Of Mice and Mom

This fall we have some new residents in our house. A family of mice - or as my mom insists on calling them, rodents. “Rodents” sounds more offensive than "mice" to me, because "rodents" could be referring to something worse than mice. (Read: rats.)

Our first clue that we “had visitors” (there’s like a million euphemisms for this kind of situation) was pretty clear: a chewed-through hole in a bag of tortilla chips in the cupboard, along with some telltale droppings. Yes, gross. We spent a lot of time trying to crack the mystery of how the mouse got into the cupboard (an upper cupboard with no holes in it, and definitely no mouse-size stairs leading up to it). Sixteen inches seemed too high to jump, especially into an opening about a half-inch wide, assuming the door wasn’t tightly closed. After wracking my feeble little brain, the only explanation that made sense to me is this:

Turns out it wasn't a one-time feat. He continued to get into the cupboard at night, treating himself to the peanut butter glob on the mousetrap, which was licked clean repeatedly. After a couple more "incidents," my theory evolved to:

Eventually we purchased better traps, and he met his demise. Then his friend came and chewed a hole in the Ramen noodle container. And even after he was "eliminated," we continued to find unsprung traps with the bait gone. 

It began to seem like there was an army of supermice.

Once it became clear that there were more than two or three rodents (more on that later) somehow managing to get in and out of the cupboards, my sister suggested that the most logical explanations involved careful planning by the perpetrators...

Teamwork...

And most likely, sophisticated equipment.

Seriously, it makes as much sense as anything else.

Getting back to numbers, yes, there are more than two or three "friends." Further investigation by Randy revealed a likely point of entry in the laundry room. He set some traps down there, and let's just say... We're not talking just Mickey and Minnie. More like the whole Mickey Mouse Club.

Speaking of Mickey and Minnie, up until two days ago, I was able to calmly co-exist with the mice because I had not actually laid eyes on one - dead or alive. That fact allowed me to convince myself that if I were to see one, it would be wearing clothes and singing - perhaps it would even help me with the laundry, much like Cinderella's crew helped her get ready for the ball. I convinced myself of their cuteness - their animated-ness - so much that when Randy told me he thought he had found where they were getting in, I immediately pictured a small, arched doorway at the base of the wall, complete with a wooden door and a welcome mat.

As I said, this reverie lasted until two days ago. The fun's over, my friends. I glimpsed a caught mouse, flip over in a trap, white tummy fur and all.

I thought that if we put all of our food in plastic containers (and it is. It is locked up tighter than Alcatraz) and sealed off their entry point, it would just be a matter of killing off the family. (I feel a little like Don Corleone in The Godfather saying that. "We gotta gid rid of the entire Tattalagia family...") I expressed my dismay to Abby that they still keep "showing up" (dead, in traps. But still!) I said, "How many can there be in this family?" Abby said she's pretty sure the Mouse Duggar Family has moved in.

I can just imagine: Nineteen Mice and Counting!  That'd be awesome.

Broken Bones

When someone asks, "What'd you do on vacation?" possible answers include which of the following:

1. Broke a toe
2. Broke an arm
3. Had an operation and spent lots of time in the hospital 
4. Reconnected with extended family
5. All of the above

Mark us down for E.

Our family reunion trip to Door County was a little more eventful than we would've liked. The first day we arrived in beautiful Ephraim, Gracie broke her arm. She was turning a cartwheel on the grass (cartwheeling having replaced walking as her usual mode of non-vehicular transportation), slipped and landed on her arm in a rather horrible way. I won't go into the gory details, but the break required an ambulance ride, immediate four-hour surgery and daily return trips to the hospital for IV antibiotics once she was released a day later. All this for my child who has a well-established history of hypochondriasis, which is a fancy way of saying Big Fears About Medical Stuff. But she did great! (Gracie's management of her anxiety was a silver lining of the accident, because it showed her she has more control over anxiety symptoms than she thought.)

And you may wonder, how did I fare? I, who have watched Ethan get his face stitched up at close range, not once but twice? I, who have witnessed two of my nephews being born? I, who once starred in a video about bloodborne pathogens and needlestick injury (requiring me to get blood drawn on camera about a million times because the lighting wasn't quite right)? I fared... not good!

Maybe there's something about Ethan's bloodied face that just doesn't bother me, but more likely it was Gracie's emotional suffering, more than her physical pain, that got to me when she broke her arm and caused me to fare not good. I didn't pass out -- by the skin of my teeth! I'm pretty sure my blood pressure dropped about 60 points or decibels or whatever blood pressure is measured in, because as I was sitting there on the grass reassuring Gracie, I suddenly felt the telltale clammy skin and dizziness kick in. Then the tunnel vision started coming on, and I realized I needed to leave the scene immediately or things were only going to get scarier for Gracie. (Mom passing out on your face while you're waiting for an ambulance does not inspire confidence). I stepped out of sight and shoved my head between my knees, as my sister-in-law kindly held a cold towel to my neck.

And who stepped up to the plate and helped Gracie stay calm? Randy! Randy, who had to lie down in the hospital delivery room after he cut Ethan's umbilical cord (he said he got queasy because it was like "cutting through tough meat"). Randy, who almost passed out after he broke his leg playing soccer. (Not when he actually broke it, but the next day when he went to the doctor for an x-ray and found out that he broke it.) Randy, who had to lie down on the table in the vet's office when our wiener dog, Nikki, had blood drawn from her tiny paw. Randy was amazing! I can never give him crap about having a "delicate constitution" again, because even after I stopped almost-passing out, I was a useless, nauseated ball of stress for a full day in the hospital and he handled the whole situation incredibly well.

At least, for someone with a delicate constitution :-)

And the broken toe? To add insult injury to injury, when Gracie screamed as she broke her arm, Randy went running over to her and caught his pinky toe on a patio brick. I don't even think it even dawned on him that he had broken his toe until we were sitting in the emergency room with Gracie and he got up to walk. By the time we got home that poor little appendage had turned into a black and blue Jabba-the-Hut-looking monstrosity, and Randy reluctantly had to stop running, biking and playing soccer for a several weeks. We figure he and Gracie broke their respective bones within five seconds of each other. Impressive, if nothing else!

As I mentioned earlier, our vacation was all about seeing extended family. I am happy to report that despite the medical excitement, we managed to reconnect with family members whom we adore and don't see nearly often enough. They were even a little bit helpful when Gracie fell! (Full disclosure: Randy's brother Jeff is a doctor. In case I made it sound like Randy and I were actually doing anything useful like looking at Gracie's broken arm or calling an ambulance... No, not so much. We were more like stressed out, lightheaded bystanders, more likely to require additional medical care than be of use. Jeff did everything.) And then there was watching over our other kids while we stayed at the hospital. It may not sound like much, but Mira on vacation is like ten normal Miras, so it took the proverbial village.

Here are some pictures.

Four, going on...

Oh my lord, she's FOUR. I can't believe it. I feel like I don't even remember her being one, or two (I still remember three because that was just three days ago. Give me another month and my swiss-cheese memory will surely erase that year, too.)

Of course, she's four going on... Thirteen? Yeah, that's about right. What a different experience the fourth time around, with tweens and teens in the house! For better or for worse...

When Ethan was Mira's age, he:

• Had never tried gum
• Had mostly only seen Barney, Caillou and Sesame Street on TV
• Had never had even a sip of soda
• Was not allowed to wear a t-shirt he got for his birthday with a certain Nickelodeon character on it, because I disapproved of said character's inane TV show
• Had a CD collection that consisted of Raffi, Wee Sing and {shudder} Veggie Tales. The coolest thing he listened to was They Might Be Giants "Here Come the ABCs," and that's only because a friend gave it to us

I remember a parent discussion in my Early Childhood class when Ethan was four. Most of the parents were younger, like me, but there were a handful of "veteran" parents attending the program - moms who were older, and had two or three school-age kids in addition to the pre-schooler doing the Early Childhood gig. (One of those moms, I recall, shared that she was starting an exercise program called "Fit by Forty." I was shocked that she was so old - it may as well have been "Fit by Seventy" to my twenty-something-year-old ears. Now when I think back to that, I mentally smack the younger Jules upside the head, chastising, "Forty's not old. You're just ridiculously young and stupid!" But I digress...)

We were talking about children's music that day in the parent discussion group, and what our kids liked to listen to. Many of us shared similar, tame tunes that our little ones enjoyed. But one woman, Ann, mom to three girls including a (gasp) teenager, smiled sheepishly and said, "Mikayla will only listen to Britney Spears." (Britney Spears? Well I never!... ) Like many untested parents, I was quick to judge (silently, at least). It was beyond me why a seemingly competent parent would allow her innocent babe to belt out lyrics like "When I'm not with you I lose my mind/Give me a sign, hit me baby one more time."

Oh, how little I knew!

I am now mom to a darling, spunky pre-schooler who thrives at school, plays with gusto, finds her own jokes the funniest thing in the world, gives kisses and hugs and "I love you"s without abandon... and walks around here belting out "Baby you light up my world like nobody else/The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed/But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell/Oh oh, you don't know you're beautiful.."

Now I get it. You cannot keep your youngest in a bubble, especially when the older siblings adore her so much (and she them). For better or worse, Mira is exposed to way more than the older three were (they were close enough in age that Gracie's sophistication at two wasn't much different than Ethan's at six).

I'll never know if Mira's spark (precociousness) comes from birth order and her obsession to keep up with the older sibs, or if it's simply plain old personality, but she is amazing. It feels like everyone knows her, and everyone loves her. I am forever shaking my head - in amazement (she can dribble a basketball like a third-grader and throw herself into a perfect cartwheel with ease); in embarrassment ("What makes You Beautiful" isn't the only pop tune she knows the words to); in exasperation (she loves to say things like, "Ha ha, I'm gonna say a bad word! You're POOP!" and laugh uncontrollably; and in wonder because even after three and a half years, I still can't believe how lucky I am to have her as my daughter.

Since she just celebrated her birthday, I will share some Mira Facts:

• Her speech has greatly improved. In fact, if she were evaluated now she probably wouldn't qualify for services. That said, she still confuses personal pronouns and regularly refers to Abby and Gracie as "he" or "him" (as in, "Gracie won't let me have that doll but I tell him it's mine but he don't give it to me. He won't share!" I should be correcting her but I find it so cute that I hardly ever remind her that we actually refer to girls as "her."
• She is a daredevil, but bugs make her nervous.
• When she can't remember something, or doesn't want to answer, she says, "I can't know that."
• I am pretty sure she could probably run a mile without stopping.
• She is comfortable sidling up to any person who is snacking and asking, "Whatcha eating?" and then exclaiming longingly, "Ooo, I LOVE that!" (I do intervene when this happens.)
• Her favorite birthday present was kid makeup. She loves to put it on herself, and wow is that a look! Kind of clown-meets-geisha-meets-Al Jolson's "Mammy." (I know, I know.)
• She will pull off her swimsuit in the middle of the yard, but gets mad if Gracie sees her changing clothes in their bedroom.
• She has a wonderful sense of humor and laughs so hard, even at four, that she sighs a big, happy, "Ahhh..!" once she catches her breath.

Birthday girl

Makeup!

You see that gleam in her eye? Oh, lord. 

Ever do this?

Do you ever drive to work, and as you're parking the van you are also wrapping up a phone conversation with a friend about injustices in the youth soccer program, when it begins to storm like crazy? And as you continue to yap with Maryanna on your cell phone, which is wedged between your ear and shoulder, you attempt to exit the vehicle and protect yourself from the downpour, but the umbrella blows inside-out because a three-year-old recently damaged the metal stick-things inside by opening it repeatedly in the van, even though you specifically said not to touch it? And lord knows you'd really like to protect your hair because you're teetering on the brink of a bad hair day even without the factors of wind and rain? And then as you're clumsily running across the street in heels, sloshing through puddles while continuing the futile attempt to cover your hair with an inside-out umbrella, it occurs to you that you don't seem to have your keys in your hand? So you gasp to Maryanna, whom you're still talking to, What the hell did I do with my keys? Dang it... You finally wrap up the call as you enter your workplace and take the elevator up to your floor, where your co-worker has to open your office door because your keys are obviously still in your vehicle. And you look outside and think, Well I'm not going back outside in that crap. Hopefully no one steals my van. And then the storm passes but you've completely forgotten about the keys by then, but fortunately at lunchtime you remember to go out and get them. And the fact that you remembered really is an incredible stroke of fortune, because this is exactly the kind of thing you could almost guarantee that you'd never in a million years remember. So you run outside and sure enough, your van is sitting unlocked in the shady neighborhood where your office is located, shady being both "tree shade" and "shady criminals," and the keys are in the ignition. And at the exact moment you take keys out of the ignition your brow furrows deeply and you say out loud, Is my van running? Are you kidding me? But it all happens fast and the keys are out of the ignition now so you can't be 100 percent sure your van has been running for half a day, but the radio and fan were going and there was definitely a sensation of the engine turning off. Seriously? So you return to work, deciding not to share your very disturbing and environmentally irresponsible gaffe, a decision which lasts 14 seconds until you see your co-workers, at which time you fess up to your, let's not sugarcoat it, pure stupidity. And then you all speculate on what would've happened if you'd forgotten about the keys entirely and then the van was out of gas when you left at the end of the day. And it is universally agreed that you would not have put two and two together, instead suspecting that someone in the shady 'hood stole the van, drove it around all day, siphoned any remaining gas, and re-parked it in the same spot. 
So, d'you ever do that?
Nope, I didn't think so.

Pysanky-Frenzy

Some people have blogs devoted entirely to crafting. Me, I have a blog devoted entirely to griping, as well as periodically noting the gradual shrivelization of my memory (sure, it's a word. Look it up.) Today, however, I am changing directions. I now present my one (and only) crafty discussion: The Art of Pysanky.

What was that word?

Pysanky is the ancient Eastern European art of decorating Easter eggs with wax and dyes. It's is similar to batik - you draw patterns on the egg with wax, which then protects the covered areas from the dye that is applied. The most well-known version of psyanky is the Ukrainian version, which is why the psyanky-ers in our house usually refer to it simply as Ukrainian eggs. The name psyanky comes from the verb to write, because you use a stylus (called a kistka) to write with wax on the egg shell. Here's more about the art of psyanky.

We've been making Ukrainian Easter eggs for about five years. My friend Colleen taught me how to do it, and I immediately fell in love with this folk art. We bought our own supplies, and each year we spend a few weeks before Easter on pysanky, during which time our dining room table is a messy collection of crumpled paper towels, jars of dye, taper candles and kistky (that's the plural of kistka. Kind of like cacti).

Here's the process in basic terms. To begin, you draw your design on the egg with pencil. Elaborate geometric designs are pretty challenging because you're drawing on an egg, but the resulting eggs are really cool. I actually put small, flat rubber hair binders around the egg to help me create straight lines, and remove them when I'm done penciling the design on the egg.

Next, you start using the kistka. You put a small bit of wax in its funnel - I prefer spaghetti wax, because it's easy to work with and the lines of melted wax are black, which is a little easier to see for bad eyes like mine. You hold the kistka up to a candle flame to heat it up, and the wax comes out of a narrow end of the funnel in liquid form, which hardens almost immediately.

You first apply wax to any part of your design that should remain white. When you're done, you submerse your egg a light colored dye. Any areas covered by wax will not take the dye. After a few minutes, you remove your egg and blot it dry with a paper towel. (I try to remember to wear gloves when using dyes but generally during the pysanky season my hands look like they've been tie-dyed, because the dyes aren't exactly washable.) You repeat the process with the kistka, and dye the egg again. You use progressively darker dyes until all of your lines are waxed.

The wax-covered egg doesn't look very impressive. But the next step, removing the wax, is when you get to see the fruits of your labor. When we taught my sister-in-law pysanky this year, she commented that this step is like slowly unwrapping a present. Your design, with all of its vibrantly colored lines, is revealed. To remove the wax, you hold the egg next to the candle flame until a small section begins to look shiny (just a few seconds). Then you wipe the wax off with a paper towel.

The final step is applying polyurethane to the eggs. We have an egg drying rack, which simply consists of groups of nails sticking out of a piece of wood. The eggs sit on the nails and the poly dries nicely.

Un-polyurethaned eggs 

A few other thoughts:
Wax will blob, especially when you're learning. You can try to work them into the design, hide them in the back, or, if your final color is black, you can try covering blobs with a Sharpie after you remove the wax.

Every year at least one egg breaks, which can be devastating and even cause emotional meltdowns (and the kids get pretty upset, too). Unfortunately it's just part of the experience and you have to move past it.

A glass of wine and some good music add a lot to the adult's experience.

Finally, pysanky is really fun to do as a family and teach to others (not to sound like I'm doing an elementary school book report, but you should try it if you like crafty stuff!)

These are our eggs from 2012

Easter in Snippets

We had a beautiful Easter, spending time with family on both sides. Our weekend included egg dyeing, egg hunts, excessive eating by yours truly (I mean, it was a holiday after all), baskets from the Bunny and celebrating the miracle of the Resurrection. But rather than detail those special family moments and meaningful experiences, I'll share a few random exchanges that are more typical for us. Here, then, is our Easter in snippets.

I mix up several spectacular hues to dye Easter eggs: Blue, yellow, green, yellowish-green, light blue, light green and bluish-green. Those are pretty much your only options when you discover that you only have two bottles of food coloring on hand at the eleventh hour. Abby comments, "Really great color variety you've got going there, Mom."

Ms. Fancy-Mirabelle twirls and whirls in a new Easter dress while I get ready for church in a less-exciting outfit. When Mira sees me putting a belt on, she becomes quite concerned:

"Mama that's a belt!"

"Hmm, you're right...."

"Moms don't wear belts, only mens wear belts."

"Mommies wear belts, too." (In case you haven't guessed it, I am not a frequent wearer of belts.)

"No they not! Belts are only for boys!"

I tuck in my blouse, and she becomes even more horrified.

"Mama your belt is showing! I can see it!" (In case you haven't guessed it, I am also not a frequent tucker-inner).

"It's OK if my belt shows."

"No it's not!" Distressed, she takes a closer look at my khaki pants. "Those are Daddy's pants!"

"No Sweetie, these are my pants." (Not that Randy wouldn't look lovely in the wide-leg Banana Republic taupe trouser. But they are mine.)

Seeing that I am apparently bent on wearing men's clothing to church, she tries one last tactic to set me straight. Sighing: "You do NOT look beautiful, Mom."

On the ride home from church, I mention that I noticed one of the musicians in the church band is a high school student. I ask Ethan if he would ever be interested in playing trombone in that band. He considers this for a minute. The prospect of not having to sit with his sisters during church is certainly appealing. But then he decides that if he was playing in the church band, he'd be able to see me in the pew too easily (he can't really see us during concerts because of the stage lights). He suggests that I would deliberately make him laugh by mouthing the word "poop" while he was playing. He and I then laugh uproariously, because we both have the sense of humor of a second-grade boy. And his accusation is potentially true.

Mira declares that she only likes red "jummy beans," not green, yellow or (heaven forbid) black! She also finds Peeps, a marshmallow bunny and the Cadbury egg unappealing. The Reese's egg, however, is very well received. That's my gal!

Randy and I spend Easter night completing our Ukrainian eggs, aka psyanky. It takes us twice as long to finish them as it should, because only one of us can work at a time this year. Why? Because we're old folks. Neither of us can see the egg unless we're wearing the single pair of reading glasses ("cheaters") we possess. Or I should say, I possess. They are a darling ladies' frame, complete with jeweled bows. Randy looks simply stunning in them.

[I am going to do a post on Ukrainian eggs next time.]

Here are some pictures from the Easter egg hunt at my mom's house.

Hendrik wondering why he is frozen in a wobbly stance in the grass outside in 50 degree weather wearing a dress shirt.

Ethan discovers his one of his eggs is "hidden" on Mom's roof

Oh lord, will you look at this attitude

Potty Chronicles

You never really want to arrive at preschool to pick up your three-year-old and find that she's wearing the "back-up outfit" you sent in a one-gallon Ziplock bag at the beginning of the school year because she "had a little accident." The cute outfit you dressed her in that morning is balled up in a plastic bag inside her backpack. But it happens. Of course, being informed by the teacher that your babe got wet falling in the toilet catches you a little off guard. ("Whaa..?" )

Yeah, it seems that a three-year-old may not notice that some little boy who used the bathroom before her left the seat up, and that seatless bowl is darn slippery. Mira managed to slip, upper back-first, into what I am hoping was at least a flushed john. I picture her lower body sticking out and legs splayed, since her shirt was soaked in back but her pants were dry. Her teacher heard her calling, "Help!"

This incident would have completely traumatized my In-Control Abby and Fearful Gracie ("What if I would've gone all the way down the drain?"), but Mira is cut from a different (tougher) cloth. She cheerfully reported, "Mama, I fall in the potty!" when I arrived. She wasn't phased in the least. I might've even assumed the incident was promptly forgotten, except the following week at school, after the kids used the bathroom, she announced to the class, "I NOT FALL IN THE POTTY THIS TIME."

Well, good.

The Skin She's In

I'd been wondering when skin color would come up - when Mira would ask a question or make an observation about her brown skin, in our otherwise-pasty family. I was kind of surprised it hadn't come up already - she's made some pretty astute observations about Randy's "scratchy face," my dad's bald head and my own "soft tummy" (that's kid-speak for flab), but hadn't said a peep about skin color.

Until last week. She was looking at her arm (her beautiful, perfect little cinnamon arm) and she said, "I don't like this brown stuff." I said, "What brown stuff?" (because who knows? - her arm might very well be covered in marker, peanut butter, mud or something worse. And we will never speak of that again.) She said, "I don't like this brown skin." Oh, how that wrenched my heart! I smiled and said, "I do. I love your brown skin," and readied myself for a discussion about her skin versus my skin. But instead she declared, "I only want blue skin. Or purple. I only like blue and purple skin." Where to go from there?

I asked her if she thought a lot of people had blue or purple skin (we'll leave Barney and hypothermics out of this) and she considered that for a minute. "I don't know..?" Then I told her that mostly people aren't blue, and everyone has different skin. I said, "Your skin is brown because you're Ethiopian, and Ethiopians have brown skin." I thought this might make sense to her because we frequently talk about the fact that she's Ethiopian (granted, it's often in contexts like, "There's an Ethiopian streaker running through the living room," or "Just because you're Ethiopian doesn't mean you can drink my coffee," or "Someone bit the top of my Chapstick off and I suspect a three-foot-tall Ethiopian."

She pondered my explanation and then asked if our neighbors are Ethiopian. (Well, no.) How about her classmate Kate? (Um, no, Kenyan actually.) Her friend Rhianna? (Ah no, Somali.) OK, so my explanation was as clear as mud. (Is mud Ethiopian?) At this point, true to three-year-old form, she abruptly lost interest in the topic and asked if she could wear Gracie's jewelry.

Certainly we know this topic will come up again (and again), and it may be a rockier conversation as the years go by. She may wish for light skin, straight hair...

Or she may have other cosmetic aspirations.

Saying Goodbye

My stepdad Les passed away on January 17, five days after I posted my letter to him. I am so glad I wrote it when I did. Les, in his typical humble and quiet fashion, thanked me and told me with a smile that he thought it was "really a nice letter. Even if all that nice stuff about me is a pack of lies." I took the opportunity to hug him and tell him how much I would miss him.

Just a few days later it became difficult for him to stay awake, and our collective focus began shifting from final expressions of love to making sure he was comfortable and peaceful. (Although he and I did watch a bit of the Packers-Giants game on Sunday night. When he said he wanted to see the Pack go to the Superbowl I threw my arms around him and cheered.)

On Tuesday morning, as he was surrounded by family, my mom laid her cheek on his and told him she loved him. By then, he had been unresponsive and his eyes had been closed for a day. But at my mom's words, he opened his eyes and looked into hers. (She said the sunlight made them incredibly, unusually blue.) Then he breathed his last breath.

All of us were glad his fight was over, and that he wouldn't suffer, but of course the finality of death feels cruel and painful. He will be very missed.

A Letter to Les

If I were watching a dramatic Lifetime movie and a character was informed by a doctor that he had just two weeks to live, although he felt fine, I would probably burst out with my characteristic skepticism, "Oh, come on! That's a little unrealistic."

But actually it's not. My stepdad had just such an experience earlier this week. In December we received the shocking news that he has an aggressive form of cancer. So aggressive that treatment wasn't really an option for him. A few days ago, the oncologist's friendly observation that "You look like you're feeling pretty good" was followed by the grim prediction that death will likely come within two weeks.

I can't imagine what it is like to be the recipient of such news. "Sad" seems pretty obvious. I imagine it's incredibly lonely, even with everyone around you. I can tell you what it is like to know someone who is the recipient of such news: surreal. (Of course, heartbreaking, devastating, depressing... but really, really surreal.) Because he is not feeling sick, and is going about his usual routines, talking about football, politics, my kids... it is like more like knowing someone is going to have a car accident or be the victim of a mafia hit than it is knowing someone is dying of cancer.

We are thankful he is not suffering physically, because he's a man who has been dealt far more than his fair share of physical suffering, as he has late-stage MS. (Multiple Sclerosis, this cruelest of diseases, has now been trumped by cancer.)

We will be saying our final goodbye soon. But I have a unique opportunity to say what I want to say now, so Les - this is for you:

I am so glad you married my mom. Sometimes relationships with step-parents can be challenging, but in 17 years it never has been with you. I've often thought that you and Mom found kindred spirits in each other: hardworking, responsible, moral and practical (yes, very practical!) with an appreciation of quality and a love of family. I remember you two going dancing, enjoying concerts, traveling to Mexico. As MS robbed you of so many activities these last years, I know Mom's heart broke for you repeatedly, as you suffered the loss of your independence.

I love your part in our family, beyond my mom. I love the relationship you had with my grandma (you two with your stories of country life and outhouses) and the fact that when we have family gatherings, you are one of my dad's very favorite people to talk with. (Vikings, Twins, Gophers...)

Thank you for being a caring, loving and interested grandpa to my kids. They love you, and I have always enjoyed your quiet, bemused smile at their antics. You've seen them play all of their instruments and sports - seen Ethan miss fly balls in the Little League outfield, seen Abby storm away from the piano after completing her songs at dreaded recitals, seen them play soccer too many times to count. And of course you've witnessed plenty of tantrums, messes, and priceless moments over the years.

You've been there for Randy and I as well, supportive and helpful over the years, as we've asked you for your advice on anything and everything related to home maintenance or improvement. Fifteen years ago when we were hunting for our first house, you told us what to look for in basement walls, what might indicate foundation problems. A couple weeks ago you explained to me about not needing to pre-wash my dishes before loading them in the dishwasher if I used a rinse agent. You've talked Randy through countless house projects, and encouraged him to be a do-it-yourselfer. (Oh, you must have cringed when you first saw our bookshelves made of bricks and plywood when we were dating!)

In short, I am so thankful for your presence in our lives. You know, for all these words I've typed, I realize I cannot adequately express how I feel, except to say, you are so loved and cared about, and I hope that you have felt that from us over all these years.