Skivvies

We're a pretty open family around here. I mean we don't walk around naked or anything, but I have been known to dash downstairs in a towel in search of something to wear. Annie is probably the most modest of us all. The boys (all 3 of them) have no problem running around in their underwear.

Maybe that's why underwear has been on my mind lately. Or maybe it's because I did 6 loads of laundry yesterday and folded plenty of underwear.

There were the Diego underpants that I'm sure Robbie has long since outgrown, but apparently has worn at least once recently. They were part of the bribe to go potty on the big boy potty so many years ago.

Whoever came up with those picture underpants was a genius. We've had Diego and Star Wars and Spiderman and dinosaurs, all in the tighty-white briefs cut. I just loved my kids' behinds in those little underwear when they were still part of the preschool set. Totally pinchable, I tell you.

Eventually, Charlie declared the briefs a little too brief and chose boxer briefs instead. They even make those in characters, though I think King Kong is the only one we have left. Oh, there may be a stray Spongebob in there somewhere. Now most of the smallish-boy underwear I fold is either solid colors or striped or army camouflage.

Regular old-fashioned boxer shorts are starting to make an appearance in the dresser drawers now, though I can't, for the life of me, understand why. It seems like all that flimsy cotton would just bunch up under your pants and feel really uncomfortable. Plus, I think if I were a boy, I might want my, um, parts, tucked in a little bit. Who knows? I'm not a boy so maybe I'm way off base.

Anyway, it seems to me that underwear is just one more way to mark the passage of time. I have a newborn diaper saved from when each of the kids was born, to remind me (and them) how tiny they were when they were born -- if you can call 10+, 9+ and 8+ pounds tiny. So maybe I should grab those Diego underpants and save them, too. And a pair of the Spongebob boxer briefs.

And when they go away to college or maybe when they have kids of their own, I can give my sons a box of their outgrown underwear and say, wistfully, "Remember when your butt was this small?"

Nervous chatter

In my recent post about why I love Facebook, I mentioned that it makes watching sports on TV so much more fun. It's been a critical part of my enjoyment of my Butler Bulldogs' dance through the men's NCAA basketball tournament. (Although I will admit not everyone is enjoying it; I've had more than one person tell me all my posts during the game are "blowing up my newsfeed.")

What in the world might someone have to say on Facebook about a college basketball game, you might wonder? Well, this:

Butler fans...time to get unleashed!

3 + 3 = Shelvin, my hero.

C'mon Dawgs! Rebound the ball.

Is it wrong that I'm enjoying watching the replay of that elbow to the nose?

Shake it off, Dawgs! Come back from the break and play your game.

Dear Coach Stevens: Time to reach into your bag of tricks...

3 is such a lovely number.

Rub some dirt on it.

ShelVINNNNNNNN Mack!

How is it half=time already?

We'll sing the Butler war song... (sing it with me...sometime take the next line...)

There's a reason they call them FREE throws, boys....

Time out. C'mon Brad, talk some sense into our boys.

7 is NOT a lovely number.

OK, let's make that the start of our run.

4 fouls on Macklin...let's do something with this.

Something bad is happening in Oz when Matt Howard starts missing free throws.

I don't know who you are #20, but I ♥ you!

Mike Magan is on his feet!

Andrew Smith...puh-leeeeze make these.

Hey -- put that #20 back in!

Nice pits, Billy Donovan.

Let Reggie ref.

YES! Shelvin!

Teamwork makes the dreamwork!

I don't know whether to sweet talk 'em or deliver tough love. So please, sweet honey Matt Howard, make these...or I will hunt you down and kick your patootie.

I'm gonna have to self-medicate to make it through this overtime.

Let's make some magic, Dawgs!

The bucket and the foul!

Tough D....no score...

Could someone please explain to me why Matt Howard is not shooting the dang ball?

GD* referees trying to decide the game. (*gosh darn)

This game is sponsored by the St. Vincent Heart Center and Grey Goose Citrus.

I think I might throw up. I can't watch. But I can't look away.

ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseopleaseohplease....

I need some O2. Stat.

Sir Charles, what do you have to say now?

Wonder if Brad Stevens needs to change his pants before conducting the post-game press conference? I think Mike Magan might.

Now, before you go thinking that I'm a bit nuts, it's not actually like I'm talking to myself (although that does fall under #10 on my reasons to love Facebook). I have friends on FB who are chatting it up too and responding to my posts (and I'm responding to theirs). For instance, someone suggested that the reason Matt Howard was not shooting the ball was because he was afraid I would hit him if he missed.

And I'm aware that the team is 99% probably not seeing/hearing my encouragment (though in this world of wireless technology, you never know). But it makes me feel better to put it out there in the Facebook universe. 

The next game is Bulldogs' second Final Four appearance in two years. The game is in Houston, Texas. But you know where I'll be -- in front of my TV and on Facebook.

Yay or nay?

This is what I'm wearing today:

What do you think?

a.) Daring, but I make it work.

b.) It looks like I'm channeling my inner Japanese exchange student.

c.) You can't believe my family let me leave the house in this get-up.

Go ahead. Be honest. I really want to know.

10 reasons I love Facebook

1. Free Scrabble, with the board set up like a real Scrabble board.
2. I can keep up with brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins who live near and far.
3. Plenty of links to funny videos and interesting news stories.
4. It adds a whole new dimension to watching sports on TV. Gotta love the corresponding FB chatter.
5. It expands the number of people who read my blog.
6. Free stuff! Lots of companies offer freebies and deals just for "liking" their pages. 
7. Near-instant answers to questions like "what should I fix for dinner" or "is tomorrow an out of uniform day at school?"
8. Wide-reaching network of people more than willing to pray for things. All I have to do is ask.
9. Speaking of asking, need a costume for a school play? A used stroller for a friend? A movie recommendation? Just ask on Facebook!
10. It makes talking to myself more socially acceptable.

1am bonus reason -- Facebook makes insomnia less lonely.

How about you? Do you love Facebook? Why or why not?

If you haven't already done so, check out the 4th Frog Facebook page.

When shopping is not so fun

I love to shop. If that makes me a stereotypical female, so be it.

But I love wandering the aisle of Target, taking my time to linger over clearance endcaps and frog-themed bathroom accessories. I get a rush matching necklaces and earrings to springy outfits of capri pants and sweater sets. I can feel my blood zing through my veins when I walk through the mall carrying multiple paper bags, their string handles resting in my palms (though it's been a LONG time since I've actually been to the mall).

Having said all that, there was not a lot of joy in the shopping I did today. I was looking for clothes to wear to my mother-in-law's impending funeral. Shopping for a funeral when the person you love is still alive is depressing.

"Are you shopping for something special today?"

"No" is the easy answer.  "Just browsing" shakes off most sales people.

But by the third store, I was ready to be real. "Yes. I'm shopping for something to wear to my mother-in-law's funeral." It was instantly apparent that wasn't what this nice woman was expecting to hear.  She offered condolences and then left me to my search for something appropriate.

First was the matter of color. Is brown somber enough or does it have to be black? How about brown for the visitation and black for the actual funeral? Is a splash of bright pink appropriate? A funeral is a celebration of life, after all.

Then the issue of formality. Ok to wear pants? Maybe for the wake, but probably a dress for the funeral?

With Annie graduating from 8th grade this year, there will be several occasions -- May Crowning and the graduation Mass -- where nice clothes will be appropriate. Can I add some color to the black dress to make it seem festive at a later date?

Do I have shoes to go with this? Jewelry? Or do I need to buy those too?

Of course there is the fat factor. The fact that the clothes I was trying on were a size 18, when this time last year I was buying size 14s , was depressing all on its own. But does it matter if this outfit makes me look fat? It's not about me, right?

I tried to think of other teapot-shaped women I know -- short and stout -- who might have something I could borrow, but I came up empty. So at the end of the night, I walked out with one blouse I can wear with black pants and a jacket I already own, a brown earthy-toned outfit that I will probably keep to wear to work even if I decide it doesn't reflect enough grief for this occasion, and a black sheath dress with a wide belt that I'm not convinced is a good idea with a white shrug -- an outfit that just seems boring.

And paying for all that? You guessed it...depressing.

Forgotten fragments

Friday. Thank goodness.

And thank Mrs. 4444s for hosting today's fragments.

This first fragment is a video of some sort. I remember enjoying it so much when I first saw it that I thought "I HAVE to share this on Friday fragments!" and so I started this post several days ago, pasting in the embed code for this video. But right now, it's just a big black rectangle on my screen and I cannot for the life of me remember what the heck it is. So I guess it'll be a big surprise for me when I hit the publish button. 



Thank you to everyone who shared kind words regarding my mother-in-law. We went for a visit on Wednesday, a chance for a final goodbye. It was a time filled with laughter and tears. Please continue to keep us and especially my in-laws in your prayers as we continue this journey.

When the time does come that my MIL passes away, I've arranged for several great bloggers to share guest posts here. That way I won't feel pressured to post and you won't wonder if this blog has come to a sudden end.

Yesterday was the start of March Madness, aka the NCAA Men's Basketball tournament. My Butler Bulldogs beat Old Dominion with a buzzer-beater. Gotta love that!

Depending on who you ask, I either earned mother of the year yesterday or should be turned into the truant officer. I let Charlie stay home from school to watch the Butler game. He hasn't had any "mental health" days this year, has been working to stay on top of his homework, and needed funeral clothes. So I took him shopping in the morning -- (FYI, Old Navy does not carry anything funeral appropriate, but I did score a suit for $16 for at Once Upon a Child!), then Mike took him to watch the game with other Butler alum this afternoon.

I'm sure there is more I was more I was planning to share for this week's fragments. But my curiosity about that darn video is killing me, so I'll end it here.

Irish rewind

Forgive the repetition, but enjoy this repost from last year's St. Patrick's Day:

It's St. Patrick's Day again and here I am, a melting pot American, longing for a fiercely loyal heritage. I've always been a bit jealous of friends who wear their lineage like a badge -- who celebrate St. Patrick's Day or Cinqo de Mayo or Oktoberfest as part of their connection to the motherland.

Of all of the ethnicities I wish I could be, Irish is the one I most pine after. Maybe it's the adorable brogue or the stiff-skirted dancers or the stew. Maybe it's just that St. Patrick's Day is such a fun celebration, made more festive, I think, by the fact that it often accompanies the coming of spring when people are looking for a reason to come out of hibernation and be social again.

I wear green on St. Patrick's Day. I try to cook something festive -- for the past several years we've had green pancakes for breakfast. When the kids were little, we always went to the St. Patrick's Day parade. And I love to listen to all the naughty tricks the leprechaun pulled at school.

But I don't pretend that I am Irish. I didn't name my kids Killian and Seamus and Colleen. I wouldn't feel right about hanging out at the Golden Ace where the real Irishmen in town go on St. Patrick's Day.

In the vernacular of Harry Potter, I suppose I would be considered a "mudblood" with a mix of Swiss and German in my heritage. At least I've got the good chocolates on my side.

I can pretend to be Irish a little by marriage. Though my father-in-law's family is from England, my mother-in-law is Irish. Her mother was a Dunnivan who married a Donovan. Mike's grandfather once enraged an army official who asked him what his wife's maiden name was.

"Dunnivan," he said, his voice thick with a Boston accent.

"No," said the official, "What was her last name before she married you?"

"Dunnivan," the young Mr. Donovan replied.

"Not her name now. Before you got married, she was Miss...what?"

The way the story goes, it was quite the Abbott and Costello moment. Dunnivan. Donovan. Potato (Irish, of course). Potahto. Whatever it is, Erin go bragh!