Turns out that six really is just the beginning!
Thanks for visiting my Wordless Wednesday post. Scroll down to see two other pictures for WW. To visit some other great WW posts, go here and here.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Wordless Wednesday, Part 2
Turns out that six really is just the beginning!
Thanks for visiting my Wordless Wednesday post. Scroll down to see two other pictures for WW. To visit some other great WW posts, go here and here.
Wordless Wednesday Part 1
When it rains, it pours! There's been too much excitement in our household this week to choose just one.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Six Is....
Six is the number of Cokes that I could drink in 3 days, if I didn't try not to.
It's the number of chairs that came with our kitchen table.
Six is what none of my children were in poundage at birth (not even close!)
Six is....
the number of children's feet that scamper across my kitchen floor,
the number of times that my baby asked if he could have a lolli (on the
way home from the library)
the number of little arms that hug us before bed
Six is the number of boxes of Girl Scout cookies that sit on my kitchen
counter right now.
Six is the number of times I've told my husband that I'm seriously going to start a
diet (in the past six weeks)
Six is the number of years that my lovely girl has been in my arms,
the number of times that I think about her in a five minute period,
the number of kisses that I give her before bed.
It's the number of times that she comes down to ask a question before she's in bed
for the night,
the number of books that she'd like to read before bed,
the number of times that she asks, "What does that word mean?" during one
afternoon.
Six is the number of times that she shares her food with her brother or sister in
the course of two days,
and it's the number of times that she pokes, tickles or teases her brother
during the same time period.
Six is the number of years that I've told her to slow down, don't grow so fast.
But I think that
Six is only the beginning.
It's the number of chairs that came with our kitchen table.
Six is what none of my children were in poundage at birth (not even close!)
Six is....
the number of children's feet that scamper across my kitchen floor,
the number of times that my baby asked if he could have a lolli (on the
way home from the library)
the number of little arms that hug us before bed
Six is the number of boxes of Girl Scout cookies that sit on my kitchen
counter right now.
Six is the number of times I've told my husband that I'm seriously going to start a
diet (in the past six weeks)
Six is the number of years that my lovely girl has been in my arms,
the number of times that I think about her in a five minute period,
the number of kisses that I give her before bed.
It's the number of times that she comes down to ask a question before she's in bed
for the night,
the number of books that she'd like to read before bed,
the number of times that she asks, "What does that word mean?" during one
afternoon.
Six is the number of times that she shares her food with her brother or sister in
the course of two days,
and it's the number of times that she pokes, tickles or teases her brother
during the same time period.
Six is the number of years that I've told her to slow down, don't grow so fast.
But I think that
Six is only the beginning.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Payback
The concept of payback goes something like this. Someone does something distasteful to you, and you do something equally (or more so) distasteful to them. To pay them back. Not a concept that I'd like to teach my children, but in real life, it happens. As my afternoon was humming along today, relatively uneventful, something happened that I could only explain as a twisted sort of payback. Misplaced payback. Or something else that I cannot explain.
I have to backtrack and tell you that when I was in my early 20's, but before I was a mom, I took my 12 year old niece to the store with me. While there, we visited the make-up aisle. There was some bright red lipstick smeared on the floor, and if I remember correctly, I told my niece to be careful and not step in it. After that, we went back to my parents' new house (with almost white carpet).
You can see where this is going. Mmmhmmm. When we got back to that brand-new house with brand-new carpet, my niece and I walked in, chatted a minute or so, and then she went off to a room in the back of the house to practice her flute. Have you ever played a band instrument? If you have, you know that tapping your foot (over and over again throughout the musical pieces that you play) helps you keep time. My niece, being diligent about her practice, tap, tap, tapped away for thirty minutes or so, cleaned her instrument and came back out to the kitchen. As she came out, she saw the red splotches that she had left across the carpet like Hansel's bread crumbs through the forest.
This would horrify most 12 year olds whose first thoughts might be about getting into trouble. My niece was no exception. Yet, her nervousness was escalated by the fact that the house was new, the carpet was new, and her grandfather ("Scrub" was his nickname at an earlier time) was about to see the horrific mess. She came to me in the kitchen and whispered in my ear (because "Scrub" and the entire clan were standing in the kitchen), "Help! I've got lipstick all over the carpet!!!"
There was certainly no inconspicuous way to clean it up. I mean, everybody was standing right there! But I grabbed the cleaner and helped her clean it up. It looked really good, and my sister planned to call the carpet cleaner first thing in the morning. My sweet dad, however, was a little "stressed out", as they say and decided to call it a night. But it all worked out. No long-lasting hostility. I think.
Yet, something funny happened over the weekend. We celebrated my daughter's birthday a little early with my mom, sister and brother-in-law. They came bearing gifts from themselves and gifts from my niece (now an early 20-something). Birthday Girl got wonderful, thoughtful gifts...a radio, pink baseball glove, balls and a bat, a stuffed animal and some make-up. Not to repeat myself, but, mmmhmmmmm. Some make-up. Birthday Girl has been pretty careful with it herself, but what can you do about little brothers?
Do you see my thought process here? Is this some kind of twisted payback or what?
I have to backtrack and tell you that when I was in my early 20's, but before I was a mom, I took my 12 year old niece to the store with me. While there, we visited the make-up aisle. There was some bright red lipstick smeared on the floor, and if I remember correctly, I told my niece to be careful and not step in it. After that, we went back to my parents' new house (with almost white carpet).
You can see where this is going. Mmmhmmm. When we got back to that brand-new house with brand-new carpet, my niece and I walked in, chatted a minute or so, and then she went off to a room in the back of the house to practice her flute. Have you ever played a band instrument? If you have, you know that tapping your foot (over and over again throughout the musical pieces that you play) helps you keep time. My niece, being diligent about her practice, tap, tap, tapped away for thirty minutes or so, cleaned her instrument and came back out to the kitchen. As she came out, she saw the red splotches that she had left across the carpet like Hansel's bread crumbs through the forest.
This would horrify most 12 year olds whose first thoughts might be about getting into trouble. My niece was no exception. Yet, her nervousness was escalated by the fact that the house was new, the carpet was new, and her grandfather ("Scrub" was his nickname at an earlier time) was about to see the horrific mess. She came to me in the kitchen and whispered in my ear (because "Scrub" and the entire clan were standing in the kitchen), "Help! I've got lipstick all over the carpet!!!"
There was certainly no inconspicuous way to clean it up. I mean, everybody was standing right there! But I grabbed the cleaner and helped her clean it up. It looked really good, and my sister planned to call the carpet cleaner first thing in the morning. My sweet dad, however, was a little "stressed out", as they say and decided to call it a night. But it all worked out. No long-lasting hostility. I think.
Yet, something funny happened over the weekend. We celebrated my daughter's birthday a little early with my mom, sister and brother-in-law. They came bearing gifts from themselves and gifts from my niece (now an early 20-something). Birthday Girl got wonderful, thoughtful gifts...a radio, pink baseball glove, balls and a bat, a stuffed animal and some make-up. Not to repeat myself, but, mmmhmmmmm. Some make-up. Birthday Girl has been pretty careful with it herself, but what can you do about little brothers?
Do you see my thought process here? Is this some kind of twisted payback or what?
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Excuse Me, Ma'am
I will try to be as delicate as possible when I ask you this question. But, ahem, have you ever been...you know, interrupted? Now, I don't mean in the bathroom (who hasn't been interrupted during showers, baths, and other bathroom-type business?). I don't mean while on the phone with a friend or while writing your latest post to your blog. I mean, you know, during a moment with your husband? A very private sort of moment?
I ask you this today because I am precisely the kind of wife/mom who worries about what the children are doing and where they are doing it during intimate moments. I would be in utter shock, and I'd just absolutely just want to sink through the floor if we were ever "discovered".
Today, in preparation for my daughter's birthday, and to celebrate the fact that it was Saturday and my husband and I didn't actually have to be installing floors or painting walls (that's a story for another day, my friend), our sweet children were downstairs making birthday hats, signs and, no doubt, scarfing down a little pre-breakfast sugar. My husband and I were rubbing the sleep from our eyes and chatting sleepily about what we were going to do for the birthday.
The kiddos came up to visit and then trotted back downstairs to finish their preparations. Klop, klop, klop. Pad, pad, pad. Plop, plop, plop. Boy, our stairs are loud.
Around then, my husband, famous for the line, "Got a minute?" snuggled a little closer and tried to start a little something. We shut the door, but alas, no lock on this particular door. Shhhhhh. Listen....The monitor's on, right? Check. A couple of minutes later....shhhhhhh, wait....they could come in...
"We'd hear 'em," he said, reminding me of how loud our stairs are and how easily we heard them as they came up the first time. Okay, he's right. But, shhhhh. We've gotta' listen. I need more blanket.....shhhhh
Three or four minutes later, I heard, "You want a cookie?!!!" And this is what I saw....
TWO FEET FROM MY FACE!
No plop, plop, plop. No pad, pad, pad. No klop, klop, klop. No door opening noisily, no, "Hey, Mom..." Just silence until she was right there. Two feet from my face. Offering us our share of her pink, frosted cookie. Darling girl. My face literally burned, and I was suddenly spinning in an ocean of, "OH MY GOSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!"
However, the sweet girl didn't seem to notice my blushing face or the fact that nothing that I said was making sense. She continued to show us how lovely the cookie was and to tell the story of how she got it. Then she proceeded to show us the red, shiny, plastic ring that came off of one of her Valentines. It was, indeed, lovely. A truly magnificent piece of jewelry that I studied fastidiously as I secretly tried to figure out what I could say to make her LEAVE THE ROOM!
Now, I think that she thought that we were playing. Or snuggling. I mean, lots of covers were involved. And, thank goodness, after about five minutes of brilliant conversation, she did think of something else that she needed to do to prepare for the big day. And as the blood drained from my face, I had to thank God for sheets and blankets and pillows....and unsuspecting little girls.
Okay, now let me know your story (please tell me that you have one, too!).
I ask you this today because I am precisely the kind of wife/mom who worries about what the children are doing and where they are doing it during intimate moments. I would be in utter shock, and I'd just absolutely just want to sink through the floor if we were ever "discovered".
Today, in preparation for my daughter's birthday, and to celebrate the fact that it was Saturday and my husband and I didn't actually have to be installing floors or painting walls (that's a story for another day, my friend), our sweet children were downstairs making birthday hats, signs and, no doubt, scarfing down a little pre-breakfast sugar. My husband and I were rubbing the sleep from our eyes and chatting sleepily about what we were going to do for the birthday.
The kiddos came up to visit and then trotted back downstairs to finish their preparations. Klop, klop, klop. Pad, pad, pad. Plop, plop, plop. Boy, our stairs are loud.
Around then, my husband, famous for the line, "Got a minute?" snuggled a little closer and tried to start a little something. We shut the door, but alas, no lock on this particular door. Shhhhhh. Listen....The monitor's on, right? Check. A couple of minutes later....shhhhhhh, wait....they could come in...
"We'd hear 'em," he said, reminding me of how loud our stairs are and how easily we heard them as they came up the first time. Okay, he's right. But, shhhhh. We've gotta' listen. I need more blanket.....shhhhh
Three or four minutes later, I heard, "You want a cookie?!!!" And this is what I saw....
TWO FEET FROM MY FACE!
No plop, plop, plop. No pad, pad, pad. No klop, klop, klop. No door opening noisily, no, "Hey, Mom..." Just silence until she was right there. Two feet from my face. Offering us our share of her pink, frosted cookie. Darling girl. My face literally burned, and I was suddenly spinning in an ocean of, "OH MY GOSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!"
However, the sweet girl didn't seem to notice my blushing face or the fact that nothing that I said was making sense. She continued to show us how lovely the cookie was and to tell the story of how she got it. Then she proceeded to show us the red, shiny, plastic ring that came off of one of her Valentines. It was, indeed, lovely. A truly magnificent piece of jewelry that I studied fastidiously as I secretly tried to figure out what I could say to make her LEAVE THE ROOM!
Now, I think that she thought that we were playing. Or snuggling. I mean, lots of covers were involved. And, thank goodness, after about five minutes of brilliant conversation, she did think of something else that she needed to do to prepare for the big day. And as the blood drained from my face, I had to thank God for sheets and blankets and pillows....and unsuspecting little girls.
Okay, now let me know your story (please tell me that you have one, too!).
Friday, February 15, 2008
These Are the Things That I Will Remember....
The little guy daily suprises me with his ability to put things together. Sometimes after I ask him a question, he'll pause, and I can see the gears turning in his head as he works to thoughtfully answer my question. Until lately, he had mostly been in the phase of pre-programmed answers....I'd say, "Who's my boy? Is Elmo my boy?" "No...." "Is Ernie my boy?" "Nooooo...." "Is Santa my boy?" "Noooo...." "Who's my boy?" "Me!"
The other day, hubby, the little guy and I went to our favorite Chinese restaurant for lunch. Of course, little guy's favorite part of the meal is the fortune cookies. We opened the first cookie and took out the little scrap of paper. I said to him, "Hmmm...what does it say?" He thought for a minute, then proudly said, "Beeb!" (his name for himself) Then we opened a second cookie and asked him what that one said. He looked around as he tried to start his words and then said, "I love Mommy." Of course, I cried.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Girl Scout Camp and a Little Fever
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Spelling Bee Practice
Get ready, get set, spell!
This week is the last week that my oldest daughter and I have to prepare her for the spelling bee. The SPELLING BEE!!!!!! I'm so excited that I can hardly contain myself. But I promise, I am not living vicariously through my daughter. Daughter....D...A...U...G...H...T...E...R...daughter.
Okay, she didn't volunteer to participate in the spelling bee. You know, I told her that she had to volunteer. I think that means that she didn't volunteer herself. But I volunteered her! So it all works out the same, right? I mean, doesn't it?
Well, even if it doesn't, she's doing it.
I love my kiddo. She doesn't necessarily (necessarily...n...e...c...e...s...s...a...r...i...l...y...necessarily) love all things school. But she's good in spelling. It's one of her best subjects, in fact. And I'm trying to teach her to capitalize on her strengths. And that one can't go through life just doing the things that are easy or don't take any effort. What kind of a life would that be?
She's nervous to stand up there in front of all of those people. (She goes to a school that has about 90 kids, K-6.) But things are getting easier. This is the third year that she's volunteered, I mean agreed, uh, okay...she's reluctantly spelled on stage so that she can avoid losing the privilege of watching movies at home. But really, I didn't even have to bring that up this year. She just knew that she would volunteer. This year, she haggled back and forth with me a little, but in a playful, smiling behind the hand kind of way. She knew that she was going to have to do it. I really think she wants to (kind of) this year.
Last year, she placed third. There were not a lot of kids in the bee, but having her earn any sort of place really buoyed her confidence. Not that she would intentionally (intentionally...i...n...t...e...n...t...i...o...n...a...l...l...y...intentionally)let on, though. At the end of the day, our conversation went something like this:
Me--"Third place!!! Wow!!! See, all that practice paid off!
Her--"I guess."
Me--"You did a great job! Was it fun?"
Her--"No, not really."
When we stopped at Sonic, however, to get a celebratory (celebratory...c...e...l...e...b...r...a...t...o...r...y...celebratory) Sonic Blast, this was her face:
Oh, come on. You can see it, too. I know it! There's that smile that says that she's got a bigger one inside, but it just might not be the right thing to do to let Mama know that it DID really feel good! You gotta' keep the ol' (I loose that term loosely) Mama guessing!
Well, like I said, today begins our last week of preparation. Pray for us. Because while the bee might actually be secretly exciting, preparation for it is not. For her. Or for me. I've already begun to hear comments like, "Who taught me to spell it like THAT?" and ,"They're just trying to TRICK me!" and of course, "Why doesn't every body ELSE have to do it?" All right, and some tears. Prompted by pep talks like, "Anything worth anything in life involves hard work!" and "It feels great to work so hard at something and see it pay off," and, I admit it, "I'm not everybody else's Mama!"
Hmmmmm....now where did I ever hear that?
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