some would argue that sexual equality has been fought for and won.
Some would argue that this country has come a long way.

I'm not disagreeing with some of the progress. I mean, I can't be completely negative and say nothing has been accomplished.
But we have new challenges.
And we all need to rise up to those challenges.

The other night, Ravioli was watching the football game between the Philadelphia Eagles and the New Orleans Saints. The camera panned out and took a wide-shout of the whole entire football stadium. You could see how many people were packed into each seat. The amount of people was overwhelming.

I remember watching people in a football stadium not so long ago. During Hurricane Katrina. Desperation, hopelessness, hungry, thirsty, listless babies, panic-stricken mothers, elderly famished. I said to myself, Oh my god. These people were sent there TO die.

And when I saw that football stadium on TV Saturday night, I heard that voice again. Not that the people watching the football game were sent there to die. It was just seeing all of those people, the sheer numbers, was confirmation for some reason. I saw the actual number of people that stadium could hold. And that there is no doubt in my mind that officials knew what was coming. And why in the hell there weren't ample basic supplies was just beyond me. The questions just pile up and compound on top of each other. I'm just as mad about it today as I was then.
Is anyone else?

That is a clear-cut sign, to me, that racial equalities have not been settled. It's a clear-cut sign to me that we are in a class-war here at home. But neither of these, it appears, is being fought for.
What would MLK, jr. have done had he been alive to see such a gross mistreatment of so many individuals of this country?

I have felt the call to become apart of some organized thinking, some organized action. But I don't know where to turn. And maybe others out there feel as I do. Maybe they want to be involved, but don't know if there are any action groups. So, if someone out there knows where to go, please, comment and leave the information. Let that be your service today.

By giving of ourselves, we are giving to so many others. And many times, it takes little effort on our part, to give. And the smallest thing could be the biggest miracle to someone else.

I don't mean to get all preachy. I'm not trying to jam anything down anyone's throat. I just have my own dream of a better way, a better intention. And I know others out there must have the same kinds of dreams.

Let me end this here. But I'm going to make a long post even longer by adding lyrics to a song that I keep hearing in my head right now.

Picture of Jesus
By: Ben Harper

It hangs above my altar
Like they hung him from a cross
I keep one in my wallet
For the times that
I feel lost
In a wooden frame with splinters
Where my family kneels to pray
And if you listen close
You'll hear the words he used to say

I've got a picture of Jesus
In his arms my prayers rest
We've got a picture of Jesus
And with him we shall be forever blessed
Forever blessed
Forever blessed

Now it has been spoken
He would come again
But would we recognize
This king among men
There was a man in our time
His words shine bright like the sun
He tried to lift the masses
And was crucified by a gun

He was a picture of Jesus
With him so many prayers rest
He is a picture of Jesus
In his arms so many
So many prayers
So many prayers rest
With him we shall be forever blessed
Forever blessed
Forever blessed

Some days have no beginning
And some days have no end
Some roads are straight and narrow
And some roads only bend
So let us say a prayer
For every living thing
Walking towards a light
From the cross of a king
We long to be a picture of Jesus
Of Jesus
In his arms
In his arms so many prayers rest
I long to be a picture of Jesus
With him we shall be forever blessed
With him we shall
With him we shall be forever
Oh-Oh- I long
I've got a picture of Jesus

Galileo

For the past few months or so, Connor has been most interested in two things: a) Going to a museum & b) getting a telescope. On one rainy, soggy Sunday we pack up the heathens & head out to a local museum. Watching Connor in the back seat before we got there was almost worth the whole experience. He just couldn't contain himself.

We get to the museum, we pick up a scavenger hunt worksheet for Connor. I know that this is the only way we'll get him to last more than 10 minutes in this place. The thing with him is that I thought he was mesmerized by the idea of the museum - not what the museum actually has to offer. He wasn't all that excited by staying at any one exhibit for more than 2 seconds, but the scavenger hunt gave him a reason to atleast look at everything. He did well with finding what he needed for his paper, he took it all in. Connor-style. As excited he was by the whole experience, nothing could compete with the museum gift shop. After what we thought was adequate soaking-up of all things educational, we head into the gift shop.

Within two minutes, Connor sets his sights on a blue telescope. Ravioli & I were hesitant to give in to this as it was a planned gift from Santa. We couldn't tell Connor that. The damn thing was only $20, so of course, we caved. We left there with the telescope. Now, it being said that this telescope was only $20, it isn't of great quality & as Connor was trying to get acquainted with it, he broke the plastic knob on it within 5 minutes. But he was not to be stopped in his pursuit of gazing at the stars.....

A few hours after we get home from the museum, I'm heading up the steps and I happen to glance into Connor's room. There on his train table, is a cleared off corner. And in that cleared off corner is his telescope. Facing out his bedroom window, with the curtain pulled off to the side. I smile & thought to myself, "awww, Ravioli & Connor did a nice job setting that up." I head into our bedroom where Ravioli is relaxing on our bed & I ask him about the telescope. He says, "Connor did that all on his own. After he opened up the box, he turned to me and said, 'Dad, I'm going to set this up.' So, he took it upstairs and did that himself." I swear, just when I think my heart can't explode one more time out of love and joy for my children, they find yet another way for it to swell-up, melt a little and then implode all in on itself. I complain about these kids more than I should, but little things like that pick me up & carry me through.

Songbird

Last night, I was on the computer obsessing over my favorite blogs, my blog, my stats, etc. And I hear this sound. Almost siren-like. Followed by a quick, plunky strum of a guitar. I look over my shoulder to find my daughter standing on a diningroom chair, her daddy's guitar standing, upright next to her with the neck of the guitar in her hand. She quietly begins to sing....

"you're breakin' my heawt..."

little fat fingers, strum out a choppy chord

"you're breakin' my heawt...."

again, little fat fingers, strum out a choppy chord

"you're breakin' my heawt....mmm hmm mmm hmmm"

(then followed by a slew of incoherent verses)

She kept this up for about 2 minutes, I sat here laughing and crying at the same time. Then I realized that there isn't a song in our repetoir that has these lyrics. So, I begin to melt all over again at the realization that she has just written and composed her very own, original musical piece. Though her lyrics were a tad 'melancholy' her tone of voice was pure and happy. It truly was the prettiest thing I think I've ever heard.

Been Caught Stealin'

Connor's preschool has the AR reading program called Book-In-A-Bag. The school sends home a book in a big ziplock bag for the week. We're supposed to read it everyday and then ask questions. The books are given out on Monday and returned on Friday. The book he was given this week was "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". So, when he comes home with another book (that is not in a bag) yesterday, I was a bit puzzled. And this is where the story begins.........

Connor comes home from school. He quickly sheds his backpack, opens it up and voila! out pops 'Corduroy goes to the Fire Station' book. Bryan & I look at each other like, "What the.....?" And we know this is trouble.

So, we begin the interrogation.

"Connor, Did Ms. L____ give you this book?" To which he replied, "Nooooo." So then we follow with, "Ok, well then how did you get this book in your backpack?" giggle, smirk....giggle, smirk.....giggle, smirk.... He says, "I sneaked it." Being the somber parents in situations like these, Ravioli & I begin to chuckle a bit. Have you ever watched Saturday Night Live epidsodes with Jimmy Fallon & Horatio Sanz? And they begin to lose it during a skit - they know they shouldn't laugh, they're trying to keep it reigned in, they're trying to regain composure, but just can't? Well, that was us. We're trying oh-so-hard to remain firm and stern. (I had to go in the basement to laugh because I just couldn't handle it anymore).

Anyhooo, I pull myself together & commence with the interrogation.

Connor tells this tale about how a boy in his class had this train book & Ms. M____ (the aide in the class) read this little boy's train book. And he wants her to read one of his. I explain to Connor that if he wants to share a book, we have A LOT of books that we can share. That taking something that doesn't belong to us, without permission is wrong. It's bad. I told him we need to call Ms. L_____ right away. (You should've seen the look on his face. I think he thought I was just threatening him.)
I call Ms. L______ and get her voicemail. (He's off the hook for now - sort of). I leave her a message and ask her to call me back.

Once again, we commence with the interrogation.......

"Connor, how did you get the book in your backpack? Did anyone see you do it?"
"Noooo."
At this point he begins mumbling and we can't really understand him, but we're getting the distinct impression he left the room by himself, walked to his locker, put it in his backpack and strolled back into class like nothing happened.
We let it go for the evening.

This Morning....
Connor is sitting with me on the sofa. I look at him and say, "Connor. Where was your backpack when you took the book? In your classroom or in your locker??" He replied, "In my locker. I walked to it right before Ms. L_____ called me to go get my backpack." Hmmmm......
A few minutes later, the phone rings & it's Ms. L_____. I explain to her the story & she says that the boy with the train book brought that in, that it was his book. He put it on the classroom bookshelf & then was asked to put the book in his backpack. And that it sounds like Connor snuck out during clean-up. To which I said, "Well, he really chose his moment then." She said, 'Yes, it's very busy during that time." So, she thanked me for calling & said they (Connor & her) would talk at school today & that today was a special assembly for Positive Behavior & that she thinks she'll make him miss some of it, as a punishment. To try to let him know what he did was wrong - on quite a few levels.
I know my baby did wrong....but my heart broke when she said this. I know that he must be accountable. But it pains me that he's probably going to have a crappy day at school today.
I have to remain strong. I could very easily keep him home. But I have to send him on that bus, where he'll sit happily. Not knowing what is coming in a few short minutes.
I have to keep telling myself that there is a HUGE lesson for him to be learned here. That the best lessons are always the toughest.
Yeah, we're not talking about Capital Murder, Grand Theft Auto or Kidnapping. But what is wrong is wrong. What is right is right. This hurts to know my baby is paying the piper today. But as it is, there aren't enough parents who hold their children accountable when they've done wrong. They want to protect them, make excuses and blame everyone else. That's my first reaction, as a parent. But we're not doing right by our kids or society in doing that.
I'm not trying to make a mountain out of a mole hill, by any means. But I'm just airing out my process in dealing with this. That this is my first 'big' lesson as a parent. That I'm learning right along side my little one.

I'm Taking A Luvah

In response to the Love Fest that is going on, I have to pay homage to my bloggy loves.

I first fell for Maigh by accident. I fell for her hard. She sucked me in with her humor, her straightforward writing, her fiestyness and her raw humanity. She has the courage to call things like she sees them and she stands for doing something good. Her humor and courage are inspiring to me. I leave her site always wanting more. Damn, she's good. I'm telling ya. She is.
I stalked and lurked. Lurked and stalked. And after reading for months, I finally got the courage to post a comment. And my hands were shaking as I plunked out my little thoughts to a beautiful post.
Truth-be-told, she inspired me to start my own blog. Which, obviously, I did. And the first time she commented, I was jumping up & down and waving my hands in front of my face like I had just come in contact with John Lennon or Bob Marley....or Janis Joplin (impossible, I know. But they are the only 'celebrities' that I have an interest in meeting...and telling about it). Very exciting for me.
I do have to spread the love to Maigh. She's awesome and beautiful and funny.

Next I would have to shout Crazy Love to SlackerMommy. She was the first blog I 'found' after I had started my own blog. I could relate to so many things she said. It was like reading my own writing & experiences. She made me feel like I was 'ok'. I took comfort in knowing someone else 'out there' was feeling the same way. I liked that she was 'keepin' it real'. That she wasn't going to sugar coat motherhood, wifehood or being a stay-at-home mom. She was exactly what I was looking for - at just the right moment.
The thing I love most about Slackermommy is her sense of humor. Her ability to laugh at herself and her kids. And at the same time she is loving and heartfelt.
SlackerMommy has kindness that is inspiring, as well as, creativity and talent that make me jealous.
SlackerMommy also deserves HUGE, HUGE credit for the new look on my blog. She spent A TON of time working on it, creating that awesome header, and so much more. She is AMAZING. And it blew me away that a 'stranger' would do something that nice for me.
See what I mean about SlackerMommy??
I adore her.

I lovey-dovey my Pippa. She was the next one I found after starting my own blog. Pippa is a big ball of sunshine. She has courage to put herself out there - about the good, the bad, the heart-wrenching. However, her humor and her optimism always peeks through. She always picks me up with her comments.
I love that I wake up, sign on, check out my blog & there she is. Like a little pixie that has sprinkled me with her special fairy dust while I was sleeping. Pippajo has left me a comment that picks me up & carries me through the rest of the day - with it's empathy, humor and sensitivity. She always seems to be there when I need someone the most.
She is Supreme Mugwump.

And lastly, Jen. Who has been a relatively new love. But a love just the same. There is so much to say about this brave beauty. But I fear I don't have the words.
She is courageous, exciting, humble, gracious and giving. Her comments are eloquent. And her blog is rich, poignant and lovely.
I feel that the stars did align in bringing her to my site. And that two wandering souls managed to wander to each other. How awesome is that????
I look forward to reading her everyday and feel better for knowing that there is someone out there to fight for those who can't always fight for themselves.
She is a warrior and I am in awe of her.

(I Think To Myself) What A Wonderful World

I've done my fair share of complaining the past few days. And now that I'm over it, I need to reflect.

Tonight, Gracie was having a hard time soothing herself off to sleep. I decided to go in, lightly rub her back & sing to her via her homemade lullaby CD. In about 2 minutes, she's sitting on the edge of her bed, falling asleep - sitting upright. I began to cry. Looking at her pudgy cheeks, singing to her. I wasn't like bawling crying, just a tear falling here & there.

The beauty of her really struck me. She's so simplistic & complicated. She is so feminine.

She snuggles up to me, in my lap & we become this tight little ball of a mother & daughter. Sitting there on her floor.

It comes back to me. How I enjoyed singing/rocking my children to sleep. It was a part of their infancy I didn't want to give up. And most would argue against such night time rituals. As this does not promote them comforting themselves to sleep. I say: you don't know what you're missing.

I should have done this three days ago with her.

So many things come rushing back to me.

The countless times spent nursing her and talking to her. Singing to her. The quiet pleasure of being totally immersed in her. And her in I.

The power of my bosom still lingers with both of my kids. And the power of them still lingers with me. They hit me right at my core. They bring me back home. They always seem to lure me back to where I need to be.

They have no idea they're doing it.

As I, am not always aware that I'm doing it.

The draw of my chest. The warmth that I carry there. The comfort, security and muffled conversation of my heart beating that let them know they were, and still are, completely safe.

The powers that clash as I hold Gracie could almost wreck the room we're sitting in.

My power of being the essence of safe. The life-line. Being the mommy. The womanly strength you feel when you are nurturing your children. My mommy mo-jo.

And Gracie's ultra-feminine, mommy's little girl allure. It's powerful.

These two forces. Colliding. At one moment in time. Gives me chills.

I sat there, tearfully. Absolutely peacefully. Happily. Listening to Eva Cassidy's version of 'What A Wonderful World' and am so thankful for this.

That I've quieted down my crazy mind. Long enough to enjoy this moment.

With my beautiful daughter.

My Little Girl.

Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

These are the people you will find in my inner sanctum. The ones who are my glue. They keep me together when I'm cracking up and falling apart. I couldn't make it one step without them. It's a lot of weight to carry. They know how crazy I am ~ and love me anyway.

"I've been with you such a long time. You're my sunshine. And I want you to know that my feelings are true. I really love you. You're my best friend. Oooo, you make me live." ~Queen "You're My Best Friend"




"I thank the lord there's people out there like you.........And I thank the lord for the people I have found. I thank the lord for the people I have found" ~Elton John "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters"

Steady As We Go

2 years ago, Bryan got hired by the State as a Probation & Parole Officer. As part of the hiring process, he had to attend their "Academy" for 12 weeks. As the class progressed, his fellow 'classmates' would rib Bryan about his last name & the fact that people had a hard time pronouncing it - for whatever reason. And being that he's Italian, he was nicknamed Ravioli by his classmates - his now co-workers.
I love it. I think it's perfect. It cracks me up & I don't know why it took me this long to use that as his name on my blog.
And, I love Ravioli's - except when they're stuffed with 'meat'. Bleck. Anyway......I think Bryan prefers it when I call him 'man-meat' on here. Which is funny & all. But I like Ravioli.

A few months ago, some friends & I got together & we all brought our wedding albums to share with each other. As everyone was looking at mine, they were asking all of the typical questions. And I would respond with answers regarding the details of our wedding. The good, the bad, the funny. And I became so overwhelmed with emotion reliving that day with them. So, as I'm talking about our wedding, one of the women says to me, "Jeez, you talk about your wedding like it was the best day of your life." I look at her, thinking, "She sees how I've lit up & how emotional I've become....she's being sarcastic." I waited for a second......and she was dead serious. How odd. So, I replied, "Well, it was. That & the birth of my babies. It was the best day. There were things I wish had gone differently. But we had our hand in every detail. Our wedding was exactly what we wanted." I mean, was this a joke? I couldn't believe that statement.

I never thought that a guy as good as the Ravioli would ever be in my future. I thought I didn't deserve it. And marrying him, with Connor at our side in his little tux, was the absolute highlight of my life. Planning our quirky little wedding & then marrying him was beyond awesome.
And little details come back to me. Like our friend Alex....he was a groomsmen. His then girlfriend (now wife), Liz, was living in London & they weren't really together at that time. We were cutting the cake & we had picked Adam Sandler's "I Wanna Grow Old With You" during the cake cutting. Well, Alex called her on his cell as we're cutting the cake & held the phone up for her to hear what was going on. And I believe, across the pond, they had a moment at our wedding via a cell phone. How cool is that?? (They just celebrated their 1 year anniversary at the end of July)
Whenever I hear "The Imperial March" (the Darth Vader song), I always get goosebumps. That was the song we walked in to our reception as the new Mr. & Mrs. Ravioli & Raviolette. The lightsabers that we distributed to our wedding party are still floating around here & there.

Sadly, Connor's buotonneire is still in my refrigerator. Crumbling away to nothing.

We've only been married 3 years. 3 great years. It's flown by. But it also seems like it's been an entire lifetime.

I hope that I don't ever get to the point where I don't 'care' about our wedding day anymore. I LOVE looking at our wedding photos. I love that it's still a fresh memory. I don't want to be 10, 20, 30, 40 years in & think back on that day with a bad taste. And at that point, I hope that I'm not the person sayin to a young, happily married woman, "Jeez. You sound like it was the best day of your life." Because the day that you promise yourself to the love of your life, your best friend, your partner-in-crime, your equally important polar opposite better half, should be the best the day of your life.


The day that the Ravioli & I got married was the best day of my life. I would love to do it all over again. We had so much fun & the people that meant the most to us surrounded us, congratulated us, danced with us, laughed with us and wished us well.

I was, and still am, as high as a kite.