 |
| "Wook Momma! Pund up kicks! I wun baby wun, fasta dan an ewaphant!" |
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Pumpkin Patch 2011
Like all other city dwellers of the metro area, we made the pilgrimage to a pumpkin patch in the 'country,' this weekend. I apologize in advance for the terrible photography.
A raucous great time was had by all! I feel the need to say that, because Harper isn't smiling in most of these. Again, expert.photography.skills.
Harper and Brandon slid down a huge slide (loved: "swide down again!?"), she spied some chickens and ponies and goats and donkeys and bunnies (loved: "wook at dos wabbits! dey eatin!").
We rode a hayride (loved: "so many bumps!") to the pumpkin patch (hated: "gon faw down. hugs! (pick me up)" amongst many twisty vines on the ground, leading up a very, very steep hill) and back to the other attractions (loved).
Finally, I'm going to lay this on you because I think it's one of the funniest things ever and completely and absolutely couldn't be a better representation of our child one year ago versus today:
 |
| Ok. So we took this on the way home when I realized that we didn't take a single family picture. I look kinda crazy. Very sweaty and like I want to bite someone. |
A raucous great time was had by all! I feel the need to say that, because Harper isn't smiling in most of these. Again, expert.photography.skills.
 |
| No, I swear. She had a GREAT time. |
Harper and Brandon slid down a huge slide (loved: "swide down again!?"), she spied some chickens and ponies and goats and donkeys and bunnies (loved: "wook at dos wabbits! dey eatin!").
 |
| When I thought they couldn't possibly be more alike. . . |
 |
| . |
 |
| Fake chickens. Dancing. Loved. |
 |
Finally, I'm going to lay this on you because I think it's one of the funniest things ever and completely and absolutely couldn't be a better representation of our child one year ago versus today:
 |
| 2010 2011 |
Thursday, October 6, 2011
still pumping, indeed
Harper's favorite person is visiting this week - Gwandma.
Highlights expectedly include expert babysitting, organizing, laundry, cooking, shopping, crime-drama television recaps, etc.
Unexpectedly? She was on a swing at the park yesterday, commenting on her ability to 'still pump [her] legs with the best of them,' when efforts waxed slightly overzealous, causing her to nervously question the stability of the industrial, 8-person swing set, at an alarming and unfortunately-timed back-swing of 10-12 feet.
..At which point, with the bulk of my attention focused on pushing Harper, I may have teasingly and offhandedly said, "Yeah, that chain looks a little weak at the top." As I waited for my joke to be punctuated with laughter, it never occurred to me she'd do what she actually did:
Which was. . .
Jump out of the swing at its highest forward point: A blur of perfectly seasonal Chico's fabric, sparkly jewelry and expertly coiffed blond hair spanned a diagonal 10 foot decent in my periphery, punctuated with a silent, uprightly cat-like landing on slippery wood chips.
Highlights expectedly include expert babysitting, organizing, laundry, cooking, shopping, crime-drama television recaps, etc.
Unexpectedly? She was on a swing at the park yesterday, commenting on her ability to 'still pump [her] legs with the best of them,' when efforts waxed slightly overzealous, causing her to nervously question the stability of the industrial, 8-person swing set, at an alarming and unfortunately-timed back-swing of 10-12 feet.
..At which point, with the bulk of my attention focused on pushing Harper, I may have teasingly and offhandedly said, "Yeah, that chain looks a little weak at the top." As I waited for my joke to be punctuated with laughter, it never occurred to me she'd do what she actually did:
Which was. . .
Jump out of the swing at its highest forward point: A blur of perfectly seasonal Chico's fabric, sparkly jewelry and expertly coiffed blond hair spanned a diagonal 10 foot decent in my periphery, punctuated with a silent, uprightly cat-like landing on slippery wood chips.
 |
| Vintage Mom & Harp. ...too busy performing death defying acts to pose. |
Monday, October 3, 2011
Type B vs. the manual transmission
When I was 8, Dad taught me how to drive a stick-shift car.
I'd like to think I was the only 3rd grader to know how, but. . . we lived in the country and some of my friends could probably drive tractors by the time they were 8.
And then, like most things I learned in 3rd grade - except for those multiplication tables - I forgot how. Well, I have to sing the 8s. For some reason, they don't stick, otherwise. Which is fine. Unless you're taking the SAT in a quiet room.
I digress.
So when I was 18, I went to one of Brandon's baseball games a few hours away from home. And then he got a concussion and had to drive himself all the way home because I didn't know how to drive his car. True story: he actually fell asleep at some stop lights.
In between poking him and praying we'd make it home, I silently vowed I'd learn.
When his brain wasn't swole anymore, Brandon tried to teach me. But he yelled at me after I cut off three times (in 30 seconds) and I stormed out of the car and walked home... which was fine, because the car had only moved two feet.
And so it gnawed at me - the same gnaw when I realize I don't know the newest CPR guidelines - all strange and un-type b-like.
What if I had to drive somewhere and I couldn't? Useless!
Later that same summer, I taught myself to drive my dad's truck while he was at work and prayed I didn't strip the clutch, or if I did, that he wouldn't know it was me. For the life of me, I have no idea why I didn't just ask him to teach me. Probably because I was a teenager and, therefore, dumb.
Like most things I learned in my teenage years, I forgot how. Again.
After we got married, Brandon bought a manual transmission car and on the 5th day he had it, he taught me to drive it in the parking lot of his medical school. And this time I wasn't as spastic. And his brain wasn't damaged. And I learned. For good.
Sort of.
Well enough to get the car from Wisconsin to Maryland. Well enough to be a designated driver and not make anyone hurl. Well enough to drive my boss's BMW on my third day of work in DC and not get fired. My palms still sweat.. just thinking about that.
Then, Brandon brought home a brand-new Mustang 5.0.
And while I am content to have my head pinned to the passenger seat on a regular basis, I have no interest in doing it to myself.
Not even 'back it out of the driveway so I can mow the grass' interested.
And Brandon teases me. Mellowed by old age, he doesn't care if I cut off. Or burn out the clutch. Or just do general dumbness whilst attempting to relearn.
But I'm a momma bear now and I'm happy to give him side-eye over a latte on Saturday morning when he asks if I want to drive. My cargo is too precious.
However, my trusty Accord forsook me with a flat tire yesterday morning and there I was, again: Sweaty palms. Knowing I had to drive Brandon to the airport in a few hours.
He called a practice* around 11:00 a.m. (just to ensure I wouldn't concuss all of us on the way to Baltimore).
*Albeit on the rare occasion, my cat-like reflexes, timing and quick wit have been known to forsake me when I'm pregnant (sometimes all at the same time), which would equal one mother of a stall-out.
After a quick Allen Iverson impression that swayed no one, we were out on the road. Harper, too. Her commentary was brilliant:
"easy, easy. go go go. punch it, momma!"
And I'm proud to report that only my timidity got the best of my husband - who in just 24 hours was scheduled to give a presentation at a NATO conference out of the country - when he lovingly bellowed, "Make the clutch your bitch! The sooner you realize you're not on a romantic date, the easier it will be!"
I'm not sure there's a better ending to any story than that, so..
The end.
I'd like to think I was the only 3rd grader to know how, but. . . we lived in the country and some of my friends could probably drive tractors by the time they were 8.
And then, like most things I learned in 3rd grade - except for those multiplication tables - I forgot how. Well, I have to sing the 8s. For some reason, they don't stick, otherwise. Which is fine. Unless you're taking the SAT in a quiet room.
I digress.
So when I was 18, I went to one of Brandon's baseball games a few hours away from home. And then he got a concussion and had to drive himself all the way home because I didn't know how to drive his car. True story: he actually fell asleep at some stop lights.
In between poking him and praying we'd make it home, I silently vowed I'd learn.
When his brain wasn't swole anymore, Brandon tried to teach me. But he yelled at me after I cut off three times (in 30 seconds) and I stormed out of the car and walked home... which was fine, because the car had only moved two feet.
And so it gnawed at me - the same gnaw when I realize I don't know the newest CPR guidelines - all strange and un-type b-like.
What if I had to drive somewhere and I couldn't? Useless!
Later that same summer, I taught myself to drive my dad's truck while he was at work and prayed I didn't strip the clutch, or if I did, that he wouldn't know it was me. For the life of me, I have no idea why I didn't just ask him to teach me. Probably because I was a teenager and, therefore, dumb.
Like most things I learned in my teenage years, I forgot how. Again.
After we got married, Brandon bought a manual transmission car and on the 5th day he had it, he taught me to drive it in the parking lot of his medical school. And this time I wasn't as spastic. And his brain wasn't damaged. And I learned. For good.
Sort of.
Well enough to get the car from Wisconsin to Maryland. Well enough to be a designated driver and not make anyone hurl. Well enough to drive my boss's BMW on my third day of work in DC and not get fired. My palms still sweat.. just thinking about that.
Then, Brandon brought home a brand-new Mustang 5.0.
And while I am content to have my head pinned to the passenger seat on a regular basis, I have no interest in doing it to myself.
Not even 'back it out of the driveway so I can mow the grass' interested.
And Brandon teases me. Mellowed by old age, he doesn't care if I cut off. Or burn out the clutch. Or just do general dumbness whilst attempting to relearn.
But I'm a momma bear now and I'm happy to give him side-eye over a latte on Saturday morning when he asks if I want to drive. My cargo is too precious.
However, my trusty Accord forsook me with a flat tire yesterday morning and there I was, again: Sweaty palms. Knowing I had to drive Brandon to the airport in a few hours.
He called a practice* around 11:00 a.m. (just to ensure I wouldn't concuss all of us on the way to Baltimore).
*Albeit on the rare occasion, my cat-like reflexes, timing and quick wit have been known to forsake me when I'm pregnant (sometimes all at the same time), which would equal one mother of a stall-out.
After a quick Allen Iverson impression that swayed no one, we were out on the road. Harper, too. Her commentary was brilliant:
"easy, easy. go go go. punch it, momma!"
And I'm proud to report that only my timidity got the best of my husband - who in just 24 hours was scheduled to give a presentation at a NATO conference out of the country - when he lovingly bellowed, "Make the clutch your bitch! The sooner you realize you're not on a romantic date, the easier it will be!"
I'm not sure there's a better ending to any story than that, so..
The end.
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!"
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| 66 minutes in.. Halloween decorating commences with gusto. |
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