She was my first baby, her eyes so bright and intelligent. Her little paws velvet soft, used only for a few weeks before she came home with us.
I remember her sweet, milky breath and that warm puppy smell.
I remember how excited she was, that I needed to sit by her food bowl in order for her to pay attention to her food long enough to eat it.
I remember the first time she barfed up stuff that wasn't food. I couldn't imagine why lint, a small scrap of wire, mulch, and part of something plastic seemed appetizing to her, yet the evidence was clear that she'd eaten all of that.
I remember her surprise when she discovered frogs and they jumped.
I remember long walks in the cool of night. And later, walks with two dogs hitched to the front of the jogging stroller like a team of horses.
I remember her constant affection.
I remember using her for a pillow while napping when I was pregnant with Milo.
I remember that she knew I was pregnant before I did each time I was pregnant. And that she also knew when I wasn't pregnant any more and was mourning losses.
She had a scent -- musky, musty and wise. It was all her own and it comforted me whenever I felt life was too hectic, too spastic, too much.
I miss you, Mo. I miss you when you begged for food (pizza and pork were your favorites). You were never so beautiful as when you begged for food.
You were so smart, so sweet, so very, very kind and patient. You knew who loved you and you loved them back, amply. My children loved and love you. They bore the news of your death with large, sad eyes. Milo's tears spilled into my shirt and Violet watched your body, soaking up the details of your fur as if she was taking a photo.
I have cried for you every night as I sit in the quiet dark, listening to Tessie's melancholy snore and the whirring of my pump. I think of all of the joy you brought me and hope that you will forgive me that the last six weeks of your life were a blur of newborn twins for us. I am so sorry that I just didn't have enough of me to go around and that you and Tess were the ones who got the least.
Oh, my Mo... I hope that you are somewhere dreaming a wonderful dream, chasing pheasants or splashing in a pond or playing fetch with a sweet-faced blond boy in the waning evening sunlight. I miss you, MoMo, and always will.
Mocha Latte
7/9/00 - 5/31/11
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Hey, Look! It's a Freakishly Huge Pregnant Lady!
Hey! It's Sunday. I don't normally post on a Sunday, but after a series of unfortunate events (none of them mine, naturally), I ended up sleeping up on the couch through a loud, loud thunderstorm. Which apparently scared the poop out of Tess. And onto my toy room floor, grrr... So after cleaning that up, I'm wide awake for the day.
I thought I'd show y'all what one might look like if one were 47 weeks pregnant with one baby. Or what I look like 32 weeks and 5 days pregnant with two. Since my doc seems pretty convinced I'll carry to term, I have decided that my ultimate goal is to beat her previous "biggest belly" record of 56cm. Which I will do if I continue to grow at a rate of 2cm per week -- I'll hit 57cm at 38 weeks, or eviction time.
I hope I don't spoil your brunch by posting this pic...
I thought I'd show y'all what one might look like if one were 47 weeks pregnant with one baby. Or what I look like 32 weeks and 5 days pregnant with two. Since my doc seems pretty convinced I'll carry to term, I have decided that my ultimate goal is to beat her previous "biggest belly" record of 56cm. Which I will do if I continue to grow at a rate of 2cm per week -- I'll hit 57cm at 38 weeks, or eviction time.
I hope I don't spoil your brunch by posting this pic...
Monday, December 6, 2010
15 Minutes Behind Schedule
This morning was definitely a Monday.
Scott came home yesterday after a successful hunt -- he and his brothers, father, nephews, and a few old coots party hunt in the southern part of the state. I think maybe 10 people go? Something like that. Anyway, the first night down there they eat at some restaurant where prime rib is served and every year he ends up in digestive distress from it. Poor guy! They brought home four deer, so it wasn't a great hunt. Unless you are Scott and got two of the deer, one while borrowing your brother's shotgun because the firing pin in yours wasn't working.
The kids and I were very glad to have him home, yay! He missed the first snowfall -- about 2 inches of soft, white snow. Pregnant mama decided she wasn't interested in shoveling the walk, so that didn't get done. Oh, well...
Pregnant mama also has a cold. It's not a very bad one, mostly some out-of-control nasal congestion. But when all you can do for that is drink a bunch of water and wear Vicks Vapo-rub to bed, you don't get very restful sleep. The last three nights, I'll sleep soundly until the first bathroom break, then I toss and turn and wake with my mouth all dry and fuzzy and my nose completely plugged shut. So I drink water, which makes me have to pee again and the cycle repeats for five hours until the alarm goes off. Sigh... I finally got a little rest sleeping sitting up, propped by five pillows. Maybe if I start the night that way I won't end up with a mouth so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth.
After that wonderful night's sleep, I creak down the stairs slowly to discover that one dog has pooped on the floor and the other has puked on the floor. I lit a bunch of candles and chose to clean up the puke as it was mostly phlegm and not nearly as stinky as the poop. Milo comes down the stairs, cute as can be in his waaaay too big snowman pajamas. "Mom! Don't you know what size I wear??" Well, yes, dear. The problem is you wear a size 6, which is almost always paired with a 7 and NOT a 5. So your size 6 pajamas are closer to a size 7. Just pull them up to your armpits -- no one can see because she shirt comes down to your knees.
Scott finally comes down and cleans up the dog poo while I make my cereal (15 minutes late) and the get the kids' milk. I eat as quickly as one can when trying to eat shredded wheat on a sore throat and hop into the shower as Scott heads upstairs to wake Princess Sleepyhead. I get out of the shower and stick my head out of the bathroom because one of the kids is yelling something to Scott. I figure when I don't hear an adult male voice, he's going outside to start the car or let the chickens out. But nope. Apparently he was still having digestive distress from the prime rib or something, because he was in the other bathroom. And Milo was dressed, but Violet was not. And we're 15 minutes behind schedule by this point. D'oh!
I dash upstairs to get dressed, thinking, "I'd better wear my snowboots."
Wait a minute -- so should Milo. And he should pack his snowpants. Neither of which have been labeled yet. Neither of which have had the tags cut off yet. And we're 15 minutes behind schedule. Thank goodness Scott had the same idea because when I cam flying down the stairs, he was holding Milo's boots and a Sharpie, trying to figure out where to put his name. I hand him the snowpants, too and order the kids into their coats.
Naturally, as soon as Violet sees the snowpants, she needs hers, too. Fortunately, Scott is able to distract her with a handful of trail mix. One of his hands full, which means both of her hands are full of trail mix and she's not in her coat, but demanding to wear her mittens. So we scrape the trail mix off of her little hands and get her into her coat. I hand her the mittens as I hear Milo head out of the house. Then I hear her following me as I run for my coat in the opposite direction of out of the house. "No! Other way, Violet!"
"But my mittens! I'm cold!"
"Daddy -- have daddy help you with your mittens, mommy doesn't even have her coat on!"
She sighs audibly (when did I start raising a pint-sized Marge Simpson?) and trudges to the door, where daddy is waiting and helps her with her purple mittens. Kids are in the car and somehow we've made up five minutes, so we're only ten minutes late at this point.
Thankfully, the roads aren't bad and I get into town about as fast as normal. Drop Violet off and pick up the sitter's youngest, get to school where we're late enough that the crossing guard has abandoned her post, but the drop-off line is still almost a block long. Usher the boys across the street and into the school where I help Milo out of his new boots and into his shoes and leave before the bell rings. That was about as close as we've ever been to being late, but we made it, whew!
This was so NOT the way I wanted to start this work week. Really, it wasn't. Deep breaths, mama...
Scott came home yesterday after a successful hunt -- he and his brothers, father, nephews, and a few old coots party hunt in the southern part of the state. I think maybe 10 people go? Something like that. Anyway, the first night down there they eat at some restaurant where prime rib is served and every year he ends up in digestive distress from it. Poor guy! They brought home four deer, so it wasn't a great hunt. Unless you are Scott and got two of the deer, one while borrowing your brother's shotgun because the firing pin in yours wasn't working.
The kids and I were very glad to have him home, yay! He missed the first snowfall -- about 2 inches of soft, white snow. Pregnant mama decided she wasn't interested in shoveling the walk, so that didn't get done. Oh, well...
Pregnant mama also has a cold. It's not a very bad one, mostly some out-of-control nasal congestion. But when all you can do for that is drink a bunch of water and wear Vicks Vapo-rub to bed, you don't get very restful sleep. The last three nights, I'll sleep soundly until the first bathroom break, then I toss and turn and wake with my mouth all dry and fuzzy and my nose completely plugged shut. So I drink water, which makes me have to pee again and the cycle repeats for five hours until the alarm goes off. Sigh... I finally got a little rest sleeping sitting up, propped by five pillows. Maybe if I start the night that way I won't end up with a mouth so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth.
After that wonderful night's sleep, I creak down the stairs slowly to discover that one dog has pooped on the floor and the other has puked on the floor. I lit a bunch of candles and chose to clean up the puke as it was mostly phlegm and not nearly as stinky as the poop. Milo comes down the stairs, cute as can be in his waaaay too big snowman pajamas. "Mom! Don't you know what size I wear??" Well, yes, dear. The problem is you wear a size 6, which is almost always paired with a 7 and NOT a 5. So your size 6 pajamas are closer to a size 7. Just pull them up to your armpits -- no one can see because she shirt comes down to your knees.
Scott finally comes down and cleans up the dog poo while I make my cereal (15 minutes late) and the get the kids' milk. I eat as quickly as one can when trying to eat shredded wheat on a sore throat and hop into the shower as Scott heads upstairs to wake Princess Sleepyhead. I get out of the shower and stick my head out of the bathroom because one of the kids is yelling something to Scott. I figure when I don't hear an adult male voice, he's going outside to start the car or let the chickens out. But nope. Apparently he was still having digestive distress from the prime rib or something, because he was in the other bathroom. And Milo was dressed, but Violet was not. And we're 15 minutes behind schedule by this point. D'oh!
I dash upstairs to get dressed, thinking, "I'd better wear my snowboots."
Wait a minute -- so should Milo. And he should pack his snowpants. Neither of which have been labeled yet. Neither of which have had the tags cut off yet. And we're 15 minutes behind schedule. Thank goodness Scott had the same idea because when I cam flying down the stairs, he was holding Milo's boots and a Sharpie, trying to figure out where to put his name. I hand him the snowpants, too and order the kids into their coats.
Naturally, as soon as Violet sees the snowpants, she needs hers, too. Fortunately, Scott is able to distract her with a handful of trail mix. One of his hands full, which means both of her hands are full of trail mix and she's not in her coat, but demanding to wear her mittens. So we scrape the trail mix off of her little hands and get her into her coat. I hand her the mittens as I hear Milo head out of the house. Then I hear her following me as I run for my coat in the opposite direction of out of the house. "No! Other way, Violet!"
"But my mittens! I'm cold!"
"Daddy -- have daddy help you with your mittens, mommy doesn't even have her coat on!"
She sighs audibly (when did I start raising a pint-sized Marge Simpson?) and trudges to the door, where daddy is waiting and helps her with her purple mittens. Kids are in the car and somehow we've made up five minutes, so we're only ten minutes late at this point.
Thankfully, the roads aren't bad and I get into town about as fast as normal. Drop Violet off and pick up the sitter's youngest, get to school where we're late enough that the crossing guard has abandoned her post, but the drop-off line is still almost a block long. Usher the boys across the street and into the school where I help Milo out of his new boots and into his shoes and leave before the bell rings. That was about as close as we've ever been to being late, but we made it, whew!
This was so NOT the way I wanted to start this work week. Really, it wasn't. Deep breaths, mama...
Monday, November 22, 2010
The Night that Never Was
Some days it just doesn't pay to even try to go to bed.
Last night was one of those loooong, never-ending nights. First of all, it is not good for me to watch episodes of "The Walking Dead" and "Dexter" before I try to sleep. Not good at all. I'm not a scaredy-cat or a weenie, but the tension in these shows makes it darn near impossible for me to shut off my brain. So, yeah, bad choice on my part. Well, OK, I wouldn't have even watched the zombies if it wasn't for the horror-lovin' man I married, so that one is his fault.
And then there was the thunderstorm. Yep, you read correctly. A thunderstorm on November 21. In Iowa. Sigh... Ever since we moved out into the country, Tess has developed a fear of storms. I don't know if it's because they're louder or brighter or windier, but she'll lay at the bottom of the steps whining. If someone doesn't respond to her, she escalates to moaning. Then to yipping. And, finally, to barking. Which is the point that I fly out of bed, cursing and grumbling down the stairs to sleep on the couch.
Normally, this would be where the story would end -- with me sleeping the rest of the night on the couch, trading a c-pap wearing hubby for snoring, farting dogs. Normally.
But not last night. Nope. At 3 a.m. my darling princess starts crying in her sleep. I gave her a moment or two to see if she would settle, but she didn't. That meant I also gave daddy a moment or two to wake up and realize what was going on, which, thanks to Mr. Ambien, he did not. So I stumbled back up the stairs to comfort her and help her not tip into the toilet when she fell back asleep going potty. Daddy and I met each other at her bedroom door, him looking confused and me looking like one of The Walking Dead.
No more thunder (or so I thought) and I go back to sleep in my bed. Again, thanks to Mr. Ambien, daddy is out in mere seconds while I try to position the pillows around the rapidly growing belly for minimum discomfort. I drift off to sleep...
Until 4:45 a.m. when a second round of storms go through and I end up stumbling BACK down the steps to quiet the dog before she wakes the rest of the house. I conk out on the couch when click! the table lamp on the timer clicks on to start the day. Only it's an hour early because I have forgotten to reset the time with the conclusion of Daylight Savings Time.
I.
give.
up.
Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!
Last night was one of those loooong, never-ending nights. First of all, it is not good for me to watch episodes of "The Walking Dead" and "Dexter" before I try to sleep. Not good at all. I'm not a scaredy-cat or a weenie, but the tension in these shows makes it darn near impossible for me to shut off my brain. So, yeah, bad choice on my part. Well, OK, I wouldn't have even watched the zombies if it wasn't for the horror-lovin' man I married, so that one is his fault.
And then there was the thunderstorm. Yep, you read correctly. A thunderstorm on November 21. In Iowa. Sigh... Ever since we moved out into the country, Tess has developed a fear of storms. I don't know if it's because they're louder or brighter or windier, but she'll lay at the bottom of the steps whining. If someone doesn't respond to her, she escalates to moaning. Then to yipping. And, finally, to barking. Which is the point that I fly out of bed, cursing and grumbling down the stairs to sleep on the couch.
Normally, this would be where the story would end -- with me sleeping the rest of the night on the couch, trading a c-pap wearing hubby for snoring, farting dogs. Normally.
But not last night. Nope. At 3 a.m. my darling princess starts crying in her sleep. I gave her a moment or two to see if she would settle, but she didn't. That meant I also gave daddy a moment or two to wake up and realize what was going on, which, thanks to Mr. Ambien, he did not. So I stumbled back up the stairs to comfort her and help her not tip into the toilet when she fell back asleep going potty. Daddy and I met each other at her bedroom door, him looking confused and me looking like one of The Walking Dead.
No more thunder (or so I thought) and I go back to sleep in my bed. Again, thanks to Mr. Ambien, daddy is out in mere seconds while I try to position the pillows around the rapidly growing belly for minimum discomfort. I drift off to sleep...
Until 4:45 a.m. when a second round of storms go through and I end up stumbling BACK down the steps to quiet the dog before she wakes the rest of the house. I conk out on the couch when click! the table lamp on the timer clicks on to start the day. Only it's an hour early because I have forgotten to reset the time with the conclusion of Daylight Savings Time.
I.
give.
up.
Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
It's a Doggone Furry World
My dogs are shedding right now. Oh, who am I kidding, they're almost always shedding. But it is worse in the summer when they drop their fluffy warm undercoats. Because neither man nor beast should have to swelter under a double coat of fur in the heat and humidity of Iowa July. Yes, that is a suggestion to the hubster than he might want to shave one of these days.
Their shedding has left piles and clumps of fur all over my hardwood floors. When I turn the ceiling fan on, the fur scurries away like living creatures, crowding into the corners of the room in search of escape. Because of this, my trusty Dyson stands at the ready for anyone to suck up the fur, lickety-split. And I've been using it daily and sometimes twice a day to manage the cartwheeling tumbleweeds of dog fur.
Apparently, however, I am the only being in the house that notices the fur. I already know that I am the only one who obsesses over it, vowing to hunt it down and suck it into submission. I say that it bothers no one else because I did not have a chance to perform a pre-work sweep this morning and now I am home at the end of my part-time day and the fur has not only not budged, but it has multiplied.
As a result, I am spending 10 minutes on this blog entry, then I'm teaming up with my Dyson to suck up the dog fur. Again. And again. And again. I think that the fur actually breeds faster than laundry, and we all know how quickly that gets out of control...
Their shedding has left piles and clumps of fur all over my hardwood floors. When I turn the ceiling fan on, the fur scurries away like living creatures, crowding into the corners of the room in search of escape. Because of this, my trusty Dyson stands at the ready for anyone to suck up the fur, lickety-split. And I've been using it daily and sometimes twice a day to manage the cartwheeling tumbleweeds of dog fur.
Apparently, however, I am the only being in the house that notices the fur. I already know that I am the only one who obsesses over it, vowing to hunt it down and suck it into submission. I say that it bothers no one else because I did not have a chance to perform a pre-work sweep this morning and now I am home at the end of my part-time day and the fur has not only not budged, but it has multiplied.
As a result, I am spending 10 minutes on this blog entry, then I'm teaming up with my Dyson to suck up the dog fur. Again. And again. And again. I think that the fur actually breeds faster than laundry, and we all know how quickly that gets out of control...
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
No Coffee!?!
My coffee maker has died. I have mourned her death daily for the last, but never more than I did this morning.
There were some pretty noisy storms that swept through the area last night, loud rumbling thunder rattling my windows and vivid lightning darting across the sky. My children slept through this symphony. One of my dogs slept, too. And the other?
Oh heck-to-the-NO. My chubby Tess was uncharacteristically spooked by the storms, barking repeatedly from downstairs as she pawed at the baby gate at the bottom of the steps. She barks, then pauses for five seconds to listen for someone (me) to rouse upstairs, then barks again -- just one bark every five seconds like an alarm clock. She did this last night at midnight. Two A.M. Two-thirty A.M. and at 3 A.M.
Up until last night, we had been sleeping comfortably dog-less upstairs because the dogs are typically restless sleepers, panting, groaning, snoring, actively dreaming, and, most offensively, farting all night long. When we moved in November, they were both hesitant to climb the uncarpeted stairs, afraid of sliding all the way down if they slipped. I was really OK with this. In December, Mocha had decided she was tired of living downstairs and came up during the kids' bath. But overnight, she didn't bother coming upstairs because we'd closed all of the bedroom doors. Or at least, I never noticed her coming upstairs. She's sooo refined, as long as you exclude her frozen poop addiction.
This spring, Tess decided to overcome her fear of the stairs and has joined us upstairs at odd times, normally startling us because we don't expect her to lug her generous weight up the steps. So we put up a baby gate at the bottom of the steps because she is not nearly as polite as Mocha -- she will whine and paw and bark to get into a room with a closed door. This was what she did last night -- rammed into my door like a freight train, startling the snot out of me, jolting me wide awake at 3 A.M. Hey, 130 pounds of Lab makes a LOUD noise.
Frustrated and exhausted, I did what every parent who is tired of comforting a non-sleeping child does -- let her into the room. And begged her to sleep quietly and not fart, oh please, oh please, oh please...
Sleep training an old dog new tricks sucks. And it sucks even more when you don't have any coffee...
There were some pretty noisy storms that swept through the area last night, loud rumbling thunder rattling my windows and vivid lightning darting across the sky. My children slept through this symphony. One of my dogs slept, too. And the other?
Oh heck-to-the-NO. My chubby Tess was uncharacteristically spooked by the storms, barking repeatedly from downstairs as she pawed at the baby gate at the bottom of the steps. She barks, then pauses for five seconds to listen for someone (me) to rouse upstairs, then barks again -- just one bark every five seconds like an alarm clock. She did this last night at midnight. Two A.M. Two-thirty A.M. and at 3 A.M.
Up until last night, we had been sleeping comfortably dog-less upstairs because the dogs are typically restless sleepers, panting, groaning, snoring, actively dreaming, and, most offensively, farting all night long. When we moved in November, they were both hesitant to climb the uncarpeted stairs, afraid of sliding all the way down if they slipped. I was really OK with this. In December, Mocha had decided she was tired of living downstairs and came up during the kids' bath. But overnight, she didn't bother coming upstairs because we'd closed all of the bedroom doors. Or at least, I never noticed her coming upstairs. She's sooo refined, as long as you exclude her frozen poop addiction.
This spring, Tess decided to overcome her fear of the stairs and has joined us upstairs at odd times, normally startling us because we don't expect her to lug her generous weight up the steps. So we put up a baby gate at the bottom of the steps because she is not nearly as polite as Mocha -- she will whine and paw and bark to get into a room with a closed door. This was what she did last night -- rammed into my door like a freight train, startling the snot out of me, jolting me wide awake at 3 A.M. Hey, 130 pounds of Lab makes a LOUD noise.
Frustrated and exhausted, I did what every parent who is tired of comforting a non-sleeping child does -- let her into the room. And begged her to sleep quietly and not fart, oh please, oh please, oh please...
Sleep training an old dog new tricks sucks. And it sucks even more when you don't have any coffee...
Monday, May 24, 2010
Plantin' in the Dark
So this is how my blog is described over at Scholastic: A dose of Midwestern scarcasm from a mom trying to get healthy while raising two children
Didja notice the typo? Or maybe it's not a typo... Maybe I am super-scary. My kids DO look at me like I have three heads sometimes. And, for some reason, I intimidate a couple of my hubby's cousins so much that they won't talk to me. Right now, my fingernails are kinda long, so they could be mistaken for talons. And my hair is normally VERY scary -- wavy and windblown on the mildest of days.
It's OK, though. I won't let the notoriety go to my head. You ain't gonna change me, maaaan!
I am admitting to checking out the competition. And following them. Some competitor I am...
Dadcentric is huge. And male. And it might be hairier than I am. Maybe.
The Adventures of Bean and Goobs reads like my bloggy twin. Except that her kids are a smidge younger than mine and they're both boys.
To turn back towards me (hello, spotlight!) for a moment I'm going to share some of the misadventures of the last 10 hours:
Scott and I split a bottle of wine and watched the Lost series finale. You may have caught my mid-broadcast tweets. Though I wanted to, I did not chuck a shoe at the screen. We did, however, grab a couple of lanterns and head out into the dark of the back yard to plant our blue spruce fingerlings.
"You and me goin' plantin' in the dark..." Hey! I'm not using that as a euphemism -- still mid-miscarriage here, OK? But yeah, there we were, stumbling around the yard, inhaling far too many gnats to consider it a coincidence, planting the 9 free trees my mother got from the Arbor Day Foundation. Don't worry, I did clip the baby monitor to the front of the wheelbarrow, so if the kids needed us, we could have rushed back into the house, leaving a trail of topsoil behind us.
This morning, I discovered that the crazy mutts have perfected a new trick: one poops on the floor, the other eats it to clean up the evidence. Might have worked had the snacker not stepped in it before dining. I can just picture the two of them pulling off this caper. No, on second thought, I don't want to picture that.
Don't say I didn't warn you -- there is a disclaimer right there under my picture that says I might be talking about poop. It's not even in fine print...
Didja notice the typo? Or maybe it's not a typo... Maybe I am super-scary. My kids DO look at me like I have three heads sometimes. And, for some reason, I intimidate a couple of my hubby's cousins so much that they won't talk to me. Right now, my fingernails are kinda long, so they could be mistaken for talons. And my hair is normally VERY scary -- wavy and windblown on the mildest of days.
It's OK, though. I won't let the notoriety go to my head. You ain't gonna change me, maaaan!
I am admitting to checking out the competition. And following them. Some competitor I am...
Dadcentric is huge. And male. And it might be hairier than I am. Maybe.
The Adventures of Bean and Goobs reads like my bloggy twin. Except that her kids are a smidge younger than mine and they're both boys.
To turn back towards me (hello, spotlight!) for a moment I'm going to share some of the misadventures of the last 10 hours:
Scott and I split a bottle of wine and watched the Lost series finale. You may have caught my mid-broadcast tweets. Though I wanted to, I did not chuck a shoe at the screen. We did, however, grab a couple of lanterns and head out into the dark of the back yard to plant our blue spruce fingerlings.
"You and me goin' plantin' in the dark..." Hey! I'm not using that as a euphemism -- still mid-miscarriage here, OK? But yeah, there we were, stumbling around the yard, inhaling far too many gnats to consider it a coincidence, planting the 9 free trees my mother got from the Arbor Day Foundation. Don't worry, I did clip the baby monitor to the front of the wheelbarrow, so if the kids needed us, we could have rushed back into the house, leaving a trail of topsoil behind us.
This morning, I discovered that the crazy mutts have perfected a new trick: one poops on the floor, the other eats it to clean up the evidence. Might have worked had the snacker not stepped in it before dining. I can just picture the two of them pulling off this caper. No, on second thought, I don't want to picture that.
Don't say I didn't warn you -- there is a disclaimer right there under my picture that says I might be talking about poop. It's not even in fine print...
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Ultimate Blog Party 2010
Hello! Although I am not really a new mom blogger (I have been blogging since August of 2008), I am a sort-of-newish public blog mama since February of 2010. Don't ask me why I felt the need to suddenly go public with my blog, I'm not sure I really have a reason for it. I do know that it seems like a fairly healthy way to have a midlife crisis, right?
Anyway, if you are dropping by to join the party, please overlook the dog fur and kid toys -- I've got two of each and trying to pretend they don't exist is pointless. Grab a seat, but don't be surprised if my son begs to play Star Wars guys with you or my daughter drags you to the kid-sized table where she's sticking glittery stickers to a piece of pink construction paper. Or if my husband kidnaps you to the basement where we're keeping our first brood of Buff Orpington chicks, at least until he gets the coop built. Did you know that they have automatic chicken coop doors? I didn't know that until yesterday, either.
My life is pretty ordinary, and I'm sure that is the biggest reason I didn't go public with my blog when I first started writing. I was a good student, married my college sweetheart, moved to a mid-Atlantic state when he was in graduate school, returned to Iowa when he was offered a job about 35 miles from where he grew up -- a big surprise for us because he's a theatre designer and this is, well, this is Iowa. We got a dog, bought a little house, gutted it, got another dog, and renovated the house.
Then we decided to start a family. After an ectopic pregnancy, we had our wonderful son in June of 2005 and made him the big brother of a little sister in September of 2007. We are currently battling unexpected secondary infertility. I swallowed my first dose of Clomid about an hour ago. I don't feel any more fertile yet...
This past November, we bought a big old farmhouse out in the country. This has been a bit of an adjustment for us (mice. Mice. Mice! MICE!), though we are eager to put in a gi-gundous garden this spring and, as I said, we have a small flock of chickens started in the basement. Because organic brown eggs sound super, don't they?
Here are some of my quirks:
1. I like to be funny. Sarcastic, even -- I know, SHOCKER! If you don't want to read a blog where the author admits her shortcomings and pokes fun at herself, you shouldn't read mine.
2. I like to write. I've never hosted a give-away, nor have I monetized my blog. Yet. If I end up pregnant with Clomid quintuplets, I might have to change that policy.
3. I am a fan of the chain description: words-tied-together-with-hyphens-to-make-a-funny-run-on-point. Yep. I like me my hyphens... And ellipses...
4. I like comments. OK, who doesn't. I follow up diligently. Really, I do!
5. I'm a lunch-hour blogger, so if my schedule gets keee-razy, I don't get a chance to give my blog or bloggy friends the love. I hope you can forgive me, but I gots-ta pay the bills. My hubby works in arts education, 'nuff said.
6. I try to be positive and witty and clever, but the struggle we've had trying to conceive baby #3 has stretched my good humor to the limit. Some of my more recent posts were a little darker than I would normally write. But, since I am above all an honest blogger, writing something that was all cheery and rah-rah-rah when I was feeling blah-blah-blah was resoundingly fake, so I didn't do it.
Here are some of my most favorite posts:
Malfunctioning Bedroom Devices
Brontophobia: Fear of Storms
Sleep
In case my blog gets pulled for a prize, here are my top three choices:
US6 – Hand Stamped Personalized Necklace valued at $48 The Double Stacked A Lot Of Love.
Provided by: Kristen’s Custom Creations I lved this design and don't have any mother's jewelry!
US97 – One winner will receive a beautiful handmade wire and colorful bead necklace from the mission-driven company, Ana Patricia! just thought this was so much fun!
USC 10 – One winner will receive a beautiful handmade glass pendant with their choice of chain. The piece is made by me with care using glass and paper. The design I will give away is called “Lilac“. I fell in love with this -- so very pretty!
Other prizes in which I'm interested: US39, US44, US66, US110, and USC19. My son is 4 and daughter is 2, so anything appropriate for them is fine, too!
Anyway, if you are dropping by to join the party, please overlook the dog fur and kid toys -- I've got two of each and trying to pretend they don't exist is pointless. Grab a seat, but don't be surprised if my son begs to play Star Wars guys with you or my daughter drags you to the kid-sized table where she's sticking glittery stickers to a piece of pink construction paper. Or if my husband kidnaps you to the basement where we're keeping our first brood of Buff Orpington chicks, at least until he gets the coop built. Did you know that they have automatic chicken coop doors? I didn't know that until yesterday, either.
My life is pretty ordinary, and I'm sure that is the biggest reason I didn't go public with my blog when I first started writing. I was a good student, married my college sweetheart, moved to a mid-Atlantic state when he was in graduate school, returned to Iowa when he was offered a job about 35 miles from where he grew up -- a big surprise for us because he's a theatre designer and this is, well, this is Iowa. We got a dog, bought a little house, gutted it, got another dog, and renovated the house.
Then we decided to start a family. After an ectopic pregnancy, we had our wonderful son in June of 2005 and made him the big brother of a little sister in September of 2007. We are currently battling unexpected secondary infertility. I swallowed my first dose of Clomid about an hour ago. I don't feel any more fertile yet...
This past November, we bought a big old farmhouse out in the country. This has been a bit of an adjustment for us (mice. Mice. Mice! MICE!), though we are eager to put in a gi-gundous garden this spring and, as I said, we have a small flock of chickens started in the basement. Because organic brown eggs sound super, don't they?
Here are some of my quirks:
1. I like to be funny. Sarcastic, even -- I know, SHOCKER! If you don't want to read a blog where the author admits her shortcomings and pokes fun at herself, you shouldn't read mine.
2. I like to write. I've never hosted a give-away, nor have I monetized my blog. Yet. If I end up pregnant with Clomid quintuplets, I might have to change that policy.
3. I am a fan of the chain description: words-tied-together-with-hyphens-to-make-a-funny-run-on-point. Yep. I like me my hyphens... And ellipses...
4. I like comments. OK, who doesn't. I follow up diligently. Really, I do!
5. I'm a lunch-hour blogger, so if my schedule gets keee-razy, I don't get a chance to give my blog or bloggy friends the love. I hope you can forgive me, but I gots-ta pay the bills. My hubby works in arts education, 'nuff said.
6. I try to be positive and witty and clever, but the struggle we've had trying to conceive baby #3 has stretched my good humor to the limit. Some of my more recent posts were a little darker than I would normally write. But, since I am above all an honest blogger, writing something that was all cheery and rah-rah-rah when I was feeling blah-blah-blah was resoundingly fake, so I didn't do it.
Here are some of my most favorite posts:
Malfunctioning Bedroom Devices
Brontophobia: Fear of Storms
Sleep
In case my blog gets pulled for a prize, here are my top three choices:
US6 – Hand Stamped Personalized Necklace valued at $48 The Double Stacked A Lot Of Love.
Provided by: Kristen’s Custom Creations I lved this design and don't have any mother's jewelry!
US97 – One winner will receive a beautiful handmade wire and colorful bead necklace from the mission-driven company, Ana Patricia! just thought this was so much fun!
USC 10 – One winner will receive a beautiful handmade glass pendant with their choice of chain. The piece is made by me with care using glass and paper. The design I will give away is called “Lilac“. I fell in love with this -- so very pretty!
Other prizes in which I'm interested: US39, US44, US66, US110, and USC19. My son is 4 and daughter is 2, so anything appropriate for them is fine, too!
Friday, January 22, 2010
Should I bottle that?
Last night was a pretty fun night around the house! Scott seems to have caught up after the stressful last couple of weeks and the kids seemed well rested and happy, so we were all in great moods -- all of us -- at the same time! Wa-hoo!!
When we moved out into the country, we gave up our fenced-in yard, and with that, we gave up the ability to open the door and let the dogs out to run. We've been tying them up off the back porch on 50 foot tie-outs. They do just fine, but had gotten the tie outs crazy knotted and bunched up. Since they're made out of steel cable, Scott brought them into the kitchen to thaw out so that he could untangle them because the last three nights Tess, our fat dog, has gotten herself wrapped under the porch with not enough spare tie-out to get back up on the deck, resulting in me (and yes, it was really always just me) going outside in my pajamas to untangle her so she can come back inside.
As he was waiting for the tie-outs to thaw, he decided to trim the dog's nails, starting with Tess because she has anxiety about it and gets nervous hearing the trimmers. I ran upstairs to get a load of laundry to throw in before I made dinner and when I came back downstairs, he had finished with Tess and had moved on to Mocha's paws.
As I walked into the kitchen, I look over and see that poor, nervous Tess is pooping in front of the back door. We always joke that Tess gets so worked up over having her nails trimmed that it scares the poop out of her because, well, it scares the poop out of her.
I yelped, "Tessie! Stop!" She hears me and runs into the dining room mid-poop, leaving a trail, naturally. Please understand that Scott's head is only about six feet from the first pile'o'poop. Ugh... He felt instantly terrible for not noticing it and he was fully intending to put both of them out as soon as he finished clipping both of them.
Gah! The stench... He cleaned up (with bleach), thankfully, and I lit every candle in the house. And then I decided to cook fish and to make some extra garlic-y Alfredo because I just needed to cover up that odor. What did my kitchen smell like? Bleachy-cinnamon apple (the candles)-garlic-fish-poop. Blech... Should I bottle that?
Here's a Milo "Aww". A few nights ago, as I was nursing Violet at bedtime, he sat up and said as he closed his little fist, "Mom, when I do this, it means I love you because all of your love is in my hand." The next night he tells me the same, but adds as he give me a thumbs-up, "And this means that I love, you, too!" The next night, he adds as he opens his hands wide, "And this means that I love you, too!" The next night, as he does all three of these hand gestures, he says, "Whatever I do with my hands, it means I love you."
And last night, he said, "Mom, whatever I do with my whole body, it means I love you all the time." Sigh... Me, too, little buddy...
Not to be outdone, Violet chimed in, too. She pulled off my breast, looked at it, and gently said to it, "I love you." Then she looks up at me, beaming, and turns back to nursing. I really have the feeling that she was telling my breast that she loves it, not necessarily that she loves me. I guess she is like her daddy in some ways ;)
When we moved out into the country, we gave up our fenced-in yard, and with that, we gave up the ability to open the door and let the dogs out to run. We've been tying them up off the back porch on 50 foot tie-outs. They do just fine, but had gotten the tie outs crazy knotted and bunched up. Since they're made out of steel cable, Scott brought them into the kitchen to thaw out so that he could untangle them because the last three nights Tess, our fat dog, has gotten herself wrapped under the porch with not enough spare tie-out to get back up on the deck, resulting in me (and yes, it was really always just me) going outside in my pajamas to untangle her so she can come back inside.
As he was waiting for the tie-outs to thaw, he decided to trim the dog's nails, starting with Tess because she has anxiety about it and gets nervous hearing the trimmers. I ran upstairs to get a load of laundry to throw in before I made dinner and when I came back downstairs, he had finished with Tess and had moved on to Mocha's paws.
As I walked into the kitchen, I look over and see that poor, nervous Tess is pooping in front of the back door. We always joke that Tess gets so worked up over having her nails trimmed that it scares the poop out of her because, well, it scares the poop out of her.
I yelped, "Tessie! Stop!" She hears me and runs into the dining room mid-poop, leaving a trail, naturally. Please understand that Scott's head is only about six feet from the first pile'o'poop. Ugh... He felt instantly terrible for not noticing it and he was fully intending to put both of them out as soon as he finished clipping both of them.
Gah! The stench... He cleaned up (with bleach), thankfully, and I lit every candle in the house. And then I decided to cook fish and to make some extra garlic-y Alfredo because I just needed to cover up that odor. What did my kitchen smell like? Bleachy-cinnamon apple (the candles)-garlic-fish-poop. Blech... Should I bottle that?
Here's a Milo "Aww". A few nights ago, as I was nursing Violet at bedtime, he sat up and said as he closed his little fist, "Mom, when I do this, it means I love you because all of your love is in my hand." The next night he tells me the same, but adds as he give me a thumbs-up, "And this means that I love, you, too!" The next night, he adds as he opens his hands wide, "And this means that I love you, too!" The next night, as he does all three of these hand gestures, he says, "Whatever I do with my hands, it means I love you."
And last night, he said, "Mom, whatever I do with my whole body, it means I love you all the time." Sigh... Me, too, little buddy...
Not to be outdone, Violet chimed in, too. She pulled off my breast, looked at it, and gently said to it, "I love you." Then she looks up at me, beaming, and turns back to nursing. I really have the feeling that she was telling my breast that she loves it, not necessarily that she loves me. I guess she is like her daddy in some ways ;)
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Please remind me...
I think I am going to start a new thing in my blog -- Please Remind Me. I'm going to use it to sum up stuff that is blog-worthy, but not necessarily worthy of an entire post. Oh, and I poke a little fun at myself along the way...
Please remind me that I hate to sew. Remind me of this when I decide to take apart the custom curtains (originally made by me) and alter them from full-length lined panels into lined valences with beaded trim. Remind me of this when I tackle the project when Violet is asleep and Milo is playing a Wii game that frustrates him, because him being frustrated with a game and me being ticked off at my mother-trucking sewing machine is NOT a good combination. Please remind me that real women do not HAVE to do this crap...
Please remind me that I don't need to pick up any more germs from my little angels. Remind me of this when I'm sitting on mt couch and start coughing and pee a bit. Remind me when I sneeze so crazy hard I actually sneeze my tampon outta my hoo-ha. Remind me of this when I cough so hard that I gag, gag so hard that I vomit, vomit so hard that I dry heave, and dry heave so hard that I spit out bloody mucous. And when I look at myself in the mirror and start crying because I have three inches of green snot dripping down to my chin, I'm red-faced, red-eyed, and sweaty. Remind me again when I look in the mirror later and discover that I've broken all of the blood vessels around my eyes, leading me to look like Stephen Tyler after a freakin' good party -- minus the freakin' good party.
Finally, please remind me to hide my garbage better lest my vandalous, obsessive-compulsive mutts get into it and drag bloody tampons all over the main level of my house when I'm asleep for the night. Apparently, putting it in the shower isn't safe enough, because they pulled down the shower curtain and ransacked the entire room. Remind me of this when I'm cleaning up all of the things they barf up that they shouldn't have eaten in the first place.
Please remind me that I hate to sew. Remind me of this when I decide to take apart the custom curtains (originally made by me) and alter them from full-length lined panels into lined valences with beaded trim. Remind me of this when I tackle the project when Violet is asleep and Milo is playing a Wii game that frustrates him, because him being frustrated with a game and me being ticked off at my mother-trucking sewing machine is NOT a good combination. Please remind me that real women do not HAVE to do this crap...
Please remind me that I don't need to pick up any more germs from my little angels. Remind me of this when I'm sitting on mt couch and start coughing and pee a bit. Remind me when I sneeze so crazy hard I actually sneeze my tampon outta my hoo-ha. Remind me of this when I cough so hard that I gag, gag so hard that I vomit, vomit so hard that I dry heave, and dry heave so hard that I spit out bloody mucous. And when I look at myself in the mirror and start crying because I have three inches of green snot dripping down to my chin, I'm red-faced, red-eyed, and sweaty. Remind me again when I look in the mirror later and discover that I've broken all of the blood vessels around my eyes, leading me to look like Stephen Tyler after a freakin' good party -- minus the freakin' good party.
Finally, please remind me to hide my garbage better lest my vandalous, obsessive-compulsive mutts get into it and drag bloody tampons all over the main level of my house when I'm asleep for the night. Apparently, putting it in the shower isn't safe enough, because they pulled down the shower curtain and ransacked the entire room. Remind me of this when I'm cleaning up all of the things they barf up that they shouldn't have eaten in the first place.
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