Once a year, my in-laws bless all of us by taking us skiiing. And when I say ALL of us I mean there are 12 of us who go. Two grandparents, four parents, and six children. Kids all range in age from 14 to 3. The first day, we ski. The second day, snowmobile tour and then drive home.
The skiing is really pretty uneventful. I don't ski well, so I'm on ski patrol at the bunny slopes. I chase the little guys in other words. Last year my son (who was 5 at the time) rode the lift and skiied all day. After several mistrials (and a stream of profanity worthy of an Osbourne) I figured out it is a lot easier (and less painful) to NOT help the kids off the lift. It actually works better for me to get off and let them get off on their own and fend for themselves. My daughter does beautifully and soon became frustrated with me. Small problem with the 5 year old son-he can't stop and he can't turn. Skis like a demon though. So, I would just pick myself up off my ass-point him downhill and turn him loose. Dad would stand at the bottom so at least he doesn't careen into a stranger.
So this year, the now 6 year old skiied the intermediate slope ALL day. I mean, he was fast as hell (apparently sticking out one's tongue not only increases speed, but improves balance). He skiied with Uncle Mitch who was the hero for the day. My son stopped and turned as if he'd done it his whole life.
Ah, but that leaves me with the now 3 year old son on the bunny slope. We took a lesson. Ro learned to stop. Learned if he was going to fall, just sit down. Learned to keep his head up, but his knees bent. Rode the ski lift all day. After several turns with the instructor, he rode with me on the lift. He's pretty small still, so I would grab the back of his jacket (like a cat picking up kittens) and literally lift him off the lift-and point him downhill. While he possesses the ability to stop, he often chooses not to. I mean, what am I going to do? Fall down next to him and ground him? Spank him while re-attaching the ski I lost trying to turn? He had free reign and everyone knew it. Most people try to get out of his way, but some aren't so fortunate. Like the really nice 50 something grandma taking pictures of a very pink, fluffy, little red-faced skier. Poor woman never saw the 30 pounds of Oh Shit coming at her. My son managed to take out both her feet and send a really expensive looking camera straight to the ground. She was nice. She understood she said. Grandson about the same age. As I apologized, both skiis swooped out from underneath me. The look on her face said, "oh he must get it from his mother".
We always manage to make it back to the condo alive and eat perhaps the best meal EVER prepared by my mother in law. Don't kid yourself-she's a wonderful cook, but she could be serving cat litter on a flip flop and we'd devour it. Those of us past the age of 30 who fall a lot (okay, that really just means me. everyone else skis great), limp our poor aching bodies to our bed and thank God we lived and that it's over.
Snowmobile tours are meant to be taken slowly in order to enjoy the stunning beauty of the Rocky Mountains. But, when there are 12 people on 7 snowmobiles, we're gonna tear some shit up. I'm sorry, it is what it is. So, last year, my husband and my daughter rode together. My husband decided to pass no less than four of us on the right only to disappear in a gigantic white POOF. "Please stay on the trail at all times" I seemed to remember someone saying somewhere.... The trails are packed down and a little bumpy. Apparently, just half the width of a rented snowmobile to the right and there's 8 feet of powder snow. When I saw my husband and daughter disappear in the snow cloud my stomach clenched up. And then this little pink helmet appeared in the snow like a poptart coming out of a toaster. She was crying. No-wait. She was laughing. She was laughing so hard she was crying. My husband wasn't quite as amused as now his big ass had to figure out how to UNbury a snowmobile. It took him, his dad, and his brother a LONG time to get it out. It sounded like a bunch of fat guys trying to move a fridge. The tour guide wanted to scold him, but what do you say to guy who's 6'1" and 250 pounds? "Be more careful" was about all he could muster.
So this year my daughter decides to ride with me as there's less chance of a crash this way. Midway through the tour you reach a flat meadow. This is where you're allowed to cut loose and go really fast. But you gotta turn. Which is what I was trying to do when I found myself buried under a snowmobile wondering what the frig just happened? Apparently one should slow down BEFORE turning even if there's a small possibility of beating your husband and son to some imaginary finish line....
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
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The Inquisition
When I asked the Lord to bless me with happy, healthy children, I forgot to ask for dumb ones. When my oldest daughter was four, I became pregnant with what would become her sister. I knew I was going to have a lot of explaining to do once I blossomed (read “swelled up like a blowfish”) in my pregnancy. At the end of my first trimester, I took it upon myself to broach the subject with her. “You’re going to have a little brother or sister,” I told her. In my naiveté, I thought this would be sufficient. Since babies are so fearfully and wonderfully made in their mother’s wombs, why can’t He tattoo instructions on the bottoms of their feet? Anyway, her response was an indignant “Why?” Not having been saved yet at that point, but having a firm belief in God nevertheless, I explained that God had decided it was time for her to have a sibling. “Well, is it in your tummy like on TV?”“Yes, that’s where God puts all the babies.” Simple enough. “Well, how did it get in there?” she asked, clearly disgusted at this point. “Uh, err, well ya see, um, hey.” Not a complete answer, or even complete words. Yeah, that’ll explain it. In my brilliance, I then responded, “God and Daddy put it there.” And with His mercy, that was enough. For then.
Two years later, I found myself in the same situation. Except now, The Inquisitive One was 6 and far wiser than before (thank you kindergarten). After being told she was going to be blessed with another sibling, she simply smiled and said ‘Cool’. Oh, we could only be so lucky…driving down the highway (doesn’t it always happen like this?), she popped off with, “Exactly HOW did Daddy put that baby in your tummy?” And before I could respond she asked, “Why are you making that face?” (Poker faces having never been an aptitude of mine).
So I told her, “You see, it’s very complicated. When we get home, I will talk to your father and we will decide how and what to tell you,” and frankly, I was quite pleased with myself. No less than 7 seconds later, she blurted, “You had sex didn’t you?” in an “Aha! I caught you!” sort of way. All I could say was, “Yeah.” Being caught red-handed, so to speak, I asked her if she even knew what sex was.
Well, of course she did: “naked lovin.” I felt the need to explain no further.
Two years later, I found myself in the same situation. Except now, The Inquisitive One was 6 and far wiser than before (thank you kindergarten). After being told she was going to be blessed with another sibling, she simply smiled and said ‘Cool’. Oh, we could only be so lucky…driving down the highway (doesn’t it always happen like this?), she popped off with, “Exactly HOW did Daddy put that baby in your tummy?” And before I could respond she asked, “Why are you making that face?” (Poker faces having never been an aptitude of mine).
So I told her, “You see, it’s very complicated. When we get home, I will talk to your father and we will decide how and what to tell you,” and frankly, I was quite pleased with myself. No less than 7 seconds later, she blurted, “You had sex didn’t you?” in an “Aha! I caught you!” sort of way. All I could say was, “Yeah.” Being caught red-handed, so to speak, I asked her if she even knew what sex was.
Well, of course she did: “naked lovin.” I felt the need to explain no further.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Great Adventures of Tracy, the Hyperventilator
My friend Tracy babysat two of my children for six years. She kept my son since he was six weeks old. I actually met her while pregnant with him, and my daughter was two. She had at first told me she didn't keep newborns. As our friendship progressed, she called me at work one day to tell me, "Stop looking for someone to watch that baby, I'm going to keep him". No, "hey Dari it's Tracy" just cut the crap and get right to it. That's my Tracy.
Well, my son was born and Tracy and her husband Ed come to the hospital. Ed probably would have paid a small fortune to be anywhere but there. But, you don't argue with Tracy and Ed had been trained well.
I believe Byron was about 3 weeks old the first time Tracy watched him. As I dropped him off Tracy asked, "Do I need to buy bottled water to make his formula?" I tried not to smirk too badly when I said, "um-do you have a sink?" She said, "well, yeah". I prodded her further by adding, "well how about you run some warm water out of that son of a bitch and make that baby a bottle?" Tracy has probably the best laugh I've ever heard come out of an adult. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and said, "I'm so glad you're not THAT mom". And no, I most certainly am not THAT mom.
Fast forward about 2 years-frantic call from Ed (well, as frantic as Ed gets anyway). "Dari, it's Ed. Byron was playing outside and fell out of the swing and bumped his head pretty hard. He's got a knot, but he didn't cry until I dug the dirt out of his nose". So I asked, "well, is he okay?". Ed replied, "Hell, he's fine. But I think Tracy may need an MRI".
Just keep breathing in and out Tracy, and you'll be fine. Love ya!
Well, my son was born and Tracy and her husband Ed come to the hospital. Ed probably would have paid a small fortune to be anywhere but there. But, you don't argue with Tracy and Ed had been trained well.
I believe Byron was about 3 weeks old the first time Tracy watched him. As I dropped him off Tracy asked, "Do I need to buy bottled water to make his formula?" I tried not to smirk too badly when I said, "um-do you have a sink?" She said, "well, yeah". I prodded her further by adding, "well how about you run some warm water out of that son of a bitch and make that baby a bottle?" Tracy has probably the best laugh I've ever heard come out of an adult. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and said, "I'm so glad you're not THAT mom". And no, I most certainly am not THAT mom.
Fast forward about 2 years-frantic call from Ed (well, as frantic as Ed gets anyway). "Dari, it's Ed. Byron was playing outside and fell out of the swing and bumped his head pretty hard. He's got a knot, but he didn't cry until I dug the dirt out of his nose". So I asked, "well, is he okay?". Ed replied, "Hell, he's fine. But I think Tracy may need an MRI".
Just keep breathing in and out Tracy, and you'll be fine. Love ya!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The S Word by Kari Johnson
In this day and age, unfortunately, our kids are bombarded by images, enticements, information, and misinformation about sex from a very early age. Friends tell them what “French-kissing” is, and they come home and ask about it—in Kindergarten! By the time they reach fourth or fifth grade, some “overeducated” child in their class has told them what it means to “make out.” It’s scary.
Unfortunately, we can’t keep our children from encountering this stuff. That would require locking them in a fortress, away from all other children, and preventing all contact with the outside world until they were eighteen. We all know that the probable results of that would be that, upon entrance to that world, they’d either be complete misfits or we’d end up seeing them on “Girls Gone Wild.”
But I digress. As I was saying, kids learn a lot about sex at a very early age. So, we’re supposed to talk to them about it, and be “open” and “honest.” How the heck do we do that? Well, it’s not easy. Let me use my now 10-year-old daughter, a fairly precocious only child, as an example. I’m a big believer in open lines of communication. How else can we teach kids our beliefs and morals, besides TALKING about them? I’ve always encouraged her to ask me about anything she wants to know. Sometimes, I wonder why…
When she was three, she figured out how babies get out of Mommy’s tummy. We had a cat that was VERY pregnant, and so if you felt her belly, you could feel the babies moving. My daughter was rubbing Sally’s belly, and she looked at me and asked how the babies were going to get out. So I, being very wise (so I thought), told her, “God makes a special way for babies to get out of their mommies’ tummies.” End of story, right? Ha! My daughter sat, rubbing on and looking at the cat, for about five minutes. Then she asked, “Do they come out her po-po?” My reply, after I quit choking, was a simple yes. Short and sweet. Please, no more questions. Ha! The next one was, “Did I come out of yours?” Oh Lord. Another short and sweet yes. Have mercy, please. “Does it hurt?” she then asked, while pointedly looking at my crotch. Well, this time, after another short and sweet yes, I had sense enough to leave the room.
Well, if that was as bad as it got, it’d be fine. It gets worse as they get older. Eventually, and way before you explain it to them, they gain an understanding of the act of sex (apparently, that’s another lecture in Playground 101). Then, they learn that sex makes babies. Then, because you’ve told them a zillion times that you don’t have sex until you’re married, they think to ask you why ol’ so-and-so next door has a baby but doesn’t have a husband, only a live-in boyfriend. Or why the neighbor’s daughter, who’s too young to get married, is clearly pregnant. Try to explain that one.
The best recent conversation I have had started out like this: I was driving down the highway, 70 miles per hour, when my daughter suddenly blurted out, “You know how sex makes babies?” I veered back out of the bar ditch and very calmly said, “Uh huh.” Oh no, here we go…”Well,” she asked, “does it always make babies, or is there a way that it sometimes doesn’t.” Oh, okay, some little boy on the playground was talking about condoms. However, we’re 10 years old here, so I’m NOT going there at this point. “Nope,” I replied, “If you don’t want to have a baby, you don’t have sex.” It got quiet for a long time. Not good. She got a little smile, almost a smirk, on her face and said, “So, you’ve only done that once?”
At that point, we were in the Wal-Mart parking lot. The good Lord, knowing that I would not have an intelligent, appropriate response to that question, saw fit to show me an empty parking space right in front of my eyes. We pulled in, got out, and went shopping. Conversation effectively avoided (until next time). Thank God for small miracles.
Seriously, though, sex is one of the most uncomfortable (and just downright embarrassing and horrible) things to talk to your kids about. It’s not easy to bring stuff up, and it’s not easy to realize that though you thought you were bringing up something new, your child “already knew that, Mom.” It’s not easy explaining that sex is a beautiful, loving act created by God, to be reserved for the sanctity of marriage, intended as a way to both create a family and to bond with your soul mate. It’s just not easy, period. Not in the world we live in…
I have decided to just stock up on Kleenexes (for all the tears I’m undoubtedly going to shed), paper bags (for all the times I will hyperventilate), and perhaps a straightjacket and some crayons. Seriously, though, I’m hoping that if I keep my wits about me, keep a sense of humor, and pray a LOT, my daughter and I will both make it through her teen years alive. I’m not quite as sure about the fates of her future boyfriends…
Unfortunately, we can’t keep our children from encountering this stuff. That would require locking them in a fortress, away from all other children, and preventing all contact with the outside world until they were eighteen. We all know that the probable results of that would be that, upon entrance to that world, they’d either be complete misfits or we’d end up seeing them on “Girls Gone Wild.”
But I digress. As I was saying, kids learn a lot about sex at a very early age. So, we’re supposed to talk to them about it, and be “open” and “honest.” How the heck do we do that? Well, it’s not easy. Let me use my now 10-year-old daughter, a fairly precocious only child, as an example. I’m a big believer in open lines of communication. How else can we teach kids our beliefs and morals, besides TALKING about them? I’ve always encouraged her to ask me about anything she wants to know. Sometimes, I wonder why…
When she was three, she figured out how babies get out of Mommy’s tummy. We had a cat that was VERY pregnant, and so if you felt her belly, you could feel the babies moving. My daughter was rubbing Sally’s belly, and she looked at me and asked how the babies were going to get out. So I, being very wise (so I thought), told her, “God makes a special way for babies to get out of their mommies’ tummies.” End of story, right? Ha! My daughter sat, rubbing on and looking at the cat, for about five minutes. Then she asked, “Do they come out her po-po?” My reply, after I quit choking, was a simple yes. Short and sweet. Please, no more questions. Ha! The next one was, “Did I come out of yours?” Oh Lord. Another short and sweet yes. Have mercy, please. “Does it hurt?” she then asked, while pointedly looking at my crotch. Well, this time, after another short and sweet yes, I had sense enough to leave the room.
Well, if that was as bad as it got, it’d be fine. It gets worse as they get older. Eventually, and way before you explain it to them, they gain an understanding of the act of sex (apparently, that’s another lecture in Playground 101). Then, they learn that sex makes babies. Then, because you’ve told them a zillion times that you don’t have sex until you’re married, they think to ask you why ol’ so-and-so next door has a baby but doesn’t have a husband, only a live-in boyfriend. Or why the neighbor’s daughter, who’s too young to get married, is clearly pregnant. Try to explain that one.
The best recent conversation I have had started out like this: I was driving down the highway, 70 miles per hour, when my daughter suddenly blurted out, “You know how sex makes babies?” I veered back out of the bar ditch and very calmly said, “Uh huh.” Oh no, here we go…”Well,” she asked, “does it always make babies, or is there a way that it sometimes doesn’t.” Oh, okay, some little boy on the playground was talking about condoms. However, we’re 10 years old here, so I’m NOT going there at this point. “Nope,” I replied, “If you don’t want to have a baby, you don’t have sex.” It got quiet for a long time. Not good. She got a little smile, almost a smirk, on her face and said, “So, you’ve only done that once?”
At that point, we were in the Wal-Mart parking lot. The good Lord, knowing that I would not have an intelligent, appropriate response to that question, saw fit to show me an empty parking space right in front of my eyes. We pulled in, got out, and went shopping. Conversation effectively avoided (until next time). Thank God for small miracles.
Seriously, though, sex is one of the most uncomfortable (and just downright embarrassing and horrible) things to talk to your kids about. It’s not easy to bring stuff up, and it’s not easy to realize that though you thought you were bringing up something new, your child “already knew that, Mom.” It’s not easy explaining that sex is a beautiful, loving act created by God, to be reserved for the sanctity of marriage, intended as a way to both create a family and to bond with your soul mate. It’s just not easy, period. Not in the world we live in…
I have decided to just stock up on Kleenexes (for all the tears I’m undoubtedly going to shed), paper bags (for all the times I will hyperventilate), and perhaps a straightjacket and some crayons. Seriously, though, I’m hoping that if I keep my wits about me, keep a sense of humor, and pray a LOT, my daughter and I will both make it through her teen years alive. I’m not quite as sure about the fates of her future boyfriends…
Like Feathers in the Wind....
I have a three year old son who has (finally) grasped potty-training. He being the fourth child, I knew we were on treacherous yet rewarding path. There’s nothing cuter than little tiny buns in their first pair of Superman undies, and that sight alone (failing to mention money saved on diapers) is my reward for persistence and perseverance in the face of grueling odds. And the odds are definitely stacked in favor of a willful toddler whose desire for independence is only outweighed by his stubbornness.
So onward and upward...my potty-training regime has always included open access to the restroom. Meaning, if I’m “resting” in that particular “room” the child in training has access to come in and observe. It seems to me kids learn a lot by watching as they're natural imitators.
One of the more challenging parts for a parent during this time in the child’s life is the child's obsession with the body parts we’re trying control. My son decided to name his penis a “hooter”. His hooter was his new best friend. He carried it everywhere. A sort of confirmation that he was just like everyone else, except maybe a bit smaller. A “pinkie” to everyone else’s thumb (on this note, this same child took to calling his underwear “pinkie bumps”-no further explanation necessary). I personally get a little creeped out by children saying “penis” or “vulva”. So, hooter it is.
I’m in the restroom when my son decides to engage in some “on the job observation”. Well, two year olds aren’t very tall by nature, so his eyes were nearly perfectly level with the action. It wasn't long before he pointed and said, “Mommy’s hooter”. Looking back, I should have pretended not to hear him. But instead I explained, “Daddies and brothers have hooters. Mommies have hoohaws”. He smiled and said, “well, your hoohaw has feathers”. And believe me, if I could fly-I would have.
I don't understand why I felt it necessary to name my own ‘parts’. I’ve never felt a need to reference them (present article excluded) to anyone except my doctor with whom I can use the clinical terms. Having been a parent most of my adult life, I haven't peed in private in nearly 13 years. I think it's a good time to start.
My advice is this:
1. They make potty training videos now-BUY ONE. No need for the live action shots. Children can “observe” a cartoon going potty and probably enjoy it twice as much.
2. Sometimes it’s just better to let people ‘call ‘em like they see ‘em’. I mean after all, why can’t Mommies have hooters?
So onward and upward...my potty-training regime has always included open access to the restroom. Meaning, if I’m “resting” in that particular “room” the child in training has access to come in and observe. It seems to me kids learn a lot by watching as they're natural imitators.
One of the more challenging parts for a parent during this time in the child’s life is the child's obsession with the body parts we’re trying control. My son decided to name his penis a “hooter”. His hooter was his new best friend. He carried it everywhere. A sort of confirmation that he was just like everyone else, except maybe a bit smaller. A “pinkie” to everyone else’s thumb (on this note, this same child took to calling his underwear “pinkie bumps”-no further explanation necessary). I personally get a little creeped out by children saying “penis” or “vulva”. So, hooter it is.
I’m in the restroom when my son decides to engage in some “on the job observation”. Well, two year olds aren’t very tall by nature, so his eyes were nearly perfectly level with the action. It wasn't long before he pointed and said, “Mommy’s hooter”. Looking back, I should have pretended not to hear him. But instead I explained, “Daddies and brothers have hooters. Mommies have hoohaws”. He smiled and said, “well, your hoohaw has feathers”. And believe me, if I could fly-I would have.
I don't understand why I felt it necessary to name my own ‘parts’. I’ve never felt a need to reference them (present article excluded) to anyone except my doctor with whom I can use the clinical terms. Having been a parent most of my adult life, I haven't peed in private in nearly 13 years. I think it's a good time to start.
My advice is this:
1. They make potty training videos now-BUY ONE. No need for the live action shots. Children can “observe” a cartoon going potty and probably enjoy it twice as much.
2. Sometimes it’s just better to let people ‘call ‘em like they see ‘em’. I mean after all, why can’t Mommies have hooters?
What the...?
Having already been gifted with two daughters, I was finally blessed with the son for whom I’d prayed most of my adult life. One daughter was six, and the other was two. My son may have been a week old when my oldest daughter decided to watch me change a diaper. I thought nothing of this innocent observation and was quite flattered that she felt me interesting enough to watch. Most of my queries these days were met with a cluck of her tongue and a roll of her eyes. My son disrobed, I carefully wiped him down, and out of the corner of my eye I caught the familiar “What the….?” forehead wrinkle. She’d been on her father’s family farm hundreds of times, and was very aware of the difference between hens and roosters, but it occurred to me, she’d never actually SEEN it. Inevitably, she pointed there and said, “What’s that?" This did not shake me as one might think. I’ve had MANY frank conversations with this child, and at this point she had me pretty seasoned. My SuperMom Answer of the Year was, “Those are called testicles. That’s part of the difference between boys and girls, and those are the parts that will help him make babies someday.” I literally high-fived myself. I mean, really, who could have answered that better? Honest, informative, yet not too graphic. My smirk of self-righteousness was met with a look of utter horror as she asked, “Are they gonna fall off when his belly button does?”
Speechless, all I could mutter was "Let's hope not".
Speechless, all I could mutter was "Let's hope not".
Dreams and Vapors
My friend Kari and I always come up with these fabulous plans. Sometimes even going so far as to put stuff on paper, only to look back two years later at a bunch of unfinished summer road trips, compilation novels, remodel projects, and garage sales. It's really all Kari's fault anyway. I mean after all, she actually finished college, so she ought to be good on the follow through, perhaps I've corrupted her beyond all repair. Anyway, the next several posts will be a collection of short but true stories chronicling our trials raising our kids.
The many faces on an 8 year old girl
Oy vey, this child. I'm not so naive as to think my daughters won't be moody and overly emotional once their hormones completely ravage their once sweet and caring little souls. BUT FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! This child will be the death of me. Everything either makes her cry or makes her angry.
She has gotten into a rut of wanting to wear the same shirt with the same jeans 3 days a week. So, my husband and I made a game of seeing if she can not wear the same outfit twice in one week. This should not be a problem when you consider she has more clothes in her closet than a sidewalk sale at Old Navy. One would think.
Thursday evening, she picks out her outfit not only for Friday, but for Monday as well. Please press pause on the celebrations.
Well, come Friday morning, she suddenly remembers it's spirit day and she wants to wear her school t-shirt with the mascot. And it TOTALLY doesn't go with pants she's already picked out. Keep in mind that spirit day is by no means a requirement for 3rd grade. But judging by the boo-hoos and lamenting her general misfortune in life, we could be lead to believe she's just been diagnosed with some horribly disfiguring disease. So, out come the faded jeans (bypassing the THREE brand new pair) and her school logo shirt. She added a long sleeve shirt underneath and a different necklace, so I suppose all was not lost.
Monday morning rolls around. The outfit reserved for this day has been lying in her chair since Thursday night. Suddenly it occurs to her that the long sleeves on this outfit (we live in the Texas panhandle and it's an average of 30 degrees this time of year with the winds blowing straight out of the north at roughly 45 mph) will be as stifling as trying to squeeze a St Bernard in through the cat door. So, another 30 minutes spent lamenting her terrible misfortune of being cursed with this family. Maybe I didn't breast feed her long enough?
She has gotten into a rut of wanting to wear the same shirt with the same jeans 3 days a week. So, my husband and I made a game of seeing if she can not wear the same outfit twice in one week. This should not be a problem when you consider she has more clothes in her closet than a sidewalk sale at Old Navy. One would think.
Thursday evening, she picks out her outfit not only for Friday, but for Monday as well. Please press pause on the celebrations.
Well, come Friday morning, she suddenly remembers it's spirit day and she wants to wear her school t-shirt with the mascot. And it TOTALLY doesn't go with pants she's already picked out. Keep in mind that spirit day is by no means a requirement for 3rd grade. But judging by the boo-hoos and lamenting her general misfortune in life, we could be lead to believe she's just been diagnosed with some horribly disfiguring disease. So, out come the faded jeans (bypassing the THREE brand new pair) and her school logo shirt. She added a long sleeve shirt underneath and a different necklace, so I suppose all was not lost.
Monday morning rolls around. The outfit reserved for this day has been lying in her chair since Thursday night. Suddenly it occurs to her that the long sleeves on this outfit (we live in the Texas panhandle and it's an average of 30 degrees this time of year with the winds blowing straight out of the north at roughly 45 mph) will be as stifling as trying to squeeze a St Bernard in through the cat door. So, another 30 minutes spent lamenting her terrible misfortune of being cursed with this family. Maybe I didn't breast feed her long enough?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Okay, maybe a bit redundant, especially since I just opened this blog today. Barack Obama has his choice for the presidential dog narrowed to 2-a labradoodle and a portugese water hound. I asked my friend Kari to clarify a portugese water hound. I won't state exactly how she worded it, but let's just say a portugese water hound is even more effeminate than a labradoodle. Kari's argument is this-we're the strongest, most powerful nation in the world, shouldn't our president have a really bad ass dog? I understand his daughter has a dog allergy-so get her a fish. I think Kari's right though, our president should have a really huge, growling Doberman. I'm a fan of Dobermans-or would it be DobermEn? hee hee. A pit bull maybe with a great big spiked collar tethered to one of the columns at 1600 Pennsylvania might send just the right message. Even if our nation is becoming more and more "all bark and no bite", can't we at least make sure there's a bark?
First Day
01/12/2009
Well this is my first day blogging and I don't know if I know what the hell I'm doing, but thought this would be fun. I'd like to thank Rosie O'Donnell for her inspiration and my friend Kari :). Lots of things happen to me EVERY DAY that I think other people will think are funny, or scary, or maybe just plain assed weird and most people won't like this, but then again it's a day in MY life not yours....
D
Well this is my first day blogging and I don't know if I know what the hell I'm doing, but thought this would be fun. I'd like to thank Rosie O'Donnell for her inspiration and my friend Kari :). Lots of things happen to me EVERY DAY that I think other people will think are funny, or scary, or maybe just plain assed weird and most people won't like this, but then again it's a day in MY life not yours....
D
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