tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84196452279839648062024-03-06T22:34:18.862-08:00Two or Five?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger357125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-45673884262558083622012-09-11T11:12:00.006-07:002012-09-11T21:56:49.875-07:00September 11 <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhELQX67IofuwLZol1kBtZzivjJRod5htQZ7ZxfCDL0Ehwp4K1pJyPdXnLtUzcvporq_k_ltB4MKA58sW7UWn89o7FxAmIgcPzkKFMFtel_0AR01B3hfyP8sLdQ8zpavidlg3d1nH5gAgk/s1600/WP_000846-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhELQX67IofuwLZol1kBtZzivjJRod5htQZ7ZxfCDL0Ehwp4K1pJyPdXnLtUzcvporq_k_ltB4MKA58sW7UWn89o7FxAmIgcPzkKFMFtel_0AR01B3hfyP8sLdQ8zpavidlg3d1nH5gAgk/s320/WP_000846-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5786983972101479474" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">As you know, I am easily overcome even in the best of sleeping times. But this is year ? of questionable sleep and it is really showing. I forget moments immediately after they happen, like beating Big M at a third game of backgammon in a row. I triple book weekends (sorry KMK). I also no longer wear my emotions on my sleeve but brazenly across my chest. So September 11 is quite hard for me. And, when I try to offer a brief explanation after that sentence as to why, I just sit here writing and re-writing for over an hour whilst my youngest two sleep. So. I won't write why it is hard for me. It is. It will be. That's all I have right now. In honor of September 11, I am offering an update on our honest little girl. She too wears it all on her brazen chest and offers no pretense. Thankfully most of her emotions are varying degrees of pleasure as long as no bodily functions are involved. Eating, burping, pooping and the like are all very disturbing to her. Little M calls her our cockatiel. She is very fond of her recently grasped hands. That in fact is the second most cool thing on the planet to her - grasping her hands and looking at her thumbs and fingers be very thumb and finger-like. The most cool thing on the planet to her is settling into the crook of your arm and cooing up at your face. She can gurgle in the back of her throat and stick her tongue out and growl. Both of these acts were taught to her by her siblings. A good gurgle and growl. I have taken her lead and found that a good gurgle and growl can indeed get one through just about any day even with emotions on one's chest.</div></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-5802712134199142202012-07-22T21:56:00.001-07:002012-07-22T21:56:26.627-07:00just an update...<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnCq5fJrSjSscr-Gojzr-aHcSnaY1gIz6gXgH9AXATcCG_KlTR7dfenFMarcOgYk-a97eS08ryiTIUNey9f22hyJIjJPeHfBajs0LqtA42Ygk9Q9uHJYuSmeDSnZ72lvdombOKy9Z8e-8/s1600/DSC_0106.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnCq5fJrSjSscr-Gojzr-aHcSnaY1gIz6gXgH9AXATcCG_KlTR7dfenFMarcOgYk-a97eS08ryiTIUNey9f22hyJIjJPeHfBajs0LqtA42Ygk9Q9uHJYuSmeDSnZ72lvdombOKy9Z8e-8/s320/DSC_0106.JPG" /></a> </div><div style='clear:both; text-align:CENTER'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-38486825375817602392012-07-12T19:31:00.003-07:002012-07-12T19:34:42.703-07:00better than dessert<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg646hvsBQHDhbZ9fnrnMPLHITHHTpm78hyphenhyphenHdxS3tH-m8V2DI05u62QW4sIhOKEpN2HscxgO2D0rDeCoyhRQv4B1Za92q3RAv3aNmOhWUhbFN6WGhidKiLxRjo1uhoPVEeh_dtHMp4gf-8/s1600/WP_000696.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg646hvsBQHDhbZ9fnrnMPLHITHHTpm78hyphenhyphenHdxS3tH-m8V2DI05u62QW4sIhOKEpN2HscxgO2D0rDeCoyhRQv4B1Za92q3RAv3aNmOhWUhbFN6WGhidKiLxRjo1uhoPVEeh_dtHMp4gf-8/s320/WP_000696.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5764476238362826146" /></a>My 7-year-old asked to watch "Super Man-Eating Snakes" rather than have dessert to top off a really great summer day.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-5993987605106695362012-07-11T19:42:00.006-07:002012-07-11T20:19:01.811-07:00motherhood according to the ever-loyal G-love<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFntS__BdgwRUofSykVwKA1mRYyctCz1_qkb1G6zMgAXPtV3p-PcFf1zZkeWb_ok5pjhWuFl39SDNX1Z58x7eMfYLpCAdw7FnVOn_0Qb2dgPHnPewMN9v6sDQQjSBK0lO6kySUfo05LE/s1600/WP_000374.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFntS__BdgwRUofSykVwKA1mRYyctCz1_qkb1G6zMgAXPtV3p-PcFf1zZkeWb_ok5pjhWuFl39SDNX1Z58x7eMfYLpCAdw7FnVOn_0Qb2dgPHnPewMN9v6sDQQjSBK0lO6kySUfo05LE/s320/WP_000374.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5764107980712052418" /></a>What is happening here is my listening my way through a G-love tantrum. A big bro with anaphylaxis, a little bro with some questionable delays, and a newborn sister means that my incredibly capable G-love takes too much on and gets lost in the shuffle. When she hits her limit, she tantrums. The cause of this tantrum is big bro breaking Social Rule #1 in my house: no moaning. Apparently, they agreed to go halvsies and trade half of their different flavour Z-Bars. Mid-trade, big bro decided to moan. She decided to discipline. The world did not understand that she had my back and the tussle in the back resulted in such a tantrum that we had to pull over and get her out of the car as she broke Social Rule #2 in my house: only listening children are invited into my car. In all fairness, big bro moans a lot, yet, we still had to review our personal jobs. Mummies enforce Social Rule #1: no moaning. Sisters must follow-thru: go halvsies when you say you will go halvsies. <div><br /></div><div>I asked her, "Am I a sister?"<div>She said, "No. (insert red faced wailing and snot/drool/tears dripping onto my forearm. She does not "cry pretty" as they say in the movie industry...) You do not have a moaning brother. "</div><div>I said, "Then I am not the one who can go halvsies. Are you a Mum?" </div><div>"No," she said and without breaking for me to tell her that my job was to stop big bro from moaning, she wails, "I do not have milk in my breasts or a higher education."</div><div><br /></div><div>So. That's me. A highly educated pair of lactating breasts. hm. hmmmm. In all fairness again, I don't think that the Greedy Tulip even knows of my higher education as she doesn't even know she has opposable thumbs. G-love has my back. She is loyal.</div></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-78263340513036368512012-07-10T11:29:00.002-07:002012-07-10T11:31:59.995-07:00jimmy fallon<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">'<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOcPTePsCAjCn0M-cYDh2oDntqJh77XhON42fMTWXPR3NRXEK0QrY1yY57A3FWvL1ZLhQx2T4s476cf9U7Ja8CMFjOu1wWrDDZqwyMTIBQAlri1qpEM1muIBrngiYxi6_9tU93pcW7Bs/s1600/IMG_2944.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOcPTePsCAjCn0M-cYDh2oDntqJh77XhON42fMTWXPR3NRXEK0QrY1yY57A3FWvL1ZLhQx2T4s476cf9U7Ja8CMFjOu1wWrDDZqwyMTIBQAlri1qpEM1muIBrngiYxi6_9tU93pcW7Bs/s320/IMG_2944.JPG" /></a><br />Grumpy corners lurk in the dark of the early morning in my house. To tell you how I combat this, I must first tell you that I love Jimmy Fallon. I love him. I love his late night show. I record it so that when Greedy Tulip arises from her bed at 3 am I have something to keep my mind from going to unecessarily grumpy places. Last night I thought to myself whilst watching him slip-n-slide crash into a tower of toilet paper for a world record, "I would be a great sidekick for him when Higgins is sick." Then I thought, "How would I apply?" Then I thought, "No, they would never even let me through the trap door as they think I've not paid dues."<br /><br />Ha! Not paid my dues.Ha!<br /><br />Okay Mr. Television. I've not done time in front of beligerant drunks. But I guarantee my crowd of kids in polyster costumes every day of summer in 90+ heat constitutes a tougher crowd to keep laughing. Thank God the Greedy Tulip lacks head control, awareness of her opposable thumbs, language, and enough core strength to insist thru words and actions that a horse/lion/darth vader suit is vital summer attire. 3am alone with her is not too bad after the sun comes up. Have your people call my people Jimmy. Wait, don't. My people only breath heavily and stare blankly after hitting the talk button.<br /></div><div style="clear:both; text-align:CENTER"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" alt="Posted by Picasa" style="border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;" align="middle" border="0" /></a></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-73940408428855229312012-07-04T16:27:00.000-07:002012-07-04T16:40:08.695-07:00go your own way<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
When I was 7, my mother scolded me about my reading habits. I was homesick due to our recent move from St. Cloud to Rochester and it was the "summer of my reading." Until that time, I was a great reader in school but did not partake outside of assignments. She literally forced me into the library to choose books and then onto a green 70's plaid wingback chair to read. The "Little House on the Prairie" series was my first task. Her gift of making me find the joy in diving into any reading material at hand has carried me through the storms of inner unmooring for decades. A nap and a book can solve many woes for me. I have tried to pass this gift of reading onto my children. I think I have at least with Little M and G-Love. But I have not passed on reading as a way out of sadness. I think because there was yet another lesson for me to learn and this time, not from my mother but from my son.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVBn6pmqZ9aII-8ygybzc43z08cUFsHhIcr63qgRy324TmQxsUKeiTCKYqixKscQA_FlVHe9xVTbIXjiM1T5ZgSkSBksWD2uHTrwxgYuJtTO4l9yegItpIwcsguSImhhZNybDEQJoKbo/s1600/DSC_0011.JPG" style="background-color: white;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVBn6pmqZ9aII-8ygybzc43z08cUFsHhIcr63qgRy324TmQxsUKeiTCKYqixKscQA_FlVHe9xVTbIXjiM1T5ZgSkSBksWD2uHTrwxgYuJtTO4l9yegItpIwcsguSImhhZNybDEQJoKbo/s320/DSC_0011.JPG" /></a><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I have had to learn that each of us has our own way of dealing with heartache. For T-Bird...well...At the moment, he finds comfort in stripping naked and donning his brother's goggles. While I will not strip naked and follow suit when I am grumpy about life, I have had to learn that we all have our personal ways of recovering from life's bumps. In his case, he did not like the jammies I chose. Who knew that heartache from pajamma choice could hit so hard? Who am I to judge? Really? I am, in all honesty, hoping this particular coping mechanism gives way to something less nude, less oh bizarre? I'm just saying it's quite cute just now but might be a tad bit disturbing as he matures. Perhaps my mother was right in more ways than one when she forced me to read oh so long ago. So. Thank you T-Bird. Lesson learned; we all have unique ways of dealing with sorrow. Now start reading. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Have ordered alphabet cards to grill T-Bird on ASAP. Just kidding. Sort of.....</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFfXwxb9_OlVkw9zyMyLS51_e754iEELGLK2RaXnbZzevN4snbX6c_dls1SlZiG8fcnmeWRSQ_iLzwklaZ4hBkg5m5D6U81J1CrznXI-Aj7-1wzLZ5fJDHx2od1eLBhMSAQOpJm3lB6A/s1600/DSC_0013.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFfXwxb9_OlVkw9zyMyLS51_e754iEELGLK2RaXnbZzevN4snbX6c_dls1SlZiG8fcnmeWRSQ_iLzwklaZ4hBkg5m5D6U81J1CrznXI-Aj7-1wzLZ5fJDHx2od1eLBhMSAQOpJm3lB6A/s320/DSC_0013.JPG" /></a> </div>
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<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; border: 0px none; padding: 0px;" /></a></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-3628105822237172482012-06-30T11:15:00.002-07:002012-06-30T11:15:37.090-07:00only at the beach<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNgLqcUrYFsTjCzWrsHwzSv8wb4_QLtn5mUDeyd7_8QQKCml4IQuWCfuOeIGW6rwQQwtuC8_pn7AhCyw9o5qf8v4ysyUO4YxyKbocdJ6dfqZjVfqfRiljRLXcKnXSSrprcvem_8MAN2NI/s1600/DSC_0013.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNgLqcUrYFsTjCzWrsHwzSv8wb4_QLtn5mUDeyd7_8QQKCml4IQuWCfuOeIGW6rwQQwtuC8_pn7AhCyw9o5qf8v4ysyUO4YxyKbocdJ6dfqZjVfqfRiljRLXcKnXSSrprcvem_8MAN2NI/s320/DSC_0013.JPG" /></a><br />
There is a reason I've only posted pictures from our latest beach trip. And, I think as I addressed shortly after G-love's birth, there is a reason all children after the first born have fewer pictures. They are the same reason. It is not because the subsequent children are loved less or ignored or forgotten.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_DDHsdyYEjchvd6SZl-UeDUIimFy0JYEn4YPP9uKYQZlOBRIz3I_8zI_MwnO0nQlgFJzumgVBsGC2aILGQOUpHGiCA3g-XWx27_rAY0M6BdZuh0zPybr23tVwffgRG8YjUZP-u6ZZd0/s1600/DSC_0014.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_DDHsdyYEjchvd6SZl-UeDUIimFy0JYEn4YPP9uKYQZlOBRIz3I_8zI_MwnO0nQlgFJzumgVBsGC2aILGQOUpHGiCA3g-XWx27_rAY0M6BdZuh0zPybr23tVwffgRG8YjUZP-u6ZZd0/s320/DSC_0014.JPG" /></a><br />
It is because life is too busy if you are not loving less or ignoring or forgetting your subsequent children.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdFPI7xq9XV2D47DPyWCj9e2nkjZLewZmPWKZd8ijIyS9ON5eEcqm2zN4XLPLXYHUmHWrkvLpYSHtcD2OcCRjEFPQ7afon9GwsdD46gfOCkBsnilpH7IjyeWEfexT1_7Ts6q5a4DHElg/s1600/DSC_0072.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdFPI7xq9XV2D47DPyWCj9e2nkjZLewZmPWKZd8ijIyS9ON5eEcqm2zN4XLPLXYHUmHWrkvLpYSHtcD2OcCRjEFPQ7afon9GwsdD46gfOCkBsnilpH7IjyeWEfexT1_7Ts6q5a4DHElg/s320/DSC_0072.JPG" /></a><br />
For example: In the last 24 hours there have been some potentially gorgeous shots I could've taken of my children. There were also at least 4 moments (one per child) that would've been great to have had some record stored somewhere on some electric gizmo that I am still dependent, by lack of sleep and time to learn otherwise, on Big M to download or transfer or store or whatever it is that you do with such records of your children.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwatQZ9y_rXj7oxI8bwN_Lsq5mUMH2DYp1hM5EgjuAswhf1-8GOKSLuayk1wmOPJW7gsiLlJGpKh5VlFOj5DGR5jQXJmQ3WTpgv0ZOENKxhU8kVoALvGPWiGB1FcwWzQNQqKWTi9WT9sQ/s1600/DSC_0117.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwatQZ9y_rXj7oxI8bwN_Lsq5mUMH2DYp1hM5EgjuAswhf1-8GOKSLuayk1wmOPJW7gsiLlJGpKh5VlFOj5DGR5jQXJmQ3WTpgv0ZOENKxhU8kVoALvGPWiGB1FcwWzQNQqKWTi9WT9sQ/s320/DSC_0117.JPG" /></a> </div>
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But instead, one or more of the following has happened :<br />
1) My hands have been too sticky with peanut butter, or peaches or spit up or boogers to pick up a camera.<br />
2) One or more of the other children have been too sad or angry or tearful or hurtful to cast aside to take a picture.<br />
3) I have been too tired.<br />
4) 3/4 of the children are fully aware of the power of their opposable thumbs and have wandered off with the required gizmo needed to record their growing selves. With this one, it is also most likely that they have taken a bizarre series of pictures of say, close-ups of their tonsils and armpits and sweaty hairlines or the peanut butter, peaches or boogars in which I was recently covered.<br />
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So. You only get beach shots. That is the only time I've not had any of the four above reasons occur in a very long while. The pictures are still questionable at best. But they are pictures and slime free at that....<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; border: 0px none; padding: 0px;" /></a></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-67278636245126008092012-06-24T15:32:00.002-07:002012-06-24T15:33:43.933-07:00head on<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
I have a newborn in my arms most of the day. This state of affairs causes me to have not much else to do but stare not only at my newborn but also at my three older children having lots and lots of fun with me on the sidelines. So, I've decided to enter them in a pretty kid/pretty baby contest as staring at them without much sleep makes me sure that they are pretty dang adorable. We won't win. Not because I am defeatest, but because of the entry requirements. The entry requirements are that the child look the camera face forward and not be a professional photo. Yah, right. The most interesting kids - like mine - and the most photogenic kids - like mine are also the most active of kids - like mine.Sure, I will admit to my personal bias. I mean, I am their mum. But bias aside, they REQUIRE PROFESSIONAL INTERVENTION on most matters and especially if you wish to capture a head on photo. My kids never do anything head on. Ever. They have conversations walking away from me. They argue with me looking down from treetops. They eat and even sleep whilst moving continually. That's why you only get photos of the Slumbering Tulip. She is the only one still long enough to get a reasonable photo and even then it isn't head on nor is she slumbering at an hour that would be helpful to my own sonorous wants. sigh.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaPd5TyLMLJIwE4YKgirWjFpPznGzNsgwPV8x7SElISy2E7fxpyETTm_y7NVM8aWUwBcq9xac4jq39hB-hUNQmxfreYxClow9kCbcehPxuouXIJWWK-XpZwJzcdSzSPAqGyIViGxtQcPI/s1600/IMG_2843.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaPd5TyLMLJIwE4YKgirWjFpPznGzNsgwPV8x7SElISy2E7fxpyETTm_y7NVM8aWUwBcq9xac4jq39hB-hUNQmxfreYxClow9kCbcehPxuouXIJWWK-XpZwJzcdSzSPAqGyIViGxtQcPI/s320/IMG_2843.JPG" /></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowVzwzRa1RW9nIDb54gFG2skLtjKrZ-CmCaYHSWLXYQImNEgqZADT5Ha2xemH57py4CrwjrWYgMeCVNcyLcy39J0DXxRKoeNLmCUxdbJSe6V4ZtA2_3UMYMWocxN0SrwGoT6VLGQmODA/s1600/IMG_2849.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowVzwzRa1RW9nIDb54gFG2skLtjKrZ-CmCaYHSWLXYQImNEgqZADT5Ha2xemH57py4CrwjrWYgMeCVNcyLcy39J0DXxRKoeNLmCUxdbJSe6V4ZtA2_3UMYMWocxN0SrwGoT6VLGQmODA/s320/IMG_2849.JPG" /></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oUjFLOQUIcNLc7eX59S-pvWvR50B7eMb3J6fr0exZp3tHC7BXe_FLcR_WHx30_ubwl5rGewtICKj92YY84n1JmosbnPWbNMnKobZkdK-rCwfWi-e86uWlIkm83rRjudFgUcj1veUjj4/s1600/IMG_2857.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oUjFLOQUIcNLc7eX59S-pvWvR50B7eMb3J6fr0exZp3tHC7BXe_FLcR_WHx30_ubwl5rGewtICKj92YY84n1JmosbnPWbNMnKobZkdK-rCwfWi-e86uWlIkm83rRjudFgUcj1veUjj4/s320/IMG_2857.JPG" /></a> </div>
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<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; border: 0px none; padding: 0px;" /></a></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-16412117924374931642012-06-18T19:26:00.001-07:002012-06-18T19:27:12.355-07:00Tulip<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
The best part about having a newborn is the daily reminder that at my core, I really need not prove anything to be loved. For example, Tulip doesn't tell a good joke. She soils my ill-fitting machine washable clothes daily if not hourly or even more frequently. She cries often and moans about her needs at incredibly inopportune times. She interrupts good conversations and my sleep. The list continues, but I don't mind. I really don't mind. She need not prove a darn thing or bring anything else to the table to be loved. All she needs to do is snuggle in and let me care for her. Enjoy the pics. The world is this small so very rarely...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4p2SMH0nVWnhy1Wf90j63ud67Y1bkOboWEmj0Q2xv5EAjQfnXi5IQbesdrBzx68WmNkKZ8QQiZwDZrnbwsSHQBZIDfvpkVExmZZ0-0o5WpAnrMteT6lcXpQF6RH9yuhNlGl90uSxVFQY/s1600/37-001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4p2SMH0nVWnhy1Wf90j63ud67Y1bkOboWEmj0Q2xv5EAjQfnXi5IQbesdrBzx68WmNkKZ8QQiZwDZrnbwsSHQBZIDfvpkVExmZZ0-0o5WpAnrMteT6lcXpQF6RH9yuhNlGl90uSxVFQY/s320/37-001.jpg" /></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdM-GeDBMxogIblD4uM31gVwJRNAghwWZZyNgZvot53ITyBqmmk1ndLTDFZnJuJ8GKc1WTIAWVgVChn_7mc44V9pPEkxPbnGOMMF5r84Qw-ayhfl-hxU1xLThyQbnoCDb5yCY5_UT5CZY/s1600/33-001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdM-GeDBMxogIblD4uM31gVwJRNAghwWZZyNgZvot53ITyBqmmk1ndLTDFZnJuJ8GKc1WTIAWVgVChn_7mc44V9pPEkxPbnGOMMF5r84Qw-ayhfl-hxU1xLThyQbnoCDb5yCY5_UT5CZY/s320/33-001.jpg" /></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-ee6RPS3M2S9xzHbVwacS72XMe1Y2pzW9rIlHPrh9LJm5IOVwT7LjFxNdIH2GjCXuRQlofqsq3_Hn1JwkIwXq8hrZOyQZBWefpa0TldYGKs_6a7JNe8ofjhmBuVw_C7FTQIBODsZQMk/s1600/29-001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-ee6RPS3M2S9xzHbVwacS72XMe1Y2pzW9rIlHPrh9LJm5IOVwT7LjFxNdIH2GjCXuRQlofqsq3_Hn1JwkIwXq8hrZOyQZBWefpa0TldYGKs_6a7JNe8ofjhmBuVw_C7FTQIBODsZQMk/s320/29-001.jpg" /></a> </div>
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<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; border: 0px none; padding: 0px;" /></a></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-60532084451587149432012-06-16T14:47:00.002-07:002012-06-16T14:47:34.145-07:00but first...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHd0NyWqdCKR5LbHxWD3v82tWGeQcTwuGNaOXBz2yKjSYl9twUc-q5KVjXUQFIa27jcypzh5CcP42Mc07vZg5HoDibM09OizHVia6m7QbCROC4y3FJbyimTyJhk8rRGM_8PnjhIYeelts/s1600/DSC_0139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHd0NyWqdCKR5LbHxWD3v82tWGeQcTwuGNaOXBz2yKjSYl9twUc-q5KVjXUQFIa27jcypzh5CcP42Mc07vZg5HoDibM09OizHVia6m7QbCROC4y3FJbyimTyJhk8rRGM_8PnjhIYeelts/s320/DSC_0139.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I know, I know...you want pictures of Tulip. But really, I just can't give you a photo or two until I tell you that there is no way - absolutely no way - we could have the family that we do without Little M.<br />
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<br />Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-38858101162804085072012-06-09T15:25:00.000-07:002012-06-09T15:25:30.080-07:00How to Celebrate a Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today is G-Love's 5th birthday and I am stuck.</div>
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G has always loved anything to do with a slumber. She loves bath time because it comes before a slumber. She loves jammies because she wears them to slumber. For five years, I have wondered what G loves besides ART and HER OLDEST BROTHER and I am just realizing as I write this that she also loves ANYTHING TO DO WITH SLEEPING. </div>
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Today she had a tantrum of lightning and thunder proportions. Truly, teeth barred, tears dripping, snot dribbling and drool drooling, she would've called forth the power of the heavens if she just hadn't been so out of sorts. I learned way back, back even before there was Little M and when I only worked with littles, what wise farmers and weathermen already know: It is better to let storms blow their course than waste energy trying to abate them. Thus, we are at home - Tulip and G-Love and I - whilst Big M and her brothers and a family friend are off on a hike in the gorgeous Forest Park. </div>
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At first, I chastised myself for my "really great parenting." It seemed logical with a tantrum of this magnitude even on a birthday, to lay out the clear consequences for G-Love: "If you cannot sit in the back seat without biting and screaming and crying and kicking then you cannot go on a birthday hike." But then I was stuck. Stuck on my sofa at home without a remote and with a baby and a G-love and a laptop on my lap. "IT IS BORING AT HOME" screeched G aloud as well as my inner unvoiced voice. "Great! Parenting yourself into a corner and then left with only watching tears and spit-up to dry on my sofa," I muttered.</div>
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There was only the mercurial Oregon-in-June weather to watch. Rain, sun, a warm breeze, hail, and a thunderstorm have all visited as my daughters fell asleep on my lap. Tulip snored and burped like an old and unaware man. G-Love drifted and twitched her tantrum-prone self away in afternoon dreams. I felt badly for her: I am a consistent parent, probably to a fault. I mean really it is her birthday! Why be here stuck on the sofa and not have any fun in the great outdoors? </div>
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But then, as I end this entry I remember how I have celebrated the birth of each of my children: with a nap. I have given birth and then slept after each one of them. So, it seems fitting that G-Love naps an hour away on her 5th birthday drooling on my lap with her newborn sister. </div>
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If only I could reach the camera just a few feet away and get a picture of her fabulous birthday dress...sigh....the picture from her birth and from her latest nocturnal preferences will have to do...</div>
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Please note, the chalkboard bed (art), her oldest brother, and sleep - her favorite things all rolled into one in this picture....Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-16011667260385172872012-05-23T21:58:00.000-07:002012-05-23T21:58:52.227-07:00And Then....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When Little M was born, I was prepared to enjoy him as a newborn. I had worked with infants and toddlers for so long that I knew just how fast they changed and how much it mattered to be present for the ride.<br />
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For the last few days I have had the absolute pleasure to enjoy our newest the way I had planned to enjoy Little M. I have let my kisses be larger than her cheeks and sniffed softest parts her head and the measured the width of her shoulder blades with my thumb. My left leg has grown numb as I have sat with her for hours listening to the hum of life all around us as we find our own time in this world. I have smiled at absolutely nothing in particular that she has done in her littlest days. We have been able to find our rhythm, as I have with Thunder Baby and G-Love, that Little M and I stumbled through.<br />
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Little M was born so fast there were worries for his health and mine. Then he was misdiagnosed with some rare metabolic disorder, and then the hours and days of painful crying that in retrospect was his gut rebelling against the dairy and egg in my diet. And then the anaphylaxis attacks that we also didn't fully understand. And then. And then. And then. The list continues in his story. Each "and then" seems like a small bump but if I begin to list them here they add quickly and I start to cry (and cry).<br />
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And then. The phrase, "and then" ticks like an analog clock I can't find and unhinge in the darkest hours of a sleepless night. And then, and then, and then marks all of the time I have missed enjoying his cheeks and his smell and ever-growing self due to life being just too large for both of our hearts. All that time lost.<br />
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Last night, I threw sane parenting to the wind. Baby slept safely in her crib and I tiptoed into his room. And then, I sat on the edge of his bed in the dark and listened to the frogs breaking the night with their croaks. And then, I pulled his slumbering self onto my lap. Elbows and feet and hands twitching with dreams draped off into the dark. And then, I held him and sniffed his head that still smelled of snake hunting in the field across the road. I did not worry about wreaking his sleep patterns. I chuckled at my folly. He is surely a baby no longer.<br />
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It is too late. Too late. Too late to ever claim those depths of infant nights with him. But, of this I am sure: He is my son and we have a rhythm of our own that has recovered time and again and again and again.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-5993056288629987772012-05-07T10:41:00.004-07:002012-05-07T10:41:35.734-07:00Thai Food Didn't Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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No, we tried it. Just as pakora in Scotland didn't rouse T-bird from the comforts of my womb. Neither did Thai food in the States rouse the Babe Maize. The food thing is a bust as far as busting my kids free from gestating. But, what did work was the most generous surprise visit from a dear friend who ate Thai food with me and my progeny. She scooped us all up and gave us a good cuddle and set us back down right as the Portland rain. In addition to the goodies and time she shared with us, she enlisted a small army of people who hardly know me to cover her own familial duties in Seattle.<br />
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I often write to our lovelies in Scotland that they are loved across an ocean and a continent. Now, I myself feel loved across a large distance - the wide and still expanding girth of my tummy. Which, in its own way, is much greater than silly old geographical markers. As Little M said when he caught me rubbing some ineffective balm or another across my stretched stretchmarks, "Whoa. Now that is big."<br />
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Finally, my head and heart are in a solid spot to welcome the latest. Thank you, thank you, thank you.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-32981253759890337342012-04-28T21:49:00.000-07:002012-04-28T21:49:25.651-07:00insteadI've been working on an entry called a "Primer on T-Bird." It is a summary of all the little bits I would've put in a number of blog entries but have chosen not to do so....for purely selfish reasons. There is a fourth coming rather soon and I've not wanted to share one little bit of T-Bird with anyone. I've been gathering the bits and stories and searching for just the right picture.<br />
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But today, today happened and I think it best to tell you this instead of navel-gazing my way thru the "Primer." Many of you know I do use a bit of sign with the kids until it is faster for them to talk than sign. Then the sign seems to naturally drift away. Little M was proficient. G-love only signed fluently for people other than myself. I am her mother after all and if I couldn't guess her needs, she would just leave the room and get on with it. T-Bird has used signs since he was about 7 months old. He is adding more as we need them and lately I've needed them a lot. He has entered this pre-verbal stage that includes a variety of whines that mean different things. All hearing children with normally developing language hit this phase and it drives my parenting skills down the toilet. I hate whining and fussing, especially if they can sign. Thus, I teach and expect signs from my kids or for them to leave me alone.<br />
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T-Bird today was quite frustrated with his dinner. Of course he was. He is a surprising aesthete and prefers things like a risotto with organic sweet potatoes and Oregon-native foraged mushrooms over, say, rice and peas like most other babies. He was frustrated and whining. I requested that he sign "all done" instead of moan. He regressed to his "Dr. Destructo" alter ego and started throwing food and pitching his cup over the edge of his high chair. I calmly requested that he sign "all done" with me again. He rubbed food in his hair. I had the older ones model the request. He kicked his shoes off. I offered to sign with him, together, as sometimes doing stuff by yourself is just a drag. He rubbed snot all over his face and clothes. I finally scolded, "T-Bird, you know how to do this. You know. Sign all done for me." He shoved his hands down his diaper and blew raspberries at me.<br />
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We were "All done" indeed...Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-48246090135050923092012-04-17T21:35:00.000-07:002012-04-17T21:46:28.065-07:00Lifeboats According to G<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our dear friend Lady T came to visit this past October. She has said, ever since she met G, that if they were on the Titanic, she would choose to be on G's lifeboat.<br />
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This April, G started her swim team. She is quite proud of her ability to swim laps and is incredibly cute navigating the pool in her flippers. I thought she would be competitive, but she isn't. She is just remarkably swimming to her own drummer and swimming quite well. When I asked her about the first time she completed a lap of the pool she said, "My body says to me: I can do this! I can do this!" I want to mark this story down because I know there will be a time that someone or some event will try to knock her off her lifeboat. I want evidence of her beautiful core to show her when this happens. I want her to know that I believe, as do others, that she can do whatever she is called to do because she is incredibly capable and interesting and not just because I am her mother and biased.<br />
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Because she is 4, almost 5, the concept of "matching" comes up often. This concept is a bit beyond her only because she is also a contemplative child too. Adults coo at her outfits that never match. "Grown-ups thinks the socks must match," she says. Then she goes on, "But a shirt is a shirt. It is not pants. It can't never match the pants. It is a shirt." Good point. So she comes down the other day in 2 different polka dot socks, a polka dot skirt, polka dot leggings, a polka dot shirt, her friend from Seattle's Raider's cap, and her older brother's camouflage t-shirt and a stripey headband. I say, "G you look ready to go!" She says proudly, "I match today." I say, "Oh? How does it match?" She says, "I like all of it."<br />
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I think of being on G's lifeboat. I might have to wear a dizzying array of polka dots head to toe. I may have to coach her back onto the boat now and then, "You can do this G!" But, I would be alive G-style and that would suit me just fine. I hope she lets me on board.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-75899230698499852312012-04-09T22:26:00.004-07:002012-04-09T22:26:47.532-07:00i love a good bath<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-81242058075482190922012-01-28T17:17:00.000-08:002012-01-28T17:17:04.850-08:00Survival of the Best-Dressed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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By all rights, I should tell you about Thunder Baby's first haircut. How he likes me to whisper the words, "whisper, whisper, whisper, cuddle, cuddle, cuddle" in his ear and then how he gives me a large, soft-mouthed baby-kiss on the cheek that is more "like a fart than a kiss" according to Little M. But what I need to tell you is that G is adorably nuts. I try to find a theme to sum up her dress sense. "Drag-Queen-Gone-Bad" was a thought when she requested a jewel-sparkled-rainbow-with-butterflies belt for her birthday that is 6 months from now. But, that term didn't catch the near lunacy of her preferences nor the sometimes sheer genius and cuteness when items do remarkably flow together. Note: I never use the word "match" in reference to her clothing choices. I thought "crazy bag lady," after the woman who lurked outside my university study hall after hours. But, G does not mutter to the wind, has no independence privileges after sunset, and the bag lady, I have to honestly say, dressed much better than G does about 75% of the time. G is not wearing a coat in the above picture because lions don't ever wear coats. Haven't you ever watched National Geographic Safari? No coats on lions. However, according to her, lions do wear bandanas, hello-kitty skirts, rainbow leggings and mismatched neon socks. Lions also apparently survive suffocation. Today I walked into the kitchen to find Big M saying to G, "Take the plastic bag off your head." G replied, "Ok, but lions can do that you know." She then goes on to say, "I could put a hole in it..." in a hopeful manner, as if a hole-y plastic bag would trump our request for her to survive despite her fashion choices. I must have fallen asleep during that last installment of National Geographic Safari. You know, the one where the lions walk around with plastic bags covering their heads...Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-44452150269531285952012-01-22T20:20:00.000-08:002012-01-22T20:20:09.289-08:00A year in the life of T-bird.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Happy Birthday T-Bird! </div>
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We are thrilled you're here!</div>
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Thunderbird born.<br />
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4 months old. Fingers preferred.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">5 months old traveling to the U.S.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">6 months old.<br /><br />Technical difficulties downloading 7 month old pic.... :(<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">8 months old at the ocean.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">9 months old hiking thru Forest Park!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">10 months old!</td></tr>
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11 months and attacking his sister's hair...Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-3017573679919781062012-01-13T09:32:00.000-08:002012-01-16T12:34:24.416-08:00Preg HeadI have some really great pictures and a few stories to share, but getting it all together would mean that I would most likely forget to tell you the most important story of this week. So, no pictures and no sifting through what to share...just this one tidbit. G has taken to calling her beloved stuffies by their patent or registration numbers on their tags instead of their names. So Lolly her lamb is now 516. Horsie is now 247z8. These names/numbers are abbreviated because I would forget the longer strings of numbers as I forgot that I did the dishes this morning. I walked into the kitchen with the sole purpose of doing the dishes and saw that they were done. I thought G was the fairy dish mother. She said, "No." I then broke into a sweat and thought maybe there was a very dark deep chasm in our time/space continuum like on a Star Trek or Battlestar Galactica episode or something and now I had proof. My dishes were done! But then G said, "You just did them mum." Aha. Yes. I remember now. I had done them right after I found 516 and 247z8 in my sock drawer whilst putting away the clothes. What?! Who put away the clothes?!Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-68635067626461447012011-12-23T12:54:00.000-08:002011-12-23T12:54:32.660-08:00they win<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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To steal from the latest Sherlock Holmes, I find children just as Sherlock finds horses, "Dangerous on both ends and crafty in the middle." There is something innately gross about children. There are, of course, the dirty appendages. Little M, dutifully removed his shoes at the door, yet his socks were so dirty they left squidgie marks on the carpet and floors. Then, there is the perpetual dampness from runny noses, tears from real injuries or perceived yet non-existant ills, blood and pus from said injuries as they are healing and picked at and healing again, drool, diapers, spit-up, snot... My modus operandi in life is to make an encounter successful for as many involved as possible. The kids will not stop picking their noses no matter how often I ask or bark or threaten. Neither party is successful in that case. Therefore, I think, why ask or bark or threaten? Rather, I offer what I find to be great opportunities. I said, just the other day to the kids, "You could pick your noses at night. Wait all day. I bet there would be big boogars at the end of the day and we could wash your hands in the morning and I wouldn't have to witness anything." Little M considered and said, "Well, I just harvest them in the morning." G said, "Oh, I eat them all day. When can we teach T-Bird to pick his nose?" They are gross. They win. Bleach and industrial hazard showers needed.Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-6866077117130316482011-12-20T10:52:00.000-08:002011-12-20T10:52:28.932-08:00new identity acquiredThere are some phrases and actions that I know without a doubt come from outside my house rather than within my house. For example, Big M knows that I am right 99% of the time and I am also aware of my uncanny ability to be almost infallible. Therefore, the rhetorical question, "Am I right?" never surfaces in our house. I am right, usually. And, usually, everyone else is not.<br />
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So, the other day, we were stumped as to what the Big Hohoho would bring our little minions especially Little M. When asked, Little M sighed, "I don't see what he could possibly bring me." For reasons too large for this blog entry, I am interested in Little M arriving carefully at the truth; if you believe in Santa he will bring you a gift. If you don't, he won't.<br />
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We asked, "What do you mean? Santa can do some surprising things." He replied, "Well, he knows your rules too. No video games. Am I right? No lizards. Am I right? No snakes. Am I right? No fish or tarantulas or hissing cockroaches. Am I right?" His list continued and in 6 year-old parlance, he was indeed right. Very right. Learned-the-phrase-on-the-playground-right. "Not even in a glass tank!" right. According to Little M, "Santa's you know, a good guy, but I'm not so sure he can change your mind."<br />
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I am many identities. I am a mother, a writer, a wife, a sister.... but, this year I added a new identity. I am a 6-year-old's buzz kill. Am I right?Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-4942104336142417712011-12-10T09:43:00.001-08:002011-12-10T09:57:15.582-08:00G Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I wish I could say that her outfits have toned down as she matures like Little M's did, but alas no. They seem to get even crazier as she ages than her preschool outfit pictured above. Before I forget, I must tell you that she says "gotten-for-ed" for forgotten. "Find" as the superlative of fine. For example, if she has a super fine day, when asked, she will reply, "My day was find!" instead of, "My day was great!" It is distinctly different than a "fine day." Little M is her preferred source of comfort as well as joy, even when he is the cause of her hurt. She builds room-sized obstacle courses for Thunder Baby referred to as, "otter dens." Through these dens, she lugs Thunder Baby who grins his thanks to be included with the big-kid activity. Muppets are "muffets." Stuffed animals and costumes are preferred over dolls and princess/fairy/ballerina outfits. She is more of a fish than Little M ever was at her age which says a lot. Her swim lessons are spent mostly under water with the instructor waiting and waiting for her to come up for air so that a 2-second instruction can be made, "Please swim on top of" swim, swim, swim, "the water." "Please" swim, swim, swim, swim, "do the backstroke," swim, "right now," swim, "try to touch, " swim, "the sky" swim, swim, "like this." As usual, we are all hoping she acquiesces. She certainly won't change her vocabulary or her dress for the rest of the world, why swim like the rest of us too?Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-61947135431394173632011-12-04T19:49:00.000-08:002011-12-04T20:29:39.529-08:00Why are you talking?<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
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It doesn't matter if you know me well. It only matters if you are with me to witness my superhero power. My power is one which calls out to essential strangers to divulge to me what most would consider to be private or quite personal information. Those who have not witnessed this power of mine often credit it as a mistake on my part. They say that I am mislabeling the information as private or that my introspective and private nature finds a typical sharing of oneself to be shocking. Or, simply that people find I exude a comforting vibe and seek me out for solace. But then, they witness a virtual stranger's verbal belch and they are converted. They know my superhero power is real and that of confessor to the penitent stranger.</div>
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Take this past week. After Little M's swim team practice, we picked G and Thunder Baby up from the swimclub's day care. I had seen B only once as we are new to the swim team. She said, "Hello!" I gave her my card and name and B sent a message back to her co-workers that we were there for the littles. Then, B said, "What a stormy Thanksgiving that was." I said, "I know!" B said, "My Dad in Utah ended up in jail with what?! His 3rd DUI?! And I couldn't go out there for Thanksgiving. Instead I stayed here and couldn't even earn money as everyone who was covering my shifts wouldn't give them back. He is just, ugh, my Dad..." Another mother came up collected her children and yet another two mothers did as well. It takes a while to get Thunder Baby ready to leave day care and Little M and I wandered about a bit. Each mother collected their children with us essentially out of earshot and without much more than a pleasant smile and thank you and good bye from B. We approached B again and she continued with the story about her father, "....yah, you'd think he could keep it together for a visit from me that he had wanted for a whole year! I'm totally giving up on him..." To which I said, "Oh, that must not have felt very good. I hope you at least got a nice break and a few good naps in," and during which Thunder Baby arrived in my arms and Little M quietly said whilst peaking over the edge of the counter, an edge of disbelief in his voice,"Why are you talking to my mom?" Sigh, poor Little M. Tis my superhero power. It is real.<br />
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<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; border: 0px none; padding: 0px;" /></a></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-43126328586683423412011-11-15T20:22:00.001-08:002011-11-15T20:30:04.359-08:00the better of everythingToday, Little M said, "Ketchup is the better of everything." I wanted to tell him, "No, having you and G and ThunderBaby and Big M - that is the better of everything." But, then I thought maybe I shouldn't correct him. Not for any big parenting philosophy type reason, but simply because I have not kissed any of them with ketchup and Little M, who seems to have errant bits of ketchup crusted on his lips even after swimming in a pool for an hour and even after I wash his face and even after brushing his teeth, has probably, somehow, kissed us all with ketchup. Therefore he probably is in a position to make a maxim like, "Ketchup is the better of everything."Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8419645227983964806.post-43611619785110032922011-11-14T16:49:00.000-08:002011-11-14T16:51:03.686-08:00Armpit Farts<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
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Somehow, in a 6 year old boy's mind, one can accidentally lick their palm.<br />
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And, accidentally put that damp palm under his armpit in gym class.<br />
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And, then, accidentally make an armpit fart noise and accidentally get into the wee, tiniest bit of trouble. Accidentally. Just once. Or maybe twice. Accidents are hard to remember in a 6 year old boy's mind, too.<br />
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<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 50% transparent; border: 0px none; padding: 0px;" /></a></div>Jennahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00816310516768287556noreply@blogger.com0