tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5622806781233369772024-03-13T17:55:07.327-04:00Has Anyone Seen My Cape?THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES OF AN ORDINARY MOMMYFaithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.comBlogger300125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-28440813427015526182010-09-02T12:53:00.001-04:002010-09-02T12:55:07.396-04:00OOPS!<span style="font-weight: bold;">The link to <a href="http://www.ordinarymommydesign.blogspot.com/">my new blog</a> is now working!</span>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-60045728757581662652010-08-02T23:02:00.003-04:002010-09-02T12:53:30.188-04:00NEW BLOG!<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;" >Hop on over to my <a href="http://www.ordinarymommydesign.blogspot.com/">new blog</a> for (almost) daily inspiration and pretty things! </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I will still be stopping by here now and again to share stories.<br /><br />♥ Faith</span><br /></span>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-26709394832572331062010-07-20T12:36:00.004-04:002010-07-20T14:13:45.447-04:00Exciting Adventures in No-Where Land - Part 1I really don't have many exciting adventures. And that's okay with me because I prefer when life goes along, predictable like, as adventures aren't always all they are cracked up to be. Generally there are some bad spots throw into all that excitement, and I would rather sit at home with a nice cup of tea and a good book while my three children play nicely (and quietly) together for hours at a time without needing to be fed, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pottied</span>, or reprimanded.<br /><br />We were having one of those days recently where they were <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> playing together nicely and everyone was tired and bored. Including me. One of the things we like to do in such circumstances is to buckle everyone into the van and go out for a bit of a drive in the countryside, seeing if we can spot cows or deer, and just plain enjoy the river or the green green trees.<br /><br />So off I went with the children all happily seated in their car seats with the promise of french fries at the end of our little meandering drive. We hadn't gone too far when I hopped a bit of the curb while pulling out from a stop sign. It made a bit more noise than would be expected from such a minor incident, but the car seemed to take it well and there was no horrid noises or shaking or smoke or anything of that sort. (My son <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> inquire as to whether we had a flat tire, but I assured him that if the tire were flat we would not be able to drive the van. Perhaps the apprehensive feeling in my stomach at this point was a little more than indigestion and should have been treated as a foreshadowing of the events to come.)<br /><br />On we drove for a few miles enjoying the delicious breeze floating in through the windows when suddenly there came a rather suspicious sound from the rear of the vehicle. It was still operating perfectly fine, but there was that sound again, insistent and unmistakable- something was wrong back there. I wasn't sure if it was actually the tire, but that curb had done damage somehow.<br /><br />Another mile or two passed us by before there was a safe place to pull over. As I approached the rear tire, there was a distinctive sag to it. Not quite flat, but definitely no longer round and plump. I have never had a flat tire in my life, nor have I ever experienced being stranded as a result of car troubles. But here I was, in a jam, with three children, no husband, and no cell phone.Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-7832660834334797332010-05-26T21:49:00.003-04:002010-05-26T22:45:14.299-04:00If I Had to Choose, I Would Pick a SpiderSo, I know I've blogged about this topic before. Some of you may remember and think that I ought to give it up already. I, however, never tire of it.<br /><br />My husband has a strange relationship with bugs. In the great outdoors he handles them and inspects them with our son; the two of them allow bugs to crawl about on their hands, wrists, and sometimes even to the upper extremities of their arms. (I feel that a bug has gone far enough when it traverses any point more than one inch above the wrist; they have a way of getting lost once inside clothing).<br /><br />Once a bug crosses the outer wall of our home, however, my husband views it in an entirely different light. After spotting one, he jumps about, shrieks, and carries on in a way that would make any little girl proud. (Unless, of course, she is relying on him to kill the leggy invader). It's really a very strange thing.<br /><br />If he has recently slaughtered a bug, or has witnessed me in the act of doing so, he gasps horrendously and jumps four feet in the air anytime a fleck of dust so much as floats past his pinky toe. The kids have picked up on this, and while Daddy is in the midst of reading about Noah and the flood at bedtime, they'll take turns tickling his leg hair with their little fingers or poking him in the foot with some long and pointy toy just so they can watch him go into convulsions.<br /><br />My husband and I try and rotate when it comes to killing the yucky buggies that we find in the house. Mostly I kill anything in the basement because my husband somehow manages to convince himself that they can't climb the stairs into our living space. I'm pretty sure that anything that can climb walls and walk on the ceiling can find its way up into the kitchen, so if I spot a spider in the cellar I am going to make a valiant effort to squash it so that it doesn't find me and try to suck my face off while I sleep.<br /><br />There is one bug in particular, though, that we are both deathly afraid of. The many legged, and very freaky, house centipede. The other day I watched helplessly as one scrambled into my laundry sorter in the basement. I certainly didn't want it jumping on me as I dug through piles of dirty clothes. Nor was I willing to neglect the laundry any longer than I already had. So I called the man of the house.<br /><br />I really wasn't expecting him to ride majestically down the basement stairs on his white steed, and vanquish the fearful beast, but I figured that at least I would get some moral support. After we both stood staring at the laundry sorter for a few minutes while I scratched my head and he persisted in alternately jumping and shrieking every two-point-six seconds, my husband had a brilliant idea and left me alone with the monster while he went to fetch his long-handled grilling tongs.<br /><br />What a picture I'm sure we made as my husband gingerly plucked through dirty tee shirts, jeans, and undies with his tongs while I made sure to keep myself safely out of range of his flailing limbs. Somewhere near the bottom of the pile the beast flung itself from the sorter and fled to a safer, darker corner where I am sure it remains, biding its time, making its plans, and growing bigger by the second.Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-55999230721231366342010-04-24T21:09:00.009-04:002010-04-28T22:07:56.211-04:00No Hair, No WhereMy son is a very curious sort of fellow; he notices everything, and likes things to be just so. He has an amazing capacity for memorization. When he reads a book or watches a video he can remember facts in detail. He asks a lot of questions. He reads all by himself. He uses big words. He is four and half.<br /><br />So far his studies consist mainly of facts about marine animals, dinosaurs, and bugs, although he knows a little bit about lots of other things, like the difference between herbivores and carnivores, what decay is, when to flip a pancake, how to tell time, and different kinds of weather.<br /><br />Unfortunately, none of his forays into the field of science or language prepared him for what he came face-to-head with the other evening. The little man was sitting on the arm of the couch with his Grandad on the cushion next to him when he looked down and got an eyeful of the top of his Grandad's head. Grandad has slowly been losing his hair for a few years now- his scalp is still loosely covered with hair, but it is rather noticeably thin when seen from atop.<br /><br />In a concerned sort of way, my son started poking around at my Father's head. He had never been introduced to the words "bald" or "balding" before, and he just did not understand what it was that he was looking at. My Dad is a jolly sort of fellow, so naturally he had a good laugh over it. The little man, however, did not seem amused, and when his own Daddy came home later that eve he took it upon himself to make sure that Daddy still had all of his hair. So far, so good.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVdx_-mhqjRxRj-1wFkGrvEEi9TLIDzlYIbP3yyed2QpRm5FpVu6DdoK-HMG8wyhK87eiopH4Wvy7ojT6Kwx7mYqmSUMFQErQKi5bGGzDHvlwppis8SDygUHCkduJPdCtv2H94UL-kQNP1/s1600/DSCN9888.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVdx_-mhqjRxRj-1wFkGrvEEi9TLIDzlYIbP3yyed2QpRm5FpVu6DdoK-HMG8wyhK87eiopH4Wvy7ojT6Kwx7mYqmSUMFQErQKi5bGGzDHvlwppis8SDygUHCkduJPdCtv2H94UL-kQNP1/s320/DSCN9888.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465375294424365842" border="0" /></a>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-52031170558726324882010-04-03T20:10:00.005-04:002010-04-03T20:25:30.272-04:00Treating My WindowsA couple of months ago, a girlfriend of mine flew home for a visit, and she was surprised that I did not have any felt garlands hanging around. I had been so busy creating them for <a href="http://www.ordinarymommy.etsy.com/">my shop</a> that I just hadn't taken the time to create one for myself. Well, she's back for another visit and I have finished creating a garland to add to my front window treatment just in time!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8b624QP0VdV40bIaHOMhV-bSybRnw_cqCJtH1aXB5b7NvzcW83YF_K-eeLco4BQYZqCIIGn1WD21j2bM6UKA4naoWAzBtp204adTRLgsE2FC49CWwNKsw7H6N77qK07psaVPueBLXdqF/s1600/DSCN5785.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8b624QP0VdV40bIaHOMhV-bSybRnw_cqCJtH1aXB5b7NvzcW83YF_K-eeLco4BQYZqCIIGn1WD21j2bM6UKA4naoWAzBtp204adTRLgsE2FC49CWwNKsw7H6N77qK07psaVPueBLXdqF/s320/DSCN5785.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456070397003996898" border="0" /></a>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-45040576625756916922010-03-19T20:57:00.004-04:002010-03-19T21:38:09.873-04:00Just Call Me "Mommy"Why is it that little people always try and grow up too fast? I vaguely remember that feeling, that rushing when-will-I-be-able-to-eat-candy-for-breakfast sentiment that comes with the irresponsibility and ignorance of youth. When one is young, one wants to be able to make every decision (and then one becomes an adult and making decisions isn't always as much fun as it's cracked up to be).<br /><br />My four-year-old son recently had the following discussion with me.<br /><br />R: "Mom, when I was three, I called you "Mommy." Now, when I'm four, I call you "Mom."<br />Me: "What about Daddy?"<br />R: "When I was three I called him, "Daddy." Now that I'm four I call him "Dad."<br /><br />The next day he went on to tell me that when he's five he's calling me "Faith."<br /><br />Seriously, I know there is a certain amount of independence that comes along with knowing how to read, the ability to state the difference between herbivores, carnivores, and omnivores, and being able to discern the particular type of a dozen different dinosaurs and sharks by sight, but I want to be "Mommy" for at least a few more years. Indefinitely would be better.Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-28871674170637049862010-03-05T19:21:00.006-05:002010-03-05T19:30:21.194-05:00I Was Tackled by a BearMy son has graduated from <a href="http://theadventuresofmommy.blogspot.com/2010/02/great-minds-think-alike.html">one sentence emails</a>; he is now writing short stories with his Dad.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4gDyF5m7KIMGqQjrhM7GDxuqSPE_8iZbNQrT4MXC-Wq63G1RVE1i3sN9sEBDgYJE5K5r9x1zwUgLxGY5siDqAm0tUabd0n4af0QYmY7pN4j7rMAjCrj32WgQRCRPi2M6vPxUVoSqYz-m/s1600-h/I+was+tackled+by+a+bear.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4gDyF5m7KIMGqQjrhM7GDxuqSPE_8iZbNQrT4MXC-Wq63G1RVE1i3sN9sEBDgYJE5K5r9x1zwUgLxGY5siDqAm0tUabd0n4af0QYmY7pN4j7rMAjCrj32WgQRCRPi2M6vPxUVoSqYz-m/s400/I+was+tackled+by+a+bear.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445310348759746930" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"I was tackled by a bear. It felt pretty good. I got hurt. That's too bad."<br /><br />The End.Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-3085599491371247042010-02-16T21:21:00.009-05:002010-02-16T22:34:48.217-05:00Great Minds Think Alike<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >My husband recently started a new game with my son. It's called, "let's send an email!" This game is loads of fun because my four-year-old gets to sit in the computer chair and send messages to various family members. The idea behind this type of communication is new to him, so we generally have to prompt him to decide what it is that he intends to say. Otherwise the people on the receiving end of the email would just get lines of gibberish (as in the following subject line, "if i did buT RRRR").</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br />His spelling and reading skills are very advanced, but it still takes a while for him to type because the letter "a" is not next to the letter "b" on a keyboard. Generally his emails are limited to one sentence. The other day when asked what it was that he wanted to say he responded with the following:<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />"</span></span><style></style><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">HI A VUlture kicked me in the leg."<br /><br /></span>This was just too good a declaration to pass up. My husband summarily whipped together an illustration to send along with the message.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTB70rIH8wNHIgSeGIXaFtHkrXj-oe9vMD5C_ReQxFcpIaXN6HrP5ah19DaAp0qraWDobe2ok3TbABfP4w9HKzDSCPNUpCeOY3L9VvXrAG6OSsGbNVDzQKnd1BJbgXhnPGOzMjEOsepK1/s1600-h/A+vulture+kicked+me.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTB70rIH8wNHIgSeGIXaFtHkrXj-oe9vMD5C_ReQxFcpIaXN6HrP5ah19DaAp0qraWDobe2ok3TbABfP4w9HKzDSCPNUpCeOY3L9VvXrAG6OSsGbNVDzQKnd1BJbgXhnPGOzMjEOsepK1/s400/A+vulture+kicked+me.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439046325701837330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I love my boys. Separately, they both make me chuckle. But they're even better together.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmAXAxS7VjzSYKqzGa10MB3r9uxsd702qDwDMXv5sDlzo46GjDpSZgcysxufM0B80m7DnxWUHtzkGXHBkcvtOnM9dplP4S6SFyGYii2hGoLKNNwonD1T7SL3GTSjLpa3InGOJufN7GB2u9/s1600-h/DSCN2542.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmAXAxS7VjzSYKqzGa10MB3r9uxsd702qDwDMXv5sDlzo46GjDpSZgcysxufM0B80m7DnxWUHtzkGXHBkcvtOnM9dplP4S6SFyGYii2hGoLKNNwonD1T7SL3GTSjLpa3InGOJufN7GB2u9/s320/DSCN2542.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439047787699819042" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-90253054642043910042010-02-12T19:57:00.006-05:002010-02-12T20:32:49.419-05:00Don't Feed the FishSo, the whole mushy sweet potato thing didn't go so well. Rice cereal, however, is a big hit. Pretty darn big. I feel as though I should get myself one of those fencing get-ups to protect my important parts: my face, head, and neck. Certainly, it couldn't hurt to have the rest of myself enclosed in some sort of protective covering.<br /><br />The closest thing that I can think of to relate the baby-feeding experience to is a feeding frenzy in a pond: a person walks up to the edge and observes about a dozen fish milling about, floating lazily to and fro, then they toss a crumb into the water and all of those seemingly gentle and sedate fish converge on said crumb in a whirlwind of flashing teeth and flaming eyeballs. Yeah, that's what my sweet little baby turns into when she sees that spoon approaching- a scrabbling, grappling lunatic who appears to have been starved of sustenance for many a long day.<br /><br />I fear for myself during these times. I really do. Today I gave her a sippy cup of water to wash down her cereal, and she actually managed to take big gulps from it. Without choking even. It's quite possible that I have lost myself in a time warp and that she is actually older than the five months I calculate her to be. That would also explain why she has the strength of a twenty-five-year-old man.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqZj8bJoyiV-us-ZDiBeext2uOb204NA4hU1pu4t1s7o5JFMd6sOKi09RkaN73CIzvQ-f-yKpbbk5Bc0pluxWF8QYZ1nPYwM3TyThTPlRuzhEGbJJWgsSEwhoCqSX7U5dJyTTj7lNfMNU/s1600-h/DSCN3118.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqZj8bJoyiV-us-ZDiBeext2uOb204NA4hU1pu4t1s7o5JFMd6sOKi09RkaN73CIzvQ-f-yKpbbk5Bc0pluxWF8QYZ1nPYwM3TyThTPlRuzhEGbJJWgsSEwhoCqSX7U5dJyTTj7lNfMNU/s320/DSCN3118.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437534084395165874" border="0" /></a>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-15295636664539656232010-01-26T21:33:00.008-05:002010-01-27T17:31:09.786-05:00Slave to the PearI'm going to start the baby on solid food this week. She'll be five-months-old (already!) in a couple of days and she is definitely, positively, absolutely ready. I know this because 1) I'm Mommy so I know everything and 2) I'm no dope- I can read body language pretty well.<br /><br />I recently made the mistake of sharing a pear with the baby. One feels rather guilty, after a while, of eating in front of another person who stares, salivates, and makes somewhat uncontrolled motions toward grabbing said food; especially when the person doing the salivating acts as though their life depends on that chocolate chip cookie one is eating, and will suffer a slow and painful death if it is denied them. Of course the cuteness factor just helps to heap the guilt on all the more. The day I finally gave in I wasn't eating a chocolate chip cookie, I was eating a pear. A nice, fresh, healthy, good-for-you pear.<br /><br />As I moved the pear toward the baby's mouth she stuck her tongue out and licked my pear. She seized the hand holding the pear with determination and force, and tried to shove both the fruit and my entire hand into her mouth. She sucked on the pear. When I removed the pear from her jaws of doom and much mashing, she kicked me. Okay, I exaggerate ever so slightly. But her eyes got really, really wide and she lunged for that pear like a lioness pouncing on a gazelle.<br /><br />She may try to pull my plate off of the table if she happens to be sitting in my lap whilst I eat, she might mechanically watch as my fork goes from my plate to my mouth and back again, but she<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>now<span style="font-weight: bold;"> knows</span> a pear from all of the other foods in the galaxy and if she senses a pear in her general vicinity one had better just LOOK OUT!<br /><br />So bring on the icky-food-faces, and the orange-and-green-colored stained bibs: this kid is ready for pureed sweet potatoes and squash! At this point I fear my only other choice is to start sacrificing my fingers to the little slave to the pear.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUBN2ctFgVDaq7_KAEuJo-ANbbKnc7rOYTu-11J0OQzFh5G9AGb1usteAZze8ZFa7DYzasliWUrMtReCieIEmPru7miRIHjxMAn6ncj4lPdrKeHuDwpEnFt9J0XbOxqjrDyOTPkzxfh2V/s1600-h/DSCN2823.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUBN2ctFgVDaq7_KAEuJo-ANbbKnc7rOYTu-11J0OQzFh5G9AGb1usteAZze8ZFa7DYzasliWUrMtReCieIEmPru7miRIHjxMAn6ncj4lPdrKeHuDwpEnFt9J0XbOxqjrDyOTPkzxfh2V/s320/DSCN2823.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431252583230973026" border="0" /></a>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-11023421928180910232010-01-16T20:31:00.004-05:002010-01-16T20:59:39.732-05:00Crossing Gender Role BoundariesI fear that it may be a long time before my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter becomes a lady. At times she reminds me strongly of my younger sister, Bethany, who could put a grown man to shame with her belching capabilities as a young girl. (Well, let’s be honest, my sister may be approaching her late twenties, but she can still burp with the best of them.) Some part of me, that no longer exists, was a bit disgusted by all that belching and burping.<br /><div><br />I distinctly remember a time during my later teenage years, when the whole family was traveling I-don’t-recollect-where together, that I unintentionally let out a rancid belch of my own. My sister was impressed, my Dad was impressed, and quite frankly my entire family was impressed, or at the very least, amused. Perhaps that was when I lost some of my snobbery toward people blessed with the ability to express their backed up gasses in such a vocal and rumbling fashion. I do retain, however, an appreciation for politeness in these situations. A little “excuse me” goes a long way.<br /><br />Anyway, back to my little girl. Against my wishes Daddy betook to amuse himself with teaching the whole “pull my finger” routine to the kiddos. <a href="http://theadventuresofmommy.blogspot.com/2008/12/splosions-happen-to-everyone.html">He's a bit of a gasser</a>, and the children think the whole thing is splendid. Especially my little Princess Meatball, as Daddy calls her. In fact, after many months of indoctrination into the cult of finger yanking, she will now instruct her brother and Daddy to pull <em>her</em> finger. Luck might be a Lady, but my daughter? Well…<br /><br />The especially charming thing about all of this is that she can burp on command. Two-years-old though she may be, she has already walked away from numerous burping contests the victor, leaving the men of the house in her small, tiny little wake. Suffice it to say that upon pulling her finger she promptly lets out a curt belch.<br /><br />Yep. That’s my girl. Hopefully, as time goes on she tempers her skill with an aptitude for cooking or sewing or something. At least for now her Daddy and her Auntie B are violently proud of her. I suppose something has to be said for that.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-Wjf-gsk3rPC0cQ-AG0AHZm5mZbH4VJQjB8fv3YmOGefWng2fKeAbqFp7EoXZjpF5HcmJgpx7TnC5ceo9x3Sa7RM7N9nLhk8imW4zaPaKPKxOuqs0HQaxyoSagm2bCLGowothNm3WEQG/s1600-h/PailiMustache.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-Wjf-gsk3rPC0cQ-AG0AHZm5mZbH4VJQjB8fv3YmOGefWng2fKeAbqFp7EoXZjpF5HcmJgpx7TnC5ceo9x3Sa7RM7N9nLhk8imW4zaPaKPKxOuqs0HQaxyoSagm2bCLGowothNm3WEQG/s320/PailiMustache.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427522389755295570" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-12131966843029826752009-12-28T19:23:00.008-05:002009-12-29T08:40:55.488-05:00And Then There Were NoneI missed my sisters today. Maybe it’s the cold winter blues. Maybe it’s the fact that a lot of my friends’ lives have drifted away from my own. Maybe it’s simply because all three of my siblings moved away in such a short period of time.<br /><br />I am almost twenty-nine. My closest sister is twenty-seven, the next, twenty, and the youngest is eighteen. The baby of the family left for college in the end of August, moving five hours away to the other side of our rather large state. One week later my closest sister moved an hour and a half south to take a job in Philadelphia. And then in October my last remaining sister married and is making her new home three hours away in Maryland. I’m the only one who stayed.<br /><br />Everyday life generally keeps me busy enough that I don’t notice, but today I found myself feeling emotional and rather lonely for their company. I suppose I shouldn’t complain because they don’t live terribly far away. And I suppose it’s nice that we all get along and love each other to the point of missing each other now and again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaVBKBaqrEAZ-AMBrfUtfGvalTQqYaRZl37pdweEKcsDKgcUCdF5ubZlFmfGR_TwEjJ50UvZPgXbD6w8-Y4Kq1Sc76Us2KO0OA4FUlEpaOGhxsH78_Kr7eyxZZ5umDsQlRh3tYbjMf8Aes/s1600-h/DSCN2860.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420450119482656850" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 400px; height: 325px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaVBKBaqrEAZ-AMBrfUtfGvalTQqYaRZl37pdweEKcsDKgcUCdF5ubZlFmfGR_TwEjJ50UvZPgXbD6w8-Y4Kq1Sc76Us2KO0OA4FUlEpaOGhxsH78_Kr7eyxZZ5umDsQlRh3tYbjMf8Aes/s400/DSCN2860.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjuflxIA_qKinzHcBNLHZIQxIMwJclmekQy9jK_y48_T7TCti7oJv2M4Ttazuh3NJrnpGkRgXBePs0RUZAdVzRQKCgFIPm74VCYQWbG87vd3-47YHFF2526lqzxPxQHLCqt_aBBkgx7hw/s1600-h/DSCN2860.JPG"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Kneeling from left: my mom holding my daughter, my son, my daddy<br />Standing: my closest sister, my baby sister, me holding my baby, my little sister, my grammy<br />Back row: my husband, my brother-in-law, my pop-pop<br /></span></span> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;}</style-->Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-71935221316469448072009-12-27T19:13:00.001-05:002009-12-27T19:16:11.036-05:00Sweet Baby<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq14SDCHuhpNS3abtZx3__wM7_HsGzNHdpLbI-0Q3yDYG2-tyEygxgVLekp9EUWGsoLBM8SFTlL_Cj7TeqdEijUKYpmutGW9MvZFHpAIvSI_ms23RLfSSeFi7xzqiaAcXDJ8DXshu16M-C/s1600-h/DSCN2722.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq14SDCHuhpNS3abtZx3__wM7_HsGzNHdpLbI-0Q3yDYG2-tyEygxgVLekp9EUWGsoLBM8SFTlL_Cj7TeqdEijUKYpmutGW9MvZFHpAIvSI_ms23RLfSSeFi7xzqiaAcXDJ8DXshu16M-C/s320/DSCN2722.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420073817908756450" border="0" /></a>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-24262002953929547642009-12-15T21:18:00.001-05:002009-12-15T21:20:15.813-05:00GPS MommyIn our house Mommy knows where everything is. Well, mostly anyway. There is that once in a while when Mommy <em>doesn’t</em> know where something is, but usually she does. <br /><br />It has been that way for me even before I became Mommy. Back when I was just, Wife, it was that way, too. My husband constantly asks me where things are. Things that belong to him, stuff that I never touch, belongings that sometimes aren’t seen for months at a time. <br /><br />“Do you know where my gray socks are? The ones with the hole in the big left toe?”<br /><br />“They’re in your top drawer, Dear, underneath your Luchador mask, in the front on the left.”<br /><br />Not only do I generally know where his stuff is, but I can also give detailed directions and even draw a map if necessary.<br /><br />I seriously do not know if the man has major problems with keeping tabs on his stuff, or if he simply takes advantage of my talent for remembering everything for him. He had better get a grip in either case because my capacity for preserving any information for longer than thirty seconds is diminishing.<br /><br />Perhaps his inability to recollect where he keeps his undergarments and such is due to the fact that he belongs to the gender known as MALE. As of late I have been leaning toward this as the likely explanation. The reason being that, as my son gets older I have been able to observe some of the following tendencies in him. <br /><br />Number One: He can’t focus long enough to follow simple directions.<br /><br />That little man can ask me where a particular book is, and upon looking down I locate it lying on the floor <em>touching</em> his foot.<br /><br />“It’s on the floor, next to your foot,” I’ll say.<br /><br />“Where?” <br /><br />“Right next to your foot.”<br /><br />“Huh?”<br />“LOOK DOWN!”<br /><br />He still won’t see it. Really. He’s four. He speaks English better than some forty-year-olds I know. This shouldn’t be that hard.<br /><br />Number Two: He’ll put something down and immediately forget where he put it.<br /><br />See Number One.<br /><br />Now, if that is all part of being a person of the male persuasion, then it would seem that being FEMALE would entail certain peculiarities. Peculiarities like maintaining a detailed catalogue of where everything in the entire house was last seen. <br /><br />I already see potential in my older daughter for following very successfully in my footsteps. Considering the current state of decline in my mental faculties, this is a very good thing. She is only two-and-a-half, but if she puts her cup down on the living room floor behind the Christmas tree in the corner and drops a blanket on top of it she’ll still remember where she put it. If one asks her where her cup is an hour later she will point in the general direction of it and say, “It’s over dare.”<br /><br />If one says, “Honey Buns, can you bring me the baby’s rattle from the couch?” She will go and get it. Ask Daddy or her brother to get it and they’d walk around in circles for ten minutes and then say, “Huh?”<br /><br />In conclusion, it is my opinion, from years of observation and experience, that boys will be boys. And whether or not this is something that they’re born with or that they develop out of a deep liking for being taken care of by competent women, I don’t know. But that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-11614242576824575862009-12-07T20:10:00.004-05:002009-12-07T20:25:55.449-05:00And Some Little Girls Bite CatsMy two-year-old daughter is all upside down and inside out. If she wants to go upstairs, she says, “I want to go downstairs.” If she’s up and wants to go down, she declares, “I want to go upstairs.” When we play outside she will announce that she’s had enough by asking to go outside instead of inside.<br /><div><br />A few weeks ago there was a little girl in the church nursery who was obviously younger than my little sweetums. I was amazed when she pointed to a nearby crib and asked to go “up.” I thought all children were as completely confused as my own. When my son was younger he used to get “up” and “down” mixed up all of the time. Apparently not all youngsters are as directionally challenged as mine are.<br /><br />There are days when I correct my daughter out of the goodness of my heart because I want her to grow up and be able to communicate her desires with the other people in her world. But there are those days when I just shrug my shoulders and do the opposite of what she asks because I understand what it is that she is asking for, and because I just can’t imagine that explaining to her for the one hundred and eleventh time that she already<em> is</em> upstairs is actually going to make it stick.<br /><br />Besides, it makes me giggle when she comes to me and cries, “Mommy,<em> I bit Seamus</em>!” Please understand, I don’t find it to be funny when the cat gives her a little nip (however well-deserved), but the sincerity of her voice during those tearful confessions elicits a smile from the lazy part of my brain that derives so much pleasure from her little misnomers and chooses to let them stand uncorrected.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ttfSmvWsH_LcsYB55KUc27vWxC349mPeqO6lNsCcUVF73V7s2CkzL5qikPnR564_snwXIvBdBNDruaLZ3gw_CsDedx2riS-HzYuS2A66yE_wVrV_ZwWij-W0K78SUQYYTqMME-6ZADps/s1600-h/DSCN9117.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ttfSmvWsH_LcsYB55KUc27vWxC349mPeqO6lNsCcUVF73V7s2CkzL5qikPnR564_snwXIvBdBNDruaLZ3gw_CsDedx2riS-HzYuS2A66yE_wVrV_ZwWij-W0K78SUQYYTqMME-6ZADps/s320/DSCN9117.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412669866325165474" border="0" /></a></div>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-27445073182916373572009-12-01T18:18:00.005-05:002009-12-01T18:25:08.729-05:00Rosette Mini Bib Necklaces<span style="font-size:130%;">I am currently on a bit of a rosette kick...</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6HDORU4YSBnc76ygj2bgsA5FsZi3r-mKFV5s25gaxuBad8jv0NI_k4nBUVy7qXNz6Zk9aUXkWfsLbx1dy6FzpNygB0PefGv-8QxidSPl4lOThn2VnOdM43bL0ib-MKrGQMy82udUmBZEQ/s1600/rosettecollage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6HDORU4YSBnc76ygj2bgsA5FsZi3r-mKFV5s25gaxuBad8jv0NI_k4nBUVy7qXNz6Zk9aUXkWfsLbx1dy6FzpNygB0PefGv-8QxidSPl4lOThn2VnOdM43bL0ib-MKrGQMy82udUmBZEQ/s400/rosettecollage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410412451363096498" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The lovely <a href="http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=35565197">Lilac Rosette Mini Bid Necklace</a> is the first to make its debut in my shop!</span>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-47337233629279196462009-11-18T12:11:00.004-05:002009-11-18T12:19:46.826-05:00What We Do on Warm Fall DaysWe find tiny salamanders.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-DGVxCAYUB4orDFYqNMsNoFNyAUVJ8tdxNslsOtyZtBHAe32UKPHOL2N6PI73ghncsxbn28SVXXojbUrldQqQmbIvLk-xRmUXODeXfrl7BJ2fT7ktfHsfRrzKjdn5AxD-_wR-KMUtnb2/s1600/DSCN0914.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-DGVxCAYUB4orDFYqNMsNoFNyAUVJ8tdxNslsOtyZtBHAe32UKPHOL2N6PI73ghncsxbn28SVXXojbUrldQqQmbIvLk-xRmUXODeXfrl7BJ2fT7ktfHsfRrzKjdn5AxD-_wR-KMUtnb2/s320/DSCN0914.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405493064068301554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And rocks shaped like humpback whales.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Lx4oGv1BmjT0Uz2OIrBVINARgOth5SGBcHlpqzE5hcZTXL6l5D4Dzw3YB3f_4KBkKcG_QKo7brN1d_9f-dO883OyYhyZuuzHYcuYb_H4K4cN0ZCyUG1xs51fxzU7v5c9HVT-brQRmZng/s1600/DSCN0928.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Lx4oGv1BmjT0Uz2OIrBVINARgOth5SGBcHlpqzE5hcZTXL6l5D4Dzw3YB3f_4KBkKcG_QKo7brN1d_9f-dO883OyYhyZuuzHYcuYb_H4K4cN0ZCyUG1xs51fxzU7v5c9HVT-brQRmZng/s320/DSCN0928.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405493067845322594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We make sure that our slug friends safe and dry.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCrwxwJRzzDUOoMdCWKEV4E7mAfvJ8NiOa0w2spJhKsK7cLuYemaLmXVnuddmel9NiMUtyiIu6TMhNejBMHF6mMsMMnePShTm1Aienddf8wcZybq6DCOG30WRK6zZEvi-YAM25_RtksY2/s1600/DSCN0920.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCrwxwJRzzDUOoMdCWKEV4E7mAfvJ8NiOa0w2spJhKsK7cLuYemaLmXVnuddmel9NiMUtyiIu6TMhNejBMHF6mMsMMnePShTm1Aienddf8wcZybq6DCOG30WRK6zZEvi-YAM25_RtksY2/s320/DSCN0920.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405493062922814466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We play with Dad.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJsuVyY5VEaeAt6wIkyNICOGnktwh-TSrM3cfG7pkXwzyXSuDZ-W-7vEinMJ0b55x8QqB066lt053KGN-OtsoEYLSdMOzFui9ZhewkobkCRH7bZQ94lu9JcwIB43mbbzy8GCXDC97lx6F/s1600/DSCN0949.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJsuVyY5VEaeAt6wIkyNICOGnktwh-TSrM3cfG7pkXwzyXSuDZ-W-7vEinMJ0b55x8QqB066lt053KGN-OtsoEYLSdMOzFui9ZhewkobkCRH7bZQ94lu9JcwIB43mbbzy8GCXDC97lx6F/s320/DSCN0949.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405493072523351186" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Whom else would build snug homes for gross, slimy creatures?Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-4002570701219229722009-11-05T14:59:00.002-05:002009-11-05T15:04:29.790-05:00Yay for Garlands!I have once again expanded <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/OrdinaryMommy">my shop</a> to include a fun new category! There are only two selections now occupying the space in "Home Decor," but stayed tuned for more...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiklIUKmapRzGSNlwf3j3hQsGl7wRu8cL3U_L_I7emUgVvjsdegr2oAT7vi225SK0lqF_EIr0eyAVlZQ0xV3YK8kho8ASc_Fr-qb9Jit9yRzAbcKU3fyE-HNP3Z_hzk3fd-57gFIgj2_CMa/s1600-h/garlandcollage2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiklIUKmapRzGSNlwf3j3hQsGl7wRu8cL3U_L_I7emUgVvjsdegr2oAT7vi225SK0lqF_EIr0eyAVlZQ0xV3YK8kho8ASc_Fr-qb9Jit9yRzAbcKU3fyE-HNP3Z_hzk3fd-57gFIgj2_CMa/s320/garlandcollage2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400712547470955842" border="0" /></a>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-86224059315502438182009-11-02T22:26:00.002-05:002009-11-02T22:32:02.912-05:00Silver Linings and Happy Things about Going to the DentistI had to go to the dentist today. One of my many fillings fell out last week and needed to be replaced before the huge gap in my tooth turned into a pulsing, swollen mass of infection, or before the tooth just simply fell out. <br /><br />Through my growing-up years and even now, I spend more time at the dentist than the average person. My teeth are soft and extremely prone to cavities. I’ve become accustomed to the whine of the drill and the sound of my dentist’s laugh, but I’m really not fond of paying someone so that they can jab me with pointy things. At least now that I’m a mommy I have the benefit of reclining in relative quiet without little hands clawing at me and tiny toddlers scaling my legs. I suppose that’s something of a silver lining. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little ninjas, but once in a while it’s nice to revert back to one’s childhood by experiencing the feeling of a Novocain-induced fat lip.<br /><br />Actually, I manage to find a few silvery linings about going to see the dentist. My dentist is swell: I’ve been seeing him for about eighteen years now and he has always treated my family and me very well. If the comfy reclining and kind treatment weren’t enough, I generally get a good chuckle at some point while sitting in that chair.<br /><br />It’s quite a strange thing, lying there and staring up into that light. You know, the one they shine <strong>right in your eye</strong>? Yep, that’s the one. There I am with that bright light shining in my eyes causing me to be half blinded by light spots, watching as two people hover over me with surgical masks on and all twenty-five of their hands full of pointy and suck-y instruments and tools of torture. Really, it’s kind of spooky. And they’re leaning in closer and closer with their grotesque amount of hands, and I’m opening my mouth wider and wider, and it just doesn’t seem like I’m ever going to be able to open it wide enough for them to get all of their stuff in there. I can just imagine what it must look like from their angle as they pull and pry and yank on my lower lip. Sometimes it feels as though they’ve grabbed it and hooked it under my chin to keep it out of the way. It makes me laugh. <br /><br />Then there are the games that we play. Someone will ask me a question and if I can answer him or her in a manner that they are able to understand without Mr. Sucky getting stuck on my tongue I win. If Mr. Sucky slurps up any part of my soft tissue and drowns me out with his hissing and gasping choking sounds I lose. I also lose if at any point during the visit I am unable to keep the water from the little yellow plastic cup from dribbling down my chin. It’s tons of fun. It makes me laugh.<br /><br />It never fails, though, that at some point the cold air coming out the back of the drill will hit a sensitive tooth, or the dentist will have to employ the use of Mr. Drill’s brother, the nasty Mr. Bumpy. And when either of those things happens, I just close my eyes and smile about the fact that the dentist and his little helper don’t know that I’m singing hymns or happy songs in my head to distract myself. And that makes me laugh too!Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-69071843237993867882009-10-20T10:00:00.003-04:002009-10-20T10:04:44.537-04:00Quotable QuotesOverheard at Nana's this week near the race track...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Granddad: "I'm driving like a mad-man!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Our little man: "I'm driving like a nice man." </span><br /><br />Well, duh!Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-17277937690399476202009-10-16T23:10:00.004-04:002009-10-16T23:24:24.332-04:00How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 4<p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdM4Cg0yq9QqFccJAMJG7knT09yGswkxFK3iWvsnyagLNI6P1WMeYd3hRqsGO7YBNNnk_pmRo8k6QfWsYDoVJWOcSP0ktD1dbX2XBAlE3xfviR_ssymNejaVYk869BwcmTLFc9XW6dBMX/s1600-h/TheaLeigh.jpg"></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal">In my pain-beclouded state of mind all of the shouting seemed a bit panicky. Hello! People deliver babies in rice fields, in their bathrooms, and on the side of the highway! Of course, I’m sure, people die in rice fields all of the time giving birth. Sometimes a completely natural thing can be rife with complications and lots of blood as we found out during my first delivery. In hindsight it is likely that the poor nurses had taken a peek at my chart; plus they couldn’t track my contractions or the baby’s heart rate since the monitor was no longer attached to my bulging belly. <br /><br />Even though I wasn’t bearing down I could feel my body forcing my tiny infant down the birth canal. The delivery room began to fill with people and doctors who had come to stand by in case my own doctor didn’t make it in time. As they walked through the door they were met with a not-so-flattering view of my behind stuck up in the air; my husband claims that every single one of them visibly started at the unexpected view. At that point I didn’t care what I looked like, or what I was exposing everyone to. These people are used to blood and guts, and I’m sure they’ve seen scarier things. At least I hope so.<br /><br />I distinctly remember trying my darndest to be polite as I shouted at that I had to push at anyone who dared to tell me not to. I really had no intention or desire to be one of those raving women who are presented an Oscar upon discharge for “Outstanding Screamer of the Month.” But there is a limit to how much of that sort of hold-your-legs-together-and-don’t-push nonsense a woman in labor can take. (Please note that I did nothing that could be called screaming, and I even apologized to the nurse afterward.)<br /><br />Everything seemed a blur. When my water broke I was coherent enough to double-check that it was clear. I was aware of pain, aware of the baby’s knees and elbows, and I remember a doctor with a strange sort of mustache briefly appearing in my field of vision and trying to introduce himself. And then the voice of my very own wonderful doctor was heard in the room. I’m pretty sure a collective joyous shout was raised heavenward by everyone except me: he had made the mistake of telling me not to push as he rushed in the door. Really, that was just too much, and for the last time I whined that I must be allowed to push- I was going to push, and that was just it, the final word, I’m sorry but I’m going to push! <br /><br />He recanted and gave me the go-ahead and I went ahead and gave it all I had. The baby came out so fast that I’m positive she would have flown clear across the room had she not still been attached to my insides. The baby whom I had been so sure would come out a rugged little boy turned out to be a lovely little lady. It was 4:01pm, a mere fifty minutes since I had checked into the hospital, and only fifteen minutes after Daddy had arrived. <br /><br />Now that she’s here it seems like she’s always been a part of our lives, and I couldn’t love her more if I tried.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdM4Cg0yq9QqFccJAMJG7knT09yGswkxFK3iWvsnyagLNI6P1WMeYd3hRqsGO7YBNNnk_pmRo8k6QfWsYDoVJWOcSP0ktD1dbX2XBAlE3xfviR_ssymNejaVYk869BwcmTLFc9XW6dBMX/s1600-h/TheaLeigh.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393402904732194642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 310px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 286px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdM4Cg0yq9QqFccJAMJG7knT09yGswkxFK3iWvsnyagLNI6P1WMeYd3hRqsGO7YBNNnk_pmRo8k6QfWsYDoVJWOcSP0ktD1dbX2XBAlE3xfviR_ssymNejaVYk869BwcmTLFc9XW6dBMX/s320/TheaLeigh.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-size:+0;"></span></p>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-83784104757386364032009-10-12T07:42:00.002-04:002009-10-12T07:47:10.386-04:00Etsyversary Giveaway WinnerA big thank-you to <a href="http://corrieberrypie.blogspot.com/">Corrie</a> for following my blog. Random.org has declared lucky number two to be the winner! Please do enjoy your new necklace.Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-37708441492070537132009-10-11T15:10:00.005-04:002009-10-11T15:25:11.613-04:00Lots of Love to My Little SisterMy little sister is getting married in a couple of weeks and she requested custom headpieces for her bridal party. I'm happy to say that all six of them are finished!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFHjnf8T-78rF9JryexjxTEQ_o4z1798wwKD6NNVm4wN90g_PsPztYkb29tgcQzEfubAus56Mp9fbomoTkcnReixvqnsEeV9jpUt7wRz_mqzbMuoU44zORcBkO07HZrD8Akr4tSSRexh1/s1600-h/weddingcollage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFHjnf8T-78rF9JryexjxTEQ_o4z1798wwKD6NNVm4wN90g_PsPztYkb29tgcQzEfubAus56Mp9fbomoTkcnReixvqnsEeV9jpUt7wRz_mqzbMuoU44zORcBkO07HZrD8Akr4tSSRexh1/s400/weddingcollage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391425246126462098" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Happy wedding!Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-562280678123336977.post-27133198625374720252009-10-07T10:40:00.003-04:002009-10-07T19:27:36.178-04:00How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 3To get an epidural, or not get an epidural, that is the question. Most people consider that a stupid question; most people would say, “why the heck <em><strong>not</strong></em>?!” My mother delivered all four of us without the aid of spine tingling, leg numbing, is-my-butt-still-there drugs. I had always wanted to experience a natural delivery; however, I was rather unfortunate to have Pitocin coursing through my veins with my first two deliveries. I tried to be brave, but there comes a point when bravery just becomes stupidity- at least in my mind.<br /><div><br />The first question that I remember being asked when I checked into the hospital was, “do you want an epidural?” My wishy-washy response (which was something like a whiny I-don’t-know) turned into a slightly more positive refusal when I realized how quickly my labor was progressing. I really wanted to try it sans drugs, and, in between contractions, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.<br /><br />Daddy arrived at the hospital about half an hour after I checked in. By then I was already nine centimeters dilated and the pain from my back labor was quickly approaching the unbearable zone. Great was Sean’s agitation and incredulity at the fact that there was no catheter pushing mind-soothing juices through my spine; greater still did it become when I needed to be unhooked from the monitors in order to go to the bathroom and the floor between the bed and the bathroom door seemed to stretch on in endless miles of pain and suffering for those destined to walk them.<br /><br />Well, I made it to the bathroom. I made it back to the bed. I got my hands on the bed. Somehow I even managed to get my knees on the bed. And then I was hit with what I now know to be absolute, this-is-the-end, hello-I’m-having-this-baby-now contractions. It was right about here that I blurted something like “I want drugs” (who said that?). Yes, I am ashamed to say that those very words popped right out of my mouth. It was a good thing that deep down I didn’t really want them because it was too late anyway; it was probably already too late when I had walked in the door. Something else I found out about myself at this point- my instincts kick in and I have no sense of decorum or self-respect whilst in the throes of labor.<br /><br />In other words, I got stuck on my hands and knees. No, I wasn’t going to lie down, and now that you mention it I think I may just start to push. Just as I had gotten into bed the chief resident had come to check on my progress. She couldn’t convince me to lie down either, so she just peeked around my back end and said, “Oh, she’s full! There’s the head!” Generally when the head crowns that means the time to push has come, but since the doctor was still a mile or two down the road the order not to push was being given on all sides and I felt the nurse place her hand against the baby’s head.<br /></div><br /><div>I think everyone in the room was on the phone at this point. “Get the house doctor!” “Find the chief resident!” Somewhere in there I heard, “Her doctor’s on the bridge!” That is to say, he was almost there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4UNor9V78e2alHLRm2RSpGUg2mtD2HvEENXA59ywfGQjiPVTD1updv1q5w5hv5i0w9_dSQIlcdLnk5q45VFtbLep7x2YgQgNBDpbVXoaBX63-mevUp8FuLs1Rn_aMxVVQD3qSQSfXxNu/s1600-h/TheaLeigh5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4UNor9V78e2alHLRm2RSpGUg2mtD2HvEENXA59ywfGQjiPVTD1updv1q5w5hv5i0w9_dSQIlcdLnk5q45VFtbLep7x2YgQgNBDpbVXoaBX63-mevUp8FuLs1Rn_aMxVVQD3qSQSfXxNu/s320/TheaLeigh5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389868922753196674" border="0" /></a> </div>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05701198143818956144noreply@blogger.com3