Dressed to Kill
Family portrait.
Snuggled
Another Post About Underwear. I'm Starting To Worry About Myself.
Laundry is so fun, isn't it? It's just a never ending pile of to-do-ness. There's the sorting, then the washing, and the shuffle into the dryer, the folding, the sorting again, the putting away of it. And just when you've successfully accomplished all these steps you get to start again with the next load. I'll bet your blood pressure went up just reading about that, didn't it?
So we're all on the same page with the laundry list, right? If you're one of those people who enjoys all that routine work, feel free to come to my house. Daily. The rest of us will chat here while you're working.
Waaaaaay back when we were just married - truly in the newlywed stage - I did things right. I actually cleaned the house regularly, too. No, really. I dusted, I mopped, I cleaned the refrigerator out, I even cleaned on top of the cupboards. Who does that?! Newlyweds, that's who. Newlyweds who don't work. That first winter I was desperately seeking a job in a new town, and in the meantime I spent my time cleaning. Don't worry, I got over it. Obviously.
My laundry was meticulously done back in that day of newly wed bliss. While I'm still blissfully married, we're wearing slightly more wrinkled and dingy than we were then. It's not that I don't want to be bright and well pressed any longer, but there's so much more laundry to do, and so much less time to do it in. Four kids will do that you know.
I remember the beginning of the end. Sam doesn't remember this, but you know how the male mind works. If it directly benefits them, they remember every tiny detail. If it incriminates them even ever so slightly, suddenly their memory is that of an 82 year old with Alzheimers.
Sam had gotten a new pack of tidy whities, and they were just that. The military has standard issue on things like undies, you know. For some odd reason, the tag on those whities bothered him. He complained about this for days on end until one morning, in a fit of inspiration (or frustration) he turned them inside out and went on his merry way to work. At the end of the day I happened to notice that his whities tag was showing as we headed to bed, and commented. Well, wasn't that a brilliant idea? Being newlyweds (yeh, we were still in that stage - my laundry skills started breaking down early on) I was thrilled that we didn't have to go buy yet another pack of undies because money was tight. (So were a lot of other things back then, but lets not bring my weight into this.)
The next day as I was doing laundry, I went to turn his underwear before folding them. But then I, too, had a fit of inspiration (or desperation). If I left them inside out it would help him in the early morning while he was still asleep, and he could get through the work day without being bothered by that pesky tag. Genius. Sheer genius.
Even after those undies wore out and were replaced, I continued to forego turning his underwear. Obviously he was accustomed to wearing them inside out and surely he could forgive me if I failed to turn a few in the course of the laundry folding. This went on for years before he finally saw a pair of underwear inside out and questioned me on it. He didn't remember what on earth I was talking about, couldn't believe I was intentionally not turning his underwear, and was horrified that I expected him to wear them like that.
Men.
I now turn underwear. All underwear. All the time.
But I do not fold underwear. I had a realization that folding underwear is stupid. I mean, really. I don't know about you, but we have a drawer for underwear in our respective dressers. We toss our underwear in there much like we toss in rolled socks in the sock drawer. There are no nice, neat rows of color-coded panties in my dresser. Sorry to dissappoint. Instead, we toss the undies in the undies drawer and get on with our lives. Same with the socks; no neat little rows there either.
Get this - Sam was recently kinda horrified to find out that I don't fold underwear. I'm not sure where he thought the breakdown occurrs. He never has folded underwear in his underwear drawer. Do they come unfolded while he digs around for that special pair? Does this occur when they get transferred from the basket to the drawer? I'm clueless. But I do know that when he was folding laundry with me not too long ago, and I just tossed a few pairs into the basket unfolded, he asked me what the heck I thought I was doing. Mind you, he wasn't concerned enough to fold them himself.
So here's the burning question of the day. Or maybe a few of them. Do you fold underwear? And does anyone actually organize undies drawers into neat little color coded rows? If so why?
So we're all on the same page with the laundry list, right? If you're one of those people who enjoys all that routine work, feel free to come to my house. Daily. The rest of us will chat here while you're working.
Waaaaaay back when we were just married - truly in the newlywed stage - I did things right. I actually cleaned the house regularly, too. No, really. I dusted, I mopped, I cleaned the refrigerator out, I even cleaned on top of the cupboards. Who does that?! Newlyweds, that's who. Newlyweds who don't work. That first winter I was desperately seeking a job in a new town, and in the meantime I spent my time cleaning. Don't worry, I got over it. Obviously.
My laundry was meticulously done back in that day of newly wed bliss. While I'm still blissfully married, we're wearing slightly more wrinkled and dingy than we were then. It's not that I don't want to be bright and well pressed any longer, but there's so much more laundry to do, and so much less time to do it in. Four kids will do that you know.
I remember the beginning of the end. Sam doesn't remember this, but you know how the male mind works. If it directly benefits them, they remember every tiny detail. If it incriminates them even ever so slightly, suddenly their memory is that of an 82 year old with Alzheimers.
Sam had gotten a new pack of tidy whities, and they were just that. The military has standard issue on things like undies, you know. For some odd reason, the tag on those whities bothered him. He complained about this for days on end until one morning, in a fit of inspiration (or frustration) he turned them inside out and went on his merry way to work. At the end of the day I happened to notice that his whities tag was showing as we headed to bed, and commented. Well, wasn't that a brilliant idea? Being newlyweds (yeh, we were still in that stage - my laundry skills started breaking down early on) I was thrilled that we didn't have to go buy yet another pack of undies because money was tight. (So were a lot of other things back then, but lets not bring my weight into this.)
The next day as I was doing laundry, I went to turn his underwear before folding them. But then I, too, had a fit of inspiration (or desperation). If I left them inside out it would help him in the early morning while he was still asleep, and he could get through the work day without being bothered by that pesky tag. Genius. Sheer genius.
Even after those undies wore out and were replaced, I continued to forego turning his underwear. Obviously he was accustomed to wearing them inside out and surely he could forgive me if I failed to turn a few in the course of the laundry folding. This went on for years before he finally saw a pair of underwear inside out and questioned me on it. He didn't remember what on earth I was talking about, couldn't believe I was intentionally not turning his underwear, and was horrified that I expected him to wear them like that.
Men.
I now turn underwear. All underwear. All the time.
But I do not fold underwear. I had a realization that folding underwear is stupid. I mean, really. I don't know about you, but we have a drawer for underwear in our respective dressers. We toss our underwear in there much like we toss in rolled socks in the sock drawer. There are no nice, neat rows of color-coded panties in my dresser. Sorry to dissappoint. Instead, we toss the undies in the undies drawer and get on with our lives. Same with the socks; no neat little rows there either.
Get this - Sam was recently kinda horrified to find out that I don't fold underwear. I'm not sure where he thought the breakdown occurrs. He never has folded underwear in his underwear drawer. Do they come unfolded while he digs around for that special pair? Does this occur when they get transferred from the basket to the drawer? I'm clueless. But I do know that when he was folding laundry with me not too long ago, and I just tossed a few pairs into the basket unfolded, he asked me what the heck I thought I was doing. Mind you, he wasn't concerned enough to fold them himself.
So here's the burning question of the day. Or maybe a few of them. Do you fold underwear? And does anyone actually organize undies drawers into neat little color coded rows? If so why?
Redefining Success
The further we come as a society, the more we hurt ourselves. Sure, there are great strides in the medical field, in technology, in everyday things. It's these things that make our lives rich and meaningful. They make our lives easier on a daily basis, and we're incredibly grateful for them. But in the quest to make our lives better, we've somehow lost sight of the single most important thing ever given to us. Our children.
Our children are the next generation. Cliche as this is, if we forget that fact for one second, our future is doomed. But because we're the most advanced civilization ever and we all want the very best for the future, we've taken this responsibility of raising the future seriously.
We've made laws to include everyone, all the time. We've made rules against bullying, and carrying weapons. We've ensured that no child will be left behind. And we've forgotten that kids are individuals with feelings, and thoughts, and dreams.
I am all for safety in schools, and inclusion, and kids actually learning something so that they can go out and be a productive part of society. But in our quest to make everyone successful, we've somehow failed as parents.
We are expecting our children to be small adults, constantly on the move, always busy going and doing and learning, and heaven forbid they have free time to fill with their imagination. We sign them up for soccer, and t-ball, and ballet - all in the same season. And then we complain that they're so tired and cranky all the time, and we wonder why they can't entertain themselves outside of the TV and video games they're plugged into.
We send them to preschool, or private school, or ivy league colleges because that's what's expected of us as parents. We can't deal with the peer pressure of being the nonconformist. What will the other moms think? Will our child ever have friends if we don't jump through the hoops? We're just not willing to take the chance.
But is that right for every child? Just because it's what's best for your neighbor's son doesn't make it the best for your son. Do we stop to look at what our child wants, or needs? If Johnny is playing soccer, do we automatically sign Jimmy up for soccer? Have we ever asked Jimmy what he likes to do? And what if Jimmy prefers ballet? Are we okay with letting him be who he is?
My son is in kindergarten. He's not expected to do what other kindergarten kids are doing because he's different. He's in a special class just for different kids. And even there, he's not learning what he's supposed to be learning. Will he ever learn his alphabet? You bet. Will it be this year? No. Do I care? Absolutely not. I won't even care if he doesn't learn it until he's 13. What I do care about is the fact that my boy is in a class that meets him at his level and gently guides him from there. They don't have preconceived expectations of what he should know to even get into the class. That doesn't matter. What matters is that the teachers care. A lot. That's why I chose the school that I did.
Micah hates writing, and has been known to throw a pencil across a room on a few occasions. His staff won't force the issue, and I love this. Instead they'll give him a box with sand so that he can draw lines in that. They'll recreate his worksheet on the floor with toys, and give him a car to drive between the matchable objects. They get it, and because of that Micah is learning. Not all kids thrive in the same environment. Not all kids can be expected to know and do the same things. And sometimes kids are perfectly capable of doing the job expected of them, if they can only do it in their own way. Does this make it wrong? Of course not.
Does it matter if you make a million dollars through banking instead of through auto mechanics? The end result is the same, right? And why is becoming wealthy the ultimate goal in life? I know people who have nothing and are infinitely happy. I know people who have everything and will never be happy.
Why do we expect our children to be someone they're not when they can be so much more if we allow them to be themselves? Why can't we see that each child is unique, and embrace that? Why must we force our kids to conform into something that we've tricked ourselves into believing is the best there is? Wouldn't it be better in the long run to allow our kids to be happy just being themselves, than unhappy living up to a standard?
My kids are free to choose their own lives. And I'll be right behind them, cheering them on. I think it's the best thing that I can do for my children.
Prentke-Romich shared this this video clip with me, and I was moved to tears. Click on the Animal School play button. I think this should be standard watching for every parent out there. Be a nonconformist. Your kids will thank you.
Our children are the next generation. Cliche as this is, if we forget that fact for one second, our future is doomed. But because we're the most advanced civilization ever and we all want the very best for the future, we've taken this responsibility of raising the future seriously.
We've made laws to include everyone, all the time. We've made rules against bullying, and carrying weapons. We've ensured that no child will be left behind. And we've forgotten that kids are individuals with feelings, and thoughts, and dreams.
I am all for safety in schools, and inclusion, and kids actually learning something so that they can go out and be a productive part of society. But in our quest to make everyone successful, we've somehow failed as parents.
We are expecting our children to be small adults, constantly on the move, always busy going and doing and learning, and heaven forbid they have free time to fill with their imagination. We sign them up for soccer, and t-ball, and ballet - all in the same season. And then we complain that they're so tired and cranky all the time, and we wonder why they can't entertain themselves outside of the TV and video games they're plugged into.
We send them to preschool, or private school, or ivy league colleges because that's what's expected of us as parents. We can't deal with the peer pressure of being the nonconformist. What will the other moms think? Will our child ever have friends if we don't jump through the hoops? We're just not willing to take the chance.
But is that right for every child? Just because it's what's best for your neighbor's son doesn't make it the best for your son. Do we stop to look at what our child wants, or needs? If Johnny is playing soccer, do we automatically sign Jimmy up for soccer? Have we ever asked Jimmy what he likes to do? And what if Jimmy prefers ballet? Are we okay with letting him be who he is?
My son is in kindergarten. He's not expected to do what other kindergarten kids are doing because he's different. He's in a special class just for different kids. And even there, he's not learning what he's supposed to be learning. Will he ever learn his alphabet? You bet. Will it be this year? No. Do I care? Absolutely not. I won't even care if he doesn't learn it until he's 13. What I do care about is the fact that my boy is in a class that meets him at his level and gently guides him from there. They don't have preconceived expectations of what he should know to even get into the class. That doesn't matter. What matters is that the teachers care. A lot. That's why I chose the school that I did.
Micah hates writing, and has been known to throw a pencil across a room on a few occasions. His staff won't force the issue, and I love this. Instead they'll give him a box with sand so that he can draw lines in that. They'll recreate his worksheet on the floor with toys, and give him a car to drive between the matchable objects. They get it, and because of that Micah is learning. Not all kids thrive in the same environment. Not all kids can be expected to know and do the same things. And sometimes kids are perfectly capable of doing the job expected of them, if they can only do it in their own way. Does this make it wrong? Of course not.
Does it matter if you make a million dollars through banking instead of through auto mechanics? The end result is the same, right? And why is becoming wealthy the ultimate goal in life? I know people who have nothing and are infinitely happy. I know people who have everything and will never be happy.
Why do we expect our children to be someone they're not when they can be so much more if we allow them to be themselves? Why can't we see that each child is unique, and embrace that? Why must we force our kids to conform into something that we've tricked ourselves into believing is the best there is? Wouldn't it be better in the long run to allow our kids to be happy just being themselves, than unhappy living up to a standard?
My kids are free to choose their own lives. And I'll be right behind them, cheering them on. I think it's the best thing that I can do for my children.
Prentke-Romich shared this this video clip with me, and I was moved to tears. Click on the Animal School play button. I think this should be standard watching for every parent out there. Be a nonconformist. Your kids will thank you.
My Mind is Very ADD Today. Yeah, You!
First of all, I want to point out that I have a wonderful vet, and a wonderful relationship with him. No, not like THAT. I was quite peeved that he chose to sleep Saturday night while simultaneously making the decision to have me stay awake and hold Grace's paw. If she would have been in any sort of danger at all we would have met at the OR at 1 AM. I knew that waiting wouldn't hurt her, but I also knew that she was going to end up in surgery. I was just trying to get it over with for her and myself.
That's cleared out of the way, so we can move on to more fun things. Like this.
Dontcha just love puppies? I do. *sigh*
The idea was put out there that we should put up a puppy cam. While I know the world is just waiting with baited breath to watch every move those little dears make, I can't do it. Besides the whole violation of my home's privacy thing, there are more pressing issues to consider. I mean, what if Micah would streak past the camera? Can you imagine the repurcussions of that? I'd rather not, actually. That would be a fail.
I spent Saturday night getting better acquainted with The Rebel. There are a few things that I'm not entirely happy about - the main one being the whole uploading and saving pictures feature. It's different from my easy point and shoot (oh heavens - something different!) and it doesn't automatically do some things for me that I'm used to. This resulted in me losing about 75 pictures forever. Thankfully most of them were of nothing in particular and were nothing spectacular, but it's frustrating nonetheless.
I'm working on it though. I'm loving some of the things that are showing up on my screen because of my new BFF. Me and The Rebel. We're really starting to like each other. A lot. I have high hopes of actually being a less-than-craptacular photographer someday.
That's cleared out of the way, so we can move on to more fun things. Like this.
Dontcha just love puppies? I do. *sigh*
The idea was put out there that we should put up a puppy cam. While I know the world is just waiting with baited breath to watch every move those little dears make, I can't do it. Besides the whole violation of my home's privacy thing, there are more pressing issues to consider. I mean, what if Micah would streak past the camera? Can you imagine the repurcussions of that? I'd rather not, actually. That would be a fail.
I spent Saturday night getting better acquainted with The Rebel. There are a few things that I'm not entirely happy about - the main one being the whole uploading and saving pictures feature. It's different from my easy point and shoot (oh heavens - something different!) and it doesn't automatically do some things for me that I'm used to. This resulted in me losing about 75 pictures forever. Thankfully most of them were of nothing in particular and were nothing spectacular, but it's frustrating nonetheless.
I'm working on it though. I'm loving some of the things that are showing up on my screen because of my new BFF. Me and The Rebel. We're really starting to like each other. A lot. I have high hopes of actually being a less-than-craptacular photographer someday.
Grinning Like the Cheshire Cat
Grace (one of my beloved corgis) was in labor when I came home from town last evening. I watched her pant like a frieght train all evening and well into the night. At 1:00 AM I called the vet because it had been a long time of heavy breathing with no puppies. The vet wasn't any too happy about being awakened in the wee smalls (gee, isn't that part of your job?) and said that it's probably the first stage of labor and if nothing has happened by morning to bring her in.
The vet knows that I've been raising dogs for 10 years. The vet knows that I do not call him with every litter whelped. The vet knows that I am not the type to panic at the sight of blood or prolonged labor. I was a bit peeved at the vet. I knew this wasn't within the ordinary parameters, but the dog wasn't in dire distress, just labor that wasn't right, so I played his game.
I sat with Grace all night and watched the clock tick by until 6:00 AM. I couldn't wait to wake the vet early in the morning besides waking him late at night. He deserved it. He said to meet him at the office in an hour and a half with Grace.
I won't even go into how peeved I was to continue waiting, but I donned jeans and an old sweatshirt and rushed to the vet's. At this point Grace had stopped with the freight train impression and looked like she wanted to die. I feared the worst - a huge litter of puppies dead. And the mom hospitalized from long labor and too much stress. (It's real, I'm not making it up.)
I did find it all kinds of fun to help with the prepping, and I got to watch the surgery. I love that kind of stuff. Although very quickly I was employed to shake down puppies so I missed a lot of the surgical work. But I learned a lot of theories, myths and a few medical facts. Have I mentioned that I love vet stuff? I won't gross you out with any details.
The tech and I were kept extremely busy with puppy after puppy after puppy. I knew Grace was huge, but 8 puppies later she was done. And they were huge, too. Definitely not week-early ones. And yet I know the dogs' due date - remember that day we drove to Ohio, then missed a flight at the airport on the way back? I do. I KNOW her due date.
We have 8 live, healthy puppies. We didn't lose a single one. They're absolutely beautiful, and Micah loves them. He calls them pigs.
Mama stayed at the vet for the day on an IV because she was terribly stressed. Hello vet? When I call with an emergency, you should know that it is one. In the meantime I'm bottle feeding puppies. It's like deja vu.
The vet knows that I've been raising dogs for 10 years. The vet knows that I do not call him with every litter whelped. The vet knows that I am not the type to panic at the sight of blood or prolonged labor. I was a bit peeved at the vet. I knew this wasn't within the ordinary parameters, but the dog wasn't in dire distress, just labor that wasn't right, so I played his game.
I sat with Grace all night and watched the clock tick by until 6:00 AM. I couldn't wait to wake the vet early in the morning besides waking him late at night. He deserved it. He said to meet him at the office in an hour and a half with Grace.
I won't even go into how peeved I was to continue waiting, but I donned jeans and an old sweatshirt and rushed to the vet's. At this point Grace had stopped with the freight train impression and looked like she wanted to die. I feared the worst - a huge litter of puppies dead. And the mom hospitalized from long labor and too much stress. (It's real, I'm not making it up.)
I did find it all kinds of fun to help with the prepping, and I got to watch the surgery. I love that kind of stuff. Although very quickly I was employed to shake down puppies so I missed a lot of the surgical work. But I learned a lot of theories, myths and a few medical facts. Have I mentioned that I love vet stuff? I won't gross you out with any details.
The tech and I were kept extremely busy with puppy after puppy after puppy. I knew Grace was huge, but 8 puppies later she was done. And they were huge, too. Definitely not week-early ones. And yet I know the dogs' due date - remember that day we drove to Ohio, then missed a flight at the airport on the way back? I do. I KNOW her due date.
We have 8 live, healthy puppies. We didn't lose a single one. They're absolutely beautiful, and Micah loves them. He calls them pigs.
Mama stayed at the vet for the day on an IV because she was terribly stressed. Hello vet? When I call with an emergency, you should know that it is one. In the meantime I'm bottle feeding puppies. It's like deja vu.
Did You Wash?
We were in the van on the way home from a long trip when the collective family said they had to go potty. Each was calling this bathroom or that and it didn't take a genius to foresee a fight coming on, so I made a suggestion.
Boys, you can pee outside. (Yes, I went there. And then to further encourage family togetherness and nip fighting in the bud, I went even further.) You can stand side by side and see who can pee the furthest.
Josh said, "Luke does. He holds his straight up so that he can pee further and I'm not going to do that."
Blink. Blink. Brain processing how on earth he manages to not pee all over himself while doing this. Not really succeeding.
It was as if Luke was reading my mind. "I peed on myself once doing that. I hit an inch of my chin."
Well, that answers that. I will now require full showers after the boys pee instead of just hand washing.
Boys, you can pee outside. (Yes, I went there. And then to further encourage family togetherness and nip fighting in the bud, I went even further.) You can stand side by side and see who can pee the furthest.
Josh said, "Luke does. He holds his straight up so that he can pee further and I'm not going to do that."
Blink. Blink. Brain processing how on earth he manages to not pee all over himself while doing this. Not really succeeding.
It was as if Luke was reading my mind. "I peed on myself once doing that. I hit an inch of my chin."
Well, that answers that. I will now require full showers after the boys pee instead of just hand washing.
Ah, Young Love
I was listening to a bunch of teen girls talking about boys (who's hot and who's not) so I felt compelled to share a story. My daughter was totally amazed that it ever took place. I guess she thinks that I've always been an old, married fuddy-duddy.
I was midway through 7th grade when I started receiving gifts anonymously in my locker. It started with fake flowers. I open my locker one morning and there were faded, tired, seen-better-days fake roses. Always the Pollyanna, my first thought was "oh, how sweet!" but that was verrrry quickly followed by the thought, "what the heck?!" I have never been big on PDAs, and even now rarely even hold hands with my husband in public. We love each other, yo. We just don't need to make the world sick by showing them how much.
Anyhoo, there was no note with the flowers, just a ribbon tied around them. An anonymous admirer. Who the heck? I spent many years (truly, I still wonder) contemplating the possibilities. I also tossed them when I got home because I had no feelings for anonymous and the last thing I wanted was to be ragged by my family for something that was totally out of my control.
One day it was a box of chocolates. One of those tiny heart-shaped ones that holds 4 pieces of candy. If I recall correctly, one piece was missing. No note, no hints, no heads' up.
I had theories. There was that new kid in school and rumor had it that he liked me. He was in my grade, not bad looking, but for some reason also not thought highly of by my peers. Either way, it didn't matter. I was a late bloomer and had no interest in boys in 7th grade. I spent too much time with my horse to notice the opposite gender.
My other theory was a boy in my sister's grade. He was 3 years older than I was, and rumor had it, also, that he thought I was cute. Both my sister and my cousin were in his grade and they heard the gossip. He was very tall (even for his age, not just mine) dark, and quite handsome. I know how incredibly romantic this sounds. An upper class man, the classic good looks, the fact that he liked me... It's like my own Twilight story. Except it wasn't. Both Edward and UpperClassmanGuy both had secrets, but I'd prefer a vampire to a druggie. Call me weird like that. UpperClassmanGuy came to school sober about 3 days a month. Either he was high, drunk, or both. He's the reason the school now has random drug testing and K9 locker raids. He also spent his senior year in juvvie. It was a wasted life in more ways than one. I was not amused that he found me attractive. And I did not eat the chocolates. I tossed those as well.
Valentine's Day was coming up and one of the clubs had sold carnations for the event. Each color meant something different, and you could purchase one and have it delivered to your sweetheart on V-Day. Since I'd been receiving more and more stuff in my locker, I was sure that I'd be getting a carnation. Publicly. In front of the whole class. I.Would.Be.Mortified.
But I would be ready. You could pay a quarter to find out who gave you a flower. I'd swallow the embarrassment and know once and for all who to direct my cold shoulder to.
Sure enough, they called my name. The class twittered, most were shocked. (The girl that doesn't even LIKE boys? Being a girl, I did revel in the part where some of the popular girls got nada while I did.) I took my flower, reached in my pocket for my tell-all payment, and was about to ask who sent it - but then I was interrupted. "I'm sorry, that was the wrong name." And they took my flower back and asked me to return to my seat. Boy, was my face red. Some boy was going to pay seriously, because I had strong suspicions that it really was mine and they messed up my name.
I spent the rest of the day avoiding the eyes of most people, and was ever so grateful when the end of the day came. I was at my locker loading up the backpack for the day when someone approached me with a flower. They apologized profusely, explained that they had this flower left and realized that it really was mine, and handed back the same pink "I really like you" color that I had that morning. I figured they owed me a name even without a quarter at this point, so I asked who gave it.
She didn't know. She didn't have those papers with her. I'd have to talk to the So-and-So Club that did the fundraiser to find that out.
That was the last anonymous gift I ever got. I never did know who they were from. And in retrospect, I kinda feel for the poor sap that tried so hard to get my attention.
I was midway through 7th grade when I started receiving gifts anonymously in my locker. It started with fake flowers. I open my locker one morning and there were faded, tired, seen-better-days fake roses. Always the Pollyanna, my first thought was "oh, how sweet!" but that was verrrry quickly followed by the thought, "what the heck?!" I have never been big on PDAs, and even now rarely even hold hands with my husband in public. We love each other, yo. We just don't need to make the world sick by showing them how much.
Anyhoo, there was no note with the flowers, just a ribbon tied around them. An anonymous admirer. Who the heck? I spent many years (truly, I still wonder) contemplating the possibilities. I also tossed them when I got home because I had no feelings for anonymous and the last thing I wanted was to be ragged by my family for something that was totally out of my control.
One day it was a box of chocolates. One of those tiny heart-shaped ones that holds 4 pieces of candy. If I recall correctly, one piece was missing. No note, no hints, no heads' up.
I had theories. There was that new kid in school and rumor had it that he liked me. He was in my grade, not bad looking, but for some reason also not thought highly of by my peers. Either way, it didn't matter. I was a late bloomer and had no interest in boys in 7th grade. I spent too much time with my horse to notice the opposite gender.
My other theory was a boy in my sister's grade. He was 3 years older than I was, and rumor had it, also, that he thought I was cute. Both my sister and my cousin were in his grade and they heard the gossip. He was very tall (even for his age, not just mine) dark, and quite handsome. I know how incredibly romantic this sounds. An upper class man, the classic good looks, the fact that he liked me... It's like my own Twilight story. Except it wasn't. Both Edward and UpperClassmanGuy both had secrets, but I'd prefer a vampire to a druggie. Call me weird like that. UpperClassmanGuy came to school sober about 3 days a month. Either he was high, drunk, or both. He's the reason the school now has random drug testing and K9 locker raids. He also spent his senior year in juvvie. It was a wasted life in more ways than one. I was not amused that he found me attractive. And I did not eat the chocolates. I tossed those as well.
Valentine's Day was coming up and one of the clubs had sold carnations for the event. Each color meant something different, and you could purchase one and have it delivered to your sweetheart on V-Day. Since I'd been receiving more and more stuff in my locker, I was sure that I'd be getting a carnation. Publicly. In front of the whole class. I.Would.Be.Mortified.
But I would be ready. You could pay a quarter to find out who gave you a flower. I'd swallow the embarrassment and know once and for all who to direct my cold shoulder to.
Sure enough, they called my name. The class twittered, most were shocked. (The girl that doesn't even LIKE boys? Being a girl, I did revel in the part where some of the popular girls got nada while I did.) I took my flower, reached in my pocket for my tell-all payment, and was about to ask who sent it - but then I was interrupted. "I'm sorry, that was the wrong name." And they took my flower back and asked me to return to my seat. Boy, was my face red. Some boy was going to pay seriously, because I had strong suspicions that it really was mine and they messed up my name.
I spent the rest of the day avoiding the eyes of most people, and was ever so grateful when the end of the day came. I was at my locker loading up the backpack for the day when someone approached me with a flower. They apologized profusely, explained that they had this flower left and realized that it really was mine, and handed back the same pink "I really like you" color that I had that morning. I figured they owed me a name even without a quarter at this point, so I asked who gave it.
She didn't know. She didn't have those papers with her. I'd have to talk to the So-and-So Club that did the fundraiser to find that out.
That was the last anonymous gift I ever got. I never did know who they were from. And in retrospect, I kinda feel for the poor sap that tried so hard to get my attention.
The Car Shopping Just Goes On
We looked at one old and purple car, and you'd think we spent months at a dealership the way I'm going on. But you'll remember that it's been 6 years since we bought a vehicle so let me relive the 30 minutes of glory, okay?
We loaded the kids and car seats in the Purple Granny and headed off down the country road. We stopped, we started, we stopped, we started, we turned right, we turned left... You know, all the dumb things you do when you're trying out a new car.
Micah wanted to be sure that things worked to his liking as well. His main ride is the van, where he's in the far back looking blissfully out a window. Our zombie car is a 2-door so he's in the back blissfully looking out a window in that also. The Purple Granny? She has a door right where Micah was sitting. That was more fun than an amusement park ride.
Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, lock the door, unlock the door, open the door... The seat belt works well, and so do his sister's reflexes.
We finally convinced him that messing with the door handle would be harmful to his health, so he turned the crank right there in his reach. Well looky there! That makes the window go down! And air blows right in on you as you're cruising down the road!
Ahhhhhhhhh! We heard him happily singing as we cruised down the country road.
The Purple Granny is truly a thing of beauty. And the best part is that she could be Becky's in a few years. (We're still keeping our fingers crossed. But no worries, we have an ace up our sleeves if she is claimed by another. Wait until you see that beauty.)
We loaded the kids and car seats in the Purple Granny and headed off down the country road. We stopped, we started, we stopped, we started, we turned right, we turned left... You know, all the dumb things you do when you're trying out a new car.
Micah wanted to be sure that things worked to his liking as well. His main ride is the van, where he's in the far back looking blissfully out a window. Our zombie car is a 2-door so he's in the back blissfully looking out a window in that also. The Purple Granny? She has a door right where Micah was sitting. That was more fun than an amusement park ride.
Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, lock the door, unlock the door, open the door... The seat belt works well, and so do his sister's reflexes.
We finally convinced him that messing with the door handle would be harmful to his health, so he turned the crank right there in his reach. Well looky there! That makes the window go down! And air blows right in on you as you're cruising down the road!
Ahhhhhhhhh! We heard him happily singing as we cruised down the country road.
The Purple Granny is truly a thing of beauty. And the best part is that she could be Becky's in a few years. (We're still keeping our fingers crossed. But no worries, we have an ace up our sleeves if she is claimed by another. Wait until you see that beauty.)
The Wheels on the Car Went 'Round
I'm lacking sleep, and what does the boy do? Gets up at his regular time today. Why don't kids come with self-preservation techniques such as allowing their overtired and too-stressed parents a little extra sleep on days when there is no school?
Today we were car shopping.
Yeh, baby! We're car shopping!
We bought our last vehicle back in '03, and the one before that when we were married 5 days in the fall of 1992. That '92 Cavalier has seen better days. Many of them, in fact. She's been a real gem to us, and has seen us through 4 kids, several moves, a drive to and from Alaska, and more trips to the mall than any one car should ever be subjected to. But the old blue car, she ain't what she used to be. In fact, at this point she's been dead for a while and has reached zombie stage. There is absolutely no way she's passing inspection this June, try as we might. And we have a cap of $50 on repairs for her because that's about what her Blue Book value is.
We found her replacement, and we are thrilled nigh unto death. It's newer, it's sportier, it's more powerful, it's way fun to drive, it has 4 doors, and it's an automatic. I'm a little bit in love. Except that it reeks of smoke, but that's minor in the big picture. It gets fab gas mileage and will seat 5 much nicer than the Cavvy did.
But we didn't bring it home because it's been promised to someone else. That bites. It's obviously still there, and on Friday our tax return is due. I'm thinking that if we take cash down and wave in his face, he won't be holding it any longer.
Um, yeh. We're buying it with tax money, which means that it's super cheap. In fact, it's about 1/5 of our return. I love this so much that I get all hot and bothered just thinking about it.
Is it wrong to pray that someone else can't afford the car of their dreams so that we can?
I am coveting a 1997 purple Malibu. Call me desperate.
Today we were car shopping.
Yeh, baby! We're car shopping!
We bought our last vehicle back in '03, and the one before that when we were married 5 days in the fall of 1992. That '92 Cavalier has seen better days. Many of them, in fact. She's been a real gem to us, and has seen us through 4 kids, several moves, a drive to and from Alaska, and more trips to the mall than any one car should ever be subjected to. But the old blue car, she ain't what she used to be. In fact, at this point she's been dead for a while and has reached zombie stage. There is absolutely no way she's passing inspection this June, try as we might. And we have a cap of $50 on repairs for her because that's about what her Blue Book value is.
We found her replacement, and we are thrilled nigh unto death. It's newer, it's sportier, it's more powerful, it's way fun to drive, it has 4 doors, and it's an automatic. I'm a little bit in love. Except that it reeks of smoke, but that's minor in the big picture. It gets fab gas mileage and will seat 5 much nicer than the Cavvy did.
But we didn't bring it home because it's been promised to someone else. That bites. It's obviously still there, and on Friday our tax return is due. I'm thinking that if we take cash down and wave in his face, he won't be holding it any longer.
Um, yeh. We're buying it with tax money, which means that it's super cheap. In fact, it's about 1/5 of our return. I love this so much that I get all hot and bothered just thinking about it.
Is it wrong to pray that someone else can't afford the car of their dreams so that we can?
I am coveting a 1997 purple Malibu. Call me desperate.
Toys Are Where It's At
Taking pictures is an inherited trait, and I got the gene. I'll never forget the family vacation to the Rockies where my dad had to stop every 10 miles (I am not even kidding) so that mom, grandma, and us 3 girls could get out and take no less than half a dozen pictures each before getting back in for the next 10 mile leg. And this was back in the day of film cameras. (If you're too young to remember those, just don't tell me, okay?)
Sam and I didn't take a honeymoon (don't even go there) but we did have that fun 9 day drive to Alaska a few days after we were married. After getting into the wilderness of Canada I realized that it was some of the most beautiful scenery that I'd ever seen (including that trip to the Rockies) and Sam wouldn't stop to let me take pictures. I got very good at 60mph shots, but I have a few albums full of photos with the rearview mirror and windshield wiper in them. It's a shame, really.
I'll never forget when Sam got me a Canon EOS Rebel. That thing was absolutely wonderful. There was nothing that camera wouldn't do for me. We were inseparable for many years, and then, eventually, the love affair cooled. While it was still all that as far as picture taking went, it certainly lacked a little in the toss it in your purse and go department. I stopped lugging it with everywhere I went. I do not have photos of the kids early soccer games. I do not have picture stories of the kids formative years. And I think Luke has 5 pictures of him as a baby.
Okay, I may have exaggerated there a bit, but the fact remains that I stopped taking pictures because that thing was huge and lunky. Sam insisted that we buy a digital camera, and after much persuasion I caved. (That's a story in itself, but it'll be for another day.) I was in picture taking heaven again. I have pictures of flowers growing in my garden simply because my camera fits in my pocket and can go with me everywhere.
My one beef with digital vs. film is the picture quality. When we got our first digital, the megapixel count was 4.0, and was top of the line. We were pointing and shooting fools, filling albums with fuzz. It was sad. We've upgraded over the years and now the photo quality is much improved, but I still longed for my Rebel.
My dear and loving husband heard my sighs of longing and treated me like a goddess. (He's wonderful that way.) I am now the proud owner of a Rebel once again. Digital this time. I am in clicking and shooting heaven. The kids have taken to hiding, ignoring me, and giving me the finger. (Okay, I'm exaggerating again, but you get the point.) Luke did say that he felt like a movie star though. I'm just trying out setting, and need models. If one has toys, one must play. No?
Apparently Micah thought so, too. In the 5 seconds I put The Rebel down yesterday (to get him a drink) Micah reached out his little hand to try his picture taking skills. While we all know that his photographic endeavors are better than mine, I just can't allow him to play with toys of that caliber.
Yes, I'm teaching my kids that I am the most selfish of all with my new toys. But really, it's for their own good. I'd hate to make the choice between one of them and The Rebel. I'll be featuring pictures from it just as soon as I figure out how to get them uploaded to my computer.
Sam and I didn't take a honeymoon (don't even go there) but we did have that fun 9 day drive to Alaska a few days after we were married. After getting into the wilderness of Canada I realized that it was some of the most beautiful scenery that I'd ever seen (including that trip to the Rockies) and Sam wouldn't stop to let me take pictures. I got very good at 60mph shots, but I have a few albums full of photos with the rearview mirror and windshield wiper in them. It's a shame, really.
I'll never forget when Sam got me a Canon EOS Rebel. That thing was absolutely wonderful. There was nothing that camera wouldn't do for me. We were inseparable for many years, and then, eventually, the love affair cooled. While it was still all that as far as picture taking went, it certainly lacked a little in the toss it in your purse and go department. I stopped lugging it with everywhere I went. I do not have photos of the kids early soccer games. I do not have picture stories of the kids formative years. And I think Luke has 5 pictures of him as a baby.
Okay, I may have exaggerated there a bit, but the fact remains that I stopped taking pictures because that thing was huge and lunky. Sam insisted that we buy a digital camera, and after much persuasion I caved. (That's a story in itself, but it'll be for another day.) I was in picture taking heaven again. I have pictures of flowers growing in my garden simply because my camera fits in my pocket and can go with me everywhere.
My one beef with digital vs. film is the picture quality. When we got our first digital, the megapixel count was 4.0, and was top of the line. We were pointing and shooting fools, filling albums with fuzz. It was sad. We've upgraded over the years and now the photo quality is much improved, but I still longed for my Rebel.
My dear and loving husband heard my sighs of longing and treated me like a goddess. (He's wonderful that way.) I am now the proud owner of a Rebel once again. Digital this time. I am in clicking and shooting heaven. The kids have taken to hiding, ignoring me, and giving me the finger. (Okay, I'm exaggerating again, but you get the point.) Luke did say that he felt like a movie star though. I'm just trying out setting, and need models. If one has toys, one must play. No?
Apparently Micah thought so, too. In the 5 seconds I put The Rebel down yesterday (to get him a drink) Micah reached out his little hand to try his picture taking skills. While we all know that his photographic endeavors are better than mine, I just can't allow him to play with toys of that caliber.
Yes, I'm teaching my kids that I am the most selfish of all with my new toys. But really, it's for their own good. I'd hate to make the choice between one of them and The Rebel. I'll be featuring pictures from it just as soon as I figure out how to get them uploaded to my computer.
The Last Pictures With The Point and Shoot
Well Done
Looking Outside
Kindergarten Sculpture
Fruity
An Open Window
Boston, But Not Exactly a Tea Party
About February
When I think about February I think of Valentine's Day. And also when I think of Valentine's Day I think of cupid. And when I think of cupid I think of broken hearts. And when I think of broken hearts it reminds me of candy hearts.
by Luke Dibert
So there you have it. Everything really does relate to food in a boy's life.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, I bring you Woody's week in pictures.
Um, for the record we do NOT have a lighted topiary horse in our living room. I scored that on clearance for my mom for a Christmas gift and it's now patiently waiting for December in our attic. While I find this rather tacky, my mother will consider me the favorite daughter after December 25, 2009. The Round Up Gang thought they had died and gone to cowboy heaven. Even Bullseye was worshipping at it's feet.
by Luke Dibert
So there you have it. Everything really does relate to food in a boy's life.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, I bring you Woody's week in pictures.
Just hanging with my pals.
In hiding.
Taking it easy. I'll refrain from the reaching out comments.
One man out.
Um, for the record we do NOT have a lighted topiary horse in our living room. I scored that on clearance for my mom for a Christmas gift and it's now patiently waiting for December in our attic. While I find this rather tacky, my mother will consider me the favorite daughter after December 25, 2009. The Round Up Gang thought they had died and gone to cowboy heaven. Even Bullseye was worshipping at it's feet.
The club house.
Titles are Overrated. And There Are a Lot of Pictures
It was one of those interesting kind of weeks that I really have no desire to repeat. Fun, exciting, busy, productive, but please. Let's just let it be one of a kind, shall we?
Yesterday the school called and said that while they were outside for a fire drill, Micah ralphed. They have a no-ralphing policy there so I had to go get him. I don't send sick kids to school (or anywhere else for that matter) and his aide said that it was all mucus. (I hope you weren't eating anything.) But they have that policy, so I had to quickly shower and go pick him up. That whole SAHMs have no need of showering first thing in the morning because we've got nowhere to go sometimes comes around to bite me. He spent the rest of the day eating, playing, and running outside because it was absolutely gorgeous. Mother Nature was having a good day. She's over herself now though. Winter is back.
Since Micah was fine all day yesterday, all evening, and all night, I sent him to school this morning. They called and said he tossed his cookies on the van, and he didn't pack a lunch. The van driver graciously turned around and brought him right back home. She said it was mucus again. While I should be peeved that he's swallowing snot by the bucket loads and keeping himself out of school for it, it was very nice to have a day of just me and my baby. I miss him sometimes. And he wasn't even sick, so we just had fun together.
You know that I don't really have a life since I don't even shower until mid afternoon sometime, so I'm not sure how I ended up with two lunch dates today. It all worked out in the end, but what are the odds? Oh, and it was so nice to have a lunch date. I felt like I had a life for an hour or so there.
The kids school Valentines parties are tomorrow. I prepared accordingly of course. I carefully chose snacks for Micah's class that did not have peanuts or chocolate because of food allergies in the room. THEN Sam told me that the note said "no food." I had to try for Gifts: Round Two today. I love the party aisle at Wal-Mart. Those mega-packs of bona fide stuff are da bomb. No pack is complete without play-doh and bouncy balls among them.
Luke's class needed snacks for a party so I thought mini cupcakes would be oh-so-fun. They were. But how on earth could I be in town 3 days this week stocking up for Friday and still not have frosting? I would have sworn I had my act all together at one point, but apparently I forgot where I put it. I spied a tub of marshmallow fluff in the pantry and with the help of Rachel Ray Dot Com I found a recipe for frosting that was quick and easy. And sugary enough to give the kids diabetes.
Because the Valentines parties aren't a big enough hassle to prepare and coordinate for, the PTA (in all their infinite wisdom) decided to auction off baskets of goodies for a fundraiser. Items are due tomorrow. Josh's class is doing one in a Steelers theme. Dude. That stuff is spendy. I made a tote bag because I had the fabric in my stash. Hand up the one who spotted my deliberate mistake. Ahem.
I've been working on some new designs for the shop because new is always exciting. Since I know nothing about seafood, a friend helped me to get the sushi just so.
That was early in the day. After the lunch date, the Valentines packs, the cupcakes and frosting, and the PTA bag, I tried my hand at a golf design. Apparently the witching hour had passed because it just wasn't happening. Here are some of the golf designs that I had in mind. It's always good to have a backup because while they may look stellar on paper sometimes they don't translate well to fabric.
I started with the golf bag since it was one of the hands down favorites of the family.
Since that was an epic fail (travel mug, anyone?) I decided to go for the golf cart.
Apparently it's one of those paper-only designs. And the floating golf heads that look rather like mouse droppings behind the cart would be attached with stitching. I'm not that far gone yet.
I'd like to think that tomorrow will get better, but I graciously volunteered to babysit my friends' kids while her and her hubby go away for the romantic weekend. That will double the kid count here. Fun times, fun times. Becky said that there are about a dozen stores closing in the mall (Yippee us. Wherever will we shop now?) so maybe I'll go shopping after the weekend is over.
Oh, and spellcheck flagged Steelers. Spellcheck needs to get with the program.
Yesterday the school called and said that while they were outside for a fire drill, Micah ralphed. They have a no-ralphing policy there so I had to go get him. I don't send sick kids to school (or anywhere else for that matter) and his aide said that it was all mucus. (I hope you weren't eating anything.) But they have that policy, so I had to quickly shower and go pick him up. That whole SAHMs have no need of showering first thing in the morning because we've got nowhere to go sometimes comes around to bite me. He spent the rest of the day eating, playing, and running outside because it was absolutely gorgeous. Mother Nature was having a good day. She's over herself now though. Winter is back.
Since Micah was fine all day yesterday, all evening, and all night, I sent him to school this morning. They called and said he tossed his cookies on the van, and he didn't pack a lunch. The van driver graciously turned around and brought him right back home. She said it was mucus again. While I should be peeved that he's swallowing snot by the bucket loads and keeping himself out of school for it, it was very nice to have a day of just me and my baby. I miss him sometimes. And he wasn't even sick, so we just had fun together.
You know that I don't really have a life since I don't even shower until mid afternoon sometime, so I'm not sure how I ended up with two lunch dates today. It all worked out in the end, but what are the odds? Oh, and it was so nice to have a lunch date. I felt like I had a life for an hour or so there.
The kids school Valentines parties are tomorrow. I prepared accordingly of course. I carefully chose snacks for Micah's class that did not have peanuts or chocolate because of food allergies in the room. THEN Sam told me that the note said "no food." I had to try for Gifts: Round Two today. I love the party aisle at Wal-Mart. Those mega-packs of bona fide stuff are da bomb. No pack is complete without play-doh and bouncy balls among them.
Luke's class needed snacks for a party so I thought mini cupcakes would be oh-so-fun. They were. But how on earth could I be in town 3 days this week stocking up for Friday and still not have frosting? I would have sworn I had my act all together at one point, but apparently I forgot where I put it. I spied a tub of marshmallow fluff in the pantry and with the help of Rachel Ray Dot Com I found a recipe for frosting that was quick and easy. And sugary enough to give the kids diabetes.
Because the Valentines parties aren't a big enough hassle to prepare and coordinate for, the PTA (in all their infinite wisdom) decided to auction off baskets of goodies for a fundraiser. Items are due tomorrow. Josh's class is doing one in a Steelers theme. Dude. That stuff is spendy. I made a tote bag because I had the fabric in my stash. Hand up the one who spotted my deliberate mistake. Ahem.
I've been working on some new designs for the shop because new is always exciting. Since I know nothing about seafood, a friend helped me to get the sushi just so.
That was early in the day. After the lunch date, the Valentines packs, the cupcakes and frosting, and the PTA bag, I tried my hand at a golf design. Apparently the witching hour had passed because it just wasn't happening. Here are some of the golf designs that I had in mind. It's always good to have a backup because while they may look stellar on paper sometimes they don't translate well to fabric.
I started with the golf bag since it was one of the hands down favorites of the family.
Since that was an epic fail (travel mug, anyone?) I decided to go for the golf cart.
Apparently it's one of those paper-only designs. And the floating golf heads that look rather like mouse droppings behind the cart would be attached with stitching. I'm not that far gone yet.
I'd like to think that tomorrow will get better, but I graciously volunteered to babysit my friends' kids while her and her hubby go away for the romantic weekend. That will double the kid count here. Fun times, fun times. Becky said that there are about a dozen stores closing in the mall (Yippee us. Wherever will we shop now?) so maybe I'll go shopping after the weekend is over.
Oh, and spellcheck flagged Steelers. Spellcheck needs to get with the program.
Cleaning is Overrated
Top 10 signs that you don't clean as often as you could. In no particular order.
1. The cleaning supplies have dust on them.
2. You're not sure what all the cleaners are used for, and can't remember ever buying them.
3. Your kids ask, "who's coming over" just because you picked up the toys.
4. It looks like the fairies went wild with the pixie dust. Except the furniture isn't floating.
5. The colors on the TV don't really need adjusted now that you've cleaned the screen.
6. It's not really an overcast day. The windows were just dingy.
7. The family notices that you've cleaned when they walk in the door. And comments.
8. You've found the TV remote that was lost for a week because you actually moved the couch to vacuum.
9. You've also found a few spoons, two plates, and half a dozen golf balls. Maybe moving the couch should happen more often.
10. Your husband asks who you hired to clean for you.
1. The cleaning supplies have dust on them.
2. You're not sure what all the cleaners are used for, and can't remember ever buying them.
3. Your kids ask, "who's coming over" just because you picked up the toys.
4. It looks like the fairies went wild with the pixie dust. Except the furniture isn't floating.
5. The colors on the TV don't really need adjusted now that you've cleaned the screen.
6. It's not really an overcast day. The windows were just dingy.
7. The family notices that you've cleaned when they walk in the door. And comments.
8. You've found the TV remote that was lost for a week because you actually moved the couch to vacuum.
9. You've also found a few spoons, two plates, and half a dozen golf balls. Maybe moving the couch should happen more often.
10. Your husband asks who you hired to clean for you.
Let The Dogs Out. Please.
Before I get started, let me just clarify that I love dogs. Otherwise I wouldn't surround myself with the kind of insanity that goes on here.
But my word. The dogs! What the heck was I thinking, surrounding myself with them?! As we sit here and chat interwebinally, the outside dogs are practicing their new chorus. The howling, yipping and barking has been going on for most of the morning. It is inspired by the dog across the road walking around in his own yard. And the cardinals eating seeds in the hedge. And the wind blowing. And probably even the warm weather because it's such a novelty that they must herald it to the world.
The inside dogs are taking turns chasing each other around in circles through the house. I know how cute this sounds, but 48 toe nails clicking and skidding on hardwood tends to lose it's cuteness rather quickly.
Sometimes the dogs will take a break from running and do stupid things. Today it involves pebbles. The dogs find them no end of fascinating and sneak one inside on occasion. Only the stealth ends when the other three realize that one has something. The chasing begins, and the snuffling and the grunting and the nails on the hardwood. It's worse than the running. And I've gotta take the pebble so that one of them doesn't accidentally inhale it and incur a vet bill.
The puppies are pretty sure that they need out of their kennel so that they can randomly deficate and urinate all over the house, and to that end they jump and clamor in their metal playpen making enough noise to get the outside dogs riled up again.
I'm skipping the breakfast of champions. I'm heading right to the leftover chocolate cake. It's one of those mornings.
But my word. The dogs! What the heck was I thinking, surrounding myself with them?! As we sit here and chat interwebinally, the outside dogs are practicing their new chorus. The howling, yipping and barking has been going on for most of the morning. It is inspired by the dog across the road walking around in his own yard. And the cardinals eating seeds in the hedge. And the wind blowing. And probably even the warm weather because it's such a novelty that they must herald it to the world.
The inside dogs are taking turns chasing each other around in circles through the house. I know how cute this sounds, but 48 toe nails clicking and skidding on hardwood tends to lose it's cuteness rather quickly.
Sometimes the dogs will take a break from running and do stupid things. Today it involves pebbles. The dogs find them no end of fascinating and sneak one inside on occasion. Only the stealth ends when the other three realize that one has something. The chasing begins, and the snuffling and the grunting and the nails on the hardwood. It's worse than the running. And I've gotta take the pebble so that one of them doesn't accidentally inhale it and incur a vet bill.
The puppies are pretty sure that they need out of their kennel so that they can randomly deficate and urinate all over the house, and to that end they jump and clamor in their metal playpen making enough noise to get the outside dogs riled up again.
I'm skipping the breakfast of champions. I'm heading right to the leftover chocolate cake. It's one of those mornings.
Touched by a Legend
When Micah was diagnosed with Down syndrome we were given the name and phone number of the Down Syndrome Center in Pittsburgh. This was about the only bit of information that our pediatric office had given us. Desperate to do anything that we could to learn more, to help our son, to try and right the world that was just pulled out from under our feet, we called and set up an appointment.
When we arrived at Children's Hospital for the appointment, we were told to meet the coordinator at the cafeteria. Not sure what to expect, Sam and I got something small to nibble on while waiting for someone to join us. That someone was Sheila Cannon, the competent coordinator of the Downs Clinic. She sat down at our table, told us how blessed we were to have such a dear and wonderful baby boy, and answered any questions that we had. We've since learned that Sheila is one of the busiest people we've ever met and to get time alone with her is rare indeed, but that day we were top priority on her schedule. Making new parents to the world of Down syndrome feel welcome is her goal in life. She does it well.
She led us to the Downs clinic where we met Dr. Cohen. He was so very thrilled to meet Micah. I got the impression that each patient was special to him, and he took personal interest in every single one of them. Dr. Cohen took two hours to examine Micah from head to toe, answer more questions, reassure us that the world would be alright again, give us some ideas of what to expect in the future, and start us down the road to Micah's adenoidectomy because of his deep concern for his patients health. To say that we were impressed is an understatement. There is no way he could schedule more than a handful of patients per day with that kind of thoroughness. And we appreciated it.
We learned over the years that we would need to schedule Micah's annual visit months in advance because of his caring and thorough ways. With each appointment that we had, I was reminded once again of what a doctor could be. Dr. Cohen truly cared for his patients, and listened to the concerns of parents. He took notes, he referenced them, and he asked questions to get to know more about his patients. He cared about potty training issues, he kept an eye out for autistic tendencies, he always had phone numbers handy to share with parents if they needed more therapy or a specialist for their child.
Sometime after we were at the Downs Clinic, I came to find out that Dr. Cohen was a leading expert in the Down syndrome field. He was co-founder of the Down Syndrome Medical Interest Group, he co-authored the book Down Syndrome: Visions for the 21st Century, he was a member of the clinical advisory board for the National Down Syndrome Society, he won numerous awards such as the Award for Outstanding Clinical Care, he was named one of Pittsburgh's top doctors by Pittsburgh magazine, he was internationally recognized for his expertise in the care of children and adults with Down Syndrome. And yet, he was Micah's doctor. He was never out of touch with his patients.
Dr. Cohen died of a heart attack Friday, February 6, 2009. His loss will be felt by so many. I'm both glad that Micah is too young to miss him, and sad that he won't remember him personally. But I will. I'll always be grateful that our lives were touched by Dr. Cohen.
The Downs world has lost a hero.
http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/tribunereview/obituaries/?mode=view&obit_id=167043
When we arrived at Children's Hospital for the appointment, we were told to meet the coordinator at the cafeteria. Not sure what to expect, Sam and I got something small to nibble on while waiting for someone to join us. That someone was Sheila Cannon, the competent coordinator of the Downs Clinic. She sat down at our table, told us how blessed we were to have such a dear and wonderful baby boy, and answered any questions that we had. We've since learned that Sheila is one of the busiest people we've ever met and to get time alone with her is rare indeed, but that day we were top priority on her schedule. Making new parents to the world of Down syndrome feel welcome is her goal in life. She does it well.
She led us to the Downs clinic where we met Dr. Cohen. He was so very thrilled to meet Micah. I got the impression that each patient was special to him, and he took personal interest in every single one of them. Dr. Cohen took two hours to examine Micah from head to toe, answer more questions, reassure us that the world would be alright again, give us some ideas of what to expect in the future, and start us down the road to Micah's adenoidectomy because of his deep concern for his patients health. To say that we were impressed is an understatement. There is no way he could schedule more than a handful of patients per day with that kind of thoroughness. And we appreciated it.
We learned over the years that we would need to schedule Micah's annual visit months in advance because of his caring and thorough ways. With each appointment that we had, I was reminded once again of what a doctor could be. Dr. Cohen truly cared for his patients, and listened to the concerns of parents. He took notes, he referenced them, and he asked questions to get to know more about his patients. He cared about potty training issues, he kept an eye out for autistic tendencies, he always had phone numbers handy to share with parents if they needed more therapy or a specialist for their child.
Sometime after we were at the Downs Clinic, I came to find out that Dr. Cohen was a leading expert in the Down syndrome field. He was co-founder of the Down Syndrome Medical Interest Group, he co-authored the book Down Syndrome: Visions for the 21st Century, he was a member of the clinical advisory board for the National Down Syndrome Society, he won numerous awards such as the Award for Outstanding Clinical Care, he was named one of Pittsburgh's top doctors by Pittsburgh magazine, he was internationally recognized for his expertise in the care of children and adults with Down Syndrome. And yet, he was Micah's doctor. He was never out of touch with his patients.
Dr. Cohen died of a heart attack Friday, February 6, 2009. His loss will be felt by so many. I'm both glad that Micah is too young to miss him, and sad that he won't remember him personally. But I will. I'll always be grateful that our lives were touched by Dr. Cohen.
The Downs world has lost a hero.
http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/tribunereview/obituaries/?mode=view&obit_id=167043
Respect the Blog
While I do not consider myself a professional writer in any way, I do consider myself to be an author of sorts. Blogging has allowed me to write about our family in a very personal, and yet a very public, way.
I've not had any formal training in writing, unless you can count my college English class that insisted that we turn in a one-page story every week. In retrospect, I now see that I was blogging way back then. I relished that opportunity to record a memory that was dear to me or to retell the events of a particularly eventful day. Sadly, many in my class didn't feel the same. In fact, I think I was the only freak that loved those writing assignments.
It's no surprise that I have jumped on the Mommy Bloggers Bandwagon. I still love writing, and it's great to be able to connect with others through the bloggy medium. (I don't think that's a real spiritual being, but I may be wrong.) Blogging has helped me realize that I'm not the only mom on the edge of her sanity, that someone actually listens to what I say (there's balm to a mothers' soul), and that moms everywhere are all struggling to feel a little more like a real person and a little less like "Little Junior's Mom."
There are many days when I wonder if blogging is worthwhile. Don't get me wrong - I write for me as well as for you. I love having record of when events took place, of what the kids said at dinner last month, of what I was thinking when I did that stupid thing that I shouldn't have... And I love reading all about your stupid adventures that shouldn't have happened, what your kids said at dinner last month, and what events are taking place at your blog. But it's time consuming, and I know you can feel me on this one. There are days (are there not?) when I think that if I spent more time with my kids and less time on the computer we'd all be happier for it. And it's those days when I start to take serious inventory of what blogging has given me.
While absolutely nothing can replace time spent with kids, I have gained much from blogging. The friendships, the encouragement, the laughs - it all makes it worthwhile. But the single greatest thing that blogging has provided is a Voice for Micah. Without the help of bloggy friends and a public place to record my frustrations, Micah would still be speechless.
There is a growing unrest among professional writers. They are a wee bit frustrated and maybe even a little afraid that we are encroaching on their territory. Some of them even go as far as to say that bloggers are not considered writers. That our stories are diluting the professionalism of newspapers and other media. That we don't matter.
I think differently. If I didn't make my voice heard, Micah would still be speechless. If what I had to say didn't matter, nobody would have reached out and made the voice possible. Whether I've been to school or not, my writing matters. If you don't like this author's writing style, feel free to walk away and go read News Week. That's the beauty of the written word. I don't have to be a professional to make a difference with my writing.
I've not had any formal training in writing, unless you can count my college English class that insisted that we turn in a one-page story every week. In retrospect, I now see that I was blogging way back then. I relished that opportunity to record a memory that was dear to me or to retell the events of a particularly eventful day. Sadly, many in my class didn't feel the same. In fact, I think I was the only freak that loved those writing assignments.
It's no surprise that I have jumped on the Mommy Bloggers Bandwagon. I still love writing, and it's great to be able to connect with others through the bloggy medium. (I don't think that's a real spiritual being, but I may be wrong.) Blogging has helped me realize that I'm not the only mom on the edge of her sanity, that someone actually listens to what I say (there's balm to a mothers' soul), and that moms everywhere are all struggling to feel a little more like a real person and a little less like "Little Junior's Mom."
There are many days when I wonder if blogging is worthwhile. Don't get me wrong - I write for me as well as for you. I love having record of when events took place, of what the kids said at dinner last month, of what I was thinking when I did that stupid thing that I shouldn't have... And I love reading all about your stupid adventures that shouldn't have happened, what your kids said at dinner last month, and what events are taking place at your blog. But it's time consuming, and I know you can feel me on this one. There are days (are there not?) when I think that if I spent more time with my kids and less time on the computer we'd all be happier for it. And it's those days when I start to take serious inventory of what blogging has given me.
While absolutely nothing can replace time spent with kids, I have gained much from blogging. The friendships, the encouragement, the laughs - it all makes it worthwhile. But the single greatest thing that blogging has provided is a Voice for Micah. Without the help of bloggy friends and a public place to record my frustrations, Micah would still be speechless.
There is a growing unrest among professional writers. They are a wee bit frustrated and maybe even a little afraid that we are encroaching on their territory. Some of them even go as far as to say that bloggers are not considered writers. That our stories are diluting the professionalism of newspapers and other media. That we don't matter.
I think differently. If I didn't make my voice heard, Micah would still be speechless. If what I had to say didn't matter, nobody would have reached out and made the voice possible. Whether I've been to school or not, my writing matters. If you don't like this author's writing style, feel free to walk away and go read News Week. That's the beauty of the written word. I don't have to be a professional to make a difference with my writing.
Revisiting Compassion
*Originally posted July, 2008. It's worth the second read.
In our church the kids sit at the front during song service, closely watched over by their teachers. (I'm one of them.) After song service ends they're dismissed to Children's Church and mild chaos ensues as they try to race each other to the back of the church. Of course they can't do this very quickly knowing that both teachers and parents are watching, and the aisles aren't big enough to swarm down en masse. And in the far aisle sits a man in a wheel chair, taking up precious space. They are forced to go single file past him, which they do at breakneck tiptoe pace, ever mindful of who is ahead of them.
While I was teaching one week the kids asked why Micah stopped to shake the hand of the man in the wheelchair. We were learning about compassion, and I explained that we could all learn something from Micah. He may not have compassion for the man because of his disability, but rather Micah doesn't see the man as different. Micah stops to shake his hand because he's at Micah's level and it's the polite thing to do.
How often do any of us do that? How often do we look past someone's differences and see them as a normal person, on our own level?
The next week it took quite a while for the kids to make their way out of church. Every single one of the kids stopped to shake the hand of the man in the wheelchair. He beamed from ear to ear.
And Micah simply stood in line to wait his turn because that's what he does.
In our church the kids sit at the front during song service, closely watched over by their teachers. (I'm one of them.) After song service ends they're dismissed to Children's Church and mild chaos ensues as they try to race each other to the back of the church. Of course they can't do this very quickly knowing that both teachers and parents are watching, and the aisles aren't big enough to swarm down en masse. And in the far aisle sits a man in a wheel chair, taking up precious space. They are forced to go single file past him, which they do at breakneck tiptoe pace, ever mindful of who is ahead of them.
While I was teaching one week the kids asked why Micah stopped to shake the hand of the man in the wheelchair. We were learning about compassion, and I explained that we could all learn something from Micah. He may not have compassion for the man because of his disability, but rather Micah doesn't see the man as different. Micah stops to shake his hand because he's at Micah's level and it's the polite thing to do.
How often do any of us do that? How often do we look past someone's differences and see them as a normal person, on our own level?
The next week it took quite a while for the kids to make their way out of church. Every single one of the kids stopped to shake the hand of the man in the wheelchair. He beamed from ear to ear.
And Micah simply stood in line to wait his turn because that's what he does.
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