Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father's Day!  I hope everyone has a nice weekend with their loved ones!  Speaking for myself, I'm so thankful for my father, Brendan, my husband, Mark, and my father-in-law, Tony. 

I've said it before, but I'm one lucky lady! 

Current Events.

Over the course of my life, my father has taught me many, many things, but perhaps the most memorable are those lessons centering 'round the water, sand, and current events.

For instance, the first definitive statement I recall hearing my father say as a child was... 

"Gillian, NEVER turn your back to a wave." 

Between you and me, I remember disobeying once or twice, out of fear, only to shortly find myself entangled in the tide, tumbling on the sea bed, and gasping for air!

You could say I learned the ocean hard way, but to my defense, I didn't make the mistake too many times.  Rather, I caught on quick and clung thereafter to my father's water wisdom.

With that being said, I believe I was capably diving under waves by the tender age of three!

What more can I say?  I've lived near the water my whole life.  In what brief instances I've lived any distance from the ocean, I've innately missed it! 

I love you Colorado, but you're not HOME... to me, at least!

I'm of seafaring people, and I wholeheartedly believe my Piscean spirit MUST be oceanside.

So, it's my hope to now teach my little one to love the water too! 

I failed to mention, my FIRST memory took place on a beach!  In the next entry, I will share additional sea anecdotes and candid shots from Aksel's first ocean experience. 

In the meantime, thanks Dad!

         

Fixing a Hole.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

We have a NEW blog participant!  With the recent premiere of VH1's Dad Camp, my partner, Mark, has decided to put his daddy two cents in.  In writing, this time.

For those of you wondering, he's been lingering quietly in the shadows all the while...

Changing diapers in the dark...

Offering up, occasionally, his clever blog advice.

Things have finally come to a head though, and he wants our fairy tale to be two-sided!  He feels, and I agree, that Aksel  deserves a perspective other than my own.

So, he's fixing a hole.  

I like to think he's filling in the mommy blanks.  _________________?

                                 

After months of prodding him to write our child a letter, he now has baby diarrhea of the mouth!  As he often says, his response is finally organic.

He promises, however, to keep his paternal rants to a minimum. 

(As an aside, he wants me to let you all know that he will NOT be appearing in every entry.  He says the stress would be too great!)

FYI:  Mark is being allotted 100 words per entry, though it may feel like more!  Word for the wise, don't count.

With that having been said, let me introduce him properly.  I'm assigning Mark his very own Daddy font.

From this point on, a papa blurb will begin simply with -- Flaco Says:

I suppose now is as good a time as any.  Here we go...

_________________________________________________________

Flaco Says: 

To start, I'm not a backseat dad.  I don't proclaim to have all the answers, but hopefully you find humor in my satire. 

To any father who is going through the baby thing now, I have sound advice that you may or may not want to listen to.

What?  I didn't grow perfection in my belly. I didn't nurture it with quality ingredients, or a milkshake from Ye Ole Fashioned, but I did drive!

Proudly, I went to every doctor's appointment -- even the early morning, membrane-stripping session the day after our annual employee Christmas party... OUCH!

Back to the blog though, what I want to say most of all is that I approach every parenting situation with love, and heart!

Expect from me, a fatherly perspective that provides balance to my baby's momma.  Bear in mind, I am an eager, naive, NEW father. 

- Flaco out.

___________________________________________________

Just The Two Of Us

(Mark, 1979)

No Babble Buys: Flaco's Picks.

Huggies Little Movers Jean Diapers

Yo Gabba Gabba: Music Is Awesome

A Yellow Box Before the Yellow Bus.

I sat a spell and thought a lot last night about food, and somewhere in between David Archuleta's performance of Imagine on American Idol and Billy the Exterminator's successful capture of a wayward armadillo on A&E,  it became clear...  Yeah, they were all yellow.

FYI:  If you enjoy watching Dog the Bounty Hunter and HGTV, then Billy the Exterminator is right up your alley.  Sporting fingerless gloves and awkward sprigs of side hair, Billy's on a down HOME mission to catch & kill scumBUGS!   http://www.aetv.com/billy-the-exterminator/.

So, like I said, I was thinking about the more meaningful, tangibly distinct food memories from my childhood, and a color commonality showed itself -- Yellow.
 

Without further story delay, I begin... 

A Yellow Introduction.

My father has his own way of saying things.  Words, in particular.  For instance, my father doesn't say IDEA \ī-ˈdēə\ like most people.  Instead, he says, IDEER \ī-ˈdir\.  Like the animal, I-DEER.

Another classic mix-up in the MUL-LANGUAGE (that's short for Language of the Mulligan's), is the simple word, hello \hə-ˈlō\.  If, for example, you were introduced to my father for the first time, he wouldn't shake your hand and politely say HELLO, he would say, YELLOW \yə-ˈlō\. 

My siblings and I have had a hearty laugh, at my father's expense, on more than one occasion.

(1) A Yellow Box Before the Yellow Bus.

There were mornings my father would wake me for school.  Not every morning.  Some, however.  And I must say, I don't remember a single word exchanged, or even one fight to rise-n-start the day. 

I only remember Cheerios, night skies intact, and my father, quiet, at the table. 

Together, at such table, we would sit with our yellow box at hand.  He would pour his bowl, and I would pour mine. 

A sprinkle of sugar, and a bowlful of Cheerios. The original Cheerioats, before Banana Nut, Berry Burst, and MultiGrain.

Nearly sleeping, and always slurping, I would often shake & shiver.  Determined, I would eat though.  For I couldn't miss the blaring honk of the yellow bus, waiting.

(2) The Hotcake Inquisition.

There's no need for build-up as far as this anecdote goes. 

In the Mulligan household, en lieu of chocolate chips, or the more traditional blueberry, my father made pancakes with yellow, sweet corn.

Actually, I was nearly twenty when I realized people didn't eat corn pancakes on Saturdays.  Fact of the matter, WE only ate corn pancakes on Saturdays!

When the Mulligan pancake myth was debunked a couple years back, I asked my father, Why corn?

Not that I didn't LOVE corn or anything.  I was just confused?! 

FYI:  Sweet corn pancakes are delicious!

In response to my hotcake inquisition, he responded simply, "Gillian, my dad made corn pancakes for me when I was a kid.  Before that, his mother made corn pancakes too."

Dad:  I plan on keeping this tradition alive.  I love it!  I love you!

___________________________________________________

A Rain Dance in Yellow.

Yellow Pants and a Yellow Dog.

(My first successful ride!)

All Things Yellow:  Gillian's Favorites!

 

Pete the Cat: I Love My White Shoes

  

 The Complete Adventures of Curious George, Anniversary Edition

 

Madeline

Come Rain, Hell, or a High Fever.

This entry may touch on a sensitive, provocative topic, but it's something I can't ignore.  I know everyone has their own code of beliefs.  Call it what you'd like... religion... spirituality... ethics... God?  There are probably a hundred different, unique ways of wording it!?  That having been said, I look to explain my personal experience, not to offend anyone who might read this.

Since little man arrived, I've been casting my thoughts out to something higher, something greater than myself.  I suppose you might say I've been praying.  This is new to me.  I know, you're probably groaning at this admission, but it's true.  I haven't prayed, and didn't pray, until just recently.  I'm being honest.  I admit it!  Let me try to better explain myself...

Let's see, where do I begin?  I grew up going to church.  I was baptized a Catholic.  I sang in the choir.  In fact, I may well have been the congregation's youngest member at the age of five.  Continuing, I skipped down the aisle at First Communion, begrudgingly went to reconciliation, and took the name "Maria" upon receiving the sacrament of Confirmation.  My Father actually taught Sunday school, or "religious education" as he liked to say.  I have, or had rather, a relationship with Christianity since my earliest days. 

In the last ten years or so, I've been something of a non-believer.  In my opinion, the stories the priests told and the homilies they presented were boring, usually irrelevant, and seemingly, a waste of precious time.  I found amusement only in the songs I tried to sing, loudly with grace. 

I suppose I also resented "going to church."  Come rain, hell, or a high fever, I had to go to church.  I couldn't spend the night off at a girlfriend's house and politely excuse myself from attending.  I was required, as an active member of the Mulligan family, to selflessly devote just one hour, which sometimes meant two, to the greater good at St. Mary's.  I don't think I was too terribly different from any other child, but I certainly let out a sigh of relief when I followed the exiting procession quickly to our car. 

In writing this statement now, I'm not actually saying I adhere to any one distinct body of theological opinion, but the pure idea of believing in something more profound feels good.  With so many uncertainties about life and parenthood, for that matter, it's just about all I want besides love.  I used to wonder why my Father clung so tightly to his religion after my Mother left.  I grew tired of hearing the "God gives this" or "I pray because" spiel, but it makes total sense now. 

I think I just had one of those "a-ha" moments, when what your parents said or quietly did so long ago, finally takes stock.  I'm thankful, in moments of confusion, joy, and mild despair, my Father taught me where to go and who to talk to.  I guess what I'm learning, is that we all call him, or her, by a different name.