What do you think?
12 years ago
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Morning Thoughts
A selection of random thoughts from my head:
***
Thank you, Averi, for sleeping for 8 hours or more FOR THE LAST 5 NIGHTS IN A ROW!
***
I am considering bigamy so that Landon Donovan can join our family. After his goal this morning in the 91st minute against Algeria that not only won the game but moved us into the top 16, I think I can find it in my heart to let him move in. Yes, I already called Casey at work to tell him. He votes for Jennifer Love Hewitt instead.
***
How is is possible that Casey could change a light bulb in our bathroom, the only one in a recessed can in the ceiling, and miss the huge dust web hanging from the can in the process?
***
I had a baby gift prepared for a friend across town who had a baby a week before I did. After I gave birth, I intended to take said gift to her many, many times, but it would mean packing up both kids and going ALL the way over to her house without any other reason for doing so. Time got away from me, and I found myself in need of diapers...and there just happened to be some in the nicely wrapped gift still on my floor. So I used them. Then I needed a small tub of Vasaline, also conveniently located in the semi-unwrapped gift on my floor. I am a horrible person.
***
Gavin has a pair of khaki shorts that are the most amazing attractors of all things horrible. Every SINGLE time he wears them, something horrid happens to them. He never ever wears them more than one day, and sometimes not even for one whole day. They have been peed in, had tomato and other sauces dumped on them, attracted so much sand from the sandbox that I wondered if there was anything left in the sandbox; had Averi spit up all over them...
I also have a talent for serving dinners with red sauces only when both Casey and Gavin are wearing white shirts. And if you think that Gavin is the only one I'd have to worry about in that situation, you'd be surprised at how much Shout I use on Casey's white shirts.
***
Thank you, Oxyclean. Just thank you.
***
Thank you, Averi, for sleeping for 8 hours or more FOR THE LAST 5 NIGHTS IN A ROW!
***
I am considering bigamy so that Landon Donovan can join our family. After his goal this morning in the 91st minute against Algeria that not only won the game but moved us into the top 16, I think I can find it in my heart to let him move in. Yes, I already called Casey at work to tell him. He votes for Jennifer Love Hewitt instead.
***
How is is possible that Casey could change a light bulb in our bathroom, the only one in a recessed can in the ceiling, and miss the huge dust web hanging from the can in the process?
***
I had a baby gift prepared for a friend across town who had a baby a week before I did. After I gave birth, I intended to take said gift to her many, many times, but it would mean packing up both kids and going ALL the way over to her house without any other reason for doing so. Time got away from me, and I found myself in need of diapers...and there just happened to be some in the nicely wrapped gift still on my floor. So I used them. Then I needed a small tub of Vasaline, also conveniently located in the semi-unwrapped gift on my floor. I am a horrible person.
***
Gavin has a pair of khaki shorts that are the most amazing attractors of all things horrible. Every SINGLE time he wears them, something horrid happens to them. He never ever wears them more than one day, and sometimes not even for one whole day. They have been peed in, had tomato and other sauces dumped on them, attracted so much sand from the sandbox that I wondered if there was anything left in the sandbox; had Averi spit up all over them...
I also have a talent for serving dinners with red sauces only when both Casey and Gavin are wearing white shirts. And if you think that Gavin is the only one I'd have to worry about in that situation, you'd be surprised at how much Shout I use on Casey's white shirts.
***
Thank you, Oxyclean. Just thank you.
Friday, June 18, 2010
What Naptime Looks Like At This Very Moment...
Gavin was SO much easier. It's a good thing she's this cute.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
For You
For the world to admire
For my own amusement
For Daddy
For Grandpa and Grandma Great (thank you so much for the Easter money!)
For Uncle Reed
For Auntie Rachel
For Grandma Cheryl (Che' Ryl Brown)
For Sloppy JayThursday, April 8, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Thank-you Note
Dear PBS:
I would be remiss if I did not write a note lauding a certain "documentary" I had the privilege to lose an hour of my life to the other night. After years and years of cut-rate productions ("A Night At The Metropolitan Opera?" "Josh Groban and Friends?" What kind of non-profit are you running here??), you finally hit gold with "The Natural History of the Chicken." I'd like to highlight a few favorite moments here, re-living and savoring every juicy- er, poignant moment.
Let me begin with Irma, the chicken farmer who saved a poor, frozen bird with her cat-like reflexes and quick thinking.
Irma lives a charmed life somewhere in the Midwest. Each morning she takes her headscarf- and apron-clad self outside to feed her brood of hens and give them some much-needed TLC. On one particularly cold, frozen and snowy morning, a normally obedient free-ranging hen wandered underneath the porch where she could not be seen by Irma. Concerned for her welfare, Irma sent her trusty hen dog (?) to locate the poor bird. When the hen was found, she was frozen solid; so solid, in fact, that you, PBS, chose to use an incredibly hilarious representation of a rock-solid hen in the reenactment. Good form. But I digress.
Irma's tender heart just couldn't take the thought of losing such a beloved bird, and so she brought it in her house and sat down to think about her options. She didn't have to think long, though: as she cradled the hen in her arms, she felt (could it be?) a faint heartbeat! Thinking quickly, she gathered blankets and started to rub the hen to increase blood circulation. The hen was not breathing, however, so Irma made a fateful decision and began mouth-to-beak resuscitation. That's right, PBS - you managed to capture the magic of bird-love with a poignant scene involving an anxious Irma attempting to revive a frozen hen by placing her mouth on its beak and blowing precious air into frozen lungs. Incredible. I held back tears as the hen jumped to life and spent the next week in a crib in Irma's living room, recovering and enjoying some quality television programming. Sure, I held back tears then, but I really had to break out the tissues when the hen was finally reunited with the other hens, and after clucking around for a few moments, Irma presented the following:
"She just ran right into the pen, telling all her friends about the experience. I'm just glad Valerie is doing okay. Yes, Valerie - that's what her name is. It just came to me and seemed to fit."
Here's to you, Valerie, and your headline-making story.
Honorable mention goes to Frances in Florida for this next story, whose house dresses and red velvet decor hinted that she might just have an alternative lifestyle. Her BFF, a white, fluffy chicken resembling a feather boa with legs and no beak nor eyes even visible, was more domesticated than my husband. He rode in the car with her on a raised, velvet pillow; she carried him around with a bejeweled collar and bathed him in her sink daily, and she showered kisses upon him that any grandchild would have been thanking his lucky stars to have avoided. But the clincher?
She kept the chicken in a modified diaper of sorts and just changed the diaper every so often. Not an outdoor pet.
(Important side note: "Irma" and "Frances" appear to be single old maids. No significant other was in sight.)
I loved these stories, PBS, but I just have to shout out loud about this last one.
Roy, a simple pastor and farmer, kept many free-ranging chickens on his small farm in rural Iowa. He watched and completely over-analyzed the behavior of one chicken in particular he called "Liza." The bird was smaller than the others and was unable to find a place in the hen house to nest because she was constantly kicked out by the larger hens. She seemed, according to Roy, just frantic to be able to participate in life's greatest blessing: motherhood.
Taking pity on poor Liza, Roy built a special house just for her. Liza was finally able to lay eggs and take great care of her six little chicks. PBS, I loved the close-up shots of Roy's weathered, contented face as he watched Liza fulfill her dream. I quote from what was apparently a memoir Roy had written about this incident:
"She was the epitome of motherhood. She showed her chicks the very best places to dig for bugs and how pick the juiciest berries. Motherhood looked wonderful on Liza."
But Roy's contented expression was about to change (to one of nearly imperceptible concern, I might add. Maybe using the actual people for the reenactment wasn't the best creative decision.).
A hawk, way off in the distance, suddenly caused the collective farm animals to freeze and then run for cover. Liza's little brood was too far away to run to the hen house, and when she noticed the hawk, Roy states that he saw her expression change "to one of anxious concern? Fear? What?"
Liza and her chicks ran for cover, but she knew it was too late. With one signal to her chicks, they all run underneath her and she sheltered them with her wings right as the hawk nose-dived. With a small explosion of feathers, the hawk flew back up and away.
Roy, watching from the window with a sad expression, reminisced: "I watched what is ordinarily referred to as a 'dumb animal' make an incredibly selfless and complex decision and sacrifice to protect her chicks." He slowly opened the door and walked over to the mound of white feathers lying in his yard.
As he squatted down to assess the situation, "Liza suddenly moved! The hawk had missed!"
I alternately cried with sorrow and then joy as I realized, PBS, that you hadn't taken Liza from me.
This story is far better told by my dear friend Erin, who had seen parts of this program years ago. I must admit that whenever she told the story, a small piece of me envied her for having seen such miraculous self-sacrifice in the form of poultry.
Yes, PBS, this story gets to the heart of all of us. I join my voice with Roy's when he states: "From now on, I will be honored when someone calls me 'chicken.'"
I hope to see more quality programming in the future, PBS, possibly about goats.
Sincerely,
BJ
I would be remiss if I did not write a note lauding a certain "documentary" I had the privilege to lose an hour of my life to the other night. After years and years of cut-rate productions ("A Night At The Metropolitan Opera?" "Josh Groban and Friends?" What kind of non-profit are you running here??), you finally hit gold with "The Natural History of the Chicken." I'd like to highlight a few favorite moments here, re-living and savoring every juicy- er, poignant moment.
Let me begin with Irma, the chicken farmer who saved a poor, frozen bird with her cat-like reflexes and quick thinking.
Irma lives a charmed life somewhere in the Midwest. Each morning she takes her headscarf- and apron-clad self outside to feed her brood of hens and give them some much-needed TLC. On one particularly cold, frozen and snowy morning, a normally obedient free-ranging hen wandered underneath the porch where she could not be seen by Irma. Concerned for her welfare, Irma sent her trusty hen dog (?) to locate the poor bird. When the hen was found, she was frozen solid; so solid, in fact, that you, PBS, chose to use an incredibly hilarious representation of a rock-solid hen in the reenactment. Good form. But I digress.
Irma's tender heart just couldn't take the thought of losing such a beloved bird, and so she brought it in her house and sat down to think about her options. She didn't have to think long, though: as she cradled the hen in her arms, she felt (could it be?) a faint heartbeat! Thinking quickly, she gathered blankets and started to rub the hen to increase blood circulation. The hen was not breathing, however, so Irma made a fateful decision and began mouth-to-beak resuscitation. That's right, PBS - you managed to capture the magic of bird-love with a poignant scene involving an anxious Irma attempting to revive a frozen hen by placing her mouth on its beak and blowing precious air into frozen lungs. Incredible. I held back tears as the hen jumped to life and spent the next week in a crib in Irma's living room, recovering and enjoying some quality television programming. Sure, I held back tears then, but I really had to break out the tissues when the hen was finally reunited with the other hens, and after clucking around for a few moments, Irma presented the following:
"She just ran right into the pen, telling all her friends about the experience. I'm just glad Valerie is doing okay. Yes, Valerie - that's what her name is. It just came to me and seemed to fit."
Here's to you, Valerie, and your headline-making story.
Honorable mention goes to Frances in Florida for this next story, whose house dresses and red velvet decor hinted that she might just have an alternative lifestyle. Her BFF, a white, fluffy chicken resembling a feather boa with legs and no beak nor eyes even visible, was more domesticated than my husband. He rode in the car with her on a raised, velvet pillow; she carried him around with a bejeweled collar and bathed him in her sink daily, and she showered kisses upon him that any grandchild would have been thanking his lucky stars to have avoided. But the clincher?
She kept the chicken in a modified diaper of sorts and just changed the diaper every so often. Not an outdoor pet.
(Important side note: "Irma" and "Frances" appear to be single old maids. No significant other was in sight.)
I loved these stories, PBS, but I just have to shout out loud about this last one.
Roy, a simple pastor and farmer, kept many free-ranging chickens on his small farm in rural Iowa. He watched and completely over-analyzed the behavior of one chicken in particular he called "Liza." The bird was smaller than the others and was unable to find a place in the hen house to nest because she was constantly kicked out by the larger hens. She seemed, according to Roy, just frantic to be able to participate in life's greatest blessing: motherhood.
Taking pity on poor Liza, Roy built a special house just for her. Liza was finally able to lay eggs and take great care of her six little chicks. PBS, I loved the close-up shots of Roy's weathered, contented face as he watched Liza fulfill her dream. I quote from what was apparently a memoir Roy had written about this incident:
"She was the epitome of motherhood. She showed her chicks the very best places to dig for bugs and how pick the juiciest berries. Motherhood looked wonderful on Liza."
But Roy's contented expression was about to change (to one of nearly imperceptible concern, I might add. Maybe using the actual people for the reenactment wasn't the best creative decision.).
A hawk, way off in the distance, suddenly caused the collective farm animals to freeze and then run for cover. Liza's little brood was too far away to run to the hen house, and when she noticed the hawk, Roy states that he saw her expression change "to one of anxious concern? Fear? What?"
Liza and her chicks ran for cover, but she knew it was too late. With one signal to her chicks, they all run underneath her and she sheltered them with her wings right as the hawk nose-dived. With a small explosion of feathers, the hawk flew back up and away.
Roy, watching from the window with a sad expression, reminisced: "I watched what is ordinarily referred to as a 'dumb animal' make an incredibly selfless and complex decision and sacrifice to protect her chicks." He slowly opened the door and walked over to the mound of white feathers lying in his yard.
As he squatted down to assess the situation, "Liza suddenly moved! The hawk had missed!"
I alternately cried with sorrow and then joy as I realized, PBS, that you hadn't taken Liza from me.
This story is far better told by my dear friend Erin, who had seen parts of this program years ago. I must admit that whenever she told the story, a small piece of me envied her for having seen such miraculous self-sacrifice in the form of poultry.
Yes, PBS, this story gets to the heart of all of us. I join my voice with Roy's when he states: "From now on, I will be honored when someone calls me 'chicken.'"
I hope to see more quality programming in the future, PBS, possibly about goats.
Sincerely,
BJ
Friday, March 12, 2010
When German/Yugoslavian Eyes Are Smiling
She smiles! It is amazing how elusive those first smiles can be, but we think we've captured a few of the early ones. Technically, her first smile was February 17, but she hasn't gotten good at it until now.
A few things we have learned already about this added layer of cuteness:
1) She is a Daddy's girl. Not surprising. Gavin is his Daddy's boy. I might take up raising carrier pigeons, just so I feel better when they are trained to fly back to ME. Averi smiles the most often and the biggest for Daddy.
2) She thinks that by flashing a cute smile, she can get away with anything, like when she is being ridiculous about nursing (i.e. bobbing her head around, clenching her jaw shut and refusing to latch on, looking around, playing with it...). She looks up at me and smiles her best as she's being naughty just so that the choice words I had in store for her deflate rapidly and turn to a feeble "You...better behave...you cute baby ooo ahhh." Not that effective. She's good at cleaning up a would-be potty mouth.
This last reason is also why I nurse in the dark in the middle of the night. I want to be as furious at her as possible when I am super tired - none of this cuteness for me, thank you very much. Allow me some sense of control!
Knowing the preceding facts about her at only 9 weeks old makes me nervous for what the future holds. If she manipulates us already, what will happen in 3-4 years when she wants a pony? I better get this under control before she hits the teenage years...
This one's just cute
A few things we have learned already about this added layer of cuteness:
1) She is a Daddy's girl. Not surprising. Gavin is his Daddy's boy. I might take up raising carrier pigeons, just so I feel better when they are trained to fly back to ME. Averi smiles the most often and the biggest for Daddy.
2) She thinks that by flashing a cute smile, she can get away with anything, like when she is being ridiculous about nursing (i.e. bobbing her head around, clenching her jaw shut and refusing to latch on, looking around, playing with it...). She looks up at me and smiles her best as she's being naughty just so that the choice words I had in store for her deflate rapidly and turn to a feeble "You...better behave...you cute baby ooo ahhh." Not that effective. She's good at cleaning up a would-be potty mouth.
This last reason is also why I nurse in the dark in the middle of the night. I want to be as furious at her as possible when I am super tired - none of this cuteness for me, thank you very much. Allow me some sense of control!
Knowing the preceding facts about her at only 9 weeks old makes me nervous for what the future holds. If she manipulates us already, what will happen in 3-4 years when she wants a pony? I better get this under control before she hits the teenage years...
This one's just cute
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