A toast.

Here's to 2011, the year our baby started walking, talking, and going to part-time preschool. The year I traveled away from the boys for work and managed not to have (that many) mental breakdowns. The year we settled into life as a family, not just the Emergency Survival Mode of life with an infant. The year of mountains and beaches and unscheduled hotel staycations.

Here's to the blessed quiet of our cove--occasional fireworks excluded--and the fog that, as Carl Sandburg put it, "comes on little cat feet...It sits looking over city and harbor on silent haunches, and then moves on."

Here's to growing hands that look a little like my mother's, a little like my great-grandfather's, and a little like mine, always busy, always curious.

Here's to neighbors with a sense of humor, who turned the summer's storm destruction into Mr. Stump. He wears a new hat for each holiday, and this is his New Year's party attire.

And here's to a boy who, even in his toddlerhood, is equal parts dreamer and doer. It's a privilege beyond my wildest dreams to see all the things he comes up with, and I can't wait to see what 2012 holds.

the little things

My job takes me to New Orleans once a year, and one of my absolute favorite places there is the ladies' room at Brennan's. Not the actual restaurant--the restroom. Because there's an attendant named Mary who works there, albeit sporadically now--she's in her eighties and when she asked about scaling back hours the owners told her, "This is your house. You come and go as you please." Mary is known for delivering some of the most vital and succinct wisdom you will ever hear. On one trip she told my mom, "It's not the big things. It's the little things." Everybody has heard that a thousand times before, but sometimes you don't really hear something until it's echoing off the Brennan's ladies' room walls. Such is the Mary Effect.

Today the Big Things are that I have a grumpy teething toddler with the sniffles and the house is looking sort of sad and naked with all the Christmas decorations taken down. But it's not the big things, it's the little things.

Like the butter bell my mom gave us for Christmas, and its magical and dangerous ability to keep fresh, softened butter on hand at all times.

Or the fact that our dogs are back from the boarding kennel where they stayed while we were in the mountains, and Einstein's commitment to staying horizontal for as many hours of the day as possible is a pretty relaxing influence. (Except for when he knocks over the trash can and barks at the UPS guy between his naps. But It's Not the Big Things!)

This mockingjay brooch was a gift from my sweet mother-in-law, and I've been wearing it with nerdy pride. Plus it helps me identify fellow Hunger Games dorks in public, and no, I don't care that half of them are 13 years old.

And sometimes all you really need is to go play with a toddler who is still absolutely in awe of something as simple as a tree. Mary could tell you that, and so can I.

24-hour adventure

Tuesday afternoon, we made the drive up to Bryson City, NC, for a very important train ride. You see, Santa's sleigh had broken down there after he finished his Christmas Eve rounds, and it was up to the Polar Express--which conveniently happens to pass through the Smoky Mountains--to get him back to the North Pole safely.

Remy's golden ticket got us on board.

The little guy was fairly cheerful despite the long car ride and the fact that we arrived in Bryson City just as the power went out across the entire county due to high winds--which meant no restaurants were open, which meant an emergency dinner of string cheese and applesauce.

(That's Grumpapa in the background!)

Hot chocolate and cookies helped with the cheerfulness factor. Although, if you are an adult who sacrificed the car's string cheese supply to feed the toddler, I do not recommend festive complimentary Polar Express cookies on an empty stomach. The sugar crash comes sometime around the North Pole, when they inexplicably turn off the train's interior lights, causing all the small children on board to lose their ever-loving minds. It was holly jolly anarchy!

Uncle Duncle and Aunt Alex were there to help, as was Gramma, thank sweet baby Jesus.

We got Santa safely home (did you know the North Pole is only 45 minutes by train from Bryson City? Now you do!) and as thanks he gave all the kids on board a magical sleigh bell. Remy spent the return trip trying to eat his.

The next morning we found out that the Smoky Mountain Parkway was closed due to ice, so we decided to walk around near our bed & breakfast instead. Somehow this led to us winding up in a graveyard.

I wish I knew the story behind this gravestone. (Dude), who were you?

Next to the graveyard was Swain County Middle School's football field. (What do you have to do to get a seat in the Reserved Section?)

This falling-down old house was right next door and we couldn't resist sneaking up for a better look.

Were it not for the No Trespassing signs and the very real possibility of being squished to death, I would have snuck inside too. I love decaying old structures like this--they're more honest, somehow, than their fully-restored counterparts.

We are now all recovering from a 7-hour round-trip car ride, a 2-hour round-trip train ride, and several sugar-induced tantrums of both the toddler and grown-up variety, all within a 24-hour period. But that's not to say that I wouldn't do it all over again. Because I would--I'd just pack more cheese.

Playground trespassing

Technically, we are not supposed to be at this park.

Not because we've been banned, but because it's part of the swanky tennis & swim club in the new development near our house. The club where monthly dues are approximately one frillion dollars.

Fortunately, no one seems to mind when we not-so-sneakily stroller up to the playground equipment for some quality time on the swings and big slide.

After all, we're not trying to break into the tennis courts or indoor facility. Or drink 40's on the swings. Or flash passing Lexus SUVs.

Nope, just good old fashioned swingin.'
And picnic table hide-and-seek.

Although once it warms up we might have to think about teaching him to flash the SUVs. This neighborhood could use a little livening up.