Down on the Farm

This past weekend we went to a "Yay, you're one year old!" birthday party. The sweet little man whose birth was being celebrated belongs to a very old and dear friend of mine who now lives out of state. I was excited to see her, meet the baby, and visit her parents' diary farm where much of my early childhood was spent.

During the forenoon of the appointed day, my son anxiously awaited our departure for what promised to be a splendid party. He was aware that there would be lots of cows milling about the place. During the warmer months our little family has taken to fleeing the city that we live in for a drive in the less populated areas nearby; the highlight of those dusky rambles is the sighting of deer, chickens, and sometimes even a cow or two. Needless to say, farm animals are associated with much happiness by us all.

The morning of the party had dawned moist and drizzly. A person who has any experience with farms knows that rainy conditions equal lots and lots of mud on said farms. Thankfully when we arrived there were quite a few cows dawdling near the roadside just over the fence.

Better yet, it was quickly discovered that the living room window afforded a clear view of the cows standing around behind the barn. This was cause for much joy on the part of my daughter. Every five minutes or so she would point her little finger out the window and exclaim rapturously, "A COW!!! LOOK AT THE COWS!!!" Actually, it more closely resembled a hysterical scream than an exclamation. It was a bit frightening to watch the veins in her small head come near to bursting, but it is certain that she was the life of the party in our little corner of the room.

Having thusly drained her energy and exhausted her emotions she was near a nervous breakdown by the time we packed up our little family for the short drive home. In the delirium that seemed to continue into the next day she still hadn't realized that the cows hadn't followed her home: she oft ran to our own living room window to point and shout about cows. Her brother had some cow-ish excitement as well; he was pretty exited about one of the cows licking his hand; another cow even mooed at him. Not every birthday party can be as thrilling as that. No sir.

Twenty-five Random Things About Me

I realize that it has been quite some time since I've graced the "pages" of this blog with a new post, so I thought I would share this little tidbit whilst I try and muster the wherewithal to share some more fun stories about what it is like to live my life.


1. I adore blueberries, but don't like blueberry pie.

2. When it snows I'm always afraid that someone will fall on my sidewalk and sue me. I'm also afraid that the mailman will slip on the steps if they get icy.

3. One of my favorite pasttimes is creating recipes. I wrote my first cookbook when I was five or six.

4. My chili has been hailed as the best in the universe. Okay, okay, I exaggerate just a little...

5. I have difficulty spelling simple words at times. I blame this on many things: lack of protein, screaming children, pregnancy, etc.

6. I talk to my mom almost every day. If I don't call her for a couple of days she gets worried and calls me.

7. I thought I would be published by the time I turn thirty, but that is only two years away and mostly all I want to do is nap.

8. I wear jeans until they are practically falling apart. I hate shopping for jeans.

9. When I crunch through the marshmallows in Lucky Charms cereal I get chills. It's pretty weird.

10. I feel sad for people who don't like Rhubarb pie. I think there must be something amiss with their tastebuds.

11. We have a baby every other year. It's like a sickness or something. I love it!

12. I like QUIET. And peace. Both at the same time is nice.

13. I like being home. It's so much less complicated than going out.

14. I don't mind the smell of skunk.

15. If I were rich and had no conscience, I would eat off of paper plates every day.

16. I believe that a baby is a baby from the moment of conception.

17. I really, really, really like good food. Like, a lot.

18. The car radio must be off while I parallel park.

19. I think I may be addicted to coffee.

20. If I don't have a book to read, I feel as though my life is incomplete.

21. I can't pick ONE book for my favorite.

22. I like Blue's Clues.

23. Is it wrong to force your child to get the flu shot when you don't get it yourself?

24. Children really are a gift from God. Even when they're fighting. And telling you " no."

25. Jesus is totally awesome.

Picasso and His Little Friend...

Time for a Disclosure!

I have decided that it is about time I let you all in on a little secret. The real reason that postings around here are at an all-time low. My sense of humor has taken a backseat to alternately resting on the couch and purging/organizing like a mad woman. That, and discussing baby names with my husband.

A couple of days before Christmas we received an early gift: a double pink line. Surprise! We seem to have made a habit out of making babies during the fall season.

So, now that the cat is out of the preverbal bag, I’m sure you all will understand if I only manage to post once a week. I’m too busy trying to figure out how I’m going to manage being outnumbered three to one, and fine-tuning my ability to actually get some rest while still managing to hear the sound of a toddler dumping things into a toilet seven miles away.

Words.

There are some phrases that come out of the mouths of my children, and I wonder where it is that they have picked them up. Because, really, I have never heard them come out of my mouth, or their father’s mouth. I can’t remember hearing them uttered from the television by anyone or anything in any of their videos. Perhaps these phrases just come from the deepest depths of their little imaginations.

So it happens that Big Brother is following Little Sister around, squeezing her cheeks and saying, “My little weeny, weeny,” in that smooshy voice we all save for things that are cute and edible. It seems to me that this wouldn’t be so bad if he would at least once say, “My little teeny weeny,” but he is forever insistent on two “weeny”s and no “teeny”s. My sense of propriety is only slightly wounded though because it’s just so darn funny. And in actuality, she is a little weeny, weeny. She’s just that cute.

And because she is just so cute, adorable and squeezable, she too walks about saying cute and adorable things herself. She knows her name, and she of course knows mine since I am the one she needs to talk to when hungry or in need of something. However, more than anything else, she is called “honey” by us all because she’s such a sweetie pie (when she’s not throwing temper tantrums or making herself otherwise disagreeable). That word has bored itself into her little head to such a degree that I have graduated from simply “mommy” to “honey-mama”. I have to admit that I rather like it.

Nor do I complain when my little man looks me in the eyes and tells me, “Mama, you’re so pretty.” I know he’s just throwing compliments at me because I set up the Wii for him; even so, it’s nice to hear his toddler voice petting me with appreciatory comments while he runs a savage racing campaign in the world of MarioKart.