One Rabbit's Journey

It was Easter, twenty-two years ago, that I received the best present from my Grandma & Grandpa Tanner.  At the time, I am sure they did not realize what significance this small stuffed animal would acquire over the next two decades, and to be honest, I do not think my six-year-old self could have fathomed the many things she would be a part of. Back then, she just happened to be an adorable gray bunny dressed in a pink shirt and denim overalls, complete with a small hole for her faux-cotton tail. I fell in love instantly, and Peta became a constant presence in my life. 

I was a strange child, as many of us undoubtedly were, and as such, I needed to create a back story for my new friend. Looking to her attire for inspiration, I noticed that emblazoned on her shirt was the word Greatland (at the time, the store brand from Target). In one of my more fanciful throes of imagination,  I decided that this was name of her home planet. The planet itself was not all that exciting, one filled with animals of all kinds of crazy colors (my pink cat...aptly named Pinkie...also hailed from Greatland). Peta was a prominent leader there, but her insatiable curiosity led her to explore other lands, and she eventually found her way to me. I felt lucky that she stayed with me for so long. She would go on to own a restaurant, lead a few coups, and star in a few of my clumsy childhood stories. She had her own voice (which sounded oddly like mine, but with a higher pitch and a bit of a quaver) and often engaged in conversation with my other stuffed animals. To their credit, my parents and sister were quite indulgent in all this, never discouraging me from creating this exotic, sprawling fantasy world.

More importantly though, Peta has stuck by my side through some pretty difficult times. Whether it was a debilitating migraine (of which I had more than my fair share even at the age of six), recovering from sinus surgery, or even when trying to cope with things I couldn't quite grasp at the time (my mother's injuries/disability, my sister's emotional issues, etc.), I had her for comfort. When I felt so sick, just having her in my arms made me feel one hundred times better. Holding her in my arms while I cried made it a bit easier to gain perspective, to take control of my emotions and move on. And it is clear that I turned to her more often than I can ever quantify. Her once lustrous coat is now worn away to the point that she looks almost bald. There has been more than one occasion when her left ear has required surgery, and her glassy black eyes now have cataracts. In all honesty, I am surprised that she hadn't met the fate of the Velveteen rabbit considering how many germs she has come in contact with over the years...thank goodness my parents would have never done that and had deemed a couple hours in the dryer on high heat would suffice.

As I grew older, I turned to Peta less and less. She still was (and is) a constant presence in my room, staying on my bed throughout high school traveling with me pretty much everywhere.  However, I was beginning to feel slightly silly to be so old and still have a stuffed animal with me. She became less of a companion and more of a symbol of my past. She reminded me of my grandparents, my childhood. No matter where I went, as long as she came with me, I had a small piece of home. And for me, that is something I have never outgrown. Despite how conflicted I can feel about Texas, it shaped me more than I can say, and Peta is a good reminder of that.

What is really interesting is how Peta has become an integral part of my family's bigger story. My Grandma Hayes bonded with her over the course of a few years (she is not the one who gave me the rabbit), and in a way that only family can, we have decided that Peta has grown into a bit of a troublemaker. My parents go along with it as do several of my aunts and uncles. My Grandpa Tanner (who gave me Peta in the first place) still asks about what she is up to lately.  As I have grown and evolved, so too has the rabbit. Where once she was a source of comfort and support, she has become a bit wild. No longer burdened with the responsibility of easing the emotional woes of a young girl, Peta has embraced life, and her antics have become notorious. Something broken in the house? Peta did it. Empty cans of beer or bottles of liquor strewn about the house? The rabbit did it.  String of robberies throughout the city? She was the mastermind.  Are we nuts?  Perhaps, but only in the way that all families have their idiosyncrasies, right?

One Wild Night

Anyway, my Grandma Hayes is the one who suggested I started taking pictures of her when I travel (you can check more of them out on my facebook page...more pictures to come in a few weeks after we visit Kazakhstan). At first, I was embarrassed to carry a bunny around my backpack and pull her out in front of large crowds of locals and tourists alike. My friend Lauren helped me through this with her enthusiasm for the idea.  It was this that made me realize why there is no reason to be ashamed of it. Yes, I am twenty-nine, and I still have a stuffed animal. So what? I also have lots of fun memories and great pictures. And for those willing to listen, a great story that remains unfinished.

Crater Lake -- Me: Age 25, Peta: Age 19. She looks a little worse for the wear.

Dusting Off the Cobwebs

It has been a couple of weeks since my last post, and for once, it wasn't so much from a lack of material but rather from a lack of focus. There have been several potential posts swirling around my mind, from discussing my culinary adventures with my cousin Patrick (age 11) to celebrating the recent baby boom among my friends (two of my best friends had daughters within 8 days of each other...factor in about five other babies born during that week, and it makes me wonder what was in the water last September) to acknowledging (begrudgingly) my 29th birthday. Yet, every time I sat down to type something up, there was a distinct lack of coherence.

So, here is an attempt to dust off the cobwebs in my mind and from this blog :)  I won't get to everything to day (I am not that cruel), but at least there will be something new for you all to enjoy. First up--Patrick and his pie.

Patrick was born 11 years ago, a mere three days before my 18th birthday. I had been anxious for him to arrive as he was the first child for my Uncle Chris and Aunt Susan, people who I am so fortunate to have as friends as well as family and who had provided a great deal of support and encouragement as I grew up. I didn't get to meet him right away (I was in Texas still), but receiving new photos of him or hearing about his exploits were always welcome, and no doubt, all of my friends in college heard more than they ever wanted to know about this brilliant, adorable child. (He is the child who used "beverage" instead of drink at age 2, the one who instructed his kindergarten teacher on several topics, including how to distinguish between different types of insects. It's scary how smart he can be, but we have to remember not to tell him that too often, lest he get an even bigger head than he already has--he is a bit of a know-it-all.)

Fast-forward to last week, where this still brilliant (but admittedly less adorable) boy asked me to show him how to make pie crust again. (He is entering the phase where sarcasm and snark make up much of his vocabulary...nowhere near as charming as he was several years ago) He also mentioned wanting to learn how to make bread of some kind. With this in mind, I suggested that we attempt pizza dough as well as pie crust. Plan in mind, we scheduled some time to make the dough and crust with a long-term plan of using both to prepare a meal for our family as a way to celebrate both of our birthdays.

During our two sessions (the dough and crust making & then the creation of calzones and apple pie using the previous session's efforts), I was reminded that it isn't easy teaching someone else how to cook, especially if you are as impatient as I. There were several times I had to bite my tongue to prevent my criticisms from coming out as I watched Patrick measure and mix, knead and flatten. While frustrating, it was also endearing to watch him, seeing the way in which his unpracticed hands couldn't quite get the kneading motion down or the awkward way in which he grasped the spatula as he tried to fold ingredients together in a rather graceless manner. Things are a bit more challenging at 11, and I am sure that I, too, displayed that level of clumsiness in my first cooking endeavors.

I also learned that sometimes, cooking/baking is as much an art as it is a science. Trying to explain to Patrick how you know when the dough has been kneaded enough, whether or not the timer has reached the cookbook-suggested 10 minutes, or how the pie dough is supposed to look when the butter has been cut in properly wasn't easy. These are things I have just learned to recognize over time, and being asked to quantify it perplexed me. How does one explain that recipes are often just guidelines, that you learn and adapt as you go along? That cookbooks are not always the end-all authority.

These are things that really one can only impart by allowing another to observe. Patrick isn't quite at that stage yet, but I hope that he wants to continue learning, and I hope that he allows me to work with him in the future.  Because, seriously, when everything finally did come together, we put on one heck of a meal.

The chef proudly displaying his creations.

The first piece of birthday pie

The calzones were delicious (we offered cheese and pepperoni/sausage varieties), and the pie phenomenal. I don't think I have ever tasted a better homemade apple pie (I am old school and made him prepare the filling himself. With my grandma's help, he peeled and sliced the apples, cooked them down and then added them to the prepared dough.)! I am fairly certain everyone left our little dinner party pretty satisfied.

Last Weekend

So, in my last post, I mentioned how last weekend was spent with the family--first, celebrating the birthday of my cousin Joe and then heading down south to watch my cousin Elizabeth make her First Communion. I held off because I wanted to have a couple of pictures to show off Elizabeth in particular (Sorry, but the nature of Joe's party discouraged any kind of photography...), but my camera was in Kansas. Since it has once again crossed the border, perhaps it is time to share a bit more about my family.

I adore all four of my younger cousins. I have been fortunate to know them personally--having nannied Elizabeth and Liam for six months when they were not quite toddlers and having spent the last five years just down the street from Joe and Patrick.  However, as with all children, each of my cousins deserve a story of his or her own. Since I have the picture to accompany this post, I'll shine the spotlight on Elizabeth, who would most gladly accept the attention.

Like many girls her age, Elizabeth is definitely a little princess. At her young age, I am willing to bet she owns more clothes and shoes than I currently have in my closet, and she is probably angling for a few more. She is the social butterfly of her class, a friend to everybody. She is adorable and she knows it. Still, all of this does not make her insufferable but just adds to her charm.

Isn't she sweet? She looked so beautiful on Saturday!
(Ignore the person she is hugging...not at all a flattering picture)

When I was nannying her, one of my favorite things to do was dance around with her in my arms and sing. At this age, she loved the Sound of Music and The Little Mermaid, so my repertoire was a bit limited ("Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens..."). She would join in as best as she could, music being one of her favorite things and one of the only ways I could distract her sometimes. I admit that the six months I was with her and her brother were not always easy (the sweet little angel in the picture above had quite the arm--my glasses ended up on the other side of the room on more than one occasion), so it helps to remember the good times. When I think back to these times, I remember just how happy we both were being kind of silly like this. I am sure she doesn't remember any of this, but the memories will always stay with me.

As she has grown older, her interest in the arts expanded beyond music to include drawing (she is an excellent artist) and storytelling.  However, sometimes the stories she creates are relayed as truth, so you have to take what she says with a grain of salt. Of all my cousins, Elizabeth possess the greatest imagination, able to see the world as a place of possibilities, willing to bend the truth if it captures the attention of her audience. I truly hope that she continues to explore the depths of her imagination and does not let anyone dissuade her from using it. Fortunately, she has proven herself in several instances to be determined to do what she wants, even in times when others would have given up. (Once during a swim meet, despite the fact she was lagging behind, instead of giving up when the others were, she completed all the laps, seeing the race through.)

Sometimes, it surprises me just how much I want to protect Elizabeth and my other cousins from the harshness of the world. For Elizabeth, I hope she continues to see that she has the ability to become just about anything she wants to be--she has the intelligence, the perseverance and the talent to accomplish most anything I think. As my only female cousin, Elizabeth gets a bit of special attention in my mind. For her, I feel the need not only to be a good role model, but I want to reassure her that being a girl does not preclude you from certain things--that if she should pursue whatever interests her, be it fashion, art, or engineering. I want her to know that the expectations of society--that of external beauty, wealth, status--do not determine her worth and that she does not need someone else to validate her existence. I want her to know she is worthy just for being herself. (Things that many of us all know but still cannot accept--at least, I know I struggle with this constantly even have been here 21 years longer than she!)

And, I guess in a lot of ways, I see a little of myself in Elizabeth, that I, too, loved to draw and tell stories.  I don't want her to lose that because it is so much an extension of herself, and I, maybe I exaggerate a bit, but I wish I still had the whimsy of imagination to fuel my days. Its absence hits me more often than I would like to admit. I want to caution her about becoming too serious too soon. And I want her to know that she is loved, more deeply and by more people than she will ever realize.