tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3375051121955330962024-02-19T03:08:07.253-08:00Half DozenMama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.comBlogger212125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-28085252019866591752011-08-30T15:54:00.000-07:002011-08-30T16:45:34.827-07:00Four Star<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEictuCcat2aifx-ypIOKRqHbFrX6ZXcjHruuKq9LCWAx_JTJ0CTJlA6201YSnIP2TNup2ehRyPTARDi0pH_REv2CefP-3U9WocPJ4guZefWqPrTD7R8C0-mM3td5pPJAKkY3nZWcvQo7Lo/s1600/DSC_3096.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEictuCcat2aifx-ypIOKRqHbFrX6ZXcjHruuKq9LCWAx_JTJ0CTJlA6201YSnIP2TNup2ehRyPTARDi0pH_REv2CefP-3U9WocPJ4guZefWqPrTD7R8C0-mM3td5pPJAKkY3nZWcvQo7Lo/s400/DSC_3096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646792725399812530" border="0" /></a>
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<br />On the same street at the kids' gymnastics center are several hotels that cater to mid-budget beach goers.
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<br />Today, while passing a chain hotel, I heard Annike say under breath, "gross."
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<br />Annike is a shushy talker, all hers s's are said "schhhh" instead of "ssss". It's heartmelting. I attribute it to her terrible fall from the bathroom counter our last night in Ann Arbor. The fall that landed us in the ER with a middle of the night surgery involving reattaching the front of her tongue to the back of her tongue. Even to this day, she has an inflexible divot half-way back on her tongue. She also mispronounces her r's, just like Petra did.
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<br />So really, what she said sounded more like this, "gwosch."
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<br />Then, "you know when you go to vischit people and it isch faw away? And you can't stay with them beausche theiw housche isch too schmall? And scho you gotta schtay at a hotel?"
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<br />The rest of us, "ummmm . . ."
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<br />Annike, "you know?"
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<br />Us, "yes?"
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<br />Annike, "well let'sch nevew schtay at that one. It schays on the schign that they have 'weekly ratsch'! That'sch scho gwosch! Why wouldn't they juscht get rid of them?"
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<br />Soren is long back to his book by now, Tova gives an empathetic "eww, rats."
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<br />Petra and I sit and think, out loud repeating, "weekly rats?"
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<br />Then we giggle.
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<br />Weekly rates.
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<br />I love being her mother. I do.
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<br />Annike is my funny one.
<br />Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-42463717042434318812011-08-21T18:39:00.000-07:002011-08-21T19:16:07.489-07:00Love the One You're WithIf you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with. Do do do do do . . .
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<br />Makielski's. All you A2 people know what I'm talkin' about. Makielski's is a verdant and lush orchard filled with every species of blackberries and raspberries and gooseberries and pumpkins here on God's green earth. We go there every year, sort of. Kind of. Now we go their in our hearts. Because Makielski's is in Ann Arbor, one of the top 3-cities of the world. Annnnnd, if you recall, we don't live their anymore. We gave up Camelot for burnt toast with a side of ocean. Not bad, mind you, but we still have our <span style="font-style: italic;">I'd Rather Be in Ann Arbor</span> bumper stickers.
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<br />Ok, so whaddya do when your stuck living over in Burnt Toast? Well, you do what you always did and go pickin.
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<br />Tovey got confused and nabbed an alarmingly large gem from her nose. That's not what we had in mind.
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<br />Unlike Makielski's, with 7-fields encompassing hundreds of acres, the place we went to up in the mountains was 3-1/2 rows that were 20-feet long. That's it. Just one kinda berry. There were plenty of bees, which was a relief. Not so much of a relief were the snakes curled up under the tender, wet leaves. But we managed. And I was teary, homesick, but determined that my puddin-babies are gonna grow up right -- with raspberry thorns stuck in their finger tips and snake wrapped around their ankles.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKDNkHi_1ScZ3w7ySa5QfiaX34WlRkuGHIexYFBCk4taacuFyx9vSqWJ3Go4jzMWSWgSvNrn07-zf3zdZHMRSZOLeF9TOc28iHI8WMyI9U8nbRZLMi0b0z3_Vp7vkJOqfFJVVB6rpdQk/s1600/DSC_3136.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKDNkHi_1ScZ3w7ySa5QfiaX34WlRkuGHIexYFBCk4taacuFyx9vSqWJ3Go4jzMWSWgSvNrn07-zf3zdZHMRSZOLeF9TOc28iHI8WMyI9U8nbRZLMi0b0z3_Vp7vkJOqfFJVVB6rpdQk/s400/DSC_3136.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643489829194225906" border="0" /></a>That's Baby #3 there. She was a good picker until the snake incident, then she mostly snake hunted.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3uua6mu8UAa3FKpHzhlDh9RnIseJaOMN-M55DdheVODNMNgIstBpDIzGKeULW6_V6633qk2rBBOIcr2UOHMyd8j_VgY6nD43vJo6pMynIORIA8Jv3cJMxb_dnkKDXKKf_wZFfNcZqiw/s1600/DSC_3137.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3uua6mu8UAa3FKpHzhlDh9RnIseJaOMN-M55DdheVODNMNgIstBpDIzGKeULW6_V6633qk2rBBOIcr2UOHMyd8j_VgY6nD43vJo6pMynIORIA8Jv3cJMxb_dnkKDXKKf_wZFfNcZqiw/s400/DSC_3137.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643489824732899026" border="0" /></a>Baby #4 likes bees and snakes. She's a lot like Nutmeg, troubles with leaving all the little creatures be. Plus, I don't even know how she got a hold of that shi-shi in her mouth.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghfutk3T4LfDsCGRHHF0TBZrCPlLd7V4SvqOHJu_1eplUU6CPrRVGdw1KF76z6c3nf0-Ztuu_th8gHzaEOYRkCZGtpE9CbSn_V1ncWR0WUWz28KSo3VZ0eHcobUWAdZECxXcg_P9IGlRE/s1600/DSC_3138.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghfutk3T4LfDsCGRHHF0TBZrCPlLd7V4SvqOHJu_1eplUU6CPrRVGdw1KF76z6c3nf0-Ztuu_th8gHzaEOYRkCZGtpE9CbSn_V1ncWR0WUWz28KSo3VZ0eHcobUWAdZECxXcg_P9IGlRE/s400/DSC_3138.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643489606867431426" border="0" /></a>I take it seriously. The kids had the buckets so I had to use my skirt, probably just like Laura Ingalls Wilder. I wonder how Laura handled snakes? I run and scream and have to cardiovert myself. My heart is still flip-floppy.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhgxg_aDuBqzV_W2Yk6QO7jVKt7SQWdQzEZwBfvr3LN86oDKO_fsZzRn4DCBJj9Fv5JPKPsy9EvILZbO9xheXKUKvIP3Gx2aiZNGcz16fPSyG-8yF1J1s_5VVSwzlnVmUm7LdqSze7ZU/s1600/DSC_3140.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhgxg_aDuBqzV_W2Yk6QO7jVKt7SQWdQzEZwBfvr3LN86oDKO_fsZzRn4DCBJj9Fv5JPKPsy9EvILZbO9xheXKUKvIP3Gx2aiZNGcz16fPSyG-8yF1J1s_5VVSwzlnVmUm7LdqSze7ZU/s400/DSC_3140.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643489603301656354" border="0" /></a>When people ask me how old the twins are, I don't correct them, and then I tell them that Jack and Annike are 6-years old. It's all true. They are 6-six old. And, they're strikingly similar. Jack Henry Viking was our boy for the day. On Friday, Soren was one of theirs. Even Steven.
<br />(Oh, I was still holding raspberries in my skirt.) (I wasn't trying to be sassy.)
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6d1alk7A85QRzRKHzuTE8PKVpADniUDykSSLUETjjhxbvesDGKR3SWKP-2fisZ20zoBNRrOzalzM624j0Ywx_KRAqRQWR4SZs6ev6C3Z9_KT0YETK5KPNCI-syIqbCIedDxrV7ADqZg/s1600/DSC_3142.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6d1alk7A85QRzRKHzuTE8PKVpADniUDykSSLUETjjhxbvesDGKR3SWKP-2fisZ20zoBNRrOzalzM624j0Ywx_KRAqRQWR4SZs6ev6C3Z9_KT0YETK5KPNCI-syIqbCIedDxrV7ADqZg/s400/DSC_3142.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643489588022527442" border="0" /></a>All <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> Viking children. Soren is too cool for smiles. He also doesn't have teeth anymore.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUba0iSt2C54WOsWi92jFVzcBFoBA7IvxkRjkw9wfA_PzVG5UfZwzBbhThwKO9F8l-XAT_nhjgo2ivr4DT0uaCaTaHQk2dDvFiaFfT0DIincN2qzeKB9evzpItud5wZluid-2EjPRYa8I/s1600/DSC_3146.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUba0iSt2C54WOsWi92jFVzcBFoBA7IvxkRjkw9wfA_PzVG5UfZwzBbhThwKO9F8l-XAT_nhjgo2ivr4DT0uaCaTaHQk2dDvFiaFfT0DIincN2qzeKB9evzpItud5wZluid-2EjPRYa8I/s400/DSC_3146.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643489585521467026" border="0" /></a>Pa and Ma Viking and the minis and the corn and the field and the mountains and the most fabulous smell in the air. It's breathtaking in ways Back Home isn't, and I get an extra child or two out of the deal sometimes, and so I'm trying to make Burnt Toast the way we are. It's not so bad, spread it with something sweet and it feels just about right.
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<br />Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-81620319955109184442011-08-18T16:45:00.000-07:002011-08-18T17:47:44.663-07:00Once BittenOne of the things I did while you were away was this, I did a cake decorating class. I didn't really want to do it. It was a holiday gift from my well-intentioned husband, groan. After all, what working mother has time for cake decorating? A cleaning lady, now that is a gift every mother could use. And, I'll tell you this, my husband certainly wasn't doing any laundry while I was away.
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<br />What ended up happening is that I went t0 work and whined about it. Whine and complained until one of the doctors that I work with got so fed up that she decided to take the class with me just so she could prove me wrong and get me to shut-up already. Every Wednesday for a month we went to class at the local high school. For three hours a week we crumb-layered and iced and piped and rolled and so on. We were placed in the beginners group on the grounds that neither of us had any formal training. That is when I decided it was a competition between me and that richie doctor with her fancy MD degree. I secretly spent each class peering over at her work, jumping at the chance to laugh hard at her mistakes. It was a lot of fun. One time I laughed so hard at her Big Bird cake that I squirted blue icing out of my icing bag and onto my Cookie Monster cake. That was not funny.
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<br />The story doesn't end there, though. It was a little bit fun. Because we also laughed at and with the people in our class. There was a 60-something father of two with gobs of money who was there to learn a hobby and establish residency so his youngest could go to UCLA. There was the 60-something Japanese granny with limited English skills who had never, ever heard of Sesame Street let alone Big Bird (you should have seen her Big Bird cake on Sesame Street day!). The four of us were way copacetic, laughing and joking and secretly trying to one up each other in Beginning Cake Decorating. There was a T.A. with the sorriest bunch of decorating skills I had ever seen. Lastly there was the head honcho, Miss Linda.
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<br />Now, Miss Linda was a piece of work. She was probably about 5'5" tall, and 300-lbs. She was chronically breathless, could hardly walk, and had perfected the eye-roll and huffy breath. She had mad skills. She was also a bit celebrity, having appeared on some cake show as a contestant and then later a judge. On both wrists she wore braces due to injury after years of squeezing icing bags and rolling fondants. Several of her toes were numb from her years of living as a diabetic in a cake store. When she walked she would grab on to the nearest counter, or chair, or person then shuffle her feet until she could grab onto the next object in front of her. If you were that object and you were in deep crap, one false move and you were both toast. Linda love to slap the icing bag out of your hand for poorly piped decor, and then growl at you mercilessly as she showed you the right way to do it.
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<br />Idle chatter is how we spent our time as we worked on those cakes, so by the end of the class we all knew each others' life stories. My family's diet was no secret to the rest of my group, who was supportive and curious. As a self-proclaimed food snob, I'm accustomed to receiving lots of feedback about my snobby and wayward living. One day Linda and the T.A. were simply agog when they learned I am a vegetarian. Upon sneerily proclaiming it to the entire class (the Intermediate and Advanced groups shared the same home economics classroom with us), she loudly announced "my God woman, you know you're gonna DIEEEEEEEEE from that." Then she avoided me for the rest of the class like I had The Clap, which was fine by me because it was flower week and my roses were looking really shitty and quite frankly I was afraid of her.
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<br />But, we loved Linda and it turns out that I liked cake decorating. No my husband did not try to get a load in or pack the kids' lunches or clip their toe nails. But when the month was winding down, Tricia and I were on the quest for more cake knowledge. Linda invited us to come to some classes at her store for free! Because she liked us so much! But she wanted me to eat some Spam before I came because I made her uncomfortable with so much asparagus blood.
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<br />And that is what we did. We drove down San Diego on Monday nights and sat in a big class room with 25-inland women far, far away from our tight knit group of beachcombers. And then we signed up for more classes! Fondant! Drawing on your cake! Rolled butter cream!
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<br />It wasn't too long before the office found out about our skills, soon we were in charge of the desserts for each celebratory event at the office. Baby showers. 50th birthday. Saint Patrick's Day. Office manager's birthday. Usually, Tricia baked half the cake, I baked the other half. We both filled our own and then I would decorate. It had been going along well until recently. After a long night of call, Tricia came home and baked her cake all the while struggling to keep her eyes open. Then she dropped them off to my house, where I was supposed to carve them, crumb them and then decorate them.
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<br />We were making a baby shower cake for one of the young women who worked our reception desk. I had the cakes centered on the counter while I was working on making a Hispanic skin tone frosting, which isn't easy. Everything was well out of Maggie's reach.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfARw9-Mdfbgb_nIPubHMCYvRAtAxaIa-oXnKB1JGp1jTGdPgOmLYdw2v_iPH1O6HhVHr2h5OQhV_-ak0CezQ_jpo71RUr-QUUiRxeK8gDwu8Aq6uNkOYyVN6NZY3t0milzSrNOsTahU/s1600/DSC_3113.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfARw9-Mdfbgb_nIPubHMCYvRAtAxaIa-oXnKB1JGp1jTGdPgOmLYdw2v_iPH1O6HhVHr2h5OQhV_-ak0CezQ_jpo71RUr-QUUiRxeK8gDwu8Aq6uNkOYyVN6NZY3t0milzSrNOsTahU/s400/DSC_3113.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642360213513416562" border="0" /></a>
<br />It turns out it wasn't out of Nutmeg's reach. My poor mom began screaming in absolute despair, and I turned around to the above horror. My heart sank. I had 12-hours to make a new cake and fill it and crumb it and ice it and decorate it and it was already close to midnight (give or take 3-hours). Which is what I did.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCnWYeaK_O9t3wS4kid2gUpPhZKqqPQ_352IEh_9iP4zvF6maI61cwiJ1552-3HoMCEhVminnyGenNpOsrt85rKjg52l251_D79mGTVEKx4vA6cl3jfR3mQJ89xtvbUZDEz_u4ZqD3Ws/s1600/DSC_3119.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCnWYeaK_O9t3wS4kid2gUpPhZKqqPQ_352IEh_9iP4zvF6maI61cwiJ1552-3HoMCEhVminnyGenNpOsrt85rKjg52l251_D79mGTVEKx4vA6cl3jfR3mQJ89xtvbUZDEz_u4ZqD3Ws/s400/DSC_3119.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642359685002032034" border="0" /></a>
<br />And we all lived happily ever after. And this baby got eaten. And the mama was very happy. And everyone, ev-errrr-yyy-one, thought this baby looked just like what the new baby will probably look like. And so there you go.
<br />Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-54030501968887287282011-08-08T19:12:00.000-07:002011-08-09T21:38:40.709-07:00Containment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKRLbZZHYIVb-65OIyCplwB0SwiMN7kosr7rgXSw4dAXQbZa9YHm5McQjgRlNd3Tlg1pg0hli069W0wOkDZTtVPLXRsI4ZeGily_d4JnzMvbf6bwI4SYPCFUWRrI5tor3MKtfetsr12g/s1600/DSC_3053.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKRLbZZHYIVb-65OIyCplwB0SwiMN7kosr7rgXSw4dAXQbZa9YHm5McQjgRlNd3Tlg1pg0hli069W0wOkDZTtVPLXRsI4ZeGily_d4JnzMvbf6bwI4SYPCFUWRrI5tor3MKtfetsr12g/s400/DSC_3053.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638675428670199714" border="0" /></a>
<br />This is the story of how one quiet-ish Monday, Tova and I found ourselves without any big kids to cramp our style. After doing all our drop-offs at soccer and gym, Tovey told me she wanted to buy some 'sishy cwackerz' -- fishy crackers, duh -- and eat 'em all up, yum, yum, yum.
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<br />We buy our fishy crackers in bulk, and two things happen when you buy fishy crackers in bulk. The number one thing is that children untwist the twisty tie and take a handful and then shove the bag back in the sorry-excuse-for-a-pantry that we have in our sorry-excuse-for-a-kitchen. Basically they get stale, or spilly all over and then the mice come or we have stale fish. Either one is a bummer. Ok, the number two thing is that our mutt-puppy dog and our pure-bred wiener dog are geniuses! They can muster up the know-how to break through our baby proofed pantry doors (blue rubber bands wrapped around the door handles) and steal the plastic bag with the goldfish and then eat the plastic bag with the goldfish inside.
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<br />At first it doesn't sound like a bad plan, right? Cause who wouldn't want their dogs to eat plastics bags, then the poop would already be bagged up. Turns out, that's not how it works. The plastic ends up mixed in, you see. Mixed in, sadly.
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<br />Now you know where I'm going right? We needed another container. A container to keep the mice out and a container to keep the fishies fresh and a container that was eat-proof (not putting Maggie past it, but I'm always hopeful). All our other containers were tied up with oatmeal and pretzels (Maggie doesn't like pretzels) and Honey Nut Cheerios and granola and all that crap.
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<br />So, sishy cwakerz store and then the 'tainer store. Tova wrote the plan on her map of the zoo with a highlighter and off we went. She was happy-dappy, singing her fave song about the juke box and rock and roll. Last stop was the fancy outdoor mall by our house, with many 'sountains' (fountains) and the 'tainer store.
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<br />And before you knew it, we were done with the 2-errands Tova had on her list. Listen, I know what you're thinking: 1) but they really were Tova's errands, her original ideas 2) you're probably thinking I'm the kind of mom that drags my kids everywhere on errands and such and then lets them pick a fun one to do so that they don't think the whole day was a big wash (I am, but that's not what happened today). Tova carried the bag with 3-cereal box sized containers, and we headed out the front door toward home. There I was yapping away about washing our 'tainers, drying our 'tainers and then filling our 'tainers with all the fishies and then how we must only eat a little bowlful. It's funny, I thought, how I suddenly don't hear Tovey dragging that bag of 'tainers behind her.
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<br />Gasp!
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<br />I was alone, looking like a lady with a few-hundred screws loose baby-talking to thin air about goldfish crackers and portion control.
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<br />A few frantic nanoseconds later, I found that girlfriend around the corner. She has a thing for fountains, and this mall has lots and lots of fountains. I'm thinking she went out the side-door to see the fountain, dragging her container bag with her.
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<br />Well, there she was, paralyzed with her jaw dropped, little drips of drool dangling from the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were dancing and awestruck, her chubby little finger pointing at side-by-side escalators. Barely audible, her tiny voice was whispering "alligator, alligator, alligator." And when a taut woman with bouncy body parts jumped onto the escalator, yoga mat tucked into the crook of her elbow, Tova gasped and shook with joy.
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<br />Slowly, she turned and as she did she noticed me watching her a few feet away. Her precious brown eyes, as big as chocolate covered doughnut holes, welled up and implored me without a word but saying so much -- "Mommy," they said "it's all I ever wanted, all I ever needed." Then she gently parted her rosebud lips and let out the sweetest sigh ever heard on this barren earth.
<br />
<br />And so I had a choice. I could have been the mommy who stuck to the plan, wrangled up my toddler and pressed her into her car seat with my elbow and forearm holding her in place and my other hand snapping her up at 5-points while she wailed in mortal rage as her hopes at sacred escalator ascension were dashed by evil, evil mama. But who wants to be that mommy?
<br />
<br />Most of the time not me. And, just who on earth was I to be a heart breaker? Who? I'm nothing without these babies, so if life is about the simple pleasures and cheap thrills then let's do it.
<br />
<br />39-minutes later, pudgy baby hand in my hand, we rode up and down that escalator on 11-round trips. A couple of times we went and splashed our hands in the 'sountain', buuuuut mostly we did 22-escalator rides.
<br />
<br />You know that song about Charlie, the man who gets stuck on the M.T.A 'neath the streets of Boston and never returns? Well, my life was starting to sound just like a Kingston Trio song.
<br />And then it came to me, bribery.
<br />
<br />"HeyTova! Remember those goldfish crackers in the car?"
<br />
<br />"Yeth."
<br />
<br />"Well, how about you and I go home and wash the new container and then pour the gold fish in. We'll have to get off this escalator of purgatory, but I'll let you use the scissors to cut the bag open."
<br />
<br />She had to think about it for a bit, purgatory or scissors. Think, think, think. She really loves scissors.
<br />
<br />"How about we wide da alligator fwee more times, den we comed home and I cut de sishy bag open and I get to pour dem aww by myself and you don't help me and den I eat dem and you don't eat mine. Fwee more time I wide dis fing."
<br />
<br />And that is how you pull yourself out of purgatory. You simply offer your child something to gouge their eyes out with and then some cheesy sodium to wash it down.
<br />
<br />Three more round-trips on the escalator and we were home with her cutting open the bag of crackers, pouring it onto the floor and table and a little bit into the container.
<br />
<br />Peace, love and containment,
<br />K-Mama
<br />Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-8321614725894190772011-08-02T20:49:00.000-07:002011-08-02T21:37:03.011-07:00Unembattled<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CIXHryP7WvQXE3N7EnS5Tzw3iWsYLjB3kQQp8LQh-MUIuW5vku9EhY6J1aAlpeq2GQOUH0NZrFJaEYfU8fdyRGJaNjgMHFio-DRWXDFB_Shz1cqsBoXLeYMCKCtMlqugm0vGQ0hnBQ8/s1600/DSC_3073.JPG"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a>I swear this is my last summer as a working parent. I told Lars this yesterday. He is, apparently, disbelieving. But, running this household really requires at least one adult more present more often. <br /><br />Take today for example. I forgot to make the pizza dough last night, so that meant I had to make it today. It takes 4-hours to rise, not to mention the time it takes to make. Because I need to leave her with the car during the day New Nanny picked me up from work, then the kids and I dropped New Nanny off. That's 20-minutes I had to subtract from pizza dough-ing. Then at home, I had to clean-up the tissues that Nutterbutter had pulled out of the box. Another 5-minutes negative from my dough-ing. I quick started the water for the yeast, but didn't take the kettle off until it whistled. Knowing it was probably too hot, I sprinkled the yeast anyway. After that, we whisked Petra off to gymnastics 20-minutes away, and then the rest of us off to Trader Joes. Home 57-minutes later, but the yeast wasn't foamy, it was just plain boiled. Now I was like negative 98-minutes! I had to start over.<br /><br />But, when you're starting over and a little huffy, you can't help but notice the other things that are wrong about your day. For example, 6-bananas with fruit flies all around, very ripe and very splotchy. That means banana bread.<br /><br />So, there I was, needing to double the pizza dough recipe and make the banana bread undoubled. Which is how we ended up with banana-y pizza bread.<br /><br />And the kids. Something needed to be done about the kids. Soren was, and is, engrossed with the 4th Harry Potter so he was all set, but those little baby girls were something of another sort. I'm not one of those mamas who loves cooking with her kids. I like to do it my way, and I like to do it without talking. I don't necessarily like to let Annike over-stir the batter while singing her rendition of Sir Mix A Lot's "Baby Got Back", which I've heard at least 72-times today. Let me tell you, it got old after the first time. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMggtT4IlA7gHLfdQiVkXRi_VXmCQYM3wMNweZ3lx68iESvIbfqj6SUMQVdyf45w5r_HVnyqrgT_rye-BlN40_uoDm-4GJAye0alf8fOEmwumVHJnrljeugBqGZvGMZzxB0DIMyt5FnW8/s1600/DSC_3075.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMggtT4IlA7gHLfdQiVkXRi_VXmCQYM3wMNweZ3lx68iESvIbfqj6SUMQVdyf45w5r_HVnyqrgT_rye-BlN40_uoDm-4GJAye0alf8fOEmwumVHJnrljeugBqGZvGMZzxB0DIMyt5FnW8/s400/DSC_3075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636474280373259266" border="0" /></a>So there I was, with Annike bumpin' to "Baby Got Back", trying to be more like one of those patient mommies who happily cooks with her kids.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBEhxeA6nkDLt5ZN9n2OgTCSCyIIvmWLZbeFJIwFdQECitoTHGNzkDnWpfumnIrYjEwVM_cM8XLQNrKV_z_2hwNA8ijxXr98YyEEm8MvcMuIhIxv00uM9AfLyhMONIvEJ7Ktj4L4noxcQ/s1600/DSC_3077.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBEhxeA6nkDLt5ZN9n2OgTCSCyIIvmWLZbeFJIwFdQECitoTHGNzkDnWpfumnIrYjEwVM_cM8XLQNrKV_z_2hwNA8ijxXr98YyEEm8MvcMuIhIxv00uM9AfLyhMONIvEJ7Ktj4L4noxcQ/s400/DSC_3077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636474276738007842" border="0" /></a>Tova was wailing "I Love Rock and Roll". She leave out the part about the dime, skips right to the juke box bit. Hard on the nerves.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEije5VGoL66SOcavTB-NyB1IMgMIqybjxYCO24vu3aQ4MTb-CkUFIlF6ekDZBUr4NSgcDXIQOBsug5UmBPokS3tl7a_kFjP_D_nQfCLOO6-OZY4snMZcFIbCaZeSFUPfxEGjzf1jsIhyphenhyphencQ/s1600/DSC_3079.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEije5VGoL66SOcavTB-NyB1IMgMIqybjxYCO24vu3aQ4MTb-CkUFIlF6ekDZBUr4NSgcDXIQOBsug5UmBPokS3tl7a_kFjP_D_nQfCLOO6-OZY4snMZcFIbCaZeSFUPfxEGjzf1jsIhyphenhyphencQ/s400/DSC_3079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636474265054158914" border="0" /></a>Tova also got pokey with the dough and stuck her fingers right in there. See that? How's a doubled dough to survive?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyeaahIYG6xLkv3_aOZFVvPj5WZqkljb-PfcP3AbAR3LSvpeda7O8xRJySGE-cE4QvFAJzW7IFswuEMCtONVDYjPNwDSOufVVU2ugJAbHr7hySiU3gWR-Lk5NtiJHUK_8aLF5KNd9x4M/s1600/DSC_3080.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyeaahIYG6xLkv3_aOZFVvPj5WZqkljb-PfcP3AbAR3LSvpeda7O8xRJySGE-cE4QvFAJzW7IFswuEMCtONVDYjPNwDSOufVVU2ugJAbHr7hySiU3gWR-Lk5NtiJHUK_8aLF5KNd9x4M/s400/DSC_3080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636474261986351986" border="0" /></a>As if it wasn't crowded enough in that little kitchen, Nutmeg curled up in her favorite kitchen napping spot.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefVL6WKLFdk551fKK5zUZ6ECMRb7SJ2wmfuVEb2lifcnUnpMMocrCYsJHOXZpDBD9r-h72tHgD8NOTzn9lEsi9TUBi6aHe0ns9_n_eG7BcEgK98vvSo1_vPTpdcoIr6hrf1a9dIy_VYA/s1600/DSC_3082.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefVL6WKLFdk551fKK5zUZ6ECMRb7SJ2wmfuVEb2lifcnUnpMMocrCYsJHOXZpDBD9r-h72tHgD8NOTzn9lEsi9TUBi6aHe0ns9_n_eG7BcEgK98vvSo1_vPTpdcoIr6hrf1a9dIy_VYA/s400/DSC_3082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636473731720258162" border="0" /></a>But, well, then they do little things like this. Things like holding the dough up, naming it Baby Ivy, and patting it on the back til it burps. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFq5Fhyphenhyphen9s-2RDEQ-lKcYeBC-HiFc-WHUuCZTQaG567noAIWwkQ3nEx3BtsBshbOBgL6VPKSBdMwpX_wmqma-rG2yVupxjfU2k_ypEGF88ll8oBAHawQ1asWqGETev3FnOQJciXN2ThB8/s1600/DSC_3083.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFq5Fhyphenhyphen9s-2RDEQ-lKcYeBC-HiFc-WHUuCZTQaG567noAIWwkQ3nEx3BtsBshbOBgL6VPKSBdMwpX_wmqma-rG2yVupxjfU2k_ypEGF88ll8oBAHawQ1asWqGETev3FnOQJciXN2ThB8/s400/DSC_3083.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636473724694282066" border="0" /></a>Then rocking it.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir-LNq8HdThrtbJ2KEIgbqrmIU8U5_l_wDpk4mp7trRENChV6gIRNicAKQEBLkSpF0jG87Mi0LbNf7E8u9vPt4MXVtJuJHT-8qcEqkZyGL1QpKPOV__v2_5lkCHluhkLBO4cPLn5GD58s/s1600/DSC_3086.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir-LNq8HdThrtbJ2KEIgbqrmIU8U5_l_wDpk4mp7trRENChV6gIRNicAKQEBLkSpF0jG87Mi0LbNf7E8u9vPt4MXVtJuJHT-8qcEqkZyGL1QpKPOV__v2_5lkCHluhkLBO4cPLn5GD58s/s400/DSC_3086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636473719955982498" border="0" /></a>Or pretending to swaddle it.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrhSNYW6h_N-DeWwP5SKG-Qo8RPBri6gAEdOE9UTX0drMM1G1rmasQ8ocmrQK53AkD12aVhTSamQS7Ys3E2B0TM_pndhBmQks6cZxi26McX45A9DELBeuD0s94Ja9bLyWhJxVHcX8YGo/s1600/DSC_3088.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrhSNYW6h_N-DeWwP5SKG-Qo8RPBri6gAEdOE9UTX0drMM1G1rmasQ8ocmrQK53AkD12aVhTSamQS7Ys3E2B0TM_pndhBmQks6cZxi26McX45A9DELBeuD0s94Ja9bLyWhJxVHcX8YGo/s400/DSC_3088.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636473717661647682" border="0" /></a>And, cooing to it. Annabeaner is a great cooer.<br /><br />It makes me sigh a little happy sigh. Just a little one.<br /><br />We set that dough to rise on top of a heating pad, whispered sweet nothings to it and gave it a few gentle pats. I'll be darned if that dough didn't double in 1-1/2 hours! We punched it down, and then let it set for it's second rise, also done in 90-minutes flat! And then another improbable thing happened. Neighbor DJ came over, said something about being hot and then took Soren, Annike, Tova and Nutmeg back to his house to swim. <br /><br />Suddenly, I had a coo-less and dog-less house (unless you count Maggie, but she's mostly cow and only 7% dog). Without so many helpers, without so much burping of pizza dough, I was able to get a few other things done. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzb_Z0X3VpH0R7PI025-2fGzFrFodICtORMhN-ZUAx7pK_nvpH_a0KY1HRjVyVUeycf_hWd8YmKK9Qt0KcMEVATuXzjGwRvNsGe8ErKi4LELC0lR4Qg9ICSIKZnmc64SUxcCPbLU7Wjos/s1600/DSC_3092.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzb_Z0X3VpH0R7PI025-2fGzFrFodICtORMhN-ZUAx7pK_nvpH_a0KY1HRjVyVUeycf_hWd8YmKK9Qt0KcMEVATuXzjGwRvNsGe8ErKi4LELC0lR4Qg9ICSIKZnmc64SUxcCPbLU7Wjos/s400/DSC_3092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636473711228187618" border="0" /></a>And that is the story of how I was able to make 4-whole wheat pizzas, 2-loaves of banana bread sans fruit flies, and 2-dozen Viking muffins some with and some without granola, and clean up the kitchen, all in time for dinner.Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-71040638710752231712011-07-27T14:24:00.000-07:002011-07-27T15:35:16.864-07:00Puppy Wuppy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfny6BY8WG9CGRluXQ62GjPfuS9myvSGNVsS68vdt9YZ-2i929iUei5geXbBKcscb_w-6srHMGkMc-ES4SgHcd6xb1y_6y6QFDjlDMm4guBDXutuwch6YiDZUi8GAn8qTytzVfj8lFEs/s1600/DSC_2258.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfny6BY8WG9CGRluXQ62GjPfuS9myvSGNVsS68vdt9YZ-2i929iUei5geXbBKcscb_w-6srHMGkMc-ES4SgHcd6xb1y_6y6QFDjlDMm4guBDXutuwch6YiDZUi8GAn8qTytzVfj8lFEs/s400/DSC_2258.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634162609734107714" border="0" /></a><br />So, here's the deal. Around here, there are several grades of animal shelters. There's the one run by the county that is filled with pit bulls and dingos and feral cats. There's the Humane Society, where they have 3-legged goats who fell off tractor-trailers, abandoned pot bellied pigs, bunnies galore and a handful of adult pit-bull mixes, a rare puppy or adolescent dog, and 1,000 cats and kittens. Finally, there is the well-funded boutique shelter that flies in Golden Retrievers from Taiwan and mutts from Utah. They have a large selection of puppies and young dogs who won't eat your chickens.<br />So this is what I imagine went through Lars' head several months ago on one of the occasions that I tried explain to him, without whining, that I can't help it that my body keeps telling me more children are in order -- it's my biology, and he's a biologist after all. He of all people should get it, no? Ok, where was I, oh yeah . . . back up to that almost sentence at the start of this paragraph. Here's what he was thinking (I'm paraphrasing): "One time I saw on TV how at a zoo in China a mama chimp had just had a still birth and the mama panda in the next cell over was rejecting her offspring so the zoo keeper brought the baby panda over to the mama chimp and darn it if that panda baby didn't latch on and darn it if that mama chimp didn't love that baby panda like her own and then she was okay and didn't want anymore babies. Heyyyyyyy, how about I go buy my wife a puppy!"<br />Later, we drove out through the prickly heat in America's wealthiest zip code to that boutique shelter and we picked us a puppy. And by we, I mean Lars. Lars drove us out there and Lars picked himself a puppy. Per his specifications the dog needed to be chocolate in color and lab-ish in breed. Per my specifications, she or he needed to be young enough that we could train her not to eat the chickens. Chase those spoiled rotten fat birds, yes. Eat them, no.<br />Enter Nutmeg Buster Brown Viking, our chocolate Chesapeake Labrabeagle, our not so cheap boutique shelter mutt puppy. She's smart as a whip, as sweet as an unripe lemon, precious as a diamond. For the first week, Magdalena Humphindinkelheimer ignored her and us. Beginning of the second week, she tolerated her. And now, after months of Viking living, Nutty and Maggie are BFFs. The romp together, bark together, pee on trees together and over-take our master bed together. Now, nightly Lars takes the two dogs for a walk to the 'big park' in our subdivision where all the neighbors bring their dogs. Everyone knows her pitiful orphan story and has fallen in love with her and her floppy brown ears.<br />Remember when I said she was smart as a whip? Well, it's mostly true. For example, Maggie demonstrated proper doggie-door use to Nutmeg a handful of time and BOOM! we've got a potty trained puppy. Dinner time in the Viking home? Look under Tova's chair, there's Nutty sitting under it with an open mouth waiting for Brussel sprouts and pie crust. Want to have a good time? Sure, go ahead and join my mutt-pup up on the trampoline where she likes to jump with and without the kids.<br />Now here's the part where I tell you about how she doesn't have the sense that God gave geese. You may recall how our bee population in this country plummeted. In response Lars and I planted a bunch of water-wise bee friendly plants and bought lots of vanilla Haagen-Daaz. We were gonna bring those bees back, by golly. Truth be told, our front and back yards are buzzy in the afternoons with lots of mostly aloof and historically gentle honey bees.<br />Unlike the bees, aloof is not something Nutmeg does well. Nutmeg wants to know what everyone is doing all the time, and if she can sit on your lap and lick your ear lobes at the same time then she is truly happy. Too bad for Nutmeg that she can't on the bees' laps. Too bad for Nutmeg that she doesn't speak English, because when I told that twerpy pup to leave those honey bees alone I didn't know that her response to me was "fat chance woman."<br />Had I known, I would have given her a time-out for being sassy. That usually fixes 'em right up. Like I said, I didn't know that she was not minding me.<br />25-minutes before we had to leave to get Petra and pick up equipment for Lars' new soccer team, it's always in the 30-minutes before you have to be somewhere, Nutmeg came running in to the house from the backyard. She was a little bit yelpy and a lot snorfly and very much pawing at her face. I said her name in a scolding manner, to which she looked up at me. Holy moly, call the ambulance this dog has turned into a bobble head. Her face was beginning to bloat and swell right in front of me. I grabbed her in my arms, screaming my bloody head off for Lars, who came running. Panic stricken he ran to the next door neighbor's house, who after his own unfortunate bee sting incident always keeps Benadryl on hand. While my puppy's eyes were swelling shut and her snorfling grew more pressured, her little nostrils were closing in, and her face was now 2-times it's usual size. I called our friend Mike who knows a little bit about everything. In less than 5-minutes, Lars was back from the neighbor's and Mike was here with some liquid Benadryl, and EMT kit with oxygen and his extensive veterinary knowledge (former vet tech cum computer geek). With a syringe full of children's Benadryl, Mike shot it to the back of her throat. I grabbed my stethoscope, only to hear tight wheezy lungs and a pounding heart. Mike monitored her color while Lars scolded her in his nice-daddy voice. Gradually, agonizingly slowly, her right eye began to open. Then the right side of her face began to unswell. Her left eye came next, the wheezing stopped and her heart rate returned to normal. The side-effects of the Benadryl kicked in, soon enough Nutmeg was zonked out on Mike's lap with all of us surrounding her sitting on the kitchen floor. When Mike left, her droopy and swollen jowls resembled pendulous hippo testicles. But she was alive, Mike had saved our dog's life.<br />This morning, Mike called me at work to check on Nutterbutter. Back to her normal puppy pokiness with only a bit of swelling on her left cheek, our dog had gone from being an orphaned puppy in a kill-shelter in Utah to a mutt with the love of all our neighbors and computer geeks who will leave their families at bed time to go do an emergency house call. Right now, she's laying on the grass watching the bees buzz from afar and practicing being aloof.Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-65580936787321946882011-07-26T17:38:00.000-07:002011-07-26T17:49:39.148-07:00Don't Call It a ComebackIt's funny. People keep emailing me and telling me to get busy with blogging again. I've been here the whole time! Hmmmm . . .<br />Well, anyway, here's a quick update of all that's happened since my last post:<br />1) Soren turned 8<br />2) Petra turned 10<br />3) Annike turned 6<br />4) Petra got straight A's (Annike and Soren are numerically graded)<br />5) Soren has developed a love of dance<br />6) Annike made the gymnastics team<br />7) we got a new nanny, sniffy sniff<br />8) our friends moved in with us for a bit, we got two more kids out of the deal<br />9) I had to go to Las Vegas without the kids (work trip) and I yearned for them every darn night<br />10) we got a puppy, we named her Nutmeg<br />11) Petra got her braces off<br />12) our friends moved out yesterday<br />13) Petra went away to camp, left me for an entire week<br />14) I'm still not pregnant, and since our friends moved out we're down two kids and the house feels a little lonely and very empty<br /><br />Maybe I'll post again tomorrow. I love you all, thanks for the support you've given me. Saying all that nice stuff about my writing, you're the best!Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-4708754204674568522010-12-11T14:38:00.000-08:002010-12-11T14:49:00.510-08:00Chicken and the Egg<div align="center">Our First Egg</div><div align="center"> </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXOlHAZexg_ANlGelpJnPkchEjbPi_rj9Aputjkaskiq8cTFX2fJJDLl9_Q8FJWH2uYs2ytWE11hX5hswiO793gjUGOnqt6scMUbMT3hhCTfG6JBiAwKaQg1Fof8jvUnS-pFpmSQKUqtE/s1600/DSC_9825.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549559185780050386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXOlHAZexg_ANlGelpJnPkchEjbPi_rj9Aputjkaskiq8cTFX2fJJDLl9_Q8FJWH2uYs2ytWE11hX5hswiO793gjUGOnqt6scMUbMT3hhCTfG6JBiAwKaQg1Fof8jvUnS-pFpmSQKUqtE/s400/DSC_9825.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIdxQfSq1EPV2efzB4e7oUTz9TD7HmPo7yLlNn0XzMageVx4jRfhfgkJt05cQ8j0SpSDsM9UhY1KKA5qmpX1_ayrZXKgcilylx1yOfgECdh_7hM1IgC5i0PC19kXhSVQJcgk1hbG-Ous0/s1600/DSC_9826.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549559178843074242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIdxQfSq1EPV2efzB4e7oUTz9TD7HmPo7yLlNn0XzMageVx4jRfhfgkJt05cQ8j0SpSDsM9UhY1KKA5qmpX1_ayrZXKgcilylx1yOfgECdh_7hM1IgC5i0PC19kXhSVQJcgk1hbG-Ous0/s400/DSC_9826.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavEvfQdfGFh3sRyzDdtxbCQBDirSsIN4nzDA_4bzP0lT6wGwqbvx1-drcckosr_u1yLLdtEoZerARB9IMwAbxJbLD8KNMHxZDRWqvVMNwPZGz6ettqquFqEWi48iapXbSuL2hiqq3YjI/s1600/DSC_9827.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549559174113409042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavEvfQdfGFh3sRyzDdtxbCQBDirSsIN4nzDA_4bzP0lT6wGwqbvx1-drcckosr_u1yLLdtEoZerARB9IMwAbxJbLD8KNMHxZDRWqvVMNwPZGz6ettqquFqEWi48iapXbSuL2hiqq3YjI/s400/DSC_9827.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUexMTnR5zPe1Tw_P5jvi0DdE8hUGGBXitzYi7rItxk0QCTWfv0b3BwWSHXbFnQKKJsXPnl70BkofwKqtI2HB8bO5qIIPxFuEDAph6rf42cisBbcT88BXDdVWpcuvNpHl3Z5j0OaTb9c/s1600/DSC_9829.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549559169201948178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUexMTnR5zPe1Tw_P5jvi0DdE8hUGGBXitzYi7rItxk0QCTWfv0b3BwWSHXbFnQKKJsXPnl70BkofwKqtI2HB8bO5qIIPxFuEDAph6rf42cisBbcT88BXDdVWpcuvNpHl3Z5j0OaTb9c/s400/DSC_9829.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Thelma has been laying for about a month, beautiful tan eggs with bright orange yolks. She's very proud of herself, Millie's become quite jealous (see 2nd pic from the top) but heavily gaurds the coop from any poor soul who dares venture by when Thelma is in there laying eggs. <br /><br />PS - the golf balls are in there to get the chickens to lay in the nesting box, once Millie starts laying then we'll take them out.<br /><div></div></div></div></div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-72764991038447861962010-12-09T16:52:00.000-08:002010-12-09T18:06:22.060-08:00"I'd rather be in a room with 3-Maggie farts . . ."I have dubbed it "one of the most ill-fated Thanksgiving road trips in American history ".<br /><br />That's how this sad tale begins. <br /><br />When it's all said and done, you may wonder just as I have been, if God is sending me a message: "Thou shall stay closer to thy home."<br /><br />It all started the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Since Super Nova Baby Tova's birth, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">TG</span> has been my favorite holiday. I was thrilled to be taking 8-days off of work and was looking forward to the drive from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">SoCal</span> to Austin. Singing rounds! Playing the alphabet game! Drinking pop and eating Cool Ranch Doritos! What could be better than 21-hours of family togetherness in our brand new 2007 minivan? <br /><br />Huh?! My friends, what could be better?<br /><br />Well, we left the house 3-hours later than expected. No biggie, cause you can drive 80-MPH once you get out there in the desert.<br /><br />3-hours into our road trip and only just past Yuma, Baby Tova Margie said, "my tummy hurts." We took her chips away from her, had her take a sip of water and that was that. Moments later, she said it again and then . . . <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">hork</span>. Barf down her face and car seat and legs and so on. A couple more barfs, now with me in the back seat cupping my hands beneath her mouth. We were finally able to stop at a rest stop that had no facilities. We did our best to wipe the muck away from Tova's seat and body, changed her clothes. We diagnosed her with car sickness, hopped back in the van and turned off the little t.v. we brought along to entertain the kids.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Shoulda</span> turned around. Mark my words, we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">shoulda</span> turned around.<br /><br />Tova proceeded to vomit all the way to Tuscon, which normally is a few hours from Yuma but in our case was many hours due to frequent stops for fresh air and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">emesis</span> evacuation. By this time, of course, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Soren</span> was in the way back complaining of a tummy ache. We pulled into Tuscon, only 5-hours from our home, with me straddling the seats holding a cupped hand under Tova and a plastic bag up to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Soren's</span> mouth. And as we did, in reference to the bile-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ish</span> vomit smell that had overtaken our new car, Petra exclaimed, "I'd rather be stuck in a room with 3-Maggie farts than this." Lars and I heartily agreed. <br /><br />We passed many horrified guests in the lobby of the Holiday Inn as we tried to discretely rush past them to our dinky room for the night. Holiday Inn was kind enough to lend us their laundry so I machine washed the car seat covers while Lars hosed them out in the parking lot. We scrubbed Tova clean and did our best to catch vomit from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Soren</span> and Tova as they barfed their way into Monday. While my favorite son has the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">wherewithal</span> to aim and place his vomit in sinks and toilets and trash cans, Tova does not. Her puke hit the beds, the floors, the walls, the chairs. It was a full-on revival of Airplane.<br /><br />The next morning by 6 am both of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">pukers</span> were stable and no one else was complaining. We called Per and Kathy, consulted with them, did they want us to still come? If not, we were only 5-hours from home and it would be no <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">thang</span> at all to just turn around. "Come!" they urged. So we forged on, only 5-hours into our trip, it would make for a long day.<br /><br />Feverish, but not nauseous, we got <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Soren</span> and Tova comfortable in the middle row and sent the girls to the back for safe keeping and sister-time. We angled our way to two lane country highways in the middle of Texas, crossing paths with deer, jack rabbits, armadillos and big black things that looked suspiciously like hairy hippos (it was dark, the mind plays tricks on you).<br /><br />Blessedly, at 2 a.m. on Tuesday morning, we made it to Austin, to the home of my brother- and sister-in-law. 15-minutes after settling into bed, Petra appeared at my bedside. It wasn't good.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Pattyboomers</span> and I rushed to the bathroom. I held back her hair, while she puked in the sink. As I was shoving her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">emesis</span> down the drain with my bare hands, Lars poked his head into the bathroom . . . and just in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">nick</span> of time. With one fist wrapped around Petra's hair as she continued to launch her cookies into the sink, he had his right hand wrapped around my hair as I upchucked into the toilet. Over and over again, Petra and I went and after each session I cleaned up with bleach because Lars does NOT do puke. This is how our night went. <br /><br />By late afternoon, we were well enough to endure laying on the couch, cradling ginger ale. The next day we all managed to eat a little. By Thanksgiving, Per and Kathy's middle child was hugging the porcelain, too.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Tarnation</span>! We had brought the plague 1/2-way across the country and infected the innocents.<br /><br />Then <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Soren</span> was bit by a spider and his leg swelled up to the size of my big ol'butt and he couldn't walk.<br /><br />Friday I was well enough to borrow their neighbor's steam cleaner. I cleaned out our car, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Lysol'ed</span> the car seats and all the hard surfaces. <br /><br />Saturday it was time to head back home. We wearily piled in the car (except <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Soren</span>, who limped/staggered), each of us 3-lbs lighter than before and started off. <br /><br />Now Tova, that Tova girl of ours, well she can be a handful at times. As we were rolling through the countryside, Tova quietly and timidly mentioned that she had a boogie. I handed that squishy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">bunned</span> baby a tissue and focused on the map. "Mommy," she whispered, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">owie</span> boogie."<br /><br />I turned around. It seemed the crayons and coloring books that I had handed back to my beauties had inspired Tova to be artistic in non-traditional ways. With an orange crayon dangling from her right nostril, Tova had tried to entertain herself rather questionably. She quickly removed the crayon, smiled at me, but I could see the tip was not on the crayon. <br /><br />Rather, the tip of the crayon was stuck way the heck up her nose. Try as we did, that tip would not budge. It was causing her pain, not to mention distorting her face with a distinct bulge up in the bony part near her eye. Seriously.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Ohhhh</span> man oh man. We followed Lars' iPhone instructions to the nearest ER, checked Tova in, and then sat down next to a decrepit cowboy. The staff was sweet and kind, which was good, because Petra was having a holy conniption feeling all sorts of guilt for having handed Tova the big kid crayon and not the fat baby crayon. As the nurse was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">fixin</span>' to prepare us for a removal of a foreign object from the nasal cavity, Tova sneezed. And then again. And again! And I'll be damned if that little orange tip didn't wiggle it's way down. We all sat, holding our breaths as Lars gently stroked <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Tovey's</span> nose until POP! Out it came! Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. And amen. We high-tailed it back to the van and sped off westward.<br /><br />The next day was Sunday, November 28<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">th</span>. Of course it was Tova's birthday, but we were still on the road so we didn't tell her. Didn't want to get too crazy with our celebrating and then have karma come and chew our arms off for being too <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">jubillant</span>.<br /><br />Finally, home to the crisp, dry plot that holds our crumbling, termite infested house with a loving and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">farty</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Bassett</span> Hound there to welcome us back. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Ahhhh</span>, no place like home.Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-3140930253675374692010-11-17T14:59:00.000-08:002010-11-17T15:26:09.559-08:00Pig in a Blanket<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTEy2OW2ehLgWgx0oAH3a0TYpCMl5qy5fBB010nStxTa0_je39u7qaf9RFtGiU49RlqPEAKviJeWSgZkfCi8MuQw612Bkz8nKTJqNjsDnr7Cg2zN5CocxlPBbgO3kyEcjb062KkVpo20/s1600/DSC_9834.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540662230514868482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTEy2OW2ehLgWgx0oAH3a0TYpCMl5qy5fBB010nStxTa0_je39u7qaf9RFtGiU49RlqPEAKviJeWSgZkfCi8MuQw612Bkz8nKTJqNjsDnr7Cg2zN5CocxlPBbgO3kyEcjb062KkVpo20/s400/DSC_9834.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Ours has been a house of various plagues this week, to tell you the truth I'm surprised the health department hasn't shut us down . . . or quarantined us . . . or culled us. </div><div>Anyhow, we're in survival of the fittest mode, and when it's like that I just can't give you chicken updates. I can, however, provide you with riveting visuals of our aging hiefer hound who insists on sleeping on the softest and highest points in the house that her stubby legs can heave her to. She also likes a blanket for swaddling. Oh to be a dog! One round of grass and voila! You have an episode of puking on the lawn, you lick it back up and you're good as gold.</div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-73260903475272220742010-11-11T16:37:00.000-08:002010-11-11T17:39:48.070-08:00God Bless the Wild BeastsI went outside to take some snap shots of our bountiful garden but Maggie followed me out and ended up distracting me with her smooshy face. Poor hiefer got her lip stuck up in her cheek. When I pointed it out to her, she got all sensitive on me. Too late for sensitivity. Lordy, I have a stomach ache from laughing at this hairy pooch.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5AT2kj9vFOMqHf_kMpx657cZ5rmWQviMPeSMROGKLZs7YB_E-XEi_YicxhVceWnjqlQt8d3G4ufG6uqAWp8Or16veA0cju26-Lqt1REZ72QwJ4d2ctVXXeczvT5z4g0N4e1Zf6MFPVPk/s1600/DSC_9791.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463930905608530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5AT2kj9vFOMqHf_kMpx657cZ5rmWQviMPeSMROGKLZs7YB_E-XEi_YicxhVceWnjqlQt8d3G4ufG6uqAWp8Or16veA0cju26-Lqt1REZ72QwJ4d2ctVXXeczvT5z4g0N4e1Zf6MFPVPk/s400/DSC_9791.JPG" border="0" /></a> She's a lot like Tova: doesn't speak much English and smells a little funny.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirggqjFZlC78h4ff1EhAfin1kvI9pCx5ePBqXz9nqmyb80t8Z6sP4tYWuuPiPuCbPrhM1CtClP4DcqGk-OCfYLoYNrcKhpFhdhZ4_j-uDDk6vU1scCTibwZ5bifaCE1QEyd8K593WcV6Q/s1600/DSC_9792.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463920724649570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirggqjFZlC78h4ff1EhAfin1kvI9pCx5ePBqXz9nqmyb80t8Z6sP4tYWuuPiPuCbPrhM1CtClP4DcqGk-OCfYLoYNrcKhpFhdhZ4_j-uDDk6vU1scCTibwZ5bifaCE1QEyd8K593WcV6Q/s400/DSC_9792.JPG" border="0" /></a> Despite the language barrier, though, you gotta help a sister out when her face gets lopsided. It's kind of like not telling a perfect stranger that she has a piece of broccoli stuck in her two-front teeth. It's the right thing to do.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBE21u-JIofm7d22l39m0pu04SgA3MMGowYvOaLLvbztQ7rcpWA_xg4yE7zWOcfnsuGomE9KPTQScqAtEqSzU2NQ-XyobUEW9o1jtG2MyKVQ6GbO_fj8rxqMPAsexUUvl5CPxqSfclGTY/s1600/DSC_9793.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463916930084418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBE21u-JIofm7d22l39m0pu04SgA3MMGowYvOaLLvbztQ7rcpWA_xg4yE7zWOcfnsuGomE9KPTQScqAtEqSzU2NQ-XyobUEW9o1jtG2MyKVQ6GbO_fj8rxqMPAsexUUvl5CPxqSfclGTY/s400/DSC_9793.JPG" border="0" /></a> This one, though . . . sheesh, this one huffy breathed at me and then acted like she had some other business to attend to. Somehow Surfin' DJ next door is, you know, just so very meaningful for a Bassett Hound with collagen deficiencies to monitor.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVLWVDdBHoxOIVKjpRvujEyPFYym7mqvMsZWe2dUT0ArMLqfpYolp0NEzxYQUoQ1SXF4R77SDS2vwRue4_mMqcmPzy2SfJE2-ALn_jucovSA_6G63S_ozyE_4KhRvGT2W7_3sBr17CFdQ/s1600/DSC_9794.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463911562280290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVLWVDdBHoxOIVKjpRvujEyPFYym7mqvMsZWe2dUT0ArMLqfpYolp0NEzxYQUoQ1SXF4R77SDS2vwRue4_mMqcmPzy2SfJE2-ALn_jucovSA_6G63S_ozyE_4KhRvGT2W7_3sBr17CFdQ/s400/DSC_9794.JPG" border="0" /></a> She tried to ignore my guffaws. She <em>tried</em>, but I was really rolling on the ground by now because a Bassett Hound is just one of those types of creatures that once you start laughing about 'em you can't even bring yourself to stop. Even now I have a little chuckle in me, ooh owww my abs.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUP8i6l99BxO4B-lJFhTXADfhFPZdgJpCEtFdE89OP6b6R5shBG93JhrbnmBfauXZuMcOfPloKTGlGCNhhh1y1PXfc6sToW1_7jApDqTKOEfYWiMq3rowMXi1xdt6djw8GpkNRkyzl1ik/s1600/DSC_9797.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463897405107650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUP8i6l99BxO4B-lJFhTXADfhFPZdgJpCEtFdE89OP6b6R5shBG93JhrbnmBfauXZuMcOfPloKTGlGCNhhh1y1PXfc6sToW1_7jApDqTKOEfYWiMq3rowMXi1xdt6djw8GpkNRkyzl1ik/s400/DSC_9797.JPG" border="0" /></a> Her lip had almost completely plopped out of her mouth, but she still wouldn't give me any eye contact. She was rankled. A wrinkled and rankled stubby legged cow of a dog.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFPIFxFCxEm-pH-DRQYgb8m0WvD5TRghZaO3gS5YRm5ZzWPlVihRWXnejmgWNBle0pCeBdg5iSoa4_3plzIa-F-BlKFF3HsS9Ct_Xj2VDDaoQppNGVuckuC7CiIMvYjnzolQFODzROEM/s1600/DSC_9798.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463154740418050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFPIFxFCxEm-pH-DRQYgb8m0WvD5TRghZaO3gS5YRm5ZzWPlVihRWXnejmgWNBle0pCeBdg5iSoa4_3plzIa-F-BlKFF3HsS9Ct_Xj2VDDaoQppNGVuckuC7CiIMvYjnzolQFODzROEM/s400/DSC_9798.JPG" border="0" /></a> Back to the lip tuck trick. Do you think she does in on purpose?<br /><div> </div><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKv9Cy_v05yoqCr92JkH9J90DEaBSbXRomXPUfpKMy2TKwo4n76uX1S4OGLqPDoO2cYezoOGLhB0xFqKH4rA6Xb1i75baWkkRtQHqekEqAsqbMu5xiZtE6Na6IwM214U2UrANoc_4cruo/s1600/DSC_9802.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463142467626162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKv9Cy_v05yoqCr92JkH9J90DEaBSbXRomXPUfpKMy2TKwo4n76uX1S4OGLqPDoO2cYezoOGLhB0xFqKH4rA6Xb1i75baWkkRtQHqekEqAsqbMu5xiZtE6Na6IwM214U2UrANoc_4cruo/s400/DSC_9802.JPG" border="0" /></a> And then suddenly, she flopped to the ground (2-inches below her floppy belly).<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR8vvXtIKfh8FqtzmveOZI-C0GXUQSfy0wLzaVrpjG-w4XKhsnndwBCVT-BlheZNp7n6gZOJ54J2QbP8hJvIsGR2nJuymh0NHk8J4hF-sQFZM3vW6m_hqqe9MjZG7xuiPqI9RLOM1GCt0/s1600/DSC_9803.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463136644021810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR8vvXtIKfh8FqtzmveOZI-C0GXUQSfy0wLzaVrpjG-w4XKhsnndwBCVT-BlheZNp7n6gZOJ54J2QbP8hJvIsGR2nJuymh0NHk8J4hF-sQFZM3vW6m_hqqe9MjZG7xuiPqI9RLOM1GCt0/s400/DSC_9803.JPG" border="0" /></a> Turns out she was just trying to work in her daily exercise. Treadmill is in the shop, don't ya know.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3u8cWUdTjgfehrFuwmHLfhDgIcLWjMvKU7cdnYJo1aP8PMWDkaSYdlzcVFaQ2tSl36o4TMx8q2eqjGQ4hTLYo1CMM78H5RbWjZHZBU6tjIKr-lCR2fU22GDNNG-uYAVG10Vqy7ei8Irc/s1600/DSC_9804.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538463129367611890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3u8cWUdTjgfehrFuwmHLfhDgIcLWjMvKU7cdnYJo1aP8PMWDkaSYdlzcVFaQ2tSl36o4TMx8q2eqjGQ4hTLYo1CMM78H5RbWjZHZBU6tjIKr-lCR2fU22GDNNG-uYAVG10Vqy7ei8Irc/s400/DSC_9804.JPG" border="0" /></a> Pilates, mostly she does pilates.<br /></div><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozf-FmVo5qyZRqdK7T99_cANF_xaAW-5T7dJz7b4WU43WXlbIrNsFdoB8M1iQCpp2gET_NdEkMr8eI0B4GNX9N1KBGRezwtHD9JrUmRcSqDf-YFUdrUlgEExXViHCGlcFiiiWTGBA4JI/s1600/DSC_9805.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538460105970959602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozf-FmVo5qyZRqdK7T99_cANF_xaAW-5T7dJz7b4WU43WXlbIrNsFdoB8M1iQCpp2gET_NdEkMr8eI0B4GNX9N1KBGRezwtHD9JrUmRcSqDf-YFUdrUlgEExXViHCGlcFiiiWTGBA4JI/s400/DSC_9805.JPG" border="0" /></a> This is one of her favorite yoga poses, though, it's called Side Down Dog.<br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4IVxxZI07k86QN79QQEFgJj1NAA5_-Q_NNG-PCx7y9ybKvO1c6uqWd9O7OicuJmJF8t7N7OGXMjILCNboVMH2x-zoOAs-daHoscdnJMR5f07KyG_p4dkhSQuToTd1IWsK-nKrfvHKtqA/s1600/DSC_9807.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538460098604870402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4IVxxZI07k86QN79QQEFgJj1NAA5_-Q_NNG-PCx7y9ybKvO1c6uqWd9O7OicuJmJF8t7N7OGXMjILCNboVMH2x-zoOAs-daHoscdnJMR5f07KyG_p4dkhSQuToTd1IWsK-nKrfvHKtqA/s400/DSC_9807.JPG" border="0" /></a> It's a good thing she stays in such good shape. She has her work cut out for her, all that protecting of eggless chickens from nightly raids by coyotes.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzKRyQg9c9Nikcvaa-FBqwhw8tqxxzMiA81E32hcRkOvws5-QsmyC5eKOaQyxaXucpWysrsTad20j53iQgGA0uOdZayT8q6tZ6BbqlVQT8X_r5mz71GAsB2rVRj8Tg64xm2VG4s9e3_Q/s1600/DSC_9808.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538460088375300882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzKRyQg9c9Nikcvaa-FBqwhw8tqxxzMiA81E32hcRkOvws5-QsmyC5eKOaQyxaXucpWysrsTad20j53iQgGA0uOdZayT8q6tZ6BbqlVQT8X_r5mz71GAsB2rVRj8Tg64xm2VG4s9e3_Q/s400/DSC_9808.JPG" border="0" /></a> This is her ab workout. I believe she calls this one Upward Facing Dog with Toe Touch, the toe touch is for added difficulty -- of course. Maggie LOVES to feel the burn.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHMqC48FPngk9K9mMzhZW68emTYd21s4BQYXamgPx3-8W3CmRIgBIoZQcBqefSebqopn1MfvTMeA_dlaHsDoO9pHUvDJN1iYcrqO0_-d3_rv3JatxP_aAHcu24Db5QDlZSz2AK5OoC7w/s1600/DSC_9812.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538460084190114146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHMqC48FPngk9K9mMzhZW68emTYd21s4BQYXamgPx3-8W3CmRIgBIoZQcBqefSebqopn1MfvTMeA_dlaHsDoO9pHUvDJN1iYcrqO0_-d3_rv3JatxP_aAHcu24Db5QDlZSz2AK5OoC7w/s400/DSC_9812.JPG" border="0" /></a> Don't let your eyes betray you, this nose to the ground maneuver quite honestly requires years of training and dedication. <br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN1vAGIZ0z3OeaCFWLTzNkdOQkqFUhyhYxy4-Yg0Vux_x00eupvh-Y9RPRMl_pw7BavoUSUk0m-aAO-Dc2zr1HGTQvEpBy8Gz5PfloahJ2_LV7ZoAsvlkGIJGpVzbPPVQecttN7cIMl48/s1600/DSC_9818.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538457713512021890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN1vAGIZ0z3OeaCFWLTzNkdOQkqFUhyhYxy4-Yg0Vux_x00eupvh-Y9RPRMl_pw7BavoUSUk0m-aAO-Dc2zr1HGTQvEpBy8Gz5PfloahJ2_LV7ZoAsvlkGIJGpVzbPPVQecttN7cIMl48/s400/DSC_9818.JPG" border="0" /></a> Post work-out C-Shaped Stretch.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04cwa6ViY4LAcvKT9bo3XHTsPj0voWqzEyfJc3mGGdnOoMSkC6K-4JeXYvlbLsR8ThHRH6kBJttI5MKByV0EtK_rTlQHY_bojFbFBqVe8b8jS77etHq3e9TCV4ri3KLs8Qf8nDoBrmeU/s1600/DSC_9820.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538457709262288898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04cwa6ViY4LAcvKT9bo3XHTsPj0voWqzEyfJc3mGGdnOoMSkC6K-4JeXYvlbLsR8ThHRH6kBJttI5MKByV0EtK_rTlQHY_bojFbFBqVe8b8jS77etHq3e9TCV4ri3KLs8Qf8nDoBrmeU/s400/DSC_9820.JPG" border="0" /></a> Then snap up to four paws to do the final Shake Off.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHEL-w3eDQ4TgMpuY7M5nN00-6JBiB9Mzg3PT09be-X6GviJEIabRZtPRNGseGik5jV627Z8jeqToVMjlj_TtxM0njiE3AnPhEKodoV1NqhLuoniw72Lm50Nb49sDQ4YbbPbOjJ57RzbY/s1600/DSC_9821.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538457698629179026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHEL-w3eDQ4TgMpuY7M5nN00-6JBiB9Mzg3PT09be-X6GviJEIabRZtPRNGseGik5jV627Z8jeqToVMjlj_TtxM0njiE3AnPhEKodoV1NqhLuoniw72Lm50Nb49sDQ4YbbPbOjJ57RzbY/s400/DSC_9821.JPG" border="0" /></a> It's imperative to engage the ears and lips in a bidirectional trajectory, otherwise the work-out is pointless.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05xUZVxZIUW3CyBYn1KeBRxTEwTtywXZNE6iqdKb6XMYEUPrJ1pDVgJ8skRhzheQ-nYFmvkZTyKipsxEevYjocn9bhn_TQBj4ulKSyJMkHrZ0kONt08AuCWvR2c41UgYDccEmZ9ErnnE/s1600/DSC_9822.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538457691525790514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05xUZVxZIUW3CyBYn1KeBRxTEwTtywXZNE6iqdKb6XMYEUPrJ1pDVgJ8skRhzheQ-nYFmvkZTyKipsxEevYjocn9bhn_TQBj4ulKSyJMkHrZ0kONt08AuCWvR2c41UgYDccEmZ9ErnnE/s400/DSC_9822.JPG" border="0" /></a>And lastly, stare regally off into the distance with your lip untucked and your muscles bulging. That, my friends, is how you dissuade mockery and laughter while gaining respect of mammals everywhere.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrG5CU7_bJb67o_NxU7tZ5gpQ1SJcT24h6Cbv59EpyyKPUM44EHhxy6yailfTXw7Lt2b5vS57L15jQ6Fv9APspuTDpOZg0kt28eGa1OA2ztJfl7t_wjab3L7qiShu_iVVKbRHRHQkZq-o/s1600/DSC_9823.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538457684888231250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrG5CU7_bJb67o_NxU7tZ5gpQ1SJcT24h6Cbv59EpyyKPUM44EHhxy6yailfTXw7Lt2b5vS57L15jQ6Fv9APspuTDpOZg0kt28eGa1OA2ztJfl7t_wjab3L7qiShu_iVVKbRHRHQkZq-o/s400/DSC_9823.JPG" border="0" /></a> PS - Her 10th birthday is 12/07/2010; send bones, bricks of unsalted butter (she's watching her blood pressure), organic crunchy peanut butter, fluffy pillows, and loaves of freshly baked bread.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-28988029791943302822010-11-08T16:46:00.000-08:002010-11-09T18:18:04.626-08:00DesperationBack when <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Tovey</span> was a teeny-tiny and wouldn't take bottles from Daddy while I was doing my long nights at the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hospital</span>, Tova manage to find solace in a battered old baby blanket of mine. The blanket, which I named <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mankee</span> (pronounced main-key), is as old as I am. He, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Mankee</span> is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">after all</span> a boy, cuddled me on countless <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">occasions</span> quieting my prickly nervous system as I waded through playground disasters and boy troubles and even an occasional college mishap. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Mankee</span> maintained his lovely bright yellow rectangle shape, lovingly knitted by my recently departed Grandma Peg (this is the grandma for whom Tova is named!). No wonder Baby Tova took to this relic of love and peace and comfort, Tova and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Mankee</span> -- meant for each other.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbkcjdS0Dq3so9T6KNO_BHFplk6c4-PtmesZgaSrf89ca3zh0bvUEcxV1-tBjj6fFm59lHc2z6duNr9jRFuh1mrOB95Ti-XrWabIy-0YFaxiLA6CPUinbcv0AKk4PiFf2RMKzMxX1xYA/s1600/DSC_9764.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537352160603614290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbkcjdS0Dq3so9T6KNO_BHFplk6c4-PtmesZgaSrf89ca3zh0bvUEcxV1-tBjj6fFm59lHc2z6duNr9jRFuh1mrOB95Ti-XrWabIy-0YFaxiLA6CPUinbcv0AKk4PiFf2RMKzMxX1xYA/s400/DSC_9764.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Sadly, these days, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Mankee</span> is more of a mangled and knotted lump of entangled 70's yellow and orange yarn. I sometimes think the only thing holding dearest <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Mankala</span> together are those knots. But Tova doesn't mind one bit. As she dozes off to sleep at night or when she's stressed and needing a little loving, she sticks her head into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Mankee's</span> big gaping holes and fixes her fingers through small openings in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Mankee's</span> ragged flash. Then she'll press <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Mankee</span> tenderly to her cute nose and inhale <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Mankee's</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">pheremones</span>. Quickly her eyes will roll back in her head, a little drool with dribble from the corner of her mouth and she has become serene.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFg4IJ3D8IZDRy6POfN-Z4q0-oblGXAmUjFgyrPJav29oCIpYz5dg5d38f1BP21DWEx6-oajrBUWCX8E5swfsGxYJdpJZ4OioeAyArvup4k1S_eYNoJW8hqxoMhqf3DbdZVhYYcd7AeZo/s1600/DSC_9766.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537352157082116178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFg4IJ3D8IZDRy6POfN-Z4q0-oblGXAmUjFgyrPJav29oCIpYz5dg5d38f1BP21DWEx6-oajrBUWCX8E5swfsGxYJdpJZ4OioeAyArvup4k1S_eYNoJW8hqxoMhqf3DbdZVhYYcd7AeZo/s400/DSC_9766.JPG" border="0" /></a> You just can't give away your baby/childhood/teenage blanket! This is a perfect and very natural transition for my old pal. However, given <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Mankee's</span> current health issues, my mother sought fit to knit Tova a new blanket. This new blanket, lovingly knit just like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Mankee</span> Sr, has been renamed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Gwamma</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Blankie</span> by Tova and instead of replacing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Mankee</span> it appears that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Mankee</span> has become the mentor for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Gwamma</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Blankie</span>. Instead of fresh and taught <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Gwamma</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Blankie</span> accompanying Tova to school (where she stays in Tova's backpack until <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">naptime</span>), <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Mankee</span> still assumes nap duty with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Gwamma</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Blankie</span> filling in as the role of Robin to Mankee's Batman. In fact, <em>both</em> are frequently snuck into Tova's toddler backpack by a sympathetic older sibling where the two blankies bulge out willy-nilly but happily fulfilling their baby soothing duties.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_FsERyuh8f3Ll6lznMdTgxI123mO3AzTd6Ec82jmK3vU2Oz5YXFyRwKRehGUN-ogiPFqyzcaGPVOSwy12hNiIek3vnSvLo6_G22NVMQkkCuYcjMRqkye64TGkrIJsvJxw0SFFwILUS04/s1600/DSC_9767.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537352150352788066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_FsERyuh8f3Ll6lznMdTgxI123mO3AzTd6Ec82jmK3vU2Oz5YXFyRwKRehGUN-ogiPFqyzcaGPVOSwy12hNiIek3vnSvLo6_G22NVMQkkCuYcjMRqkye64TGkrIJsvJxw0SFFwILUS04/s400/DSC_9767.JPG" border="0" /></a> Attempts to fix <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Mankee</span>, to piece <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Mankee</span> back together with new knots and knits and stitching, have all failed and alas <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Mankee</span> has become even more jumbled and knotted and therefore, even more loved. Given the fragility of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Mankee's</span> loose strings and 33-year old yarn, and also recognizing that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Mankee</span> was with us for better or worse, my mother brought us a mesh bag designed for washing intimates. Much to Tova's horror, we place <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Mankee</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Gwamma</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Blankie</span> in that bag together for a good routine washing. After soaking through her diaper last night (Lars was in charge, I was at work), <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Mankee</span> was pungent and terribly needful of a cold cycle.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjfTqY_abrFjUNArkfe9n6mJgjj43QbZ3vZpniIKThYiP8ao6cqZLxczJOFU4rZdGSsd5Ty6cfIhYG4DKsj_9A_SfbOI7Oa2t6NW3CeOKjiKl_DS_vDMTjQnJZzLwuEupD2lTV0iF9z4/s1600/DSC_9768.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537352145687477442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjfTqY_abrFjUNArkfe9n6mJgjj43QbZ3vZpniIKThYiP8ao6cqZLxczJOFU4rZdGSsd5Ty6cfIhYG4DKsj_9A_SfbOI7Oa2t6NW3CeOKjiKl_DS_vDMTjQnJZzLwuEupD2lTV0iF9z4/s400/DSC_9768.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Though I tried, unlatching Tova's curled fingers from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Mankee's</span> impaired physique as she slept sweetly, her sympathetic nervous system went into flight-or-fright mode and she thundered at me to cease and desist. I, somewhat taller and stronger than Tova, won that worrisome tug-of-war (worrisome because it's hard to imagine <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Mankee</span> can take much more abuse without <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">pouffing</span> up into a big fluff cloud). I quickly threw Tova's blanket friends into the intimates bag and hit go on our washer. This brought her to near hysterics as she watched the carnage ensue from her spot perching just outside the washing machine. Her face contorted with absolute worry and sorrow.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wty3PI44tbc8VNGCEmJEof_g8kEqQh6OvBqisg_UYa5p138CC5elCjEs7l2PIUFFiBuXwq__iALwex7Eh_LaP6M-riNR7jpBsw-xIgozQRANYJvDfbLgc5LZ4kXyNfmEsi3Qh6NHUpc/s1600/DSC_9769.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537352141043025490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wty3PI44tbc8VNGCEmJEof_g8kEqQh6OvBqisg_UYa5p138CC5elCjEs7l2PIUFFiBuXwq__iALwex7Eh_LaP6M-riNR7jpBsw-xIgozQRANYJvDfbLgc5LZ4kXyNfmEsi3Qh6NHUpc/s400/DSC_9769.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div></div><div>And now, I have a sleepy baby restlessly pining for her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Mankee</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">ohhhhh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Mankee</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">MankeeMankeeMankee</span>, little fingers searching for a substitute at the fringe on the scarf around my neck, imploring me to bring her fuzzy yellow buddy back from the brink.<br /></div><div>Treacherous Mommy. Traitor.</div></div></div></div></div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-28567962791440333352010-11-04T21:23:00.000-07:002010-11-04T21:35:26.741-07:00Goodbye Old(ish) FriendDearest <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Vee</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Dubby</span>,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyw7bSxjUpu9ugpkVdlVvUfZgyYlIxIKIjmz_oYLy6Yel4iYtyVicaNBMC6s1om0wQ4k3mnxf1HLwvsNsywJtbC9rLrNx1rjVFwQsZnUM1rfLKAk3eU3fL35_ZtENwAS_w5K_q-bRmpow/s1600/DSC_5059.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535917023252429698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyw7bSxjUpu9ugpkVdlVvUfZgyYlIxIKIjmz_oYLy6Yel4iYtyVicaNBMC6s1om0wQ4k3mnxf1HLwvsNsywJtbC9rLrNx1rjVFwQsZnUM1rfLKAk3eU3fL35_ZtENwAS_w5K_q-bRmpow/s400/DSC_5059.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /> The other day, when your transmission went <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">gorky</span> as I was pulling into oncoming traffic and you wouldn't go into first . . . well, you came through for me. You did your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">darndest</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">thunked</span> into first after a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">harrowingly</span> long interval and then sputtered me off the in the right direction. I'm sorry for what happened after that, and well after that and after that and even after that. Fact is, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Dubby</span> Dude, you're better off now. I appreciate the way you made me look cool, the way you perched me high above all the other cars so I could see their drivers <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">texting</span> and driving, the way you fit 2-surfboards, one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Bassett</span> Hound with a window phobia, and four children (two of whom are very prone to motion sickness) all in your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">muy</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">fabulosa</span> back seats.<br /><br />Okay, so here it goes: I'm sorry we decided to sell you to Henry and Kate, I'm sorry we decided to replace you with a brand new 2007 fully loaded (cloth seats, no DVD) shiny Honda <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Odyssey</span>, I'm sorry it didn't work out. I miss you, I care about you and I want good things for you.<br /><br />Live long and prosper. May the spirit always be with you. May your new transmission, put in by your new ma and pa, be everything you've ever dreamed of.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">XOXO</span>,<br />K-MamaMama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-86541340061732836742010-11-02T20:13:00.001-07:002010-11-02T20:26:05.094-07:00Bionic Arm Days<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU35tEAVSUst-YSO7AJyEDVKmV0Hl784SQovUYpidx4syUpfruWd4tKjqBZ25bRT31Ln3GyiiHWJTTPjju4vycPN5TT7kj9PCaraJR9tpvoayjHAgymzoHc1jB37AqlsMTLdchJX0Y9DI/s1600/DSC_9486.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535157248614697410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU35tEAVSUst-YSO7AJyEDVKmV0Hl784SQovUYpidx4syUpfruWd4tKjqBZ25bRT31Ln3GyiiHWJTTPjju4vycPN5TT7kj9PCaraJR9tpvoayjHAgymzoHc1jB37AqlsMTLdchJX0Y9DI/s400/DSC_9486.JPG" border="0" /></a> Soren sustained a fracture in his right hand while riding a bike at a birthday party (I won't go into anymore detail for fear of embarrassing the parents of the birthday boy). To tell you the truth, Soren was really stoked about his bright green cast and all his new super powers (mega handball serves, weapon like abilities for threatening sisters, etc). His pain was also immediately relieved when the cast went on. </div><div align="center"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnoL5mot98VfYbGmvLaGN7q1wytb9-UTGt0EBXUBxYDjJxBHMzjPHBEhSBrdUtOrjMfH-x-1BM8ptHMPMXYaHayZdvNQ8hEGj2F3EELNB9VSqYrsFBlvEzbT_AcQy5W7BqKH_PbCBQ7w/s1600/DSC_9719.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535157238921173570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnoL5mot98VfYbGmvLaGN7q1wytb9-UTGt0EBXUBxYDjJxBHMzjPHBEhSBrdUtOrjMfH-x-1BM8ptHMPMXYaHayZdvNQ8hEGj2F3EELNB9VSqYrsFBlvEzbT_AcQy5W7BqKH_PbCBQ7w/s400/DSC_9719.JPG" border="0" /></a> Much to his dismay, the cast did have to come off. That was yesterday. He was a little nervous about the circular saw bit, so he got a quick tutorial from this totally straight-laced guy here.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKfbyKanckyAZQenX95qR_U4vjryPy7REmROAOh2ODA_R0ElJkWLC5iLp7fx8XhyC_xVprIypUaG8LLBTC4O0Klp7UU-R8u4CfoWbib0Et6_TORnMHq3vVrQDrI3IkjhGejn2DMlAd3U/s1600/DSC_9721.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535157233753665602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKfbyKanckyAZQenX95qR_U4vjryPy7REmROAOh2ODA_R0ElJkWLC5iLp7fx8XhyC_xVprIypUaG8LLBTC4O0Klp7UU-R8u4CfoWbib0Et6_TORnMHq3vVrQDrI3IkjhGejn2DMlAd3U/s400/DSC_9721.JPG" border="0" /></a> And away he went . . .<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatySde8YnMh-d5oD4KBZkEvU8-hQHg_e2-yZJEatOJbfHstKUL-XxNNR7werVdo0GDoYYQ6YEHXAUqg5wZg_rpFq1VkJkRRKga5hNWcJ9223tAHKpy-He2Za-4Ybiu-CU9ilYCSs8tmE/s1600/DSC_9723.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535156882689190978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatySde8YnMh-d5oD4KBZkEvU8-hQHg_e2-yZJEatOJbfHstKUL-XxNNR7werVdo0GDoYYQ6YEHXAUqg5wZg_rpFq1VkJkRRKga5hNWcJ9223tAHKpy-He2Za-4Ybiu-CU9ilYCSs8tmE/s400/DSC_9723.JPG" border="0" /></a> It was very noisy.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOdOD_Y1-c4EJ-9PM0bxmQPkHPUYCrhVqysq4crF6rv_BYVai4Ffq7bJb8Oj6YXejPrh1So36HhMGmPhgOPiV61WGLhbPrPtKmh0eFDb5l2D3x45TKhF-KAUCXG09FJe4OAZi7XhfJkQ/s1600/DSC_9726.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535156868836278402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOdOD_Y1-c4EJ-9PM0bxmQPkHPUYCrhVqysq4crF6rv_BYVai4Ffq7bJb8Oj6YXejPrh1So36HhMGmPhgOPiV61WGLhbPrPtKmh0eFDb5l2D3x45TKhF-KAUCXG09FJe4OAZi7XhfJkQ/s400/DSC_9726.JPG" border="0" /></a> And a little scary!<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhssIC7_2wqjPo343aVOawmbppSIO-RE7cVFkQXpFgF2VsNDsBKxiVH066y-VpR-oj3VrRfplld9MT-OUWn_jfdHrJWy-xg-e3x-dPqgE08xhHcQ7v8-atxHtT2YjepQwMVeDJgwll1Y/s1600/DSC_9743.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535156858507583490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhssIC7_2wqjPo343aVOawmbppSIO-RE7cVFkQXpFgF2VsNDsBKxiVH066y-VpR-oj3VrRfplld9MT-OUWn_jfdHrJWy-xg-e3x-dPqgE08xhHcQ7v8-atxHtT2YjepQwMVeDJgwll1Y/s400/DSC_9743.JPG" border="0" /></a> He could finally tie his shoes again!<br /></div><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5mbEPxlsqRp3BSLGrlno-1vnHGJpEqVAIn1smxI5_TAMCKKhRo3caFvrCOMeJf6XQOy2S2fo1YFIF344fgblSuvKqP7QX4RaprF_XPYtwpM3rK7hTeX41BPLsCRYKyCZHp-2f-msYwc/s1600/DSC_9748.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535156857004031266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5mbEPxlsqRp3BSLGrlno-1vnHGJpEqVAIn1smxI5_TAMCKKhRo3caFvrCOMeJf6XQOy2S2fo1YFIF344fgblSuvKqP7QX4RaprF_XPYtwpM3rK7hTeX41BPLsCRYKyCZHp-2f-msYwc/s400/DSC_9748.JPG" border="0" /></a> Then we had to wait for x-ray. Tova was exceptionally disturbed by it all and explained to Soren, in arresting detail, how "Guy. Cut. It. Cut. Cut. Cut. Soren owie? See me arm?".<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY7xQICXfh4b-ABpsRaN6cvYSapBu8ri4_sifpLNELYwhZQr0jlZTWtsHW1C4_SrmQuYaRP3v5sbuQqHdIh979ge1aAXazPJ8EfjzNcaVuL5bYxTd-PUkfCuU0p3eCeVQ26URRGKFiBSU/s1600/DSC_9749.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535156841139659778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY7xQICXfh4b-ABpsRaN6cvYSapBu8ri4_sifpLNELYwhZQr0jlZTWtsHW1C4_SrmQuYaRP3v5sbuQqHdIh979ge1aAXazPJ8EfjzNcaVuL5bYxTd-PUkfCuU0p3eCeVQ26URRGKFiBSU/s400/DSC_9749.JPG" border="0" /></a> So, Soren showed her his poor little dirty arm. There was a piece of artificial turf stuck to it, other than that he was good to go. We go back next week for another follow-up.<br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /></div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-81026456531797249572010-11-01T18:56:00.000-07:002010-11-01T19:04:32.549-07:00ReconciliationLet's make-up and be friends again, okay?<br /><br />Half Dozen I've missed you, so let's give it another go around.<br /><br />Since September 27th all sorts of stuff has gone forth -- and more not. I'll list a few things, but because I don't want to spoil future posts (yes! future posts!) I'm not givig it all up.<br /><br />1) Annike's kindergarten teacher wants her to do 1st grade part-time<br />2) Petra completed a fantastic first competetive gymnastics season, made it to sectionals, where she fell off the beam (her best event) and she still scored high enough that she qualified for the State Meet coming up mid-November<br />3) our beloved bus broke<br />4) I'm sadly not expecting<br />5) I delivered a breech baby<br />6) our Mildred and Thelma still have not laid one darn egg<br />7) we were completely surrounded by howling coyotes last night<br />8) Tova uses the potty with 50% accuracy<br />9) Lars and I went on a date<br />10) Soren is no longer damaged goods . . . (see next post)Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-67353686265659212502010-09-27T17:07:00.000-07:002010-09-27T20:44:58.745-07:00FliesDown here in this dusty corner of the country, summer passed by without so much as a whisper of a hot day, let alone a heat wave. My kids spent the first month of school wearing jeans, t-shirts and the occasional sweatshirt. We even had a smattering of light rain, a completely uncharacteristic event for my new home.<br /><br />Did you know we've been here three years now? Three years! Leaving Ann Arbor doesn't hurt quite so much now, everyone was right the pain isn't so sharp but just sort of stingy and throat lumpy. Thanks all of you, Everyone, who told me I was going to be okay and that time would heal these wounds. Everyone, except Carolyn, that is. Carolyn read some geologic study about how California shouldn't even be here and soon enough it was going to crack off of the continent. She warned me not to buy real estate and she told me to hold on tight in case the cracking episode happened while I was still here. Love that friend of mine, though, I didn't take her real estate advice and second guess it every time we get a little jiggle from being perched atop these big old fault lines.<br /><br />Now, here I am in my real estate digressing about things. My Coca Cola Zero is sweating, I'm sweating, my kids are sweating and my dog is sweating. I've got sweat rolling down that space between my boobs that most California women proudly call their cleavage (price approximately $10k), but my boobs are still solidly Michigan and so I am fortunate enough not to have a little pond gathering at the apex where my girls meet.<br /><br />The weather has changed suddenly. It's hot and crispy. You singe your hand on the handle just trying to open the ding car door. And because we don't have air conditioning we have every fan in the house on pointing them at our faces.<br /><br />I boiled some pasta for dinner while some of the kids were at the neighbors and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Tovey</span> was sleeping. There is just no reasonable excuse to cook dinner with everyone in the house on a dry 94-degree day. I threw together a pasta salad and some corn bread and then when I put it in the fridge to set and gather all it's flavors I also shoved my head in there for a quick couple of moments. Until I saw the strawberries sweating. Sweaty strawberries are even less attractive then a sweaty, full-grown mama of four so I crawled off that bowing little shelf next to the left-overs and tried to get pragmatic about it. At least I wasn't having to witness the "beauty" of all those wretched fall colors that old people and people with country kitchens wax nostalgia about. I find nothing fabulous about fall colors. Hello?! Fall. Is. Cold. <br /><br />Who the heck cares about hot ciders and woolly sweaters and homecoming games? Ugh. Fall means winter and winter means snow and crawling around on Highway 94 in a white out at 19 MPH heading off to the hospital to catch some baby in the middle of a snow storm. One time it was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">soooo</span> cold that I slammed my fingertips into my old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">VW</span> hatchback, I didn't even realize it until I tried to walk away from the car but couldn't cause part of me was still in that ding car.<br /><br />I do feel a bit like an 3rd world: lethargic from heat, a skinny baby at my boob and flies hovering around my face. And what exactly is it about that heat that brings out all those flies? But no sirree, I cannot say that I could swallow another Michigan winter. The milk and honey on this side is just as sweet, thank you very much.Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-10172144402338229412010-09-01T22:57:00.000-07:002010-09-02T13:21:05.491-07:00Git tuh gittin' . . .I know, I know, I whine bunches and gobs.<br /><br /><p>Thing is, if you end up totally satisfied with your life then what else is there to work for? Huh, huh, huh?<br /></p><br />Since I've been in a bit of a hippy phase since I was 12-years old, I am more than familiar with all those songs out there about seasons changing and how it really means that babies get older. There's some peace and love in 'em, too. I do remember those parts. But it's the parts about the winds coming in from the West and blowing yer baby clear up in to personhood with legs that can walk and mushy cheeks that can talk . . . it is those parts of the songs that sting me like hot pokers.<br /><br />You'd think that with all the peacing and loving we listen to in my little shack that my husband would go ahead and gimme another baby. He, apparently, thinks peace and love also means not overpopulating our planet.<br /><br /><div>Sometimes I try to get all Holy on him, seeing as that was his fire and brimstone upbringing, but instead he finds some diversion like playing "No Woman, No Cry" on his guitar with his chin pointed up to the stars. Hello? Anybody in there? He's gone and tuned out.</div><br /><div>Tova may be our last Viking. I can't hardly believe it.</div><div><br /><div>And then, you know what -- aside from me having all sorts of good baby names left -- you know what?</div><br /><div>Today was Tovey Marge's first day of preschool.</div></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKscwMVlGeMtMdCSo8QgWd7r6TJ9VptgaEpuHzu_MnFzDsbTecH_WeztiXM8MND9HnjllvYFd4Zh8wAzhofNHqAITov7v0gGuXmiQTk9CqkskCS8PH92M24etlVCKn8HvJVvG2p6vQBFs/s1600/DSC_8914.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512197844173077762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKscwMVlGeMtMdCSo8QgWd7r6TJ9VptgaEpuHzu_MnFzDsbTecH_WeztiXM8MND9HnjllvYFd4Zh8wAzhofNHqAITov7v0gGuXmiQTk9CqkskCS8PH92M24etlVCKn8HvJVvG2p6vQBFs/s400/DSC_8914.JPG" /></a> The long walk to the front door, giving my baby away to the baby snatchers at our preschool.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50tNOOhNLvrQGpMCUapH8-dtyCxrhzW9Zzhqen0i8vxFQRnfxA6OQQjM-x54NjvsTFZGaR25ZGp8eC1zPty8jfyBbhjaPhqEN0YYuKJyrbMfUJNScR138ihtjbMYzzuzLsE1s3WIu5Qo/s1600/DSC_8923.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512197838415310738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50tNOOhNLvrQGpMCUapH8-dtyCxrhzW9Zzhqen0i8vxFQRnfxA6OQQjM-x54NjvsTFZGaR25ZGp8eC1zPty8jfyBbhjaPhqEN0YYuKJyrbMfUJNScR138ihtjbMYzzuzLsE1s3WIu5Qo/s400/DSC_8923.JPG" /></a> Already busy with Montessori work.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0BBmYAsyNnhV_5q7dZAwIwpPXUKhaJyCV_y6NLJFlEwG79B7QOAbhFT2TtQCf8v7lsKgdoR2ztaCLd-B8LgsUvjzntG-38ofQPgVaSBgS286nMvKvOVA7GCg3-rzS26tHuW4IMwP1ep4/s1600/DSC_8924.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512197829449433666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0BBmYAsyNnhV_5q7dZAwIwpPXUKhaJyCV_y6NLJFlEwG79B7QOAbhFT2TtQCf8v7lsKgdoR2ztaCLd-B8LgsUvjzntG-38ofQPgVaSBgS286nMvKvOVA7GCg3-rzS26tHuW4IMwP1ep4/s400/DSC_8924.JPG" /></a><br /></div></div><p align="center">Bye-bye, says Mommy.</p><p align="center">Don't let the door hit you on your back porch on the way out, says Tova. </p>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-28706414906677558042010-08-29T22:30:00.000-07:002010-08-29T22:38:10.971-07:00Two Down<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX46rJtPZGcH-VjcExoKvYJP1lwWie8z_dYQGH0ggHkRjERoD2NRdEHvZ2-QWU0vHCH_T_O0ViJ8SR6dT3ojaOub5aAkkficRJyHGWKHpOlI1T8NZeaaeBZHsS8N-J0XxNbxlm5dalvKo/s1600/DSC_8600.JPG"><img border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX46rJtPZGcH-VjcExoKvYJP1lwWie8z_dYQGH0ggHkRjERoD2NRdEHvZ2-QWU0vHCH_T_O0ViJ8SR6dT3ojaOub5aAkkficRJyHGWKHpOlI1T8NZeaaeBZHsS8N-J0XxNbxlm5dalvKo/s400/DSC_8600.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both" align="left">She got hit in the mouth with a soccer ball, got some loose teeth, couldn't take it anymore so Daddy done pulled 'em out. First night, Tooth Fairy gave her a down payment so then Annike got to bring the teeth to school in a baggie for show and tell the next day. Second night, Tooth Fairy was apparently busy and didn't come back. Third night, $6 appeared and all was right with the world.</div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-87679650614267346522010-08-24T22:19:00.000-07:002010-08-24T22:33:53.166-07:00How do you make time fly?(That's a joke.)<br /><br />How do you make time fly?!?<br /><br />You throw a clock out the window.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZycQaSCQ9T56ikSM50sCOYXTEAltgBQ5eLzOmihDlqbs6iGq9tyxHhqvkzV04H5iXlNxsNZyPYntSvJ3Gf8LOSNkxPacnGGD05dEfyl6wjIlmvSIWkib6BsU3-BPueBiPKJswnq1sSJg/s1600/DSC09899.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509214617180308786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZycQaSCQ9T56ikSM50sCOYXTEAltgBQ5eLzOmihDlqbs6iGq9tyxHhqvkzV04H5iXlNxsNZyPYntSvJ3Gf8LOSNkxPacnGGD05dEfyl6wjIlmvSIWkib6BsU3-BPueBiPKJswnq1sSJg/s400/DSC09899.JPG" /></a> Or . . . you become the mother of the most amazing children in the whole world and you send them off to school.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYRHy0lvIAr7irthiF028ION9StsdeqCVcHrkz8apiW6oD0wlsi-VAKOQkWFAQPoRdIOjqg_yq3VdW7lQVD3eEAHmPB5C_ijg6ONxa0RXB3urizkihlJ_eIm0nsvsJM7HoAS9SgPdTFg/s1600/DSC_8537.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509213082352817746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYRHy0lvIAr7irthiF028ION9StsdeqCVcHrkz8apiW6oD0wlsi-VAKOQkWFAQPoRdIOjqg_yq3VdW7lQVD3eEAHmPB5C_ijg6ONxa0RXB3urizkihlJ_eIm0nsvsJM7HoAS9SgPdTFg/s400/DSC_8537.JPG" /></a> And before you know it, three years go by.<br /><br /><div align="left"><em>The first picture was taken on the first day of new school right after we moved to California. Soren was 4 and starting preschool, Petra was 6 and beginning 1st grade, Annike was 2 and starting preschool and our little Tovey wasn't but a twinkle in our eyes. Now the kids are in 2nd, 4th, and kindergarten! Other than a few tears at the door, Annike's first day of school last Monday was a success.</em><br /><br /></div></div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-57675896717737876042010-08-18T17:42:00.001-07:002010-08-18T18:13:21.758-07:00Farm Girls<div align="left">How are the chickens you ask?</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Millie and Thelma celebrated 3-months of life on the 5th of this month. They're plump and juicy with only a few more months left of growing. Hopefully we'll get some egg laying action toward the end of winter 2011.</div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvHtoFSfeYn5b55bc9_86ETb6OuC9Q_ZSz-xV5IxcR3HQ-UZfYm8DZb6DSZOAXz2WmZWWfc9XPJkQsaQHocewash9SKZLkigxj5fh4F-RkWh4-mbpTBDVaFmtN4Twu0QRD8I99_MzLfg/s1600/DSC_8383.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506915391034896162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvHtoFSfeYn5b55bc9_86ETb6OuC9Q_ZSz-xV5IxcR3HQ-UZfYm8DZb6DSZOAXz2WmZWWfc9XPJkQsaQHocewash9SKZLkigxj5fh4F-RkWh4-mbpTBDVaFmtN4Twu0QRD8I99_MzLfg/s400/DSC_8383.JPG" /></a></p><div align="left">After a lil' Viking unlatches their coop in the morning, Mildred (a.k.a. Millie) will walk down the bridge to the feeder below while Thelma jumps out. They usually have a bit of breakfast under the coop, make plans for the day, clean their beaks on the cement and then head out into the wilds of the backyard.<br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgsMk3nLylnSK_IjDsFBOekLzj9XDepiF5fCjOYqp9DwtZE0fzE1UvkPfCu7QbxHGnIbWq3T_mUbZFCauxuDjX7BkMKKfD-9U9vXaGbKug2svnVDgxc8fPy4Amrc81mQl7iRds1hzMNA/s1600/DSC_8399.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506915383671913442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgsMk3nLylnSK_IjDsFBOekLzj9XDepiF5fCjOYqp9DwtZE0fzE1UvkPfCu7QbxHGnIbWq3T_mUbZFCauxuDjX7BkMKKfD-9U9vXaGbKug2svnVDgxc8fPy4Amrc81mQl7iRds1hzMNA/s400/DSC_8399.JPG" /></a><br /></div><div align="left">For the most part, Maggie is fairly ambivalent about them. But, around 7:30 in the morning they'll start pecking on the slider, begging for treats and that's when Maggie typically jumps into action. I usually send the kids outside to scatter organic oats and flax seed, they usually let the girls peck some bites from their hands before throwing it onto the grass. Sometimes we feed them parsley, apricots, apple cores, corn on a cob, even bread. They love it all.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpaH7_tQNrl5Y2mNougJf7ERSU_hlUK4fEgt5f4890EaB9Usj_HMV0OjAKB6HEmj1YhbIzDPTE2WKGqOB-JMdQ8fQP9DUpMGBXEiN1zdeKXgOoZSsArkSXllpJiNtlFO9_gnzj_nID58/s1600/DSC_8400.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506915380301939858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpaH7_tQNrl5Y2mNougJf7ERSU_hlUK4fEgt5f4890EaB9Usj_HMV0OjAKB6HEmj1YhbIzDPTE2WKGqOB-JMdQ8fQP9DUpMGBXEiN1zdeKXgOoZSsArkSXllpJiNtlFO9_gnzj_nID58/s400/DSC_8400.JPG" /></a><br /></div><div align="left">Maggie loves to help them, and they let her without giving up their own position in the pecking order. It seems Maggie's just another one of the hens to them.<br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfh5fkE7SHXbqFMTbb8v_pMjgZiUO267vTO3MYmaWkr4y82i5bOc0x3TsN8GEi17hX9tDzcrKHsvMnRkWDtJraDpg6kqOpIY-Lr2f6mtOyiYPpkyZVkfUOv-wRT6EHSyhtz0NGw6QTwqk/s1600/DSC_8403.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506915372588603826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfh5fkE7SHXbqFMTbb8v_pMjgZiUO267vTO3MYmaWkr4y82i5bOc0x3TsN8GEi17hX9tDzcrKHsvMnRkWDtJraDpg6kqOpIY-Lr2f6mtOyiYPpkyZVkfUOv-wRT6EHSyhtz0NGw6QTwqk/s400/DSC_8403.JPG" /></a><br /></div><div align="left">And that's how they spend their day, picking at worms and bugs, sharing oatmeal with Maggie, chirping at each other and pecking at our windows. At dusk, they head back up the ramp to their coop on their own volition and snuggle up on their roost. By dark, Lars has the door latched and the girls tucked in.<br /><br /><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpYi0G3xikHE8h-L9l-MH21w0TbBgab0rDXfy1Ro0a_r0W_n3jV3QiqVQMrw-KyY5QA1aQnymBxEn01PYksgUpvZXCywRhyBbUS4o9NpUCImREjYLb6Rp9INY1a5JOisunYV2ckheO4o/s1600/DSC_8409.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506915367126683090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpYi0G3xikHE8h-L9l-MH21w0TbBgab0rDXfy1Ro0a_r0W_n3jV3QiqVQMrw-KyY5QA1aQnymBxEn01PYksgUpvZXCywRhyBbUS4o9NpUCImREjYLb6Rp9INY1a5JOisunYV2ckheO4o/s400/DSC_8409.JPG" /></a></p><div align="left">It's a good life for my animals -- cowish doggies, sea monkeys, hens, Viking children and bearish husband.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-44564681942041054602010-08-10T18:50:00.001-07:002010-08-10T18:53:21.066-07:00The Ship Came In<p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_6-eBLqWJOdqhsjmObQX0A8DeBNMW3BlX7MXzXDf5NfSL85dSb46VIL-z8XayptD8ZJ-PP_Nah7iZqjl1rRMt9CIKz3Duhdlg1rfAHa8VqvQSWW70Eqlv4tLuzL-oT9ga_8YnexWVGs/s1600/DSC_8345.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503964352989345890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_6-eBLqWJOdqhsjmObQX0A8DeBNMW3BlX7MXzXDf5NfSL85dSb46VIL-z8XayptD8ZJ-PP_Nah7iZqjl1rRMt9CIKz3Duhdlg1rfAHa8VqvQSWW70Eqlv4tLuzL-oT9ga_8YnexWVGs/s400/DSC_8345.JPG" /></a></p><br /><br />My new cell phone arrived today, I've activiated it and it's set to go. Could you do me a favor and text me so I can put you back in my contacts. Make sure to say who you are.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Oh, and I do fully understand that I could just transfer info from my old sim card to my new. Feel free to pull the old one out of my besieged phone, step right up.Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-29064331117414327562010-08-09T15:21:00.000-07:002010-08-09T16:31:07.890-07:00Stories of a Viking MatriarchThis is a true story.<br /><br />You will read it and hope it's not true but it is.<br /><br />It all started on Friday. Maybe it started on Thursday.<br /><br />It all started on Thursday night. I couldn't find my cell phone charger for my cute little green Samsung. It was plain gone, not anywhere. Vaporized.<br /><br />Back to Friday now. Friday I began my day with my usual -- lip gloss, hair in a bun, heels on feet, a quick check in the mirror, brief case over right shoulder, car keys in hand and kisses to the kids. I cloppity-clopped down the walk to the driveway with my dying cell phone in my bag, and except for keys my hands were empty. Lars hadn't made the coffee that morning, I was going to have to shell out some cash for my usual SBux that day. I hopped into Hope's little sports car, as per our usual car trading when she has more than one of my children at a time.<br /><br />Work was anemic with a puny patient load that had me cutting out of the office early and a little cranky. Before I ran home, the next stop was Starbucks and Best Buy. Well, probably Best Buy and THEN Starbucks. It's not like you want to have an incident where you get some electronic equipment all frizzled out because your shakey hands dribbled coffee onto the Nokia display.<br /><br />After getting a ridiculously priced replacement charger for my cutie pie phone, I headed to Starbucks. Because I'm a nice employer, I made sure to call Nanny Hopey first to get her order too. Hope advised me that she and most of the kids were at the beach, and could I please pack everyone a picnic lunch to have before I met up with them? Suddenly, it was my turn to place my order . . . oops, instead of ordering a half-caf, non-fat, tall vanilla latte I just ordered a non-fat, tall vanilla latte with all the caffeine that SB has to offer. Oh well, I needed a pick me up, or something like that.<br /><br />I rushed home to throw a lunch together, tossed towels and swim suits into the beach bag and then zoomed off to get Annike from her gymnastics boot camp by noon. Made it to Annike in time, still sipping on my latte with my empty stomach. Felt a little jittery, but finally managed to parallel park at lifegaurd tower no. 30 -- only 2-towers away from Nanny Hope and the kids. I finished the latte just in time to feel all that caffeine settle into my bladder. <br /><br />Annike and I bounced toward the beach with all our gear, including my brief case which held my now semi-charged phone that I had plugged in for a few moments while making lunch at home. Man, did I have to pee. After plopping our stuff onto the beach, I got my car keys from Hope and then schlepped over to my car with my briefcase among other things that didn't necessarily benefit from being on a sandy Pacific beach in the hot sun. On my way to my Bus, I passed a port-a-potty, it made me shiver but at least I fully understood what my options were. I dropped my briefcase into the car and grabbed my cell phone out of it. Then, on the way back down to the beach I decided that I would indeed absolutely need to rendez-vous at the port-a-potty.<br /><br />Before stepping in to that blue little silo of depravity, I took a deep breath, held it, then burst into the stall. <br /><br />And success.<br /><br />Almost.<br /><br />As I reached for my cell-phone, gingerly resting on the sloping lid of the toilet paper dispenser my body refused to forget that fully caffeinated latte I had poured into it that morning. My jittery and shakey left hand did not firmly close around my adorable, green celly. As I whirled around to step out of that azure tower of terror my fingers released . . .<br /><br />and my cell phone went flying . . .<br /><br />with a sickening 'kerplop' (lots of emphasis on 'plop') . . .<br /><br />it landed into the juicy goo below.<br /><br />Yes. It landed into the toilet.<br /><br />In it.<br /><br />OMG.<br /><br />I stepped out of the port-a-potty. My heart racing. What to do?<br /><br />Leave it. Just leave it.<br /><br />Oh no! I just bought that charger! That expensive charger. And now, come to think of it, I remember the guy at the AT&T store telling me that if I ever break or damage another cell phone all I needed to do was bring it back in and they would replace it for me.<br /><br />Talk about OMG. There were no other options. I went back in.<br /><br />I stared down into the abyss, surveying the landscape. The toilet was filled with a blue solution that smelled like an elementary hallway just after the janitor cleaned up puke off the floor. I couldn't gauge depth, but I could definitely tell that my darling phone wasn't alone down there. It had plenty of company, if you know what I mean.<br /><br />I cried a couple of tears. Then I transferred my bracelet to my right arm, mysteriously forgetting about my wedding ring on my ring finger. I rolled up my sleeve of my tres chere Banana Republic blue-and-white-striped oxford. Just to be safe I rolled it up to my underarm. And since deep breathing seems to be a habit of mine lately, I filled my lungs with putrid, rank, blue-goo, port-a-potty air.<br /><br />I plunged my left arm into the center of the toilet. Objects burst away from my extremity from the force, only to bump back towards me, lightly tapping my forearm. I quickly tried to remember anything I learned from Mr Troost's AP physics class, recalling equations involving trajectory and points of initial impact. Bingo, search the left Kelly, stay to the left.<br /><br />In the left corner of the hole, my finger tips found my cell-phone, fully submerged and resting at the bottom of the unit. I pulled it out, flicked off a bit of saturated toilet paper and then with the phone tightly in my fingers I ran from the port-a-potty as fast as my former track star legs could go. At that moment Hope turned to see me running toward her, but instead of stopping at our beach blanket I continued my sprint all the way to the chilly water. I plunged my left arm over and over again into the water. I dropped to my knees and with my right hand I grabbed fistsful of sand and scrubbed my left arm under the waves. <br /><br />Hope's initial look of alarm turned into muted laughter, her mouth frozen in a wide-open lockjaw, eyes squeezed shut as she gasped for air. Apparently, other beach goers found me alarming -- my crazy run down the beach, my screaming, the vanilla latte pouring from my nostrils in my emetic coniption.<br /><br />The kids were paralyzed, questioning looks on their faces. What the Hell is wrong with our mommy?<br /><br />Finally, slowing my breathing down to a mere 50-breaths per minute, I walked back to our blanket. My hands white and shrunken from the water, I finally let go of the cell phone, chucking it into the sand angrily. I silently poured an entire bottle of hand sanitizer onto my arm, sniffing and feeling the pain of e. coli and listeria permeating through my skin. I relayed my tale to Hope, gesticulating wildly when half-way through my story I felt my wedding band fling off my finger and land onto the sand.<br /><br />"Don't move," I screamed. "Nobody frickin' move."<br /><br />The kids looked at me with horror in their eyes, our neighbors clicked their tongues at my monstrous language use. Hope, near hysterics with her legs crossed to keep her bladder from failing her, spotted a man 50-feet down the beach with a medal detector. She brought him over to our site and he set to finding my wedding ring. <br /><br />We eventually found my wedding ring. The day eventually, mercifully ended.<br /><br />When I got home, I tried again to sanitize my arm with rubbing alcohol and then Scrubbing Bubbles spray. When I felt quasi-reassured that I had killed every agent still living on my skin, I got into a scalding hot shower. After that, one final application of rubbing alcohol.<br /><br />That evening we delivered my cell phone, sealed in a zippered sandwich baggie, to the AT&T store. It turns out the insurance plan does indeed cover port-a-potty incidents. Tomorrow, a third party will deliver my new phone. Niether cute, nor green but definitely de-shat and safe for human use.<br /><br />Sadly, this is a true story. It will follow me always. It will never leave me. I am forever altered.<br /><br />The moral of this story (it has nothing to do with Starbucks coffee or bringing one's cell phone into dirty environments): piss yourself, it's more convenient then a port-a-potty.Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-51306645554923001642010-06-15T22:02:00.000-07:002010-06-15T22:26:45.671-07:00Chevaliers de la table ronde . . ."Chevaliers de la table ronde . . .", it's an old French drinking song. Some of my mom's French buddies taught it to me long before I knew the difference between cabernet sauvignon and riesling. Not that I didn't know my colors at the age of 4, but when you're a little half-breed traipsing across the European continent in a 20-year old Peugot with an equally aged tent to you wine is just wine, regardless of the color. <br />Mostly these days, I'm trying to drink more wine. It's better for my heart, it's better for my initial 2-3 hours of sleep and night, and it's better for my husband that I'm cross-eyed when I swat at him for farting on me.<br />Tovey doesn't mind it. But what I really should be drinking is dark beer because my breastmilk supply is pitiful. Heineken Dark and a couple of tabs of fenugreek.<br />I just wanted to check in, say hi and tell you to come back for a visit soon. I'm working on some thoughts, trying to figure out how they'll sound on "paper".<br />Much love from your glass-is-half-full, hen-loving, mother of four but wantin' more,<br />KellyMama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-46718072485173087412010-06-02T17:22:00.000-07:002010-06-02T17:28:24.155-07:00Cow Girls<p align="left">There's nothing like watching your babies shed their down and grow feathers.</p><p align="left">They're doing a great job at scratching in the dirt, pecking in the grass and they just love to roost.</p><p align="left">Nothing like an old rusty Radio Flyer to get a cow girl in the mood to get her roost on.</p><p align="center"> </p><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoM0EAsjw6WNkBCxbsW5fWfUZlWGbTa0qr4BiR7eG6BSYmSDrjoHkWX2iULqYz13XCUGoarhO58p4Gmpi8SEK1BznnITE_yGb5lscBBB16QagnNpBYeCR72k2ZquxWe6ysNuS0Jkchr04/s1600/DSC_7435.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478336574371572546" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoM0EAsjw6WNkBCxbsW5fWfUZlWGbTa0qr4BiR7eG6BSYmSDrjoHkWX2iULqYz13XCUGoarhO58p4Gmpi8SEK1BznnITE_yGb5lscBBB16QagnNpBYeCR72k2ZquxWe6ysNuS0Jkchr04/s400/DSC_7435.JPG" /></a></p><br /><br />Now if we could only get the coop finished, er . . . started, and get them out of our dining room.Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337505112195533096.post-3150815934222830282010-06-01T18:50:00.000-07:002010-06-01T21:43:54.222-07:00For RealsI can't remember if I mentioned this or not, so I suppose I'll tell ya anyway. A couple of weeks ago, Tova was supposed to have her delayed surgery to fix her ears. It ended up not happening because she got a fever and ear infection. It was disappointing and frustrating. Not that I was looking forward to it, but because I really needed that chapter of my life closed forever and ever. I hadn't been sleeping or eating well in anticipation of it, up late at night worrying about Tova's hearing, complications with the scalpel, adverse reactions to the anesthesia and so on. There was a lot of strife associated with the cancellation of the surgery. Dumb stuff, but when you're told your baby could go deaf then you imagine every bad scenario and grit your teeth with each passing moment that goes by.<br />Her surgery was rescheduled for today. Dr P had recognized that we were stressed, so he got us a much earlier time than the failed May 18th surgery.<br />At about 5:50 this morning, our poor nanny stumbled into the house to take over with the big kids. Lars and I stole jammied Tovey from her bed and then strapped her into her car seat in our heated car for the drive all the way down to the children's hospital in the city. Tova woke briefly, uttered some confusing remarks and then flopped back to sleep.<br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrPpj5D7jzkc6wZfxl4S0fvuH1u0-ougUz41LjuCazfYE0WZsy_ic9R9IHU4RR2ee6tRCsZ4mcv6qbp_5HIOufHscEccPAUjUG2jSZmrShyphenhyphenb4FUYlEovdKynBwPoK4EB_EPHuJjVSjOXs/s1600/DSC_7373.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477988612184129378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrPpj5D7jzkc6wZfxl4S0fvuH1u0-ougUz41LjuCazfYE0WZsy_ic9R9IHU4RR2ee6tRCsZ4mcv6qbp_5HIOufHscEccPAUjUG2jSZmrShyphenhyphenb4FUYlEovdKynBwPoK4EB_EPHuJjVSjOXs/s400/DSC_7373.JPG" /></a></p><div align="center"> Huh?<br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZodE68b49Ji3KLe_TNCnDSZYIA1imhXUNVkgWHvEy0iVWkIeZ2k0eBS7XKrzXXJTCmi0drCsQDpKvE7doT3jF6V3sxgmWDLebNaccIam0oxyZhKHpJ_NrAQImQEShaCR0lzTzCLH6TM/s1600/DSC_7380.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477988604474507842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZodE68b49Ji3KLe_TNCnDSZYIA1imhXUNVkgWHvEy0iVWkIeZ2k0eBS7XKrzXXJTCmi0drCsQDpKvE7doT3jF6V3sxgmWDLebNaccIam0oxyZhKHpJ_NrAQImQEShaCR0lzTzCLH6TM/s400/DSC_7380.JPG" /></a></p><div align="center"> The walk from the parking lot to the surgical center felt like the walk to the electric chair.<br /><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5vRndA6UIXXshuCZ639IzRnhAc3w8i9Z2pfxQbfvesQM0uGGLbyQH0x2O75gej4BGubFwxI61XhmYiVBJMdD1mURSNfFvFklhowgHNmPU_ifFbpeFMqT8L_mYKQVP5JkDCTz65WBHJHY/s1600/DSC_7382.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477988596006939010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5vRndA6UIXXshuCZ639IzRnhAc3w8i9Z2pfxQbfvesQM0uGGLbyQH0x2O75gej4BGubFwxI61XhmYiVBJMdD1mURSNfFvFklhowgHNmPU_ifFbpeFMqT8L_mYKQVP5JkDCTz65WBHJHY/s400/DSC_7382.JPG" /></a></p><div align="center"> She walked off the elevator all by herself. Note to self: stop using the aperture setting in a dark building on a moving object.<br /><br /><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3PldtqxnGAwbzsYZff8C8Z2hu0qLxPBeSZcL-yCtzhHnr-BpUEtvhFeSKKP4czjLggxq8_FLciKJuZ0Vj506qA_0fULxPsfaa4rVANT6xjgugeWTYRmv2PteLitGMTmTjFtOVXU3xAI/s1600/DSC_7384.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477988327565386162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3PldtqxnGAwbzsYZff8C8Z2hu0qLxPBeSZcL-yCtzhHnr-BpUEtvhFeSKKP4czjLggxq8_FLciKJuZ0Vj506qA_0fULxPsfaa4rVANT6xjgugeWTYRmv2PteLitGMTmTjFtOVXU3xAI/s400/DSC_7384.JPG" /></a></p><div align="center">The waiting room was so much fun! She met a friend for life, or at least during the pre-operative wait. Cute little Cole's surgery was about 1-hour before Tova's.<br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX_FWByAJJuodviE_Y8SPKTRS84Wj5XeUg_RU0HC18rJq3CRXpGL8UcMjGnHM-AB1J6tYBGAnZNE9KM9YzngAqvZJctmhkdQIjXIjXfYOYYQKcmIAGkWYcgK4m7yA7uRpNhrx4hsDC3wE/s1600/DSC_7387.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477988321517615250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX_FWByAJJuodviE_Y8SPKTRS84Wj5XeUg_RU0HC18rJq3CRXpGL8UcMjGnHM-AB1J6tYBGAnZNE9KM9YzngAqvZJctmhkdQIjXIjXfYOYYQKcmIAGkWYcgK4m7yA7uRpNhrx4hsDC3wE/s400/DSC_7387.JPG" /></a></p><div align="center">Fun and games . . .<br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJ4qRUeEwunakl4XiG0LlIRtlOn2bBVKkl7l-UlNDoXapAvlup7-oe2qj25rczwhs7hzEHqFiWIM0rSzKcxYp3-bTfJ32TjZnP3yLmlTrsGu_oTK6oRIc3CU41S7hz9BOeCsA1NMArNI/s1600/DSC_7391.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477988312591117730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJ4qRUeEwunakl4XiG0LlIRtlOn2bBVKkl7l-UlNDoXapAvlup7-oe2qj25rczwhs7hzEHqFiWIM0rSzKcxYp3-bTfJ32TjZnP3yLmlTrsGu_oTK6oRIc3CU41S7hz9BOeCsA1NMArNI/s400/DSC_7391.JPG" /></a></p><div align="center">at first . . .<br /><br /><br /></div><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVb9C3H_RQsacP794fSo_NmnT5XYlOJvAALwiD-N5RQ2B_7npIpl6dIJSipNnKlqyBSJR6ZJvK5k0jcDawnF1oHJDSYqGyxUeHw7yqfi8HTzuv6HGfL_yHCvCvfuUD3hvHBrq6gZpBpjQ/s1600/DSC_7417.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477988300432595522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVb9C3H_RQsacP794fSo_NmnT5XYlOJvAALwiD-N5RQ2B_7npIpl6dIJSipNnKlqyBSJR6ZJvK5k0jcDawnF1oHJDSYqGyxUeHw7yqfi8HTzuv6HGfL_yHCvCvfuUD3hvHBrq6gZpBpjQ/s400/DSC_7417.JPG" /></a></p>but soon the hunger set in, and that was awful for all of us. We had to keep her with an empty stomach since midnight. She kept doing the sign for milk, which means she wants to breastfeed, clawing at my shirt and screaming. She was jittery and kept falling to the floor. This was by far the worst part. She started having a hard time around 8am, the surgery was scheduled at 9am, but then got delayed 50-minutes due to an emergency. Needless to say, I was in tears.<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi4jGp5PVrVxV9uldw1QKvwnL5Ajuhe99xS3QelW-CFVVjJje_NXnh4Y0DepT9sJrB-_bWid-2oDqia4Y-AsBLC4BDpC93dwqgK3c90rsnYngdWBei6a6DT0mxXTkORnD9stamGSc6ivg/s1600/DSC_7428.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477988290395297874" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi4jGp5PVrVxV9uldw1QKvwnL5Ajuhe99xS3QelW-CFVVjJje_NXnh4Y0DepT9sJrB-_bWid-2oDqia4Y-AsBLC4BDpC93dwqgK3c90rsnYngdWBei6a6DT0mxXTkORnD9stamGSc6ivg/s400/DSC_7428.JPG" /></a></p><div align="center"> Reunited! Dr P said the surgery went really well. When we went into the PACU they had her in a crib (which is very new for her), strapped in with a big Velcro seat belt. She was sitting up, looking around the room through narrowed eyes. The nurse gave her to us right away and encouraged us to breastfeed her at that moment. Then she brought Tova a grape popsicle (above). After she was discharged from the hospital, we came home whereupon I had a sudden urge to sleep for a year. All that stress lifted off of me and holy mother of pearl was I tired. Tova and I both fell asleep for hours, but we've made it through the day and for that I'm rather thankful.<br /></div>Mama/Baby-Catcher/KellyJellyBelly/KJB/Wifeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00730016972380463008noreply@blogger.com4