Newsworthy Rats

So Papa and I decided a few months ago to begin a subscription to The Wall Street Journal. We've done so in the past, but stopped them due to major, major delivery problems (like the paper not coming three days out of six) and budget issues. We love the paper; we just like getting it when it's not too much of a budget crunch or when we, you know, actually get it. We'll determine in the next few weeks if the current delivery practice of our unknown paper carrier continues (he or she lies to drive onto our front lawn to leave the paper on our porch. And in Minnesota midwinter, the tire tracks on the front lawn are a little, um, obvious and presumptuous. In other words, WHO DOES THAT?! We've tried to report him or her, but still the tracks remain. So it goes in rural America, at least here, with us, with this newspaper saga).

Now that this post has included so many parentheticals that you're wondering what the point it, it's this. One of the reasons we love getting a physical newspaper is because we can share it with the kids. Yes, they're young, and most of them can't read. But they like looking at the pictures and discussing them, and it's far more enjoyable to hold a paper newspaper than to read it online (or at least Papa and I think). So last week, when I read this article about rat-throwing at a local festival in Spain, I knew we had a winner. The boys loved the article, Little Professor so much so that he proceeded to read it out loud several times several days later. There's innocent glee when a five-year-old snickers as he reads, "Despite animal-rights activists' objections to the practice, locals last year once again threw caution to the wind—along with rodents." If this encourages my children to read and learn about the world, then I just might be able to tolerate the tire-tracks on the lawn--for a little while, at least.

Deep Freeze

Who knew Minnesota deep freeze winters could be so lovely? From the warm indoors, at least.

Small Dude at Three Months

Our Small Dude has already reached three months of age. Truly, the time is whizzing by so quickly, I'm afraid the years are going to pass before I've realized it. Since the beginning of 2013, this year has sure been...what? It's a new year?! Sheesh.

Small Dude still does plenty of sleeping, eating, and all the requisite things that go along with digestion, but he's also starting to really watch us, hold his head up, and generally insist on seeing what's going on. Here he is from a few months ago:

Because dreaming of a Packer win is always a good dream. Hey, it's a new year!

Now you can see how alert he's getting, despite our horrific cold stretch (you know when you can count on one hand in the last thirty the number of days that have gone above zero degrees Fahrenheit, it's been a long cold stretch, even for Minnesota), his perennial hat-wearing, and his imprisonment in various small-child seats. And what a little sweetheart he can be! Even when he insists on sleeping during daylight and cooing wide-awake at 3 a.m. 

Mesmerized by the mobile...

Okay, Ma, just pick me up already!

Unwrapping all those gifts really takes it out of ya.

Able to snag a smile, if a blurry one!

Ahh... sleeping.

Far as the curse is found

Every year on Christmas Eve night, our church's Sunday School presents a pageant. The pageant includes lessons and carols, with some shepherds' robes, microphone feedback, candlelight, and the usual-yet-unexpected poignancy whenever children are involved in public confessions of faith. This year, the Sunday School teachers did an exceptional job preparing our youngsters to read and sing of Christ's coming. And despite a last-minute rash of kids getting the flu and a snowy, blowy Eve, Our Saviour's Sunday School did a wonderful job. Here they are right before the service.

Our small group is blessed to include Ali, a lovely, energetic girl who is developmentally disabled. She cannot walk without help and she cannot speak with words that we understand. But she smiles often, participates vigorously, and shows us how God makes beauty out of brokenness.

Ali's mother is one of our Sunday School teachers, and one of the ways Ali participated in the pageant was to light candles during one of the readings. Her mother helped her walk up to the Advent wreath. Then, she carefully wrapped Ali's fingers around the acolyte's brass lighter and lifted the flickering end bravely toward the candles. It took some doing, for it was difficult for Ali and her mother to get the lighter wick lined up just so against each candle wick. But as we watched Ali's rapt face glow in the soft light she lit and listened to the Old Testament prophecies and New Testament narratives of Christ's coming, we saw exactly why Christ came: to give light to darkness and to give hope to the weak. Later, while Pastor read of joyful noises and praise for God's good gifts, Ali lifted her voice to share her excitement. Her timing was perfect. She literally made a joyful noise as we heard about all of creation rejoicing in God's greatest gift.

One of my favorite Christmastime readings is Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. In the story, Bob Cratchit tells his wife about taking their son, the saintly Tiny Tim, to church. "He told me, coming home," Bob says, "that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see." 

Parents of disabled children, including Ali's mom and dad, will tell you that their children are not perfect. They know, just as parents of able-bodied children know, that despite glimpses of sweet innocence and selflessness, children act in savage, selfish, sinful ways, ways that belie their angelic appearances. That's one reason why Lutherans baptize babies--we know our months-, days-, or even hours-old children have been infected with the sin of Adam. Their behavior shows this, but their bodies show it, too. Children scrape knees, break limbs, get infections, battle cancer. Some of the scars heal, but none of them disappear forever. And even the most saintly kid can't fix himself. Tiny Tim recognized this. Even at young ages, we see our children marked for death.

Papa and I witnessed this firsthand in our own home this week. Superman developed a low-grade fever a few days after Christmas. I kept him home, snuggled him, gave him lots of 7-Up and regular doses of bubble-gum Tylenol. But he still felt badly, and his body suddenly reacted to its illness by triggering a seizure. We took him to the Emergency Room within ten minutes of his seizure, and he revived, especially when the nurses prepared his hand for an IV. (Oh, the great patience of pediatric nurses!) He spent the night at Sanford Children's in Sioux Falls, at what we call the Castle (it looks like the Cinderella castle at Disney World). And we were relieved when his temperature disappeared after a night and the doctors concluded that Superman is one of about five percent of kids who experience febrile seizures, or seizures causes by a fever. He might have another one, but he might not. It's most likely that he will grow out of them. And we are very thankful that he is well now, asking for candy at every meal, and asking us, "Do you remember when I got to spend the night at the children's doctor?" Yes, Superman. We remember. And we always will.

In a feeling-apple-eatin'-good moment.

Few things are as terrifying to parents, I think, than when their children become physically unresponsive. Right after his seizure, Papa scooped up Superman and held him like a baby. Our son was helpless, and so were we. All we could physically do was to rock him and place him in the care of people who know how little bodies work and what they need. The experience with Superman was a mighty, visceral shock to remember that our son is not ours, that we did not make him, and that we cannot keep him well, or even keep him at all. His days on this earth are numbered. And this knowledge can cripple us with fear and anger.

Too often, I think the world manipulates the weakest among us. Many are manipulated because they are small or voiceless. Many are exploited as powerful political or religious examples that we thoughtlessly or knowingly parade in a voyeuristic show of pity to achieve other ends--our own selfish ends. But Christ came as a weak Babe precisely to show us that He loves each little one unto death. Because that's where Ali and Sam and every child, from the red-faced newborn to strongest Olympian to the frailest centenarian, is headed. And the Child gifted with myrrh, the embalming spice and funeral incense, reached for Death and struck it away, for us, forever.

On Christmas Day, we sing joy. We sing, "Joy to the world, the Lord is come." But even more, we sing healing. "He comes to make His blessings flow/ far as the curse is found." In the Christmas season, and for the rest of this year and every year, we need joy. But we also need to know that His blessings flow even into the very crevices of our sinful lives, into every dark and putrid corner, into every broken heart and annihilated hope that we suffer due to our terrible physical and emotional and spiritual frailty and that of those we love. We need to know that He, the mightiest and the greatest, made Himself the smallest and weakest and most nothing of men to save us, the ones who so desperately need Him. As this Christmas season closes, I pray you know and remember that He comes to defeat every curse that haunts and plagues you. He comes as the lowliest to lift you lowly ones up, to hold you like babies, to heal your brokenness. And he comes still to make His blessings flow.

Our Snowy Fun

Early Thursday morning, this is what I saw outside our front door.

And this gave me a blog-relief moment. Why? Because I've been sitting on pictures of the kids in the snow from, well, when it was still officially winter. And now I feel sanctioned to share them. "But--but--but snowfall in April?" you sputter. How about ice and sleet, heavy-dump white clod free-falls when tulips should be popping up in our front mulch bed instead? Ah, no matter. For I can give thanks in this circumstance--that snow, for the second/third/fifth time in two weeks, including just a few hours ago, hath extended my negligence from guilt into comfort. Besides, when life hands you snowstorms in April, they say, make hot chocolate. And it's about time for more hot chocolate, I say.

"Can't we go outside now, Mom? PLEEEEEASE?! Okay. CHEEEEEEEESE!"

 

"Here's my snowball. Can I go back and play now?

Can't...stop....eating...snow... 

C, thinking: What are you doing?!

We all looked! Amazing.

After making his sixth snow angel. Note the white stuff in his ear...and the smile!

"I'm cuuuuuld."

Best buds.

No sledding pics but this one. Papa's got the rest filed in his memory.

Superman, who seemed to prefer this kind of snow-pose.

AND...

Yes, she made it outside to play in the snow! Once!

She loved it.

You can't hear her, but she's humming. Yep, a Minnesota girl. 

Broken Bones and Celestial Skydiving

What the last few months of our lives have contained.

Have mercy on me, O God,

according to your steadfast love;

according to your abundant mercy

blot out my transgressions.

² 

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,

    and cleanse me from my sin!

Throughout Lenten services this year, a dear friend and I sang Kenneth Kosche's lovely setting of Psalm 51. The words have rattled about in my brain and in my heart; they have settled in my bones and in my stomach and even in my womb. Miracle of miracles, God's Word worked the way He says it will. It does what it says.

 

For I know my transgressions,

and my sin is ever before me.

Against you, you only, have I sinned

    and done what is evil in your sight,

so that you may be justified in your words

    and blameless in your judgment.

⁵ 

Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity,

    and in sin did my mother conceive me.

⁶ 

Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being,

    and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.

During one of the last pre-Lenten weeks, I suspected that we were pregnant. Ecstatic and apprehensive, I took the test, mostly because Papa told me I should (I think my unknowing, near-constant speculation might have motivated, however slightly, his insistence er, encouragement). Filling the dishwasher as I waited on the results, my hope for a child suddenly vanished, literally struck with worry--worry about costs, worry about the baby's health, worry about our family's adjustment, worry about my varicose veins in pregnancy. Yes, even that. And I felt terribly guilty. I was, too. Here my sinful heart had already rejected even the possibility of a good gift because it turned selfishly, twistedly inward. In my terrible blindness, I could not even accept a gift without suspicion or grudging.

And then the test was positive. As I fought my conflicted feelings, Papa's face lit up and the boys squealed with excitement, especially our eldest, the Little Professor. When we told him the pregnancy test was positive, we asked him if he knew what that meant. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "It means Mommy can go skydiving."

After we laughed in surprise and perplexity, he explained that Mrs. Duggar had been pregnant, and she had gone skydiving, so naturally one was connected to the other. Actually, in that old episode of 19 Kids and Counting he'd just happened to watch a few days before, she hadn't gone skydiving because she suspected she might be pregnant. But no matter. Little Professor was more right than he knew.

 

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;

wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

Let me hear joy and gladness;

    let the bones that you have broken rejoice.

A week or so later, on Sunday, February 10, during a snowy storm day, Papa and the snow blower belt tussled, and the belt won. Papa had to have emergency surgery on two broken, mangled fingers of his left hand that night, which went well. The anesthesia won that round, too. But thankfully, we expect him to make a full (if somewhat ugly and scarred for a time) recovery.

I teased Papa after surgery that he'd have a great topic for an Ash Wednesday sermon: that we all return to dust, sometimes one little piece at a time. He smiled (what a nice guy to take my pathetic humor at such a time).  But then said, "No, I think it'll be about pride."

And, of course, he was right. We all fear our physical death, our bodily decomposition as every hour and year passes. But we also fear our spiritual death--that we mean nothing, that we will disappear into a dark, endless, terrible void when our earthly lives are over. Dust is bad in all forms, from mangled fingers to decomposed flesh to meaningless lives. Snow can appear so clean--that day, I had marveled at its cleansing power on a dead, wintry landscape. But snow only magnified spilt blood. It highlighted brokenness. Papa needed far more than snow to cover his injury. And so we need far more than a surface covering to heal our spiritual death.

As we stumbled, narcotics-laden, pain-filled, nausea-and-fatigue burdened, in the first weeks of Lent, the Psalmist's words kept coming back to me. "Let the bones that You have broken rejoice." Who would? Well, we did. We were so thankful for the excellent medical care Papa received, for the surgeon's knowledge and skill, for all the friends and relatives who supported and cared for us. In our weakness we were reminded of our complete helplessness. Christ sent people to care for us physically and emotionally. He blessed the prayers of those who prayed for us. Yet only One could bear our spiritual helplessness. It was a difficult experience for me to see my husband suffer. I know he will not live on this earth forever, and neither will I. Neither will our children. We cannot prevent their suffering or ours. But even so, joy and gladness exist. We hear it and anticipate it. And this is a mystery.

 

Hide your face from my sins,

and blot out all my iniquities.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

    and renew a right spirit within me.

¹¹ 

Cast me not away from your presence,

    and take not your Holy Spirit from me.

¹² 

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

    and uphold me with a willing spirit.

Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
    and sinners will return to you.

Through Lent, our circumstances kept reminding us of our true state. I could not force away the debilitating fog of early pregnancy, its physical or spiritual manifestations. My condition was light compared to many others--including Papa's!--but often I could only think of my own burdens. At one point, I naively thought, "Okay. If Jesus could fast in the desert for forty days and endure direct temptation from the devil, then I can handle another day of this." But I couldn't. I realized, again and again, my complete and utter helplessness and my utter worthlessness in the sight of God.

Thank God in His Son, Christ Jesus, Who suffered physical pain and spiritual torture for our sakes, and Who knows exactly what our sufferings are like. While we can feel chagrined or silly or downright dumb for mistakes or choices we make, feel guilty and damned for rejecting good gifts and even hating them, our fatal flaws that no doctor or midwife can ever fix plague us still more. Despair and guilt bury us, for we know we are ill with an illness that ends in the grave. But we do not suffer without any hope. For we can rest in the knowledge that Christ heals all things--from fingers to selfishness to pride to sinners--through His suffering, death, and resurrection.

Why do people skydive? For exhilaration, for excitement, I suppose. But people who do it implicitly communicate trust--trust that they will be safe, that the parachute or diver to which they're affixed will keep them from harm. And Christ, in rising from the dead, has affixed us not to a descending fate but to an ascending one. We will all suffer in this life and die, unless He first comes again. But we trust that He will uphold us, that He will not cast us away. He who has made Himself our Brother and His Father our Father names us in baptism and cleanses us. He has already won all things--for Papa (and even unto his fingers), for me, for every one of our children, even the littlest. And even as we live in uncertain, unknown worldly days, in his scarred, resurrected hands we leap, and we rest. Happy Easter.

Spring, Incoming

Sunshine and blue skies with snow portend of brighter days ahead.

It's sleeting and snowing here today, which isn't the greatest mood-lifter. But as our Little Professor pointed out today, spring officially begins in just a few weeks! Let's just say we're counting down the days. Yes, we know that the snow will last here for probably at least another month. But it's waning snow, heavy snow, and flowers can still come up through the wet, last vestiges of winter. And that's great news.

Neither Hot Nor Cold

There's no such thing as lukewarmness in regards to faith in Christ as our Saviour (at least, not if you want to avoid some serious spitting.) I'm pretty sure distasteful lukewarmness also refers to refrigerators, which are beyond worthless when they're neither hot nor cold. We've been experiencing the wide variety between the two this week, as our thirteen-year-old fridge sputtered, lived a little longer (thanks to Papa), and finally went kaput in the last week. Now the empty, dead monolith sits ridiculously impotent in the middle of our kitchen while we wait for a new-to-us one to be delivered tomorrow. All I can say is that Minnesota winters in January will never qualify as lukewarm--and thank goodness for it.

Don't worry, guys--God has marked you as BLESSED.

Quiet Thursday Happenings

So as C sleeps this early afternoon on this frigid, frigid Thursday (looks like winter's finally arrived in Minnesota!), I took a picture of her. Because who can resist this?

"And the Packers score their seventh touchdown!" Yes, Honey, only in your dreams.

Then P saw me taking a picture of her, and he said, "Take a picture of ME, Mommy!" So I took several because he had to practice not moving and actually looking at the camera.

 

Notice the sparkly white teeth here! P visited the dentist this morning with Papa, who also got his teeth cleaned. No cavities for the Olson's! Even more impressively, P sat and had his teeth cleaned without Mommy or Daddy sitting next to him, and when he was finished before Papa, upon being asked by the lovely dentist office staff if he wanted to watch a movie, he said, "No, thank you. I'll just play with the blocks." Sigh. Awesome kid moment.

Then,as if he hadn't already made his parents really, really proud, he floored us in what we call Letter Lessons (you can read about the beginning of this process here).  We started double consonants at the ends of words last week, so I wrote a few words on the whiteboard as part of his review. The first one was "mess." I didn't 1) remind him to look at the letters from left to right, 2) prompt him to sound out each letter one at a time, or 3) repeat the sounds of those letters to help him blend them all together, and P read the word all by himself! "Mmm--eeeehhh--sssss. Mess. MESS!" It was MIND-BLOWING! He can recognize letters and identify them and figure out what they say together. He can make meaning by himself! Suffice it to say this was one of those moments that make me want to home-school FOREVER!

Anyway, then P read a number of other words--today we started "ck" at the end of words--one of them being "rock." And as soon as he read it, he looked at me and said, "Like Little Rock, Arkansas?" Great-Grandma Elsea, who was born there, would be very proud.

And not to be unfair here, I thought I should take a picture of S, too. Here he was as I found him.

I love our little guy! He's talking like crazy and running and getting into things (like dumping two 100-piece puzzles all over the kitchen floor this morning) and telling me lots of things like, "Nice to meet you, Mommy." "What's that?"--that one constantly, sounding like a foghorn "Wat's DAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?"-- "No cry, Clara. Pacifier, Mommy"--even when Clara is sleeping or not crying. I like to think he's just very protective and comforting to his baby sister. And at times in the afternoon like this, I am really glad that, like when S plays, he plays hard, when our big little S sleeps, he sleeps hard. I did move the blanket to get this shot of his face.

Life. Is. Good.

Now I've got to go switch out my Christmas dishes from the hutch, just in time for another holiday coming soon! See future posts for details.

Secondhand News, Part I

A few blurbs here from the Outer Banks of the Midwest (and Postpartum Life, mostly including learning how to live with three children under four. Without freaking out too much about the horrendously dirty kitchen floor.), where real news tends to come like the reverbs from the cotton string on the tin-can telephone--that is, not usually directly. So here's our contributions:

1. It finally snowed here last night -- about half an inch, perhaps. Enough to make it look wintry. I can't believe I'm saying this, but huzzah for white wintry fuzz that covers up the brown deadness!
2. I was pleasantly surprised to learn last week that some awfully awesome dames at this great blog
had selected my submission on Advent and Barrenness as the winner of their contest. So I get a copy of the book! It's a delightful Christmas present. ... 
3. ... and I was even more excited by the news that my awesome sister-in-law (Papa's sister) had also submitted and won a posting slot! Yay, Mrs. J.L.! Beautiful words by a beautiful lady.
4. And the excitement just keeps on coming! My brother and sister-in-law officially announced (that is, alerted cyberspace) that they're expecting their first child! We are SO excited for them! I should probably have posted this first or last, to at least emphasize the incredible awesomeness of this news... but I think Mr. Fartlepants will understand. I get to be an auntie! WAA-HOO! :)
5. The new year arrived, creeping in at midnight last night. Welcome, 2012! Here's to auld acquaintances and beginnings and all that newbie jazz!

Next year this will be YOU, Mr. Fartlepants! I mean, if you have a lot of hair. And teeth.

Dancing Shoes and The Nutcracker

About a month ago, while I was going through basement boxes, I found my pointe shoes. Pointe shoes, for the uninitiated, are the fabric, leather, and glue-constructed, box-toed shoes that older ballet dancers wear that enable them to dance, literally, on the tops of their toes. I took a picture for posterity's sake.

I'd kept these old, worn shoes, I suppose, as sort of relics of a cherished time. I'd left sticky notes on the undersides of a few:


"First Pair--
9 years old
June Conn School of Dance"

"1996 Nutcracker
Baker School
Martzipan & Flower
(Later, Mom chalaced [sic] these & another pair 3 times! They shrunk!)"

I kept only one of my first pair, and I obviously was proud of the fact that by the time I performed in my last Nutcracker, I had to rotate pairs to get the best wear out of them, and even then my mom added a clear shellac to the shank to preserve their life. (All pointe shoes wear out after extensive use, and shellacking them can keep the shanks--the part that extends across the bottom of the foot--and the box--the flat part that dancers stand upon when in full relevé--from weakening more quickly. Evidently the shellac also ended up shrinking the fabric on my shoes, too.)

So with my shoes in mind, and in this the season of The Nutcracker, I'm indulging in a little walk down memory lane as I remember with fondness my years in ballet and the many productions in which I participated. A little history: when my family lived in southeastern Kentucky in the late 1980s, my sister and I, then first or second graders, began taking ballet lessons from dancers with the Lexington Ballet who would drive to our rural area once a week. We'd meet in an upstairs room above the fire station. I can still remember sitting in a circle with a bunch of little girls, my feet palm to palm, so to speak, gently flapping my knees, trying to be flexible enough to get them to touch the floor. The teacher would ask us what stickers we imagined we had on our heels. I dimly remember talking about butterflies and rainbows and fairies on mine. The incongruity of our setting belied the fine instruction we received; in retrospect, my parents and I were prepared only for classical, extremely high-quality ballet instruction after that.

We went to a production of Cinderella in Lexington at some point, and I will never forget how entranced I was--the music, the costumes, the loveliness. I wanted to be a dancer after that. Angelina Ballerina was a favorite (new back then!) book, as was one I found a few years later at our local library called A Very Young Dancer. That book, more than anything, made me want to visit New York, see Balanchine's production, and participate myself in The Nutcracker (but probably not at the New York City Ballet). Interestingly, this recent article on A Very Young Dancer includes this tidbit: “As a girl from Kentucky,” Ms. Whelan said, “this book literally opened the door to my fascination with New York City, ballet and Balanchine." That's how I reacted, too.

We moved several times, and I was blessed to take lessons for about seven years, including at the now-closed Lancaster Ballet and a short stint at BalletMet in Columbus, Ohio. I participated in countless Nutcrackers, in nearly every divertissement in the second act. My favorite was dancing as a Flower in The Waltz of the Flowers.  By the time I finished junior high school, though, I realized that I didn't want to be a professional dancer, and other interests--singing, mostly--were crowding out my time. I had to stop abruptly when I was fifteen due to continuing knee problems, and at the time, though I'd already decided I'd want to stop eventually, the rift between my pre-ballet life and my post-ballet life was stark. In some ways I had to figure out what made me unique outside of that ballet descriptor. (As a side note, Stephanie's experience after A Very Young Dancer was sad but common, I think. So many dancers don't "make it." I'm thankful  that my memories are good.)

 It truly seems like another life to me when I think about it now. At my peak participation, I attended three three-hour classes a week, from six until nine o'clock at night. (My wonderful parents were, needless to say, extremely supportive.) The slightly pungent air of big, open studios; the piano accompaniment keeping time and moving us; the feel of the wood or steel barre under fingers; the laughter of camaraderie between aching dancers; the tiny, quiet, authoritative ballet mistresses showing us movements that we learned instantly--tiny moments, snapshots in my mind, are what I remember now. I learned countless lessons from my time as a young dancer--an appreciation for beautiful music, for performance, for precision, for the effort seeming effortlessness requires. For smiling through pain. For how transformative and--I don't like this word, but it fits here--empowering dancing can be for children, even awkward teenagers (boys and girls). If my children ever express an interest in dance, particularly ballet, I hope we can provide that experience for them.

Lots of sweat, pain, and joy in these shoes.

So back to The Nutcracker. Over our first Thanksgiving of our married life, Papa and I--who were living in Connecticut at the time--went to New York City for the weekend. We saw the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, walked the streets of downtown (but decided against the three hour wait to get to the top of the Empire State Building), did some shopping, ate a 9 p.m. Thanksgiving feast at the Waldorf-Astoria (because we figured this would never happen again), and generally had a great time. Papa, in all of his kindness, agreed that the one show we would see was George Balanchine's The Nutcracker performed by the New York City Ballet at Lincoln Center. What a great guy. This had been a dream of mine, obviously, since childhood. And it was magic. Though I have no pictures of that visit, I have the 50th anniversary commemorative book of Balanchine's production (which was the season we saw it). And when I pulled it out the other day, I couldn't stop smiling. I hope you all can see a local production sometime, particularly if it's a traditional staging. So happy, happy visions of sugarplums!