Merry Christmas to all!

Merry Christmas from the Doughertys - we wish you and your families a wonderful 2009.

Christmas Eve

Again this year we went to my parents house for a Christmas Eve extravaganza including beef tenderloin, a professional piano player and a special visit from Santa and Mrs Claus. MJ sure knows how to throw a party!

The Dougherty Clan singing a version of Snow! with Seamus in the lead...












Finn getting his treat from Santa - a fire engine that makes noise (thanks Santa).












There is no better exuberance than a three year old at Christmas - real magic.












MJ playing hard to get (MJ got molars for Christmas - yeah!).












Seamus and Santa right before he tells Santa that he must be mistaken. He's supposed to get a DRAGON for Christmas not a matchbox car....












Oh, well. Better than coal!












Katie and Barbara do not know how to have fun (clearly).












Nice work you two!












Singing Christmas carols (lots and lots of them - all the verses too).

Cuddling in the warmth

Since it's been so warm and toasty here in Minnesota, we are constantly coming up with creative ideas to keep cool.

Here's a pic of all three huddled on their homemade bed in front of the Air Conditioning vent, trying desperately to cool off.

Here's a pic of all cuddled up watching a movie, using special Dad chilliness and an ice blanket to take the edge off.

Happy holidays to all! Sending love from Minnesota!

Shovel or sled?

Our nephew Carl and his lovely wife Meg bought a house within a few miles of ours. On the first shoveling assistance run of 2008, we cleared their driveway and then discovered that their front yard makes a righteous sliding hill. Note Seamus' unzipped coat.

Once Carl taught the boys how to use their shovels as sleds, it was all over. Let the fun begin. And let the crashing into Carl's car never end.

Little MJ was very excited to sled as well, but was not appropriately attired. Thus, she squirmed and attempted to leave my arms. I have an iron grip. She took eating snow as a nice compromise. (That's Carl on the left there)Finn only enjoys shoveling grass. He frequently deposits the snow back onto my freshly shoveled area. Either he's the worst helper ever, or he has a fantastic sense of humor.

Note: I deliberately don't outfit my children with snowpants on these type of excursions. This results in them getting cold quicker, which facilitates my throwing them in a hot bath and relaxing with a manhattan and a cozy fire quicker. I'm some kind of evil genius, aren't I?

Note note: Seamus of the unzipped coat was his own problem. He refuses to wear any of the other coats. His favorite is the Spiderman coat his Grandma Barbara bought him - even if the zipper is totally busted. This is my attempt to teach him the consequence of choices. He was soaking wet when we returned home. Since this did not appear to bother him (he refused the hot bath) I'm not sure my teachable moment really worked out as planned.

By the way - all of your North Carolinians, South Carolinians, and New Jerseyites visiting in December, it's really warm here. Trust me. VERY warm.

Alright, I totally stole these pics from Carl's blog. Shout out!

http://schnemarq.blogspot.com/2008/12/winter-with-cousins.html

Our little Darwin

Seamus awoke from deep sleep, went to the bathroom, entered our room, and crawled into our bed.

Seamus: Does a monkey have 4 hands or 4 feet?
Anne: (blurry, sleepy) what?
S: Does a monkey have 4 hands or 4 feet?
A: 2 hands and 2 feet
S: JUST LIKE HUMANS...
Then he lay back and contemplated this for a while.

Later, when we're downstairs eating cereal together in our morning ritual, I attempt small talk.
J: So, Seamus, what was that question you had about monkeys earlier?
S: Dad, my question was already answered.
J: Okay.
S: Besides, I was asking MOM, not you.

It was kind of an odd morning.

Memories of Dad as a Pershing Rifle

My Dad was in a military fraternity - the Pershing Rifles - at Seton Hall. They were a great group of guys, many of whom have been lifelong family friends. My Mom met my Dad while he was in this fraternity and they fell in love.

A number of these fine gentlemen took the time to write some stories down about my Dad. Dad was generally not loose lipped (Unless he was talking to his daughters in law), so some of these stories are brand new to me. Thanks to the PRs for sharing these remembrances!
Remembering Tommy Dougherty
Copied from here for prosperity - http://captainslogblog.typepad.com/companyk8/2008/11/remembering-tommy-dougherty-1.html
For sometime, I have wanted to do a piece on our brother, Tom Dougherty. Thanks to Lois Alexander for reminding me that one hadn't been done yet. As most of you know, we unexpectedly lost Tom earlier this year. I reached out to a number of his friends who were more than willing to share their remembrances of Tom.
I'll start. Like many of us, I lost track of Tom & Barbara after graduation. After they relocated back to NJ after 20 yrs.+, we were invited to one of their Holiday parties (I think it was in Lincroft). Entering their home, you immediately felt welcomed, and started answering the questions, beginning with, "So, where you been?" It was great reconnecting with them after so many years, along with several other brothers (and sisters). Fast forward a few years, Joe Dat was successful in convincing Tom to join us on our annual camping trip. Going camping isn't, neccssarily, everyone's cup of tea. But to the guys (and our kids and grandkids) that have been doing it for 27 years, it's something you just don't miss. Although we eat like kings, there is the whole grunge thing, weather issues, sanitary issues, animal issues and, on occassion, dealing w/crazy ass neighboring campers.
Right from the getgo you could see that, if Tom had a problem w/ the "issues", it didn't show. It was great opportunity to learn about about Tom (post graduation), his time in the service as a pilot, his career in the Secret Service, his current job with the FDA, family,etc. Like many of the PRs that we have reconnected with, he was equally interested in finding out more about what the rest of us had been up to since we left SHU. Sitting around the campfire, he was like a kid in a candy factory. Maybe, more like a sponge, sucking up as much information as possible. While Tom was only able to attend the last few years, he truly found something that he enjoyed and it seemed like he had been there from the start.
We even asked Tommy to be resposible for a very important duty -- bringing the "fixings" for the Friday night dinner at the campsite. The menu that year called for about 50 lobsters and a few hundred clams. Because most of the campers start the day off by leaving their homes early in the am to meet and play golf, there is no opportunity for anyone to pick up the fish. Enter Tommy D. He doesn't play golf. And we don't meet at the campsite until 3:00. Perfect!!!!! Tommy was promoted on the spot to Senior Procurement Officer of Fish (SPOF)! He even found a fish store near his house that could supply our needs!
Tom had a bit of trouble finding the campsite that first year, but with the aid of cell phone technology, we guided him in. With all that fish in the car, we knew of Tom's impending arrival when he was about a mile away. In fact, we knew where Tom was the entire weekend. The Friday night dinner on the camping trip will forever be known as Tommy's night.
This past July was our first camping trip without Tommy and Joe Dat. Paul Monacelli made a memorial in tribute to their memories. It was placed by the campfire and, while it certainly wasn't a substitute for them being there, it was a constant reminder of how much we missed them.
Irish
Most of us remember Tom Dougherty, with his Irish face, his insolentstride and pork pie hat, as a pretty tough guy, who did not suffer fools gladlyor otherwise. Certainly he was that. But there was another, gentler side, thatbelied the macho façade. Before I got shipped to Korea, I was suffering from the pain of anunrequited love affair. I was low and slack-jaw heartbroken. Unexpectedly, Heinvited me down to Barbara’s parents (they weren’t married yet) place inBricktown by the Jersey shore. They assuaged my misery with bad jokes, steamedclams and more than a little beer. For a weekend, I was joyful and for thatrespite I’ll never forget their selfless generosity. When I got out of theservice, he was the first one I called. We went to some gin joint and shotpool. When I mentioned that weekend to Tom and how important it had been to me,he didn’t know what I was talking about. He had just done what he had alwaysdone; take care of his friends. I’d been living in Los Angeles for a few years and when I moved back toNew York City somehow we got in touch. He was working for the DEA then, Ithink, assigned to the NYC area. It wasn’t unusual for him to call, out of theblue and invite me for a beer. He’d pick me up in his big old Chrysler sedan,or what ever it was, and drive to a bar of his choosing. Under the aegis of hisgovernment plates, he’d park pretty much anywhere he liked. Inside, a pitcher ofbeer between us, we’d talk about nothing and everything, and after an hour or sowe’d part, my sense of worth improved by his comradeship. It was this off handamiability that I remember most. Tom always seemed to know who he was and what he was doing. He wascomfortable in his skin and that comfort could transfer to those around him. Hehad qualities most men admire and would like to emulate, for he was a warrior, astraight shooter and an honest man. He had a sense of humor about the world andabout himself. I’m better for having known him and how many people can you saythat about?

John (aka Jungle Jack) Corey

It was a brisk autumn night, and for some reason I was at Tom Dougherty’s house in the Vailsburg section of Newark when I got a phone call from my mother. She said several young men from the Pershing Rifles had come to our door asking for me. She, of course, innocently told them that I was at Tom Dougherty’s house. It didn’t occur to my dear old Mom that they were pledges and that they might have evil plans in mind. So I told Tom that some pledges were on their way to his house and we were about to be kidnapped. There was a look of fear on Tom’s face – not at the prospect of being kidnapped, but because his father was home. “We have to get the hell out of the house before they get here and the old man finds out.” Tom’s Dad was a Newark cop, and several years later I had the privilege of working for him in the South District of Newark. He was a good cop and wouldn’t take any crap. I understood Tom’s concerns.
We met the pledges out on the street. They announced their intent to kidnap us and we, of course, put up a spirited but mostly symbolic fight. As we lay on the ground struggling with the pledges, who were intent on tying our hands behind our backs, a car raced down the street and screeched to a halt. The cops? No, worse than that – it was a vigilante patrol from Anthony Imperiale’s version of a neighborhood watch program. Two thugs jumped out ready to get rough and Tom and I, prostrate on the ground, had to reassure them that it was OK. We were only being kidnapped as part of a college ritual. Really, we didn’t mind.
Then we were hauled into the back seat of a pledge’s car and driven away, for a long, long ride. As we rode, we continued to work on our restraints and eventually were able to get our hands free. It would seem that the life of Pershing was emphasized in pledge materials, but knot tying was not. Once free, we started fighting again in the back seat of the car and the pledges, apparently deciding that we were close enough to whatever the final destination was supposed to be, pulled over and tossed us out.
Wherever we were, it was cold, pitch black, and very, very wooded. We could see the glow of some kind of light off on the horizon and started walking towards it. We knew the rules – we had to be back to the parking lot on campus by drill the next morning. The first sign of civilization we came upon was an all-night laundromat just outside of Fort Dix. Using the change that we’d previously secreted in various parts of our clothing, we called another P/R to come and get us. We got a couple of hours of sleep on the folding tables in the laundromat and made it back in time.
It’s kind of weird when you think about it, but we were flattered back then that we were selected to be kidnapped. But then, we also used to shave our heads and it was the friggin’ 60s, so what’s weird?
Over the years that followed I lost contact with Tom and most of my P/R brothers. But one day, out of the blue, I got a call from Tom. He suggested lunch and a couple of beers. We had that lunch and it was like, well, like nothing had changed. And I realized that the brotherhood we shared in those days at the Hall hadn’t changed. Thanks, Tom, for helping me realize that.
Harry Miller
Pledge Class of ‘66

A TRIBUTE TO TOM DOUGHERTY--IT’S ONLY WORDS
It’s 1962 and I’m a freshman sitting in class at Essex Catholic High School in Newark, NJ. Suddenly the kid behind me taps me on the shoulder and points to the guy in the back of the classroom who’s been trying to get my attention. He’s eating a sandwich and holding up a brown paper bag.
“Great sandwich. Thank Mrs. Cappello for me.”
That was one of my first encounters with my dear friend, Tom Dougherty. Of course, he wasn’t so “dear” at the time and I kept asking, who the hell is this guy and what am I going to eat for lunch?
But that was Tom. Always pushing the envelope for a laugh and making sure everyone was in on the joke. He relished being part of the group, whether cracking up the teachers with one of his classic Dougherty comments or assuring all the Irish students that they had nothing to fear from the wave of Italian immigrants that flooded the school that year. I can still see him waiting for the bus in front of the school, strands of hair hanging to one side of his face, his skinny tie loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone, his jacket open. He’d cup a cigarette in one hand and carry his books low with the other, even then resembling the “big time federal heat” (as he used to say) he would become later in his life.
We saw each other on and off for the rest of high school, but hooked up later at the Hall when we pledged Pershing Rifles. Tom was among 65 of us who pledged PR’s in 1966. He kept us together, always suggesting where we could meet to have a few beers, go over our general orders, have a few beers, study for a Military Science exam or just sit around and have a few beers. There were always gatherings at his house on Eastern Parkway behind the Hall, where I remember making our pledge rifles, practicing a cool trick drill move or just marveling at how great we looked with shaved heads.
I remember our freshman pledge football game, when we practically drew straws to see who would carry the ball. Tom was the unlucky one on one play and he took a hit so bad it left a welt on his forehead. He came back to the huddle dazed, but he never complained. (In the same game, I caught the ball on a kickoff and was promptly run over by a roaring, red freight train with the name “Joe D’Heron” emblazoned on it).
As we all know, pledging PR’s was a challenge; the 65 who started were whittled down to 17 for our Hell night. That night, we learned the many uses of such staple items as marshmallows, peanut butter, limburger cheese and, yes, who could forget being “up to our necks” in a certain appendage taken from a hapless four legged creature. It was great to be a full fledged PR and nobody was happier than Tom.
So began our association with the craziest, devoted bunch of guys I had ever met. A highlight for me was making the A trick drill team in my sophomore year (1967-1968) along with my fellow brothers, Harry Miller and Tom Dougherty. Tom was a classic PR, thriving on the discipline inherent in the drill team, yet loving every aspect of being one of the guys. It was during that time that he developed his desire to pursue a military career as a helicopter pilot, eventually serving in Viet Nam. That led to a stint on the Newark police department and eventually a career as a Secret Service agent.
But that’s not the whole story about Tom. He was a caring person, once you penetrated his tough exterior, and no one managed to do that better than his wife, Barbara. She was the missing piece in his life and I can still remember how happy he was when they started dating back at the Hall.
He was loyal to his friends and always there when you needed him the most. When I was kidnapped by a roving band of misguided freshmen, it was Tom I called to pick me up in the middle of the night in the wilds of Blairstown. When I was CO in 1969-1970, Tom was my XO and my rock; he might not have agreed with everything I did, but he backed me up 100%. I have always been grateful to him for that, and only regret that I never had the opportunity to tell him so.
Even now, I keep expecting to hear his voice on the phone, asking if I’m going up to the lake to John and Peggy Hogan’s place or if I want to come down and bike ride to Sandy Hook. He will always be the brash, fun kid to me, standing there, pointing his cigarette at you, his head cocked to one side, saying something funny or proceeding to tell you what the hell you were doing wrong. He’d shuffle along in those black combat boots that were as comfortable to him as a pair of featherweights to a Donald Trump. An army khaki shirt, dark trousers and a “Mugs McGuiness” hat completed the outfit as he walked away like John Wayne (or should I say John Wayne walked away like Tom Dougherty),
One of the last times we spoke, I told Tom I wanted to be a better friend, to spend more time with “The Three Musketeers”—him, John Hogan and me. He didn’t answer, but kept on eating his lunch. To Tom, it was simple: I was already his friend so there wasn’t much else to discuss. Tom never wasted words, but he had a way of letting you know how he felt.
That day, I heard him loud and clear.
I wish I had more than these mere words to give in tribute to our friend and our brother, Tommy Dougherty. But I take solace in the fact that it comes from my heart and that I will never forget the friend who has meant so much to me over the years.
Joe Cappello
Class of 1970
Captions for photos below:
“The Three Musketeers.” Left, to right, Joe Cappello, Tom Dougherty, John Hogan. We often met at John’s cottage in Sussex County to fish, talk over old times and share a beer. This was taken a little over a year ago. Tom appears to be “frisking” the fish before turning it loose in the lake.
Vintage Tom Dougherty, relaxing at the lake and looking “sharp.”

8 Years Ago Today...

...I married Anne and had a great party. Happy Anniversary, Anne! I love you!

Catching Up On Lost Time

Time has gone so fast these last few weeks, I hardly know where to start. Maybe I can pause to tell you a little more about who you are today.


MJ,
You are officially a toddler, forsaking the crib for the big girl bed, walking and yabbering like a champ. There is nothing delicate about you. This morning while we picked up Finn and his friend Will from school, another little boy pushed you down. The offender's mother leaped up to scold her son, but you only brushed off your pants, hipped checked him and went to find your brother. I looked at the woman and said:

"She's got older brothers. The only way she would cry, and really it's more of a piercing scream than a cry, is if he took something away from her. If he had succeed in getting anything away, she would have headbutted him as if she starred in the WWE."

Nice. Nice. You love to laugh (and scream). You and Finny have a screaming game that happens most often in the car (One screams. The other laughs. The other screams louder. The former laughs. Repeat endlessly until mom and Seamus's heads explode). You also stripped down nearly naked on the beach in Isle of Palms. A group even stopped to ask Dad where we were from - because obviously we must be from someplace VERY cold - if we let our children run half naked on the beach in November. You loved the beach. You also love aunt Katie. For someone who plays pretty hard to get most of the time, you often throw yourself at Katie. Yelling her name, jumping off the sofa to get to her, after all this love, she is now your number one fan.


Finn,

You are sweetness and light. I can't believe I'm saying that - because you were really our brooder for the last year - but now you are all about affection and whispering sweet nothings. I wake up almost every morning with your warm little body snuggled up next to me, and the first words out of your mouth are almost always I love you. This is the way everyone should wake up. Now, you are not quite as nice to dad. In the mornings, you are mine. For the rest of the day, you worship your father. If dad doesn't hug you at least ten times before he heads to work, you swear he never said goodbye. We have had to call dad at work so you can scold him about this. You still love your animals - you pull them together from all over the house - different sizes and collections - you have your own ever changing menagerie. The thing that amazes me most about you, is how content you are to play on your own. Your imagination requires very little to keep you occupied. On the days when Seamus goes to school, the house becomes so quiet. You and MJ will play uninterrupted for an hour with toys on the floor of the office. I love listening to your voice, your little songs. MJ loves playing near you and for the most part you let her have her way. When you wake up from your nap (as you just did) you often need a few minutes of extra hugs and love to help you ease back into play. I think this is a little gift from God especially to me.

















Mr. Seamus,
You are the biggest of boys right now, and you are relishing your role as big cousin to Connor and ruler of the Dougherty children. No one loves "Daddy Adventures" as much as you and you talk about them all week long. This weekend dad took you and Finn (and aunt Katie) to a Gopher hockey game. You now want to play hockey (without the skate part) and have told me often "how cool my school is." Today we read an entire Encyclopedia Brown book and afterwards you asked if he played hockey. You only nap a few days a week and so now more often than not we have "homework" time in the afternoons. I sit at the computer and you sit at my writing desk working on your laptop or writing in your notebook. Your printing is getting so good - I am terrified of the day you won't need me to read to you anymore. It is one of the joys of my life.

As for the rest of us, well, I'm enjoying school. I would not be enjoying school without the unbelievable support that James has offered me. He's risen to the occasion and simply has become super dad. The kids are thriving with all the attention and he's starting to look like his old self again. As busy as things have been, we all feel pretty at peace with the schedule and arrangement of things. Writing has been good for my mental health and that in turn has helped me stay motivated and organized. We aren't entertaining as much as we used to - and we both miss that - but for now its been smooth and satisfying to try something new, turn a new page (so to speak). I'm taking the GRE next week (Joy. Joy.) and getting my formal application in order. In all I've written about 5 new short stories and few essays so whatever happens in the next few months, at least I'll have a fresh start on some new work. My fiction class had dinner with Ethan Canin last week, and he said that writing was 80% misery. I find that the act is not for the most part misery, but revising truly is. I told James last week, that at one point in my life I thought that if I didn't finish a book I would be disappointed in myself. At 33 years old, I've learned that I've been blessed enough for five lifetimes, and that while writing is a passion for me, it does not define my success or failure in life. I looked at James, his wonderful, warm, familiar face, and I knew for sure that I would never be disappointed with the choices I had made. Canin starts one of my favorite short stories with the line "Let me tell you who I am." And I find that every day of writing helps me to define for myself what that means. In essence each time I sit down to write, I rediscover that I am a woman who is blessed by faith, friendship and family, and in the end nothing else really matters.

Isle of Palms

We just came back from a great few days in Charleston, SC. We got together with Grandma Barbara, Katie, Andie and Connor, Marion and Liz, and Pat. A good time was had by all - but nobody had more fun than the cousins. We're hoping the official photographer of the St Paul Doughertys (Aunt Katie) will provide halloween pics soon, so stay tuned!



Thanks to Marion for supplying these great pics - we love you, Marion and Liz!

For Grandpa Tom on his Birthday

I wrote the drafts of these prose poems earlier this year.
Tom, you've been on my mind as much as in my heart. We miss you everyday.

Ghosts & Superheros
I wonder what to say to you on those days when I can see your sadness. The quiet play beside the sofa, the ranting fights with your brother over nothing - something you cannot see. I think about the crying room, holding you against my chest during the first funeral, recoiling at the incense and feeling the weight of your breath.

We retreated to the church playground, climbing, swinging, hiding. I remember your hands on my belly, your mouth pressed up against my sweater, your baby talk to the unborn sister inside me. The black skirt and sweater, the black nylons, my own skin. Everything is tight – I feel so much pressure. You want to know about the baby but I suppose you just want to know something, anything at all. You feel kicking at your cheek and offer a curious smile, closing your eyes, resting your head against me. I already feel the pain but I have no words to make it clear. I tell you that soon you'll wake up and be the big brother just like Seamus. Everything will be different.

Seamus calls to you; he needs to run it all out. You dart off. Disappearing into the wooden fort, up the ladders, down the silver slide, swinging and swinging. Brothers in motion, racing together in the South Carolina breeze. I feel uneasy watching your legs kick up into the Angel Oak tree. You're giggling again. You move like a ghost.

When we are back after the second funeral, the second unexpected goodbye, you have more words and you repeat and repeat and repeat. “He died. Your daddy died. He's all gone. Daddy's daddy died.” It almost makes us crazy. We are spread too thin – stretched out across the country barely holding at all corners. We feel tightness in our chests - our own hearts make us afraid. I almost hit you after a bedtime shower. “You're making us too sad, you have to stop saying those things.” You don't even look frightened. I feel so empty. I am the drain in the shower, everything just passes through me. You hold my face in your slight hands, they smell like Johnson's baby soap. You say, “Please. You bring him back?” I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. We are soggy; the towels have a musty smell because I do not have time for laundry. We lay down in your bottom bunk, you in your Batman pajamas. I read Shel Silverstein. I think we've been to where the sidewalk ends. My eyes are wet and heavy. You seem so close to sleep. I kiss your tiny mouth, so sorry that I've lost my temper. You open your eyes and whisper: “I'm a superhero. I save him, I save us all.”


Protection
Seamus found the watch you gave to James at Christmas in those beautiful days before you died. The King of Jordan's seal set upon the box like a promise of protection or prosperity. Of the many gifts a father gives a son, this was precious. I found the empty box in the kids' secret room, no watch in sight. I could see how it would go instantly. The choler and defeat sinking into James's chest, the raised voice and futile stomping. He arrived moments later sweaty from running. I kissed him softly on the mouth and held his face, looking at him from that place between a mother and a wife. A hard run, he says, I had to walk some. He saw the box. I asked, was the watch in it? Knowing this could be too much, I winced. Yes, he said, and walked toward his closet with his shoulders heavy on his body. A quiet sigh. No despair, no fury - just the ritual of getting showered after work. The boys were already giggling in the water when he stepped in to rinse off, asking about their day, their school, the sunshine. He inquired about the watch and the empty box and I listened to Seamus say “under your bed.” I found it immediately and James ran his hands over Seamus's head, grateful to be home. No more mention of the purloined watch. I know how precious it is. The boys all emerge bright and shiny, a catastrophe averted.

I often feel you with us. I see you, their grandfather, in the boys' dirty hands, their interest in coins, books and flying machines. I see them how you would see them, how gentle you would be with their grief, how tolerant with their wild fractures of emotion. You didn't have a patient hand during those days when you flew from Russia to Jordan, Denver to New Jersey, offering protection and logistics. I never knew you that way. I knew the man you turned out to be. You'd always said it wasn't sexy to fly in the belly of a plane and eat food in Pakistan from roadside vendors. You were away a lot. Food on the table and such. And I think the travel made you sick. It was your job, the secretest of service. The boys and girl suffered but no more than you. Where were you? They always wanted to know. Where are you still? Here we are with our own boys and girl, and it is your hand I feel now when my heart rustles and flutters when I am lost in my own house. I know that you approved of our choices, you know why we've made them. No more sleeping on planes, living on the other side, serving faraway conglomerates. Now we all stay home protecting what is ours, yours. You are as close as our own hands.

Sorry, I've been busy (and lazy too).

So, I hate to admit it, but it's true: I'm having a hard time getting to everything. School has been great (James is the KING of support), but I recognize that I'm not getting to the blog as much as I should. Kids, be patient, I'm setting an example (I hope its the one that I'm intending). But as busy as school has been, for the most part, we haven't felt too many stresses, in fact it's been fun.







I love playing with the big boys (so to speak) at school, but the kids have been so funny lately. MJ is no longer a baby. The baby phase is gone. She is fiery. She's full of all sorts of opinions and ideas which include manipulation galore (if you say its time for bed, she immediately sits quietly in your lap and cuddles with you).

I'm becoming a sucker. The other night James was sending the boys to bed and I let them have dessert in the kitchen, James said "Boys, is mom and sucker?" And Finn replied: "YES!" Seamus replied: "If sucker means wonderful and fabulous mommy?" Seriously. I am a sucker.

MJ left the dinner table tonight as I was cleaning up, and I panicked when I saw she wasn't at her chair anymore. I found her typing away, just as she's seen me for weeks, happy and proud as could be... but just as I'm reveling in her brilliance, she took off her diaper and put it on her head...God gives me these lessons all the time - don't get to smart, honey, you don't really know what your doing...

You can't handle the truth.

In a wonderful turn of events, we were lucky enough to be at Notre Dame this weekend for an Irish victory AND our nephew, Charlie's, commissioning ceremony. Charlie is a 3rd year law student at ND - and he was commissioned this Saturday as an Navy JAG Ensign.

While the ceremony was devoid of pomp and circumstance (Charlie doesn't even have a uniform yet, there were no no 21 gun salutes, color guard, etc) and lasted less than 15 minutes - it was incredibly moving and impressive. Anne and I felt truly privileged to get to share this with Charlie, his friends, and his parents.

The commissioning oath -

"I, (state your full name), do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."

I've known Charlie for about 10 years - so we'll count that as always. Perhaps knowing the intensity of his conviction and loyalty is what made the oath so moving. I'm proud and happy that Charlie is now officially protecting Doughertys from all enemies (foreign and domestic) - we're feeling pretty safe these days. Thanks, Charlie, and Congratulations! Thanks for including us!

P.S. By the way - for you military novices - Navy JAG is the Judge Advocate Generals group - in a nutshell, the lawyers for the Navy. They were made famous by that blockbuster hit "A Few Good Men". That should give you an accurate picture of the world Charlie has just joined. That's correct - In addition to defending our constitution - Charlie will be playing LOTS of softball. I'm also hopeful that someday he'll be in a courtroom and say, "You're out of order, he's out of order - THIS WHOLE COURT is out of order". But I'm kind of a dreamer.

Seamus, Today is Your Day.

Happy 5th Birthday, Mr. Man. It's early morning, we've got a busy day, but I am thinking and wishing so much for you that I couldn't sleep. When I kissed you last night, I said I'd tell you the story of the day you were born tomorrow, even though I think you already know it by heart. We'll do that this morning, maybe for the last time with you in my lap, you seem to be growing faster than truly possible.

You are gregarious, extroverted. You make friends quickly and you love action. Your school days are hysterical to me because you always have stories about them (the truthfulness of which is unclear). For example you told me yesterday that you are the blue group leader, when I asked you more about it, you said "Jack was the green group leader" and that everyone followed you around. Do they? I'm not sure, but I will, I love your stories. We often say to you "is this the truth or a story?" and now that I'm back in school, I find myself asking the same questions all the time.

You are very interested in politics - mostly because of these large signs in our neighborhood. You tell us all the time that you are voting for Barack Obama (whose name you can spell because of all the signage) because you think his name is cool. You were disappointed that he didn't fly planes and crash while he was a soldier (to a 5 year old, I think its almost impossible to vote against a soldier). In your mind you had morphed your favorite parts of both the candidates (you're not the only one who wishes he/she could do that) into one super candidate.

Your enthusiasm caused me a bit of pain the other day when the FedEx guy came to the front door. He was a younger, black man with a short haircut, you saw him through the glass and yelled, "Mom! Barack Obama's at the door!" I'm not sure how to explain all my mortification. So, clearly there is not enough diversity in your 5 year old life, but nothing seems to frighten you, you take everything and everyone with wonderful exuberance. You were so excited to meet him.

Your dad bought you new cereal bowls and batteries for the old camera for your birthday. One thing that I love about you, is that these gifts will thrill you. You won't expect anything else. When you and dad were talking about needing new bowls last week, dad said to you that they were probably really expensive, so we couldn't get more. You told him, "No, dad, I bet they're only about two dollars. I've got two dollars in my piggie bank." Dad told you that you'd better save all your money, save it and if you didn't spend it, it would grow. He was telling me this the other night and I could hear your grandpa and your great grandpa saying the same things to their sons (which they did over and over again).

Here is what we know, what we believe to be true about how we want to live our lives, these are the things that we absorbed from our parents, our siblings, our experiences:

Save for the future. Treasure what you have. Take care of the things that are important to you.

I am eager to find out what it is you will believe to be true, what beliefs you will use to live your life by. If the last 5 years are any indicator, maybe it will be something like:

Smile. Run. Embrace.

Seamus, as I said, today is going to be a busy day. I hope you feel loved. I hope you have fun. We've learned so much together over these last, fast 5 years, I look forward to everyday because you make every moment shine. Happy Birthday, Buddy.

Happy Birthday Mom/Grandma Barbara!

Thanks Sarah for the great apple orchard suggestion!

Buddies

Seamus and Finn have made two good friend - conveniently - brothers exactly the same ages as the boys. Jack and Will, Seamus and Finn. The symmetry is almost a little too much. There is also another little boy MJ's age, named Charlie and they even play well together (I hate to admit that MJ can play). This is from Monday's play date. The boys are in school together, and they live close by, they'll probably go to grade school together, it's just such a funny thing picturing the relationship that these kids could have.

Whenever Finn see's Will, he says "Hey, Buddy." When I picked them both up from school last week, the teacher told me they had to be separated. She said they both took off their socks during circle time and made puppets...

The thing I think I like best is that Jack and Will are very good to each other, and for the most part, I think Seamus and Finn are very good brothers. I think this little friendship will be a good thing for them as they are learning about independence and non-family relationships.