tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7818647964651535352024-03-14T06:19:22.175-05:00Whimsy-ma-blogJanicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-33510341680193649082015-11-08T15:55:00.001-06:002015-11-08T15:55:17.303-06:00Sooooo, I've been quiet here for a looooong time. Soooo long that I guess I want to add extra ooooooo's in every word.<br />
<br />
I do have a reason. About a year ago I decided to get serious about something I've wanted to do for a very long time, which is to write a novel. So when I have free time, my writing energy goes toward that instead of here. <br />
<br />
At this point I have novel that's being polished up and a fancy editor that's waiting to check it out early next year. I'm hoping to publish it sometime next spring.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'm starting a website under my pen name and will be updating that with fun stuff. I'm writing under the pen name JA Andrews and since it's more for my writing, I won't be throwing info about my kids up quite as often. I'm sure they'll show up sometimes, because they're hilarious, but not all the time.<br />
<br />
So, if you're interested in getting emails about once a week from me of the same sort of stuff I usually post here, send me an email (or just reply to this if you get it in an email) and let me know. I'll add you to the list.<br />
<br />
I won't send many emails. One a week IF I'm on top of things. And I'll let people know when I get my book up and running.<br />
<br />
Thanks everyone, and hope you're all doing great!<br />
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A little added bonus for the day:<br />
For those of you who love Star Wars and The Princess Bride, this made me laugh and laugh and laugh.<br />
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Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-30835770574642022822015-09-04T06:00:00.000-05:002015-09-04T06:00:09.411-05:00Highs and Lows - the Highs partNOTE: After declaring in March (!) that I was reviving the blog I wrote a couple posts, then forgot to post them. That means that now they are MONTHS old.<br />
<br />
As Supreme Ruler of this blog, I've decided to publish them anyway.<br />
<br />
Without further ado, one of the out-dated posts...<br />
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<b>**************************************</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>High: Liam likes chicken</b><br />
<br />
Liam has decided he likes chicken. This is big. Liam has, since he began solid foods, been a strict vegetarian. Which is a problem because I'm not. And I cook the food. And I cook a lot of chicken.<br />
<br />
Who doesn't like chicken? Well, I'll tell you who. A kid who ALSO doesn't like anything that anyone would say tastes like chicken. Honestly, it's easier to tell you what he does like.<br />
<br />
Me: Liam, what food do you like?<br />
<br />
Liam (looking at me solemnly with HUGE brown eyes): I like LOTS of food, mommy. I like donuts, red Doritos and Fruit by the Foot.<br />
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Me: Yes, that is a lot of food. And healthy to boot.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This has nothing to do with what I'm writing, but it cracks me up. </td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
BUT, this week he decided he liked chicken. Definite High.<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, and yesterday he almost got in trouble, then to smooth things over, he looked at me with those enormous brown eyes and said, "Mom, you are the BEST! You are the BEST COOKER! The best CHICKEN COOKER!" Here he even clasped his hands rapturously, "Which I love! Because I LOVE to eat CHICKEN!"<br />
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<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>High: Ball gowns</b><br />
<br />
Belle dressed up like Cinderella to go to see the movie <i>Cinderella</i>. It was awesome. I love that kid. <br />
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<b>High: Owl hats</b><br />
<br />
I grabbed a little knit owl hat at the checkout counter of a local thrift store for $1. Liam has worn it almost non-stop since. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He even sleeps in it.</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>High - Big Boots.</b><br />
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This picture makes me laugh. And cringe a little at the idea of broken, twisted legs. But mostly laugh.<br />
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<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-2684208950771452612015-08-28T10:27:00.000-05:002015-08-28T10:27:14.706-05:00Highs and Lows NOTE: After declaring in March (!) that I was reviving the blog I wrote a couple posts, then forgot to post them. That means that now they are MONTHS old.<br />
<br />
As Supreme Ruler of this blog, I've decided to publish them anyway. <br />
<br />
This one in particular is out-of-date because the mammoth dog has gone to live with a family who has a hobby farm and other animals and all sorts of outdoor activity that he can participate in. Seeing as he was utterly uninterested in playing with children, he was bored at our house and now he has other animals to pretend he's in charge of. So the dog is happier and I get to breeze past the enormous-bags-of-dog-food aisle at Costco with nary a glance into it. Win-win.<br />
<br />
Without further ado, one of the out-dated posts...<br />
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It's been too long since I posted Highs and Lows.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>A Bloody </b><b>Big </b><b>LOW</b>:<br />
<br />
I haven't started swearing like a Brit, this low is actually bloody. <br />
<br />
Side note: I'm not British. My knowledge of British culture is from tv and movies. As far as I know, Britain is made of up Downton Abbey, MI6, and the Duchess of Cambridge. That being said, I have no idea of the severity of the word 'bloody'. Am I Brit-swearing like a sailor? Or is it the equivalent of 'crap'? I expect an answer in the comment section from my two British readers - Tanya and Kristin.<br />
<br />
Side note #2: This Low section deals with a lot of blood. If you don't like blood (Mom), it might be best for you to just skip ahead to the Highs...<br />
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SO, the <b>Low</b>: My dog had a nose bleed. <br />
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Yes, a nosebleed.<br />
<br />
What caused it? No one knows. <br />
<br />
The vet guessed 'kicked in the face by a horse.' <br />
<br />
Ok. <br />
<br />
Maybe. He showed no other signs of trauma and let me jab him in the muzzle without doing anything. (This is pretty normal, the not doing anything. <a href="http://whimsy-ma-blog.blogspot.com/2015/03/i-miss-my-blog-and-funny-things-keep.html" target="_blank">Because he's like Eeyore.</a>) So I'm skeptical, but there <i>are</i> horses next door.<br />
<br />
Regardless of what caused it, I went out after lunch one fine day to check the mail and <i>there was blood everywhere. </i>This is not an exaggeration. All over the driveway, on the front steps and on the garage floor.<br />
<br />
And one look at the dog revealed two big, black, bleeding nostrils.<br />
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It was like the set from a horror movie.<br />
<br />
You know those scenes where some homicide detectives are discussing blood splatter patterns? I just kept wondering what they would make of this. Would they get 'Newfoundland with a nosebleed and a tendency to shake his head'?<br />
<br />
I hooked the bleeder up in the grass so I could <i>scrub blood off my driveway and front steps. </i><br />
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After all the scrubbing, I had to go inside and tend to little people and I figured that when I came back out the problem would have solved itself. Because I don't know how to stop dog nosebleeds. (The ever helpful internet recommends putting an ice pack on his nose. Go ahead. Try to put an ice pack on your dogs nose.)<br />
<br />
But later - still bleeding! This is when I chatted with the vet. She asked questions and said, "That's strange...kicked by a horse?...both nostrils? Odd...wait 'til tomorrow and see." So I did. <br />
<br />
Then it got to be late evening, and STILL BLEEDING. <br />
<br />
At this point we realized it could be a sign of heat stroke and, since he's basically a yeti, the 60 degree weather might be killing him. So we got out the doggie trimmers and tried to trim off his thick, thick winter wool. But he has as much surface area as the state of Connecticut. Connecticut with a fur coat so thick it would make a polar bear jealous. And he was droopy and sad - even for him. So we just trimmed his back (poorly, because we were losing the daylight) and put him in the grass for the night, since I didn't want a repeat of the blood-on-the-driveway incident. <br />
<br />
There he was, a droopy, half-trimmed, nose-bleeding, black yeti.<br />
<br />
The next morning - Oh, the humanity. (The canine-ity?)<br />
<br />
The dog had gotten himself free from his constraints and was lying on the back porch against the door. <br />
<br />
And the blood was just everywhere. Because he was STILL BLEEDING.<br />
<br />
We have a big porch. It's multileveled. And I swear he had dripped on every single inch of it. <br />
<br />
This prompted a discussion with my husband about just how much blood a yeti can lose before it becomes a problem. My feeling is that you have to be getting close at TWENTY HOURS of nosebleed.<br />
<br />
With that Medman ducked out the door to work. It's possible he's never been so happy to go to work.<br />
<br />
What came next was an <i>hour</i>-<i>long</i>, grizzly version of a Cinderella scene. Not the go to the ball and dance with the prince part. The scrubbing on hands and knees with a scrub brush and a bucket of bleach water part.<br />
<br />
Except I swear Cinderella's animals <i>helped </i>her. They sewed her a dress and freed her from a tower.<br />
<br />
My animal was impersonating Jackson Pollock. With blood. <i>From his nose.</i> On my porch.<br />
<br />
The details--I can't even talk about. Suffice it to say that this was among the most gruesome hours of my life. <br />
<br />
I finished cleaning the porch, took a shower with the hot water set to "sterilize", got the kids dressed and went out to decide whether to try to get the 130lbs of bleeding, dead-weight up into my van and to the vet or just leave him to sail across the river Styx in peace.<br />
<br />
When I went outside--NO blood. None. Just a happy dog shoving his drooly head at me and wanting to be scratched. And wanting to chase deer. <br />
<br />
So...a day-long nosebleed then.<br />
<br />
Ok.<br />
<br />
The official theory is that he ate a mouse that had been poisoned by rat poison, which has blood thinner in it. <br />
<br />
My personal theory is that he stopped bleeding because he ran out of blood, but his brain works so slowly he hasn't realized yet that this is a problem. <br />
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<br />
<b>Highs?</b><br />
<br />
After recounting this little tale I just can't bear move on to Highs and add pictures of my kids to this...so let's postpone those for another time. (Sorry, Mom, if you skipped the bloody part just to land here...)<br />
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D781864796465153535%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D268420895077145261%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dposts%3BpostNum%3D2%3Bsrc%3Dpostname&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F3.bp.blogspot.com%252F-D1LBTKg6tOQ%252FVTgQ7h4ONgI%252FAAAAAAAABLw%252FC_eWhrMFZ9E%252Fs1600%252FIMG_0773.JPG%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 193px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 234px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D781864796465153535%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D268420895077145261%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dposts%3BpostNum%3D2%3Bsrc%3Dpostname&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252F3.bp.blogspot.com%252F-D1LBTKg6tOQ%252FVTgQ7h4ONgI%252FAAAAAAAABLw%252FC_eWhrMFZ9E%252Fs1600%252FIMG_0773.JPG%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.35&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 20px; left: 193px; opacity: 1; position: absolute; top: 234px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=781864796465153535" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=781864796465153535" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-58916362599091358932015-03-23T17:12:00.001-05:002015-03-23T17:12:55.883-05:00I miss my blog. And funny things keep happening.I miss my blog. <br />
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I miss writing down those crazy/stupid/disgusting/funny things that I DON'T WANT TO FORGET but always do. Because it's easy to forget the funny part of life. <br />
<br />
Studies have shown that forgetting about the funny leads to early onset cantankerousness. <br />
<br />
So, I'm reviving the blog. Hopefully to write semi-regularly again, but I know myself well enough to know that I'm not promising anything.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, here are the funny things that popped into my head which I don't want to forget. <br />
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Funny Thing #1. My kids are loving <i>Eye of the Tiger</i> right now. I have no idea why my husband decided to play it one day, but they are in love. They beg to hear it all the time. As well they should.<br />
<br />
Liam loves to tell us about "things you've never seen". Usually this is true because he tells us about things that are absolute nonsense. <br />
<br />
So, while we're jamming to <i>Eye of the Tiger</i> he says with his usual passion, "I LOVE this song! I do! I LOVE it! And there's another song you've <i>never seen!</i> It's called the F of the Dragon." <br />
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It took me a couple seconds to figure out what mental path his three year old mind had toddled down to get to from <i>Eye of the Tiger</i> to <i>F of the Dragon</i>, but when I did, I laughed hard.<br />
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<br />
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Funny Thing #2. We got a dog. He's the size of a small bear and if you're wondering what he's like, he is a hairy, drool-y Eeyore. <br />
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Yes. That is exactly what he's like. Here's a real picture...</div>
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The funny thing about the dog is that he refuses to do u-turns. Refuses. He'll walk into the kitchen, nose around looking for scraps - which of course he doesn't find due to my exceptional house cleaning practices - then, to leave he<b> backs out.</b> </div>
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Even if he's turned himself so far around so he's almost facing the exit, he turns himself BACK around and drops it into reverse to leave. </div>
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We make loud beeping noises while he does it because he's such slow, lumbering thing. </div>
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I really want to call him short bus, but I feel as though that is derogatory to all the sweet children who ride short busses. He's just like some sort of old folks home van driven by a geriatric patient who does 16-point turns to get the van out of a parking space at Walmart. </div>
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For instance, to get to our garage you go downstairs then u-turn to the right. The dog has been known to go down the stairs, turn left and wait patiently until someone opens up the garage door so he can back himself out. </div>
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I feel as though I should get him rearview mirrors. </div>
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Funny Thing #3. Not funny, but makes me happy: It's March which means open burn season here. That means we get to collect the vast amounts of wood laying around in our, well, woods, and BURN it! I love fires. And I love when it's drizzly so the kids all throw on their cowboy hats. Even my little girl who was sick so bundled up against the drizzle. I love how everyone's hair smells like campfire for the rest of the day.</div>
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We're so very Montana.</div>
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I have to say I don't feel as though this post really lives up to the funny post I feel like it should, but I'm rusty. And I'm happy to know that now that I'm writing again, my little brain will cling to those funny things until I can write them down. </div>
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Hope everyone is doing well! </div>
Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-42923833707786051352014-08-04T16:53:00.003-05:002014-08-04T16:53:45.689-05:00You like Khgunk?<br />
Ok, this is another post about Liam. <br />
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I blog because I remember the parts of my kids tiny years that I blog about better than the parts I don't. And my blog is always heavily weighted toward the kid who's about 2 or 3 years old.<br />
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So I realize the blog is Liam-heavy lately, but he's two. And two-year-olds are hilarious. They get a bad rep, but that's just because they are passionate. About EVERYTHING. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzoSer9WHmMhBKg18qp87iw_mQ7VwqxpOB17zfLwokITLefzI7Tl58AeIlfy7UKy45oROWtvn5oIumiHA8dW5Dj29H3hi-A07qATpS8_hfF_3C-w_nOGDahs21W_CysvREYtYRZKf8D4i0/s1600/IMG_0430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzoSer9WHmMhBKg18qp87iw_mQ7VwqxpOB17zfLwokITLefzI7Tl58AeIlfy7UKy45oROWtvn5oIumiHA8dW5Dj29H3hi-A07qATpS8_hfF_3C-w_nOGDahs21W_CysvREYtYRZKf8D4i0/s1600/IMG_0430.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See? Passionate about his "Sauce Boss" crown.</td></tr>
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And it's easy to remember how passionate they are about not getting that toy they want. But they're also passionate about funniness, and wonder, and encouragement, and kindness. </div>
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And questions.</div>
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Liam and I were in the kitchen the other day when he looked at me with the blazing hot intensity of a million suns and said, </div>
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"Hey!" He was using that oddly macho-man voice that he uses. It's somewhere between a mafia hit man and a disgruntled, middle-aged, German businessman. "You like <b>khgunk</b>?" </div>
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I stared at him blankly.</div>
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He continues to look desperately at me and now points at me too. With a crooked finger. (Because he never points with a straight finger. It's always hooked so you really don't know what he's pointing at.)</div>
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"You like <i>kkhgguunk</i>?!?!"</div>
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He was SO intense and I had SO little idea what he was talking about that I was feeling a bit taken aback.</div>
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Me: "Gunk?"</div>
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Liam: "No, <i>Kunk</i>!"</div>
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Me: "Kunk?"</div>
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Liam, looking aggravated, "No! <b>KKKUNK</b>!"</div>
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At this point I'm starting to laugh because it doesn't usually take me this long to figure out what he's talking about. So I start 20 questions.</div>
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Me: "Is Kunk a food?" We are standing in the kitchen, after all.</div>
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Liam, looking at me like I'm stupid: "No."</div>
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And he gives me nothing more. </div>
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Me: "Uh... is Kunk a....toy?"</div>
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He sighed here, as though it was exasperating to have to deal with such an idiot. "No, Mom. Kunk. Smells yucky. A Kunk."</div>
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Lightbulb ON.<br />
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Me: "OOOOH! A skunk! I forgot you have something against starting words with 's'! Skunk! No, I don't like skunks. Because they smell yucky."</div>
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And he grinned at me. "Me no like kunk either." </div>
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And he left. </div>
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"Glad we had that talk!" I called after him. But he was passionately on to something else. </div>
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And it's a thing now. Everyone in the family now hollers at each other, "Hey! You like kgunk?"'<br />
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It's fun. You should try it. </div>
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Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-37380729340132551612014-07-30T09:50:00.000-05:002014-07-30T09:50:00.114-05:00'Nana Bed<br />
I let Liam help me make banana bread.<div>
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Well, I started to make banana bread and Liam came running across the kitchen hollering, "I help you? I help you make 'nana bed in that - wha- wha- wha- what you call that red ting?"</div>
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"My mixer. And yes, you can help."</div>
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From that we should take away 2 facts. </div>
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1. Liam is in the phase of verbal development when he stutters. And it's cute.</div>
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2. I deserve a pat on the back because I just quadrupled the time it's going to take to make banana bread. Maybe pent-tupled. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But look how happy...</td></tr>
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So I got my softened butter into the mixer and realized I was out of sugar. Since leaving a two-year-old unattended by a mixer and surrounded by baking ingredients is <strike>stupid</strike> poor parenting, I unplugged it and moved EVERYTHING else out of his reach. </div>
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Because that boy loves to add things to the bowl. </div>
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Like picking up the big salt canister and shaking it over the bowl where a batch of cookies are mixing. </div>
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I will never again grumble when that little salt chute is hard to open. It's obstinacy saved our cookies.</div>
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But I digress. </div>
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I cleared the counter, gave some sort of motherly warning/threat/ultimatum about messing with the mixer and scooted down to the garage. </div>
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Where I found no more sugar. </div>
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Which turned out to be ok, because since Liam couldn't reach any of the baking ingredients, the resourceful boy found crumbs, fuzz and an old, crusty piece of shredded cheddar <i>on the floor</i> which he squished deep into the soft butter.</div>
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Gross.</div>
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Obviously the whole making banana bread idea needed to be counted as a loss. I threw away the defiled butter, wrote sugar on the shopping list and looked sadly at my over-ripe bananas.</div>
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Now, you could make a case that the moral of this story is that I need to keep a cleaner kitchen floor, but I'm going to choose to take away from it the eternal truth that you can never trust that a two-year-old will not cause trouble. </div>
Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-10376667334982099742014-07-27T09:13:00.000-05:002014-07-27T09:13:08.797-05:00I've got the GPS - never need a map again!*Driving to the grocery store this morning Belle asked, "Can I tell you how to get there?"<br />
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Me: "Sure!" <br />
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Ok, the exclamation point indicates more enthusiasm that I was able to whip up because this <i>exact</i> scenario plays out <i>every</i> time I drive the kids somewhere. But I tried to sound encouraging.<br />
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Belle: "Ok. You go around...THAT TURN RIGHT THERE!"<br />
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<b>Wait - </b>you should know the setting so that this story can reach its full potential. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/edsuom/">Ed Suominen</a></td></tr>
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To get from our house to the store (or anywhere else we go) we drive:<br />
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<li>2 miles along a winding forest road which has approximately <i><b>zero</b></i> side streets. </li>
<li>Turn left onto the highway. <b>This is the only turn</b>.</li>
<li>Drive along the highway through pretty valleys and forests for 10 miles to town. Again, minimal side streets.</li>
<li><i><b>Every single thing</b></i> we do in town is actually on that highway.</li>
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So when Belle was yelling "THAT TURN RIGHT THERE!" she was not in fact telling me where to turn, she was referring to the winding turns of the road itself. <br />
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This continues almost non-stop.<br />
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"TURN!! TURN!!<br />
"DON'T DRIVE OFF THE ROAD!"<br />
"DON'T BONK THAT TREE!"<br />
"TURN HERE!"<br />
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As you can see, it turns into more of a driving lesson than actual directions. And maybe you can see why I hesitate just a moment before saying "yes" to someone wanting to holler "directions" at me.<br />
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We get to the highway<i> </i>and she says (calmly for once), "Turn here."<br />
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Me: "Right or left?"<br />
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Belle, looking and pointing left: "Um....RIGHT!"<br />
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Me: "Nope. That's left. Remember, you <i>write</i> with your <i>right</i> hand. Write-right. Easy to remember. Which hand do you write with?"<br />
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She tentatively raises her left.<br />
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Me, laughing: "Never mind. I'm turning left."<br />
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Belle: "Now... GO STRAIGHT! NO! TURN HERE!!!"<br />
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All of this is once again referring to the turning of the road itself. <br />
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And as if that weren't enough, now that we're on the highway, every 45 seconds or so Liam shouts, "CAR COMING AT US!"<br />
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He's hollering about that car driving calmly and safely in its own lane of traffic headed the other way. <br />
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Belle: "AND TURN AGAIN.... NOW THE OTHER WAY!!!"<br />
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Liam: "AHHHH! CAR COMING AT US!"<br />
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Belle: "Straaaaaaaight...NOW TURN!!!"<br />
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If you had only an audio copy of our trip, you might think it was a <i>bit</i> more exciting than it really was.<br />
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Half way to town (which is a whole 5 minutes into her directions) Belle stops, clearly exhausted, and sighs. <br />
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"You know what mom?" she says, "If that car in front of us is going to the store, just follow them. And if they aren't....um...then just find a different car and follow them."<br />
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*quoted from that funny little lost car in Disney's <i>Cars</i>.<br />
<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 20px; left: 192px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 294px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 20px; left: 192px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 294px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 20px; left: 192px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 294px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 20px; left: 192px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 294px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-16750475392645062722014-07-03T16:59:00.000-05:002014-07-03T16:59:19.975-05:00Love HurtsI'm just going to skim over the fact that I haven't blogged in six months. Let's just pretend we just chatted last week, ok? Ok.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
******</div>
<br />
Yesterday Belle convinced a butterfly to land on her finger.<br />
<br />
Never-you-mind that I had told her a hundred times that butterflies are scared of people and will try to get away. Especially from little girls who run shrieking after them.<br />
<br />
She did it. It sat on her finger while she walked all the way across the yard hollering for everyone to come see her and the butterfly "who is getting used to me! I think he really likes me!" <br />
<br />
Sure enough, there he was, perched prettily on her little index finger as though she were Princess Aurora. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggH-nXfGeop9RhZJrpsP04R23X6JrD5MeufHas-GGMpbz7WGWzL0KgeHM14j0iHrJc7u9hTNx0gqde6q9eUnAwAi3xzW_VlwUEQBdkslWyfnK7n0_JFFBJbEyupUDjfR_OdbsgnfZo08UJ/s1600/2990085726_cc5966cb3c_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggH-nXfGeop9RhZJrpsP04R23X6JrD5MeufHas-GGMpbz7WGWzL0KgeHM14j0iHrJc7u9hTNx0gqde6q9eUnAwAi3xzW_VlwUEQBdkslWyfnK7n0_JFFBJbEyupUDjfR_OdbsgnfZo08UJ/s1600/2990085726_cc5966cb3c_m.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">https://www.flickr.com/photos/wwarby/</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"His front legs are not sticky," she explained patiently to me, "but his back legs are. That is how he stays on my finger, even if his front legs slip off."<br />
<br />
???<br />
<br />
I'm no butterfly expert, but it seems like all their legs should have the same amount of stickiness. <br />
<br />
Then she turned so I could see the back of it. <br />
<br />
Oh. <br />
<br />
"Honey, is this the butterfly you caught before in the net?"<br />
<br />
"Yup!" she answered positively beaming.<br />
<br />
"The one whose leg got pulled off?"<br />
<br />
"Yup! But he's perfectly fine! I knocked a chunk of his wing off too, but he can fly perfectly! And he loves me!"<br />
<br />
And I couldn't. I just couldn't sit by and let this continue to be so cute.<br />
<br />
Because what she had called the "sticky back legs" was really butterfly guts that had oozed out of the missing leg socket, glueing the poor creatures rump to her outstretched finger.<br />
<br />
Ew.<br />
<br />
To my credit, I didn't actually say "Ew." Although I won't rule out the fact that she might have seen it written clearly on my face.<br />
<br />
I tried to explain what was going on and suggested she might want to go put the poor amputee on a soft piece of grass and come wipe the bug guts off her finger. <br />
<br />
Belle's deep love of the butterfly faltered slightly while she tried to get the ridiculously sticky innards off of her skin. But then she tracked the little guy down again and tearfully chased it across the yard yelling her goodbyes and declaring her love until the insect hobbled - or whatever the airborne form of hobbling is- out into the forest. Probably to die. <br />
<br />
Wait, is a butterfly an insect? Hold please...googling... Well, yes. But funnily enough, things are insects partially because they have six legs. So, I guess his insect status is now a little iffy.<br />
<br />
Good thing he has Belle's undying love as wind beneath his now injured wings.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-14043591210541225962014-01-29T12:28:00.000-06:002014-01-29T12:28:25.877-06:00A worm by any other name would still be...a caterpillar.Liam has a stuffed caterpillar. <br />
<br />
See:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3lnGHvMfkACez6N94dgEMK7Y0K9p9dzXr_ysmUaf9bgXN9zovXbLURcm4j_fucjomzaLfbkaY46uDps6YU0mpNKdTarAxSQAXFv2aBKozrCYbVKKQvBgS5ZVzDF4PBfEH3DPjcqA5voK/s1600/DSC01426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3lnGHvMfkACez6N94dgEMK7Y0K9p9dzXr_ysmUaf9bgXN9zovXbLURcm4j_fucjomzaLfbkaY46uDps6YU0mpNKdTarAxSQAXFv2aBKozrCYbVKKQvBgS5ZVzDF4PBfEH3DPjcqA5voK/s1600/DSC01426.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
He is fond of it. Originally it was given to Dalton as a gift from his sweet friend, Gus, but somehow it's been handed down to Liam. <br />
<br />
I've only had moderate success in convincing my kids that this is indeed a caterpillar. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PRTuMD2y5nf-CcmMOqrbAy2cmBw8lM8D_kg0H1cR8UnyZaFOGhzgbikMUhHmwT9kaw2gd-O1FPodq0sFkUmGQoSvwSa9c-oQJJtOHHwOZ2P_zEHkgLm5OrAc8scUWO0gbZ0YgUJEnGxz/s1600/worm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PRTuMD2y5nf-CcmMOqrbAy2cmBw8lM8D_kg0H1cR8UnyZaFOGhzgbikMUhHmwT9kaw2gd-O1FPodq0sFkUmGQoSvwSa9c-oQJJtOHHwOZ2P_zEHkgLm5OrAc8scUWO0gbZ0YgUJEnGxz/s1600/worm.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
It's always called a worm. Whatever name it goes by, it's soft and squishy and fuzzy and Liam loves to sleep with it and carry it around.<br />
<br />
One day, while trying to distract Liam from whining, or crying, or just being two, I asked him, "What's your worm's name?" <br />
<br />
I didn't really have any curiosity about this - his name was going to be Wormy. Because that is how my children name everything. Dogs are Doggy, fish are Fishy. Even the moon is Moony. <br />
<br />
Liam considered his squishy, little, stuffed worm and said seriously, "Name is Crunchy."<br />
<br />
Me: "<b><i>Crunchy</i></b>? You named your soft...squishy....<i>worm </i>Crunchy?"<br />
<br />
Liam, decidedly: "Yup. Is Crunchy Worm."<br />
<br />
And I laughed and laughed and told Liam he was weird, but in a good way.<br />
<br />
And I vowed to make that name stick. Because it adds joy to my day to call it Crunchy.<br />
<br />
But then, a few days later he was in full nonsense-word mode (which I'm sad to say he reached earlier than the others. I dearly wish he was fully coherent in regular English before he started loving nonsense words...) and was pretending his worm was a light saber, of course.<br />
<br />
I said, "Is Crunchy Worm a light saber?" (Because I am <i>that</i> good of a conversationalist.)<br />
<br />
Liam said, "No, not Crunchy. Name is ... Booby!"<br />
<br />
I snorted because isn't it unfortunate when nonsense words turn out to not really be nonsense? I'm sure he's never heard the word booby, so I decided to try to shift things a bit in the hopes he didn't remember exactly what he had said. <br />
<br />
Because having his favorite caterpillar be named Booby Worm was just too weird.<br />
<br />
So I said, "His name is <i>Poopy</i>?" <br />
<br />
Stop judging me. I don't know how Poopy is much better than Booby. There's no script for these things, people.<br />
<br />
But he looked at me like I was an idiot and said very pointedly and with very deliberate pronunciation, "NO. Name is BOOOO-BEEEEEE."<br />
<br />
And I was at a loss. So I just let him walk out of the kitchen making Jedi noises and swinging Booby the Light Saber Worm around.<br />
<br />
But you can bet your boobies that I was not letting that name stick. <br />
<br />
In fact, like any good mother I decided to pretend that conversation had never happened and bent all my energy toward reinforcing the name Crunchy. <br />
<br />
And I'm glad to say, I win! Booby is a thing of the past and the soft caterpillar is officially Crunchy Worm. <br />
<br />
Then yesterday, in an unexpected twist, Liam gave Crunchy his own Pringles container to live in. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiiTnBOqDxf5eTgFHRiyISEKxfT_g2pLVLamcu61J0W9vhc70b6S0NPzWWK-xfPkYYm6qXPf1pL3lmsOK4ueUG-WiQ9tgBwyae6pIUGEEPD6BWCttcJjGnL6oAn-LslnUlGbpSbdnuu5N/s1600/DSC01438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiiTnBOqDxf5eTgFHRiyISEKxfT_g2pLVLamcu61J0W9vhc70b6S0NPzWWK-xfPkYYm6qXPf1pL3lmsOK4ueUG-WiQ9tgBwyae6pIUGEEPD6BWCttcJjGnL6oAn-LslnUlGbpSbdnuu5N/s1600/DSC01438.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Mommy, this my friend. Right here. Is Crunchy Worm."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Liam didn't bother to finish the Pringles before adding the worm, so I'm happy to report that today, Crunchy is probably a little bit crunchy.<br />
<br />
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<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-21678770395985334582013-12-12T17:21:00.000-06:002013-12-12T17:21:41.160-06:00Cowgirl UpIt's possible that I need to cowgirl up a bit since I live in the wilds of Montana now. <br />
<br />
Fine, it's not technically the wilds, but it's quite a bit more wild than anywhere I've ever dwelt. And I love it. Really, there's something freeing about living here. I'm not sure what it is, but I keep coming back to the fact that I can breath here. That sounds odd, I know, but it's true. I find myself breathing deeply and satisfyingly. Perhaps I have an inner cowgirl that I never knew about and she's happy to be living on the frontier. <br />
<br />
Yes, I can hear you. It's not REALLY the frontier. There's a town 10 miles away with a grocery store, coffee shops and gas stations. I have neighbors and (what sounds <i>really</i> un-frontier-y) a Home Owners Association. But it's a frontier-ish sort of HOA. It coordinates use of the wells that bring water to our houses and has rules like, "Don't shoot guns on your propery. We all live too close to each other." And "Don't keep your yard trashy with run down trailers and cars on cinder blocks."<br />
<br />
Ok, those may be my paraphrase of their rules, but really it just keeps the couple dozen houses in our little community being nice-country instead of trashy-country. So I'm good with it.<br />
<br />
Back to the point. Cowgirling up.<br />
<br />
First I'd like to point out:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The ways I've <i>already</i> cowgirled up. </b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>1. I've become like Paul Bunyan. You can call me Paulina.</b><br />
<br />
We have a wood burning stove in our home - just like every other house on the frontier. We also have baseboard heating, but it was pretty obvious from the smoke above all the other homes that we were the <i>only</i> ones not using our stove to heat our house. Since we had a woodshed with a bunch of chopped wood in it, we got a chimney inspector to come out and check out the stove and chimney that hadn't been used in several years, got the 'all clear' and started burning wood. <br />
<br />
Can I tell you how cozy it is to have a little toasty stove in the computer room? Right now it's behind me burning cheerily. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3UWkyINLT7HaeT5IkGU1xTIyK10VPWBv8c9wBxmejahJoOplTelfU_HversfOH0LSOklI3A_F_SLzCqKzRziL-HwbMXWKVuHc8z1b_h_wWZBExHX2t73jiAUnyDNfSjVRXxDHD-yafxB/s1600/woodstove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3UWkyINLT7HaeT5IkGU1xTIyK10VPWBv8c9wBxmejahJoOplTelfU_HversfOH0LSOklI3A_F_SLzCqKzRziL-HwbMXWKVuHc8z1b_h_wWZBExHX2t73jiAUnyDNfSjVRXxDHD-yafxB/s320/woodstove.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not the corner of my room. <br />
Mine's has a carpet of wood splinters that I need to vacuum. <br />
And I don't have a TINY dog the size of my shoes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And how does this make me lumber jack-ish? Because most of the wood outside is too big for the stove, so each day I head outside... through the snow...<i><b>with my ax</b></i>...to the woodshed and <i>chop them down to size</i>. <br />
<br />
Aren't you impressed? <br />
<br />
You wouldn't be if you could see me do it. Jason can do it with style. He chops with authority. Like a flying scissor kick to the wood. <br />
<br />
Mine's more like a slap. A hard slap. Maybe a backhanded slap. <br />
<br />
But still. <i>I chop wood, people!</i> And even if I don't look quite as cool as Jason, I get it done. <br />
<br />
<br />
2. <b> I make bread.</b><br />
<br />
I know, this isn't very unusual and the reason I make bread is because my hubby gave me a Kitchenaid mixer that does all the kneading for me. But I have made dozens of loaves from scratch since we moved. <br />
<br />
This is sort of a lame point, but I couldn't just have ONE reason why I have already cowgirled up.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Why I still may need to cowgirl up a little bit more:</span></b><br />
<br />
<b>1. What to do with the trash?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
We're too rural for trash pickup, but there are places around where there's a dozen dumpsters and you can dump your trash there whenever you want to. Before it got cold I was wondering how best to deal with stinky trash. My ideal answer is to put it in cans outside, but I can't because there's too much wildlife (see next point) and sticking it straight in my car would make the car stink, so it was stinking up the garage while I continually forgot to take it to the dumpsters when I went into town.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I was at a little gathering of homeschool families and I asked someone what they did. They just sort of looked uncomfortable and then mentioned the dumpsters that I already knew about. <br />
<br />
Finally one mom said, "I dunno, we just burn ours." Everyone looked relieved and nodded. <br />
<br />
Apparently they just have some sort of trash container thingy and they just throw it all in and burn it. Just whenever they want. Willy nilly. I'm still nervous because in Oregon we tried to do a little campfire (<i>in our portable grill!) </i> and the neighbors called the fire department to report it. Guess cowgirls don't worry about that sort of thing because no one else around here cares.<br />
<br />
We don't have any trash burning container thingy though, so I'm just becoming better at using the dumpsters. Maybe next summer when it's nice out in the evenings we'll all head out nonchalantly and burn the day's trash. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2. Hide the evidence</b><br />
<br />
There is a good deal of wildlife around here. Lots of low-on-the-food-chain animals like deer, so there are also some of the I'm-above-deer-on-the-food-chain animals.<br />
<br />
In particular we've had some sightings of mountain lions nearby. <br />
<br />
A few weeks ago one ate a dog a couple properties away. <br />
<br />
Oooh! That's another thing our HOA does. The secretary calls to warn us when there's a mountain lion in the area. In fact that's really the only reason we've talked to her She always begins with, "Well, you shouldn't let your kids out to play unsupervised, we've spotted another cat in the area..." (I would like to note that I feel as though "cat" is a bit of an understatement, even if technically correct.)<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
*********</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Can we take a moment to discuss the mountain lion? The first time we heard there was one in the area I kept careful watch on my kiddos and kept an eye back under the trees in the forested part of the property. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTi-06vLLDwzloI5vNypiZXxAXfx1KGInDYQ-PTFMdUiDSaGRTP1j1lNWalvvGshwgKeSbe7dPzDodLqcPGTgscvInoBzKa6hDOfT2XwVmv1mssukpTURcNi6PROrrn5oz4jd32m668xn/s1600/mtlion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTi-06vLLDwzloI5vNypiZXxAXfx1KGInDYQ-PTFMdUiDSaGRTP1j1lNWalvvGshwgKeSbe7dPzDodLqcPGTgscvInoBzKa6hDOfT2XwVmv1mssukpTURcNi6PROrrn5oz4jd32m668xn/s320/mtlion.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Because, yikes. Even surrounded with cheery yellow flowers.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then, we googled mountain lions, and <i>do you know what??? </i>They're in the TREES, people.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwyvZRSgJEpsDl9vo8ePcMl6G5g_VqSSa1mqyuzhrel25znx7acYWmdb2lz5kczm8jeC6b-hx5imotuz8MuKF_6kXM2LSGrQcRXzhRbIwQtvqSbYG9nrrF1xbegB3NVuZbH5xB4K7xy0fx/s1600/MtnLion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwyvZRSgJEpsDl9vo8ePcMl6G5g_VqSSa1mqyuzhrel25znx7acYWmdb2lz5kczm8jeC6b-hx5imotuz8MuKF_6kXM2LSGrQcRXzhRbIwQtvqSbYG9nrrF1xbegB3NVuZbH5xB4K7xy0fx/s1600/MtnLion.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</blockquote>
Yes, they climb trees and lurk there. Seeing as I'd been walking around under a LOT of trees, keeping my eyes peeled <i>on the ground</i> for mountain lions, that made me feel a little creeped out. </blockquote>
Especially because that whole camouflage thing that animals have going? It really works<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
One day I was out chopping wood and admiring the world around me. I was <i>almost done</i> when something moved <i>right next to the woodshed.</i> It was a buck. Antlers and everything. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Seriously? How long had that big animal been<i> right there</i>? They're practically invisible when they stand still. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Does anyone think I'm actually going to spot the mountain lion before he pounces on me from a tree? </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
No. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My only hope is to try to slap him with my ax before he kills me. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
****************</blockquote>
<br />
At the same homeschool gathering I was mentioning to one of the moms that I wasn't sure what to do if I saw the mountain lion. Is this something for the police? It seems a little heavy for an animal control officer to deal with. Do I call the forest service? After all they are the ones in the paper that are always trapping and releasing troublesome bears. <br />
<br />
This woman looked at me with a little "Oh, poor city girl" look and said, "I'm more of the shoot it, bury it and shut-your-mouth kind of girl." <br />
<br />
All the other moms nodded. <br />
<br />
Right. <br />
<br />
They did offer to come over and shoot it for me, but I'd have to help them bury it and be part of the keep-your-mouth-shut group. <br />
<br />
So I guess if there ever <i>is</i> a mountain lion on our property (and if I'm cowgirl enough) I'll have to shut my mouth about it and you won't hear about it here... Sorry!<br />
<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-33393048442701632092013-11-27T15:31:00.000-06:002013-11-27T15:31:00.923-06:00Part 2: Where We Are<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last time (so long ago it is all but forgotten...)I wrote about <a href="http://whimsy-ma-blog.blogspot.com/2013/10/where-weve-been-and-where-we-are.html" target="_blank">Part 1: Where We Were</a>, so now it's time for where we are.</div>
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Oooh, except I need to tell one little tale about How We Got Here. </div>
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<b>Part 1.5: How We Got Here</b></h2>
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The move to Montana was weirdly smooth. If you remember our <strike>pukefest</strike> <a href="http://whimsy-ma-blog.blogspot.com/2013/10/where-weve-been-and-where-we-are.html" target="_blank">move to Oregon</a>, you may recall that it was not smooth. Slimy, yes. Smooth, no.</div>
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But this time was different. </div>
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Between what history will refer to as The Great Purge (again, a <i>whole </i>different sort of purge than the <i>last</i> move...) where I did my best to empty our home of possessions before we moved and having several weeks more than we had expected to pack, we were in great shape. </div>
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I could have pinned a picture of the inside of our moving truck to Pinterest and it would have gone viral. It was <i>that</i> good. </div>
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There was really only one possible glitch: the tow dolly. </div>
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The tires on Jason's pickup were at the top edge of the approved size so there was a chance it wouldn't fit on the tow dolly behind the truck. </div>
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No big deal, said we. If that happens we'll just do a switcheroo and I'll drive the pickup and we'll tow the minivan. </div>
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And of course, because that was the ONLY possible glitch, that is what happened. </div>
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The truck fit width-wise, which I was excited about, but those strappy things that <i>actually hold </i>the truck onto the tow dolly were about 8 inches too short. And that seemed significant. </div>
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So we went through the rigmarole of moving all the things Jason had safely packed into his truck and crammed and smooshed and wiggled them into all the available space in my van. Jason put the van on the tow dolly. And it fit! Hooray! I even checked the strappy things and they fit beautifully. </div>
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Then there was a strange clunking noise and when I looked at Jason he was just staring at me through the van window. </div>
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I was looking around at the wheels and the tow dolly and wondering why he wasn't getting out when I realized what that clunk had been. </div>
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Turns out my van rides low enough to the ground that if you tried to open the doors they hit against the side of the tow dolly. </div>
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And the kids and I laughed because it was funny that Daddy was stuck in the van. </div>
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Except it turned out that he really was stuck. Neither front door would open. Neither side door had enough room to open. He was completely barricaded in the front seat by all our possessions. If he opened the window and climbed out, there was no way to put the window back up. Same problem with the sunroof. </div>
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So many openings and no way to get out.</div>
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I kept laughing, but Jason wasn't laughing quite so much. </div>
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So the final answer was he'd just have to climb out the back. Through the 6" gap between the TV box and the ceiling and through the gauntlet of the rest of our junk. While we laughed but he did not.</div>
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Good times. </div>
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The kids still randomly say, "Remember when Daddy got stuck in the van?" and everyone has a good laugh. </div>
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<h2>
<b>Part 2: Where We Are</b></h2>
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Besides that, we did arrive happily and uneventfully in beautiful Montana.<br />
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And it really is beautiful. We live 10 minutes outside the city and are surrounded by mountains and woods. (Perhaps I shouldn't call it a city. Let's say town. Unlike the last small town we lived in, this one has no Walmart and no fast food. Both of which I consider to be perks. My kids have only had fast food twice since September 1st. Liam has even stopped asking for nuggets and fries at every meal. It's a beautiful thing. And yes, apparently you have to remove the fast food to 60 miles away before I stop giving in at dinner time and zipping through the drive through instead of cooking...)<br />
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There are deer everywhere and the little fawns have grown a ton over the months we've been here. They're often right up close to the house.<br />
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Even when there's a superhero right at the window.<br />
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There are the most beautiful woods - right on our property! You should smell the air here. It's like a spa treatment for the lungs. <br />
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We also have the World's Creepiest Stump. <br />
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We wanted to put red glowsticks in the eyes for Halloween...but that stump is a ways out there. In the forest. In the dark. Did I mention we have a young mountain lion in the area? That eats pets at night? And near Halloween there were bears? So let's all just imagine how cool it would have looked...... Ooooh! Creepy! Right?<br />
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And the stars. Oh my heavens, the stars! Just picture the most stars you've ever seen then multiply that by 1,000,000. Um, you still better double that. There are that many. It's gorgeous. So gorgeous that it makes highly educated people stand shivering in the cold, craning their necks up and saying, "Wow......ooooh......wow... so many.....wow....AHHH! BAT!" That last part was for the bat that kept dive bombing our heads. Those things are so silent. And flappy. And REALLY hard to see in the pitch dark. <br />
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The Milky Way? It really looks milky. Seeing as the real reason I did rocket science in college was because I like looking at stars, not because I want to design space craft to go visit them, I'm in heaven. Or maybe <i>just </i>below the heavens.<br />
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So hello from beautiful Montana. Come visit us!<br />
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<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-11149031317261719182013-10-01T16:08:00.000-05:002013-10-01T21:19:53.443-05:00Where we've been and where we are<br />
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Ok, four blog posts in 2013 is pretty sad. Especially since I have plenty of things to blog about. <br />
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<i>Let me 'splain. No there is too much. Let me sum up. </i><br />
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<li>We lived in Oregon. </li>
<li>We moved to Montana.</li>
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Hmm, it is as I long suspected - summing up does not make interesting reading.<br />
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Unfortunately, if I put everything I want to say into one post it will be more of a novella. So I think I'll do this in at least two posts (which will probably still both be long...). <br />
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Part 1: Where we've been and Part 2: Where we are. <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Part 1:</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Where we've been - Geographically</span></b></div>
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We spent 11 months in the lovely but wet state of Oregon. It was nice. When the sun shone it was very nice and there are good things to remember, especially from the sunny summer. <br />
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<u>Geographical Place #1: Mt Rainier</u><br />
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Oregon and Washington are peppered with volcanoes. You'll just be driving along a highway, minding your own business when someone will gasp because suddenly, over everything else, there looms a silent volcano. <br />
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But we all know that it's the silent ones you have to watch.<br />
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They are simultaneously mesmerizingly beautiful and incredibly creepy. Because you know they're just biding their time until they become <i>this...</i></div>
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<u>Geographical Place #2: Mt. St. Helens</u><br />
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This volcano is noticeably less beautiful than the last, eh? That's because one sunny spring day 30 years ago it <i>blew up and destroyed everything around it.</i> And they tell you that while you're standing at the base of it. Things like, "<i>The point where you are standing was incinerated 2.3 seconds after the main eruption. Here are a bunch of creepy informational posters about all the people we know who died because the mountain suddenly killed them."</i><br />
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Thankfully the semi-morbid nature of the information was balanced by the fact that there was a plate on the floor attached to a seismograph that the children were <i>supposed</i> to stomp on. "As hard as I can?!?" Yes honey, stomp away. Watch the needle move. Or just stomp, because we all know stomping is more fun than watching needles.<br />
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<u><br /></u><u>Geographical Place #3: The Pacific Ocean</u><br />
We did get to go to the beach quite a few times.<br />
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Dalton had fun in the waves. <br />
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In the ice cold waves. <br />
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I tried, but the ocean water was freezing the blood in my feet and then trying to send blood ice cubes back up my legs into the rest of my body. I'm married to a doctor <i>and </i>I've watched enough TV to know that once that ice-blood reached my heart I was going to die. I had to go back onto dry land. For the good of my children. <br />
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Thankfully Belle and Liam wanted nothing to do with the water and someone had to supervise them. <br />
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Belle was in love with her swimsuit. You'll notice that she's the only one not fully clothed. I guess Belle's blood is unfreezable. <br />
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Liam often found deep sand pits that other beach-goers had dug. Yes, I know his eyes are closed. It's challenging to photograph a hyper 2-year-old at the beach. This was the only picture out of 46 of them that even showed his face. Picture big brown eyes and there ya have it. <br />
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And look! Even a picture of Jason and me. Unheard of, I know. That bright light above me is my halo. Those things just don't photograph clearly.<br />
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Three tiny children...one big world.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Where we've been - Educationally</span></b><br />
<br />
<b>Educational Subject #1: Botany</b><br />
<br />
We homeschool, so what do we do when summer gets a little boring? Scour Pinterest for science experiments, pick the easiest one that requires minimal preparation, uses things from around the house and ends up with a pretty result. <br />
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Like dying white carnations by putting them in colored water. How cheery are these?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxKdrvtHnym6zUVoVlUuJY4RakakOZeB1TeV3upZ2W0jvvs2RvIEFC7xROEvDdU7X4bAO63EGc7UUEFprstgzwT8lgs6z4dlvBLGdhT_uG51ScVzAy2MOvZJMmdAcTJEIaCLRmfjAmvBb/s320/carnations.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nearlywildlife.com/2012/color-changing-flowers/" target="_blank">image credit</a></td></tr>
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These are some other family's carnations after a little time in the colored water. People claimed to see colors starting within a half hour. Hooray for quick gratification!<br />
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<i>Listen up, kids, it's school time. Flowers drink by sucking water up through their stems like straws! Yes! Just like straws!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
We bought carnations, made a gazillion different cups of colored water and waited expectantly. <br />
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And waited...<br />
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And waited...<br />
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...FOR DAYS.<br />
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And here you go!<br />
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What? Can't see the colors? Allow me to zoom in...<br />
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There! Yes, there! Blue! Please tell me you can see the blue. (Confession time. That blue is seen by zooming in AND adjusting the color saturation in Photoshop. But c'mon, I can't leave this as a total science fail.)<br />
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If we're handing out awards to the most colorful flower the real winner is the short one that actually fell under the yellow water. Yes it's soggy but at least it's not white any longer.<br />
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So now my kids probably do not believe that flowers drink through their stems. They clearly get water into themselves by being dunked. <br />
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<b>Educational Subject #2: Zoology </b><br />
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We went to the Wildlife Safari which is an enormous drive-thru-zoo. It's like a 2 hour road trip through the African, Asian and American wildlands. <br />
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The highlight was getting to be <i>this close</i> to a lion.<br />
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(See the car window in the picture? I think Jason could have reached out and touched her, although he declined my dare to do so.) Those are some serious creatures. She looked so beautiful. But we kept saying how if she looked straight at us and snarled, we'd have floored it.</div>
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There were also bears in ponds...<br />
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..and giraffes on roads.<br />
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But the real danger in the place is this fellow. </div>
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I'm not kidding. The lions brooded, the bears lolled, the cheetahs paced, the tigers looked regal. <br />
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This peacock? It walked up to our car, circled us, then <i>chased and attacked us.</i> Smashed its deceptively delicate-looking head right into the taillight of my new minivan <i>and cracked it.</i> Punk. We actually had to drive away from it faster than the 10 mph we were supposed to be driving before it would leave us alone. I would have plucked out his fancy tail feathers and made the kids turn them into quills as an art project if I'd known he'd damaged my car. Or just tossed him to the lion.<br />
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Ok, that wraps up our summer. Thanks for readin--OH NO, WAIT! I forgot one thing.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Where we've been - Metaphysically</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
The house we lived in in Oregon was never homey. Never. We just didn't like it. It was echo-y and cold and hollow and the whole time we were there we just felt sort of disgruntled with it.<br />
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Our <i>second to last day</i> there we were having dinner with the neighbors and they referenced, "Well, you know...<i>with what happened in your house</i>..." <br />
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Um, no. We don't know. What happened in our house? Our house that looked like someone was fixing it up then at some point just whipped off the rest of the work and left it as is?<br />
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Turns out the owner's son was living there and fixing up the house...<br />
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...before he killed himself in it. <br />
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Really neighbors? We lived there for almost a year and NONE of you brought up what was probably the most shocking thing to happen on the block since...I don't know...since Lewis and Clark came through?<br />
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So, if you don't believe in bad juju magumbo you can just be surprised that NONE of our chatty neighbors referenced this event. <br />
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But if our lives do leave echos in the places we live, then you can hope that the (painfully) noisy laughs and squeals and hollers of our children which happily echoed through the house for 11 months redeemed it a little so that the next residents might find it more homey. <br />
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Tune in next time for <b>Part 2: Where we are.</b> </div>
Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-15302707288662409312013-08-16T00:29:00.000-05:002013-08-16T00:29:26.312-05:00What's in a name?Yes, you may have noticed a little bit of a lag in blogging lately. And yes, a "little bit of a lag" may mean that I've basically dropped it completely over the last, um, year. I have excuses, but only a few are good and none are interesting to write about, so let's just pretend I've haven't ignored this little patch of the inter-garden for the past season, chop our way through the weeds and move on. I'll try to get back to posting regularly, but for now, here's a quick snippet.<br />
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To ease back into things I just <i>must</i> record some things both Dalton and Belle have said recently that have made me laugh more times than I can count. <br />
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One day all of us were outside playing in the hose and Jason kept teasing Dalton and soaking him. In an effort to tease Jason back, Dalton yelled, "Daddy, you are a moron with a cow!" <br />
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Which made Jason and I die laughing. First of all, we'd never heard him say moron in his life. And then "with a cow"? What? <br />
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So we joked about it for a little while. Well, actually we laughed and laughed and Jason and I called each other morons with cows for about the next, um, couple days. But we did pull it together and after finding out Dalton didn't know what moron meant, we explained the word and that he shouldn't call people that and don't use words you don't understand. You know, all the other good parenting things we had to say in an attempt to make up for our first response. <br />
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Which leads us to the conversation I had with Belle:<br />
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Me: "Belle, I know Daddy and I were laughing about it, but I don't want you to call people morons. It's not nice. Do you know what it means?"<br />
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Belle: "No."<br />
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Me: "It means they are not smart. That they are stupid. So I don't want to hear you calling anyone a moron, ok?"<br />
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Belle shifting a little and looking confused: "Well, ok, Mommy...But then what <i>do</i> we call the morons?"<br />
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And I died laughing and had to leave the room. <br />
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Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-44483881609421667182013-05-07T23:30:00.000-05:002013-05-07T23:30:49.182-05:00The glass ceilingIt was months ago when I posted about <a href="http://whimsy-ma-blog.blogspot.com/2012/10/for-love-of-brain.html">Belle's level of love for me compared to her dad</a>. I just can't compete. The glass ceiling is real, people. In our house that ceiling lies right below the level of her father.<br />
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Exhibit A: Our conversation while I was putting her to bed.<br />
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Let the record show that I was being kind and snuggling with her even after she was already supposed to be in bed and we'd been having a lovely time talking about Winnie the Pooh. <br />
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<i>From a recording of Winnie the Pooh: </i>"Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!"<br /><br />Me, giving her a hug: Oh, Belle! How I do love you!<br /><br />Belle, smiling back sweetly: Oh, Mom! How I do love Dad!<br /><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-26011013972957676512013-04-11T16:56:00.000-05:002013-04-11T16:56:43.532-05:00Jingle BelleThis post is preemptive in case you ever happen upon me and hear me singing some nonsensical tune. <br />
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I am not crazy. <br />
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At least not in the sing-nonsense-to-myself sort of way. <br />
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These days I sing nonsensical things for one reason and one reason only. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Belle</span>.</div>
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The girl has a future in composing pop music. If pop music is still around in 2033, she'll be a millionaire. She has SUCH a knack for inventing catchy songs. <br />
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<b>Sweet</b><br />
Her debut song was "We are friends together." Those were the only words but the tune was so nauseatingly cute that I was sure she'd learned it from Barney. But no, apparently she came up with the tune and phrase in her own little pink brain. <br />
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I would putter around the kitchen crooning, "We are friends....together!" <br />
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Since then the words have gotten odder and the tunes much more catchy.<br />
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<b>Quirky</b><br />
One of my very favorites is the rolling romp of a song that goes, "And it's always NIGHT on the moon!" Those are the only words again. It just repeats. In its peppy way. And I often find myself tossing laundry into the dryer to the beat of it .<br />
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Besides, those words really make me laugh. It was WEEKS of singing it before the inevitable happened. Dalton, who I though had a pretty good grasp of the whole moon-earth-sun relationship, stopped singing, crinkled his nose and looked thoughtfully out the window. Then he said, "Wait a minute. Mom, IS it always night on the moon?" <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Funny in a gross sort of way</b><br />
The winner for downright weirdest is the one she made up while she was waiting for someone to come and assist her in finishing up her toilet. After her usual sing-songy call of, "MOO-OOOMMMM! I POO--OOOPED!" I came upstairs to find her on the toilet singing quietly, "There's no one here to WIPE me! There's no one here to WIPE me!" <br />
<br />
I almost want to video her singing these so you can get them stuck in your head too. Because I'd love to not be the ONLY person perusing the cheese selection at the grocery store while singing, "There's no one here to WIPE me!" <br />
<br />
<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-27900869660414761682013-01-13T16:18:00.002-06:002013-01-13T16:18:46.043-06:00Highs and Lows - mid-January editionLooking back at last year makes me realize something. I suck at blogging. In 2011 I blogged almost once a week. 2012? Only every other week. That's not very often. I realized that I blogged most often when I kept up on my Highs and Lows. I also realize these are some of my own personal favorite posts because it's a great reminder to me of the craziness that went on around my home. <br />
<br />
And it often makes me grateful that whatever caused my lows is usally something the kids have outgrown. Kids growing up is wonderful. Can I get an amen?<br />
<br />
<br />
So here's some highs and lows by person:<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Liam:</b></span><br />
<b>High: (Or more precisely, the chance of a high...)</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidblavIhKE7tdBtiBxM13Ijvqzi9lr4Fgm6R3LacQduK8hwr55Kr4QvSEDLubvEOVVweo5jPfdh_JVRg-mEBg-7pZVluF5pFPkUsdf8xHf_pRwv8MQKpBh-bZ6afZGSZav_bAr5m_nY7az/s1600/IMAG2953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidblavIhKE7tdBtiBxM13Ijvqzi9lr4Fgm6R3LacQduK8hwr55Kr4QvSEDLubvEOVVweo5jPfdh_JVRg-mEBg-7pZVluF5pFPkUsdf8xHf_pRwv8MQKpBh-bZ6afZGSZav_bAr5m_nY7az/s320/IMAG2953.jpg" width="188" /></a></div>
<br />
I think that there MIGHT be a SLIGHT possibility that Liam COULD learn to talk soon. <br />
<br />
Maybe. <br />
<br />
Because we've been convinced that he's never going to. After all he's almost a teenager and he doesn't speak.<br />
<br />
Alright, fine. He's 17 months old but he honestly only has ONE real word. Mama. And that is recent. <br />
<br />
To be fair he also says "bye bye." But instead of b's he uses d's. So whenever some is going away he yells, "DIE!! DIE!!!" <br />
<br />
Which, I think we can all agree, is not very friendly. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He won't even repeat words.<br />
<br />
Me: "Liam, say doggie."<br />
<br />
Liam: "Enddggaggoao moooommmmmmmssfflkj. gnk"<br />
<br />
Me: "Liam, say Belle"<br />
<br />
Liam, "Gaagggooddnnnngllskk. gnk."<br />
<br />
Yes, he always ends with the 'gnk' sound. <br />
<br />
<br />
But yesterday, while Medman was trying to watch football (which is a low we Bronco fans are NOT going to talk about) and had tried about a dozen friendly things to get Liam to stop poking him in the face, he said, "Liam, go away."<br />
<br />
Liam looked at him seriously and said, "Away."<br />
<br />
Shocked silence.<br />
I motioned enthusiastically at Medman to say it again.<br />
<br />
"Go away."<br />
<br />
"Away."<br />
<br />
"Go away!"<br />
<br />
"Away!" <br />
<br />
Exciting, no? Don't judge our parenting. I'd say in the grand scheme of things learning to speak outweighs whatever short lived emotional scarring will occur from both his parents eagerly telling him to go away. <br />
<br />
<br />
Since then I am pretty certain he has tried to say ball and when I tried to read the Thomas book to him at naptime today he did hollar "ELLLLMMMAA" while pointing at the (wordy and boring) Elmo book he wanted to read. <br />
<br />
So, stay tuned for the day I can officially make this a high because he is consistently trying to talk.<br />
<br />
<b>Low</b>: That day is not here yet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoczZzg6xmCSfoBVM1qJzffcB8eLs5dnOseIrpj21fXMl_83cyn7OK1UMnD47zuNX1-1wldlkJbuq77HF0-RyjTdiwPHnBZtx9L5xx2zE9ROiO6ENaX9A5GGiE5K-ZB9QbXgkGunCB5kRD/s1600/IMAG2940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoczZzg6xmCSfoBVM1qJzffcB8eLs5dnOseIrpj21fXMl_83cyn7OK1UMnD47zuNX1-1wldlkJbuq77HF0-RyjTdiwPHnBZtx9L5xx2zE9ROiO6ENaX9A5GGiE5K-ZB9QbXgkGunCB5kRD/s320/IMAG2940.jpg" width="298" /></a><b><span style="font-size: large;">Belle and Dalton:</span></b><br />
The other night we let Belle and Dalton do a sleepover. (By "we" you know I meant Medman thought of it, right? Does ANYONE think that the mom came up with an idea like that? No, that has "Fun Dad Idea With Possibly Terrible Ramifications" written all over it.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>High</b>:<br />
Oh me of little faith, because they did really well and had a blast. Their two rules were No Fighting and No Jumping. I don't think we actually had to do the No Fighting rule. Any time those two have gotten to sleep in the same room as each other there is nothing but hysterical laughter for hours. <br />
<br />
In fact, next time they're bickering in the middle of the day I think I'm going to declare it Sleep Over Time and send them both up into Belle's room. Hours and hours of ceaseless laughing.<br />
<br />
<b>Low</b>:<br />
Belle is the child who will wake up at night. You can dance toys on Dalton's head while he sleeps and he won't stir. Really, we have videos.<br />
<br />
But Belle sometimes wakes up. So around 3:15 am she woke up and apparently needed me. So she started crying for me. Which woke Dalton up (wow). From what I can put together, their conversation went something like this:<br />
<br />
Dalton: Belle, what's wrong?<br />
Belle: I have something to tell mommy!<br />
Dalton: You should tell her in the morning. (Do you see how smart my boy is?)<br />
Belle: I <i>can't possibly wait until morning!!!!</i> It is <i>so very important!!!!</i> <i>I MUST tell her NOW!!!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Since Belle religiously follows the "Don't Get Out Of Bed At Night" rule, she used her imperial power to send Dalton in to our room to let us know she had something to tell me. <br />
<br />
When I entered the room, she began a very Belle-ish tale.<br />
<br />
"Mommy, before I went to bed tonight - this night, the one where I put on these blue footie pajamas which are SO WARM and COZY and I love so much more than the monkey ones - before this night - but after it had already gotten dark even the part of the sky that was still yellow for a long time after dinner - at the beginning of THIS night I saw a train. But you didn't. And I had to tell you that."<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>High:</b><br />
About 8 words into this I noticed that Medman had followed me in.<br />
<br />
Sucker. <br />
<br />
I patted his shoulder and said something encouraging like, "You got this," and went back to bed. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Low</b>:<br />
When Belle wakes up at night, if she really wakes up she ends up talking to herself for about an hour before going back to sleep. <br />
<br />
When Belle also completely wakes up Dalton the two of them chatter to each other for TWO HOURS until their mean mom comes in and declares that if anyone makes even one single sound they are going back to their own beds. <br />
<br />
Judging from the next day it is much more difficult for a mom to be up for two hours in the middle of the night than for a three year old and a six year old.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hope everyone had a lovely holiday season! <br />
<br />
Anyone have any highs or lows they want to share?<br />
<br />
OR anyone have any grand ideas on getting a kid to talk? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-57941531406821015972012-12-22T01:43:00.000-06:002012-12-22T01:43:58.835-06:00Sorry Excuse for a Christmas Card 2012 I've declared it an official tradition that I send out a Christmas card through the blog because I'm too much of a slacker to do a real one. My other excuse this year is that I don't have a good camera. My "digital camera" (I use the term loosely) has issues. To get it to focus requires pushing the button down halfway about a hundred times during which time I believe the camera is actually swearing at me. Then, maybe because it uses up so much energy in cussing and trying to focus on whatever's in front of it, it only grumbles out eight blurry pictures before the battery dies. <br />
<br />
So for pictures I'm stuck with my phone. And it's a phone. <br />
<br />
Therefore this year I didn't even do the normal take-a-thousand-pictures-hoping-for-one-good-enough-to-photo-shop thing. Because it would have been eight blurry bad pictures and I don't think there should be that much swearing during a Christmas photo shoot. Besides, after some serious statistical analysis I realized there was a 0.00003% chance that any of those shots would have been good.<br />
<br />
I did ask Santa for a new camera for Christmas, but seeing as I just remembered I wanted one two days ago, I may have asked Santa too late. <br />
<br />
So, in lieu of a real Christmas card or even a Christmas card-y sort of blog post, here's some blurry phone pictures for your viewing pleasure. <br />
<br />
Merry Christmas.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>First some random cuteness:</b><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GcTfsNwo_Yi_TcctMAkTCRkFasWQk6FsQmcCi22Qdu55NO21yEtF_0AuYOoY6DZA96V1lM4iSynt3DMlnus5tmOwSV8ZBSqd9jPZexRJO885M0wBO_fcRAw7kZD7O40Wh5bt5jJ9mQgi/s1600/IMAG2723.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GcTfsNwo_Yi_TcctMAkTCRkFasWQk6FsQmcCi22Qdu55NO21yEtF_0AuYOoY6DZA96V1lM4iSynt3DMlnus5tmOwSV8ZBSqd9jPZexRJO885M0wBO_fcRAw7kZD7O40Wh5bt5jJ9mQgi/s320/IMAG2723.jpg" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liam finds a Liam-sized tree.</td></tr>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gpjFEG3V1xlBKSbFgntlYdXVHb7cTspP8vA32vunw6l0pnIl4L1aPHTeYr1DsK_xq5lc0pHD2XdXvOYReaAmF9JI_3FdwUiTU6-oqt4Q5OydFjgudnzeBuZMPqtw7RZEGQ2JWJNYxibj/s1600/IMAG2734.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gpjFEG3V1xlBKSbFgntlYdXVHb7cTspP8vA32vunw6l0pnIl4L1aPHTeYr1DsK_xq5lc0pHD2XdXvOYReaAmF9JI_3FdwUiTU6-oqt4Q5OydFjgudnzeBuZMPqtw7RZEGQ2JWJNYxibj/s200/IMAG2734.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty cute even if she is snuggling a paper towel roll.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
*******</div>
<br />
<b>Playing in the snow we got a couple of days ago.</b> (Belle saw the snow and screamed, "NOW it's Christmas!" Then was temporarily devastated that she couldn't open presents immediately.) <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPfO1UxIlfvP-Iz8cPTOci2wbKMVxDI5oJRaEBcYLs5it2E1YJw8pqlxIpipdQTD-IVTTVpXYzYnfhz-Obj6A0_ysHnZetcMH61pBH39xEME9gB1Jk83yAjto4Or6w-Lglh82-gQkaehb/s1600/IMAG2819.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPfO1UxIlfvP-Iz8cPTOci2wbKMVxDI5oJRaEBcYLs5it2E1YJw8pqlxIpipdQTD-IVTTVpXYzYnfhz-Obj6A0_ysHnZetcMH61pBH39xEME9gB1Jk83yAjto4Or6w-Lglh82-gQkaehb/s320/IMAG2819.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love fluffy toddlers so bundled up that they can't lower their arms all the way.</td></tr>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDJtcKUs3bU8vd8PA6ATSBGDPSKbgQ7YwGhw_6iTNA_CQdRzEUTk1MEk5L3ydqAC51zKYgObyHBOakqIhwqEOL5YdeHf-628Pep7v1Cvzi-_5hO3bzd9gXxM0LNuaXRoc9njx__5RSbvo/s1600/IMAG2850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDJtcKUs3bU8vd8PA6ATSBGDPSKbgQ7YwGhw_6iTNA_CQdRzEUTk1MEk5L3ydqAC51zKYgObyHBOakqIhwqEOL5YdeHf-628Pep7v1Cvzi-_5hO3bzd9gXxM0LNuaXRoc9njx__5RSbvo/s320/IMAG2850.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, you can feel bad for his cold hands. I don't have gloves small enough for him. And really, were any going to stay on? I think not. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju048POh5DXfa1Nj89RJSlL0J2TA5y4a-xcuYBpzjlHwjZObSHULHmzcZXzNHD3h-FiMvsbQiEgu9emrO32aF_goGhtyXGmL99HJ6SbaTe5GROguDPFFs6P2KOiGDRCIZL80QVWWeKjOUb/s1600/IMAG2822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju048POh5DXfa1Nj89RJSlL0J2TA5y4a-xcuYBpzjlHwjZObSHULHmzcZXzNHD3h-FiMvsbQiEgu9emrO32aF_goGhtyXGmL99HJ6SbaTe5GROguDPFFs6P2KOiGDRCIZL80QVWWeKjOUb/s320/IMAG2822.jpg" width="177" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhIBZBTUgS5mvs-GODFpBo82hxyMbsLYu_k4MJx2jucM_c-cK-1Ysu9z1xFvUWG2toBZ_5cBcgo1ofNdCY77dlm4dzuaganrfA_wO3BiqrFLFU2eIxfhBbEXlu3eLTyaGVLhLErOs6iSr/s1600/IMAG2839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhIBZBTUgS5mvs-GODFpBo82hxyMbsLYu_k4MJx2jucM_c-cK-1Ysu9z1xFvUWG2toBZ_5cBcgo1ofNdCY77dlm4dzuaganrfA_wO3BiqrFLFU2eIxfhBbEXlu3eLTyaGVLhLErOs6iSr/s320/IMAG2839.jpg" width="161" /></a></td></tr>
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*******</div>
<br />
<b>And just a little weirdness</b>, in case you thought your kids were the only strange ones: <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUoL_dcgrkIABWTZOWrc0tya9DH_AUExKaQ5FEnQaM6avYbIX18Hd9uqpjUaxsn3r3ufWEgB7A75vzXuCVRhkn9XZjaV_aPv7ELsnzrz96_lOp98C-a0TQqDAUs1-4xMUkMIVVI1dKDacY/s1600/IMAG2874.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUoL_dcgrkIABWTZOWrc0tya9DH_AUExKaQ5FEnQaM6avYbIX18Hd9uqpjUaxsn3r3ufWEgB7A75vzXuCVRhkn9XZjaV_aPv7ELsnzrz96_lOp98C-a0TQqDAUs1-4xMUkMIVVI1dKDacY/s320/IMAG2874.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't pretend to know why Liam does this a dozen times each day.<br />
He's usually grumbling and muttering something inarticulate at the same time. </td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
*******</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b>And I leave you with a Vader montage:</b><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5zKlkwARDIAZDp9IHdX7MyJwCYeWzOmMg_FPaIf0386XMFRFlH2IiFsAm1SwXBT131MRD4C5eOsV9LS-UidTn9T1cZUzYLGxhFO8DQFspVYIUrhCxKPO9jA-WyBlGprnsVeA3c1EYib3/s1600/IMAG2886.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5zKlkwARDIAZDp9IHdX7MyJwCYeWzOmMg_FPaIf0386XMFRFlH2IiFsAm1SwXBT131MRD4C5eOsV9LS-UidTn9T1cZUzYLGxhFO8DQFspVYIUrhCxKPO9jA-WyBlGprnsVeA3c1EYib3/s320/IMAG2886.jpg" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rebels are coming?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wtJtqLdlnjIam4IfACXVCyEUwKKNrzhyphenhyphenyG-3BW1BfV7vdp-m7ZkBaneI_wsM2M4S_DySy2XZhmfOhF64f3D50_8OSG-9buahjKlylh0FL0W3vMEWbym8bdmwMrPU69xEMC_HA0clL_l_/s1600/IMAG2887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wtJtqLdlnjIam4IfACXVCyEUwKKNrzhyphenhyphenyG-3BW1BfV7vdp-m7ZkBaneI_wsM2M4S_DySy2XZhmfOhF64f3D50_8OSG-9buahjKlylh0FL0W3vMEWbym8bdmwMrPU69xEMC_HA0clL_l_/s320/IMAG2887.jpg" width="184" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What we gonna do?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_WaUP8SwMGC5BDJb3akvs1K8rPF_kTTUZCRia9-TpzU_evX5c3nGVoH1wOXsm_UBZzfb4gafgnXD0k4mlzgPYYJdprg7DI3YIpM1Ze7vEciutxD0ZOdtPAs1-6K7P8DOE-Rm57eDY0vG/s1600/IMAG2890.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_WaUP8SwMGC5BDJb3akvs1K8rPF_kTTUZCRia9-TpzU_evX5c3nGVoH1wOXsm_UBZzfb4gafgnXD0k4mlzgPYYJdprg7DI3YIpM1Ze7vEciutxD0ZOdtPAs1-6K7P8DOE-Rm57eDY0vG/s320/IMAG2890.jpg" width="196" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just dance....Just dance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;"><b>Merry Christmas! </b></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;">May your Christmas season include as least as much peace </span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;">as I had during the 30 seconds they sat and contemplated the beautiful tree.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-65105694649290405012012-11-02T07:00:00.000-05:002012-11-02T07:00:04.908-05:00Embrace the Porcupine<br />
We've <a href="http://whimsy-ma-blog.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-oregon-trail.html" target="_blank">moved across the country</a> and settled in a new home. This home has lots of lovely things about it. <br />
<br />
It's on a quiet culdesac.<br />
It has a nice fenced yard.<br />
It has a cute breakfast nook and front window and brick fireplace.<br />
It has a covered pergola in the back yard for the kids to play under in the rain. (Yes, we moved to Oregon. Some of you may not know this, but it seems to rain a bit here. Just gentle little sprinkles of rain on and off. So far I find it lovely.)<br />
<br />
But there's two things that our different from our last house<br />
<br />
1) way less square footage<br />
2) no carpeting. <br />
<br />
This makes for cozing living. Both physically and auditorily.<br />
<br />
<br />
A little back story:<br />
Dalton has noise issues. When he was little he had Noise Issues. Parades with fire trucks? Torturous. Indoor swimming pools with kids yelling and splashing? Tears and covered ears. <br />
<br />
I wondered, "Why does this child have noise issues? Is it because his brain is so highly developed that he hears even more than the normal person? Are his eardrums unnaturally large?"<br /><br />
Since having a whole gaggle of children in the house I've come up with the real reason he has noise issues. <i>Both his parents have noise issues.</i> <br />
<br />
I didn't even know I did, but I do. <br />
<br />
Fun fact: Carpet absorbs sound. I had no idea how much. Until we moved into this lair of hard floors. <br />
<br />
It's been an adjustment since moving in here. And by adjustment I mean I haven't adjusted at all.<br />
<br />
I believe there has been more than one occurrence of an adult female in the house yelling, "FOR THE LOVE OF CHRISTMAS WILL ALL OF YOU PEOPLE STOP HAVING FUN AND SHUT YOUR MOUTHS FOR JUST FIVE MINUTES?" <br />
<br />
You see, loud noises sometimes feel like porcupine quills jabbing into my brain. <br />
<br />
<br />
Soooooo anyway, yesterday I decided that since there was absolutely no way I was going to end up with a quiet house, maybe the house and I could compromise. I will send the children outside for nice chunks of time, and when they are inside I will embrace the noise. Perhaps even contribute to it. <br />
<br />
So we had this race/parade/free-for-all time yesterday which involved Dalton running some sort of Jedi race, Belle running after him with an empty milk jug full of clothespins (noisiest toddler-friendly toy EVER) and Liam running after everyone just yelping and screeching to his hearts content. I stood on the sideline and coached. Loudly.<br />
<br />
I was embracing the porcupine. <br />
<br />
And as you can imagine, while embracing the porcupine I was jabbed often by sharp quills, but I did it. <br /><br />
I did forget that during this time Medman was upstairs trying to study. He wasn't quite as happy about the proximity of the porcupine. Oops. I'm not even sure he's on board with embracing it. I haven't asked yet. <br />
<br />
But anyway, there's my goal. Embrace the porcupine. <br />
<br />
Today while Medman was at work we did cotton ball games (why, oh why, did I tell them we'd do this?) It wasn't bad noise-wise until this game:<br />
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<br />
<br />
Yup, blow cotton balls across the floor (and around a hyper, cotton-ball-grabbing Liam) with straws. Pure genius, right? Do you know how much energy they expend in almost silent activity since they suck at blowing? <br />
<br />
HOLY MOSES I FORGOT THOSE STRAWS MAKE AN EARSPLITTING WHISTLE WHEN YOU BLOW THROUGH THEM!<br />
<br />
I video taped it. But the noise is just too dreadful to post. You're welcome. <br />
<br />
<br />
So I'm choosing to think of this as good for me. I'm going to have to tell myself that about 20 times a day, but I think it will be good for me. Good for me to let others have fun even if I'm not perfectly comfortable. <br />
<br />
Or maybe I'll just gather up those cotton balls and stuff them in my ears. <br />
<br />
Embrace the porcupine. Embrace it. <br />
Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-30284941445000716362012-11-01T17:26:00.000-05:002012-11-01T17:26:48.729-05:00NaNoWriMo '12Hello, all. <br />
<br />
So I've set a little challenge for myself and I thought I'd share. That way I'll feel some sense of social responsibility or something to follow through with it. <br />
<br />
Like the title? Say it outloud. NaNoWriMo. Fun to say, huh? It stands for National Novel Writing Month. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">NaNoWriMo.org </a> is a website that encourages people to write a novel in the month of November every year. Or more specifically 50,000 words. I saw this last year and thought it would be fun, but wussed out. So I decided this year to give it a shot.<br />
<br />
I'm not completely following the rules because you're supposed to start from scratch, but I already had 20,000 words of a story written that's been sitting around neglected for a couple years now. So I'll be adding 50,000 words to that beginning. Since Medman started his new job today I figured this was a good time to build some new habits and start writing more often.<br />
<br />
See that little light blue square up in the corner? You can track my word count there. And either be impressed or shake your head sadly at my little word count and make comments about those people who bite off more than they can chew. <br />
<br />
Here's what you can and can't expect:<br />
<br />
<b>Can Expect:</b> me to share with you how I'm doing. Probably.<br />
<br />
<b>Can Expect:</b> Me to hopefully do some real blog posts in the process since I'll hopefully be in writing mode. (Yes, I realize that's a lot of hopefully's)<br />
<br />
<b>Can't Expect:</b> Me to share the manuscript with you. Primarily because this will be completing a ROUGH DRAFT. Rough like the edge of a saw. And I wouldn't want to cut any of you with it.<br />
<br />
<b>Can Expect: </b>A little plot summary of the story. In fact I intended to do that here but I'm out of time. This morning (in a moment of weakness) I promised the kids "games with cotton balls" and the time for those games has come.<br />
<br />
Now I just have to think of some games involving cotton balls. That doesn't seem too hard, does it?<br />
<br />
And I'll leave you with pics of the kids' costumes. Oh, except D made a quick change at the last minute and went trick or treating as an Adventure Guy (complete with multipocketed adventure vest). But he looks cute here anyway...<br />
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<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-44856855230557442432012-10-27T16:20:00.002-05:002012-10-27T16:20:59.412-05:00For the love of a brain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Belle (snuggled up against me): Mommy, I love Daddy SOOOOOOOO much!<br />
<br />
Me: That's good, honey.<br />
<br />
Belle (turning to look at me with almost frightening intensity): I love him aaaaallllllll the way THROUGH HIS BRAIN!<br />
<br />
Me (undecided between concern and amusement): Really?<br />
<br />
Belle (settling back down): Yes. I do. And Mommy?<br />
<br />
Me: Hmm?<br />
<br />
Belle (in an off-hand sort of way): I love you, too.<br />
<br />
Me (trying not to let the fear creep into my voice): All the way through my brain?<br />
<br />
Belle (matter-of-factly): No. I love you UP TO your brain. (Then resuming the look of adoration she has had toward her father since birth) But I love Daddy THROUGH his brain!<br />
<br />
<br />
Frankly, since I'm not sure what it means, I'm not sure I'm offended. Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-89685648332892603862012-10-26T21:41:00.000-05:002014-08-19T22:30:15.977-05:00Traveling The Oregon TrailHello world,<br />
<br />
If I sound different today lean a little toward the northwest. There, sound clearer? Good.<br />
<br />
During
the (incredibly long) break since I last posted, our family decided to
pretend we were settlers of yore. We packed up the old homestead,
crammed it all into a rental wagon and followed the Oregon Trail from
Missouri all the way to Oregon.<br />
<br />
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAHkVrHiXEDWgcZoOZoRZNL7IOjc_v3peudrdJFnMY0JAM10euYJrhhSxT6NoMRzOixEeQrC_Vj6LwflRPN5bTWIAfEdCehxFRH5WzLSgTUiX4fCQpvj1Ir5GaqFT3r1qbVE1xIW5mAkS/s320/pioneer-day.jpg" height="213" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.timeanddate.com/holidays/us/pioneer-day">credit</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Remember when your
elementary school teachers tried to impress upon your young mind what a
long journey that was? She wasn't kidding. No ma'am. It's
looooongggggg. Wanna hear about it? I thought so.<br />
<br />
So in the spirit of the pioneers and discovery, here's our trip:<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Is there a doctor in the house? </b><br />
<b>TWO DAYS </b>before we pick up the moving truck, Medman gets the stomach flu.* This is not good. I'm clearly the brains
of this operation, but he's the brawn. And moving requires brawn.
(Brawn and an ability to puzzle oddly shaped objects into a smaller box
than they can ever fit into while positively refusing to think about how
many more insurmountable tasks are before you.) But he was down for
the count. He slept for HOURS during the day and only roused himself so
that<b> </b>I could go enjoy one last Girl's Night
Out. (To My Girl's Night Out friends - I miss you already. I know you
haven't met again and laughed until you cried over the horrors of
motherhood, but I'm missing it preemptively.) <br />
*<i>Medman will not sign off on "flu" because he says that blames our puking on the Influenza Virus. I admit it is possible this was one of the hundreds of other viruses which cause vomiting. Perhaps ours was named Helga. That's sort of the noise that people kept making into the toilet. So let it be known that my use of the word "flu" is referring to the Helga Virus. </i><br />
<br />
<b>Discovery #1:</b><br />
<b>It takes the flu one day to travel from Medman to Liam.</b> This begins to chip away at the belief that I am
fiercely holding on to that maybe Medman just ate something that
disagreed with him. Our family hasn't been sick in...maybe forever.
Absolutely no way are we getting the stomach flu <i>while we are moving. </i>I will not allow it.<br />
<br />
<b>Traveling like pioneers #1: </b><br />
<b>Screw hygiene.</b> The day Liam started puking, our
geriatric washing machine<b> (</b>which broke the spin cycle's equivalent of a
hip recently) became incontinent. Leaking water all over the
concrete floor of our basement laundry room - no biggie. Taking that
same old timer to our new rental with a finished laundry room on the
main floor - not a good idea. So we bid goodbye to her, not
sadly at all since for months she's sounded like a rocket taking off in
our basement any time the spin cycle started. And all this turned out to be
a good thing because there wouldn't have been room for her in the
truck anyway. <br />
<br />
But in case you haven't made the connection...PEOPLE IN MY HOUSE WERE PUKING AND I HAD NO WASHER. This is where our situation became closely related to those pioneers of yesteryear. Very few clothes (not packed) and no real way to clean things that got grossified. We started not smelling so great pretty early on. I'm not even going to talk about how the car smelled. <br />
<br />
<b>Discovery #2: </b><br />
<b>It takes two days for the flu to travel from Liam to Belle.</b> I admit defeat. It's really the flu. It's
really going to nail every single one of us in turn. While we are
moving across the country.<br />
<br />
<b><b>Traveling like pioneers</b> #2:</b> <b>Dusty floors</b>. The LAST evening in our home, my vacuum stops working on thick carpet. I've commented before that <a href="http://whimsy-ma-blog.blogspot.com/2012/02/highs-and-lows-end-of-february.html" target="_blank">my vacuum sucks</a>.
And it did. But could it not have lasted a couple more hours? Lisa,
I'm so sorry the main level of the house is not vacuumed for you when
you move in.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Traveling like pioneers #3: </b><br />
<b>Cozy travel arrangements. </b>With the truck
loaded, we leave despite Belle still looking a bit wan and myself
fighting off some serious nausea. Medman had to drive the truck while
towing his car - which had decided to break down that week, of
course. That left me in our car with all three kids. Thankfully
Dalton is incredibly helpful and Belle is pretty self-sufficient. We
won't talk about Liam right now because if I don't have anything nice to say I'm not supposed to say anything. But I feel deeply for mothers of 1-year-olds who actually walked the 2000 mile Oregon Trail. <br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>Traveling like pioneers #4: </b><br />
<b>The Long Slow Journey. </b>We'd
mapped it out and it was a THIRTY-TWO HOUR DRIVE at normal highway
speeds. That is intimidatingly long, but we'd squared with the idea. Oh wait, what does that sticker
on the tow dolly say? <i><b>Speed not to exceed 55 mph</b></i><b>?</b>* There may have been
tears shed. <br />
<i>*I'm not saying we kept the speed to 55 mph ALL four days, but for quite a bit of the drive we were pretty conscientious about it. Now that I think of it, you probably could have gauged our state of well-being by whether we were sticking close to the 55 mph mark. The amount we strayed from that speed was directly proportional to our disgust at STILL being in the car.</i><br />
<br />
<b><b>Traveling like pioneers #5: </b> </b><br />
<b>Sickness. </b>We drove slowly for days upon days. Belle threw up in the car. Liam threw up in the car. Belle's turn again. (I have no more towels. We cut up towels, gave
them to kids for catching whatever they could, then threw them out at
rest stops along I-80. Sorry trash collection people at those rest
stops.)<br />
<br />
<b><b>Traveling like pioneers #6: </b> </b><br />
<b>Scarce food. </b>The upside of all the hurling was that no one wanted to stop for food.<br />
<br />
<b>Discovery #4: Budget Truck Rental can't do math. </b> We discovered that on a rental truck the first 3/4 of a tank
of gas lasted 350 miles. The last 1/4 of a tank of gas means you
have 20 miles to go before you run out. As in RUN OUT OF GAS. Clearly Budget does not understand the concept of
quarters. Insert hour long break, praying for our own safety on the shoulder of a highway in the mountains, swearing at containers filled up and
slippery with diesel fuel as we try to pour enough gas into the truck to
get her down the 5 miles of 5% grade into the next city without her running out of
gas and losing power breaks and steering. <br />
<br />
<b><b>Traveling like pioneers #7: </b> </b><br />
<b>Four days and two thousand miles later:</b> We
reached our new home. Isn't it lovely? Everything here is quite
beautiful. I'm positive the pioneers felt as happy as we did to arrive in a beautiful, fertile land after traveling through so much barrenness. This tree is in front of our house and we can see it out our
bedroom window. The picture does not even begin to do justice to how
beautiful it is. And there's the stupid broken down Jetta.<br />
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This is a view of the parking lot where I got coffee. Look at all the pretty trees and flowers!<br />
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<br />
So how are we now?<br />
<br />
Well I have a lovely new washer and dryer. And new towels.<br />
<br />
I don't have a vacuum but there's no carpet in this house, so I'm ok for now.<br />
<br />
My car may never smell good again.<br />
<br />
We are settling in for a fun new life in the beautiful pacific northwest.<br />
<br />
Thank you to the pioneers who made a path out here and the vast number of asphalt layers who created roads on top of the wagon ruts.<br />
<br />
And Budget Truck Rentals - may everything you own run out when you think you still have a quarter of it left. <br />
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<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-45842735189262725312012-08-09T21:56:00.001-05:002012-08-09T22:01:53.176-05:00Highs and Lows - Romeo, where are thou?My dearest husband abandoned me and ran off to the beautiful Pacific Northwest this week to be schmoozed by potential employers. I begged him to let me come, but he said "NO!" <br />
<br />
Yes, that's him you hear yelling, "<i>Lies! Lies!</i>" He did want me to come but I was daunted by the prospect of bringing my three energetic shadows with me on a trip that involved fancy business meetings and dinners at nice restaurants, so I whimped out. I wish I'd gone, though. He sent me lovely pictures. (sigh.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, I thought I'd do a little Highs and Lows to sum up the week I had without him.<br />
<br />
(<i>Technically</i> it's only been 4 days. And three nights. So far. But it feels like it's been about a month.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>High</b>: Liam learned to walk! Ok, this didn't happen while Jason was gone (which would have been sad) but it's a new development in the past couple weeks. And it's very exciting. His first birthday is Sunday, so he clearly realized he was on a time crunch. <br />
<br />
<b>High: </b>Liam learned to point. I believe I've mentioned before that any form of communication from my children is highly desirable. I wish they popped out of the womb speaking in complete sentences. (Actually, I wish they popped out of the womb period without surgical assistance - but I digress...) So pointing is very good. Yes, boy! Point to what you want! Someone will be sure to get it for you. Whether Mommy wants them to or not.<br />
<br />
<b>Low</b>: Liam very carefully points directly at my face, takes on a look of euphoric enthusiasm and says, "DADA!" <br />
<br />
<b>High</b>: Belle pooped every day. I believe I've also mentioned before that the girl has a few problems with regularity. As in I hope she's not going to grow up to be a hoarder. I hear those people don't like to get rid of their crap either. We've had a bit of a struggle here of late and even though I was beginning to fear that she had, shall we say, <i>permanently sealed the vault</i>, she has overcome her dilemma. With the help of massive amounts of bribery from the "Big Poop Box" which sounds disgusting but is really just a clear bin set next to the toilet filled with a treasure trove of booty to be doled out when a substantial enough amount has been deposited in the potty. Hallelujah. That is not sarcastic. I have never been so happy to see crap. Repeatedly. <br />
<br />
<b>High</b>: Dalton was fantastic while Jason was gone. Really, the kid stepped up and was uber obedient and helpful. I think I'll buy him a race car tomorrow. A real one. <br />
<br />
<b>LOW</b>: Alright, I'll admit that this is the real reason I wrote this post - this LOW. It must be in all caps. <br />
<br />
I considered waiting until I know the end of this story before writing it, but I'm too horrified to keep quiet, so you'll all have to be kept hanging, just like me, in abject terror until some future time when the end occurs. <br />
<br />
(Please remember that my husband is two thousand miles away.)<br />
<br />
Last night I was sitting in our basement putting the final touches on a big order of necklaces. I was happily putzing around, the kids were asleep, Jason was off being a fancy doctor type in Oregon, when a little moth started to fly around my head. Annoying. So I killed it. Yay.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, while I was leaning over some stuff, I saw some movement through my hair and thought, "Oh gross! A big moth is flying around my head!" <br />
<br />
But when I looked over at it and finally got my eyes and brain to work together long enough to classify what I was seeing, <i>IT WAS A BAT! </i> <i>A BAT</i>!!! Flapping around me in our little basement with its nasty flappy wings and its vampire eyes! <br />
<br />
The words I shrieked as I hurtled myself out of my chair, up the basement stairs and slammed the door behind me may or may not have been suitable for a family friendly blog such as this. <br />
<br />
A BAT! And not a little bat. No, this thing had the wingspan of a bald eagle. And talons. <br />
<br />
Then I raced to the kitchen to call Medman. Because of course he could help me. From Oregon. <br />
<br />
But when I skidded to a halt in the kitchen my stomach sank. The computer, the home phone <i>and </i>my cell were all down on the basement table. Essentially the upstairs of my house might as well have been a stone age cave. With electricity and air conditioning. And I knew that before I could contact ANY HELP WHATSOEVER I was going to have to go back into the lion's den. <br />
<br />
So I went upstairs, put on socks, running shoes, and a hoodie - with the hood up - grabbed a big crate and cracked the door of the basement. There was no movement so I crept down to the table and as smoothly and silently as possible, so as not to anger the beast that I <i>knew</i> was lurking about watching me, threw everything into the crate, tucked my butt and ran for the upstairs again. <br />
<br />
Since there were no knights in shining armor riding around my cul-de-sac and hubby on the phone from Oregon calmed me down a bit, I realized that if anyone was going to man up around here and <i>try </i>to get rid of the bat, it was going to have to be me. <br />
<br />
<i>So I did</i>. Are you proud of me? Hoodie and all I (after extensive googling) crept down stairs and shone my flashlight into all the corners of our basement. Ok, into a bunch of corners of our basement. Turns out our basement is all corners and nooks. It's really a bat's dream house. It's all bat colored wood panelling with bat sized holes everywhere. I'm pretty sure the creature thinks it's living in the Bat Hilton. <br />
<br />
I didn't find it. Nor did I find it this morning when I went down again to look. (Can you all believe I slept last night with it in the house? I can't.) I am NOT going down there this evening after dark. Oh no. As I write this the creature is probably swirling around down there glorying in its bat cave. <br />
<br />
The door of the basement is staying firmly shut (with a towel blocking the bottom of it) until Medman returns home tomorrow night. What he will do at that point, I do not know. That's his problem for being born with extra testosterone. Bats are clearly man problems. If it's heroic and dramatic I'll let you all know what happened. If he happens (in un-Medmanlike fashion) to see it and screams like a girl, I'll make up a heroic and dramatic story for you. <br />
<br />
So that's where our story stands, people. THERE IS A BAT IN MY BASEMENT. Eww. <br />
<br />
Tune in at some future date for some sort of conclusion to the story. I hope.<br />
<br />
<br />
(On an editorial note, I was going to put a picture down here of a creepy bat, but trust me, don't google images of bats if you know there's one in your house. The images make it ten times worse.)Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-5810549085599163752012-07-29T13:21:00.003-05:002012-07-29T13:22:09.007-05:00Guest posting at Dreamer today.My good friend, Karen, invited me to guest post on her amazing blog, <a href="http://kbkubin.blogspot.com/2012/07/my-life-my-art-janice.html" target="_blank">Dreamer</a>. She has one of those blogs I wish I had written. It's always lovely and insightful. <br />
<br />
She's
doing a little series of guest posts about how the art we make impacts
our lives. Her blog is fascinating, so feel free to stop by and read my
post, then stay over there a while and read some of her other writing.
Her color series, which she just finished reposting, is especially
good.<br />
<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-36088021329225821812012-07-12T22:27:00.000-05:002012-08-09T22:01:58.618-05:00Playing Catch up - Highs and Lows<br /><br />
It's been well over a month since I posted. I'm fairly sure I could sum up everything that's gone on, but that would bore everyone (even me) to tears. So I think I'm just going to pick out select highlights of the last month of our lives. (Probably based on the photos I can find in my phone.) Should I do it as highs and lows? Ok, if you insist.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>The high that is on a different scale than the other highs:</b> Medman finished residency! This is very exciting. It is massively more exciting than graduating from medical school. At that graduation you troop across the stage in your fancy cap and gown as they say, "Congratulations! You are officially a doctor!" Then they dive behind the podium snickering and snorting hysterically because even though they now call you a doctor, you still have to put in <i>years</i> of indentured servitude benignly called 'residency.' But that is now done and Medman is a free man. It is very exciting.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Colorado Mountains</b></span><br />
The last week of residency Medman had a conference in Breckenridge, Colorado. <b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>High</b>: Hello beautiful mountains, hikes, lakes. Rural Missouri would be greatly improved if it had the Rocky Mountains in it. <br />
<br />
<b>Low</b>: Hello 10 month old baby who decided he wanted to play newborn and that it was impossible to sleep for more than 3 hours at a time. Every night. In hotel rooms where he was sleeping 2 feet from me. Every night.<i> Every. Night. </i><br />
<br />
<b>High</b>: Resort with a play room for the kids with arcade games and super simple mini golf. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Fh7S8VsEhsvTDDPj7k9XwiCdxleX85lgHMWyDvFHLhduRAd8iNyMKFe4cB226UiJdHRC5ro-UtdeaGveS2xBvw0ZleAtRT3Zf5LweQgbPYP7JrO-SixdHFenPYqN3mKZhXusNHdCWY10/s1600/IMAG2199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Fh7S8VsEhsvTDDPj7k9XwiCdxleX85lgHMWyDvFHLhduRAd8iNyMKFe4cB226UiJdHRC5ro-UtdeaGveS2xBvw0ZleAtRT3Zf5LweQgbPYP7JrO-SixdHFenPYqN3mKZhXusNHdCWY10/s320/IMAG2199.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dalton was in heaven. He must have played 300 holes of mini golf in 3 days.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBIYA8c7Wr5lNCs-PKmv1QUbp6iyeJ3pJiLDCWNnjy0vm_nefuI8GWlPqFXrSOSPfikppkQjWmyB5qGNobldwtEElu709pMFkslzdvW233Ra-Xvi9MGrYX5GH_-7yYDuhQYzIIYZ2oABiE/s1600/IMAG2198.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBIYA8c7Wr5lNCs-PKmv1QUbp6iyeJ3pJiLDCWNnjy0vm_nefuI8GWlPqFXrSOSPfikppkQjWmyB5qGNobldwtEElu709pMFkslzdvW233Ra-Xvi9MGrYX5GH_-7yYDuhQYzIIYZ2oABiE/s320/IMAG2198.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look who's so big. Standing up and wanting steaks and spirits.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vZimnhkw7tG7RZOWV9RpmM59U8L9HB9OqxDOoq1Dy2LS5BQ5Ht9quDFOrNX5qTtd1I2EJrEa79EFjEuvl9Y78sUsFe_p2jhREFdZW_oRZocs4srjGxZE-A8nCE5y9eGThgb_-nJid5sK/s1600/IMAG2222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vZimnhkw7tG7RZOWV9RpmM59U8L9HB9OqxDOoq1Dy2LS5BQ5Ht9quDFOrNX5qTtd1I2EJrEa79EFjEuvl9Y78sUsFe_p2jhREFdZW_oRZocs4srjGxZE-A8nCE5y9eGThgb_-nJid5sK/s320/IMAG2222.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The obvious problem arising from having mini golf in the same room as arcade games...Does under the NASCAR game count as in the rough?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxUHRYhTeBzbNzz7uskSpAhlAMjCIkeAIgwZel9Yg8_1z8PuB0649NNzFEdPacrdfTAOdzBQjTUc9bUBBig7VZeagO6daCLLasLQjxFpdC5hTl1P2GoLjX756Q5hKbvdMAzjRi-XVGZ7Qn/s1600/IMAG2226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxUHRYhTeBzbNzz7uskSpAhlAMjCIkeAIgwZel9Yg8_1z8PuB0649NNzFEdPacrdfTAOdzBQjTUc9bUBBig7VZeagO6daCLLasLQjxFpdC5hTl1P2GoLjX756Q5hKbvdMAzjRi-XVGZ7Qn/s320/IMAG2226.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liam really increased his 4 wheel drive crawling. (FYI- face plants on pokey, fake, putting green grass make the baby cry, but are sort of funny to watch.)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikSDqu_xWvk0gZC39F4KEMjZhB6SK7d_iXpaambmQi9BrEC-Cz-G0V2xxqlZOWtVHDf5R-Qad4bBlLVeIsQwuHnHCzXH757hoMYtbEW5yZq9A-rZwE63bJMIIqYzaWNhxq6NmlT5lOWb2Y/s320/IMAG2201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="310" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Show of hands - who here is amazed that situations like this NEVER ended in injury? </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Belle had no interest in the putt putt, but she rode this motorcycle about sixteen hundred times. Not with any money in it, of course. I'm fairly sure she didn't even know that was a possibility. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And dancing, dancing, dancing. The girl jammed out on the dance machine for probably several hours, all told. Which is extra funny when you know that it wasn't even turned on. Luckily for her the cheapo claw game next to it jingled out some electric banjo music. </td></tr>
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<br />
<b>Not high or low - just super weird</b><br />
I saw this thing several times before I processed what I was looking at. Off in a dingy corner of the game room was a life sized plastic cow.<br />
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<br />
Yes...it was a <i>milking game</i>. See?<br />
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<br />
We did not play this game.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
All in all we had a lot of fun in Breckenridge. Not that there weren't some moments of boredom in the hotel room...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARtALjh3rRDrDRbd8_eak9TqAPo9E9eeJ_ZAmS3tpT4cA-4TZa5-tpHtmjg3xtlO9VJWhCveqTeR1ejtXgDclpCKuOFG3DuGl0YFp6lWYPeukOR28xNckRyy0ivc3MSdq0ZHFxSPq9pXG/s1600/IMAG2205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARtALjh3rRDrDRbd8_eak9TqAPo9E9eeJ_ZAmS3tpT4cA-4TZa5-tpHtmjg3xtlO9VJWhCveqTeR1ejtXgDclpCKuOFG3DuGl0YFp6lWYPeukOR28xNckRyy0ivc3MSdq0ZHFxSPq9pXG/s320/IMAG2205.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching Myth Busters for 13 consecutive episodes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38FXJhkL2uDZInOF8XG-Qa4TceTxvLfac3EJyoGaKhFaV9O6fJQGv5RIPFc50QolqKsPMaoc9mMoNdi_BMsb9VvclY6mYZnoit47z2wj67leqwW0nEeHRsaG6rQroc_80yT_oGdvVn4gO/s1600/IMAG2203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38FXJhkL2uDZInOF8XG-Qa4TceTxvLfac3EJyoGaKhFaV9O6fJQGv5RIPFc50QolqKsPMaoc9mMoNdi_BMsb9VvclY6mYZnoit47z2wj67leqwW0nEeHRsaG6rQroc_80yT_oGdvVn4gO/s320/IMAG2203.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiding in weird nooks.</td></tr>
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<b>Low</b>: I may not have mentioned it, but <i>Liam didn't sleep. </i>I don't want to add up the number of hours I <strike>stalked angrily around </strike> gently carried him around dark hotel rooms alternately humming soothing music and hissing dire threats like, "<i>Jason! I am going right now to pack the car and we are LEAVING. NOW! At 2 am! Screw your conference. And I'm driving for FOURTEEN HOURS STRAIGHT to get home. NOW! And you're a doctor! Prescribe this kid some freakin' sleeping pills!!!!"</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Visiting in Denver:</b></span><br />
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<b>High</b>: We got to see family and friends around Denver. I sucked at bringing my camera to things. And anyway I spent most of the time hovering over Liam who's dearest desire was to put the most lethal thing he could find in any given room into his mouth. So just imagine happy faces of aunts, uncles, grandparents and friends smiling at you. (And if we visited you and you have good pictures, please send them to me!)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhH9kA_XL_PcOngxsuryYK8md-zK9YtAdHceL90qkGqLfN0KUCEFOwY45pDgKjNX5PF_gJblCSJA4Hga0bEStEDdOwpvvthnX9nlTId7Z7sCWLApAWMqbfmZNeMnOF4mXrMPzo9WJRqcv/s1600/IMAG2228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhH9kA_XL_PcOngxsuryYK8md-zK9YtAdHceL90qkGqLfN0KUCEFOwY45pDgKjNX5PF_gJblCSJA4Hga0bEStEDdOwpvvthnX9nlTId7Z7sCWLApAWMqbfmZNeMnOF4mXrMPzo9WJRqcv/s320/IMAG2228.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends and fudgsicles. What could be better?</td></tr>
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<b>Low</b>: Did I mention that baby-not-sleeping problem we were having?
By this time in the trip his exhaustion had overcome his white hot fury at being asked to sleep <i>again </i>somewhere besides his own beloved room and he did start sleeping through the night, but he was still reluctant
to go to sleep. Like the night he sat up as long as possible,
finally just toppling forward face first. <br />
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Yup, that's his right foot across in front of his stomach. And both hands weirdly positioned
with the palms facing up. It is a testimony to how much I wanted him
to sleep that I did not try to move him out of this position. Just left
him sleeping. <br />
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Fear not, all you soft-hearted readers, he did eventually get his limbs sorted out all on his own.<br />
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<b>Dalton's Birthday</b><br />
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<b>High</b>: My big boy turned six! He seemed unimpressed when I told him that as the anniversary of me spending 28 hours in labor with him, <i>I </i>should be the one getting presents. <br />
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For his birthday he wanted to go bowling. So bowling we went.<br />
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No pictures of me, of course. But I'll have you know I won both games. The second game I even broke 100. <br />
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Let's pretend these pictures are blurry because of the amazing amounts of action they are attempting to capture. Not because kids are constantly getting fingerprints on my camera lens. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjvyMnG3Jtrbz0ivLpo-Hd6wQOrxfDIGUa4pVQwcthfw_IVM0IoeKH5-SzNZlbVUTDN-VgVeBew0mj2TK0-VKosOPyFjSdH6tJdV5RX-Cc0l1jnGcMmbaheTYYZDDH97PzPDkK2hOExT6/s1600/IMAG2257.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjvyMnG3Jtrbz0ivLpo-Hd6wQOrxfDIGUa4pVQwcthfw_IVM0IoeKH5-SzNZlbVUTDN-VgVeBew0mj2TK0-VKosOPyFjSdH6tJdV5RX-Cc0l1jnGcMmbaheTYYZDDH97PzPDkK2hOExT6/s320/IMAG2257.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liam ate nacho chips.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirE_DDJ_08q9UacGwn6o1bMPzeox9c4imfSs-gVZZxo81ku2JMWgAJlJ2QQuRoEQ-7Rab9lRBfOXK840EhDJEtFYbhn6Ze47lwXjp9-xuKzgy1GhPHiDow63goiEryDq9zfsw06Jl-SdNZ/s1600/IMAG2267.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirE_DDJ_08q9UacGwn6o1bMPzeox9c4imfSs-gVZZxo81ku2JMWgAJlJ2QQuRoEQ-7Rab9lRBfOXK840EhDJEtFYbhn6Ze47lwXjp9-xuKzgy1GhPHiDow63goiEryDq9zfsw06Jl-SdNZ/s320/IMAG2267.jpg" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Belle heaved around a ball that was exactly one quarter of her body weight.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFz0ZRmrxfy_c7sHFwI6Syni_E-uDWbrG74c0bRVQOim4ZSHXQeLrXtRR8jP-9Lz2EoWEtglEyp_V3cSqJ1VIPK3Gc5KC7JGKrt1L_y-Jg3K2Br2d5jtOP-FGjmlkqBJyiIVOPnmjRj2kM/s1600/IMAG2261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFz0ZRmrxfy_c7sHFwI6Syni_E-uDWbrG74c0bRVQOim4ZSHXQeLrXtRR8jP-9Lz2EoWEtglEyp_V3cSqJ1VIPK3Gc5KC7JGKrt1L_y-Jg3K2Br2d5jtOP-FGjmlkqBJyiIVOPnmjRj2kM/s320/IMAG2261.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dalton hurled his ball with his own kind of style.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JTQDI4qxQQXAqSkI2Mea_3Y3hyphenhyphenMgww0lXGtamDDwIdNlRO0SST6sg8GictQrJJq7timtdpmrjCBlO16PpqncDrHmOys2m81_s1YP4Jp6RfJvP5N2R5QsJFFObe6scB1WrC3mRcbHHytO/s1600/IMAG2260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JTQDI4qxQQXAqSkI2Mea_3Y3hyphenhyphenMgww0lXGtamDDwIdNlRO0SST6sg8GictQrJJq7timtdpmrjCBlO16PpqncDrHmOys2m81_s1YP4Jp6RfJvP5N2R5QsJFFObe6scB1WrC3mRcbHHytO/s320/IMAG2260.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And Medman looks good, but he still lost. To me. </td></tr>
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Ok, that exhausts my phone pictures unless you want to see an inventory of the printers available at Walmart. I'm leaning toward a wireless one, don't you think that's a good idea? <br />
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Hope all of you are well. It was lovely to see so many of you in Colorado!<br />
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xoxoxo<br />
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<br />Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-781864796465153535.post-25242156920088592172012-06-06T10:32:00.002-05:002012-06-06T10:38:47.128-05:00BellismsBelle is a treasure. Unfortunately my house is not wired with video cameras recording her every word because so much is lost when she's written down. And of course I NEVER have my phone ready when she's in true Belle mode and there are actions and facial expressions that a mime would be jealous of. But here's my best attempt to capture her in ink. Or in pixels. Whatever.<br />
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<br />
<b>Counting</b>:<br />
"I am going to count to ten for you. Ten is a BIG NUMBER. And FAAAARRRR away. But don't worry. I can find it with...(dramatic pause)..<i>.my mouth.</i>"<br />
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<b>Singing</b>:<br />
I love hymns so my kids end up learning them. They've been know to belt out "Come Thou Fount" in the cereal aisle of the grocery store. My husband thinks that's cool but it's only because he's not there to see all the attention it garners. Quiet children! Your mother is an introvert!<br />
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One of Belle's favorites is "Crown Him With Many Crowns." She knows two verses (because I know two verses) and sings it all beautifully. Except one part.<br />
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She breezes easily through "<i>Crown him with many crowns, the lamb upon his throne</i>."<br />
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She astonishingly wraps her tiny mouth around "<i>Hark how the heavenly anthem drowns all music but it's own</i>." Really. I often stop singing here with her just to be amazed that she gets all those sounds out correctly when she has <i>no idea</i> what they mean. <br />
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But here's where she falters. After a clear "<i>awake my soul and sing,</i>" it all falls apart.<br />
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Here the simple "<i>for him who died for thee</i>" - all of which are words she is familiar with - turns into an enthusiastic, "FA FOO FARRROOOO FOR DEEEEEE!" <br />
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And she wraps it all up with "and crown him as thy <i>mathless </i>king for all eterni-TEEEEEE" <br />
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I have no desire to correct her "mathless" to "matchless" because it makes me laugh to think of God not liking math.<br />
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<i>(God muttering into his beard, "Hmm, this new galaxy has about<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> muble-jumble</span> billion stars and since it's a loosely bound barred spiral with a small bulge it should spin about...<span style="font-size: x-small;">six million radians per second...mumble mumble... carry the one...divide by the mass...no, i mean multiply...Four? That's not right..." <span style="font-size: small;">Then with an irritated huff he just spins it like a top and goes on to other matters.</span> )</span></i><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Oh, and her version of Amazing Grace doesn't have '"I once was lost". Instead she very seriously sings</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> "Ah shwaa-aaa shwaaa shwaaa...but now am found..."</span></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">It really makes me wonder how much nonsense she thinks is in the world of grown up words when "</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">shwaaa shwaaa shwaaa" is acceptable to say. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Mortality</b>: </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">And the best Bellism lately is her fascination with things being dead. Or "super dead" as she says. It's both morbid and hilarious but it's far too much to stick in at the end here. "Super dead" demands it's own dreadfully inappropriate post. Stay tuned...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>Janicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257412958004222noreply@blogger.com4