Tag Archives: children

Some Disappointment


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Jack is now headed to high school come September having graduated from middle school.

The last two weeks have been exciting if not challenging with all the kids’ activities.

In addition to an 8th grade party and his 14th birthday, my youngest son Jack has graduated 8th grade and is heading off to high school come September.  Not only did he receive recognition for perfect attendance, he also made honor roll.

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Jack receiving recognition for perfect attendance.

In addition, my Little Cake Boss Diva has had rehearsals – lots of them – culminating in recitals… Twelve performances in total Friday, Saturday and Father’s Day Sunday.  During the past ten days or so, I must have made at least 25 round trips taking both her and food to and from dance rehearsals and performances.  Believe me, I have enough for TWO “She’s Killing Me” stories but you won’t be bored with them now; I shall refrain.

Insofar as these rehearsals and recitals go, she needs to be dropped off in full makeup and costume an hour before the start of every event.  But as I dropped her off on Saturday and watched her get to the entrance, it was clear that she was no longer my little girl.

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She is pretty much a teenager – a bit too early.

Still scatterbrained, though…Her brain has ceased to function now that school is over except she still wouldn’t let me take her picture.

Well, maybe just this one, taken with my cell phone past 10pm and after tonight’s recital.  It was taken in the light flowing out from the main lobby of the performing arts center.

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Very pixelated and grainy but it’s just for the memories.

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The annual recital was called “Arabian Nights”.

But my girl and boy are not the focus of this post… “Some disappointment” is my focus.

While my Little Cake Boss Diva performed five routines flawlessly Friday night (opening number, lyrical, tap, jazz, ballet), it’s about what the dance school decided to name the recital: Arabian Nights.  That is the source of the disappointment for me.  Of course, I have no say-so in the matter.

Perhaps it’s just the patriotism in me that’s clouding my vision – but it’s there plain as day.  Arabian Nights.  No, I am not racist but I do feel we are at war.  It is abundantly clear our young boys are dying each day in a godforsaken region in which Arabian Nights is based upon yet this implies something else to me.

Let us view it differently.  If a dance school in 1942 were to name their recital “Celebration of Nazi Folklore” or “A Tokyo Love Story”, would there be some boycotting or outrage?  I would think so.  Remember there were death camps and executions of prisoners of war.  Besides, it just wouldn’t make sense.  We were at war… and we are now.

Their opening number was called “Arabian Jewels”.  Other performances were entitled “40 Thieves” and “Walk Like an Egyptian” (talk about stereotyping).

How about a theme like “The Andrew Sisters” with tap dancing to songs like “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”?  Or how about celebrating the much needed morale boosting supplied by the Hollywood Canteen?  Think of all the marvelous smiles these stars like Rita Hayworth, Bette Davis, Ray Bolger and Ginger Rogers provided our service men and women with their dance at the Hollywood Canteen.  Wouldn’t that would be something that these girls could dance to?

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Shirley Temple providing much needed smiles at the Hollywood Canteen.

Has the foundation upon which our country is based crumbled that far?  At least we recited the Pledge of Allegiance at Jack’s graduation.

Anyways, I was just expressing some disappointment.  I’m sure to many, this may be seen as cultural awareness.  I do loathe sharia law which is intertwined in Arabian Nights. It is totally contra to our Constitution.

I guess the answer lies within which side of the fence you are on.

She’s Killing Me #9


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About five years ago… when she was just my little girl.

She’s killing me, I tell ya.

My Little Cake Boss Diva.

If I were a cat, I am on my ninth life.

Well, maybe my tenth.

Unfortunately, I am a dog.  A dog that loves to sit on a human’s legs.  But unfortunately, dogs don’t have nine lives, you know.

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Her mind is on summer vacation; school is out this week.  It is a signal to her brain to cease functioning.  Well, not completely.  She can still text like crazy.

While her brain is normally stock full of smarts, it is now replaced with shades of nail polish, texts, BFFs, the mall(s), dance… and scatter-itis.

Scatter-itis, like scatter-brained in layman’s terms.

And she did not get that from me – but since it is me who is writing this, I can say that.

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2009

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My Little Cake Boss Diva was with her mother last week and as in every school year before, she has to turn in her textbooks.

Simple…unless your brain has stopped functioning.

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So my last visit to the gallows started at her orthodontist on Friday morning, June 12th.  Not that her mother told me she was taking her.

I will let my Little Cake Boss Diva’s texts speak for themselves:

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And when she says “in my room”, she is referring to my home.
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Car, not cat. I am blaming spell check.

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So I planned to be at home when school got out…  so she could see for herself her textbook wasn’t here LIKE I SAID.  One thing about my Little Cake Boss Diva: once she thinks she’s right, not even a jackhammer the size of Bumblebee can break it up.  (She did not get that from me.)

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Believe me, I bit my tongue when she said she wasn’t dropping by after I purposely came back home… but I’m sure her mother made that decision, also on purpose.  And in case you’re wondering, the “dolphin” is this huge plush toy I got her many years ago.
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“He” is my son Jack. I asked to make sure he had his own room; I have never seen interior pictures of my ex’s home…although my younger brother has.

text 9I slowly bled to death in those seven hours.  I had so many morphine shots administered that addiction is looming.  And perhaps you may be wondering why we didn’t talk on her iPhone that I bought and pay for monthly?

Don’t ask.

Somebody, please help me.

I am running out of lives.

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BUT, the saga of her killing me for the bazillionth time is not over… Not just yet.  She is still with her mom who is supposed to take care of all her dance stuff by virtue of the divorce agreement.  (You know, the same mom who apparently made no real effort to locate her textbook.)

The very next day – June 13th – my Little Cake Boss Diva was thoughtful enough to have arranged for my funeral services.  She even gave the eulogy from her mid-day Saturday dance class via iPhone.  Isn’t technology amazing?

Her eulogy via her iPhone began like this:

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text 99Luckily, I was an un-dead.  I had not been cremated yet so I managed to get into my car and drive to her dance studio by 12:30.  While I was certain her precious sheet of paper was not in my house, I knew she would not be satisfied unless she came to inspect her impeccably un-tidy room herself.  She thinks she’s always right, you know.

So she comes out a few minutes late (as usual), lugging her abundantly odoriferous dance bag and her plastic “dance bucket” filled with 1,000 pairs of her various dance shoes.

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Her bucket with her 1,000 pairs of dance shoes. BTW, there is a bottom to this pit, you know.

As soon as she got in, I expertly maneuvered the car out of the battle zone filled with crazed dance moms driving their battle tanks.  I think my Little Cake Boss Diva expected me to give her a piece of my mind for the textbook fiasco just the day before but I instead calmly asked, “Brooke, are you SURE it’s not at mama’s or in your dance bag?”

“Yessssss-ah! And it’s not at mama’s!” she annoying replies in her valley girl phonetics.

I look at her bucket and see a small corner of a piece of paper through the jumbled mess of 1,000 pairs of shoes.  “Brooke, did you look in your bucket?  The bucket you carry to dance class five days a week?”

“Yessssssssss-ah!” she instantly says while gesturing with her hands, palms up, fingers spread out… then looks down at the bucket, pushes around a couple of shoes, and pulls out the paper she was looking for…  You know, the vital paper she said was not at her mother’s house but at my house…in the bucket she sticks her manicured fingers into many times a week.

“Oooops…  Hee-hee-hee…” grinning then saying, “Sorry.”  No sorrrrry-ah, though.

I turn the car around and drop her off without saying a word.  My body is late for the cremation, you know.

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If you are unable to tell, my Little Cake Boss Diva is in the orange shirt.

The Pain of Survival and Aunt Michie – Part 3


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Japanese women being given “home defense training”. My grandmother on my mother’s side underwent such training on a Tokyo schoolground. 1945.

The Japanese home front had essentially collapsed by 1945.  Instead of focusing on food, supplies, building air raid shelters and organizing orderly evacuations of civilians, Japanese military leadership focused on misleading news reports and propaganda.  Millions fled the cities into safer rural areas(¹) on their own initiative but once there, supplies of daily sustenance was meager.

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In one’s own life, you are tested.  A good human being will at times prove oneself to be a good brother or sister, son or daughter, friend or life partner.  Some fail.  Some pass.

Aunt Michie was one who passed; her heart led her to care for others before herself.  It is as if she knew being good to others was the way to have a good life.

As an example, US air and naval forces ruled the skies and the seas.  A key staple of the Japanese diet – fish – had been nearly cut off  as fishing boats were attacked once out to sea.  Yet, when Aunt Michie came across sashimi, she traveled hours with Masako in tow to take a precious portion to her brother Suetaro at his army base in Fukuoka:

“…(Masako) remembers a couple of trips (to see Suetaro). It was not easy travel in war-torn Japan.  For one trip, Aunt Michie managed to take sashimi – in this time of little food, it was a tremendous treat and gift. On that trip, Masako remembers her mother stealthily sliding over to Uncle Suetaro the wrapped sashimi. He was being stared at by many of his fellow soldiers – they were not well fed either.  She remembers Uncle slowly turning so that the others could not see and quickly devoured the treat.”

(From Masako and Spam Musubi)

Aunt Michie could have eaten the precious sashimi herself…but didn’t.

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With her husband taken by the Imperial Japanese Army then dispatched to war in Manchuria, she was burdened with running the farm… still laboring to produce crops only to be taken by the military.  She would get up before sunrise, help prepare meals, tend to the family then toil in the fields.  And when her mother became partially paralyzed and alone in her own home five miles away, Aunt Michie knew she had to take care of her, too.  Michie was the last of her children left in Japan.

My Grandmother Kono – having suffered a stroke – is propped up from behind by Japanese “shiki-futon” for the picture. She would not see her son alive again. Taken in Hiroshima, May 3,1944.

While Michie and Grandmother Kono managed to get part-time care, Aunt Michie still took it upon herself to check in on her stricken mother.  My cousins tell me their mother Aunt Michie would take them along for the ten mile round trip to her Kanemoto family home.

No car.  No bus.  No taxi.  No trains or bicycles.  They had to walk.  After all, it was 1944 and fuel was a huge luxury.  One memory the youngest happily recollect is that they would take turns riding in some kind of baby stroller that Michie would push to Grandmother Kono’s.  Neverthless, it was still a great deal of effort and sacrifice on Michie’s part in any case… and she did this after working in the fields, too.

Masako will eventually end up caring for Grandmother Kono.

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Family photo taken of the town of Tomo about 35 years ago atop the 300 meter tall hill separating it from Hiroshima. Hiroshima is directly behind. This short hill served to partially deflect the atomic bomb’s shockwave. Courtesy of Kiyoshi Aramaki.
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Per Kiyoshi, this was taken from the house and shows some of the field Michie had to cultivate. She was here when the shockwave hit. While the one on the right is no longer there, the family burial plot was between the two small mounds you see here. Courtesy of Kiyoshi Aramaki and dated 1976.

After picking herself off the ground, Aunt Michie saw an evil yet mystifying mushroom cloud slowly rising up beyond the 300 meter tall hill separating her village from Hiroshima proper.  At that instant, she knew her life had taken a wrenching turn for the worse… as if it could get any worse.

I cannot imagine what was going through her mind and heart watching that mushroom cloud rising.  She could not have even dreamed that it was one massive bomb, kilometers away, that could cause this sort of force and devastation.  It must have defied belief.

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A relatively unseen image of the explosion, taken from a Kataitaichi, six miles east of Hiroshima. Michie was nearly due west and on the other side of the cloud. The cloud would reach 40,000 feet in just four minutes. It would ultimately rise to 60,000 feet. (Horikawa Elementary School)

According to Michie and my cousins, the shockwave blew out all the sliding doors, all the tatami mats were flung and the ceiling was shoved up in the house.  Try to imagine yourself being inside the house.  The same thing happened to Grandmother Kono’s house five miles south (See map in Part 1).

As per their daily air raid drill, they apparently all ran to the air raid shelter in the small hill behind their house.  After about half an hour and with the mushroom cloud still rising, a black, syrupy rain began to fall on them.  According to the cousins, Michie believed that the Americans were dropping oil from space.

She could not have fathomed it was contaminated with over 200 kinds of radioactive isotopes.  We now call it black rain.

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I took this photo of a preserved wall section stained with actual black rain from that fateful day. Hiroshima Peace Museum, November 2013.

Sadako, who was ten years old, clearly remembers their white blouses had turned black from the rain.  No one – absolutely no one – knew that other than staining skin, clothing, and buildings, but that ingesting black rain by breathing and by consumption of contaminated food or water, would lead to radiation poisoning.  Even flowers would bloom in distorted shapes and forms from the radiation.

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With the enormity and the suddenness of the brilliant flash of light followed by a shockwave and the swirling mushroom cloud, Michie deep inside knew her world had forever changed.

Horror was to literally come into hand shortly to enforce that foreboding thought.

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To be continued in Part 4….

(1) Albeit late, my mother’s family fled to the Fukui Prefecture in early July 1945 to escape the bombing of Tokyo.

I Take Exception, Mr. President


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The White House as it looked when President Adams occupied it.
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Mr. President, I take exception to your leadership.  I feel it is flawed.

You are supposed to be MY president.

My fellow Mustang buddy’s president.  He’s Black and has a doctorate.  Oh.  He’s married to a Middle Eastern lady – who screams while sitting shotgun in his grossly overpowered car.

My neighbor’s president.  He’s Hispanic, an American citizen and is in the USAF (and who got his pay cut due to The (Dumb) Sequester.)

My blogging friend’s president.  She is Irish with blazing red hair.

Yes, even #41 and #43’s president.  They are Caucasian and BOTH served in the Armed Forces.  Hell, #41 was shot down and lost his two crew members.  Like Old Man Jack, even he must’ve had nightmares for the rest of his life.

You are the elected person to represent ALL of us…together.

But do you?

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Yes, I voted for the other guy.  Glad that’s out in the open.  Whew.  Now hate me.

But all through your campaigns and years in office, you have made it a point to distinguish (imply?) yourself to be Black…and rarely or never infer that you are “White”.

How can that be, Mr. President?  Your mother was White.  Your father was Black.

To me, that’s 50%-50%.

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President Obama’s parents

It’s simple math.  The same simple math taught in school.  Well, pardon me.  Not too many folks recall seeing you in class.

Perhaps you ditched classes, Mr. President, just like my angelic oldest daughter..?  But my oldest daughter got straight A’s.  I’ll let you see her report card if you’ll show me your transcripts.

So I excuse you on your mathematical error.

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Trayvon Martin died on February 26, 2012.

On March 23, 2012, you said on national TV:

“But my main message is to the parents of Trayvon Martin. If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon. And I think they are right to expect that all of us as Americans are going to take this with the seriousness it deserves, and that we’re going to get to the bottom of exactly what happened.”  (Note: President Obama, the LOCAL authorities and DA DID get to the bottom of exactly what happened shortly after the shooting, right?)

After the verdict was read, you made another statement.  On July 20, 2013, you said:

“When Trayvon Martin was first shot, I said that this could have been my son,” Obama said. “Another way of saying that is Trayvon Martin could have been me 35 years ago.”

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First speech mentioning Trayvon Martin.

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The Zimmerman/Martin fight took place in a smaller township called Sanford, FL.  The local – LOCAL – authorities concluded there was not enough evidence to hold or charge Zimmerman under their STATE laws.

But alas…  The MEDIA was a huge contributor.  In my opinion, it was primarily CNN who started a fire where there should have been none.  Day after day, they tried to “stir the pot”, as they say.  RACE came into the limelight thanks to CNN fueling the self-grown fire.

Then Obama’s ill-advised comment…  RACE again.  He’s HALF-WHITE.

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Race is one thing contributing to the deepening divide amongst our citizens.

In his first speech, he fueled the frenzy with those words, “…and that we’re going to get to the bottom of exactly what happened.”

Who is “we’re”?  Him?  The Feds?  It fell under state and LOCAL jurisdiction.  And the local law enforcement and DA – closest to the case and evidence – had closed its case.

Obama and CNN was pouring copious amounts of salt onto a festering wound.

By the way…  How does CNN pick which murder to sensationalize?  Why didn’t CNN sensationalize this more recent one – of four Blacks killing an unarmed White college student:

I am curious why you did not come out in front of our nation and say, “If I had a son, he’d look like Joshua Proutey.”

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In closing, how DARE Obama distinguish himself from me implying Trayvon Martin could have been his son – for whatever reason – in front of our country.

You are supposed to be MY president.

You are to lead us… represent all of us… and not imply “favoring” one race over another.

How do you bring this together instead of dividing it?

Simple.  Like this:

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THIS is how YOU should lead OUR country, Mr. Obama.
(White House Archives)

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Face it.  There are racists.

White people who hate other races.  Blacks who hate other races.  Asians who hate other races.

Lead us.  Tell us citizens to quell this lunacy…and get off the minority soap box at the same time.

ps   PLEASE PAY MY USAF BUDDY.  HE IS IN HARM’S WAY AND WORKING TO PROTECT US.  HE IS NOT HOLDING HIS HAND OUT LIKE 47 MILLION OTHERS ARE.

A Smoldering Butt


Just thought that was a catchy title…albeit a bit misleading like our media.  Just a tad misleading…’cuz the butt’s the other end.

I guess the news guys are finally rubbing off on me after all.

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But as I watched my kids and their friends play in the front, I felt like playing around with my new, fancy-schmancy Canon point and shoot – specifically hand held close-ups of the business end of a nice cigar.

It was amazing that an inexpensive camera such as this could take such equally amazing (yuk to some!) close-ups:

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I did switch to my standard Canon DSLR to snap these fun snapshots of my kids.  Little Brooke likes the distortion that erupts with this Canon 10-22mm lens…although a certain pro photographer buddy of mine will likely BBQ me over a slow but hot flame for using it.

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Widdle Wabbits


A precious little girl walks into a PetSmart store.
She asks with the sweetest little lisp between two missing teeth, “Excuthe me, mithter. Where do you keep the widdle wabbits?”
As the shopkeeper’s heart melts, he gets down on his knees so that he’s on her level and asks, “Do you want a widdle white wabbit, or a thoft and fuwwy, bwack wabbit, or  maybe one like that cute widdle bwown wabbit over there?”
She, in turn, blushes, rocks on her heels, puts her hands on her knees, leans forward and says, in a tiny quiet voice:
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“I don’t think my python weally gives a thit.”

The Joy of Neighbors


As they say, you don’t buy the house.

You buy into the neighborhood.

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I was reminded of how wonderful our little neighborhood is this past Sunday morning.

No words necessary… Smiles on all of them. Brady, Jack, Jacob and Brooke.

I invited our neighbor’s two youngest kids out to have breakfast.  We had such a nice time albeit much too brief.

Although Old Man Jack and Mr. Johnson are no longer with us, the integrity of the neighborhood remains.

It is a neighborhood where I feel safe.  And I feel the kids are safe.

They are safe because our street is filled with good people.  Good parents.  Good neighbors.

They even bring in our trash barrels if they get home first.  It’s swell.

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But I marveled at how ALWAYS nice Jacob and Brady are with my kids…from when Jack and Brooke were born.

Jacob and Brady are growing up so fast.  They are becoming young adults now and very busy.  Yet, they find the time to play with my young kids.

Jacob is a super athlete.  Heckuva sportsman and is heavily sought after by the high schools.  Even now.  His dad is a jock so he’s a chip off the ol’ block.  (Don’t worry, dad.  You’re not THAT old.)

And Brady… She already is a boy-killer…and a heckuva dancer.  Smart one, too!  (Don’t worry, mom.  I won’t tell ANYONE I have taken over at least a hundred of my chocolate truffles.  Funny Jake and Brady rarely tell me if they were good or not… ;))

But most of all, they are great kids.

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March 2008

Jacob and Brady always take their dishes to the sink when they eat here.  Brady even cleaned off my (DISGUSTING) rangetop when she watched Jack and Brooke so that I could have my “date” with a varsity cheerleader and old friend for my 40th high school reunion last month.  I’m still on a high from that, by the way.  Thanks, Brady!

I had Jacob clear this irritating climbing ivy “someone” planted in my backyard.  It was climbing all over the place…and into my neighbor’s yard.  There wasn’t one branch left after he finished.  He even pulled out the roots.  Problem no more.  Thanks, Jacob!

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One other amazing piece of “togetherness”…  There are eight kids between our two families with an amazing connection…  The kids’ first letters in their names coincide – and in birth order, to boot!  They are:

  1. Robbie and Robyn
  2. Taylor and Takeshi
  3. Jacob and Jack, and lastly,
  4. Brady and Brooke

And one last (and upcoming) connection…  Robbie and Robyn are both getting married next year.

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Soon, Jacob and Brady will be seeking their own niches in life.  While Jack and Brooke will be sad, at the same time, I know their hearts will be filled with happiness and gratefulness for all their love, care and fun afforded them throughout their first years of life.

So many things to be thankful for…and Jacob and Brady are two of them.