tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20618083596330960292024-03-21T21:32:32.611-07:00To the Moon and Back (and everywhere in between)<center>Your everyday mom to three, working full time and juggling it all - sometimes successfully.</center>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13919491435966390931noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2061808359633096029.post-37398110275305006112013-11-18T09:39:00.000-08:002013-11-18T09:45:00.301-08:00Late Nights Ain't What They Used to Be<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1530" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Around 11 last night, my husband and I were about to feed the baby for the last time and head to bed. Our simple nightly wind-down was interrupted when a little 4-year-old head peeked out of the boys’ room and said, ‘I’m thirsty.” </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1530" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi061lNFmrcCB4ppg3K1p1YEN22rEwJInIDve5wdjrreEw6dsOoQKdhhZzUmPBHWf8yYZ9VHVTKqyaVVJw9ARmjdT9SPKbNcQLMW6UkcgSreaEBhSekWdWaN7LDEvGvIfNhyphenhyphen7y2ONvw94/s1600/Evan+peeking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi061lNFmrcCB4ppg3K1p1YEN22rEwJInIDve5wdjrreEw6dsOoQKdhhZzUmPBHWf8yYZ9VHVTKqyaVVJw9ARmjdT9SPKbNcQLMW6UkcgSreaEBhSekWdWaN7LDEvGvIfNhyphenhyphen7y2ONvw94/s1600/Evan+peeking.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1530" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1530" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Our children are generally good sleepers, and even when they aren't, they still stay in their beds. Little man had an adventurous weekend, though, attending his first wedding, staying up late and going two days without naps. Last night, he was tucked in and out cold at 6 p.m.</div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1530" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1627" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
So at 11, he came out for some chit chat and something to drink. Due to the early bedtime, we obliged, snuggled for a few minutes and sent him back to bed. Thirty minutes later, he was still awake. I checked on him one last time, and he announced, “I’m hungry.” Sigh. Normally I would not cave, but given the oddities of the weekend, I told him to come out quietly so we didn't wake up his brother in the bunk above.</div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1627" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1628" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
E proudly walked back to our bedroom and announced to my husband that he was hungry and was ready for breakfast. We kindly explained the actual time and told him it wasn't time for breakfast. I asked what he would like to eat, and again I got, “I’m just ready for breakfast.” Around and around we went, until I again caved and gave him a breakfasty food, of which he took two bites and announced that he wasn't REALLY hungry for that breakfast.</div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1628" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1629" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Meanwhile, we had turned down the lights and settled in to feed the baby. A time when she normally winds down and drifts right off to sleep was interrupted by breakfast talk at midnight. Guess who else was ready to party?</div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1629" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
</div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1630" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
So Greg carted the little man back to bed with the promise of checking on him every five minutes until he fell asleep, and I was left with a squealing, laughing 5-month-old who was ready for anything but sleep. At 1 a.m. we heard the last happy shriek and giggle and finally settled in for some much needed sleep…which ended too soon at 6 a.m. Thank goodness I have such a fabulous partner to laugh with and with whom I sleepily stumble through this adventure called parenting.</div>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1630" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmi7PwOVJ6eYbxMwpFEOcSrQO5hs-WjmDg2ISsQ2LyRDnK_qe4nPF9BJuzBIJyxeLvgmnP6XEqNkRch21ZHmiaz8khwQXCqWiVU2PSUQLo0kk7hXCT1Bk3HoUqmT-bGOVG1E2hOYTf3Ho/s1600/parenting_rockstars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmi7PwOVJ6eYbxMwpFEOcSrQO5hs-WjmDg2ISsQ2LyRDnK_qe4nPF9BJuzBIJyxeLvgmnP6XEqNkRch21ZHmiaz8khwQXCqWiVU2PSUQLo0kk7hXCT1Bk3HoUqmT-bGOVG1E2hOYTf3Ho/s320/parenting_rockstars.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 16px;">Just for laughs and to make us sleepy, struggling parents feel a teensy bit better...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="yiv3802552308MsoNormal" id="yui_3_13_0_1_1384795678291_1630" style="text-align: start;">
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13919491435966390931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2061808359633096029.post-1786883745954451462013-11-04T07:29:00.000-08:002013-11-13T07:43:57.345-08:00Life With a Lab<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Meet Wilson.</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqbU8wwwWnfsatyWSL3LfkDoETnooygNpQV0yrOXjiM5wvkdSvhVj9_6pac-MqlDgFeDqBFlEx7jor09_vz8Hn8g9mZqEM_qKpQVZ6qLn3v0-CVV4xmZvlSyOpLvuDQ7mu5UK4omwgBQ/s1600/Wilson.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqbU8wwwWnfsatyWSL3LfkDoETnooygNpQV0yrOXjiM5wvkdSvhVj9_6pac-MqlDgFeDqBFlEx7jor09_vz8Hn8g9mZqEM_qKpQVZ6qLn3v0-CVV4xmZvlSyOpLvuDQ7mu5UK4omwgBQ/s320/Wilson.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s our super sweet, lovable Lab capable of whirling dervish-sized trouble and mishaps. These 90 pounds of love find trouble in every corner and can’t be trusted
unsupervised - even at age 3.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3g-fpMZjsN2zTwcAs2PT9GTjugSfHylh7A8VgkxUt8Ht4Gi0dgcWtndQINfx-Qc3VfCo1Qc6dNlJ9v92tubmSbEb4D8eL5KOYQqESTRjXDCS9EKmgI8xvZKTUkwEl4qlo2BwdKIRQCQ/s1600/photo+(38).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3g-fpMZjsN2zTwcAs2PT9GTjugSfHylh7A8VgkxUt8Ht4Gi0dgcWtndQINfx-Qc3VfCo1Qc6dNlJ9v92tubmSbEb4D8eL5KOYQqESTRjXDCS9EKmgI8xvZKTUkwEl4qlo2BwdKIRQCQ/s320/photo+(38).JPG" width="320" /></a>I work from home two days a week and during this child-free
time, Wilson has freedom to roam without getting all riled up by
his favorite little humans. Even then, much of my time is spent calling to locate him and removing the most coveted of my sons’ bed buddies from his
jaws. This usually involves him slinking past me, head hung low and big
brown eyes looking up as if to say, “I wonder if she sees me?” Meanwhile, a toy
that’s not his own is draping from his jowls. To his credit, I did find one of
the limbs of his own monkey in my son’s bed. How kind that he left E something
in place of his favorite stuffed tiger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is an hour’s worth of the toys removed from said jowls.
It’s my daily record that I share with my husband. “Only five today! We’re
making progress!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWN28HRiDh-x2WW6fF8NYO9AOObhsRqIlHkXs4QEEn-ZIYIXKKMjPX_DkQ_QlLgJH1z7WFY453rvek_Bk6QG00f5Xvk-tBJ2YKJ9N4QYRhQIL_LPrN3Fnzyt-Ap5OTZohefUway5ekwQ/s1600/photo+(37).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWN28HRiDh-x2WW6fF8NYO9AOObhsRqIlHkXs4QEEn-ZIYIXKKMjPX_DkQ_QlLgJH1z7WFY453rvek_Bk6QG00f5Xvk-tBJ2YKJ9N4QYRhQIL_LPrN3Fnzyt-Ap5OTZohefUway5ekwQ/s320/photo+(37).JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other factor to Wilson’s freedom being limited is his
inability to refrain from terrorizing the cats.
Truly, he just wants to play, but he can make Marley go from this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4wQDa0oZYeyOM2B824GYCX4D7UmebbUgDjiLi5F7vzYSRddbA9eUtW7x9SH7PjP3tCR-QzhYF31I_S3HRT-oD0e7HzGFzuLSGnq_kFOLsQ7QQLRIQNj8qyvM09I7JLf80PBD6y1Q7Yo/s1600/photo+(39).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4wQDa0oZYeyOM2B824GYCX4D7UmebbUgDjiLi5F7vzYSRddbA9eUtW7x9SH7PjP3tCR-QzhYF31I_S3HRT-oD0e7HzGFzuLSGnq_kFOLsQ7QQLRIQNj8qyvM09I7JLf80PBD6y1Q7Yo/s320/photo+(39).JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To kung fu cat:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY6f4g-ItCv16Ci82CpZl8hn7sTi03p7R8Bs8RPEC_M0NrdcXe2AWzpNfqjW_Bgk1VBRYtEdLQcM0veuEf_790XtpyH1qt6iUTjCQqFP9J5nTohQhx7VKxw2HAwg7GE8J8H3vrFaoktaA/s1600/ninja+marley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY6f4g-ItCv16Ci82CpZl8hn7sTi03p7R8Bs8RPEC_M0NrdcXe2AWzpNfqjW_Bgk1VBRYtEdLQcM0veuEf_790XtpyH1qt6iUTjCQqFP9J5nTohQhx7VKxw2HAwg7GE8J8H3vrFaoktaA/s320/ninja+marley.jpg" width="183" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
in a flash. (Wilson's the only one who can bring out this alter ego, and for the record, this is the BEST shot I have ever taken.) They really have a pretty good relationship and tolerate
each other well, until Marley taunts and Wilson responds. In fact, a few weeks
back, they spent a couple of unexpected hours together in Wilson’s crate (eeek!) and
neither had a scratch on ‘em when Greg realized it. Oops!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maddox (whose face could at times earn him the title of
Grumpy Cat II) is an entirely different story. There is no love in this
relationship. Maddox goes from this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvSzf8vkjlQV-A_hjre3ZHg89KChjlpavnzi8l_cnEg5mRagdBnIFqCNEdvrQ3wizgeoPHrcEy5RV_EJdBslkg9om0CEyZLyMptQiZPs-QkP2PDZtWJvEm-zJANH9nMlsTcm1tV-t32cc/s1600/chillmaddox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvSzf8vkjlQV-A_hjre3ZHg89KChjlpavnzi8l_cnEg5mRagdBnIFqCNEdvrQ3wizgeoPHrcEy5RV_EJdBslkg9om0CEyZLyMptQiZPs-QkP2PDZtWJvEm-zJANH9nMlsTcm1tV-t32cc/s320/chillmaddox.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to growling like a pit bull and hissing like a feral cat whenever
Wilson comes within ten feet of him. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLk8G5qU9UuSanWJJN9zhufHIynfm3s1sLBBRG5T7Ur8NsE7cqEcJh26D-7DXzRIj-0jz-1ueN6NlAgfm-dEQvTRgvn4bPX-2rdjSsklRViNNT_WP4cYGmd4TnguVpj-GbsqudXP8LI4/s1600/photo+(40).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLk8G5qU9UuSanWJJN9zhufHIynfm3s1sLBBRG5T7Ur8NsE7cqEcJh26D-7DXzRIj-0jz-1ueN6NlAgfm-dEQvTRgvn4bPX-2rdjSsklRViNNT_WP4cYGmd4TnguVpj-GbsqudXP8LI4/s320/photo+(40).JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(And at random intervals at the gate to his room just because he can.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must admit that Wilson’s antics can be helpful at times,
though, like last week when he found E’s missing slippers and how he manages to continuously
teach me that I have never picked up as well as I think I have. (Company coming? Release the dog and see how well we cleaned up!) And additionally, that
while I may play with him for what seems like ages to me, his mischief and
energy tank are never empty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97q4fxLY36OIiLSNGJDG-gdUIIXHgrRt6mrB4c4WUQj-OLuhQfM2hdr0DhlGfthXh9c2RQIsvfL7v-kVGyiZSW6pgxqjoHw9WvEp8Cpeu5rFczl0KjQc_cCEAeQitqCr8NQ-1uvS-w4I/s1600/photo+(42).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97q4fxLY36OIiLSNGJDG-gdUIIXHgrRt6mrB4c4WUQj-OLuhQfM2hdr0DhlGfthXh9c2RQIsvfL7v-kVGyiZSW6pgxqjoHw9WvEp8Cpeu5rFczl0KjQc_cCEAeQitqCr8NQ-1uvS-w4I/s320/photo+(42).JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life’s not complete without a dog, and I dearly love mine. I
mean, how could I not? My day wouldn't be full without him looking up at the high cabinet over and over where his treats are kept, asking for his daily bone.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2_-tCF4kbrE7-r7zHFdLTY_VHGJUQIY0JxjljKxKsbpXLkiqBAED0QBZCsGX05PdqebfdgcHSSBSEgLoNKPqWWXKMkB_C-cJegqHCS575rXtEVttam1JOdXfB6j8eTIKllih0IQFwbI/s1600/photo+(43).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2_-tCF4kbrE7-r7zHFdLTY_VHGJUQIY0JxjljKxKsbpXLkiqBAED0QBZCsGX05PdqebfdgcHSSBSEgLoNKPqWWXKMkB_C-cJegqHCS575rXtEVttam1JOdXfB6j8eTIKllih0IQFwbI/s320/photo+(43).JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it certainly wouldn’t be the same without him dropping a tennis ball on my foot, carrying it to the back door, then looking at me expectantly.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcg0Bw-OmPu5rHDjlMNLuaPd1QXIV_Fb3d64LOXhJ0FRRYyW3-86dQsHFT2IvtQ6Mq_qDvOvhRttS4dwW542y8GrPRZVVr2XE2XBgDcWC2nD3h_5yhdIC9qBHLnYfAjeYY1pyUbJ9apUc/s1600/photo+(45).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcg0Bw-OmPu5rHDjlMNLuaPd1QXIV_Fb3d64LOXhJ0FRRYyW3-86dQsHFT2IvtQ6Mq_qDvOvhRttS4dwW542y8GrPRZVVr2XE2XBgDcWC2nD3h_5yhdIC9qBHLnYfAjeYY1pyUbJ9apUc/s320/photo+(45).JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes you just need to drop everything and
play ball with your dog. Wilson keeps my hectic life in perspective. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkh4Q-p-NloONFW8GfLfofT-bddwGkwIadX2UnQpAI4DbyMDo6fLlC-c0aYjK-jXso0eEyrkTu9D7L6G90y-4NKuTrC6xDfaFynFOEBvHQaahs4lof_RG9UKorTSD_eigOBuIE2xvI6aE/s1600/photo+%252846%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkh4Q-p-NloONFW8GfLfofT-bddwGkwIadX2UnQpAI4DbyMDo6fLlC-c0aYjK-jXso0eEyrkTu9D7L6G90y-4NKuTrC6xDfaFynFOEBvHQaahs4lof_RG9UKorTSD_eigOBuIE2xvI6aE/s320/photo+%252846%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13919491435966390931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2061808359633096029.post-82096122283048871022013-09-30T10:41:00.001-07:002013-10-01T07:36:31.318-07:00Oh, How I Love Reading<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m a book hoarder. I love to own them – kindle editions and
the good ‘ole classic paper kind. I see a title and plot that peaks my interest,
and I snatch it up…only for it to sit in a pile or inside my Kindle for months.
OK, some of them years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've been an avid reader since I was a child. I love a good
story. Both of my parents passed on a deep love of reading to me. I’m
passionate about the English language and get the greatest satisfaction out of
finding an error in a book that an editor didn't catch. It comes close to
making me feel like a super hero. (And yes, I absolutely know how geeky that
makes me. Word-nerd is my label of choice, if you must throw stones.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I come to the reason that my stack of books is so high. Children.
One word, but many reasons balled up into those sweet, sticky little high-energy
bodies. Books I could have read in a week now take a year, or I forget that I
was reading them before I can even finish. Hell, I've even started books that
I have read before and not realized it until at least chapter five. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The past few years I have found myself LIVING for vacation.
Yes, to spend time with my family and to play with my children for a week
without saying, “I can’t right now, honey. Mommy has work to do.” But secretly,
I get equally as excited about all the time I will have for reading! GLORIOUS
reading! I know that I will get absorbed in and actually COMPLETE at least two
books. Heaven.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On our most recent vacation I read “The Rescue” by Nicholas
Sparks and “Summer Rental” by Mary Kay Andrews. Both were excellent. My mother
introduced me to Mary Alice Monroe recently, and I just started “The Summer
Girls.” I love a quirky southern tale. Hopefully I will have this one done
before next summer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I confess that I DO still get to read on a daily basis. G
and I are making our way through all of the Magic Tree House books together.
Though they may not be what I would choose to pour over all the time, as we
read together and he asks for “just one more chapter,” I know that I am doing something
important. I’m instilling that same spark that’s in me in my child. And that’s
what’s important right now. Can’t wait to see where Jack and Annie will go in
that tree house tonight. (Rumor has it they’ll be boarding the Titanic!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Q7jfAkk6k8xDZQPmHqlVCZ3E0-IAPPjf1ISpHh7a1_gaX7Ppjdvl_KdDjdKAO7abuegERDcDGjQf8997iG7qRuMIXHxcrKnpdB8f-p3A7H3NDMBLEnzVRNe06mt_1UGmBW7J-2EVefg/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Q7jfAkk6k8xDZQPmHqlVCZ3E0-IAPPjf1ISpHh7a1_gaX7Ppjdvl_KdDjdKAO7abuegERDcDGjQf8997iG7qRuMIXHxcrKnpdB8f-p3A7H3NDMBLEnzVRNe06mt_1UGmBW7J-2EVefg/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of our Magic Tree House collection (with a gargoyle to protect it)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13919491435966390931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2061808359633096029.post-77093236374037276832013-09-27T18:52:00.000-07:002013-09-30T10:45:21.297-07:00The Wonderful World of Disney<div class="MsoNormal">
Like most working moms, I have a lot of balls up in the air
at all times. I could out-juggle a veteran circus clown any day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This has been one of those “I’m juggling 50 bowling balls at
once” weeks, and I am pleased to see it end, though it was not without
highlights. When you have little ones, a whole week is never without
highlights.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all, I have three lovely children — G is my
almost-7-year-old boy, E is my just-turned-4-last-weekend fella and G2 is my
sweet little 3-month-old baby girl, who still has that new car smell. Actually
she smells like spit up — all the time — since she spits up on herself even IN
the bathtub. But more on the spit up chronicles later.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With E’s birthday falling last week, there was a heaping
helping of things to get done. Was trying to just restore order to our little
house enough for me? Noooo. I felt the absolute need to paint and clean carpets
and check other fun things like that off of a mile-long list before we had
family over. (My husband loves my lists.) And lists tend to grow when you look
around your little house that was built in 1934, which has been bursting at the
seams since before E was born, and realize that there’s no chance that you’re
going to find hiding places for all of the clutter — there aren’t enough sofas
and beds to stash things under. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the uber-important items on the list was “bake
cupcakes for E’s preschool class.” My boys love to bake, and I cherish the time
with them, so I don’t opt for the store-bought kind. This baking session was a
little crazier than usual as I tried to cram it in on a weeknight, but in
between dinner, baths and reading, we got it done.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took the cupcakes in to his class last Friday, and I could
have kissed his teacher when she said, “Wow. Three children and still baking
the cupcakes yourself — I’m impressed.” It wasn’t that I wanted anyone to be impressed;
it was the simple fact that she recognized exactly what it took for me to get
those cupcakes baked, frosted and in front of those 10 preschoolers. She is
also the mother of three and worked when they were small. There was a deep
understanding there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward to this week. My job is busier than ever
before, the boys are perfecting ways to best irritate the pants off of each
other, and I am trying my darndest to pump enough milk for a baby who is
allergic to all formula with less than great results. (Again, more on that
another time.) Both boys have their first homework assignments and, in
addition, E has brought home this red bag with a notebook and a stuffed Mickey
Mouse peeking out. Did any of your children have the stuffed animals who come
home and spend the week with your family? (Please tell me I am not the only one
who just sees a big ball of germs rather than a plush animal. At least we got
it early in the year.) When G did this, whatever critter it was spent time with
him, and G dictated a cute little, SHORT message to me about how much he
enjoyed having the plush animal with him, which I wrote in the accompanying
traveling notebook.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I open the Mickey Mouse notebook to find these elaborate
letters from Mickey Mouse to the class. In each one, Mickey (the parent!) is
documenting every godforsaken moment that he spent with the child ALL WEEK LONG
and with PICTURES attached! Dear lord, it almost sent me over the edge. I no
longer wanted to kiss the teacher, but wanted to scream, “I thought you
understood my life!!! Why would you do such a thing to me?” I felt completely
betrayed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know you have those days/weeks/months where the
slightest little thing added to your load makes you fall apart? That straw and
the camel’s back? The last block that makes the Jenga tower crash? Well Mickey
was the straw and the block for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t like to have the kids’ school projects or
fundraisers hanging over my head. I place my fundraiser order right away to be
done (and yes, I had to do that this week, too) and check things off my list as
soon as possible. So we immediately went out into the back yard for a photo
session and checked that off the list, but that notebook sat on my desk staring
me in the face all week. I had to REMEMBER it and REMEMBER everything Mickey did
with E. What responsibility!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thursday night came, and I could not WAIT to write that
letter and be done. I taped the pictures in, drafted the letter and crammed
Mickey (who we managed not to LOSE all week. Hooray!) and the notebook back
into the little red bag as quickly as I could. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Done. Checked off the list. Mickey better only visit once a
year.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfAiUg0-70p3ndE6q9O6x4uZFi4VfBzCRgv4xXzDuiHBrZKSHJ6EM6L4Yqv85wSD4205qmuZngFkPZ00nH_MqwYcJvojGeAGJGrylkmQzJxWpjMCIp7vbgehGDKYVQiIt9nUmGVcvdmQ/s1600/Fotor0923182443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfAiUg0-70p3ndE6q9O6x4uZFi4VfBzCRgv4xXzDuiHBrZKSHJ6EM6L4Yqv85wSD4205qmuZngFkPZ00nH_MqwYcJvojGeAGJGrylkmQzJxWpjMCIp7vbgehGDKYVQiIt9nUmGVcvdmQ/s400/Fotor0923182443.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My collage of Mickey & E's backyard adventures </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13919491435966390931noreply@blogger.com0