tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73231617128270186322024-02-18T21:59:29.619-07:00Ramblings of a RedheadThe redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.comBlogger274125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-76685292699490502082013-02-28T13:16:00.001-07:002013-02-28T21:37:03.475-07:00Growing pains, growing smains<div style="text-align: justify;">
I really would like to blog more, if only to clear out some of these goopy half-finished thoughts of mine to make room for others. But here are the facts. I have a three-month old baby who currently refuses pacifiers, bottles of pumped milk, and sleeping longer than two hour stretches. She has also refused to stop growing. Her and I need to have words I know. </div>
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Also I have two other kids. Boys. They are noisy and dirty and whiny a lot of the time. They make light saber noises all the live long day. They get angry at each other for things like "he's standing too close to me" and "he's looking at me." One of them is in the throes of potty training but refuses to have a bowel movement unless he's wearing a diaper. I spend my day going between nursing the baby and asking the boy to sit on his potty chair, then doling out jelly beans as a reward, then asking the <i>other </i>boy to do his homework and asking <i>both </i>boys to be quiet while baby girl sleeps, usually a fruitless request. My house needs a good cleaning but being potty chair monitor/teacher/ref/chef/broken record/milkmaid/zombie takes precedence at the moment. Most mornings I wake up in a daze covered in baby spit-up, eyes crusted over, precariously close to the edge of the bed, and the baby sleeping next to me because she won't sleep in her crib. I dare not move and wake her up since a calm slumbering baby is better than a loud screaming baby. I just stay still and try not to fall off the bed. When she wakes up (probably after hearing the light sabers); we snuggle. </div>
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I kiss her cheeks more times than I can count and I also sniff her . . . a lot. I'm not even mad at her for how she acted the previous eight hours. She's magical. The boys think so too. They say things like, "Oh mommy she's so cute," as if it's almost too much to bear. They gently (sometimes not gently enough) stroke her face and pat her head and reassure her that, "It's not so bad baby. You'll be okay." I wonder if she knows how much they treasure her.</div>
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I make mental notes to remind her of this when in the future they don't allow girls into their forts. I make mental notes about a lot of things since time is fleeting and these sleepless, exhausting, yet innocent, soft, and sweet days will not last nor should they, probably. I know <i>written </i>notes would be better though since it's the only hope I have of actually remembering them. So I make plans to do just that. I also eat my fair share of chocolate.</div>
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And these are the facts. This is why it took me about three days to put this little post together. My mind feels a little less goopy now though. And that's a good thing. My stomach does still feel like a nice roll of cinnamon bun dough however. Ah well.</div>
The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-76371213383537146082013-01-24T22:15:00.000-07:002013-01-24T22:15:28.686-07:00Lightning just struck my brain<br />
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It’s very rare to have to tell someone my age these days. It’s
not like I’m dating ya know, unless you consider marriage one big long date but
that guy already knows how old I am so . . . I digress. Usually nowadays if
someone needs to know how old I am they just ask for my birth date and let the
computer do the math. So yes I admit that for the majority of my thirty-first
year I forgot how old I was since I never actually said it, out loud. It wasn’t until I was in the hospital recently
after the birth of my daughter that I was reminded of the sum of all my years.
There it was on a piece of paperwork, clear as snot “Mother’s Age: 31” <i>Whaaaat? No I’m not. Wait, am I? Oh my gosh
I am cause there was that birthday I celebrated a year after I turned thirty.
</i><i>But that means now I’m almost
32. Wait. What? </i>Horribly confusing day obviously.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well</span>, here’s to you thirty-two. Sure snuck on me you saucy
little minx. Maybe I’ll try to say my age out loud more this year so as to
avoid such a shock to the system. I guess I could blame my blur of a
thirty-first year on pregnancy but I’m not the kind of person to milk pregnancy
for all it’s worth. Please.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of milk</span>, I wrote the following list of Things I Want For My Birthday before
the mastitis struck me down while I had three kids to tend to. Blurry photo as proof!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZRMPUO0lEdltUGilyhMvvqu5U7b6EjOI6d4RFLc4UncM7aaOrRlGpSgOuXD6JWsS6J8I9JcZryGUjMichoFHx1ExhUae1CIq0O5B-OJtfX9RpipCbNidzycwRc0K0Lm0_OjZEI3zEQgR/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZRMPUO0lEdltUGilyhMvvqu5U7b6EjOI6d4RFLc4UncM7aaOrRlGpSgOuXD6JWsS6J8I9JcZryGUjMichoFHx1ExhUae1CIq0O5B-OJtfX9RpipCbNidzycwRc0K0Lm0_OjZEI3zEQgR/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">So (Husband) please </span><b style="text-align: justify;">double</b><span style="text-align: justify;"> the amounts of everything
requested. Bijous.</span></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">A</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">hem. On this the dawn </span>of my thirty-second year I hereby request
the following:</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-Two hours of solitary uninterrupted sleep, preferably between
the hours of 8 and 10 AM</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> --“Solitary” meaning
no one else can inhabit the bed, including the Husband and the baby</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> --All other children must be kept out of
earshot*</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">-One large cheesecake</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-Fifteen minutes of no one talking to me after I wake up</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p>-</o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A large plate of steak and shrimp</span></blockquote>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">That’s it! That’s all I want! Forget diamonds and pearls,
just food and sleep puuuh-leeease!**</span><br />
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</o:p><o:p><div style="text-align: justify;">
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*I’m not totally for sure what this word means but it
sounded right in context. Basically I don’t want to hear a peep from them oh
those lovely little boys I love them I love them I love them I just don’t want
to hear them, for a bit.</div>
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** I guess you could throw in some massaman curry while your at it and some diamonds and some pearls. Whatevs.</div>
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The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-46658428633012362012-12-12T11:12:00.000-07:002012-12-12T11:13:26.399-07:00Mama bear leaves her cave<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Why hello there!</div>
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<br />
Just thought I’d come out of hibernation briefly to carbo load and to do a blog post so as the date stamp will be 12.12.12, the last repetitive date I will e’er see in my lifetime. I know, sad to think that this is my motivation to blog and that I am not immortal.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some may wonder</span> what I’ve been up to. Well, I am no longer pregnant. It no longer takes a three-point maneuver to get into bed. Yep, I done did had a baby! This baby has very tiny precious fingers and toes, which I nibble daily. </div>
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And this baby is very female, meaning she is not a male. What what!</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes I accidentally</span> call her a he or a him. Old habits die hard. But she doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t even seem to mind that sometimes I dress her in her two older brothers’ baby clothes. She’s easy going like that. What she is not easy going about is keeping her drink down. This lady cannot hold her milk. None of my other babies spit up this much, except maybe they probably did and I’ve just forgotten. The mind is tricky like that. See I remember with my other babes how lovely they smelled and how soft their hair was. I did not remember the goopy baby eyes or just how funny yet heart wrenching Cheaters is when watched at 3 AM. Or how it felt like my arms were going to fall off and how hard it is to open a jar of anything with only one hand. But I did remember how nice it is to have my own personal heater. This is only nice of course when I’m not having hot flashes.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I also</span> have to say that having three children under the age of six is its own special kind of crazy. Good and bad. Wonderful and maddening. Lovely and terrifying. I think I will need the next several months or years to adapt to being outnumbered by offspring. A recent outing to Target proved this to be ever so true.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’m already</span> learning quite a bit though. For example in my search for great time savers, I’ve learned many that simply do not work (i.e. putting on socks <em>whilst</em> taking a potty break). And I’m determined to invent a couch that has a way of making a baby feel like the person holding them is standing up when in actuality the person is sitting comfortably on that couch. Ha! Fooled ya baby! It will be a mind blow when I finally come up with a prototype.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well my friends</span>, I’ve fully exhausted myself and my reservoir of thoughts. Plus the babe grows weary of my ramblings. Just in case you don’t hear from me for awhile I wish you the merriest of Christmases. Peace and pa, rum, pa, pum, pum.</div>
The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-49503494717494979932012-10-30T22:09:00.000-06:002012-10-30T23:10:56.401-06:00My mind is in the early stages of hibernation, also known as super silly.<div style="text-align: justify;">
There's no way I could write a coherent post right now. I'm almost forty weeks preggo. Enough said right? But then again when has a crazed mind kept me from writing. Never.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course</span> I can't blame all my current weirdness on growing a human being inside of me. Some of it I am convinced has to do with the political atmosphere that is swirling amongst us. The other day I had to ask Bosco's kindergarten teacher a question and when she gave me the information I needed I gave her a thumbs up, all Clinton-style, instead of just saying thank you. I may have even bit my lower lip. Man I sure berated myself on the drive home and pledged to keep my thumbs in my pockets to stifle this surprisingly forceful urge. It's been pretty challenging. I can't say I haven't faltered again.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Also the Halloween season</span> cannot go unblamed for my state of mind. Costumes, pumpkin carving, trying to find the will power to stay out of the Halloween candy (the Twix did not make it unscathed). It's taking up a lot of my meager mental reserve. And I always find myself trying to find a way to put my widow's peak to good use, since right now is about the only time it could been seen as an asset. No need to even buy a costume. But usually I just end up thinking about what life would be like without this thing. </div>
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Would I be better at everything? I'm convinced it is so. My widow's peak is the only thing keeping me from being a morning person and I don't really have the stamina to explain how this is so but it is so. I thought it all out one day, in depth. And of course my inability to be a morning person is more or less the root of why I am unable to reach personal perfection as a wife and mother. If morning time came around noon my kids would get pancakes every day! And I probably wouldn't see red every time I heard the Husband chomping on chips. MY chips! That's all I'm saying.</div>
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So wish me luck with all of THAT.</div>
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P.S. Please excuse me if I disappear for a bit longer than usual. I sense a very heavy two month postpartum fog lingering ahead of me. A fog which consists of nothing yet everything. Some may even call it hibernation. I'm almost there right now as I'm sure you've already gathered.The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-80257989541052536292012-10-10T22:46:00.000-06:002012-10-10T22:50:19.269-06:00Thank goodness monkeys are gender neutral<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
There is not one picture or reference to a truck or backhoe loader amongst the whole lot. Believe me. I checked.*</div>
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*I must say though I have been slightly underwhelmed while looking for baby girl clothes. Just so much pinkedy pink . . . and kitty cats . . . and butterflies, all of which are fine in and of themselves but not in such a plethora of bejeweled-ness (except the cats of course, I have not been able to embrace any replication of that which is a cat).</div>
The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-55262764816346187492012-10-04T23:51:00.001-06:002012-10-04T23:51:41.096-06:00Just a normal irrational conversation with a 3-year-old.<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy I go play now?<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> No, finish the last couple bites of your food first, then you can go play.<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> No! I play now! <br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> You know the rule. Finish your food first.<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Noooooo! (<em>wailing and crying ensues</em>)<br />
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<strong>Mother:</strong> (<em>under breath</em>) Oh geez.<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> (<em>continued crying)</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> Calm down and finish your food. I'm going to go fold some laundry.<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy you talk to me! Mommy you talk to me! (<em>spoken in between fits of screaming and crying</em>)<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> I can't talk to you until you calm down.<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy you talk to me!<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> What? What do you want to talk about?<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy I go play now.<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> Ugh. No. You know you have to finish your food first.<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> (<em>crying resumes</em>) Mommy you talk to me!<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> (<em>silence</em>)<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy you talk to me! Mommy you talk to me! (<em>Repeated 100 times while screeching</em>)<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> What! What do you want to talk about?<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> I can't talk about this right now.<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> Okaaaay. That's fine.<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy you talk me!<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> You just told me you didn't want to talk.<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy you talk to me!<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> Okay, I'm going to go . . . somewhere . . . else<br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy you talk to me! (<em>Repeated 100 more times plus tears</em>)<br />
<br />
<em>One basket of folded laundry later:</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> Mommy you talk to me!<br />
<br />
<strong>Mother:</strong> Okay. Let's talk. I know you don't understand this right now, but irrational is the word to describe the last thirty minutes of our lives. Ir.ra.tion.al. <br />
<br />
<strong>Son:</strong> (<em>throws food on floor</em>) Mommy. Naptime.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The moral of the story:</span> Life doesn't have to make sense. Life just needs to include naps. The end.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfY0DBvAhbaaaFMDV-gnFZ_iz_U-f5Zw31qln2-zDYSMCH5FWxN0B4lzrnkAf3IkqBeusYh1hI3eHDQxbpsW1Mn7PDQNCtSmCQQ_ConG2MOMkeeIqJViJTJgyOaLVj4sEPYeurhtljuUB/s1600/irrational.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfY0DBvAhbaaaFMDV-gnFZ_iz_U-f5Zw31qln2-zDYSMCH5FWxN0B4lzrnkAf3IkqBeusYh1hI3eHDQxbpsW1Mn7PDQNCtSmCQQ_ConG2MOMkeeIqJViJTJgyOaLVj4sEPYeurhtljuUB/s400/irrational.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-52387526395307240592012-09-20T00:03:00.000-06:002012-09-20T00:03:57.132-06:00Mistaken Identity<div style="text-align: justify;">
The swollen belly. The frown. The buggy eyes. The stick thin legs and absence of shoes. And some sort of neck issue. This sure was a skilled portrait of me, I thought.<br />
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Then I felt a certain amount of relief when Bosco clarified that this was NOT a picture of me, but instead a pirate with earrings and a bag of treasure. Good, good. Otherwise we would have had to address the baldness issue.</div>
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The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-23679057424826929992012-09-06T23:22:00.000-06:002012-09-06T23:22:11.590-06:00Venting of vexations: please indulge me here<div style="text-align: justify;">
As the time quickly dwindles before our new addition arrives I find my head completely filled with things that feel very important right here and now, but I know deep down they really are not. Actually this usually tends to be the case whether I be pregnant or not. Everything just feels <em>slightly</em> more discombobulating than usual. So there you go.</div>
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Things I'm currently vexed about:</div>
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-<span style="font-size: large;">Whenever I eat</span> a peach with the skin on, the fuzziness sometimes gets on my own upper lip peach fuzz and makes it feel all irritated. Like tiny microscopic needles. Am I the only person suffering through such an ailment? This reminds me of another story dealing with hair injury but I'll share that later.</div>
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-<span style="font-size: large;">Stretch marks</span><span style="font-size: small;">. My belly skin has already been stretched out enough to accommodate a baby TWICE before. Dear stretch marks why can't you just use the ones I already have instead of adding a third layer? Those other stretch marks are still in perfectly good condition. Still perfectly usable. Recycle, reuse! </span></div>
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-<span style="font-size: large;">I just ran out</span> of my coconut mango body wash that I've been slowly emptying for about a year now. And of course I can't find that same scent anywhere. I almost cried when it was gone because how am I supposed to pretend I'm back in Hawaii everyday now? Throw sand in my scalp and underwear? Sorry doesn't have the same appeal.</div>
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-<span style="font-size: large;">Chocolate pudding</span>. There is never enough in my house. </div>
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-<span style="font-size: large;">I miss</span> the Olympics . . . and Shark Week.</div>
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-<span style="font-size: large;">Shrimp.</span> I think you would be hard pressed to find a person who craves garlic shrimp as much as I do right now. This is a problem because there is currently no garlic shrimp within a one mile radius of my home. Which of course means . . . I eat pasta instead. More stretch marks.</div>
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-<span style="font-size: large;">Paint colors.</span> More precisely paint colors on walls. It is a saga of paint swatch patchwork. SA-GA!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Bj9JcDRjipOtbbU_AyQu3Bsd2BwxUfAO9gjj4K0M2W1qMzxVDnHkbqfsdOB2eUOKWvsTUsn5kygB8-2fEDeUTTBDOvRuiL-Lqg6Cfma2wqQ13TFtJLz6hVzfW3Ix_Ebqlydrw4Cq97rk/s1600/paint.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Bj9JcDRjipOtbbU_AyQu3Bsd2BwxUfAO9gjj4K0M2W1qMzxVDnHkbqfsdOB2eUOKWvsTUsn5kygB8-2fEDeUTTBDOvRuiL-Lqg6Cfma2wqQ13TFtJLz6hVzfW3Ix_Ebqlydrw4Cq97rk/s410/paint.JPG" /></a></div>
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{In real life the wall color is lime sherbet green. Can't handle it. And in real life all of the tested colors are different. I swear.}</div>
The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-36922985036084534312012-08-28T22:39:00.001-06:002012-08-29T12:44:42.300-06:00I thought this wouldn't happen to me until he turned thirty<div style="text-align: justify;">
Nevermind all this talk about politics and <a href="http://articles.nydailynews.com/2012-08-13/news/33187423_1_liam-hemsworth-miley-cyrus-disney-star">Miley Cyrus' new haircut</a>; my kid started kindergarten today. That's what needs to be talked about. I should also probably talk about how there was an hour long process of events post-drop-off that had to occur before I finally had that weepy mother's moment (which I hadn't even planned on doing anyway). Both he and I were <em>so</em> ready for school to start after five years of having him all to myself. So ready. But it turns out that teary-eyed moment had just been biding it's time, waiting for me to fully realize a few things. And rather than finding it all emotionally silly, I felt it was more a rite of passage, one that every mother will have sooner or later. Bless her ever-loving soppy sappy heart.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia1hk_1seq4SDaKclXwIuyiyP49jbBRUPUmA5X01ELc1e68pN7zuMuVsF0tNwoVezi9f0yn7ztzhaKVCHpsToeXVHPFP6nGWM1LXvTB_paZcNvRtyKD0pmoHjvoFmJiiucQ2oEabz9wgKu/s1600/DSC_0880.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia1hk_1seq4SDaKclXwIuyiyP49jbBRUPUmA5X01ELc1e68pN7zuMuVsF0tNwoVezi9f0yn7ztzhaKVCHpsToeXVHPFP6nGWM1LXvTB_paZcNvRtyKD0pmoHjvoFmJiiucQ2oEabz9wgKu/s450/DSC_0880.jpg" /></a></div>
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Like I said though, I was slow to realize all this. I had quietly peeked through the classroom door with other parents as the teacher instructed the children to find the seat with their name on it. And my Bosco meandered around looking. I knew he could identify his name no problem, but somehow he was the last one left standing and he wouldn't sit down in the only empty seat left which meant it must not have had his name on it. The anxiety rose up inside of me as I saw him stand there so small and innocent and I was flooded with memories from my own elementary days. Bobby not letting me have a turn on the swings or that dang dodge ball etc. etc. Far more self conscious than Bosco is, I would have really hated this turn of events, but it didn't even seem to phase him. He just had a patient look of "whatever" on his face (he gets this from his father I can only assume). So I stood there out of his view and felt the anxiety <em>for</em> him. Well, someone had to right? <em>Where's my seat teacher!</em> What a whackadoo am I. The word "injustice" started flashing across my brain, like it would for any normal-over protective-living vicariously-mother. Eventually the teacher pointed out to a girl that she had taken the wrong seat and Bosco finally got situated. But I was done for. Right then and there I realized that I was now on a new journey for the sake of my and my children's sanity. The journey known as "chilling out." Brought to you by the letters O and K. And C-R-A-Z-Y. And this journey is pretty much now never-ending because I'm officially sending my child out into the world where I will not be with him every second of the day and these sorts of things both important and unimportant will happen to him all the time. Sometimes he'll get left out. Sometimes his jokes won't go over so well because not everyone loves a joke that doesn't make sense. Sometimes people will say mean things to him. Sometimes things won't work out right for him and he'll have to be there on his own in that moment, dealing with it. Oh my gosh he's going to have to deal with things without me sometimes! The thought of that really does just punch me in the gut and leave me feeling a little sickish. And obviously this journey particularly stinks because no parent wants to see their child without a seat so to speak. Or called carrot-top so to speak. Ahem. But so it is.</div>
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Then when I got home with no Bosco by my side and Bubba sitting there playing quietly without his brother I realized I was now on yet another journey called "You think you feel sad right now, just wait until he moves out."</div>
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Then I realized I was really tired and my clothes were not as comfortable as I would have them be but that I was going to have to do this, wake up earlier every morning for the next bazillion years and get dressed in real clothes to take him to school, like I was the one in school all over again. Oy.</div>
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So yes for all these reasons, today I had my rite of passage into starting that years-long arduous process of letting go of a child I grew inside of me and birthed into this world, so he can grow up and get hairy and hormonal and eventually become a man, even an amazing man. And I'll tell you what, I have a great big ol' headache.</div>
The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-68166186897637697262012-08-09T21:54:00.000-06:002012-08-09T21:54:23.928-06:00What's in your nightstand?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTgelq-V_WhtIsVpfMON5h5wNM90vRTFfh8HyLzJiADj1eGmIaWO2uVnzQRmdux7uC_bTJsCfKiEzZSkn2I_bX_4dGDe3TvgsqeYnG77A2IRAKyoUgzh1pKidtjO5spFJW_64hs-CuSe1/s1600/nightstand.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" kda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTgelq-V_WhtIsVpfMON5h5wNM90vRTFfh8HyLzJiADj1eGmIaWO2uVnzQRmdux7uC_bTJsCfKiEzZSkn2I_bX_4dGDe3TvgsqeYnG77A2IRAKyoUgzh1pKidtjO5spFJW_64hs-CuSe1/s400/nightstand.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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As for me and my house (okay maybe just me), a nightstand isn't living up to it's full and proper potential unless it is armed with chocolate and ear plugs.</div>
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And now that I'm thinking more deeply on the topic, I might be persuaded into believing that the contents of a person's nightstand is a reflection of that person's character and being. Me: super sweet (when my mouth is full of chocolate), a little nutty, and hugely opposed to being woken up. Also a secret lover of stripes and/or zebras. Yup. That all sounds about right.</div>
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How about you?</div>
<br />The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-56957123930530399402012-08-03T01:13:00.000-06:002012-08-03T01:13:48.605-06:00It's aight<div style="text-align: justify;">
My last post may have been a tad dramatic. But really everythang is just fine. Except maybe I'm purposely misspelling things to sound cool.</div>
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And if we hadn't moved I probably never would have found my long forgotten hiding space for the last box of Samoas.</div>
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So yeah, I've been eating girl scout cookies in July. Who else can say that? Certainly no one with a good memory.</div>
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I may not be posting regularly for a little while though my dears. I've just got a lot of paints chips and primer on the mind, not to mention the wee babe I'm gestating makes me very emotional about which paint brushes to buy and how all the baseboards need a good deep cleaning even though it will kill my back. It's so important! Don't try to tell me it's not!</div>
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Well, I hope you all are having a lovely summer full of Olympic coverage, slushies, and flip flops. I sure as heck am.</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-50283740638309397662012-07-23T21:58:00.001-06:002012-07-23T21:58:47.847-06:00I planned this all perfectlyPlease excuse me as I loose my mind after buying a house, packing, cleaning, then moving, all whilst six months preggers.<br /><br />Thanks!<br /><br /><center><a href='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/07/23/4469.jpg'><img src='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/07/23/s_4469.jpg' border='0' width='400' height='400' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br />The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-75815818568659120412012-07-10T21:40:00.000-06:002012-07-10T21:40:32.069-06:00Our 4th in picturesOf course we celebrated the 4th of July. Of course we did! Parades, fireworks, barbecues, sweat, layered patriotic Jell-O. We did it all. Here is proof:<br />
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P.S. Yes I made that flippin' colorful creation. And I don't even really like Jell-O. Also, I will address my somewhat apparent rotundness in another post. But right now I'm super tired because of the human being I'm harboring. How's that for a cliff hanger!</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-36180653202792009132012-06-28T14:30:00.000-06:002012-06-28T14:30:28.129-06:00Hi and GoodbyeWait a second. Wait just a darn second. Today isn't Friday? And tomorrow isn't Saturday? Apparently I am suffering from messed up time equilibrium. Next thing I know someone will tell me the 4th of July is next week. Puh-lease.<br />
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Now if you don't mind I'm going to go watch Sleepless in Seattle. I think it would be lovely if you all did the same. We can laugh at/thoroughly enjoy this part together:<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="231" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/coOYa4h98M4?rel=0" width="410"></iframe>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-18783599895240335652012-06-21T20:40:00.000-06:002012-06-21T20:40:05.812-06:00My most recent tale of woe<div style="text-align: justify;">
I love me a good grill, probably even more than Husbo the man. So the other day when I bought some nice steaks and wanted to cook them on the ol’ charcoal grill the Husband was being a bum about starting the briquettes. That’s his usual assignment in exchange for a delicious meal (starting the grill that is, not being a bum). But like I said his attitude was all bummy.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I decided</span> to take matters into my own hands. Sure I had never started a charcoal grill before but how hard could it be? Pile up the briquettes. Light it. Let it get hot, then spread the coals out. Boom bam. </div>
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<center><a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/06/21/4078.jpg"><img border="0" height="355" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/06/21/s_4078.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a></center><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Well obviously</span> that’s not how it went because it’s me here. I found some charcoal in the garage that was left over from last summer and they were the kind that didn’t need lighter fluid which was good because we didn’t have any lighter fluid. Luck!<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I stacked 'em</span>. I lit the match and threw it on expecting some sort of combustible reaction. Nothing. The match went out. I lit another and another. It was quite windy out so I figured maybe it wasn’t making good contact. I hunkered down and held the match directly on top of the charcoal. Still there was nothing. I started wondering how the Husband did it. Did he just light a match, throw it on, then say a prayer? So I tried that too and I was coming up with a whole bunch of unlit, very un-warm briquettes. I thought maybe it did need lighter fluid but we didn’t have any. Plus the bag said it didn’t need lighter fluid. In fact it warned NOT to use lighter fluid. Well I always follow the instructions on the bag. A half-an-hour and an empty box of matches later I had succumbed to despair.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I started to do</span> some real soul-searching as to whether I actually deserved to even eat these steaks. If I can’t start a grill I don’t deserve such tastiness right? Surely not. So I walked away from that cold grill and made peanut butter sandwiches for dinner instead. That seemed far more fitting.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Epilogue:</em></span> Seeing as how I was still unwilling to give up on grilling these steaks, the Husband took “pity” on me and went to start the grill the next day. But to my ever-loving humble eyes he couldn’t do it either. The briquettes were old he said and needed lighter fluid. But would he go out and buy lighter fluid? No he would not. Instead he threw in “kindlin” to get the fire started over the briquettes. He also fanned it. He also used a lot of his own hot air. He also got an earful from me. Finally after waiting two hours for the coals to get hot I put those dang steaks on the grill and they were delicious. Boom bam.</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-20742206048434005942012-06-14T22:41:00.000-06:002012-06-14T22:48:32.926-06:00Here's what I do in the garden of my mind<div style="text-align: justify;">
I’ve been thinking it might be time for me to enter the world of anti-wrinkle/wrinkle prevention cream. You know, the age-defying kind. But sometimes I wonder if the root of me doing so would be vanity or a respectable desire for routine maintenance. How does that saying go? Treat yourself right at thirty-one and you’ll be having way more fun sipping fruity drinks by a cabana at forty-one. Treat yourself poor at thirty-one and you’ll be sittin’ on the floor watching America’s Funniest Home Videos at forty-one. Or something like that?</div>
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Well to be honest I wouldn’t have a problem with either scenario, but I’d rather be face crevice free while doing it. So maybe the source is vanity after all.</div>
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Speaking of which, when I was a teenager I used to put on mascara and separate each lash with the sharp end of a safety pin. I’m not really sure why I did this, but I think it had less to do with vanity and more to do with living on the edge. I had a needle less than a millimeter from my eyeball!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8AJsSbUjS9bdqGKATpflkuOVCbRLD6U9tlIlrM_HkUuHdKsZJSHxeCE9tindBqStwZMD0KiQYIS0uo554brKnefx0XOO7n-uwYxtUvFYaa_lcpBMAOQbs-LQ8XWpX6b21yuMm_usik-_o/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" pca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8AJsSbUjS9bdqGKATpflkuOVCbRLD6U9tlIlrM_HkUuHdKsZJSHxeCE9tindBqStwZMD0KiQYIS0uo554brKnefx0XOO7n-uwYxtUvFYaa_lcpBMAOQbs-LQ8XWpX6b21yuMm_usik-_o/s320/photo+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I’m no know-it-all but that sort of thing sure can spice up your life, especially if you don’t have one. I mean I could have just used one of those special brushes for separating eyelashes, but I didn’t, so . . . not vain after all! Just stupid.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6DCl7c2pccYwKdrLoOPIllBbtgSVMsD-YPSYd5ai8LMwNfWd85Ugltqf-F2diLi4YYmsXbUEc6YeU_ee_a-parg-fIaJd8vCQaaqsHwmNs4PnPQtMmhhexz1csz7F8MCcxm7-yJbSz_jf/s1600/photo+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" pca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6DCl7c2pccYwKdrLoOPIllBbtgSVMsD-YPSYd5ai8LMwNfWd85Ugltqf-F2diLi4YYmsXbUEc6YeU_ee_a-parg-fIaJd8vCQaaqsHwmNs4PnPQtMmhhexz1csz7F8MCcxm7-yJbSz_jf/s320/photo+4.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Conclusion: Silly with vain undertones. I <em>did</em> just share three less than favorable pictures of my eyeball, but nevertheless they were THREE pictures of MY eyeball.</div>
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P.S. I bought my first pair of leggings the other day. They are tight. Oy vey.</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-86990351750191448382012-06-06T21:50:00.002-06:002012-06-14T22:54:09.554-06:00What I learned after 35 hours in the car with my children<div style="text-align: justify;">
The fam and I just spent the last several days vacationing/driving. But really there are plenty of you who know that traveling with kids is not so much a vacation as it is an adventure. And a test. To see how strong you are. To see just how much spunk and resiliency you’ve got.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Turns out</span> I’ve got plenty of spunk, but after a certain amount of time my apparent lack of resiliency takes all that spunk and turns it into crazy town.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And let’s not forget</span> about patience. What a virtue patience is. Well, after about day four of sojourning with children, my patience measures at a 2 on a scale of 1—75. I don’t know why I chose that scale. It just felt right. And accurate.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So it looks like</span> I’ve got some things to work on! And I wouldn’t have even known had it not been for this trip.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It also revealed</span> a lot about my children that had heretofore gone undiscovered, such as:</div>
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-Bubba is not content with his share of trail mix unless it has two chocolate candies in the mix.</div>
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-Bosco <em>does</em> know the word stupid and how he should not use it.</div>
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-Boys cannot just lounge on a beach towel for hours, taking in the scenery and fresh air. They have to be doing <em>something</em>. The Husband is included in this one.</div>
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-Listening to “Thriller” on repeat in the car keeps them entertained long enough for me to take a little nap.</div>
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-If you tire them out enough during the day, they will go to sleep in a tent.</div>
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-Bubba still needs a nap or he will fall asleep in ketchup. I’ve always known this but now I think he does too.</div>
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-Drinking water is very important to Bosco. If he doesn’t get it the second he wants it, a major regression to his two-year old self is completely warranted.</div>
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-They like s’mores. I guess I should have assumed this to be so.</div>
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-Getting splinters out of a five-year old’s hand is fun in a totally sarcastic type of way.</div>
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-Sand is only an enemy to the mother (me).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim82xUUSEhcNmjB0r7m2CIhPzCEYzv16nkXVn4iwxZNZKtU72evXpvApD4IqStD3V0TqBd4x3g3BBvfkS3UeQ1cEsHUw6AjG8e18UBYi496h4P39AnRx-kR7vxNwz3GmN5QSTF57dFEYPK/s1600/photo+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fba="true" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim82xUUSEhcNmjB0r7m2CIhPzCEYzv16nkXVn4iwxZNZKtU72evXpvApD4IqStD3V0TqBd4x3g3BBvfkS3UeQ1cEsHUw6AjG8e18UBYi496h4P39AnRx-kR7vxNwz3GmN5QSTF57dFEYPK/s400/photo+4.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Knowledge is power my friends.</span> And you better believe I’m going to use it to my advantage. Our next trip will be to some knoll covered completely in grass and wildflowers (no sand) with a view of the seashore (for me), with a never ending water supply from a nearby spring, where the kids can run around like hooligans (with gloves on their hands to avoid splinters and for the Michael Jackson music I’ll be blaring), after which everyone will take a nap, then eat a couple of s’mores and packages of M&M’s (forget trail mix). Everyone will be having so much fun and there will be good feelings betwixt all of us, so much so Bosco will have forgotten that the word ‘stupid’ even exists. Then we’ll fall asleep in a tent (with an air mattress for me).</div>
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If anyone knows where such a place exists please let me know.</div>
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The end <br />
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</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-10188189211696008652012-05-22T20:41:00.000-06:002012-06-14T22:56:21.243-06:00A few bits and baubles regarding me<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s that time of year</span> again when I add sunless tanner to my post-showering routine. I do this mainly so I don’t look translucent. You’re welcome.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s also that time when my feet</span> are so very happy not to be confined inside a sock. Oh my how they do detest those sockies. I’m just going to make a blanket statement here and say that if there is an event, party, etc. this summer that does not allow me to wear sandals or flip-flops I will probably not be in attendance. My apologies in advance. And no I will probably not go hike that mountain with you.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And of course it’s that time</span> <span style="font-size: large;">of year</span> when I sit outside and watch my kiddies play for what seems like hours.<br />
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I spend this time thinking a few deep thoughts (too deep for this blog), but mostly inconsequential thoughts that are totally appropriate for this blog, like how Baked Lays are really just a classy version of Pringles. So yeah things like that. I come up with some of my best silliness whilst my offspring bath in dirt and bugs. It's win win for everyone.</div>
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P.S. It’s looking likely that we will finish an entire box of Otter Pops before it’s officially summer. This is thanks in large part to me.</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-36514021517148438342012-05-14T22:08:00.000-06:002012-05-14T22:08:33.117-06:00Yo ho yo ho.<div style="text-align: justify;">
You will please excuse my extended absence and silence won’t you? Life has been fraught with many frightening things lately. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The apple of my eye</span> turned five last week and that alone has turned me into a blubbering idiot. And by idiot I mean a person who cannot comprehend or come to terms with an aging son who most likely will turn into something hairy, stinky, and hormonal. Yes, this is beyond comprehension. I just cannot envision it or what I will do with such a testosterone-riddled creature. Any tips? We’re practically there already since the other day he told me he was never going to speak to me again (although he did break into tears immediately after saying it, instead of stealing the family car).</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, </span>Bosco requested a birthday party that involved superheroes, pirates, and Ironman. And I said okay, pirates it is, because I look for any excuse to bring the term “bilge rat” into my repertoire. The party itself was fun, despite the Husband’s uncharacteristic worries about kids staining the carpet with their drinks. That really threw me for a loop. And at the end of the day our newly crowned five-year old said he felt like the luckiest boy alive. Well, shoot. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then all was well</span>, until a couple days later. I’ll just say these two things: food poisoning, laundry. First Bubba (who escaped the worst), then Bosco, then me, then the Husbo. Then with a freshly gutted husband on the mend he vowed to never throw up again. And not knowing what the culprit was or if it was really food poisoning at all, everything in the house was tossed or sanitized. I do feel for him. It was horrible for all involved but for some reason when things such as these strike him down it sounds like a freight train, where as everyone else is more like a measly old diesel truck. Poor freight train. </div>
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And so that was last week. New day. New dawn. The house is a mess. </div>
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I should have kept this sign up longer probably.</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-45251845729577597822012-05-03T21:53:00.000-06:002012-05-03T21:53:56.833-06:00I've never eaten fondue while chillin' by a fire.<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't know. Just because . . . this is funny right now in the moment . . . mostly because these are the real lyrics (more or less) . . . and because of 2:20. Happy Weekend!</div>
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Swaggy.The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-81239760713255617502012-04-25T21:28:00.000-06:002012-04-26T01:24:08.165-06:00In remembrance of my memory<div style="text-align: justify;">
I had this great idea for a blog post, then I forgot it. Then I remembered it again while playing some word game on the iPad (you know to keep my mind sharp), but I figured there was no way I would forget it again so I continued playing, thinking I would jot down my idea later. By the time I was done with the game (some five minutes later) my mind was blank <em>again</em>. This is the story of my life lately. I have lots of ideas in my brain but remembering those ideas is somewhat of a miraculous feat. So now I have lots of little notepads around the house with words or ideas jotted down, most of them indecipherable within hours. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The other day</span> I went downstairs and completed various tasks, none of which were the original intended reason for going downstairs because I had forgotten what that original intended reason was. So I yelled to the Husband, “Why did I come down here?!” And I can’t remember the answer he gave but it was the correct one. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes</span> I’ll also have to ask the kids if I gave them their vitamins for the day because by lunchtime I am on auto-pilot and can’t necessarily recall what I have or haven’t done in regards to vitamins. I trust their memory more than my own and this is slightly scary unto me.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes it is scary </span>that I rely on them sometimes for memory. It is also scary the things they <em>can</em> remember. For example, every time Bubba stands on the scale in the bathroom, he will exclaim in the most incredulous tone, “WHHAATT!!” And he does this because one time I think he witnessed me doing the same thing. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJDJUQYeBYf62sFOh-is_imxGsh-ILOYY0mixmRMlXUm3JLCw9eGaj_MTMVORJA-3LMo4Xno10RCBfrUFm-HHGP6AJLKLrMbXj_Lvi_8fw0NmksoKA2UWT7ihDi52pCLlxaPtz2X2yUxMM/s1600/scale.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJDJUQYeBYf62sFOh-is_imxGsh-ILOYY0mixmRMlXUm3JLCw9eGaj_MTMVORJA-3LMo4Xno10RCBfrUFm-HHGP6AJLKLrMbXj_Lvi_8fw0NmksoKA2UWT7ihDi52pCLlxaPtz2X2yUxMM/s400/scale.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
ONE TIME. Like when he was in utero.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But really</span> all that memory must be cumbersome. Yes? I feel a little bad for their sharp exceptional brains. Because a forgetful brain can be quite useful at times I’ve found. I will always have the great excuse of “I forgot” and I won’t even have to lie about it. And also there have been instances when I was really grateful that I woke up not remembering what day it was. So, there's that.</div>
</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-10019399916316020452012-04-18T21:34:00.000-06:002012-04-18T21:34:36.297-06:00Ominously ominous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPWKXI3Uc_8lfFlJsUPAs7Wj70-dHv1r30gPsbnNQR8cGwtrrnNfQz0aWJ9dRqOP5pK6HyOqcuyk2Ue6gWoAdrhRs_mFtWnzwQTk_No02zknFYqItfXXl5DneoNJPggyiAgvfs4yrYzHP/s1600/runbosco.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPWKXI3Uc_8lfFlJsUPAs7Wj70-dHv1r30gPsbnNQR8cGwtrrnNfQz0aWJ9dRqOP5pK6HyOqcuyk2Ue6gWoAdrhRs_mFtWnzwQTk_No02zknFYqItfXXl5DneoNJPggyiAgvfs4yrYzHP/s400/runbosco.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Bosco:</strong> "Mommy, do you feel ominous?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Me:</strong> "No. Do you feel ominous?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Bosco:</strong> "No."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Me:</strong> "Do you know what ominous means?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Bosco:</strong> "Yes."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Me:</strong> "Well..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Bosco:</strong> "Well, I can't tell you because it's an ominous secret."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">P.S. Thank you Sesame Street</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">P.P.S. If I were to do another giveaway in celebration of one more year I've kept up this blog, what should it be? Favorite store gift card, product? Now accepting suggestions (reasonable ones that will not make me roll my eyes in your general direction! And if they are <i>not</i> going to be reasonable at least make sure they are funny).</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-28807368007124911592012-04-11T21:28:00.000-06:002012-04-11T21:28:32.492-06:00Of hair and things<div style="text-align: justify;">I'd really like to write a blog post for you, but I can't. My hair is just too long. Like past my shoulder blades long. Yes, this <em>is</em> long and semi-unbearable for a person who is a short-haired person at heart but is trying to pose as a long-haired person . . . mostly because her Husband requested her to do so and because ponytails are very easy and perfect for a lazy person such as myself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What is not perfect is the amount of time I spend trying to make the lion's mane look presentable. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Also, sometimes I will shed and get a stray hair stuck in my mouth and it takes an unreasonable amount of seconds while pulling the long strand out of my mouth to realize that the hair is actually still attached to my scalp. This is of course ridiculous I know. And simply not meant to be withstood.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The real me wins. Sorry Husband.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So how about a YouTube video instead to cheer everyone up. I like to watch this one whenever I am feeling particularly downtrodden, or hairy. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="238" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/C9oYwheDY4Q?rel=0" width="410"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-3916486427973028232012-04-03T21:17:00.001-06:002012-04-03T21:49:27.671-06:00Smells like April Fool's Day<div style="text-align: justify;">I would say that the April Fool’s prank I pulled on the Husband this year was an overall success, in that the Husband was subjected to a mild amount of discomfort and brief confusion while I could be found giggling in a darkened hallway. It does not, however, mean that there were exclamations of surprise or frustration or accusation. It has taken me a few years to accept this, but the Husband is not prone to voicing matters in boisterous bursts of emotion. He is more “calculating” (his word for it). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Indeed he is. Allow me to tell you the story now.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: large;">I figured </span><span style="font-size: small;">I should <a href="http://www.ramblingsofaredhead.com/2010/05/cant-fool-this-one-cuz-he-doesnt-know.html">leave his toothbrush alone this year</a> and turn instead to his hygiene of the body. I took his ever faithful bar of soap out of the shower, found my ever faithful bottle of clear nail polish, and painted that Irish Spring with a few coats of ever loving April Fools. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRwlWjvmiD4ejaddiQUBwukgDOiHLCfzFFFNdekw-EtonqjBUIt39scSaiRxhEa0P5L8VNafTRLRPsQ_hg0EmU3EsPWToTipUTAG3I4DTr3OW5-jSFAyy5N_GRmS_fkU__4BuE4xBaXeK/s1600/soap2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dea="true" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRwlWjvmiD4ejaddiQUBwukgDOiHLCfzFFFNdekw-EtonqjBUIt39scSaiRxhEa0P5L8VNafTRLRPsQ_hg0EmU3EsPWToTipUTAG3I4DTr3OW5-jSFAyy5N_GRmS_fkU__4BuE4xBaXeK/s400/soap2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After I was done</span> I stood back and examined my handiwork and was quite impressed. There was no way that sucker was going to lather, although now it smelled more like nail polish than soap but that was an inconsequential detail for sure. Visions of the Husband trying his darndest to get that soap to clean himself made me break out in fits of premature laughter. This was going to work!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">So later that night</span>, when the Husband was properly sweated out from an intense game of basketball, I knew he would head off to the shower. I got my camera ready. I sat in the hallway, with only the light of the bathroom gleaming under the doorway. It brought back memories of the <a href="http://www.ramblingsofaredhead.com/2010/05/cant-fool-this-one-cuz-he-doesnt-know.html">salted toothbrush prank of yesteryear</a> and I wished for a louder exclamation this time around. Oh that would be joyous indeed. I heard the shower water turn on and I hit record on the camera just in case I was able to capture sudden shouts of frustration that I would be able to playback and listen to over and over and over to my heart’s content! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I listened for signs</span> of a struggle, huge sighs, the soap being thrown against the wall . . . anything. Any sign that something was amiss in his regular showering routine. But there was nothing. Just the sound of water. This continued on for minutes. I thought maybe he hadn’t gotten around to the soap yet and was taking an extra long time with the shampoo. Or maybe somehow against all odds he had managed to create soap lather! Or maybe he wasn't even in the shower at all and was actually standing right behind me! (I checked. He wasn't). And just when I was entering the pit of despair I heard the shower curtain open and a drawer pulled open. I peeked under the door to see the Husband’s wet feet standing on the bathmat. Then I heard him unwrapping another bar of soap. I almost lost it! I had to flee from the hallway lest he hear me giggling. By the time I returned he had jumped back in the shower, cold and shivering no doubt! I think at this point my prank deserves at least three exclamation points!!! Thank you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">After fully relishing the moment<span style="font-size: small;">,</span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I decided I should probably leave, gain my composure, and wait for the aftermath. So I went to the living room and appeared to be doing something productive on the computer. Within a few minutes the Husband returned freshly showered, with just the slight smell of nail polish wafting behind him. He said nothing to me. Just went to the fridge for a snack. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">That’s when</span> I noticed an Irish Spring soap box tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. What the devil is this crazy person doing I thought? After a few minutes of silence he went into the bathroom closest to the living room and locked the door. He came back out after a few seconds and said he was going to bed. I quickly ran into the bathroom to see what he was up to and my instinct told me "the trash can!" There hidden deep under a mound of tissues I found the box of soap. I opened it up and found a very sad looking bar that appeared to be peeling and mutilated. I screamed and told the Husband he was a wacka doo. Why did he hide the soap?! Why did he not confront me?! WHY OH WHY?! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">This was the response</span> I received: He said for a split second he thought maybe the soap had dried out, but then he realized that was silly because he had used the soap the previous day and soap doesn’t dry out in a day? Does it ever dry out was my question. Then he said he knew I had done something to the soap because it wouldn’t lather and it smelled like nail polish remover. He attempted to rub it until it lathered, with no success. Then he tried peeling off the outside layer. Then he finally decided he didn’t want to rub that soap on his body, not knowing what I had done to it so he got out of the shower and got a new bar. And all of this he did without uttering a single word. Not even a grunt! Not even a whistle! He also said he didn’t want to give my prank notice so he packaged up the old soap and threw it away just to toy with me. Calculating indeed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I am satisfied</span> with the outcome despite his attempts to completely pretend like it didn’t happen. I will forever remember those cold wet feet of the Husband’s standing on that fuzzy bathmat, knowing full well that <em>in his mind</em> he is yelling “Wife! Is there no end to your madness?!” And that is enough for me. Yes, plenty enough.</div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323161712827018632.post-60009379380587676152012-03-28T22:09:00.000-06:002012-03-28T22:09:19.519-06:00I smell a 'how to' post brewing<div style="text-align: justify;">Every so often, in a cold night sweat, I am awakened and panicked by the thought that there are two little human beings in the house that I am completely and totally responsible for bringing up (which normally doesn't frighten me quite as much). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_kzMOtj2meHxlUXatHGXAePMtPo59uIV7kooMaSPmtkcDQX-H-neoIWEHrURkttZL1Q7hDnxRpfszBHaQppitdrsRxa84e3VGxwsIAK3tbvTHnkl7iX8lyVly7iGBoaQN7efPWEcVQs8/s1600/daboys3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dea="true" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_kzMOtj2meHxlUXatHGXAePMtPo59uIV7kooMaSPmtkcDQX-H-neoIWEHrURkttZL1Q7hDnxRpfszBHaQppitdrsRxa84e3VGxwsIAK3tbvTHnkl7iX8lyVly7iGBoaQN7efPWEcVQs8/s400/daboys3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I mentally</span> do a checklist of what I'm doing okay with. Shelter: check. Food: check. Dancetime: check. Patience: oh come on let me go back to sleep, but not before I get up and check on those two little human beings just to make sure there are no spiders on their pillows. I chanced to meet a pillow spider once as a child and I believe it to be the main cause of my easily irritable nature. Spiders on pillows are never good for the young psyche and I would like to shelter my children from such a fate if at all possible.* There is, however, nothing I can do about the spiders that crawl down their throats while they sleep. That happens to everyone and is basically undetectable therefore not mentally damaging.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I mention this occasional nighttime</span> fret of mine because today I've been delving deep in the shiny perfect cabinets of <a href="http://pinterest.com/">Pinterest</a> and I'm pretty positive I'm going to have one of those sudden wake-ups tonight (instead of dreaming about being <a href="http://www.rainbowbrite.net/">Rainbow Brite</a> like I should be doing) because a mother can only see so many people making Easter bunnies out of ANYTHING and turning doors into bookcases which are also secret passage ways into toy rooms (!) before she begins to question her own status as a good caretaker and provider and all around cool person. I have never had the desire to make bunny cupcakes nor do I still, but sometimes it appears that I should, have this desire. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">But really what</span> I'm wondering is if these people who spend so much time making such creative things that their children may or may not appreciate, are these people checking their child's pillow for spiders at night? Because that seems like a way better investment of time and a much clearer barometer of love and devotion if you ask me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">*I don't blame you mother for my own horror. There are just so many spiders in this world. So many. </div>The redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03138391810017029103noreply@blogger.com3