Like most middle-aged girls, I love a good chick flick, a dark chocolate kiss, and a box of Puffs Plus. But I also love a good testosterone-laden, sweaty-muscled boy movie. Die Hard, Terminator, Rambo, yeah. "Yippee-ki-Ya, I'll be back", and all that jazz. So when a preview promises a good boy movie with Bruce, Arnold AND Sly? Well, baby, count me in.
So I paid $4.75 for a diet Coke and snuggled up under my denim jacket (yeah, I know it's 97 degrees outside, but the theater is always an icebox), and I was ready to experience two quality hours of Shoot 'Em Up, Bang Bang. Which is exactly how the movie started - an ambush. Four "good guys" mow down three dozen "bad guys", the first of which got his torso blown in half and one of the good guys says, "Whoops, too low".
There were about 75 such machine-gun-to-the-chest, machete-slitting-throat, and small-blades-jabbed-into-the-ear scenes, complete with extended blood splattering, splurting and gurgling. But, okay, I did ask for a boy movie.
There were chase scenes. Lots of 'em. And, ironically, in every single one, fruit stands were overturned and big 'splosions occurred. Luckily, however, none of the good guys were ever harmed in the making of this film.
There were rigorous fight scenes where multiple thugs attack a single hero . . . politely, though, one at a time, so our hero is able to aptly kick all their butts in sequence.
There were two women in the movie, shockingly both drop-dead gorgeous, who were unable to do anything without their burly past-their-prime, locked-and-loaded men to protect them and rescue them. Repeatedly.
There was witty dialogue like:
(Bald Bad Guy): "Who sent you?"
(Stallone): "Your hairdresser."
There was a shocking final moment from Head Bad Guy Eric Roberts (at least, that's what his name tag said), when he confessed to being a drug-runner because his soul is empty. Then they kill him six different ways, with extended blood splattering, splurting and gurgling.
Oh, and then there was THE LIE. THE BIG LIE. The glorious previews. The promise of the greatest boy movie ever made with all the greatest boys starring in it. Well, that "promise" amounted to nothing more than a 30-second CAMEO with Arnold and Bruce. Seriously. One scene. Although, later in the movie, Stallone does hold up a glossy 8x10 of Bruce's face, so maybe you can count that as two scenes. This is a Stallone vehicle, written and directed by Rocky to rescue his aging career . . . and ego.
The Expendables was completely . . . oh, what's the word for something you can really do without???
Plus, my diet Coke was flat.
August 23, 2010
August 18, 2010
real. simple.
Last week, we were discussing the discipline of simplicity.
The concept of living simple lives . . .
1. Don't "buy" things just to "have" things. (Like all those empty Rubbermaid containers I have in the utility, in case I get one of my overwhelming urges to organize something.)
2. Don't let anything become an addiction for you. (Like chocolate. Or, say, chocolate.)
3. Take joy in giving things away. (Here, you can have my utility bill!)
4. Appreciate things without having to own them.
5. Develop a deeper appreciation for creation. (Like the weeds in my flower bed.)
6. Reject anything that oppresses others.
7. Get rid of the distractions that keep you from seeking and seeing God in your life.
When asked, "How can we be more intentional about simplicity?" a lovely, young professional mother-of-three commented that she tries to limit her schedule to 3 things a day. She said anytime she tries to squeeze in more than that, it makes her a "grouchy mommy".
Well, I don't want to be a grouchy mommy either.
So today I got out of bed, shaved my legs, and drove to Panera's for a Cinnamon Crunch Bagel.
One, two, three. It worked. I don't feel grouchy at all. Mission accomplished.
Simplicity is good.
The concept of living simple lives . . .
1. Don't "buy" things just to "have" things. (Like all those empty Rubbermaid containers I have in the utility, in case I get one of my overwhelming urges to organize something.)
2. Don't let anything become an addiction for you. (Like chocolate. Or, say, chocolate.)
3. Take joy in giving things away. (Here, you can have my utility bill!)
4. Appreciate things without having to own them.
5. Develop a deeper appreciation for creation. (Like the weeds in my flower bed.)
6. Reject anything that oppresses others.
7. Get rid of the distractions that keep you from seeking and seeing God in your life.
When asked, "How can we be more intentional about simplicity?" a lovely, young professional mother-of-three commented that she tries to limit her schedule to 3 things a day. She said anytime she tries to squeeze in more than that, it makes her a "grouchy mommy".
Well, I don't want to be a grouchy mommy either.
So today I got out of bed, shaved my legs, and drove to Panera's for a Cinnamon Crunch Bagel.
One, two, three. It worked. I don't feel grouchy at all. Mission accomplished.
Simplicity is good.
August 13, 2010
someday
God is trying to teach me patience and contentment and I have been fighting Him. For a long time. And I have been angry with Him. For a long time. And I have become completely disillusioned with prayer while, ironically, continuing to pray more than I ever have in my life, because I don't know what else to do.
My friend Lynn once said that "anger is simply unmet expectations". The first time I heard her say that, I dismissed it as oversimplified and generalized. A couple of years later, she repeated that phrase, and I kept it with me. Looked at it. Rolled it over in my brain. And came to realize it is unfailingly true. Without exception.
If Anger is Unmet Expectations, then what I've also come to realize over the past few months is: Depression is Anger that Just Doesn't Want to Get Out of Bed.
See, I have let my unmet expectations overwhelm me. I want what I want. I have forgotten that my life is not about me. My BLOG is about me, but my LIFE, not so much. It is in God's hands. I have forgotten to trust that he KNOWS the plans he has for me. Mostly because I have my own plans, and I don't trust that he is paying close attention to the details.
Tonight I have been lying alone, outside in the dark, listening to the crickets and the frogs, and watching God's attention to details in the form of a meteor shower. And I was reminded once again, in the vastness of this universe, in the midst of my unmet expectations, he still loves me, he still promises NEVER to leave me, and he still gives me hope . . .
My friend Lynn once said that "anger is simply unmet expectations". The first time I heard her say that, I dismissed it as oversimplified and generalized. A couple of years later, she repeated that phrase, and I kept it with me. Looked at it. Rolled it over in my brain. And came to realize it is unfailingly true. Without exception.
If Anger is Unmet Expectations, then what I've also come to realize over the past few months is: Depression is Anger that Just Doesn't Want to Get Out of Bed.
See, I have let my unmet expectations overwhelm me. I want what I want. I have forgotten that my life is not about me. My BLOG is about me, but my LIFE, not so much. It is in God's hands. I have forgotten to trust that he KNOWS the plans he has for me. Mostly because I have my own plans, and I don't trust that he is paying close attention to the details.
Tonight I have been lying alone, outside in the dark, listening to the crickets and the frogs, and watching God's attention to details in the form of a meteor shower. And I was reminded once again, in the vastness of this universe, in the midst of my unmet expectations, he still loves me, he still promises NEVER to leave me, and he still gives me hope . . .
August 09, 2010
refined taste
I don't know if you're a fan of crackers or not, but as far as crispy little baked goods go, Club crackers rank pretty high on the list. They've been a staple in my kitchen for a long, long time. They work especially well with egg salad or cheese of most any kind.A few years back, the kids started asking if I would buy "The Good Crackers" next time I went grocery shopping. Sure! I assumed they meant would I just replace the good crackers we always have because they had all been eaten. So I brought home more Club crackers.
They never complained, but the next time I was Kroger-bound they asked again, "Please Mommy, would you buy The Good Crackers THIS time?" Sure, my sweet babies! What ARE the Good Crackers? But they couldn't tell me. "You know, they yummy ones!" So I perused the Ritz and the Cheese Nips and the oyster crackers, but decided on Wheat Thins (my personal favorite cracker . . . besides Matthew Shafer). Once home, I asked, "Are theeese what you wanted?" and I waved the yellow box in front of them with a satisfied smile. Two disappointed little faces told me I had not hit my mark.
Some time later I brought home a little sack of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish which cost roughly the same as a 16-oz ribeye. This time I was met with enthusiasm! Yes! Score one for Mommy! Goldfish crackers are practically CANDY to small children. They enjoyed feasting on them for several days.More weeks passed, and on this occasion, the children were grocery shopping with me. As we strolled down the cookie/cracker aisle, the kids stopped dead in their tracks and stared at the floor. Heaven opened up. All the spot lights in the ceiling swiveled to illuminate the place at my children's feet, and angels began singing "Hallelujah".
"Mommy!!!! The GOOD crackers! Please, please, please!?"
And there, at their feet, were the Saltines.
The good crackers.
August 08, 2010
August 07, 2010
of mice and men
I have the best laid plans . . . when I'm lying in bed. I stretch and think and outline out all the things I'm GOING to do when I get up. I do this every day. Today is a big housework day. Catch up on the laundry, clean the bathroom, mop the kitchen floor, pull weeds in the flower beds, vacuum, dust, windex - I'm certain you know the drill. I even plan to move the silk trees outside to wash them, move the desk from the den to the living room, hook up the new computer, clean out the refrigerator, and shave my legs.
That's the plan. At least that was the plan as of 6:30 this morning. But 6:30 is too early, so I reach for my iPod and play a few rounds of Scrabble with my daughter, answer a phone call from an old friend, and fall back to sleep. No worries. It's Saturday. I have no place to go today. Plenty of time for my agenda.
When I wake for the second time, I hit the ground running . . . until it came time to fold laundry. My first mistake came in turning on the tv. My second mistake was flipping to the SyFy channel, because I know it is Saturday and I am going to want to laugh at the cheesy dialogue and heckle the bad acting and become completely enthralled with the special effects. (In today's movie, the dragon bites off a guy's arm, and as the camera pans over his now bloody stump, you can actually see his real arm tucked behind him.)
Not to worry. The dishwasher is running, the garbage has been taken out, the silk trees have been washed, most of the house is vacuumed, the toilet & bathtub are as clean as they are going to be without some sort of nuclear bleach bomb, the laundry basket is empty and the clothes are now folded and put away. And to maximize my time, I always work during commercials. Unless, of course, it's a Toyota Sienna commercial.
That's the plan. At least that was the plan as of 6:30 this morning. But 6:30 is too early, so I reach for my iPod and play a few rounds of Scrabble with my daughter, answer a phone call from an old friend, and fall back to sleep. No worries. It's Saturday. I have no place to go today. Plenty of time for my agenda.
When I wake for the second time, I hit the ground running . . . until it came time to fold laundry. My first mistake came in turning on the tv. My second mistake was flipping to the SyFy channel, because I know it is Saturday and I am going to want to laugh at the cheesy dialogue and heckle the bad acting and become completely enthralled with the special effects. (In today's movie, the dragon bites off a guy's arm, and as the camera pans over his now bloody stump, you can actually see his real arm tucked behind him.)
Not to worry. The dishwasher is running, the garbage has been taken out, the silk trees have been washed, most of the house is vacuumed, the toilet & bathtub are as clean as they are going to be without some sort of nuclear bleach bomb, the laundry basket is empty and the clothes are now folded and put away. And to maximize my time, I always work during commercials. Unless, of course, it's a Toyota Sienna commercial.
Then I realize it's 1:30, so I make a little lunch (which totally counts as housework) and flip channels and become quickly engrossed in a movie where James Garner is telling Sally Field he's in love for the last time in his life, and I sigh a wistful sigh. Then I click the remote again and Mr. Darcy is telling Miss Elizabeth his feelings have not changed, and the look between them lets you know they are in love, and not just fluffy love, but that with-your-whole-heart-until-the-day-you-die kind of love. Sigh again.
Now, since I'm already vegging, I play a few more rounds of IPod Scrabble, check Facebook, my Blogher Revenue ($4.63 this week), and realize I have now misplaced my early morning motivation. I try to find it. I sit here and stretch and think and outline all the things I still want to accomplish. Only now they don't seem so important. The house is clean. Mostly. Except for the kitchen floor, but I chose the kitchen tile based on the single point that it doesn't show dirt. So really, mopping it would be wasted effort unless somebody is planning to eat off it. Somebody besides the ants, that is.So I took a bath and shaved my legs. I can now cross off the last thing on my list. I'm finished. Right?
Sounds good to me.
August 05, 2010
it is finished
Fewer than three hours after my last post, Tony left this world to go home.
I cannot stop the tears, nor do I want to.
I cannot stop the tears, nor do I want to.
praying for a miracle
This is Tony when he was about 5. 
He is a perfect blend of his parents, Neal and Sherri, who were our best friends when we lived in Alaska, and who remain, to this day, the kind of friends you would do anything for. We spent countless hours together eating, talking, playing games, worshiping, etc.
Our kids have played together since they were babies, and have continued to remain in each others' lives via Facebook. They are more like cousins than just childhood friends.
Though we have been gone from Alaska for many years, we have still managed to get together 13 long weekends since we left . . . the last time being in January last year when we went to be with them when Tony had surgery on a brain tumor.
We always pick right up from where we left off as though we have never been apart.
We still have a copy of their will in our safe which names us as guardians for Tony and his sister should something unspeakable happen to their family.
And something unspeakable is happening, and my heart is breaking. Surgeries and treatments for Tony, even from M.D. Anderson, have not been successful. While Tony should have spent the last 18 months finishing college, (he is nearly 22 now) he has spent it fighting this astrocytoma. And his body is not winning.
Tony is now in his bedroom at home in Alaska with his precious mom and dad. He is in more pain than his medication can relieve. He has lost feeling in some of his body. His brain can no longer make the connection between his thoughts and his words. He has stopped eating. His breathing has become shallow and labored. He is aware that he is dying. He is ready, but he is worried about his parents. As am I.
I am still praying for a miracle.
He is a perfect blend of his parents, Neal and Sherri, who were our best friends when we lived in Alaska, and who remain, to this day, the kind of friends you would do anything for. We spent countless hours together eating, talking, playing games, worshiping, etc. Our kids have played together since they were babies, and have continued to remain in each others' lives via Facebook. They are more like cousins than just childhood friends.
Though we have been gone from Alaska for many years, we have still managed to get together 13 long weekends since we left . . . the last time being in January last year when we went to be with them when Tony had surgery on a brain tumor.
We always pick right up from where we left off as though we have never been apart.
We still have a copy of their will in our safe which names us as guardians for Tony and his sister should something unspeakable happen to their family.
And something unspeakable is happening, and my heart is breaking. Surgeries and treatments for Tony, even from M.D. Anderson, have not been successful. While Tony should have spent the last 18 months finishing college, (he is nearly 22 now) he has spent it fighting this astrocytoma. And his body is not winning. Tony is now in his bedroom at home in Alaska with his precious mom and dad. He is in more pain than his medication can relieve. He has lost feeling in some of his body. His brain can no longer make the connection between his thoughts and his words. He has stopped eating. His breathing has become shallow and labored. He is aware that he is dying. He is ready, but he is worried about his parents. As am I.
I am still praying for a miracle.
coffee talk
My boy . . . my youngest . . . my baby is starting his very first day of school today. I can hardly believe it.
He looked so cute this morning standing on the front porch for his official “First Day of School” photo.
Brand new shoes.
Backpack over his shoulders.
Week-old haircut so it looks nice, but not TOO “I just got my hair cut”.
Lunch money in his pocket.
Rolling his eyes at me and saying, “Mom, give me my keys. I gotta go NOW so I'll have time to stop and get coffee on the way.”
Did I mention that my baby is 17 and a high school senior? Not really so much his “first day of school” as it is his “first day of public school”, having been homeschooled his entire life.
Still. I’m all misty. And a little verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves while I go fix my mascara.
He looked so cute this morning standing on the front porch for his official “First Day of School” photo.
Brand new shoes.
Backpack over his shoulders.
Week-old haircut so it looks nice, but not TOO “I just got my hair cut”.
Lunch money in his pocket.
Rolling his eyes at me and saying, “Mom, give me my keys. I gotta go NOW so I'll have time to stop and get coffee on the way.”Did I mention that my baby is 17 and a high school senior? Not really so much his “first day of school” as it is his “first day of public school”, having been homeschooled his entire life.
Still. I’m all misty. And a little verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves while I go fix my mascara.
August 01, 2010
dou-what?
I am getting ready for bed when my phone rings. It is late, and I know even before I look who the call is from. With a smile on my face, I answer with the words, “Are we going to have a baby?” The mom-to-be on the other end of the phone questions the feelings she is having . . . contractions? gas pains? Wishful thinking? “How far apart?” I ask. Maybe 15 minutes, she thinks, though not sure. So I ask if she wants to “rest” or “rock and roll”, to which she replies that resting sounds nice. (It sounds nice to me too, but it is not my decision.) I advise her to drink a glass of water and try to sleep - I will come whenever she wants me.
I am a doula. A birth doula, to be more specific. Supporting women during childbirth. It has become a job, a hobby, a passion, a ministry.
I sleep lightly for two hours, anticipating their call. This time from her husband. A sure sign it is time for me to meet them. I dress quickly, grab my bag, and drive the 32 miles in the middle of the night, meeting only a few headlights. The roads are quiet at 1:15. I arrive to a dark street, dark houses, except for the one expecting me. The porch light is on, the door is unlocked, waiting for me to let myself in. I change my shoes, wash my hands, and head to the bedroom where she is laboring with quiet moans and easy rocking. “How we doing?” I whisper. She looks at me with eyes that say, “This is not what I was expecting. Is it supposed to hurt like this?” The dad-to-be lets me know that she woke nearly an hour ago to steady contractions, about 8 minutes apart. We have now moved to 7 minutes and she does not want to be bothered when a contraction rushes over her. They sit together on the bed and with each wave of tightness, he holds her hand and rubs her arm. Her feet are cold, so I put socks on her feet, and remind her to take deep breaths through her nose and blow them slowly out of her mouth. I get her some water and rummage through the bathroom drawer for some much-wanted chapstick.
We decide to walk. The house is small, but open, so we can walk in uninterrupted circles. Hubby tries to catch a nap, as she and I walk and talk, then stop and rock. When a contraction comes, I put my arms around her back, she puts her head on my shoulder and we do a little rocking dance. Back and forth. The waves strengthen and move closer. We rotate between walking the house, squatting on the birth ball, and standing in a hot shower. Time passes unnoticed. In the wee hours of the morning, it is time to make the drive to the hospital. We load the bags, grab a pillow and quietly go to the car, pausing every few minutes for another contraction.
When we arrive at the hospital, the birthing couple gets settled into their new location while I meet and greet the nursing staff and make sure they are familiar with the birth plan. By the time I get to the room, she is having a hard time opening her eyes. She is focusing on the pain and is starting to become overwhelmed. A quick check shows she is only dilated to 5. She looks disappointed, hoping this would almost be over, but I reassure her that 5 centimeters is respectable for just over 6 hours of labor, that she is doing great and I am really proud of her. I really am.
She can’t seem to get comfortable in the hospital bed, so we stroll the halls, hubby and I taking turns in the rocking position. I encourage dad-to-be to take the lead as often as he wants, completely if he wants. He is grateful for someone to help him know what to do, how to respond, how to help. It is hard for him to see her in pain. With every contraction now, one of us massages her lower back with a very effective palm-twisting rub I learned from an Amish midwife.
Back in the room, we drop the lower half of the bed down to the floor and I get on my knees in front of her. She sits on the edge of the bed, her arms draped over my shoulders, her face glistening with sweat, her blonde hair in her eyes. I tuck the hair behind her ear and tell her what a trooper she is, and that very soon she is going to be holding her baby in her arms and this will all be a memory.
She is moaning loudly now. Deep, gutteral moans that seem to push the pain away from her body. In between moaning, we breathe. Her husband lightly strokes her back and kisses her repeatedly on the forehead. They are incredibly sweet. She instinctinvely begins to bear down with each contraction, her body in tune to the rhythm of labor, now nearing the final stage. Almost in an instant, her eyes grow wide and she starts to breathe fast, shallow breaths. Another check shows she is dilated to 9. I smile a huge grin and she almost starts to cry. “No crying now, you are doing an amazing job, and it is almost time to push.” But the reassurance is not enough to overcome the intensity of transition, so as her moans turn to low cries of doubt (“I can’t do this anymore! I want it to be over.”) we continue the routine of massaging and breathing and rocking and reassuring that not only CAN she do this, she IS doing this.
The hospital staff begins to descend upon the room, readying equipment and lights. The bed is further adjusted into a complete upright position, and then everything goes quiet. No screaming, no moaning . . . no pain. A mini-reprieve. Time to breathe. Time to rest. Time to wipe her face with a cool washcloth. Time for the CNM to tell her that with the next contraction she can push. And she does. I talk her through HOW to push (yes, there is a “right way”) and her husband directs her eyes to the mirror at the base of the bed. “Can you see?” She can, but another 30 seconds of pushing interrupts the viewing. Then another 30 seconds. Then another. After dozens more, the midwife tells her that with the next contraction she doesn’t want her to push. I remind her the baby is crowning, so much like putting on a turtleneck, she wants to ease the baby’s head out slowly. So we pant. Short quick blows in and out of our mouths as we stare at each other. Her attention now moves to her husband, so I grab the camera and get ready for baby's first photo. Once the head has crowned, she closes her eyes and bears down hard until she hears the midwife’s words, “There we go!” and looks down just in time to see a tiny wet little body slip out and hear his new lungs quiver and start to cry. Her hands reach down to comfort him.
“It’s a boy!”
He is brought to her tummy and covered with a warm blanket. She melts into tears and smiles and relief as her baby's cries subside and he settles his head on her chest. “He’s perfect,” she says as she looks from her son to her husband and back again.
It is a mere 10 and a half hours since the first contractions began. Much shorter than the average labor. No drugs. No interventions. No complications.
A beautiful new family. A beautiful new day. Time for me to sleep.
I am a doula. A birth doula, to be more specific. Supporting women during childbirth. It has become a job, a hobby, a passion, a ministry.
I sleep lightly for two hours, anticipating their call. This time from her husband. A sure sign it is time for me to meet them. I dress quickly, grab my bag, and drive the 32 miles in the middle of the night, meeting only a few headlights. The roads are quiet at 1:15. I arrive to a dark street, dark houses, except for the one expecting me. The porch light is on, the door is unlocked, waiting for me to let myself in. I change my shoes, wash my hands, and head to the bedroom where she is laboring with quiet moans and easy rocking. “How we doing?” I whisper. She looks at me with eyes that say, “This is not what I was expecting. Is it supposed to hurt like this?” The dad-to-be lets me know that she woke nearly an hour ago to steady contractions, about 8 minutes apart. We have now moved to 7 minutes and she does not want to be bothered when a contraction rushes over her. They sit together on the bed and with each wave of tightness, he holds her hand and rubs her arm. Her feet are cold, so I put socks on her feet, and remind her to take deep breaths through her nose and blow them slowly out of her mouth. I get her some water and rummage through the bathroom drawer for some much-wanted chapstick.
We decide to walk. The house is small, but open, so we can walk in uninterrupted circles. Hubby tries to catch a nap, as she and I walk and talk, then stop and rock. When a contraction comes, I put my arms around her back, she puts her head on my shoulder and we do a little rocking dance. Back and forth. The waves strengthen and move closer. We rotate between walking the house, squatting on the birth ball, and standing in a hot shower. Time passes unnoticed. In the wee hours of the morning, it is time to make the drive to the hospital. We load the bags, grab a pillow and quietly go to the car, pausing every few minutes for another contraction.
When we arrive at the hospital, the birthing couple gets settled into their new location while I meet and greet the nursing staff and make sure they are familiar with the birth plan. By the time I get to the room, she is having a hard time opening her eyes. She is focusing on the pain and is starting to become overwhelmed. A quick check shows she is only dilated to 5. She looks disappointed, hoping this would almost be over, but I reassure her that 5 centimeters is respectable for just over 6 hours of labor, that she is doing great and I am really proud of her. I really am.
She can’t seem to get comfortable in the hospital bed, so we stroll the halls, hubby and I taking turns in the rocking position. I encourage dad-to-be to take the lead as often as he wants, completely if he wants. He is grateful for someone to help him know what to do, how to respond, how to help. It is hard for him to see her in pain. With every contraction now, one of us massages her lower back with a very effective palm-twisting rub I learned from an Amish midwife.
Back in the room, we drop the lower half of the bed down to the floor and I get on my knees in front of her. She sits on the edge of the bed, her arms draped over my shoulders, her face glistening with sweat, her blonde hair in her eyes. I tuck the hair behind her ear and tell her what a trooper she is, and that very soon she is going to be holding her baby in her arms and this will all be a memory.She is moaning loudly now. Deep, gutteral moans that seem to push the pain away from her body. In between moaning, we breathe. Her husband lightly strokes her back and kisses her repeatedly on the forehead. They are incredibly sweet. She instinctinvely begins to bear down with each contraction, her body in tune to the rhythm of labor, now nearing the final stage. Almost in an instant, her eyes grow wide and she starts to breathe fast, shallow breaths. Another check shows she is dilated to 9. I smile a huge grin and she almost starts to cry. “No crying now, you are doing an amazing job, and it is almost time to push.” But the reassurance is not enough to overcome the intensity of transition, so as her moans turn to low cries of doubt (“I can’t do this anymore! I want it to be over.”) we continue the routine of massaging and breathing and rocking and reassuring that not only CAN she do this, she IS doing this.
The hospital staff begins to descend upon the room, readying equipment and lights. The bed is further adjusted into a complete upright position, and then everything goes quiet. No screaming, no moaning . . . no pain. A mini-reprieve. Time to breathe. Time to rest. Time to wipe her face with a cool washcloth. Time for the CNM to tell her that with the next contraction she can push. And she does. I talk her through HOW to push (yes, there is a “right way”) and her husband directs her eyes to the mirror at the base of the bed. “Can you see?” She can, but another 30 seconds of pushing interrupts the viewing. Then another 30 seconds. Then another. After dozens more, the midwife tells her that with the next contraction she doesn’t want her to push. I remind her the baby is crowning, so much like putting on a turtleneck, she wants to ease the baby’s head out slowly. So we pant. Short quick blows in and out of our mouths as we stare at each other. Her attention now moves to her husband, so I grab the camera and get ready for baby's first photo. Once the head has crowned, she closes her eyes and bears down hard until she hears the midwife’s words, “There we go!” and looks down just in time to see a tiny wet little body slip out and hear his new lungs quiver and start to cry. Her hands reach down to comfort him.
“It’s a boy!”He is brought to her tummy and covered with a warm blanket. She melts into tears and smiles and relief as her baby's cries subside and he settles his head on her chest. “He’s perfect,” she says as she looks from her son to her husband and back again.
It is a mere 10 and a half hours since the first contractions began. Much shorter than the average labor. No drugs. No interventions. No complications.
A beautiful new family. A beautiful new day. Time for me to sleep.
July 31, 2010
hypMOtized
My son and my husband share one trait: a smart mouth. Other than that, there's just not much.
The cowboy is all about the outdoors. Cows, horses, and hay make him happy. He loves the smell of manure in the morning. He likes westerns and Will Ferrell movies, chainsaws and International Harvesters, bluegrass and Linda Ronstadt. And the only thing I've ever seen him read is a map.
The man-child, on the other hand, wants to go urban. The only animals he has ever owned are cats and a turtle. He likes baseball, ultimate frisbee, xbox, and good movies; guitars, drums and iPods; jazz and Jason Mraz. And he's almost always in the middle of a good novel.
All that is to say this: Kevin has been volunteering for the last two weeks at a camp in Missouri for kids with special needs. It's pretty outdoorsy, as most camps are. Now that he is home, it is time to get him registered for school.
We were discussing all this yesterday, when I mentioned that we needed to go out to the community college and register him for a public speaking course, since his high school does not offer one. (Seriously!?) His dad, however, thinks he would greater benefit from an agriculture class. Kevin said he would just give a speech ABOUT agriculture in his oral communication class. His father did not seem satisfied. I suggested Kevin could then go out to the barn and give his ag speech to the horses and cows. "That should satisfy you both," I said. "Not quite," was his dad's response.
"Oh! Hey Dad!" Kevin exclaimed, "You would be proud of me! I hypnotized a chicken at camp this week!"
"WHY WOULD I BE PROUD OF THAT?" his father queried.
"I was doing something with farm animals. I thought that would make you proud," the boy responded.
"Sheep molesters do things with farm animals too . . . do you think THAT would make me proud!?"
Somebody asked me recently how much of my blog is true. The answer is: all of it. You can't make up stuff like this.
The cowboy is all about the outdoors. Cows, horses, and hay make him happy. He loves the smell of manure in the morning. He likes westerns and Will Ferrell movies, chainsaws and International Harvesters, bluegrass and Linda Ronstadt. And the only thing I've ever seen him read is a map.
The man-child, on the other hand, wants to go urban. The only animals he has ever owned are cats and a turtle. He likes baseball, ultimate frisbee, xbox, and good movies; guitars, drums and iPods; jazz and Jason Mraz. And he's almost always in the middle of a good novel.
All that is to say this: Kevin has been volunteering for the last two weeks at a camp in Missouri for kids with special needs. It's pretty outdoorsy, as most camps are. Now that he is home, it is time to get him registered for school.
We were discussing all this yesterday, when I mentioned that we needed to go out to the community college and register him for a public speaking course, since his high school does not offer one. (Seriously!?) His dad, however, thinks he would greater benefit from an agriculture class. Kevin said he would just give a speech ABOUT agriculture in his oral communication class. His father did not seem satisfied. I suggested Kevin could then go out to the barn and give his ag speech to the horses and cows. "That should satisfy you both," I said. "Not quite," was his dad's response.
"Oh! Hey Dad!" Kevin exclaimed, "You would be proud of me! I hypnotized a chicken at camp this week!"
"WHY WOULD I BE PROUD OF THAT?" his father queried.
"I was doing something with farm animals. I thought that would make you proud," the boy responded.
"Sheep molesters do things with farm animals too . . . do you think THAT would make me proud!?"
Somebody asked me recently how much of my blog is true. The answer is: all of it. You can't make up stuff like this.
July 27, 2010
it's a beatles song
My son is a traitor. See, Toy Story 3 came out while he was a camp. And I REALLY wanted to go see it. But since it is the first movie Kevin ever remembers going to the theater to see, and since we had at least 3 “Toy Story” themed birthday parties, and since he owned the whole realm of Woody, Buzz, Etchy, Ham, Mr. Potato Head, Rex, Slinky, a Tub o’ Soldiers, AND a Barrel of Monkeys toys, he made me PROMISE I would not go see it without him. PROMISE, mind you. So I did.
Upon returning from camp, I knew this would be the first thing he would want to do. I picked him up on Saturday night ready to go straight to the theater, but he was exhausted. Okay, I’ll give him that. We’ll do it Sunday. “No,” he declined, “We’re trying to get a group to go see it together. I want to go with the group.”
EXCUSE ME????? But he made me PROMISE! I think there was pinky swearing involved, not to mention some heart-crossing, and a couple of “stick a needle in your eye” things.
Fine. Fine. I’ll see it with someone who loves me.
So the lovely Philip and Sara invited me to go to the drive-in with them this weekend. Who better to watch Toy Story with than the adorableness that is their children?
Problem.
I was alone last night. I don’t do “by myself” very well these days. Something about being depressed and lonely and angry with God just doesn’t mesh well with 12 hours at home alone. (For those of you who haven’t caught on, it’s been bad. Really, really bad for months now.) I probably should have called somebody to hang out with, but I just wasn’t up to being social, so . . . I decided to go to the drive-in. Alone. Yeah, I know. Very Eleanor Rigby of me.
But it was to see Toy Story 3! Right? A happy little Skittles & Raisinettes movie! Right?
Wrong.
Oh my goodness. This was the saddest little movie ever. I sat there, alone in my car, just me and Orville Redenbacher, and wept. No, SOBBED. (Spoiler alert: I am now going to discuss the end of this theatrical experience, so don’t read any further if you feel strongly about not knowing Buzz and Woody’s fate.)
The metaphorical implications of Andy choosing to let go of something he has loved so much his whole life, and to unselfishly decide not to keep them in the attic waiting for him, but instead to allow them to belong to someone else who would love them and play with them and take care of them was just more than I could face without a box of Puffs Plus. The big box.
I am now going to force Kevin to watch “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” with me.
He so asked for it.
Upon returning from camp, I knew this would be the first thing he would want to do. I picked him up on Saturday night ready to go straight to the theater, but he was exhausted. Okay, I’ll give him that. We’ll do it Sunday. “No,” he declined, “We’re trying to get a group to go see it together. I want to go with the group.”
EXCUSE ME????? But he made me PROMISE! I think there was pinky swearing involved, not to mention some heart-crossing, and a couple of “stick a needle in your eye” things.
Fine. Fine. I’ll see it with someone who loves me.
So the lovely Philip and Sara invited me to go to the drive-in with them this weekend. Who better to watch Toy Story with than the adorableness that is their children?
Problem.
I was alone last night. I don’t do “by myself” very well these days. Something about being depressed and lonely and angry with God just doesn’t mesh well with 12 hours at home alone. (For those of you who haven’t caught on, it’s been bad. Really, really bad for months now.) I probably should have called somebody to hang out with, but I just wasn’t up to being social, so . . . I decided to go to the drive-in. Alone. Yeah, I know. Very Eleanor Rigby of me.
But it was to see Toy Story 3! Right? A happy little Skittles & Raisinettes movie! Right?
Wrong.
Oh my goodness. This was the saddest little movie ever. I sat there, alone in my car, just me and Orville Redenbacher, and wept. No, SOBBED. (Spoiler alert: I am now going to discuss the end of this theatrical experience, so don’t read any further if you feel strongly about not knowing Buzz and Woody’s fate.)
The metaphorical implications of Andy choosing to let go of something he has loved so much his whole life, and to unselfishly decide not to keep them in the attic waiting for him, but instead to allow them to belong to someone else who would love them and play with them and take care of them was just more than I could face without a box of Puffs Plus. The big box.
I am now going to force Kevin to watch “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” with me.
He so asked for it.
July 21, 2010
let's be clear
Breakfast in Bed
A few days ago, my friend Amanda's husband was complaining about her lack of meal preparation, when Amanda pointed her finger at him, smiled, and said, "Honey, I told you a long time ago - I cook in ONE room, and one room only . . . YOU PICK WHICH ROOM!"
It's Just East of the Mediterranean
A few days ago, my friend Amanda's husband was complaining about her lack of meal preparation, when Amanda pointed her finger at him, smiled, and said, "Honey, I told you a long time ago - I cook in ONE room, and one room only . . . YOU PICK WHICH ROOM!"
It's Just East of the Mediterranean
We were having a serious group discussion last Sunday, when one of the guys stated, "That's the problem with the guys who strip."
HUH? What does THAT have to do with anything?
As I looked around, I could see I wasn't the only one confused. Finally, someone asked him, "What did you say?" To which he replied, 'That's the problem with the Gaza Strip."
Oooohhhh. Well, that's a very different thing now, isn't it?
It's a Moo point
(Ashley emailed this to me today): A farmer was helping one of his cows give birth when he noticed his young son standing wide-eyed at the fence, taking in the event. The man thought, "Great... he's 5 and I'm gonna have to start explaining the birds and bees. No need to jump the gun, I'll just let him ask and I'll answer." After everything was over, the man walked over to his son and said: "Well, son, do you have any questions?" "Yeah," gasped the kid . . . "How fast was the calf going when it hit that cow?"
Which made me think of a conversation with my sister, shortly after her daughter was born. Stacey was holding week-old Lindsay when someone commented, "Don't wanna send her back, do you?"
To which my sister replied, without missing a beat, "NOT THE WAY SHE CAME, I DON'T!!!"
July 14, 2010
the name game
I am going to be a GRANDMOTHER. I do not know how this happened. Okay, technically, I know HOW this happened, but I don’t know what happened. To my life, that is. Where’d it go? I’m not ready for this. I’m NOT old enough for this. (I’m 46. Shut up.)
The thing I am most “not ready” for is The Name Change. I like my name. Stephanie. Steph to those who get close. I like my identity. Mom. Mommy even still on occasion to both my grown and nearly-grown children. I like it. I’m a natural at the mom thing. It fits me. But this "G" word thing . . . well, not so much. Okay, not at all. It SOUNDS old. It FEELS old. And I have to LIVE with this stupid new name for the rest of my natural-born life (which may be spent in the state pen for strangling my son with his own tongue if he jokingly refers to me as “MeMaw” one more time.)
I am so not kidding.
I have now been on a 6-month mental quest attempting to ascertain an appropriate alias, and I have been astronomically unsuccessful. But, as Thomas Edison might have said, “I have not failed. I have just found 10,000 names that won’t work.” At least, not for me.
As far as I’m concerned, if you're gonna call me any variation of the "G" word, just go ahead and build a pine box, put me in a powder blue polyester dress and pull my hair back in a bun. That's all she wrote. It's over and done. The fat lady has sung.
See, the only REALLY cool grandmother name is GiGi, and Vicki beat me to it (Vicki is the other grandmother, and truly one very cool woman.) So I’m going to have to find my own cool, or at least creative, name.
Not TOO creative, mind you. In my quest, I have run across far too many like Granny Grunt, Big Momma, Gunkie, Cookie, Sugar, Cupcake, Cherry, Peaches, Sweetums, Cracker, Chicken Nana and Butter Butt. Seriously.
Right off the bat, I eliminate Nana (my mom, Nancy), Granny, Grandmama, Grandma, Mom G, Momma M, and Ma-Ma as those have been in use within the family already.
I can also eliminate GrandMother and GrandMaMa as I have never owned, nor ever plan to own, any Victorian furniture.
MaMaw, MeMaw and GeeMaw all sound like HeeHaw.
YeeHaw.
I thought there might be potential within the barrage of international names:
Oma (German) - but my great-grandmother’s name WAS Oma, so that doesn’t work.
Ya-Ya (Greek) - but there’s the whole Sisterhood of Divine Secrets thing.
Lola (Philippino) - but, you know, she was a showgirl, with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to THERE. And I don’t Merengue or do the ChaCha, so . . .
And the Yiddish one: Bube.
Speaking of boobies (Did I REALLY just use the word “boobies” in my blog?), my husband thinks I should be Chi-Chi, which, in Spanish, is apparently a slang term for breasts. Frankly, as one who always has cleavage issues, even when wearing turtlenecks, I really don’t feel that my grandmother name needs to further the focus.
I've also heard DeeDee as a grandmother name, but again, with "DD" we could be adequately referring to my bra size, so that one’s off the table as well.
I like M.O.M., as in "Mother Of the Mom", or, perhaps, "Mom, the Sequel". That's cool and definitely fits with my movie-watching persona.
Other rejected options included:
Gams - I don’t have the legs to pull that one off.
Grammy - like the music award.
Grammar - my kids already call me the "Grammar Nazi", so this one is, at least, appropriate.
GaGa - "Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah! Roma-Roma-ma-ah! Ga-ga-ooh-la-la! Don’t think this name works!"
I kinda like the concept of Diva or Goddess or Majestic Sweetness, but there’s no way my children would EVER let me get away with those. At least not with a straight face.
Maybe, Bella, which means “beauty” in Italian. Why are YOU laughing??? Clearly that one suits me.
One of our 3-year-olds at church always greets me with “Hello, Gorgeous!” I kinda like THAT.
It's also been suggested I simply be "Hot Granny". And, you know, who am I to argue? But "Hot Granny" has got to be the ultimate oxymoron.
Frankly, I just like "Stephie". It's the name my niece and nephew have always called me, and they were the ONLY ones allowed to call me that (at least until Sara M's lovely children came onto the scene.) My son-in-law fears this will sound disrespectful, and I guess I can see his point.
So, as Kacey and I were driving around discussing my dilemma, she simply stated that my grandmother name be cute and cool, but be something that's NOT my name.
Fine.
After analyzing all the applicable autonyms, I've decided on a grandmother name. It's cute and cool and NOT my name.
Veronica.
.
June 29, 2010
parenting do's and don'ts and shouldn'ts
The other day my daughter ran across a website filled with supposedly humorous "Do's and Don'ts" for "Raising Baby". I say "supposedly" humorous, because as I'm looking back at family photos, I have to wonder . . .
Truthfully, I always thought playpens seemed a bit like "Baby Prison" to suit me, so I never used one. My Alaska friend, Paula, however, told me once that her mother absolutely LOVED their playpen. Seems that Paula was one of 5 children and her mom would set the playpen up in the middle of the house, climb inside and read . . . just outside the reach of all five children. Mother of Year nominee in the category of Creative Parenting!
Careseats? We never had carseats as children. Heck, we never even wore seatbelts. On long trips, I would straddle the console between the front seats while my sister would lounge in the safety of . . . the back window. Yep. Those were the days. (The picture on the right shows us transporting Kacey off the trailer we shipped from Anchorage to Seattle. She was sure glad to get out of that box!)
Hey, I may not win any parenting awards, but I did win a $100 gift card to Radio Shack with the next picture. And yes, for all my 20-something friends, I'm certain the tennis shoes ARE BPA-free! :o)
June 24, 2010
sighs and thighs
> Yesterday was a mile-marker anniversary for my sister's death. I was going to do a long blog, but just couldn't bring myself to do it. Maybe later this week. What I did do was take off work, drive out to the location of her wreck and pray. Then on to the cemetery. Then later on to meet my parents at dinner. I don't usually mark the day that way, but it seemed important to me this year.
On a lighter note . . .
> I have a doula client who is due TODAY. We all thought she would go early, but she just called to inform me that today's appointment indicated she is still just dilated to 1 cm. and she is not at all effaced. Baby looks to be healthy, but only around 6 1/2 pounds. So . . . it could still be another week or two! (Hang in there C, I know you're ready, but waiting is the right thing to do! You'll see!)
> Our lovely friends in Ada, Oklahoma have a toddler named Jude who apparently came to the breakfast table earlier this week in his birthday suit. He was sent back to his room and told he could come back to the table after he put on his underwear. He came back, still naked, with his briefs on his head. Gotta LOVE a nonconformist.
> A few weeks back when I had the newspaper run a classified ad for the yard sale, this is what was printed. (I PROMISE, this is NOT how I told it to them!)
> I ran across an article from Discovery that showed research indicating people who have larger thighs also have stronger hearts. "A new study has found that the thinner your thighs, the greater your risk of heart disease. The study looked at more than 2,800 men and women with an average age of around 50. It found the risk of heart disease more than doubled for both men and women who had a thigh circumference of less than 22 inches."
What this research means is that I now expect to live, well, pretty much forever.
On a lighter note . . .
> I have a doula client who is due TODAY. We all thought she would go early, but she just called to inform me that today's appointment indicated she is still just dilated to 1 cm. and she is not at all effaced. Baby looks to be healthy, but only around 6 1/2 pounds. So . . . it could still be another week or two! (Hang in there C, I know you're ready, but waiting is the right thing to do! You'll see!)
> Our lovely friends in Ada, Oklahoma have a toddler named Jude who apparently came to the breakfast table earlier this week in his birthday suit. He was sent back to his room and told he could come back to the table after he put on his underwear. He came back, still naked, with his briefs on his head. Gotta LOVE a nonconformist.
> A few weeks back when I had the newspaper run a classified ad for the yard sale, this is what was printed. (I PROMISE, this is NOT how I told it to them!)
Church-wide Yard Sale
Saturday, only 7 a.m.
Saturday, only 7 a.m.
ONLY 7 a.m.??? You better get here early, 'cause apparently we're only doing this for ONE MINUTE!
> I ran across an article from Discovery that showed research indicating people who have larger thighs also have stronger hearts. "A new study has found that the thinner your thighs, the greater your risk of heart disease. The study looked at more than 2,800 men and women with an average age of around 50. It found the risk of heart disease more than doubled for both men and women who had a thigh circumference of less than 22 inches."
What this research means is that I now expect to live, well, pretty much forever.
June 15, 2010
life is beautiful
Photographs that makes me smile. Enjoy!
These are from Clark Little Photography (www.clarklittlephotography.com) via my high school/facebook friend, Moose (Allen Morris).
These are from Clark Little Photography (www.clarklittlephotography.com) via my high school/facebook friend, Moose (Allen Morris).
June 08, 2010
grammar nazi strikes again
Kacey just texted, "Knock, knock"
I returned, "Who's there?"
She replied, "To"
So I typed, "To who?" but I couldn't do it. Before I hit SEND, my Zero Tolerance Approach to Bad Grammar required me to correct the blunder, so I changed it to "To whom?" and pressed the green button.
Her next text stated flatly, "DANGIT" and then proceeded to curse me with extensive PG-rated cursing while I laughed my silly little head off.
Apparently I ruined her joke.
Come on, it's not like she didn't know.
I returned, "Who's there?"
She replied, "To"
So I typed, "To who?" but I couldn't do it. Before I hit SEND, my Zero Tolerance Approach to Bad Grammar required me to correct the blunder, so I changed it to "To whom?" and pressed the green button.
Her next text stated flatly, "DANGIT" and then proceeded to curse me with extensive PG-rated cursing while I laughed my silly little head off.
Apparently I ruined her joke.
Come on, it's not like she didn't know.
June 05, 2010
just deserts
So Daughter-Face tagged us all in her “Desert Blog”. She stated, “The premise of Desert Island is to imagine that you are stranded on an island and you are only allowed to take certain things with you." For example, 5 movies. Now, while some movies lend themselves to viewing on a small screen, others need the whole “theatrical experience” complete with 44-oz drink holder seating. Before I can effectively choose my 5 Island Movies, I need to know: Does the island simply have DVD or is it Blu-Ray friendly? Hi-Def? Surround-sound?
Kacey says she supposes somebody is banishing us there, because if our plane crashed, we probably wouldn't have all our favorite things with us....but like she said, ‘imagine’.”
So, I’ve been imagining. I imagine if I’m being banished, hi-def and surround-sound aren’t likely.
Here is what I decided to pack in my “Exiled to a Desert Island” trunk.
FIVE TECH DEVICES:
> Three 64-gig touch iPods
Ipod #1 will be loaded down with 8,000 individual songs, ranging from Simon & Garfunkel, James Taylor, Elton and the Beach Boys to Jason Mraz, Matt Nathanson and Rob Thomas and about a thousand apps to include my favorite games (Unblock Me, Sudoku, Words with Friends, Scrabble, TaiPei, and Tetris.)
Ipod #2 will hold 20 movies, the favored few being You’ve Got Mail, Monty Python & the Holy Grail, Men in Black, Lake Placid, and America’s Sweethearts - just because they’re all so doggone quotable.
Ipod #3 will be loaded with the entire series of The Gilmore Girls.
>1 Kindle 2
Kindle 2 can apparently hold 1500 volumes, so I can take all my favorites, plus a couple of those books I’ve been planning to read “one of these days”, like, say Mencken’s Chrestomathy. My favorites would include: Jane Eyre, Little Women, Stephen King's "The Stand", Agatha Christie’s ‘And Then There Were None’, Ian Rankin's "Inspector Rebus" books, Tom Bodet’s “The End of the Road”, and Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. The latter two are essential because, if I’m alone on this island, I need real stuff to make me laugh.
>1 Honkin’ Big Solar Battery Recharger, ‘cause, you know, if I’m on a desert island, sunshine should be a plentiful enough resource.
5 HE-MAN TOOLS
I asked Kacey if I could have a “man with skills” accompany me to this remote location, and she said, “Sure, as long as he’s equipped with a pocket knife and a q-tip.” But after checking the Official Packing List for Banishment, it was determined that “men with skills” are not allowed. This makes me very sad . . . for MULTIPLE reasons . . . but mostly because, well, who will kill the desert island bugs??? Anyway, I have determined I will need the following Mulit-Tool:
Oh, and one more miscellaneous item:
A Wilson volleyball. Gotta have somebody to "bounce things" off of.
Kacey says she supposes somebody is banishing us there, because if our plane crashed, we probably wouldn't have all our favorite things with us....but like she said, ‘imagine’.”
So, I’ve been imagining. I imagine if I’m being banished, hi-def and surround-sound aren’t likely.
Here is what I decided to pack in my “Exiled to a Desert Island” trunk.
FIVE TECH DEVICES:
> Three 64-gig touch iPods
Ipod #1 will be loaded down with 8,000 individual songs, ranging from Simon & Garfunkel, James Taylor, Elton and the Beach Boys to Jason Mraz, Matt Nathanson and Rob Thomas and about a thousand apps to include my favorite games (Unblock Me, Sudoku, Words with Friends, Scrabble, TaiPei, and Tetris.)
Ipod #2 will hold 20 movies, the favored few being You’ve Got Mail, Monty Python & the Holy Grail, Men in Black, Lake Placid, and America’s Sweethearts - just because they’re all so doggone quotable.
Ipod #3 will be loaded with the entire series of The Gilmore Girls.
>1 Kindle 2
Kindle 2 can apparently hold 1500 volumes, so I can take all my favorites, plus a couple of those books I’ve been planning to read “one of these days”, like, say Mencken’s Chrestomathy. My favorites would include: Jane Eyre, Little Women, Stephen King's "The Stand", Agatha Christie’s ‘And Then There Were None’, Ian Rankin's "Inspector Rebus" books, Tom Bodet’s “The End of the Road”, and Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. The latter two are essential because, if I’m alone on this island, I need real stuff to make me laugh.
>1 Honkin’ Big Solar Battery Recharger, ‘cause, you know, if I’m on a desert island, sunshine should be a plentiful enough resource.
5 HE-MAN TOOLS
I asked Kacey if I could have a “man with skills” accompany me to this remote location, and she said, “Sure, as long as he’s equipped with a pocket knife and a q-tip.” But after checking the Official Packing List for Banishment, it was determined that “men with skills” are not allowed. This makes me very sad . . . for MULTIPLE reasons . . . but mostly because, well, who will kill the desert island bugs??? Anyway, I have determined I will need the following Mulit-Tool:
You will note it is complete with kebab skewar, ax, fishing net, a sewing needle, and a spork. About now, my children are reading this and thinking, “Sewing needle? Does she even know what a needle is for?” Why, yes, I do. And let me tell you, if I’m being sent away for lifetime confinement, I will need hobbies. I think sewing little outfits for all the native wildlife so they can all be dressed like Jimmy Buffet will make the island a happier place, don’t you?
.
..
5 ITEMS OF SUSTENANCE:
>Seed Packets. I know, I know, I don’t garden. But I don’t sew either, and you see how well those Hawaiian shorts turned out on Timmy the Tree Frog. I will need asparagus, corn, potatoes, lettuce (never mind, salad doesn’t really work without a good raspberry vinagrette), chickpeas & red peppers (to make my own hummus), rice and wasabi root (what with the abundance of seaweed and fresh fish, I will need ingredients to make my own sushi.)
> Pretzels. Crunchy dipping accompaniment for my home-grown hummus.
> Low sodium Soy Sauce. For the sushi. Duh.
> Butter
> Sugar
The butter and sugar are for the seafood and island fruits. I mean, why not? I could choose to eat healthy, but do I really want to live longer in solitary confinement? So . . . eat healthy/live long OR eat yummy/die young? You do the math.
5 HYGIENE NECESSITIES:
> Shampoo.
> Hairbrush
> Toothbrush
> Tweezers (For ticks and such. Not because I care at all about that little hair that sprouted on my chin the day I turned 40.)
> Razor - After all, I’ll be on a desert island, not in France.
5 VANITY ITEMS:
> Mascara, waterproof.
> Lipgloss
> Oil of Olay Regenerist Night Cream
> Silver Hoop Earrings (because they go with everything)
> Skinny Jeans
The way I see it is this: If I’m alone on a desert island, I’m not going to be worrying about my appearance, much less clothing. Heck, I hardly wear anything at home now, so I sure don’t think I’m going to be bothered with it on a remote South Pacific island. Although, before I finalize my packing list, I would like to be CERTAIN they are taking me to a tropical DESERT island and not a DESERTED island somewhere near suburbian Reykjavik.
So, if I'm alone on this island, why the vanity items? Well, eventually, I might run out of butter and sugar, and all that gardening and fishing and chasing around the little critters to dress them in my handsewn Margaritaville costumes might reduce my now plus-size status to a nice size 6. So, in the event that I am pardoned, or the dictator who banished me is overthrown, or whatever, I want to look good when they rescue me.
And finally . . .
5 MISCELLANEOUS ACCOUTREMENTS:
>Matches. More than RainMan can count in one drop on the floor
>A journal and a gross of clicky ink pens
>My eyeglasses
>A digital camera to visually document my adventures and accomplishments.
>A wide-mouth canteen. Why wide-mouth? Because, just before my dying breath, I will need something big enough to hold my visual "message in a bottle". See, if I do manage to ever get into the skinny jeans but never get rescued, I want to send the digital camera out into the world with proof.
Oh, and one more miscellaneous item:
A Wilson volleyball. Gotta have somebody to "bounce things" off of.
June 04, 2010
June 02, 2010
this town ain't big enough fer the two of us
There's not really a blog here, it's just that these pictures make me smile. The first one is my baby boy, circa 1996. The second one is Titus, circa last week. Titus reminds me of Kevin in so many ways, minus the red hair, so it was fun to see them both dressed in Woody attire.
Kevin LOVED "Tore Story" as he used to call it. Seeing the movie at age 2 is one of his earliest memories. But Kevin will tell you that he is dressed as Woody by default. See, my mom bought after-Halloween costumes one year for the kids to play dress-up, and Woody and Buzz happened to be among them. Kevin wanted to be Buzz. Kevin always WANTED to be Buzz. But the Buzz costume was a size 5 and the Woody costume was a size 3. And since Kevin weighed in at 26 pounds and Parker weighed in at 38 pounds, well . . . Kevin always had a "Snake in My Boot", while Parker got to go "To Infinity and Beyond!"
You'd think at 17 he wouldn't still be bitter about it. :o)
Kevin LOVED "Tore Story" as he used to call it. Seeing the movie at age 2 is one of his earliest memories. But Kevin will tell you that he is dressed as Woody by default. See, my mom bought after-Halloween costumes one year for the kids to play dress-up, and Woody and Buzz happened to be among them. Kevin wanted to be Buzz. Kevin always WANTED to be Buzz. But the Buzz costume was a size 5 and the Woody costume was a size 3. And since Kevin weighed in at 26 pounds and Parker weighed in at 38 pounds, well . . . Kevin always had a "Snake in My Boot", while Parker got to go "To Infinity and Beyond!"
You'd think at 17 he wouldn't still be bitter about it. :o)
May 28, 2010
wait your tum
So . . . last weekend Kacey and Lindsay were discussing cute boys in movies. When it came to "Dead Poet's Society", Kacey said, and I quote, "I will ALWAYS LOVE, uh, what's-his-face."
So . . . my blogger-buddy, NinjaPrincess, linked ME on her blog. I feel special and just wanted to reciprocate.
So . . . a couple of days ago Kevin went out to feed his cat. He opened the back door, saw the cat next to him out of the corner of his eye, then reached up to pet her with his left hand while he leaned down to get a scoop of cat food with his right. Just as he was about to touch her, he looked up to see, not his cat, but a groundhog the size of a coffee table.
So . . . last night I dreamed I found an albino lizard under a rock. AND I wanted to catch it. I don't know.
So . . . Kacey texted today and asked me, "Are turns a bad thing to take?"
WHAT?
"How is that a confusing question?"
I DON'T KNOW, BUT APPARENTLY IT IS! (I thought maybe she was giving me a Gilmore Girls quote, or perhaps whining that I don't "return text" when it's my turn.)
"Sheesh, woman. You're making this complicated."
WELL, EXCUUUUUUSE ME.
"So answer my question: Can I chew TUMS or not???"
So . . . 'tums' and 'turns' look the same when I'm not wearing my glasses. I'm just sayin'.
So . . . my blogger-buddy, NinjaPrincess, linked ME on her blog. I feel special and just wanted to reciprocate.
So . . . a couple of days ago Kevin went out to feed his cat. He opened the back door, saw the cat next to him out of the corner of his eye, then reached up to pet her with his left hand while he leaned down to get a scoop of cat food with his right. Just as he was about to touch her, he looked up to see, not his cat, but a groundhog the size of a coffee table.
So . . . last night I dreamed I found an albino lizard under a rock. AND I wanted to catch it. I don't know.
So . . . Kacey texted today and asked me, "Are turns a bad thing to take?"
WHAT?
"How is that a confusing question?"
I DON'T KNOW, BUT APPARENTLY IT IS! (I thought maybe she was giving me a Gilmore Girls quote, or perhaps whining that I don't "return text" when it's my turn.)
"Sheesh, woman. You're making this complicated."
WELL, EXCUUUUUUSE ME.
"So answer my question: Can I chew TUMS or not???"
So . . . 'tums' and 'turns' look the same when I'm not wearing my glasses. I'm just sayin'.
May 22, 2010
May 20, 2010
beetlemania
Dear Volkswagen,
Your new ad campaign is brilliant. Brilliant, I say. You clarified and expanded the rules of "Slug Bug", and my teenage son is all over it. As his mother, I cannot tell you the joy it brings me to see him look up from his iPod and get a glimpse of the real world. Sure, the new Rules of the Game have drawn complaints from old-school players who insist the original Beetle is the only allowable vehicle in the classic "Punch Buggy" game, but I'm convinced these scoffers are the same people still using land lines and tucking in their t-shirts.
Your ingenious VW marketing team, however, realized the benefits of Changing the Rules of Slug Bug to include your entire line of products. (Which explains ditching the "Slug Bug, NO SLUG BACK!" phrase for simply calling out the color - "Yellow One!") So while I don't know an SUV from an S-250 or a Passat from a Prelude, my son can effortlessly distinguish a 1979 Trans-Am from a Z-28 at 300 yards away, thus giving him a serious automotive advantage . . . and me a bruised right arm.
You also, apparently, clarified the penalty of "two for lying" for falsifying a VW sighting. My son, being a rule-follower, hasn't been this excited about playing a family game since "Hide & Seek" when he was seven and we forgot to seek him. Anyway . . . I learned about "two for lying" the hard way, after hearing my son yell "red one!" (punch mom), "blue one!" (punch mom), "gray one!" (punch mom), and thinking it would be cute for me to yell "invisible one!" (PENALTY! Punch mom x 2). Hmmm . . . not so cute after all.
I would like to note that nowhere in your advertising does it state, or even insinuate, that all parties must be awake during game-play. So one day, in the very near future, I will put in my favorite Michael Buble' cd, and when my son inevitably falls asleep, I will to drive to the nearest VW dealership and wake him appropriately.
The most brilliant aspect to your new marketing campaign comes into play as my carefree passenger-son pivots his neck like an owl at a Disney World Circle-Vision theater successfully "I Spying" all manner of VW products while I, the usually-responsible parent and driver, abandon safe driving practices to visually search for Skittles-colored compact cars. 
This reckless behavior is bound to result in my need for a new vehicle in the very near future, and when it does, your entire line of Volkswagen makes and models will already be fresh in my mind. Brilliant.
Sincerely,
An already-disgruntled future customer
May 15, 2010
May 12, 2010
a - z: what worked for us
PUT A FORK IN ME, I'M DONE!!!
After 19 years of homeschooling, 24 if you count the "overlapping" years with both kids, my tenure as a homeschool parent/teacher is over. What do I regret? Hmmm . . . not making Kacey take piano lessons longer, and not making Kevin do LOTS more handwriting practice. :o) If I had to start over, would I do it again? IN A HEARTBEAT. No question. And, really, it didn't have so much to do with the quality of their education as it did the time spent together. I like my kids. I'm weird that way.
Inspired today by the blog of my little green friend, Sara, I put together my "A to Z" list of what I consider the best of the best. Some of these items worked for daughter-face, some worked for the boy, some worked for both, and a couple just worked for me!
So here goes:
A - Authors. It's a rummy-style card game that we played nearly every day from the time Kacey was old enough to read until fairly recently. Not only does it familiarize you with 13 authors and 52 great pieces of literature, it's just fun to play.B - Bible Story Books - specifically The Beginner's Bible for preschoolers and Egermeier's for elementary students. We read out of these almost every night. And Bible Bowl worked for us - not so much the competition or the rote memorization - but the reading of the text together over and over and over again which led to familiarization, discussion and more understanding.
C - Critical Thinking Company workbooks. Mindbenders, Editor-in-Chief, Reading Detective, etc. Everything from this company is quality, though you definitely pay for it.
D - The Dictionary of Cultural Literacy. Just a good ol' reference tool for mom.
E - Explode the Code. Our favorite phonics curriculum, outside of the plastic magnetic letters on the refrigerator!
F - The Fallacy Detective helped Kevin brush up on his logic skills, though in all fairness, he says they didn't take the process far enough.
G - GeoSafari. Hands down the best educational tool we ever bought. I don't even know if they still make this puppy or not, as we bought ours in 1992 just before most people had home computers.
With the help of this electronic gadget, at the ages of 6 and 29, Kacey and I spent hours and hours learning world geography and having fun!
H - Hirsch, E.D. and his whole "What Your ____ Grader Needs to Know" series. I checked these out of the library faithfully, and we went through the appropriate one cover-to-cover every school year. GREAT supplemental books.
I - Ingalls, Laura and The Little House on the Prairie Series. If you know me, you know these are like the bread of my reading diet. I have read the entire series (always aloud) at least 7 times. We LOVE them and everything about them.
J - Jump Start! The Jump Start cds/dvds were Kevin's NUMBER ONE favorite thing. They were great fun to play on the computer and he didn't even seem to care that he was learning!
F - The Fallacy Detective helped Kevin brush up on his logic skills, though in all fairness, he says they didn't take the process far enough.
G - GeoSafari. Hands down the best educational tool we ever bought. I don't even know if they still make this puppy or not, as we bought ours in 1992 just before most people had home computers.
With the help of this electronic gadget, at the ages of 6 and 29, Kacey and I spent hours and hours learning world geography and having fun!H - Hirsch, E.D. and his whole "What Your ____ Grader Needs to Know" series. I checked these out of the library faithfully, and we went through the appropriate one cover-to-cover every school year. GREAT supplemental books.
I - Ingalls, Laura and The Little House on the Prairie Series. If you know me, you know these are like the bread of my reading diet. I have read the entire series (always aloud) at least 7 times. We LOVE them and everything about them.
J - Jump Start! The Jump Start cds/dvds were Kevin's NUMBER ONE favorite thing. They were great fun to play on the computer and he didn't even seem to care that he was learning!
K - Keyboarding. We used Mavis Beacon's Typing, but I don't think it matters WHAT you use, just so your kids learn to type as soon as their motor skills are ready. We did this in middle school with Kacey, but with advancing technology, Kevin mastered it in the 5th grade.
L - Language from A Beka. I liked some of A Beka's curriculum, but I really LOVED their language curriculum. It pulls "double duty" by practicing grammar and punctuation skills with famous quotes, historical documents, and literary passages.
M - Market House Theater! (Our local community theater) Memorization, socialization, public speaking, etc. What's not to love? Between the two kids, I think we did at least 12 productions, 15 if you count backstage work running lights and sound. Along with MHT, I would have to say that we enjoyed aspects of all our extra-curriculars: softball, scouts, gymnastics, music lessons, baseball, etc. Made for well-rounded kids.
N - Bill Nye the Science Guy. LOVED his books, which may freak out some of my fundamentalist friends because of his evolutionary stance, but COME ON, this guy explains Bernoulli's Principle and The Four Fundamental Forces in a way even I could understand! Plus he gives experiments to do throughout his books (experiments that ACTUALLY work). As a side note, I NEVER found a science curriculum I liked. Science is meant to be experienced, not read.
O - Our American Heritage. The only A Beka history book I liked, and this one I loved. It is a 3rd grade level book of biographies. Well worth reading.
P - Princeton Review's Everything: Standard Deviants, S.A.T. prep courses, etc. Mostly Kacey loved the "Smart" series - Math Smart, Word Smart, Writing Smart. The math book teaches concepts in creative story form. A MAJOR plus for those of us who proudly say, "I'm an English major - you do the math!"
Q - Brain Quest. Just basic "trivia" cards for all age groups. Fun to play in the car, or anytime you need a "fill in" activity.
R - Rummy Roots. Another card game that teaches Latin and Greek roots by matching them up with their English counterparts. A great foundation before foreign language, which leads me to . . .
S - Spanish via Rosetta Stone. The priciest of all our curriculum purchases, but the best foreign-language program on the market, and well worth the money.
T - Trelease, Jim. The Read-Aloud Handbook. One of my best and most-used "mommy books". I HIGHLY recommend every parent have one, or at least check
it out at the library to make your own reading lists.
U - US, A History of. THE BEST U.S. History books on the market, bar none. Love them. Read these aloud to the kids when they were 5th graders, then they read them again to themselves as 9th/10th graders. These are not Christian-based because I don't like the extreme-right-bias in Christian history books, but they are one of my favorite homeschool items. Another sidebar: The book by E. H. Gombrich called "A Little History of the World" is one I purchased a couple of years ago. Kevin refers to this enthusiastically as "a GREAT history book!" That doesn't happen often.
V - Volunteering. It's been a big part of our homeschooling, from working Afterschool Programs to Community Theater to Camps for Special Needs Kids, part of the blessing in a homeschool schedule is having the time to give something back.
W - Wordly Wise. Vocabulary and spelling. Simple, effective, and more fun than the average workbook.
X - saXon math. From 2nd through 6th grade, we LOVED Saxon math. Not so much the pre-algebra, geometry, trig stuff, but the elementary books are outstanding even if they are a bit on the pricey side.
Y - Yukon Trail (Amazon Trail, Oregon Trail, Africa Trail). CD games for the computers that are fun as well as semi-educational.
Z - Zoo. . . and any other field trip. We loved field trips. The cracker/cookie factory, the TV station, HerpFest, the dairy farm, Dippin' Dots, the zoo, Science Days, Museums, you name it, we loved it, and tried to do as much of it as possible. Hands-on beats a classroom any day of the week.
There you go. 20 years' worth of what worked for us.
L - Language from A Beka. I liked some of A Beka's curriculum, but I really LOVED their language curriculum. It pulls "double duty" by practicing grammar and punctuation skills with famous quotes, historical documents, and literary passages.
M - Market House Theater! (Our local community theater) Memorization, socialization, public speaking, etc. What's not to love? Between the two kids, I think we did at least 12 productions, 15 if you count backstage work running lights and sound. Along with MHT, I would have to say that we enjoyed aspects of all our extra-curriculars: softball, scouts, gymnastics, music lessons, baseball, etc. Made for well-rounded kids.
N - Bill Nye the Science Guy. LOVED his books, which may freak out some of my fundamentalist friends because of his evolutionary stance, but COME ON, this guy explains Bernoulli's Principle and The Four Fundamental Forces in a way even I could understand! Plus he gives experiments to do throughout his books (experiments that ACTUALLY work). As a side note, I NEVER found a science curriculum I liked. Science is meant to be experienced, not read.O - Our American Heritage. The only A Beka history book I liked, and this one I loved. It is a 3rd grade level book of biographies. Well worth reading.
P - Princeton Review's Everything: Standard Deviants, S.A.T. prep courses, etc. Mostly Kacey loved the "Smart" series - Math Smart, Word Smart, Writing Smart. The math book teaches concepts in creative story form. A MAJOR plus for those of us who proudly say, "I'm an English major - you do the math!"
Q - Brain Quest. Just basic "trivia" cards for all age groups. Fun to play in the car, or anytime you need a "fill in" activity.
R - Rummy Roots. Another card game that teaches Latin and Greek roots by matching them up with their English counterparts. A great foundation before foreign language, which leads me to . . .
S - Spanish via Rosetta Stone. The priciest of all our curriculum purchases, but the best foreign-language program on the market, and well worth the money.
T - Trelease, Jim. The Read-Aloud Handbook. One of my best and most-used "mommy books". I HIGHLY recommend every parent have one, or at least check
it out at the library to make your own reading lists. U - US, A History of. THE BEST U.S. History books on the market, bar none. Love them. Read these aloud to the kids when they were 5th graders, then they read them again to themselves as 9th/10th graders. These are not Christian-based because I don't like the extreme-right-bias in Christian history books, but they are one of my favorite homeschool items. Another sidebar: The book by E. H. Gombrich called "A Little History of the World" is one I purchased a couple of years ago. Kevin refers to this enthusiastically as "a GREAT history book!" That doesn't happen often.
V - Volunteering. It's been a big part of our homeschooling, from working Afterschool Programs to Community Theater to Camps for Special Needs Kids, part of the blessing in a homeschool schedule is having the time to give something back.
W - Wordly Wise. Vocabulary and spelling. Simple, effective, and more fun than the average workbook.
X - saXon math. From 2nd through 6th grade, we LOVED Saxon math. Not so much the pre-algebra, geometry, trig stuff, but the elementary books are outstanding even if they are a bit on the pricey side.
Y - Yukon Trail (Amazon Trail, Oregon Trail, Africa Trail). CD games for the computers that are fun as well as semi-educational.
Z - Zoo. . . and any other field trip. We loved field trips. The cracker/cookie factory, the TV station, HerpFest, the dairy farm, Dippin' Dots, the zoo, Science Days, Museums, you name it, we loved it, and tried to do as much of it as possible. Hands-on beats a classroom any day of the week.
There you go. 20 years' worth of what worked for us.
However you choose to educate, may God bless you
as you grow your children into responsible, compassionate, intelligent adults.
.
May 01, 2010
from here to maternity or "just how many diapers will I need???"
Last weekend I accompanied my daughter as she enlisted at Babies R Us and joined the ranks of Modern Maternity. When we entered the recruitment office department store, we were immediately greeted by uniformed service people who had the nerve to say, "You must be the . . . " (Don't say it. Don't say it. If you put me in a bad mood, I will NOT spend money in your store!) "You must be the . . . Grandma!" And there it is. The "G" word. They took one look and just ASSUMED I was the grandmother, hot granny, let's just say M.O.M., shall we? (Hey, 2 years ago I was the M.O.B. - Mother of the Bride, why can't I just be the M.O.M. - Mother of the Mom NOW?) Where was I ??? Oh yeah, the Babies R Us Recruitment Office. We were asked to fill out paperwork in triplicate. Mother's Name? Father's Name? Sex? Commission date? Discharge date? You get the idea.
Once paperwork was completed, we were given a list of the 468 essential baby items, issued a canteen of Dasani Spring Water and sent into active duty, armed with a barcode scanner gun. We set out to forge 16-square acres of foreign consumerland - a far cry from my Hippie Earth Mother days of breastfeeding and homebirthing and Continuum Concept Parenting. We began our march. She proceeded to shoot everything in sight, because that's what you do. You shoot everything. You need everything. B
abies R Us says so, and they must know. Combat booties. Rectal thermometers. Camouflage diaper covers. Miniature portable prisons and leashes and electronic babysitters and 2-way radios and something called a Keeper akin to a prisoner-of-war torture device that allows you to hang your offspring over the latrine door like an old coat, while you take care of business. And while we're on the subject of latrines, the Winnie-the-Pooh pottie chair is a must-have. (A Pooh Poo Chair? Really?)
After a good hour of listening to the cadence of mobiles and music boxes and baby sing-a-longs, we discovered what could only be the war room: a cushy little nook in the back of the baby wilderness with a circle of amazingly comfortable recliners where general decisions are made and major problems are solved. We sat down. We breathed. After a few minutes away from combat, our heads cleared, and my daughter looked at me and said, "What did I sign up for?" Then she took out the "delete" barcode and began to systematically eliminate all the unnecessary items from her registry like a military sniper. What was left were some cloth nursing pads, a couple of BPA-free pacifiers, a carseat and a few miscellaneous items. Some basics may have become collateral damage in the onslaught, but she decided she could always add them back online.
Looking proud of herself, she said, "What now?" My reply was "diapers and wipes". So we forged past the name-brand chemical-laden plastics and went toward the more "green-friendly" disposables. She scanned a couple of each, then looked at me and said, "Just how many diapers will I need?" So I gave her the coordinates: 8 to 12 a day as a newborn, 6 to 10 as a baby, 4 to 6 as a toddler, with the average "Tour of Doodie" being 30 to 36 months. She looked up and to the left to engage the mostly unused left-side of her brain, mumbled something about "20 or 30 to a pack", then exclaimed, "That's like a million boxes of diapers!" Then she pointed the gun and open fired on the diaper barcodes.
After that we found a supply officer who was able to help us fill out the requisition forms for a pair of Pants, Khaki Maternity. Knowing we could potentially face a courtmartial for not completing the orders for "essential items", we utilized our best covert evasion techniques to return the Barcode Weapon and escaped out of enemy territory without qualifying for a Purple Heart.
Once paperwork was completed, we were given a list of the 468 essential baby items, issued a canteen of Dasani Spring Water and sent into active duty, armed with a barcode scanner gun. We set out to forge 16-square acres of foreign consumerland - a far cry from my Hippie Earth Mother days of breastfeeding and homebirthing and Continuum Concept Parenting. We began our march. She proceeded to shoot everything in sight, because that's what you do. You shoot everything. You need everything. B
abies R Us says so, and they must know. Combat booties. Rectal thermometers. Camouflage diaper covers. Miniature portable prisons and leashes and electronic babysitters and 2-way radios and something called a Keeper akin to a prisoner-of-war torture device that allows you to hang your offspring over the latrine door like an old coat, while you take care of business. And while we're on the subject of latrines, the Winnie-the-Pooh pottie chair is a must-have. (A Pooh Poo Chair? Really?)After a good hour of listening to the cadence of mobiles and music boxes and baby sing-a-longs, we discovered what could only be the war room: a cushy little nook in the back of the baby wilderness with a circle of amazingly comfortable recliners where general decisions are made and major problems are solved. We sat down. We breathed. After a few minutes away from combat, our heads cleared, and my daughter looked at me and said, "What did I sign up for?" Then she took out the "delete" barcode and began to systematically eliminate all the unnecessary items from her registry like a military sniper. What was left were some cloth nursing pads, a couple of BPA-free pacifiers, a carseat and a few miscellaneous items. Some basics may have become collateral damage in the onslaught, but she decided she could always add them back online.
Looking proud of herself, she said, "What now?" My reply was "diapers and wipes". So we forged past the name-brand chemical-laden plastics and went toward the more "green-friendly" disposables. She scanned a couple of each, then looked at me and said, "Just how many diapers will I need?" So I gave her the coordinates: 8 to 12 a day as a newborn, 6 to 10 as a baby, 4 to 6 as a toddler, with the average "Tour of Doodie" being 30 to 36 months. She looked up and to the left to engage the mostly unused left-side of her brain, mumbled something about "20 or 30 to a pack", then exclaimed, "That's like a million boxes of diapers!" Then she pointed the gun and open fired on the diaper barcodes.
After that we found a supply officer who was able to help us fill out the requisition forms for a pair of Pants, Khaki Maternity. Knowing we could potentially face a courtmartial for not completing the orders for "essential items", we utilized our best covert evasion techniques to return the Barcode Weapon and escaped out of enemy territory without qualifying for a Purple Heart.
April 30, 2010
his and herpfest
Today was . . . emotional. Not in the traditional "Steph is on the rollercoaster ride today and is weeping for no reason", but the non-traditional "Went on a herpetological field trip with several friends and their kids and turns out our tour guide was the first guy I ever loved and who still had all his hair when I saw him at my sister's funeral 15 years ago." Wow. I think he saw me before my eyes even adjusted to being indoors, and I was greeted by a "Hi Stranger" from some cute old guy with a corn snake around his neck. The next thing I know, my heart is pounding a million beats per second, my face is flush, and all I can think is how different I look now than I did in 1995, and how it really stinks to be old and, well, not thin. So in-between running the gamut of reptiles and amphibians, we did a bit of catching up. I was my usual sarcastic, insult-comedian self and he was mostly sweet, though he did throw in a couple of good zingers (some smart-alec comment about how he might be bald, but at least he doesn't color his hair!) to which I feigned protest, but since it's true, it was fake feigning. Lindsay (my niece) was with me, and he recognized her instantly, though they'd never met. He took one look at her and told her she was gorgeous just like her mom. (Which, with the exception of their hair color, is completely true.)
So, our field trip consisted of tree frogs and vipers and salamanders and all manner of cute and slimy and scaly and venomous and spotted herps . . . and one ghost from my past. I don't know if the 15 kids we took today had fun at Herpfest, but I think I did. I say "think" because after I got back to the car I had a good cry. It stinks to be old and hormonal.
After Herpfest, we went out to dinner with Nana and Papa, and I saw another "old man" at the restaurant who called me by name, but who, for the life of me, I couldn't place. Turns out we were friends in high school. It stinks to be old and forgetful. Now Lindsay and I are watching the Best Chick Flick Ever, so I can continue to educate her pop-culturally. (Yes, it's a word! If you want to know what the movie is, here's a hint: Daisies are the friendliest flowers.) Kevin has hit the sack early because he is taking the S.A.T. in the morning.
It's now after 11, and I was hoping to stay up for another movie, but I'm getting sleepy. It stinks to be old and, well, it just stinks to be old.
So, our field trip consisted of tree frogs and vipers and salamanders and all manner of cute and slimy and scaly and venomous and spotted herps . . . and one ghost from my past. I don't know if the 15 kids we took today had fun at Herpfest, but I think I did. I say "think" because after I got back to the car I had a good cry. It stinks to be old and hormonal. After Herpfest, we went out to dinner with Nana and Papa, and I saw another "old man" at the restaurant who called me by name, but who, for the life of me, I couldn't place. Turns out we were friends in high school. It stinks to be old and forgetful. Now Lindsay and I are watching the Best Chick Flick Ever, so I can continue to educate her pop-culturally. (Yes, it's a word! If you want to know what the movie is, here's a hint: Daisies are the friendliest flowers.) Kevin has hit the sack early because he is taking the S.A.T. in the morning.
It's now after 11, and I was hoping to stay up for another movie, but I'm getting sleepy. It stinks to be old and, well, it just stinks to be old.
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