tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10747547230384537352024-02-06T23:48:46.579-08:00Montecito MamaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.comBlogger202125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-75131114766952117102012-10-24T17:42:00.000-07:002012-10-24T19:08:35.252-07:00Long Way from HomeWhat a whirlwind these few months have been, filled with lots of
unpacking and challenging weather. As well as the fun of exploring
beautiful and historic scenery. The people of Annapolis have been kind
and encouraging. Autumn has launched a huge campaign to win my favor, and I can't say it isn't working. And yet my heart is still in California. I am desperately
missing my family and friends and the familiarity of "home." It feels as though I am grieving, and I guess that I am. There is an emptiness that won't go away.<br />
<br />
I can barely hold it together for phone calls home. I feel like a
child at my first
sleep away camp, trying to be brave and not beg them to come and get me. My
grandma is moving into the home, and I'd love to be there to help her
(and my mom) through this transition. A Santa Barbara friend starts chemo next week, and I'm not around to bring meals or help with the carpool. Friends are posting pictures at
the pumpkin patch, a place with 12 years of traditions and precious memories for
me, and the squeezing in my chest travels farther north with each pic,
sometimes erupting into tears. FaceTime is the worst kind of torture,
offering glimpses of living rooms whose smells and cupboards are more
familiar than my own displaced ones.<br />
<br />
This comes as a surprise to me. I pictured
myself bringing a little bit of West Beach to the East Coast. I'd wear
Uggs, write witty freelance articles from home while tutoring my
children to academic success, and have intimate friendships across the
nation. Boy, was I wrong, so far! Life on the opposite coast with three lonely
and active children, no network, and not so much as a neighbor to list
on school emergency contact forms, seems a bit more chaotic.<br />
<br />
The good friends we left behind are still an important part of our
lives and special events. The five of us are learning to rely a bit more
on one another, and the kids have a greater awareness of a mom and dad
who don't leave or change - even when everything else does. My husband has a job that he loves, and sacrificially commutes so that our children can attend the best schools and I can be near the water. I am beyond
grateful for the friends my kids are making here, and I’m really looking
forward to meeting some new families. But you can bet that I'm counting
down the days until the next California visitor.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-31156137927906192532012-09-10T20:09:00.000-07:002012-09-11T06:47:47.264-07:00August in Annapolis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehmG38g-2rI93Et8-yqTQfj-haVfGZHmMvCp6aKurE7ALNK6i0gIDK3byd2E1j44_TFBo4ccDaBEnAk95m2u1UVIOEaSD2-d4tEuEGOEhpVN20P7MtXTGSZrBFrpnP6lVEFwzO33UKmB-/s1600/Annapolis,jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehmG38g-2rI93Et8-yqTQfj-haVfGZHmMvCp6aKurE7ALNK6i0gIDK3byd2E1j44_TFBo4ccDaBEnAk95m2u1UVIOEaSD2-d4tEuEGOEhpVN20P7MtXTGSZrBFrpnP6lVEFwzO33UKmB-/s400/Annapolis,jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
When we broke the news of our impending move to friends and family in California, often their first comments were about the Maryland weather. "That's going to be a big adjustment," they'd say. And as I embark on week four of this new adventure, I can say that they were absolutely right; this <i>is</i> a big adjustment.<br />
<br />
One thing East Coast weather has got going for it is consistency. You know when you wake up in Annapolis in August that it is going to be hot. That you will open the front door each morning and step out to feel God's hot breath on your skin. There is no wondering if you might need a sweater in the evenings (you won't) or an umbrella even though the sky is blue (you will). It just makes planning easier.<br />
<br />
What I was really unprepared for is the bugs. We don't even own a fly swatter, for goodness sake! The deafening and constant screech of thousands of invisible insects is something I thought technicians invented for swamp scene ambiance in the "Pirates of the Caribbean" ride, not my real life backyard. The noise prevented sleep the first couple of days, but has now faded to become part of my everyday soundtrack. Although noiseless, I vow to continue my campaign against those little blood-sucking mosquitoes, who have devoured my children's legs and turned them into topographical maps of itchy red mountain ranges, until death do them part.<br />
<br />
With all of this rain and heat and life comes intense beauty, too. Ivy tendrils that climb everything immobile, sailboats blowing under the bridges, the true green of mile-high trees that isolate neighbor from neighbor, birds of outstanding size and color, the 18th century bricks and domes and spires. It is easy to appreciate this new place we call "home," humidity and bugs and all.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-25794757256484099352012-07-25T03:14:00.000-07:002012-07-25T03:14:20.642-07:00Packing, Day 1The boxes are being filled. The awful screech of the tape gun is a constant. I've misplaced three fat black Sharpies today alone. Moving truck arrives in 7 days. <br />
<br />
We are really doing this. <br />
<br />
Gulp.<br />
<br />
There was a displaced bird's nest on the front step this morning. Poor little birdie, putting so much effort into that cozy little home and suddenly having to start anew. At least birds don't have to bubble wrap the nicknacks. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-83564617093457420922012-07-21T22:59:00.000-07:002012-07-21T22:59:10.050-07:00Summer Playlist 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx6RqiZTeOFJs_m5y9HeSsXx-49wttTEA7SiprVPjnn65Cnh-twbLnn9K6Wo4jVGWdEodjGDULBnHBepgZ8Eu9TTHVcAGstmF0kvLSEvxfIXn5Kuk-76Dl1MwGDcY6kH-TGg8WTQ6WK8w8/s1600/Memorex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx6RqiZTeOFJs_m5y9HeSsXx-49wttTEA7SiprVPjnn65Cnh-twbLnn9K6Wo4jVGWdEodjGDULBnHBepgZ8Eu9TTHVcAGstmF0kvLSEvxfIXn5Kuk-76Dl1MwGDcY6kH-TGg8WTQ6WK8w8/s400/Memorex.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I take any excuse possible to run errands on warm summer evenings after the kids are in bed. I love driving through town with the windows down, music blasting, and car seats empty. <br />
<br />
I've been making summer playlists, or (as they were known in 1987) "mixed tapes," since high school. The first one was recorded on Memorex and came like a rite of passage along with a driver's license and diploma. Guns N Roses opened the collection with "Sweet Child o Mine" and side two peaked with Simply Red's "Lady in Red." <br />
<br />
I like to think that my musical tastes have matured a little in the years since high school, or at least broadened past Top 40. (Now it is my children who obsess over Gotye and Katy Perry, and I who need an iPhone app to identify them.) But there are a few constants in nearly every playlist that I create. For reasons unexplainable, you'll almost always find Neil Young somewhere in the mix, as well as a hymn. And everything must be singable. Loudly, with the windows open.<br />
<br />
Here is the "Summer 2012" playlist, and I think it's a dandy! Grab your keys and let's ride!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/0377mbpPApyBYNks1TfpPI">La Font – Fine Lines</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/2lvnuuL1H3mDra4nO2ynH0">Washed Out – New Theory</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/3BiQGcQIO9abIlj0ZB3mQU">Kakkmaddafakka – Restless</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/2JAECj9kBYQHb8AqJ2rsxt">Toad The Wet Sprocket – Walk On The Ocean</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/6DataIeUrn61xx5F0yneUj">The Shins – We Will Become Silhouettes - Performed By The Shins</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/61IBy2ITBaDkveEqs83f9V">Grandaddy – Hewlett's Daughter</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/1bvERTuePaoVjQ3NpJq9aH">The Decemberists – June Hymn</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/5DeO6ayCcgzpAld9dLjntf">Jack Johnson – Take It Easy</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/1EM2QetV74pFeN1gdQKOIf">Marissa Nadler – Baby I Will Leave You In The Morning</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/36lqt57OHqk48BVFzPDEKt">M83 – Midnight City</a><a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/4wCmqSrbyCgxEXROQE6vtV"></a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/0hPkWYZ4JIqj9hAvCQtBOI">Patty Griffin – All Creatures Of Our God And King</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/6mUSypaLlRUkbQMSu1tf5v">Eleanor Friedberger – My Mistakes</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/7sCHy8QQUz3CRvUMp53Cbm">Neil Young – Harvest Moon</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/3jZrfDEnXUJz8fxqU5gBl8">Beach House – Lover of Mine</a><br />
<a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/28TAg102FbPdaDwbRTR7kz">Givers – Saw You First</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-81797170133138622602012-07-19T22:18:00.000-07:002012-07-20T13:57:00.234-07:00I and Love and YouThe kids and I spent the day road tripping home, and listening to this song on repeat. It perfectly sums up what our lives look like at this very minute, with one foot in California and the other in Maryland, heads spinning with details, dreams and tie cutting.<br />
<br />
Just can't get enough of those Avett Brothers.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<embed allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" flashvars="playerVars=autoPlay=no" height="248" name="Metacafe_sy-42003988001" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" src="http://www.metacafe.com/fplayer/sy-42003988001/the_avett_brothers_i_and_love_and_you_official_music_video.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="440" wmode="transparent"></embed></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.metacafe.com/watch/sy-42003988001/the_avett_brothers_i_and_love_and_you_official_music_video/">The Avett Brothers - I And Love And You (Official Music Video)</a>. Watch more top selected videos about: <a href="http://www.metacafe.com/topics/The_Avett_Brothers/" title="The_Avett_Brothers">The Avett Brothers</a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Load the car and write the note.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Grab your bag and grab your coat.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Tell the ones that need to know.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>We are headed north.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>One foot in and one foot back.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>But it don’t pay to live like that.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>So I cut the ties and I jumped the track.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>For never to return.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ahh Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Are you aware the shape I’m in?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>My hands they shake, my head it spins.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ahh Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>. . .</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Dumbed down and numbed by time and age.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Your dreams that catch the world, the cage.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The highway sets the travelers stage.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>All exits look the same.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ahh Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Are you aware the shape I’m in?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>My hands they shake, my head it spins.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ahh Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Three words that became hard to say.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I and Love and You.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7DFo1b9Mst5TemStur9FzjMbzP-Q4fF47bx9xIDXVD9MKeVrPV-8IP_OXiviAh3RVYNQ4M4SHvzfaIZRAwzkqMagItis0N03ODV_4REdKvmRa6PtzM7qOzYpn60xMDfwVGHfObfZ00QI/s1600/AvettBros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7DFo1b9Mst5TemStur9FzjMbzP-Q4fF47bx9xIDXVD9MKeVrPV-8IP_OXiviAh3RVYNQ4M4SHvzfaIZRAwzkqMagItis0N03ODV_4REdKvmRa6PtzM7qOzYpn60xMDfwVGHfObfZ00QI/s1600/AvettBros.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-3437480959848636662012-07-17T17:09:00.000-07:002012-07-17T17:09:22.743-07:00Sunshine and Sweet TeaIf Dolly Parton is right (and why wouldn't she be?) in proclaiming sweet tea "the wine of the South," then DC and I are going to get along just fine.<br />
<br />
Sweet tea is my fuel during the summer. It is fun to drink and helps keep me awake when it's 91 degrees inside the house and I'd like nothing more than to nod off on a big veranda somewhere during those two days in July when summer actually comes to Santa Barbara. I'm perfecting the recipe now to impress my new Maryland neighbors with my southern hospitality after August 1.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCsnmteAEOeHqpU5n0MsRTtpaQDJFGReZxhvbaxNGjqz7KuNY2iVFgnwrYJ7nzYujWHKRjvPka4IF3Fajp9YO0aCFOGwtrhpIfp1SWgJLjxj7XUoEjXpWNnPBL1PhymxdvBclxkL8oMVax/s1600/sweettea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCsnmteAEOeHqpU5n0MsRTtpaQDJFGReZxhvbaxNGjqz7KuNY2iVFgnwrYJ7nzYujWHKRjvPka4IF3Fajp9YO0aCFOGwtrhpIfp1SWgJLjxj7XUoEjXpWNnPBL1PhymxdvBclxkL8oMVax/s200/sweettea.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>SOUTHERN SWEET TEA </b><br />
<i>makes 3 quarts</i><br />
<br />
4 Pitcher-size cold-brew tea bags, 8 regular, or 6 tablespoons orange pekoe tea leaves in a diffuser <br />
¾ cup sugar<br />
Ice cubes<br />
2 lemons, sliced (optional)<br />
Fresh mint sprig (optional)<br />
<br />
Place the tea bags in a large pitcher. Add 3 quarts cold water, and steep for 30 minutes. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, combine 1 cup water and the sugar. Boil, stirring occasionally, until the sugar is dissolved. <br />
<br />
Remove the tea bags. Add the sugar mixture and stir to combine. Serve over ice with lemon and fresh mint and a viewing of "Gone with the Wind," if desired. <br />
<br />
*Recipe from Martha Hall Foose from her book Screen Doors and Sweet Tea (Clarkson Potter, 2008).Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-7092711441924092262012-07-16T22:18:00.000-07:002012-07-16T22:18:33.114-07:00Life is Like A Box of ChocolateAccording to experts, chocolate is now good for you. Feel guilt no longer;
chocolate is actually good for the heart, brain and libido. Can I get an amen? <br />
<br />
That is more than the permission the kids and I needed to visit Papa during his shift at the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory. If you ever find yourself cruising down I-5 through the nothingness of Lathrop, do something sweet for yourself and pit stop at Ghirardelli's ice cream shop. At $5 each, the "World Famous Hot Fudge Sundae" will not disappoint.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
The smell alone is enough to get your dopamine levels rising, keeping travelers bellied up to the bar like alcoholics on a binge. Thankfully, you can't get pulled over for driving home under the influence of an over-sized sundae. Although, judging by the giddiness and volume of some of the pint-sized patrons, I'd say the hot fudge can definitely affect your judgement.<br />
<br />
Life may be like a box of chocolates, but in this case, you definitely know what you are going to get: extreme indulgence.<br />
<br />
Ghirardelli Factory Outlet: <span itemprop="streetAddress">11980 S Harlan Rd in Lathrop, CA</span><br />
<span itemprop="streetAddress"><br /></span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-51380942139515906022012-07-14T22:16:00.001-07:002012-07-14T22:16:27.811-07:00Road Trip GamesBeing on the road with the kids as the lone adult is a test of endurance. We were a mere 30-minutes into a 6-hour drive when the first “Are we there yet?” was heard, and only an hour after that when "I have to go to the bathroom" surfaced. I had packed a big fat bag of books and crafts with high hopes that the children would arrive at Grandpa and Grandma's cheerful and rested, even though Lucie did have to wait an hour for her dinner.<br />
<br />
At the point when fidgeting and poking and simmering restlessness was about to boil over into
mutiny, I came up with a game to unite the troops and distract them from their captivity. I grilled each of them in turn, asking all sorts of up-close-and-personal questions about their goals and future plans. Their answers and the laughter made us forget that we were hungry and out-of-sorts.
<br />
<br />
Grayson plans to live in Austin, Texas, so that he can have a farm in the big wide open. He's not sure why more people don't live on farms where you can grow everything you need and don't have to work or need money? He'll bring his wife and two sons to live with him, but absolutely no little girls. Three Golden Retrievers, one for each of his sons and himself, complete the family, unless his wife wants a cat (she probably will). He'll need a full-size Dodge truck on the farm, even though he's not working. The wifey gets a minivan.<br />
<br />
Lucie's top priority is to live in LA, so she can go to Disneyland everyday. She'll need a big place for her four horses, three Golden Retrievers, and three cats (so the dogs have something to do all day). There will be three kids: two girls and a boy (and a horse for each of them). No mention of a husband. She plans to be a horse trainer.<br />
<br />
Violet has her heart set on becoming a Three Musketeer, but only if she can wear a pink cape (it is okay to be both ambitious and like pink, you know). She'll have a golden talking cat and a horse named Sweetie, both of whom will live in a hotel in Santa Barbara with her. There will be no car (she's got Sweetie the horse, after all), no husband and no kids. She says "they do too much crying and don't smell very good." (Kids that is, not the husband.) <br />
<br />
Even after being confined together in a small
space for hours on end, these questions helped to remind me why I adore the company of my kids. You can use these questions, or just wing it on your next road trip.<br />
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<ul>
<li> Where will you live?</li>
<li>What will your job be?</li>
<li>Will you be married? </li>
<li>Will you have kids? How many? Girls or boys?</li>
<li>Will you have pets? How many? What kind?</li>
<li>What will you drive?</li>
<li>What will you do for fun?</li>
</ul>
These dreams fit each of my kids so well, and represent such a sweet and innocent outlook. With any luck, they many even come true. Let's hope so.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-74905577624535399762012-07-12T22:54:00.001-07:002012-07-14T06:50:14.653-07:00A Santa Barbara Fourth<br />
Fourth of July in Santa Barbara is my hands-down favorite. Beach,
barbeque, and bombs bursting in air. Nothing can beat it.<br />
<br />
We spent the entire holiday with
friends. There were ponies and hay rides, ice skating, water slides, and a live band. We pigged out on hamburgers, cupcakes and watermelon. At dusk
we bundled up in jackets and hats, grabbed the sleeping bags and headed to Girsh Park for the best view of the fireworks. We've been doing this for a number of years, and it truly is my happy place. I love the patchwork closeness of our circle of friends and their blankets spread out on the grass, all of our hands digging into the same bag of popcorn. Our kids, who have known each other since birth, dance their hineys off and then giggle together under the blankets, foreheads touching and eyes sparkling.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL3GTiW8M9Wx_1NVTtvqb4FdV2D6RuePaxRBz1HZi39ql9TPS4yDDAPYGTHgrIIpNJUdpMRV1PwMV_1fctz_8YuKh5Q9iBDt_5eSqeC8tl0nM0j0_KfAppzRHuKYcnusP6RgD4Emj2P7XR/s1600/DSC00807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL3GTiW8M9Wx_1NVTtvqb4FdV2D6RuePaxRBz1HZi39ql9TPS4yDDAPYGTHgrIIpNJUdpMRV1PwMV_1fctz_8YuKh5Q9iBDt_5eSqeC8tl0nM0j0_KfAppzRHuKYcnusP6RgD4Emj2P7XR/s200/DSC00807.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Washington, DC is the ultimate place to be on Fourth of July. But will it give me this?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxRjdFrVR-gg-I_CGtzEECThj9Mo8qCv_1b-Ay8UotTk2GiFOivh5mJK1EJyCgyW6b6gS2MRT3tiUj-A5kFNkFs9_R46iA0cY31hTAzt1EviRKsTeMi5Dna0MH3WIUCbGqvovr8VrSXpI/s1600/DSC00804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxRjdFrVR-gg-I_CGtzEECThj9Mo8qCv_1b-Ay8UotTk2GiFOivh5mJK1EJyCgyW6b6gS2MRT3tiUj-A5kFNkFs9_R46iA0cY31hTAzt1EviRKsTeMi5Dna0MH3WIUCbGqvovr8VrSXpI/s200/DSC00804.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwYeenxXlaHefi8w4tXWL0-4cQ5zEth2lor8_wvjNxZIEiJsYN3_sho8gEhe_svzvZa5_ywi3C6mRTAhbOsHg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
The fireworks were exceptionally smoky
this year, causing bittersweet tears full of ash and pride to roll down my face. It was the best day of the year.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-86984753203371976192012-07-11T22:54:00.000-07:002012-07-11T22:54:29.421-07:00Bubblicious<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Perhaps I've lost perspective, or investing too much in the achievements of a 6-year-old. But I can't help myself; she smells like bubble gum.</div>
<br />
Lucie taught herself to blow a bubble! We want to share this significant milestone in the life of an enthusiastic gum chewer with you.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzB1mIrHWHFmil_-H83qWviiVC4fCT6jiTjWDaQ0TkFNLbRK8J01w3les4nkPypdypz1cyX1vzePcpmJDtWTA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>(Apologies for the Drake & Josh noise pollution in the background, </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>which has become the unfortunate soundtrack to my summer.)</i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-33457973804856906662012-07-10T20:05:00.000-07:002012-07-10T20:08:44.926-07:00I Scream, You Scream<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My mom and dad risked shame and flogging by wrapping up a kitchen appliance for my birthday. My mom, knowing how I feel about presents that plug-in, questioned Rob twice: "Are you sure that's what she wants?" But I did want it very much, and I'm not ashamed to say it: I'm in love with an ice cream maker.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">July is National Ice Cream month, and my family is doing our part to celebrate. We've sampled and modified a number of homemade ice cream experiments, and have narrowed it down to two recipes that everyone loves. Think of this post as a Wagner Family Ice Cream Cookbook. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The competition is by no means closed. July is a long, hot month and we are always willing to whip up another batch. Submit your favorite homemade ice cream recipe in the comments section below. (Particularly if you've got one that tastes like Haagen Dazs Coffee, hint hint.) </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Happy freezing! And remember: there is almost nothing that ice cream can't fix.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50Pqz4_OLZjQGN18gUP0XClot4a48fLabiUOsT688BUydsmB9QfPWct96GmjT8uK9Ug4Onu9-ueNnXwN5fMTx7LzEiy36FACpeuSGdxNr13BPzLr4qru467DeFTknYqHu1vA6Ywx-rfGj/s1600/DSC00839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50Pqz4_OLZjQGN18gUP0XClot4a48fLabiUOsT688BUydsmB9QfPWct96GmjT8uK9Ug4Onu9-ueNnXwN5fMTx7LzEiy36FACpeuSGdxNr13BPzLr4qru467DeFTknYqHu1vA6Ywx-rfGj/s200/DSC00839.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: orange; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><u>COPYCAT PINKBERRY YOGURT</u></b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">2 cups plain whole-milk yogurt (organic tastes best, and make sure it is extra cold)</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">2 cups plain nonfat or reduced-fat Greek yogurt</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">1/2 cup superfine sugar</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">3 tablespoons light corn syrup</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Fresh fruit or other toppings</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Whisk both yogurts, the sugar and corn syrup in a bowl until combined. Pour into an ice cream maker and freeze according to the manufacturer's instructions (about 20 min).</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">For a soft consistency, serve right out of the ice cream maker. For a firmer texture, transfer the frozen yogurt to a covered container and freeze up to 2 hours.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Serve with assorted toppings. (I recommend strawberries and crushed Oreos. The kids like Fruity Pebbles.)</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqSpqjyi9XO2vFasc9lkcnmhF5fUL_ghfcqDFNbAPFPFoT7ZjvbuqAZn1A6cuTRTjLcPSkNvnD-HXfkiCHo2ln96czDYlhFkLywz-iJUjqcWGZ1KfN5bHjM89YksnBMTd5b35XncoP-fP6/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqSpqjyi9XO2vFasc9lkcnmhF5fUL_ghfcqDFNbAPFPFoT7ZjvbuqAZn1A6cuTRTjLcPSkNvnD-HXfkiCHo2ln96czDYlhFkLywz-iJUjqcWGZ1KfN5bHjM89YksnBMTd5b35XncoP-fP6/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><u style="color: orange;">THE BEST HOMEMADE ICE CREAM</u></b> <br />7 eggs, beaten well<br />2 cups superfine sugar<br />1/4 teaspoon salt<br />1 teaspoon vanilla<br />1 quart half & half (cold)<br />1/2 quart milk (cold)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Beat eggs. Add rest of ingredients to eggs, except milk. Blend well. Pour
mixture into ice cream freezer, and fill with milk to “fill” line.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Eat with a spoon right out of the ice cream maker. Or share with the rest of your family, if you are of a generous nature. My kids like to add chocolate sauce or warm caramel on top, but they aren’t really needed. Although fresh sliced peaches taste like heaven with a scoop on top.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-45663547910624973342012-07-09T22:37:00.000-07:002012-07-09T22:37:27.476-07:00When Life Gives You Lemons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumprQj7jqsTXy9hAVVM3eVoyk3pwqkqfO4_vij3GshcsAYn6AFa4QEGrA0BSnAGvbPjBKsCyDn0TyWOFpzPlUoEH8q2O3lAlI89XpkRlpqXzBf9_dyLTbWQSse5zZEhGVdsVvudCWPFpE/s1600/DSC00829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumprQj7jqsTXy9hAVVM3eVoyk3pwqkqfO4_vij3GshcsAYn6AFa4QEGrA0BSnAGvbPjBKsCyDn0TyWOFpzPlUoEH8q2O3lAlI89XpkRlpqXzBf9_dyLTbWQSse5zZEhGVdsVvudCWPFpE/s320/DSC00829.jpg" width="212" /></a>In an effort to relieve some of the guilt for not bringing in any income, I agreed to help the kids with a lemonade stand today. This was not to be a Pottery Barn stand, with the lemon shaped ice cubes and matching straw dispenser and awnings, but an old-fashioned run-by-kids-using-mom's-card-table affair.<br />
<br />
They did come up with a business plan, though: make enough money to buy an ipod. Well, either an ipod or a smoothie.<br />
<br />
Grayson took charge of profit maximization, carefully coaching the 6-year-old wait staff on number of ice cubes and ounces allowed per cup, as well as drilling the girls on "cute faces" to coerce new customers. Lucie wanted to be the main squeezer, but when her hands proved too small for the task, settled for sign publicity. It was really important to Violet that she be responsible for the necessary job of stacking and sorting cups. And also looking cute (reference profit maximization tactics above).<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYH6wvAdrwwv83jx0AqCXUpvd9nrBhq6_33Ct8zXSIMt-UflOh6xvdWHXGzE62DL9QEuYcoJ178NguO2NKOoUryIk7N5sxKAsVcQASemhHaiwz0i14xySPpZtSQxqhMYa2-v8-ovS8gsMI/s1600/DSC00833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYH6wvAdrwwv83jx0AqCXUpvd9nrBhq6_33Ct8zXSIMt-UflOh6xvdWHXGzE62DL9QEuYcoJ178NguO2NKOoUryIk7N5sxKAsVcQASemhHaiwz0i14xySPpZtSQxqhMYa2-v8-ovS8gsMI/s320/DSC00833.JPG" width="320" /></a>I was touched by the number of neighbors who came out to support their little efforts. The cyclists who stopped along the bike path to refill their bottles with lemonade, the Hispanic gardeners who didn't speak English and then left a $5 tip, the friends who responded to my Facebook ad. The lemonade was gone long before the kid's enthusiasm. <br />
<br />
And the smoothies were delicious.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-28844699326917714542012-07-08T21:53:00.001-07:002012-07-11T08:22:29.489-07:00A Santa Barbara SummerSince lazy and carefree aren't working out according to my pie-in-the-sky summer fantasy, and since I can't find any month long sleep away camps willing to take a 3-year-old, the kids and I sat down to brainstorm some old-fashioned summer fun to keep our minds and bodies occupied this summer. <br />
<br />
Video games and texting did not make the list. What did make the list are the simple pleasures of summers past; imaginative
activities that don't require special equipment or a lot of money. They will require the kids to change the default position from lounge lizards on the couch, and will also require, for the most part, that they wear more than underpants. Which may mean that, without physical intervention, the following list may be politely ignored. And also that I may be setting myself up for a month of nudging and nagging. Or it just may mean that I get my summer of bonding after all.<br />
<br />
Wish me luck.<br />
<br />
SANTA BARBARA SUMMER EXPERIMENT 2012<br />
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<ul>
<li>Hike Cold Springs Trail</li>
<li>Go camping at Ocean Mesa</li>
<li>See a movie at the drive-in</li>
<li>Host a lemonade stand</li>
<li>Go to the zoo</li>
<li>Go to Lake Casitas water park </li>
<li>Get Blenders in the Grass</li>
<li>Have friends over for a sleepover</li>
<li>Attend an outdoor movie party</li>
<li>See a Forester baseball game</li>
<li>Have a water balloon fight</li>
<li>Eat snow cones</li>
<li>Go roller skating</li>
<li>Play in the sprinklers</li>
<li>Decorate our bikes and have a parade</li>
<li>Build a fort</li>
<li>Eat watermelon for dinner</li>
<li>Go swimming at night</li>
<li>Go miniature golfing</li>
<li>Make homemade ice cream</li>
<li>Host an Uno tournament</li>
<li>Make homemade play dough</li>
<li>Make root beer floats</li>
<li>Go to the Warner Sea Center</li>
<li>Make and complete a timed obstacle course</li>
<li>Write letters</li>
<li>Blow bubbles</li>
<li>Perform a puppet show</li>
<li>Go geocaching</li>
<li>Paint rock animals</li>
</ul>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-85322990240079178642012-07-07T22:50:00.002-07:002012-07-07T23:07:19.588-07:00Mom is Not A Doormat<style>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Rob left yesterday for his third tour in Washington DC and I
am determined to make this summer alone at home with the kids the best ever.
I’ve calendared play dates and sleepovers and train rides and zoo outings and
story times. It is only day two and already I’m busting my hump with crafts and
lemonade and building forts and homemade play dough. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> And in between I’m attempting to turn my
little sideline freelance business into a livelihood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Enter here the children, those ungrateful little nitwits,
who make Veruca Salt look like a saint. These are children who aren’t afraid to
injure one another over the last yogurt with the rabbit cartoon on it. They scoop
Nutella from the jar with their fingers and then, after using shirts as napkins, criticize and reject the nutritious meal I’ve laboriously prepared for
them. Their bodies go limp with injustice when I ask them to put on clothes or
even, heaven forbid, brush their teeth. They are constantly touching one
another and then screaming for me to make it stop. They are perfectly content
to watch TV wearing only a cape and underwear for 18-hours a day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But wait, this was going to be the best summer ever! </span><span style="font-size: small;">Just
the four of us, spending fun-filled days together in the neighborhood pool,
going on lovely excursions to parks and the beach. We were supposed
to be bonding and laughing and playing and exploring and having fun with each
other. I’m not supposed to be screaming at them every five minutes that if they
don’t stop hurting and teasing each other, then there are going to be serious consequences!</span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">No,
apparently, this summer is about delivering everything the kids want exactly
when the little darlings want it, even though their behavior doesn’t warrant a
reward. And I’m exhausted. </span><span style="font-size: small;">I
have completely stopped caring who started it, or who grabbed who, or who had the
remote control first. I really just don’t give a crap. All I want is for the
whining and the crying and the tattling to stop. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">So my summer of love has not started off as
the love fest that I thought it would be. These are good lessons, though. I’m
learning to roar and may end up going full-out tiger mom on my kids. And I’m definitely
going to be seeking out schools with a year-round schedule.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-76959811582716190692012-03-23T17:43:00.003-07:002012-03-23T18:31:56.292-07:00Leprechauns and Tooth Fairies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTk5jEzJXQZ2MT4ij_vzYf87PFvRczIgNFsltE5JRB3rWpfDjUEvDdAS3Q8HsuNMrkGXhVj3oqbuRISwAjf5z2whAsOTk-EerI5PKRBSRiCtkHC8Q0zkVi2gHASLNtH7tBOHZ3qJdM-eYd/s1600/Tooth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTk5jEzJXQZ2MT4ij_vzYf87PFvRczIgNFsltE5JRB3rWpfDjUEvDdAS3Q8HsuNMrkGXhVj3oqbuRISwAjf5z2whAsOTk-EerI5PKRBSRiCtkHC8Q0zkVi2gHASLNtH7tBOHZ3qJdM-eYd/s320/Tooth.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After months (literally) of wiggling and pulling, Lucie finally lost her first tooth on St. Patrick's Day. It came out in a big glop of toothpaste as she brushed her teeth before bed, quickly followed by a fist pump and triumphant "YES!" Our household was already out to catch a leprechaun that night; now a winged tooth collector would be sneaking in among them. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When I asked her later whether she was ready to put her tooth under her pillow, she gave me a funny look. "I don't want to," she said. "I'm afraid that the tooth fairy will get eaten by Barley Pup." She would not be swayed by fairy tales or even the chance at $20 from her best friend, Kaci. Fairy safety remained top priority, and the tooth was safely hidden away where no fairy would ever dare to go (in the darkest regions of her sweater drawer). </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The next morning she climbed into my bed for a morning cuddle, and said nothing about any nocturnal visitors. "So, did the tooth fairy come last night?" I asked, nonchalantly, as I smoothed her hair. "Oh yeah!" she remembered and bolted out of bed. She found her pink bedsheets sprinkled with glitter, and the following note tucked under her pillow:</span></div><br />
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</style> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><span style="color: #b2a1c7; font-family: "Giddyup Std"; font-size: 26.0pt; line-height: 250%; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 153;">Dear Lucie,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><span style="color: #b2a1c7; font-family: "Giddyup Std"; font-size: 26.0pt; line-height: 250%; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 153;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Congratulations on loosing your first tooth!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><span style="color: #b2a1c7; font-family: "Giddyup Std"; font-size: 26.0pt; line-height: 250%; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 153;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I only have time for a quick little note, but I’m afraid that I wasn’t able to find the tooth you lost? The babies who need to grow teeth will find yours very useful, since I know that you take such good care of them – well done! We’ve been waiting for this tooth to come available all week! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><span style="color: #b2a1c7; font-family: "Giddyup Std"; font-size: 26.0pt; line-height: 250%; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 153;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m afraid that I must fly away now – there are leprechauns causing mischief everywhere, and I’ve got lots of teeth to collect before morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just hope the rest of the teeth are as nice as yours! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><span style="color: #b2a1c7; font-family: "Giddyup Std"; font-size: 26.0pt; line-height: 250%; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 153;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Can I come back tomorrow night? Just leave the tooth under your pillow.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><span style="color: #b2a1c7; font-family: "Giddyup Std"; font-size: 26.0pt; line-height: 250%; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 153;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>Lots of Love from Your Tooth Fairy,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%;"><span style="color: #b2a1c7; font-family: "Giddyup Std"; font-size: 26.0pt; line-height: 250%; mso-themecolor: accent4; mso-themetint: 153;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 6;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Molarie</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She was enchanted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b2a1c7; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The letter also reminded her that there had been a breeze through her room in the night, like wings fluttering nearby, and she was also pretty sure that she heard someone tickling Barley and that he really seemed to like it.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The future of the tooth fairy was secure. And Lucie did eventually get her $20, concealed within a box full of glitter (but no leprechauns). </span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tzo4X-BUAcwYV3ZSBaTDAYOMTY1r9dL_FxMlC0s6VGSo_Z229ySkIsnrHk_pZ50vg1MPfifsZN3wCz3FcX8xUVbd09a3-ccZIOVCQj6_Mxxi6t1Cphe3XXUtzD7TF2FhJgE6z0o8OV6a/s1600/Leprechaun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tzo4X-BUAcwYV3ZSBaTDAYOMTY1r9dL_FxMlC0s6VGSo_Z229ySkIsnrHk_pZ50vg1MPfifsZN3wCz3FcX8xUVbd09a3-ccZIOVCQj6_Mxxi6t1Cphe3XXUtzD7TF2FhJgE6z0o8OV6a/s320/Leprechaun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-14760308052228045082011-05-24T22:17:00.000-07:002011-05-24T22:17:13.403-07:00The NightmareIn December of 2005, I became stuck in marshmallow fluff. Or so it seemed at the time.<br />
<br />
Grayson was engrossed in a movie, Rob was changing the oil in the car, and I was going to spend the afternoon embracing the holidays. I had constructed the perfect gift wrapping station for myself: a large square table in front of the couch, tape and scissors within arms reach, and "Holiday Inn" on the TV. Perfect.<br />
<br />
The movie had just started - I don't think the opening number had ended. I hadn't even wrapped a single gift when I thought I heard the first call from outside. "Janice!" I relunctantly pushed away from my perfect gift wrapping station and hauled my 5-month-pregnant self off the couch with an eye roll. Before I was on my feet, it came again. "Janice!"<br />
<br />
And I knew. I don't know how, but I knew from the sound of Rob's voice that something was terribly wrong. I knew with such absolute certainty that I immediately started shaking, and stumbled over the table leg in my urgency to get out from behind it. And suddenly time began to freeze.<br />
<br />
I remember the feeling so clearly. My body falls forwards and slides on knees and palms across the tile floor. I try to stand, but can't. My hands and knees are stuck in slow motion, as if they were pulling marshmallow fluff from the floor. It is a moment of eerie mental acuity. I remember thinking, "This is exactly like those nightmares of being chased, but not being able to run because your feet melt into the ground!"<br />
<br />
In what felt like 10-minutes, but was probably just seconds, I crawl to the front door with excruciating effort. The door handle is like a life raft I am pulling myself up with, and throw open the door. Just like that, time restores itself.<br />
<br />
Outside, Rob is stuck underneath the car in our driveway.<br />
<br />
I run around to the passenger side of the car where his legs are struggling, and see where the broken jack has been spit out and hit the fence. He uses a ragged breath to tell me, "Get the jack!" But I can't. I know it will take me too long to figure out. So I run to the neighbor's house and bang on the door. The wife answers, and my polite upbringing takes over. "Is Barry home?" I ask. "Yeah, let me get him," she says. And I stand there waiting. WAITING! And then I hear Rob trying to inhale and I know the time for good manners is long past. "I need help quick! Rob is stuck under the car," I scream through the open door. "We're coming honey!" I yell to reassure Rob as I sprint home.<br />
<br />
I bend over and try to lift the Honda by the front bumper. The small amount I manage to lift enables Rob to get a tiny breath, but when he exhales, the car goes down with him. "Fuck, I'm going to die under here," he chokes out. "Don't talk," I say. "Save your breath. Don't panic. Use your ambulance experience to keep calm." I lay on my back and use my legs to push up on the car. He takes another breath. I feel warm and jittery with adrenaline, and wonder what it is doing to the baby growing inside. I wonder if Rob will live to meet the baby. I am thankful that Rob is not alone.<br />
<br />
I look to the side and notice Grayson has come out of the house. He is nonchalant, but staring and trying to process the strange scene in front of him. I don't want my 4-year-old to hear his dad talk about dying - especially if he is. I ask him to go inside and find my cell phone, which he does. Together we try to dial 9-1-1, but my hands are shaking too bad and my eyes can't stay focused, and the call doesn't go through. At some point Barry's wife will bring Grayson over to her house and shield him from the happenings. (His only memory of that day will be getting to watch Jimmy Neutron on TV.)<br />
<br />
Barry is running down the walkway yelling to his wife, "Call 9-1-1!" He goes to the other side of the car and helps me lift. Rob gets a little more breath. My legs are giving out and my side of the car goes down a little. Rob screams in agony. Barry and I both yell wildly for help to anyone who might hear. A bicyclist across the street rushes over with her son. They help us lift, and Rob gets another breath. Then we can hear the sirens. I tell Rob, "Help is coming. Hold on. They are almost here. Don't die!" Neighbor Norm arrives and together the five of us are able to lift the car just a little bit higher. It is enough. Rob wiggles out just as the ambulance stops in front of the house. He is pale, lightheaded, gasping, sore. But alive.<br />
<br />
I touch him to make sure he is real. I hear him heaving and watch his chest move, and the warm rush of adrenaline leaves me. I'm a puddle on the cement, cold, nauseous, rubbery and faint. The paramedic moves from Rob to me, pleading with us both to go to the hospital. But we don't. We cry and touch and cry some more. We take a tour of the Christmas lights, counting our blessings and believing in miracles.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-41057231906924252482011-03-17T15:53:00.000-07:002011-03-18T07:40:05.341-07:00Art from the HeartThe girls and I have discovered a wonderful multigenerational art/music class that meets once-a-month in a luxurious retirement complex around the corner from our house. It's super-mellow, non-competitive, fun and free. Residents and kids participate in the classes together; sharing paint brushes, peeling stickers, twirling with scarves, singing, holding hands and tickling bellies. <br />
<br />
We usually arrive like a hurricane; me, the crazed working mom, trying to straddle two worlds at once and not doing a very good job in either of them. Lucie, bouncing into the room ahead of me, fearless, full of noisy energy, and posing a serious threat to hips everywhere. Violet alternates between going limp on the floor because she didn't get to put on her shoes by herself and hanging from my clothes and demanding "Up! Up! Up!" thirty-six times. <br />
<br />
And then. I flop down and stare as Lucie shuffles around the circle, picking up the hand of each resident and, stopping just short of a curtsy, greets them, "How do you do?" I'm frozen as I look around at the faces of the seniors which hold no judgment, only a knowing smile. "One day," I imagine them thinking, "when your mind has time too much time to wander and your life is predictable, quiet and all your own, you'll miss this." <br />
<br />
So we sing. And dance. And paint. And occasionally tickle.<br />
<br />
I go to honor my grandparents, to "give back" for all that I've been given, and always leave with a renewed appreciation for the innocence of childhood and deep respect for those who have walked this path before. My kids go because they want to be there, and I LOVE that they want to be a part of it. (It also helps that visiting children are treated like prized commodities in adult communities.) <br />
<br />
So I try not to worry about the Alzheimer resident that Lucie has just "decorated" with green paint, I'll smile and nod with the Grandmas as they fret about being late for dinner (at 2pm!), and I’ll start plans immediately for a storage shed to hold all of the treasures being created here.<br />
<br />
Most important, though, I'll make time to dance with my kids and kiss my husband, because he's not going to look this good forever. And I won't forget to wear sunscreen while doing it. <br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IWboCan7XiY"></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-70669694131088251472011-02-18T14:22:00.000-08:002011-02-18T21:11:23.041-08:00Lucie and the Problem of Evil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifpkRs2idZOADfBMnsOAopyYV68PypOgY_eKxw174NqCWO3gKBJSNqHZRSZr8-hFIUsEZnrIsCy7V2KxAaIrTH2jGoBPLOmCNVZfBvwY1UD_GfURGw_5L0j_COg0E4iDl-ocU0BSxGk2W/s1600/DSC01118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifpkRs2idZOADfBMnsOAopyYV68PypOgY_eKxw174NqCWO3gKBJSNqHZRSZr8-hFIUsEZnrIsCy7V2KxAaIrTH2jGoBPLOmCNVZfBvwY1UD_GfURGw_5L0j_COg0E4iDl-ocU0BSxGk2W/s320/DSC01118.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>Lucie has suddenly started questioning things. And by things, I mean eternal things.<br />
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It all started when she asked if I would read her a bedtime story from the Bible storybook. The book opens innocently enough with the story of creation. There are lions and tigers and bears, and naked people being created from dust. (At this point in the story you’d think questions would arise, but no, kids just seem to go along with it at face value. Which is exactly the reason I've had to work so hard to convince Lucie that turtleneck shirts are not actually made from the necks of turtles.)<br />
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Anyways ...<br />
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"Do you know why Adam and Eve are sad?" I asked, pointing at the picture of them sorrowfully leaving the garden. "I sure do, " Lucie assured me. "They are sad because they don't have any parents." Impressive, huh? Clearly, she’d been processing and following along. "Well there is that," I prodded her, "and also they have to leave the beautiful garden because they disobeyed God." <br />
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"Of course they were bad," Lucie sighed in complete exasperation. "Remember??? There aren't any parents??" <br />
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A mere three pages into the book comes Cain and Abel, who slaughter a lamb for sacrifice and then turn their weapons on each other. Followed up by Noah who floats off in his ark while the rest of humanity drowns. This is Quentin Tarentino movie material, not the stuff sweet dreams are made of. We looked at the picture of Cain laying a lamb on the altar for a long time as Lucie tried to wrap her mind around a God who asked for death and sacrifice. I could tell it was a bit of religious whiplash for her to go from the cozy nativity story to the brutality of Genesis. <br />
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That night we got to close with the rainbow, but I know how the book ends and the lessons that lay ahead. In the meantime, I'll continue to gloss over the facts behind Baby Moses' river adventure, and leave the bigger questions to Lucie. Like whether or not it rains where God is? Or does God ever have to go potty?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-2590442051736465502011-02-18T13:46:00.000-08:002011-02-18T15:22:34.543-08:00Say This!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtClX-PHIUMZ2pmccvZDqb0XRiwtu4dKa6QzmfvptGKPtXwcAA-Gk6sxmt82LjaTfrDDrvTDVvdS3m0tCn0hwQ6iHImF0O8z5GtHaTgx0QIPH5CXI-c0abt8lzPTNNMBNXOIhbO78h2ym/s1600/DSC01238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtClX-PHIUMZ2pmccvZDqb0XRiwtu4dKa6QzmfvptGKPtXwcAA-Gk6sxmt82LjaTfrDDrvTDVvdS3m0tCn0hwQ6iHImF0O8z5GtHaTgx0QIPH5CXI-c0abt8lzPTNNMBNXOIhbO78h2ym/s320/DSC01238.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture by Grayson (our 9 year-old)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Last week we reached another one of those parenting milestones. At 27+ months of age, Violet said her first real words: "Mama! Me go!" Three little words so beautiful, so stunning and unexpected, they stopped me in my tracks. Even the other kids dropped their activities and ran out to verify that, yes, Violet had spoken. We hugged and touch-down-danced and, of course, Violet got to "go." When you have a child who is the tiniest bit developmentally delayed, small accomplishments are met with big celebration. Lucie insists on accompanying me on simple errands? I need to figure out a way to sneak out the door more efficiently; Violet suddenly says that she wants to go? Hot dog! Get the video camera and your shoes on kiddo! <br />
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Therapists have been coming to the house since the first week of January, evaluating Violet's delays. At her last check in, she had about 15 simple words in her vocabulary -- about 100 words under the charts for a 2-year-old baby. Still, Rob and I had a hard time being convinced that anything was wrong; Violet has always followed along her own little curve. Not to mention the incessant noise coming out of Lucie's mouth, all at a decibel that I'm sure makes our poor dog want to run in front of a car. How's a girl supposed to compete with that?<br />
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And then, out of nowhere, a little miracle brought on by my leaving the house for chicken Mcnuggets. Now she's spewing out words faster than a speeding train, like it is some sort of talking competition. She knows most of her colors (chart THAT, Ms. Therapist!) and is obsessed with all things yellow. She loves to go, much like a dog who gets his leash when you jingle your keys. She prefers Dora over Diego, but will sit through Sesame Street in a pinch. She requests more bananas than a monkey with an allowance. She thinks every bottle of milk is delicioso! (as Dora would say).<br />
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We had our first conversation this morning over a cup of tea. It went something like this:<br />
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V: "Mama's cup of tea?"<br />
J: "Yep, Mama's cup of tea."<br />
V: "Tea hot."<br />
J: "Yes, tea is very hot."<br />
V: "Me no blow mama's tea?"<br />
J: "No, I will blow it. It is too hot."<br />
V: "Oh yeah. Mama blow dat hot tea." <br />
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With this kind of reasoning, I’d love to see what she could do with health care reform. Plus, it is impossible to argue with someone wearing fuzzy Minnie Mouse pajamas.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-68349598169344590492010-08-21T22:11:00.001-07:002010-08-23T23:17:51.450-07:00Love is in the air<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_qnXVlb4a6jDDuBMC7VXdAfdKy913Ycipi4v5g-vJ0Los4_UsOrF9HKqFrsqU7QGWxWDmWlQY7ODuMGwUNOgRhfQy4Xdmiqwvu1KqpiQ88fpHv_UDei6AufvapWAA-VyOn1I2amKA3LA/s1600/P1010822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_qnXVlb4a6jDDuBMC7VXdAfdKy913Ycipi4v5g-vJ0Los4_UsOrF9HKqFrsqU7QGWxWDmWlQY7ODuMGwUNOgRhfQy4Xdmiqwvu1KqpiQ88fpHv_UDei6AufvapWAA-VyOn1I2amKA3LA/s400/P1010822.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br />
</span></u></span></div>I love weddings. Well, there is the cake, obviously. And a good excuse to get dressed up and indulge in an excess of family photographs.<br />
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But a good thing gets a bazillion times better when my very own kids get to participate in the wedding party. There just isn't any greater parenting reward then to see them walking down the aisle, all spit-shined, tuckedin, fluffed up, triple combed and acting their Sunday best. I puff up with each overheard whisper of "aren't they adorable" and "they are just precious" and frankly, I couldn't agree more. Strangers ask to photograph them or be photographed with them, and I begin to think about renting them out professionally. Further, the enormity of the occasion forces them to become still and quiet. Still AND quiet, I said! (Well, technically, Lucie wasn't completely silent. She did walk down the bridesmaid line-up asking each one the name of their favorite princess.) I am so so proud.<br />
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Don't forget the dancing! The Wagner dance team can clear a dance floor! We bring the sprinkler, the lawn mower, the worm, a booty shake, and even raise the roof on occasion. Lucie attached herself to a 5-year-old and wouldn't let him go, until she discovered that he couldn't swim. "Oh well," she said. "I still love him." (Only group dating for that one.)<br />
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The longer I am married, the more meaningful the ceremony becomes. I listen to the promises that are being made, and think to myself, "they have no idea." And neither did I. But what luck that I made those promises, and that Rob was willing to make them to me. Two of us walked down that aisle 18 years ago, and now there are five. God is good.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-64550386967115346002010-08-16T21:17:00.000-07:002010-08-24T07:29:57.442-07:00Times, they are a changin'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNsfHkhivC1KkCQcrsnTFqTqqy5Gb5zRvKkySfTWIOSxiJl2wjZreT80aDt6-lK799zR-0LfX29Y-o5Dx6_xgYNOcoza4wFfhZATnx9-_eChXdBOWwGd62EOUH73mjnPkkOnqfowrmW7x/s1600/P1010746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNsfHkhivC1KkCQcrsnTFqTqqy5Gb5zRvKkySfTWIOSxiJl2wjZreT80aDt6-lK799zR-0LfX29Y-o5Dx6_xgYNOcoza4wFfhZATnx9-_eChXdBOWwGd62EOUH73mjnPkkOnqfowrmW7x/s200/P1010746.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Our baby is a baby no more. At 21 months, Violet grows longer by the hour, stretching out that precious baby chub. We are down to one last luscious thigh roll. Her hair retains a natural baby mullet, but when I twist it into two piggy tails at the back of her head, that dimpled smile and those sweet round cheeks melt all resolve. Although she still isn't talking, a few words have started to emerge. "Toodles" and "hot dog," both learned from her favorite Mickey Mouse Clubhouse show, aren't terribly helpful in deciphering her foot-stomping finger-pointing grunts. She'd follow Lucie to the moon, but won't hesitate to defend herself with a nasty bite. I'm not sure we'll ever convince her to give up milk bottles. In the meantime, I'm enjoying all of the nigh-night cuddles that I can.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOiCIApnqM3lmgkY0fsJ5_hp8ypWdufDpVsn27sWjdK5W3rKkgY2j4XpccL5Rknb9wqri9-aZQCZup-8Z6tn3fBAKGEBidzVUZKQmN_7P6sg28xOSwkWKJpdxYJCxEf4kaJ9uBhKSwyImx/s1600/P1010831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOiCIApnqM3lmgkY0fsJ5_hp8ypWdufDpVsn27sWjdK5W3rKkgY2j4XpccL5Rknb9wqri9-aZQCZup-8Z6tn3fBAKGEBidzVUZKQmN_7P6sg28xOSwkWKJpdxYJCxEf4kaJ9uBhKSwyImx/s200/P1010831.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Even petite little Lucie is growing. She's thrown nearly all of her beloved uh-ohs away, hanging on to a last lone pink one with typical ferocity. She wiggles her teeth daily, hoping for movement and the promise of a fairy visit. Letters and numbers are starting to click: she can nearly write her name and won't pass up an opportunity to find things that are four, just like her. She loves to role play, and her active imagination seldom disappoints. "Mommy" is a favorite game, and I've been chastened recently to hear her mimic what must be my unintentional mantra, "I don't have time for this!" A conversation with Lucie is always worth documenting, guaranteeing me lots of good antidotes for the lean teenage years. It is rare that we make it out the door without a fashion meltdown, and woo to the person who proposes a change in plans. Lucie has forced me to find energy reserves long hidden. Her face appears at my bedside each morning a tiny bit thinner than the day before, with crazy-haired beauty more beautiful than sunshine.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnoNcP32pyKsR5XZC3MdhgmS6y-SpZJAKo7l_gtOP3EObyK6bv13CG3IkxgWKjZFPPWRYO17WVVnNQXiB8wMXS6AsJ3YjFQk53BGE5oJXmJdJODvY4XTtk4INRDP84gKRDNLL_48xtQWW/s1600/IMG_1053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnoNcP32pyKsR5XZC3MdhgmS6y-SpZJAKo7l_gtOP3EObyK6bv13CG3IkxgWKjZFPPWRYO17WVVnNQXiB8wMXS6AsJ3YjFQk53BGE5oJXmJdJODvY4XTtk4INRDP84gKRDNLL_48xtQWW/s200/IMG_1053.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Grayson, my boy, is slowly becoming a man. His shoulders have a subtle buldge, his feet have nearly outgrown mine, and the fourth grade back-to-school supplies included deodorant. His chunky monkey toddler physique has stretched into taffy pulled long and lean. Emotions are intense, full of drama, and constantly simmering just below the surface. Nothing says love to him more than a present, preferably one purchased at GameStop. Time spent at home is "boring," only a way to pass the time in between play dates with friends. Still, he is tender hearted and affectionate, not afraid to scream, "I love you Mom!" across the summer camp courtyard. When I've had a bad day, he is the first to pick up on it, and take charge of dinner or a back rub. Watching him interact with his sisters fills me deeply. I worry about his lack of drive towards anything but the possibility of owning a puppy. This summer he learned to surf, and the freckles across his nose quadrupled in the process. I go to kiss them, and discover it is just beach tar.<br />
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The days are passing by so quickly. I can't hold on to them tightly enough.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-79291266661198100062010-08-02T20:34:00.001-07:002010-08-23T23:47:58.914-07:00Punishment<div class="posterous_autopost">"Mommy, I'm trying hard to only think about punishing thoughts, but it <span class="UIStory_Message">is so boring and happy things keep getting in!"<br />
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</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-27179291752849186182010-02-23T07:30:00.001-08:002010-02-23T07:30:05.589-08:00Lucie (wailing): "Mommy, the kitty is on my bed and I can't get my beauty sleep!"
<div class='posterous_autopost'> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://montecitomomma.posterous.com/lucie-wailing-mommy-the-kitty-is-on-my-bed-an">montecitomomma's posterous</a> </p> </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-69190614892816527412010-02-19T11:19:00.001-08:002010-08-23T23:48:54.656-07:00Tiger vs. Yo Gabba Gabba<div class="posterous_autopost">Watched "Yo Gabba Gabba" instead of the Tiger Wood's mea culpa. Parenting requires sacrifice. <br />
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<a href="http://montecitomomma.posterous.com/11986965"></a> </div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1074754723038453735.post-76652855516901939492010-02-12T10:51:00.001-08:002010-02-16T20:38:49.782-08:00Daddy Daughter Dance<div class="posterous_autopost">Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a beautiful princess named Lucie ...<p><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fP_dhVClcUs&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed allowfullscreen="true" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fP_dhVClcUs&hl=en_US&fs=1&" allowscriptaccess="always" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><b></b><br /></p></object> </p><p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com/">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://montecitomomma.posterous.com/daddy-daughter-dance-1">montecitomomma's posterous</a> </p> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16114972763028238148noreply@blogger.com0