Big Man Turns 14

Big Man inched further up the rock wall that is teenage-hood last week. As usual, when he woke up on his birthday morning, he was greeted by this banner hanging from the kitchen window.

Now, to the everyday observer, this sign is probably nothing more than a cheapo, foil-stamped, dime-store purchase. But to our family, it's a shiny treasure that bonds us together in our own unique tradition. We pull it out for every single one of our birthdays. A cardboard cutout that, could it talk, would shout with all its heart, "Today is your special day!"

PB and I bought the banner along with some balloons the night before Big Man turned one. The three of us were on vacation in Bass Harbor, Maine. We'd been there many times as a couple. But this was the first time with a baby. We were clueless new parents scurrying around Carroll Pharmacy before it closed trying to figure out how to mark our firstborn's first birthday.

We were pretty much overwhelmed by "firsts" at the time.

Big Man was on the verge of taking his first steps. That meant PB and I were perpetually hobbled over as he led us around by our index fingers clomping about in a clumsy, drunken march.

And, though we were psyched to be on our first vacation as a family, PB and I were also in mourning. Gone was our pre-Big-Man daily routine in Maine. It used to be that we woke up whenever we felt like it, hiked a mountain and then skinny-dipped and sunbathed our afternoons away at the lake. Now we were bleary-eyed, zombie slaves on Big Man time.

Being away from home had royally screwed with Big Man's sleep schedule. The second he heard the pre-dawn gurglings of the lobster boats leaving the harbor behind our house, up he'd pop in his travel crib, NEVER to go down again. It was as if he were a lobster man in a previous life and the boats' motors were some kind of past-memory alarm clock.

So, on the morning of Big Man's first birthday, we figured that 5 a.m. was as good a time as any to get the celebration rolling. We sat Big Man down at the kitchen table for his Cheerios. His eyes widened as he noticed the balloons we had hung from the chandelier the night before.

I'd like to tell you that next he pointed to the happy birthday banner we'd draped across the windows. But if he did, I can't say. What I do remember feeling, even in my pre-dawn stupor, is that one year couldn't possibly hold all the love I felt for this boy. I felt like I'd loved him forever.

Ever since, the banner has become a permanent fixture on birthday mornings. Aside from the center bow being a little bent-up and the grimy, yellowed layers of Scotch tape affixed to either end, it's held up pretty well considering how long we've had it. It's survived three moves and being misplaced more times than I know.

When I went into Big Man's room to kiss him goodnight on the eve of his 14th, he asked, half-kidding, half-serious, "Where's my birthday sign?"

I pretended to scold him. "You know that doesn't happen until the morning."

He smiled. I knew Big Man knew that. Just as I now know that the inexperienced scramblings of two new parents 14 years ago produced a birthday tradition that has become more meaningful than they could have ever imagined.

Big Man's birthday is the last one for this year. So today I carefully folded up the banner and put it away for safekeeping. It wouldn't be coming out again until February. When someone would tape it up to the kitchen window with love. This time, for me.

Presents, apple turnovers for breakfast and a card from Little Man

My First (And Hopefully Last) Reader Survey

Because I'm new and and I'd like to say fashionably late to this cyberspace party, I've been doing a lot of catch-up reading about blogging. According to The IT Girl's Guide to Blogging with Moxie, one of the big, new-blogger DON'Ts is to pack your posts with quizzes and surveys. You know, like what's your Bond Girl name? Or, what breed of dog are you? (Plenty O'Toole and a Maltese, by the way.)

Now, HEAVEN FORBID, I look too much like a newbie blogger. But. I have taken the liberty of creating a little survey. No, it's not going to tell you what OPI nail polish you are or who you were in high school. I swear-to-God-hope-to-die-promise! It's strictly for research purposes.

Here's why. A friend brought it to my attention that the humor with which I meant to infuse my previous post, Fighting Fourth of July Fire With Fire, may have been lost in translation. I'm wondering if maybe I was blogging with a little too much moxie.

So, in order to get a read on whether my initial intention came through or I missed the mark completely, it would be really helpful if you took the following quiz and got back to me.

Here goes.

Do you remember those delinquent parents in Monday's blog post? The ones who snuck fire crackers across state lines and then woke up the whole neighborhood with their illegal antics?

Those "irresponsible parents" are:

a. actual neighbors

b. a comedic ploy to disguise my identity so when Big Man applies to college he doesn't get rejected because his parents bragged about their 4th of July crime spree to the entire world over the internet

c. my attempt to avoid winding up on a terrorist watch list

d. the alter ego of my tight-ass, cranky, cop-calling self

e. other (please feel free to come up with your own answer)

As added incentive for completing the quiz, the first 100 responders will receive a shade of OPI nail polish which best represents their personality. Not really. But it's the thought that counts, right? (I'm Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ, in case you were wondering).

Fighting Fourth Of July Fire With Fire

Can you believe this? This was the scene on our suburban street over the Fourth of July.

In order for this to happen some irresponsible parents had to drive to a Connecticut grocery store, purchase a 20-piece Patriotic Pyro-Pack ("Yes, I'll take some explosive devices with my milk and eggs, thank you."), conceal said devices under reusable grocery bags in the back of their SUV, and transport them across the state line.

All so their pyromanical children could get their annual hit of TNT.

These parents not only broke numerous laws with their noisy cache of Triple Whistlers, Giant Mystery Geysers and Razzle Dazzlers. They risked the wrath of neighbors with sleeping toddlers and set the neighborhood hounds a howling, turning a usually quiet street into Felluja.

I even saw one of them smoking a punk.

And here's what I found on the street the morning after.

I'm calling the police.