Which is when both of our days took a turn for the better.
A straight copy and paste.
It's all I've got tonight.
It's all you'll need.
For your mental health, there's this:
And this:
And finally, my personal favorite:
That is all.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
A cure for the masses.
After a rather bleh day in suburbia, and in an effort to keep Harper's mind off of a ginormous mosquito bite on her ankle and two two-year molars that are going to break through aaaany day now, we were checking out some snakes and bunnies on Google images.
Which is when both of our days took a turn for the better.
A straight copy and paste.
It's all I've got tonight.
It's all you'll need.
For your mental health, there's this:
And this:
And finally, my personal favorite:
That is all.
Which is when both of our days took a turn for the better.
A straight copy and paste.
It's all I've got tonight.
It's all you'll need.
For your mental health, there's this:
And this:
And finally, my personal favorite:
That is all.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Buckwheat Sings
At the risk of peppering my blog with too many SNL references from the 80s that no one understands, Harper would like to submit the following lyrics for your deciphering pleasure:
Duh stahs ah nigh ah big an bwight, deep in da ha-puh Tecas!
No? Another verse? Sure!
Duh pwaiwee sky is wide an high, deep in da ha-puh Tecas!
Come on.. Don't give up.
Duh sae in bwoom is wike puhfume, deep in da ha-puh Tecas!
Sing with me now!
Weminds me uh duh one I wuv, deep in da ha-puh Tecas!
Nee-haw (yee-haw)! Happy Monday!
Sunday, September 25, 2011
stealthly stalkings
Every once in a while, Harper takes on the sand man and refuses to yield to his wily ways.
Last week, we had two such "naps," which I'm positive had nothing to do with a toddler rebellion and everything to do with a visit from Grandma and anything she could possibly be doing with Grandma is infinitely more interesting than sleeping. Because Grandma.is.awesome.
Oh, she doesn't fight it in a violent sense. She's perfectly happy to sit, stand or jump in the crib while talking, singing, or telling herself baby jokes that even make me laugh. And if I didn't know we'd have to deal with a super crabby toddler until bedtime, I would be thoroughly entertained to sit outside of her door and listen to her antics. Or just go in there and hang out with her, because she's funny!
But I wait. And I listen. And I give her time to herself, even if she isn't sleeping, as long as she isn't crying. And try to go about what I need to do... silently, so that she doesn't think she's missing something.
Without fail, I'll drop something. Or kick something. ..CRASH. And I'll hold my breath and listen. And if she's truly asleep, which is the norm, she'll never stir.
But Friday?
5 Stuart Little stories. Tucked in. Lights out. "Sleep tight!" exchanged. ..She thinks we nap when she does.
The jumping starts. . . .
Then the laughing starts. . . .
"Jumpy, jumpy, jumpy!"
I reward it with a silent, out-of-sight giggle.
15 minutes in, she tells a particularly funny story to herself. I can only pick out the words "house" and "pywamid" but they seem key to the punchline.
30 minutes in, CLANG! Impromptu drumming session on the crib. Drumsticks sound disturbingly solid. "one, two, fee, foh! dwum dwum dwum dwum! hit it, hah-puh (harper)!"
45 minutes in. . . I haven't heard anything in 5 minutes and I'm almost ready to start dinner when I drop my phone. Gasp. Hold breath. ...silence.
50 minutes.. I'm getting way too confident and bustle about the living room a little. And kick Fisher-Price guitar. LOUD RIFF. Bawaaaawng! ((cuss, then hold breath))...silence. Phew.
60 minutes.. Mailman knocks on the door for a signature, but we aren't expecting anything particular. Annoyed (and holding breath), I consider that he's probably an axe murderer posing as a mailman. ..But he does sorta look familiar. You know, like our mailman. But by the time I decide he's not going to kill us, he's gone. ..Still, silence. Wow, she's a good napper.
65 minutes in.. Am definitely in a heated, albeit silent, laundry-hanging frenzy. If the mailman, the guitar and the phone didn't wake her, she's out. ..like usual. I am content and victorious, knowing I'll have a happy, well-rested girl up in an hour. When I sneeze, I'm careful to bury my face in my arm and stifle it to all but extinction, although I'm not worried.
65:30 minutes in.. "Bwess you, Momma!"
Last week, we had two such "naps," which I'm positive had nothing to do with a toddler rebellion and everything to do with a visit from Grandma and anything she could possibly be doing with Grandma is infinitely more interesting than sleeping. Because Grandma.is.awesome.
Oh, she doesn't fight it in a violent sense. She's perfectly happy to sit, stand or jump in the crib while talking, singing, or telling herself baby jokes that even make me laugh. And if I didn't know we'd have to deal with a super crabby toddler until bedtime, I would be thoroughly entertained to sit outside of her door and listen to her antics. Or just go in there and hang out with her, because she's funny!
But I wait. And I listen. And I give her time to herself, even if she isn't sleeping, as long as she isn't crying. And try to go about what I need to do... silently, so that she doesn't think she's missing something.
Without fail, I'll drop something. Or kick something. ..CRASH. And I'll hold my breath and listen. And if she's truly asleep, which is the norm, she'll never stir.
But Friday?
5 Stuart Little stories. Tucked in. Lights out. "Sleep tight!" exchanged. ..She thinks we nap when she does.
The jumping starts. . . .
Then the laughing starts. . . .
"Jumpy, jumpy, jumpy!"
I reward it with a silent, out-of-sight giggle.
15 minutes in, she tells a particularly funny story to herself. I can only pick out the words "house" and "pywamid" but they seem key to the punchline.
30 minutes in, CLANG! Impromptu drumming session on the crib. Drumsticks sound disturbingly solid. "one, two, fee, foh! dwum dwum dwum dwum! hit it, hah-puh (harper)!"
45 minutes in. . . I haven't heard anything in 5 minutes and I'm almost ready to start dinner when I drop my phone. Gasp. Hold breath. ...silence.
50 minutes.. I'm getting way too confident and bustle about the living room a little. And kick Fisher-Price guitar. LOUD RIFF. Bawaaaawng! ((cuss, then hold breath))...silence. Phew.
60 minutes.. Mailman knocks on the door for a signature, but we aren't expecting anything particular. Annoyed (and holding breath), I consider that he's probably an axe murderer posing as a mailman. ..But he does sorta look familiar. You know, like our mailman. But by the time I decide he's not going to kill us, he's gone. ..Still, silence. Wow, she's a good napper.
65 minutes in.. Am definitely in a heated, albeit silent, laundry-hanging frenzy. If the mailman, the guitar and the phone didn't wake her, she's out. ..like usual. I am content and victorious, knowing I'll have a happy, well-rested girl up in an hour. When I sneeze, I'm careful to bury my face in my arm and stifle it to all but extinction, although I'm not worried.
65:30 minutes in.. "Bwess you, Momma!"
 |
| 66 minutes in.. Halloween decorating commences with gusto. |
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Self-Awareness and the Lack
Today, I was all cocked and primed (I can't write that or say it without giggling) to write a 'shame on you' Unpopular Opinion about all these people on my Facebook newsfeed complaining about the new changes. 'Cause, Gawd, it's a free service that we've given permission to take over our lives.
It was going to go something like this:
If you make a 'close friends' list and one of your 'acquaintances' posts something uncharacteristically interesting/bats*crazy and you miss it? Take a deep breath. ..It's just Facebook.
And just before I hit 'publish,' I realized that the bulk of my blog readers view me as an 'aquaintance' and simply haven't blocked my blog posts, yet. . .
((face palm))
Rant on. And thank you for reading.
I was confused.
Just like the poor cat that wandered into the Coastal Carolina football coach's house:
It was going to go something like this:
If you make a 'close friends' list and one of your 'acquaintances' posts something uncharacteristically interesting/bats*crazy and you miss it? Take a deep breath. ..It's just Facebook.
And just before I hit 'publish,' I realized that the bulk of my blog readers view me as an 'aquaintance' and simply haven't blocked my blog posts, yet. . .
((face palm))
Rant on. And thank you for reading.
I was confused.
Just like the poor cat that wandered into the Coastal Carolina football coach's house:
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
You'll hate me tonight.
I hate to even say this, because I can guarantee you're probably not going to sleep well tonight, and it's gonna be my fault.
How old are the pillows on your bed?
Do you even remember the last time you replaced them?
Never want to replace them b/c you've finally gotten 'the one' broken in?
Bought some super expensive ones when you got married but that was. . . . 5 years ago? 6? 7? 15? And you never thought you'd need to part with their fluffy general disposition?
Yes you do want to part with them. Immediately. ..Probably.
After just two years, 80% of the weight of your pillow is...dust mite poop.
I'm sorry. Sort of.
How old are the pillows on your bed?
Do you even remember the last time you replaced them?
Never want to replace them b/c you've finally gotten 'the one' broken in?
Bought some super expensive ones when you got married but that was. . . . 5 years ago? 6? 7? 15? And you never thought you'd need to part with their fluffy general disposition?
Yes you do want to part with them. Immediately. ..Probably.
After just two years, 80% of the weight of your pillow is...dust mite poop.
I'm sorry. Sort of.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
May I call you Rudyard?
We had a kettle; we let it leak:
Our not repairing made it worse.
We haven't had any tea for a week...
The bottom is out of the Universe. -Rudyard Kipling
Our not repairing made it worse.
We haven't had any tea for a week...
The bottom is out of the Universe. -Rudyard Kipling
Heed that, fellow procrastinators and mountain-makers of mole hills, alike.
Pretty sure our Jungle friend wasn't just talkin' about tea, but his words are easier to swallow, that way.
Go forth and repair. . . or in my case, do laundry.
 |
| These are the Rubbermaid plastic carafes with airtight lids I've been yammering on about for weeks to anyone who'll listen. |
Thursday, September 8, 2011
where the heart is.
This morning, it took us one entire hour to drive 4 miles to Gymboree. Granted, it was raining and it was the end of rush hour, but still.. an hour? I sat, complacently, listening to Harper play nicely in her car seat (thank goodness) and we accepted our fate. We're used to it.
I patted myself on the back for leaving 15 minutes early (in anticipation of a Pumpkin Spice latte, at whose source I just stared longingly three lanes over in gridlocked traffic). I even felt a little lucky because there were no wrecks to make us late.
It was in that moment, in my acceptance, that I realized we have been away too long. ..That it's time to go home.
Where I can pull out of my driveway in Fayetteville, NC and pull into Carter-Finley stadium in an hour and 10 minutes.
Where Harper will hear Hank Williams, Jr. on the radio instead of on CDs.
Where we can burn leaves in our back yard in the Fall.
Where we don't have to pay $20/person for a hayride through a pumpkin patch.
Where hearing gunshots probably means that it's hunting season.
Where we can teach our children the most efficient way to eat a scuppernong grape and a boiled peanut.
Where we can look at each other on a Saturday morning and decide to be on a beach in two hours flat.
Where the weak grow strong and the strong grow great.
Where Harper and Henry will belong, just like we did, and will know exactly where to go when they grow up and grow weary.
I patted myself on the back for leaving 15 minutes early (in anticipation of a Pumpkin Spice latte, at whose source I just stared longingly three lanes over in gridlocked traffic). I even felt a little lucky because there were no wrecks to make us late.
It was in that moment, in my acceptance, that I realized we have been away too long. ..That it's time to go home.
Where I can pull out of my driveway in Fayetteville, NC and pull into Carter-Finley stadium in an hour and 10 minutes.
Where Harper will hear Hank Williams, Jr. on the radio instead of on CDs.
Where we can burn leaves in our back yard in the Fall.
Where we don't have to pay $20/person for a hayride through a pumpkin patch.
Where hearing gunshots probably means that it's hunting season.
Where we can teach our children the most efficient way to eat a scuppernong grape and a boiled peanut.
Where we can look at each other on a Saturday morning and decide to be on a beach in two hours flat.
Where the weak grow strong and the strong grow great.
Where Harper and Henry will belong, just like we did, and will know exactly where to go when they grow up and grow weary.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Conversations with Harper
Tuesday morning, 6:20 a.m.
Mid-way through decaf coffee, which only annoys me in its uselessness.
Harper is watching Dora save something from the something in three easy steps. And Dora uses a map, not GPS. ..a disproportionately large-headed girl after my own heart.
Cinnamon rolls baking. . . . reminding me that it's finally Fall. Perfect.
I think Harper might be just a little chilly, so I wrap a blanket around her, which she kicks off. "No blankie. You have it."
I accept and settle in to check the weather amid the hum of the city: The occasional siren, car doors closing, engines starting, the rumble of garbage trucks. Everyone's awake.
Wait.. garbage trucks?! OH CRAP.
Y'all know how to dance goes from here - sweaty head, pajama pants, wet flip-flop feet striking out across the grass, pretty much looking like something out of the attic of Jane Eyre..
Two hands full of cardboard from the inside trash, when I realize I can't open the back door without disrupting the stack of Jenga'd boxes I'm balancing.
I cut my eyes at the small little lump on the couch with four potentially helpful appendages. On a whim, I give it a try. After all, she surprises me every day:
Me: Harper, can you please open the door for Mommy?
Harper: Oooh, boxes. Yes!
Me: Yes, boxes. I'm taking them to the trash can. Can you help?
Harper: Oooh, trash can!
Me: (resorting to cave woman talk) Yep. The door. Open. Please?
Harper: Oh-Kaaaay! (doesn't budge.)
Me: Humph. (open door on my own, somehow, some way. hear me roar.)
Harper: Great job, Mommy! You did it! Yay! (claps)
Mid-way through decaf coffee, which only annoys me in its uselessness.
Harper is watching Dora save something from the something in three easy steps. And Dora uses a map, not GPS. ..a disproportionately large-headed girl after my own heart.
Cinnamon rolls baking. . . . reminding me that it's finally Fall. Perfect.
I think Harper might be just a little chilly, so I wrap a blanket around her, which she kicks off. "No blankie. You have it."
I accept and settle in to check the weather amid the hum of the city: The occasional siren, car doors closing, engines starting, the rumble of garbage trucks. Everyone's awake.
Wait.. garbage trucks?! OH CRAP.
Y'all know how to dance goes from here - sweaty head, pajama pants, wet flip-flop feet striking out across the grass, pretty much looking like something out of the attic of Jane Eyre..
Two hands full of cardboard from the inside trash, when I realize I can't open the back door without disrupting the stack of Jenga'd boxes I'm balancing.
I cut my eyes at the small little lump on the couch with four potentially helpful appendages. On a whim, I give it a try. After all, she surprises me every day:
Me: Harper, can you please open the door for Mommy?
Harper: Oooh, boxes. Yes!
Me: Yes, boxes. I'm taking them to the trash can. Can you help?
Harper: Oooh, trash can!
Me: (resorting to cave woman talk) Yep. The door. Open. Please?
Harper: Oh-Kaaaay! (doesn't budge.)
Me: Humph. (open door on my own, somehow, some way. hear me roar.)
Harper: Great job, Mommy! You did it! Yay! (claps)
Sunday, September 4, 2011
gettin' busy.
I don't have a lot to say, but if I have to look at that toddler dressed up like Dolly Parton on my blog for one more second, I'm going to snap like a rubber band.
So.
Instead of blogging, I've been:
Scrubbing baseboards. At some point, I'll fess up to the fact that I just got a Dyson and how it's revolutionized my life, but I want y'all to go on thinking of me as a woman of the people a while longer, instead of one of those tools with a Dyson. I swear, I got a great deal.
Obsessively mixing and matching bedding options for Henry on the Pottery Barn Baby website, thinking I have it all figured out then promptly yelling, "Oh hell, that looks like a girl's room!" to no one in particular. This nesting thing is a happnin'.
Getting my vampire fix with True Blood and trying to figure out why Sookie is the least bit attracted to Bill Compton. Anyone?
Eating Tums.
Drinking decaf iced tea out of a super chic plastic carafe (not directly out of, mind you, which would take the chicness down a notch or two). At some point, there'll be a picture. Not of me. Of the carafe.
Hoping that between the calcium from the Tums and tea, I don't get kidney stones, which would probably hurt worse than the round ligament pain I spend a large portion of my day whining about and hobbled with.
Taking unnecessary tests due to falsely elevated blood pressure at the doctor's office: Harper + doctor tools = epic hollering = me caring for my terrified child and the eardrums of bystanders = 150/90 (for three minutes. until they re-test it) and retesting = epic hollering.
Watching Katia inch closer and planning the requisite grocery store trip.
Arguing with my husband about the origin of the giraffe and alpaca. Not regularly. Just tonight.
That about wraps it up.
So.
Instead of blogging, I've been:
Scrubbing baseboards. At some point, I'll fess up to the fact that I just got a Dyson and how it's revolutionized my life, but I want y'all to go on thinking of me as a woman of the people a while longer, instead of one of those tools with a Dyson. I swear, I got a great deal.
Obsessively mixing and matching bedding options for Henry on the Pottery Barn Baby website, thinking I have it all figured out then promptly yelling, "Oh hell, that looks like a girl's room!" to no one in particular. This nesting thing is a happnin'.
Getting my vampire fix with True Blood and trying to figure out why Sookie is the least bit attracted to Bill Compton. Anyone?
Eating Tums.
Drinking decaf iced tea out of a super chic plastic carafe (not directly out of, mind you, which would take the chicness down a notch or two). At some point, there'll be a picture. Not of me. Of the carafe.
Hoping that between the calcium from the Tums and tea, I don't get kidney stones, which would probably hurt worse than the round ligament pain I spend a large portion of my day whining about and hobbled with.
Taking unnecessary tests due to falsely elevated blood pressure at the doctor's office: Harper + doctor tools = epic hollering = me caring for my terrified child and the eardrums of bystanders = 150/90 (for three minutes. until they re-test it) and retesting = epic hollering.
Watching Katia inch closer and planning the requisite grocery store trip.
Arguing with my husband about the origin of the giraffe and alpaca. Not regularly. Just tonight.
That about wraps it up.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week
toddler pageant-folk: ......
((shakes head))
I'll elaborate, but first, I need to practice with my offensive language coach.
((shakes head))
I'll elaborate, but first, I need to practice with my offensive language coach.
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