Kristen from We Are That Family has written a little top ten list of some of the things she has learned since becoming a mom, just in time for Mother's Day (Psst. It's Sunday, May 11th. If you are not a mom, go write that down.) I can especially relate to #10, much to my dismay at my weekly weigh-ins.
My kids have taught me many things, none of which can be considered marketable skills, but who cares? I am not on the market anyway.
Ten Things I Didn't Know Before I Became A Mom:
10. I didn't know that I would shower with a three foot tall audience. Daily.
9. I didn't know that all my furniture would be either plastic or lovingly "hand-distressed."
8. I didn't know that I would catch vomit with my bare hands just to keep it off the carpet.
7. I didn't know that I would sit and sniff my baby's sweet milky breath while he sleeps in my arms.
6. I didn't know that I would carry a purse the size of a duffel bag, and that it would only contain two things that I actually need for myself.
5. I didn't know that I would come to love the space a minivan affords. It took me almost three kids to learn this one.
4. I didn't know that sometimes, while lying in bed late at night, I would picture a scenario where my child was hurt or missing and I would feel a real-life physical pain in my chest.
3. I didn't know that I would call my mother to brag about toilet habits.
2. I didn't know that after I had Francie and was trying to nurse her, I would let so many people handle The Girls. Or that I would actually flag them down to do so.
1. I didn't know that I would be this tired . . . or this happy.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Everybody's Talkin' 'Bout It
Oh, Miley, have your ears been burning? Because it seems like everyone in the Momosphere is talking about you.
Well, more about those pictures than anything else.
According to all the news outlets, Miley posed for these "artistic" photos, while her parents were present, and then all hell broke loose. Now everyone is in a race to see who can back pedal the fastest and outsource the responsibility.
Can I just say URG?! This whole thing makes me angry.
I caught an interview with Miley and her dad, Billy Ray Cyrus, a few months ago, and I was struck by what a great relationship they seemed to have. As the interview progressed, Billy Ray was asked how he plans to keep Miley from becoming a self-destructive child star, and he said that he wants to "be her best friend" so that she'll always come to him.
Did you see it? That red flag waving right there? He's her parent, and he's not meant to be her best friend. Can parents be friends with their teens? Yes. Does it make the teenage years a little easier to swallow if you are on friendly terms. Heck yeah! But at some point being a parent will come into direct conflict with being their friend.
In the news reports, Miley said that she couldn't "say no to Annie." That's when her parents should have said no for her. That's when they should have packed up the whole kit and kaboodle and headed home. The Cyrus' have said that they left the shoot without seeing the proofs, and whether that is true or not, they certainly knew that their fifteen year old was being photographed topless for a nationally published magazine. This isn't the Penny Pincher you pick up at the diner. This is Vanity Fair.
I have heard many people saying that this is no "big deal" and that the photos are "art." The big deal for me, as the mother of two daughters, is that this girl is being marketed in a sexualized manner. The picture, which many who were present at the shoot called "natural," is not a natural pose for a fifteen year old. Dancing around in her pajamas. Lip-syncing into a hairbrush. Walking the mall. Trying out lip gloss. These are natural poses for a girl her age. Bare backed, with tousled hair and red lips, and barely covered by a bed sheet? Anything but natural.
Conversely, I have also heard people saying they were getting rid of anything Hannah Montana. No more CDs, no more DVDs, nothing. I understand the reaction, but let's not throw the baby out with the bathwater. How many unwise things did you do when you were fifteen, or sixteen, or even twenty? I can come up with plenty of my own.
I don't think she's a bad kid, I think she was coerced. I'm not saying she's not media-savvy, but I know that a fifteen year old can be easily flattered and cajoled into something they otherwise may not have done. The onus of responsibility is on her parents.
I'd be interested to know what you think, my friends.
Well, more about those pictures than anything else.
According to all the news outlets, Miley posed for these "artistic" photos, while her parents were present, and then all hell broke loose. Now everyone is in a race to see who can back pedal the fastest and outsource the responsibility.
Can I just say URG?! This whole thing makes me angry.
I caught an interview with Miley and her dad, Billy Ray Cyrus, a few months ago, and I was struck by what a great relationship they seemed to have. As the interview progressed, Billy Ray was asked how he plans to keep Miley from becoming a self-destructive child star, and he said that he wants to "be her best friend" so that she'll always come to him.
Did you see it? That red flag waving right there? He's her parent, and he's not meant to be her best friend. Can parents be friends with their teens? Yes. Does it make the teenage years a little easier to swallow if you are on friendly terms. Heck yeah! But at some point being a parent will come into direct conflict with being their friend.
In the news reports, Miley said that she couldn't "say no to Annie." That's when her parents should have said no for her. That's when they should have packed up the whole kit and kaboodle and headed home. The Cyrus' have said that they left the shoot without seeing the proofs, and whether that is true or not, they certainly knew that their fifteen year old was being photographed topless for a nationally published magazine. This isn't the Penny Pincher you pick up at the diner. This is Vanity Fair.
I have heard many people saying that this is no "big deal" and that the photos are "art." The big deal for me, as the mother of two daughters, is that this girl is being marketed in a sexualized manner. The picture, which many who were present at the shoot called "natural," is not a natural pose for a fifteen year old. Dancing around in her pajamas. Lip-syncing into a hairbrush. Walking the mall. Trying out lip gloss. These are natural poses for a girl her age. Bare backed, with tousled hair and red lips, and barely covered by a bed sheet? Anything but natural.
Conversely, I have also heard people saying they were getting rid of anything Hannah Montana. No more CDs, no more DVDs, nothing. I understand the reaction, but let's not throw the baby out with the bathwater. How many unwise things did you do when you were fifteen, or sixteen, or even twenty? I can come up with plenty of my own.
I don't think she's a bad kid, I think she was coerced. I'm not saying she's not media-savvy, but I know that a fifteen year old can be easily flattered and cajoled into something they otherwise may not have done. The onus of responsibility is on her parents.
I'd be interested to know what you think, my friends.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
For Your Listening Pleasure
Here is a video clip of Francie's first piano recital. She was cah-razy nervous, but I think she did very well. I am surprised she didn't vomit all over the baby grand (believe me, it was a valid concern.) Her first piece was called "Divertimento in D" and her second was "Fiesta!"
I realize that the entire video is shown horizontally, but I couldn't figure out how to get it to flip. I am amazed that I even figured out how to post it without deleting the entire blog (another valid concern). Just tilt your head, you'll be fine.
I realize that the entire video is shown horizontally, but I couldn't figure out how to get it to flip. I am amazed that I even figured out how to post it without deleting the entire blog (another valid concern). Just tilt your head, you'll be fine.
Friday, April 25, 2008
My Sentiments Exactly
Sally, pointing to the desk where all of my bills are spread out: "Mom? Dis?"
Me: "This? These are bills. Can you say bills?"
Sally, nodding her head: "Bull."
Me: "This? These are bills. Can you say bills?"
Sally, nodding her head: "Bull."
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Feel the Burn
As you may have heard, I've been diligently working on losing a not-smallish amount of weight.
Slowly, very slowly, but diligently. (I am up to 9.2 pounds gone. The .2 is very important.)
A key part of my weight loss plan is exercise. I have never been the kind of girl who can cut out the soda and the bread and lose ten pounds. I am the kind of girl whose body recognizes that she is starting to cut out some foods, and in response says:
Danger! Danger! Food supplies are dwindling, it must be the advent of a New Ice Age! I command every cell to absorb as much fat as possible for warmth and possible repopulation of the planet!
It's a drag, but I've learned that if I am exercising while cutting back on the junk, then my body transmits a different kind of message:
Heads up! I've noticed some rationing, and it may be the advent of a New Ice Age, so you are going to have to run your food to the ground instead of opening a box. You better get a move on, Fatty.
And, as an added bonus, now that I'm over thirty, intense exercise three times a week doesn't cut it for me anymore. My metabolism has decreed that I must break a substantial sweat at least six days a week. And if I'm going for six days a week, I might as well tack on one more. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or many pounds, as the case may be.
I'd like to try some different types of exercise so that I don't get bored or burnt out, but I am a realist. I know that my life right now - the kids, Rob's schedule - is a use-your-treadmill kind of life.
So now, as a little treat to you, my friends, I am going to share my key to upping the ante on the treadmill. This is guaranteed to make you sweat, and you may want to consult a physician before performing these exercises, just to ensure there will be no injuries. I'll even put it all in a handy list form:
Step 1: Feed the baby and lay him down in his crib, since he has determined that his crib is now the only place on the face of the earth that is suitable for sleeping. (Great at night, bad when you need to be down in the basement for an extended period of time.)
Step 2: Grab the monitor, the portable phone, a cup of water, two cheese sticks, and two spill proof cups of juice. Then lure the two middle children down to the basement with promises of snacks.
Step 3: Hear baby fussing, run up to give him his pacifier, run back down to the basement. By now you will start to feel slightly sweaty.
Step 4: Get the kids settled with snacks and drinks, then run to the laundry room to throw in a load of towels. You might as well since you're already down there.
Step 5: Check your watch and decide against a warm-up since you know you are already racing the baby's nap clock. Get on the treadmill and start.
Step 6: While adjusting to the speed and incline, try to find something on the TV that is appropriate for the kids and not mind-numbing for you. After realizing that nothing is on except crime shows, talk shows, and PBS, settle for PBS. (Dragon Tales makes you want to vomit. Or maybe that feeling is because you have hit your first jogging interval.)
Step 7: Hear the baby on the monitor. Curse under your breath. Make it to the 10 minute mark, pause the treadmill, run upstairs and give him his pacifier, run back downstairs and re-start treadmill. By now, you will be sweating quite a bit.
Step 8: While you are jogging, reach over the top of the treadmill to receive a sippy cup that needs a straw adjustment. Fix the cup and hand it back over the treadmill.
Step 9: Break up a fight over an old fast food toy. Be sure to gesture wildly and yell. It really gets your heart rate up.
Step 10: Stop to answer the phone since you don't have caller ID and it might be school calling about your other child. When you realize that it is a campaign call, think of choice invectives in your head while you pant at them and sweat on the phone.
Step 11: Hear the baby on the monitor AGAIN, run up and give him the pacifier AGAIN, run down and get on the treadmill AGAIN. By now you may feel like your heart will explode, but just push through the pain.
Step 12: Check your watch and realize that you need to shorten your workout due to all of the interruptions. Decide to jog all the final intervals to make up for the lost time.
Step 13: See that your 22 month old has been drawing on the floor with a marker the whole time. Your heart rate will jump considerably.
Step 14: Hear the baby on the monitor AGAIN. Turn off the monitor. Finish out whatever minute you are in. Get off the treadmill, break up another fight, confiscate the markers, throw the towels in the dryer, and run up to get the baby.
Step 15: Get to the baby's door and see that he has put himself back to sleep. Curse. Drag yourself to the shower and think about how good a cinnamon bun would taste right now.
Step 16: Do this repeatedly until you achieve your desired weight.
As you can see, this requires some dedication, but it is worth it. Of course, you might break down from the stress of exercising in the presence of your children, but at least you won't be fat and crazy.
No pain, no gain, right?
Slowly, very slowly, but diligently. (I am up to 9.2 pounds gone. The .2 is very important.)
A key part of my weight loss plan is exercise. I have never been the kind of girl who can cut out the soda and the bread and lose ten pounds. I am the kind of girl whose body recognizes that she is starting to cut out some foods, and in response says:
Danger! Danger! Food supplies are dwindling, it must be the advent of a New Ice Age! I command every cell to absorb as much fat as possible for warmth and possible repopulation of the planet!
It's a drag, but I've learned that if I am exercising while cutting back on the junk, then my body transmits a different kind of message:
Heads up! I've noticed some rationing, and it may be the advent of a New Ice Age, so you are going to have to run your food to the ground instead of opening a box. You better get a move on, Fatty.
And, as an added bonus, now that I'm over thirty, intense exercise three times a week doesn't cut it for me anymore. My metabolism has decreed that I must break a substantial sweat at least six days a week. And if I'm going for six days a week, I might as well tack on one more. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or many pounds, as the case may be.
I'd like to try some different types of exercise so that I don't get bored or burnt out, but I am a realist. I know that my life right now - the kids, Rob's schedule - is a use-your-treadmill kind of life.
So now, as a little treat to you, my friends, I am going to share my key to upping the ante on the treadmill. This is guaranteed to make you sweat, and you may want to consult a physician before performing these exercises, just to ensure there will be no injuries. I'll even put it all in a handy list form:
Step 1: Feed the baby and lay him down in his crib, since he has determined that his crib is now the only place on the face of the earth that is suitable for sleeping. (Great at night, bad when you need to be down in the basement for an extended period of time.)
Step 2: Grab the monitor, the portable phone, a cup of water, two cheese sticks, and two spill proof cups of juice. Then lure the two middle children down to the basement with promises of snacks.
Step 3: Hear baby fussing, run up to give him his pacifier, run back down to the basement. By now you will start to feel slightly sweaty.
Step 4: Get the kids settled with snacks and drinks, then run to the laundry room to throw in a load of towels. You might as well since you're already down there.
Step 5: Check your watch and decide against a warm-up since you know you are already racing the baby's nap clock. Get on the treadmill and start.
Step 6: While adjusting to the speed and incline, try to find something on the TV that is appropriate for the kids and not mind-numbing for you. After realizing that nothing is on except crime shows, talk shows, and PBS, settle for PBS. (Dragon Tales makes you want to vomit. Or maybe that feeling is because you have hit your first jogging interval.)
Step 7: Hear the baby on the monitor. Curse under your breath. Make it to the 10 minute mark, pause the treadmill, run upstairs and give him his pacifier, run back downstairs and re-start treadmill. By now, you will be sweating quite a bit.
Step 8: While you are jogging, reach over the top of the treadmill to receive a sippy cup that needs a straw adjustment. Fix the cup and hand it back over the treadmill.
Step 9: Break up a fight over an old fast food toy. Be sure to gesture wildly and yell. It really gets your heart rate up.
Step 10: Stop to answer the phone since you don't have caller ID and it might be school calling about your other child. When you realize that it is a campaign call, think of choice invectives in your head while you pant at them and sweat on the phone.
Step 11: Hear the baby on the monitor AGAIN, run up and give him the pacifier AGAIN, run down and get on the treadmill AGAIN. By now you may feel like your heart will explode, but just push through the pain.
Step 12: Check your watch and realize that you need to shorten your workout due to all of the interruptions. Decide to jog all the final intervals to make up for the lost time.
Step 13: See that your 22 month old has been drawing on the floor with a marker the whole time. Your heart rate will jump considerably.
Step 14: Hear the baby on the monitor AGAIN. Turn off the monitor. Finish out whatever minute you are in. Get off the treadmill, break up another fight, confiscate the markers, throw the towels in the dryer, and run up to get the baby.
Step 15: Get to the baby's door and see that he has put himself back to sleep. Curse. Drag yourself to the shower and think about how good a cinnamon bun would taste right now.
Step 16: Do this repeatedly until you achieve your desired weight.
As you can see, this requires some dedication, but it is worth it. Of course, you might break down from the stress of exercising in the presence of your children, but at least you won't be fat and crazy.
No pain, no gain, right?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
All The Things You Never Wanted to Know About Me
Muddy Mama tagged me for this meme a couple days ago, and even though my childcare census was cut in half this weekend, I still didn't get around to it. All the other cool stuff I was doing must have gotten in the way. Stuff like sleeping.
At any rate, here are, in no particular order, 7 Unimportant Facts About Me:
The Rules (there are always so many rules for these things):
1. When tagged place the name and URL on your blog.
2. Post rules on your blog.
3. Write 7 non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
4. Name 7 blogs.
5. Send an email/comment on their blog letting them know they have been tagged.
At any rate, here are, in no particular order, 7 Unimportant Facts About Me:
The Rules (there are always so many rules for these things):
1. When tagged place the name and URL on your blog.
2. Post rules on your blog.
3. Write 7 non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
4. Name 7 blogs.
5. Send an email/comment on their blog letting them know they have been tagged.
- After assembling a sandwich, I always, without fail, take one bite out of it before I put any of the fixins' away. Just in case I need to make any adjustments, I guess . . .
- I'll cut the girls' bangs, but I am nervous about cutting Fiver's hair. I know lots of people who cut their sons' (and husbands') hair, but I don't even know where to start. Summer's coming, maybe I should just start with a buzz cut since they are pretty foolproof.
- There were twelve girls named "Amy" (various spellings) in my freshman dorm. Six of them were on my floor. One was my roommate. We lived to confuse.
- I have old lady feet. Since childhood, I have had some wacky foot problems, and my feet feel about forty years older than the rest of my body. Whenever I see "What Not to Wear," and I hear Stacy saying, "Pointy heels are FAB-ulous and EVERYONE can wear them," I always want to tell her: "Bring it, London" And then show her the old dogs.
- I gave birth four times and I am still afraid of the bikini wax.
- My children share the same birth order as my siblings and me: girl, boy, girl, boy.
- I think brunch is the perfect meal. Especially a brunch buffet after church.
And now I'm tagging the following blogs (but don't feel obliged - I'm easy like Sunday morning):
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Oh What a Beautiful Morning
Bun slept from 8:30 PM to 5:00 AM, straight through, without a whimper. And I put him to bed while he was still AWAKE, so he actually put himself to sleep.
There's no point in lying about it.
Bun's my favorite baby.
There's no point in lying about it.
Bun's my favorite baby.
Friday, April 18, 2008
I Gotta Cut Loose! Footloose!
We are living the high life here at The HomeFront Corp. tonight, my friends.
We have farmed two employees out to some beneficent trustees for the weekend. That's right - Francie and Fiver are spending the weekend with my parents, which (do the math!) leaves us with just Sally and Bun. I am finding it very hard to cackle and rub my hands together maniacally while I type, but I'm giving it the old college try.
(As an aside: I just looked up maniac in the dictionary and it says: "a person characterized by an inordinate or ungovernable enthusiasm for something." Yep, that's just about right, Mr. Webster.)
This weekend was originally supposed to be a "work" weekend for Francie so that she could earn money for new riding boots for horse camp this summer. My mother offered her a flat rate for the weekend if she would come over and help my parents "get the gardens ready for planting." If by "get the gardens ready for planting" she means walk around and pick up sticks for fifteen minutes before complaining about the bugs and asking if it's time for lunch, then Francie's her girl. (Then again, she does anything for my mother, so what do I know?)
This weekend was highly touted by Francie as a "special weekend for just me." She had her bag packed by Thursday afternoon. What she didn't count on was her brother's heartbreakingly sad eyes when my mother came to get her. We had explained to him that he would have his own special weekend with the grandparents, and he seemed fine with the idea, but when it came down to go-time, he choked.
His mouth turned down in almost comic proportions as he gravely said, "I am a good worker, GeeGee. I will work, work, work all day. I won't play at all, I will only work because I am a good worker." Umm, okay, Mr. Crazy Work Ethic, we're feeling you.
Even though I launched into my spiel about how he would get his own weekend, with his own plans, blah blah blah, my mother was no match for Fiver the Sad, Yet Incredibly Willing to Work. She interrupted me to tell him that he could come.
Hey, guess who didn't take that news so well?
While Fiver bounced around his room pulling out all the things he would need for an overnight trip (my pillow! my money jar! my toothbrush! my light up spinner from Santa!), my mother consoled Francie by telling her she was so proud of the big, generous girl she had grown into. I merely asked her not to cry and complain in front of Fiver so that he wouldn't feel crummy.
She didn't cry in front of him, she just proceeded to remind him, every single chance she could, that she was letting him come on this weekend. He owed his presence to her magnanimity. I think it was her intention to crush him with guilt. Of course, Fiver is so oblivious to reading emotions that he would respond with, "I know! It's great!" Not exactly the desired effect.
It seems that some of the bitterness has been resolved, because we got a call from the employees this evening and things sounded hunky-dory. They had been out to eat and then had been out for ice cream, and then my mother was going to read them stories and sing songs and braid hair and freeze their bras and whatever other sleepover shenanigans they could muster.
They were even going to sleep in the same room, which sounded fairly amicable, although my father did say that when he met up with them at dinner, Francie came running up to hug him. And to whisper "We had to bring You-Know-Who" in his ear.
So what are our big plans for the weekend, now that we are down to two? Well, if they are anything like tonight you may just have to brace yourselves, my friends.
We made a dinner that we enjoyed; one where no one pushed the food around on their plate and said they didn't really like this kind of chicken. We put the little ones to bed and then we each took a turn on the treadmill. Now I am blogging and Rob is working from home.
We are living on the very edge, my friends. I know it's easy to feel jealous, but don't succumb. Maybe one day you too will get to live the easy, breezy kind of lifestyle we enjoy.
I think we might even order a pizza tomorrow. With toppings.
I know - we are living the dream.
We have farmed two employees out to some beneficent trustees for the weekend. That's right - Francie and Fiver are spending the weekend with my parents, which (do the math!) leaves us with just Sally and Bun. I am finding it very hard to cackle and rub my hands together maniacally while I type, but I'm giving it the old college try.
(As an aside: I just looked up maniac in the dictionary and it says: "a person characterized by an inordinate or ungovernable enthusiasm for something." Yep, that's just about right, Mr. Webster.)
This weekend was originally supposed to be a "work" weekend for Francie so that she could earn money for new riding boots for horse camp this summer. My mother offered her a flat rate for the weekend if she would come over and help my parents "get the gardens ready for planting." If by "get the gardens ready for planting" she means walk around and pick up sticks for fifteen minutes before complaining about the bugs and asking if it's time for lunch, then Francie's her girl. (Then again, she does anything for my mother, so what do I know?)
This weekend was highly touted by Francie as a "special weekend for just me." She had her bag packed by Thursday afternoon. What she didn't count on was her brother's heartbreakingly sad eyes when my mother came to get her. We had explained to him that he would have his own special weekend with the grandparents, and he seemed fine with the idea, but when it came down to go-time, he choked.
His mouth turned down in almost comic proportions as he gravely said, "I am a good worker, GeeGee. I will work, work, work all day. I won't play at all, I will only work because I am a good worker." Umm, okay, Mr. Crazy Work Ethic, we're feeling you.
Even though I launched into my spiel about how he would get his own weekend, with his own plans, blah blah blah, my mother was no match for Fiver the Sad, Yet Incredibly Willing to Work. She interrupted me to tell him that he could come.
Hey, guess who didn't take that news so well?
While Fiver bounced around his room pulling out all the things he would need for an overnight trip (my pillow! my money jar! my toothbrush! my light up spinner from Santa!), my mother consoled Francie by telling her she was so proud of the big, generous girl she had grown into. I merely asked her not to cry and complain in front of Fiver so that he wouldn't feel crummy.
She didn't cry in front of him, she just proceeded to remind him, every single chance she could, that she was letting him come on this weekend. He owed his presence to her magnanimity. I think it was her intention to crush him with guilt. Of course, Fiver is so oblivious to reading emotions that he would respond with, "I know! It's great!" Not exactly the desired effect.
It seems that some of the bitterness has been resolved, because we got a call from the employees this evening and things sounded hunky-dory. They had been out to eat and then had been out for ice cream, and then my mother was going to read them stories and sing songs and braid hair and freeze their bras and whatever other sleepover shenanigans they could muster.
They were even going to sleep in the same room, which sounded fairly amicable, although my father did say that when he met up with them at dinner, Francie came running up to hug him. And to whisper "We had to bring You-Know-Who" in his ear.
So what are our big plans for the weekend, now that we are down to two? Well, if they are anything like tonight you may just have to brace yourselves, my friends.
We made a dinner that we enjoyed; one where no one pushed the food around on their plate and said they didn't really like this kind of chicken. We put the little ones to bed and then we each took a turn on the treadmill. Now I am blogging and Rob is working from home.
We are living on the very edge, my friends. I know it's easy to feel jealous, but don't succumb. Maybe one day you too will get to live the easy, breezy kind of lifestyle we enjoy.
I think we might even order a pizza tomorrow. With toppings.
I know - we are living the dream.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Meme Time
I've been working on some big housekeeping projects this week, as well as trying to get Fiver to ride a bike, which is really like trying to get a monkey on crack to ride a bike. He hops on, pedals like crazy while keeping his steering wheel turned sharply to the left, ensuring that he will go only in a tight circle in the driveway. Then he jumps off, runs around the driveway in the same pattern, and then gets back on the bike. I'll have to elaborate in a later post, if my housework doesn't kill me first.
Until then, I am posting a meme for which Heather tagged me many moons ago. Just trying to be faithful to a "better late than never" philosophy.
The rules:
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and goes to their blogs to let them know they've been tagged.
WHAT WAS I DOING TEN YEARS AGO?
I was living in Pensacola, FL, where Rob was stationed with the Navy. We were getting ready to celebrate our first anniversary, and I was slowly starting to recover from my "Hey! You're in the Navy now!" shell shock.
FIVE THINGS ON MY TO-DO LIST TOMORROW:
Get Fiver to therapy on time and keep Sally from running the hallways and distracting all the other therapy clients
Hit the treadmill. As in get on it and do some exercise, not actually hit it. Although I often contemplate giving it a good swift kick.
Get my hair cut and colored. The grays have come back in force. I place the blame squarely on my kids.
Go to Target to buy more of those little elastic hair bands for Sally. I buy millions of these, single-handedly keeping Goody in the black, but they are no where to be found when I need to do an emergency ponytail intervention.
Take out a loan for a tank of gas.
FIVE THINGS I WOULD DO IF I WAS A BILLIONAIRE:
Pay off all the debts for myself and my family.
Make a sizable donation to our church and the kids' school.
Buy a whole bunch of new therapy equipment for Fiver's therapists.
Take a vacation in Hawaii
I know that's only four, but I've never been good with money. I'm sure I'd think of something.
THREE OF MY BAD HABITS:
bad temper
sarcasm (usually found hanging out with the bad temper)
I complain a fair bit, mostly to Rob, which I am sure he deeply appreciates.
FIVE PLACES I'VE LIVED:
Pensacola, Florida
Cherry Point, North Carolina
nanny
ice cream shop clerk
theater box office
office manager
Wow, you can really see how boring I am when I put it into a handy list form like this. It would have sounded much more exciting if I had put that I was cliff diving in Costa Rica ten years ago, but I am all about the truth, no matter how plain vanilla that turns out to be.
I am breaking the rule of the meme and I am not tagging anyone specifically because I must leave now. If you want to do this, feel free to grab it, because I really, really need to go. Actually I should have started putting the kids in the car five minutes ago, but nope, I'm still typing. I'm typing about the fact that I need to stop typing.
They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. Huh.
Until then, I am posting a meme for which Heather tagged me many moons ago. Just trying to be faithful to a "better late than never" philosophy.
The rules:
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and goes to their blogs to let them know they've been tagged.
WHAT WAS I DOING TEN YEARS AGO?
I was living in Pensacola, FL, where Rob was stationed with the Navy. We were getting ready to celebrate our first anniversary, and I was slowly starting to recover from my "Hey! You're in the Navy now!" shell shock.
FIVE THINGS ON MY TO-DO LIST TOMORROW:
Get Fiver to therapy on time and keep Sally from running the hallways and distracting all the other therapy clients
Hit the treadmill. As in get on it and do some exercise, not actually hit it. Although I often contemplate giving it a good swift kick.
Get my hair cut and colored. The grays have come back in force. I place the blame squarely on my kids.
Go to Target to buy more of those little elastic hair bands for Sally. I buy millions of these, single-handedly keeping Goody in the black, but they are no where to be found when I need to do an emergency ponytail intervention.
Take out a loan for a tank of gas.
FIVE THINGS I WOULD DO IF I WAS A BILLIONAIRE:
Pay off all the debts for myself and my family.
Make a sizable donation to our church and the kids' school.
Buy a whole bunch of new therapy equipment for Fiver's therapists.
Take a vacation in Hawaii
I know that's only four, but I've never been good with money. I'm sure I'd think of something.
THREE OF MY BAD HABITS:
bad temper
sarcasm (usually found hanging out with the bad temper)
I complain a fair bit, mostly to Rob, which I am sure he deeply appreciates.
FIVE PLACES I'VE LIVED:
Pensacola, Florida
Cherry Point, North Carolina
and many different towns in eastern Pennsylvania
FIVE JOBS I'VE HAD:
grocery store cashiernanny
ice cream shop clerk
theater box office
office manager
Wow, you can really see how boring I am when I put it into a handy list form like this. It would have sounded much more exciting if I had put that I was cliff diving in Costa Rica ten years ago, but I am all about the truth, no matter how plain vanilla that turns out to be.
I am breaking the rule of the meme and I am not tagging anyone specifically because I must leave now. If you want to do this, feel free to grab it, because I really, really need to go. Actually I should have started putting the kids in the car five minutes ago, but nope, I'm still typing. I'm typing about the fact that I need to stop typing.
They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. Huh.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Por Favor
I am always a little hesitant to do prayer blegs here. I don't know why, I know many fine people who ask for prayers all the time and it's a good thing they do. Ask and you shall receive, right?
Well, I'm asking, my friends.
A friend of mine is facing an unbelievably sad situation. I can't say much more about it than that, since I haven't asked permission to blog about it, nor am I likely to. Just believe me when I say that she has been on my heart for 72 hours straight. She needs a miracle.
When you have a chance, if you would please just send up a little prayer for "the situation Aimee cannot stop thinking about," God will know what you mean, and I will be grateful.
Well, I'm asking, my friends.
A friend of mine is facing an unbelievably sad situation. I can't say much more about it than that, since I haven't asked permission to blog about it, nor am I likely to. Just believe me when I say that she has been on my heart for 72 hours straight. She needs a miracle.
When you have a chance, if you would please just send up a little prayer for "the situation Aimee cannot stop thinking about," God will know what you mean, and I will be grateful.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Welcome Back, Thursday Night
Oh my friends, the stars are in alignment.
All of the kids are asleep (even BUN!), and I am stealing Rob's laptop and live-blogging in front of the television where I can hardly type for laughing. My Thursday night comedies are back, and it is a little sad how much I missed them. It is probably more than a little sad, but I'm still glad they are back.
Does anyone else out there even watch 30 Rock? It seems like everyone I talk to hasn't seen it, but it is consistently one of the few shows that can make me laugh out loud. Now I'll admit that I have a bit of a girl crush on Tina Fey, but man alive is that show hilarious.
I always hate when people quote me something funny after the fact, because it's never funny served up cold like that. But guess what? It's my blog and these lines almost made me wet myself (but after four kids, that's not as hard as you might think.)
All of the kids are asleep (even BUN!), and I am stealing Rob's laptop and live-blogging in front of the television where I can hardly type for laughing. My Thursday night comedies are back, and it is a little sad how much I missed them. It is probably more than a little sad, but I'm still glad they are back.
Does anyone else out there even watch 30 Rock? It seems like everyone I talk to hasn't seen it, but it is consistently one of the few shows that can make me laugh out loud. Now I'll admit that I have a bit of a girl crush on Tina Fey, but man alive is that show hilarious.
I always hate when people quote me something funny after the fact, because it's never funny served up cold like that. But guess what? It's my blog and these lines almost made me wet myself (but after four kids, that's not as hard as you might think.)
- "Listen to me Lil Abner, you keep your fried baloney hole shut."
- "Miss Lemon, your eyes look like my uncle's after he would drink from the air conditioner."
- "The Board of Education of Massachusetts classified me as a Class A Moron."
- "Everyone knows the weight of a lie makes your soul so heavy you can't rise up to heaven. And it makes your butt look bad in jeans."
You know what makes the night better? 30 Rock is followed by The Office, and we have a serious need for some Michael Scott shenanigans around here.
The cherry on top of my whole television marathon?
Bun is still sleeping. In "the nursery" with Sally. In his own bed.
Thursday night, how I love you.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Tradition!
Bun's baptism was a little more than a week ago, and, thanks to the attentiveness of Aunt C and Uncle T, we actually have pictures of the blessed event. At least now he will have something more than his name and birth date in his baby book.
Bun is wearing the baptismal gown that my godmother made for Francie. It has become a precious family heirloom since all of the children have worn it, and I have embroidered their initials and baptismal dates on the hem. (Gah! Okay, you caught me - I only have Francie's and Fiver's initials so far, but Sally and Bun will be added, so help me God. And He will need to, that's for sure!)
The pin on the front of the gown is called a Luckenbooth Brooch, and it's very special to me. The gift of a Luckenbooth Brooch is a Scottish tradition, and mine was given to me by my mother-in-law. It is traditionally given when a man and woman are engaged, and then pinned to their first baby's shawl or gown to thwart any fairies who wanted to steal the baby. (I don't know about any protection for subsequent children. Maybe they had to duke it out with the fairies.)
My mother-in-law is a firm believer in tradition and she knows all the old superstitions, as well.
'Sup, yo? I'm totally baptized. Jealous?
Aaaand I'm back . . .
.jpg)
Don't eat me, Mom!
A Bun in the hand is worth two in the pew
Bun is wearing the baptismal gown that my godmother made for Francie. It has become a precious family heirloom since all of the children have worn it, and I have embroidered their initials and baptismal dates on the hem. (Gah! Okay, you caught me - I only have Francie's and Fiver's initials so far, but Sally and Bun will be added, so help me God. And He will need to, that's for sure!)
The pin on the front of the gown is called a Luckenbooth Brooch, and it's very special to me. The gift of a Luckenbooth Brooch is a Scottish tradition, and mine was given to me by my mother-in-law. It is traditionally given when a man and woman are engaged, and then pinned to their first baby's shawl or gown to thwart any fairies who wanted to steal the baby. (I don't know about any protection for subsequent children. Maybe they had to duke it out with the fairies.)
My mother-in-law is a firm believer in tradition and she knows all the old superstitions, as well.
- It is from her that I learned never to put new shoes on the table (aren't they way cleaner than old shoes on the table?)
- the tradition of First Footing (we make Francie do this one)
- when eating a boiled egg, you must break the bottom of the shell when you are finished so fairies don't steal your luck (seriously, do the fairies have nothing better to do than hang around and commit larceny and kidnapping?)
- never cross knives, it means you'll end up fighting with someone (if I'm crossing knives, you better believe there's trouble brewing)
- in a similar vein, if you give someone a gift of knives or cutlery, you need to give them a coin or there will always be discord between you (a darn fine way to make a buck at Christmas)
- if you hit your elbow against something, bump the other elbow and you'll get a surprise (surprise! now you have two throbbing elbows!)
- if a black cat crosses your path that is good luck (because sometimes the Scottish just like to be contrary. Believe me, I have a whole lovable houseful of them)
When I agreed to marry Rob, and she gave me my Luckenbooth, my mother-in-law explained its significance and said that she hoped I would someday be able to pin it to my baby's gown. It is inscribed with the words: "Of earthly joys, thou art my choice."
The brooch was my mother-in-law's way of welcoming me into her family's traditions, and it has been pinned to the gown since the day Francie wore it. Every time I see it, I am reminded of my family's many blessings. Of earthly joys, they are my choice indeed.
'Sup, yo? I'm totally baptized. Jealous?Aaaand I'm back . . ..jpg)
Don't eat me, Mom!
A Bun in the hand is worth two in the pew (I don't even know what that's supposed to mean, but it's late and that's the first thing that came to me.)
Monday, April 07, 2008
Hide and Seek
In the event of a world wide pacifier shortage, we have our own private reserve in Bun's crib.Apparently, we really want him to feel soothed.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Weekend Update
That title would be much more applicable if I had any real updates. As it is, there is nothing exciting to report. There isn't even anything un-exciting to report, and I'll understand if you click away to something more enthralling. Like watching paint dry.
You're still here? Well then I'll serve up this piping hot Dish of Mundane in a handy list format. 'Cause you know how I like to mix it up.
My pirate name is:
Iron Anne Rackham
part of the fidius.org network
My post partum weight loss has been discouragingly slow, despite Weight Watchers and regular exercise. I know that it's considered healthy to lose between .5 and 2 pounds per week, but when I weighed in on Saturday morning and I only lost .6 of a pound I just wanted to stuff my face with a swiss roll. With a doughnut chaser.
You're still here? Well then I'll serve up this piping hot Dish of Mundane in a handy list format. 'Cause you know how I like to mix it up.
- Bun's two month checkup went very well. He has caught up to the other kids on the growth curve; he weighs 14 pounds and he is 24.5 inches long. He is still sick, but it is officially "just a cold" and has not settled into his chest. Good news for me, bad news for Bun because that meant he could still get his shots. I think it's fair to say that he's not a fan.
- Bun has moved from his bassinet and into his crib in Sally's room. It is hilarious to hear her over the monitor as she wakes up from her nap and sees him sleeping in the crib next to hers. She says the same thing every time, in a tone of delighted surprise: "Hey! Baby!"
- My nephew, Action Man, is celebrating his seventh birthday with a pirate party. To prepare, I have discovered my pirate name:
My pirate name is:
Iron Anne Rackham
part of the fidius.org network
My post partum weight loss has been discouragingly slow, despite Weight Watchers and regular exercise. I know that it's considered healthy to lose between .5 and 2 pounds per week, but when I weighed in on Saturday morning and I only lost .6 of a pound I just wanted to stuff my face with a swiss roll. With a doughnut chaser.
See? That's all I've got. I told you were are knee deep in the mundane here.
I bore because I care. Now go click over to something fun, and keep it clean, my friends.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Where Did The Week Go?
Did you miss me? Huh? Well did you? Probably not, and that's all right. I understand that you have, you know, lives to live and other blogs to read when I drop off the face of the planet. It's good to diversify. At least that's what our financial planner tells me.
Anyway.
You know how they say "if you lie down with dogs you'll get fleas"?
Well, you can use that adage to describe my house, if you replace dogs with my kids and fleas with the snottiest nose in the history of the world.
Bun turned two months old this week, and he has his first cold, courtesy of his brother and sisters. They are firm believers in sharing the love. I really shouldn't be surprised, not after I caught Sally licking Bun full on the face. We couldn't have delivered the germs more effectively had we shot them up his nose with a syringe.
The poor little guy is awash in mucus, just in time for his well baby visit tomorrow. I guess I should call it his "Well-he-went-and-got-himself-sick-, Baby" visit. And don't think for one minute that this kid will not be jacked up on infants Tylenol since he is also due for a visit from the Vaccine Fairy. It will be good times, my friends.
Maybe I'll be back tomorrow with something more interesting (and I use that word in the loosest interpretation possible).
Then again, Rob is working late, so don't hold your breath.
And PS: Happy Birthday, GeeGee! We have nothing to give you but the common cold, but that does not diminish our love for you!
Anyway.
You know how they say "if you lie down with dogs you'll get fleas"?
Well, you can use that adage to describe my house, if you replace dogs with my kids and fleas with the snottiest nose in the history of the world.
Bun turned two months old this week, and he has his first cold, courtesy of his brother and sisters. They are firm believers in sharing the love. I really shouldn't be surprised, not after I caught Sally licking Bun full on the face. We couldn't have delivered the germs more effectively had we shot them up his nose with a syringe.
The poor little guy is awash in mucus, just in time for his well baby visit tomorrow. I guess I should call it his "Well-he-went-and-got-himself-sick-, Baby" visit. And don't think for one minute that this kid will not be jacked up on infants Tylenol since he is also due for a visit from the Vaccine Fairy. It will be good times, my friends.
Maybe I'll be back tomorrow with something more interesting (and I use that word in the loosest interpretation possible).
Then again, Rob is working late, so don't hold your breath.
And PS: Happy Birthday, GeeGee! We have nothing to give you but the common cold, but that does not diminish our love for you!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)