tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36936796345619560162024-03-13T04:40:34.884-04:00Peanut Butter & JellyCarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14899255885381265118noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-63484462641882399312011-08-01T22:50:00.016-04:002011-08-02T10:17:11.722-04:00Camping & Rafting Trip 2011<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We took the kids rafting and camping last weeked. It was a great experience and we plan on making it an annual summer trip.<br /></span></span><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Lots of friends were asking about the details, so I'm posting them below:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We set out for </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Barryville</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, NY on Saturday morning at about 8 am. We made the obligatory </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Wawa</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> stop for gas, coffee and snacks that are </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">waaaay</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> too crunchy to be consumed in small and confined areas on long car trips. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The trip took about two-and-a-half hours and it was very easy-- simple directions and smooth northbound sailing. We gawked at all the suckers stuck in miles of southbound traffic.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We chose </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><a href="http://indianheadcanoes.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Indian Head</span></b></span></a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><a href="http://indianheadcanoes.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Canoes</span></b></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> for rafting on the Delaware River. I made tons of phone calls and this was the only company that would let us take Liam along, who is almost 3-years-old and barely 33 pounds. Most companies require rafters to be either five years old or at least 40 pounds. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Once the kids were changed and thoroughly </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">sunscreened</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, and once the waivers were signed, we were on the river at around 11:30 am.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Although the website gave an estimate of a 4-hour paddle time, the 9-mile trip took almost 6 hours. The actual paddling is not really necessary as the current does most of the work, but at times we paddled to speed up and access the shore line. There were some "rapids", but they were very mild and the kids probably would have preferred a more thrilling ride-- but it was perfect for traveling with little ones. The rapids were separated by long stretches of calm water where we were able to jump into the water and swim. The depth of the water varied from roughly two feet to so deep that none of us could touch bottom. We all wore life jackets the entire time-- these were mandatory for the kids, however the adults were allowed to remove them during the trip. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There were plenty of interesting areas to stop and explore. We pulled the boat over and dragged it onto a rocky shore line with big rocks and shallow water. This was a favorite with the kids-- they climbed, jumped and explored-- I winced, warned and pleaded for them to be careful, paranoid that one of them was going to slip and fall. They were wearing rubber-soled water shoes, which thankfully helped to keep them safe. They each chose a giant rock on which to sit and eat lunch.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The six hour trip was a little on the long side. Bill and I were panicking a little towards the end, thinking that we had somehow missed the base where we were supposed to return our boats. For the last 45-minutes or so, the kids were somewhat whiny and </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">complainish</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. In large part, this was due to the fact that mom and dad had abandoned "fun-mode" for "anxiety-mode". Anxiety mode basically entails us paddling, looking around in desperation, figuring out a plan for getting home in the event that we had really missed the base and yelling at the kids for mostly reasonable-</span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">kidlike</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> behavior. The good news is that we didn't miss it. We couldn't have missed it if we tried because it was obviously labeled with signage and such. There were a few bases that we had passed earlier that weren't really labeled, so we just weren't sure. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Once we were bussed back to our starting point, we headed to the campgrounds at </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><a href="http://www.kittatinny.com/"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kittatinny</span></span></span></b></a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. We really didn't have any particular reason for booking here-- I think it was just the first place Bill called. The site we ended up with was pretty basic-- a small area of land, a metal fire ring, a picnic table, a garbage can and a port-a-potty a bit down the road-- far enough so we couldn't smell it, but close enough so we could hear the door banging closed all night long.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKyHdJqrGU0v14iqqwGDnZe8RHiZEutmpMr-2VfhtBku2q2hSdM0AqTa0e4dWC_2sr8DUyNUc_Q1Q48V5VnAcIron0izpR6bIWtQ5TvF4VHtMYF8a3IMRk5AaSCREIK7IzHsYojo3c0RAE/s1600/DSC01060.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKyHdJqrGU0v14iqqwGDnZe8RHiZEutmpMr-2VfhtBku2q2hSdM0AqTa0e4dWC_2sr8DUyNUc_Q1Q48V5VnAcIron0izpR6bIWtQ5TvF4VHtMYF8a3IMRk5AaSCREIK7IzHsYojo3c0RAE/s320/DSC01060.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636258212925097874" /></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We set up camp, which basically entailed opening up four folding chairs and putting up a tent. Many of the 'professionals' had huge set-ups-- hammocks and multiple tents and long tables with cooking supplies and I don't even know-- just lots and lots of stuff. Being amateurs, we planned on having dinner out (which we did) and we only packed snacks and ingredients for </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">smores</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Bill attempted to tackle the wet-firewood-problem with a giant bottle of lighter fluid-- but ultimately he had to make a quick trip down the road to purchase some dry stuff. He then got the fire going in no time-- which seemed weirdly important to him-- like some kind of a man test or something. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We thought that the kids would be exhausted, but they were completely wired. In retrospect, letting them pack their swords probably wasn't the best idea. Also, since the sites were practically right on top of each other, it was a losing battle to get them to respect other people's borders. I feel like people were mostly laid back about this-- but I'm always certain that we have the loudest, wildest and craziest kids, so I'm super-sensitive about wrangling them. We let them run wild until they drove us to the brink of insanity and then we locked them in the tent. (In retrospect, we probably should have just done some camp-like bedtime routine and tucked them in at a somewhat reasonable hour.) This was confirmed several minutes later, when Will popped his head out of the tent to puke the entire contents of his stomach. Liam was sleeping, so we let Will hang with us by the fire while he settled down. We cuddled him and heaped tons of praise on him for having the common sense to puke OUTSIDE of the tent. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I also heaped tons of praise on Bill for having the common sense to bury the puke with the kids' beach shovel.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We put Will to sleep and hung out for a little while longer before calling it a night. Some campers at a nearby site had some kick-ass speakers and they were playing some great Springsteen. It was perfectly muted, not obnoxiously loud, and the fire was so cozy. It was great to spend time without the distractions of the </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">internet</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, the television or the telephone-- that sounds so cliche, but it's totally true. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm not going to lie, it was a very crappy sleep. The ground was freaking HARD and the port-a-potty door kept slamming. Liam kept rolling into the corner of the tent and Will kept coughing in his sleep and we were terrified that he would </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">inadvertently</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> put on a repeat of his earlier performance. Liam woke up around 5 am and he was in and out of sleep for the next two hours. During this time, I noticed two spiders that had made their way into the tent at some point and were busy weaving webs right above our heads. I'm not terrified of spiders or anything, but it was just hard to get back to sleep with thoughts of the not-so-itsy-bitsy spider landing on my face. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We were all up and out of the tent by 7:30 am or so. Bill made a small fire with what was left of the wood and the kids feasted on some donuts and wandered around the woods while we packed our gear. At this point, I was pretty pleased with the fact that we had brought so little-- it took almost no time at all to get back on the road.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-Xqk9so4HCLpkDJnAa4tVeBr3c3PFgCcAbMRHPmqAXR5cnY5ZsEHygDwFYz12YBvLn3WyTOsmnekN7VbwO-CWVqmvcEuefRVXPGKUjGok2Zmm1ittE23myDrut7gkgy6nlGcjWARhsOA/s1600/DSC01074.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-Xqk9so4HCLpkDJnAa4tVeBr3c3PFgCcAbMRHPmqAXR5cnY5ZsEHygDwFYz12YBvLn3WyTOsmnekN7VbwO-CWVqmvcEuefRVXPGKUjGok2Zmm1ittE23myDrut7gkgy6nlGcjWARhsOA/s320/DSC01074.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636258217705378514" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am conditioned to have coffee in my system within an hour of waking, so we made a stop at a </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Dunkin</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Donuts and there was an accident on Parkway south that held us up-- but we were back in our driveway before noon on Sunday.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All in all, it was a great trip. The total cost came in under the overnight trip we took to Sesame Place last year, but I found this way more enjoyable. For next year, we're going to try and make dinner at camp rather than go out. We're going to put up a "play tent" for the kids to go in and out and in and out and in and out of-- they were pretty rough on our tent and they never really got the hang of taking their shoes off before charging inside. We're also going to pack a tube for the kids on the river as they struggled a little with the awkwardness of just the life jackets. We're going to rig up some kind of rope ladder for the boat as well-- getting pulled and pushed up onto the raft like a giant dead fish, ass and legs in the air, was kind of rough on the ego. (The raft was pretty big and high, so no one was pulling themselves up on upper arm strength alone.) Oh and an air mattress, that too. Bill wasn't too big on this suggestion, but did I mention how HARD the ground was? And a waterproof digital camera... in a perfect world we'll be able to save for one of these. We took rafting pics using a disposable waterproof camera. It was expensive and the photos won't be available for a week. Living at the shore, I figure a good digital one is a good investment. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We might also take a crack at camping locally this fall. In the meantime, I've got to figure out a way to make the ground softer. Also, how to make coffee while camping. Either that, or we just camp within a few-mile radius of coffee. Good coffee. All of the coffee I tried in Barryville tasted like instant dirty water. And tasted like smoke. Go figure.</span></span></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Carahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14899255885381265118noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-73736761742098908202011-07-17T17:43:00.005-04:002011-07-17T19:23:53.675-04:00Inspiration, Motivation or Whatever<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Today is the twenty-sixth day of summer vacation. Cue the "Phineas & Ferb"<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 16px; font-family:arial, helvetica, 'bitstream vera sans', clean, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><b id="yui_3_3_0_1_1310942744697252"> </b></span>theme song.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">We've done the pool and the beach and the boardwalk. We've been to playgrounds and </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">playdates</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> and picnics. We've gone on walks and bike rides and car trips. We've done baseball games, fireworks and kayaking. Lego sets sitting in the closet since Christmas have finally been assembled. Art supplies gifted to the kids by the Easter bunny have finally been put to use. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So far, it's been a great summer.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">On the </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">homefront</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">, the laundry is done and the sink is empty. The beds are made and the floors are clean. The last of the various holiday decorations have been packed away and the random piles of paperwork have been sorted. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">When the kids go to bed or when they are busy playing, there is down time. Sweet, precious down time that I've been craving all year long.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">No lesson plans to write. No papers to grade. No housework to do. Just free time.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">There are things I should be doing. Things like repainting the trim or cleaning the blinds. Like rearranging the pantry or organizing the kids' photos and artwork. I should be writing next year's lesson plans and coming up with better ways to teach tough lessons in trigonometry and algebra. I should be gathering recipes for quick and easy school-year dinners and healthy kid-friendly lunches. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">But all of that seems like work. And none of it sounds the least bit appealing. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So I downloaded a few books to read. And I bookmarked an </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">internet</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> article on how to sew a sundress with a tank top and three yards of fabric. I pulled out my old piano notebook from when I was taking lessons a few years ago. And I found a "secret" recipe for knock-off Mrs. Field's Cookie Cups to be experimented with for Will's birthday.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">But I can't get past the first few chapters of the books. And I can't motivate myself to pull my sewing </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">machine</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> out of the closet. And the piano is so hard (and far away from the couch). And that damn recipe has like twenty ingredients. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So I'm sitting here. Half-reading, half-writing, half-paying attention to the </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Netflix</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> "Prison Break" marathon that Bill has embarked upon.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Waiting for the inspiration or </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">motivation</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> or whatever to kick in. And snacking. Always snacking.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Carahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14899255885381265118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-13861978172108980182011-07-10T22:35:00.006-04:002011-07-11T00:42:35.330-04:00Quitting<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Lance Armstrong once said: "Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As for myself, I'm done with running for now. It's been decided. And putting it down here makes it somewhat official.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I've been running pretty regularly for the last three years. I've completed over 30 5<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">k's</span>, 10 5-milers, 1 10-miler and 1 half-marathon. I ran before the kids woke up or after they went to bed. I ran during their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nap time</span> or on the rare occasions when they had school and I didn't. Over the last few years, I've devoted the majority of my free time to running. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So what came of all this? First and foremost, pride. I am proud of myself. Considering that I couldn't run the fitness mile in high school, I've come a long way. I found both mental and physical toughness-- dedication, strength and endurance that I didn't know I had. I have bib numbers and medals. I have photos and t-shirts. I have the memory of my kids clapping and cheering me on near the finish line. I developed a skill, called myself a "runner" and got punch-drunk on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ooh's</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ahh's</span> I'd get from friends and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">acquaintances</span>. As time has progressed, one thing has remained constant-- the amazing and indescribable feeling of crossing the finish line.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But there was also a lot of sacrifice. I haven't read many books or played much music or cooked many new recipes. I fished clean clothes out of the dryer on the morning I needed them and I was up past midnight finishing up my lesson plans. I was sore and blistered and often exhausted. The exhaustion often lead to binge eating in an effort to make it through the day on far too little sleep. Unfortunately, the binge eating pretty much negated the calorie burn from the runs. And as time has progressed, what hasn't remained constant is my ability to push myself-- to lace up my shoes and get out there. I just don't have the desire or drive to do it anymore.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, I'm hanging up the running shoes for a while. It's pretty good timing as they're in desperate need of replacement.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I've been <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">setting</span> my alarm 45-minutes early each morning and doing an at-home DVD workout. These workouts not only involve <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">cardio</span>, but also strength training-- something missing from all of my running. When the kids get up early, they curl up on the couch to observe and give their critique-- Liam yelling, "FASTER!" or "HIGHER!" and Will adding, "Astronauts do way harder stuff than this!" The workouts themselves are about a half-hour-- far less time than I was devoting to my regular runs-- and I'm home with the kids. I'm finding my energy level is better, my appetite is more manageable and I'm finding time to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">pursue</span> some reading and writing and relaxing. (We'll see how this works out in September when I throw in a full-time work schedule.) </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'll go back to running eventually and it will be easier than when I started three years ago. Because I'll know what to expect, how to do it and most importantly, that I CAN do it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On paper, it seems like a good move. A smart decision. A better fit.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But somehow, it still feels like quitting.</span></span></div>Carahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14899255885381265118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-56297334596109207222011-07-06T19:49:00.009-04:002011-07-07T06:19:03.740-04:00In Which Amy Plays Catch-Up<span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="color:#000000;">I'm back online after being mostly MIA during my whole Living with Mom/Starting the New Job/Moving into a New Place/Why Didn't UP-F*cking-S Deliver Our Modem Yet? debacle. I was so excited to finally have internets access again, I found myself giggling and flirting outrageously (in front of Erick) with the Tech Support guy--Rey--who helped me figure out why Verizon's Easy As 1-2-3 Internets Hook-Up took me 45 minutes of cursing, snapping at Erick, and crawling around behind the computer desk, trying to figure out what color-coordinated plug goes into what color-coordinated socket.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Here's an update on what's going on with me lately:</span><br /><br /><u><span style="color:#000000;">Moving on Up</span></u><br /><span style="color:#000000;">So, we moved. No more MOFN jokes (unless I'm referencing Mom's house). We are officially "in the city" of Elmira Heights. They call this state "New York" and the people who live here call themselves "New Yorkers," but unless you've either 1.) gotten into a fist fight over which team is better, the Yanks or the Mets, in the Met or 2.) hailed a cab drunk off your ass in Chinatown at 4am coming from an illegal club in a Chinese resturant's kitchen because the scary Good Lucky Kitty in the window was giving you the evil eye you can't call yourself a real "New Yorker." Anyhoo, the school Lizzie will go to is great, we have friends who live right nearby, and it's only 8 minutes from my new job. After MOFN, this place is like Xanadu.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000066;"><em>(Minus Olivia Newton John and the annoying theme song.)</em></span><br /></span><br /><u><span style="color:#000000;">Totally Certified</span></u><br /><span style="color:#000000;">I found out I passed my CNA test about 3 days after I took it. I would have told everyone on Facebook, but I had promised Dad he wouldn't have to find out about any more big news via Facebook so I couldn't say anything, but I kept forgetting to tell Dad. When people would ask me if I passed, I was always like "Oh, shit. Yeah, I passed, but don't say anything because I haven't told Dad yet. And I promised I would." Skip ahead, skip ahead, skip ahead. I text Dad last night to tell him I passed because I suddenly had a moment of clarity and remembered that I kept forgetting to tell him. Classy, right? I was terrified of slipping up and telling Facebook about my certification after seeing Dad's bitter "I wish I could find out about things in my childrens' lives without reading it on Facebook." status after my gleeful 'honor role student' announcement. </span><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000066;">(But, get this: I texted him from my <strong>couch</strong>. Go Team Cell Service!!)</span></em><br /><br /><u><span style="color:#000000;">Gainful Employment</span></u><br /><span style="color:#000000;">And now that I'm certified (not certifiable), I can also announce that I'm the proud owner of a job. I work days (6.45a - 3.15p because I just may be certifiable after all) at the Chemung County Nursing Facility. Basically, my job is to take care of old people like they're infants or small children while not treating them like infants or small children while they act like infants or small children. Up next is at least a year's worth of experience then back to school to go for either my LPN or RN.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000066;"><em>(Yes, you read that right: <strong>back to school</strong>. This is where you ask, "Who are you and what have you done with Amy?")</em></span><br /></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">I just re-read this post and it's very jumping up and down, waving my hands in the air, screaming, "Look at me! Over here, dude! Over here! I'm awesome!" I think that's enough for now since I want to avoid the copious amount of ridicule and/or mockery I would have to endure if I kept typing. Promise that my next post will be much more witty.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">But nothing about my residents. F*cking HIPAA laws.</span></span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-36913927817389062482011-07-04T16:17:00.018-04:002011-07-05T09:32:50.708-04:00Mom Flail<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Boxed Mac & Cheese. </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bendaroos</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Mr. Bean. Chuck E. Cheese.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As a mom, I find myself embracing things that I would never have imagined. Things that make my kids happy, and for the most part, are pretty harmless.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As strange as it may sound, fighting is one of those things. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Man, my kids love to battle. They'll bludgeon each other. They'll brawl with their father. They'll play gladiator with their stuffed animals. They beg for swords and dart guns and anything that could be used as a weapon. They do karate and wrestling and boxing and sumo. Kick boxing, street fighting, fencing, and judo. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I tried outlawing it. That was about as effective as a swim diaper.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So much of their imaginative play involves conflict-- good guys vs bad guys. Whether they've invented their own characters and story or they're acting out their version of Harry Potter, Star Wars or Transformers. Enforcing a no-fighting policy would mean stifling their creativity. It would also mean continuous time-outs, a stock-pile of outlawed toys and a long list of things they're no longer allowed to play.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I'm going with the flow as they say. But wait... this is not the same thing as lazy parenting! (Trust me, I know lazy parenting-- just ask the lady who works the drive-</span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">thru</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> window at the local </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">McDonalds</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There is some structure involved. A carefully constructed plan to ensure the highest level of safety at all times. Often, this plan is what we teachers call "cross-content"-- meaning the kids are also getting educational enrichment across a variety of disciplines. Genius!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For example: </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Will, you need to let your little brother win at least half of the time." (Mathematics at work, people!) </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You cannot hit below the belt, hold, trip, kick, headbutt, wrestle, bite, spit on, or push your opponent." (We Googled the official rules for boxing...technology and athletics... true story!)</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Liam, you can't kick anyone </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">there</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Say you're sorry." (Anatomy and manners!)</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">All kidding aside, it is entirely play. There's no </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">aggression</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, hate or real conflict involved. When there's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">real</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> conflict involved, like deciding on a </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">television</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> program or sharing a toy, there's </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">generally </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">only </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">screamin</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">g</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">d</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">c</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">r</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">y</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">g</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">v</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">v</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">d</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">T</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">d</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">y</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">s</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">r</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">c</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">f</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">c</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">r</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">s</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">u</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">s</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">k</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">l</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">s</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">w</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">c</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">r</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">g</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">f</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">r</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">p</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">d</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> and arbitration </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">s</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">c</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">r</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">g </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">d</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">c</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">r</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">y</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">g</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">r</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">g</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">b</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">c</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">k</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And in all seriousness, there is some learning to be had.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As of late, this has been's Will's weapon of choice:</span></span></span></div><div><div><div><div> </div></div></div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6DIN7-NWYetfvsKrHLVyjekR4Y-2RaGP3KAupOXaW4BumJLZI1Xhsp7sQvNhmC04HGBiIoPFVyHqJZ9yv4bf1vNTxU_fArt4te8-ws5PIMZrJ9GzFLLyzjUPFdKQc2WkeiR-nDjou69D/s1600/IMG_20110704_154136-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6DIN7-NWYetfvsKrHLVyjekR4Y-2RaGP3KAupOXaW4BumJLZI1Xhsp7sQvNhmC04HGBiIoPFVyHqJZ9yv4bf1vNTxU_fArt4te8-ws5PIMZrJ9GzFLLyzjUPFdKQc2WkeiR-nDjou69D/s320/IMG_20110704_154136-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625722993330766370" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />It's made of foam and it's completely harmless. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Last night, we were mid-battle and I might have gotten a little carried away.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgniMcSm-bPM3wifmwBY8xOb5NuzTtvxrhtzzVKxy0XQhmosxythiBgh71s1xYP5Ovg0_bdGao2Sza8DR3WcCO-mHak-dZzJc9fJark4bnCtg682AxHMVOw3NMaUtekYJz3zwuHxDbpQtdg/s1600/IMG_20110704_154153.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgniMcSm-bPM3wifmwBY8xOb5NuzTtvxrhtzzVKxy0XQhmosxythiBgh71s1xYP5Ovg0_bdGao2Sza8DR3WcCO-mHak-dZzJc9fJark4bnCtg682AxHMVOw3NMaUtekYJz3zwuHxDbpQtdg/s320/IMG_20110704_154153.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625723913473717250" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Just a little.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Will was really upset. Inconsolable. Afterall, you know how kids get so attached to their very favorite... weapon.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A few months ago, my mom had gotten this for Will from either a dollar store or the clearance section at Target. Bill and I set about finding a replacement on-line. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But what to Google? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We tried "ball and chain", but we got you know, a ball. And a chain.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJXFsxGZgpYWbRRGxPRJ52E52RzGsoXII5YHLVseVSpFtp-yFR2ep2y-iIzx6g1tYE4UhQ0C4pNgVMrnLgLUdUfvjdCtRxnRjHlKiIH159pgAQgAGj7mBophKazF71SqUwtbeafIrjGts/s1600/ball-and-chain.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 302px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJXFsxGZgpYWbRRGxPRJ52E52RzGsoXII5YHLVseVSpFtp-yFR2ep2y-iIzx6g1tYE4UhQ0C4pNgVMrnLgLUdUfvjdCtRxnRjHlKiIH159pgAQgAGj7mBophKazF71SqUwtbeafIrjGts/s320/ball-and-chain.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625727880187989794" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And after some addtional investigation, we came up with this...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoBlpbs-ZoRdMwQiskO3spH3gDl-VUDqdaf0NRX02O3kScJpdA8Z6LqJ_MRtVCG68zgYaaeeU536w8FxC57deA-91Bynr02WQDGkY5CjhW4HYNUmpRtIlwDZ642fR83_f2u26KlHI9Cl1U/s1600/Flail1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoBlpbs-ZoRdMwQiskO3spH3gDl-VUDqdaf0NRX02O3kScJpdA8Z6LqJ_MRtVCG68zgYaaeeU536w8FxC57deA-91Bynr02WQDGkY5CjhW4HYNUmpRtIlwDZ642fR83_f2u26KlHI9Cl1U/s320/Flail1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625729382866888258" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Not exactly the toy version. But the right weapon nonetheless. And it's name?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A "flail". (<i>You really DO learn something new every day!</i>)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We haven't found one yet, but we're on it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We can't disappoint our little gladiator.</span></span></div>Carahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14899255885381265118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-89160412621943934702011-07-03T00:01:00.002-04:002011-07-03T06:34:41.452-04:00A Plan!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Liam crapped on the floor yesterday. I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">apologize</span>, in advance, for a post about potty training. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The boys were playing "wrestling match" in the other room. Will was being awesome-- letting Liam win every once and a while and being <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">sufficiently</span> gentle. It was about one hour until bedtime and we had made it through day one of our potty training reboot without a single accident. We had about twelve successful trips to the potty and I was patting myself on the back for my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">vigilance</span> as well as the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">restraint</span> I demonstrated by not posting everyone of these successes on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Facebook</span></span>.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I knew something was up when Will <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">erupted</span> into manic laughter and screaming. Liam was standing in the corner with his legs spread wide and his baggy pants leg bulging. Liam was unsure, but Will couldn't have been more pleased with the situation. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Poop is number one on his list of Funniest Things Ever-- right up there with butts and that ridiculous obstacle-course-television-show that I can never remember the name of.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, fantasy;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Three years ago, our potty training approach with Will was organized and efficient. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We had a chart. We had stickers. We had treats. We had special underwear. We had a potty. In every room practically. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, fantasy;font-size:16px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;">We had a plan!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana, fantasy;">We were all over it. </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Our potty training with Liam was pretty much the opposite of that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It reminds me of this story from Will's t-ball league.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bill and I had signed Will up for t-ball this Spring. T-ball was supposed to be the introduction to baseball. Kids learn how to hit, catch, throw, etc. We showed up to our first practice and we noticed that some kids had cleats-- good ones. And their own helmets. And bats. And equipment bags. And Under Armour. (I was running 25 miles a week last winter and I didn't even feel the need to spring for a fifty dollar long sleeved tee. These were 5-year-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">olds</span></span> barely breaking a sweat as they played tag in the mother loving outfield.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At this first practice, the parents were lined up along the chain link fence watching practice as the kids took turn hitting. It was fairly obvious that some of these parents had laid some major ground work. (<i>They had a plan!</i>) A bunch of these kids knew more about swinging a bat than I do. They knew where to put their hands and how to stand and shift their weight and follow through and they pretty much looked like little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Jeters</span> and A-Rods</span>.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was Will's turn and he pretty much had no idea. His hands were too high. Then they were too low. His body was turned the wrong way. He was swinging at the ball like he was a one-handed-Luke <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Skywalker</span></span>. He was nowhere near the ball. He was having so much trouble. It was fairly obvious that some of these parents had been working with their kids for quite some time. It was equally obvious that we hadn't thrown this kid a single ball. I felt bad for Will. Like we had failed him in some way. It wasn't <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">embarrassing</span>, but it was uncomfortable. My heart was kind of breaking for him.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Just as I was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">envisioning</span> my poor child being scarred for life by this moment, something <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">brought</span> me back to reality. Something exponentially CRAZIER. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bill yelled out, "Come on, Will. You remember. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Just like we do at home...</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Whaaa</span></span>!? My mouth hung open as I turned my head to look at him. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">J</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ust</span></span> thinking about it makes me laugh. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There's a happy ending to the story though. The coaches withdrew the tee for the second half of the season and for the last two games, Will had a hit every time he was at bat. He won the MVP ball in one of those games. He wasn't scarred for life and neither was Bill.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We've kind of done the same thing with poor Liam. He's up there at the plate and just peeing and pooping everywhere. We're standing at the fence and shrugging our shoulders and looking around. Jeez, kid. Get with it. You're almost THREE for crying out loud.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For the last five months, he'll go in his pull-up. We'll change him and say, "Where are you supposed to go..." And he'll respond in sing-song fashion, "...in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">pott</span></span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">teeee</span></span>!" Every so often, he'll do it right and we'll reward him...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But really, we haven't put the time in. We haven't followed a plan!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So we've got a three day weekend and we're pretty determined that this is going to be it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Independence</span> Day.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Freedom from diapers and potty treats and special underwear for all. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Fingers crossed. </span></span></div><div><br /></div>Carahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14899255885381265118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-10493297733887655542011-07-02T06:53:00.011-04:002011-07-02T08:54:53.682-04:00Blogging Again<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Aaaaaannnnd, I'm blogging again.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Could be for a month, a week, a day. We'll see what happens.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">School's been out for exactly ten days and it's already July 2nd. I've got two months of "downtime" until I get my "Back to School" groove on. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The only problem is that I suck at downtime. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The school year has me conditioned to function on exactly zero downtime. I'm up, I'm working out, I'm making breakfasts and lunches, I'm helping to get the kids ready, I've left myself 20 minutes to get ready for work, I'm driving, I'm working... Then I'm driving home, I'm picking up the kids, I'm making dinner, I'm playing, I'm cleaning, I'm bathing, I'm tucking in, I'm doing freaking schoolwork, I'm falling asleep on the couch, the red pen I'm using has fallen to the couch, it's made a big red stain, I'm waking up, it's 2 am, I am getting up in less than four hours to do it all again... It's tragic really. Every year I swear that things are going to be different.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This year, things are going to be different! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Ahem. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And in case you missed the memo... Working out (ie running, going to the gym, doing an exercise DVD) does not count as downtime. The other night, as I was cleaning legos and Buzz Lightyears off the toy room floor, I was whining about how I hadn't had any time to myself that day. The huz piped in with, "Not true... you went to the GYM today!" He was then gently reminded that sweating and hyperventillating on an elliptical for 45-minutes does not count as downtime. It counts as the mandatory torture I endure on a regular basis so that I can continue to make bad food choices-- like cookies for lunch and peanut butter for breakfast. Duh.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So the first week of summer vacation is behind us. It's Bill's only break between school and his summer camp job-- so it's our only week of being home together until camp ends in August.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This week pretty much goes the same way every year. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We do the boardwalk, the waterpark, the amusement park, the beach, the movies, playdates. We do yardwork, housework, financial stuff and doctor's appointments. We organize and throw stuff out. We stock up on groceries and finally put away winter clothes (and yes, the last of the Christmas decorations). </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And we're getting things done! And we're having fun! And the kid's heads are spinning! And they're taking three hour naps and staying up past 10 pm! And there's sand all over my floors and I'm washing towels and unpacking bags ALL THE TIME!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Holy hell I suck at downtime.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></div>Carahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14899255885381265118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-79720353925865834672011-04-25T10:17:00.013-04:002011-04-27T00:16:36.675-04:00In Which Amy Ponders Labels . . . and James McAvoy<p align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">I had this whole post about labels and labelling written in my head Sunday night, but couldn't get it down because, by the time I was done helping Erick with his homework, I was too tired to watch one of my favorite movies, let alone write.</span> <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 190px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600081965078282386" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oGR_Whwzkrs/Tbd84HGQAJI/AAAAAAAAAK8/8AkDnClYVjA/s200/mcavoy1.jpg" /><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em> (How do pass up watching a movie with this foxy Scot? I must have been <strong><u>really</u></strong> tired.)<br /></em></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">So tonight, while everyone's asleep, I had every intention of sitting down and doing a whole post about labels and how people need labels to define themselves and others to feel more control of their lives.<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">Dude, I'm exhausted just reading that paragraph.<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">I'm still really want to do that post, I really do, but I found myself treading a very fine line with the topic. If I kept it light and fluffy and talked about labels in reference to clothing types and personalities, I would feel like I dumbed down the post because I was 1) tired or 2) afraid to piss people off.<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">If I wrote what I really wanted to write about--how people are so desperate to make sense of the senseless, they slap labels on themselves, their kids, their jobs, everything--I'm pretty sure I would have a lynch mob of villagers at my door with torches and pitchforks, baying for my blood.</span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em><br /><br />(I just made myself snicker at the idea of blood screaming villagers having to get in their cars and driving to MOFN to threaten me, but then getting bored with the idea somewhere along 78 and turning around to go home, texting, "Dude, she lives too far away anyway." back and forth to each other.)<br /><br /></em></span><span style="color:#000000;">Why are there labels? Are we so frantic as a society to understand why things go the way they do that we need to have everything spelled out for us? I guess it's just human nature.<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">What makes me laugh (well, not laugh laugh, but chortle in a bemused way laugh) is the way parents--particularly mothers--will label their kids:<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">"This is my son Johnny. He's got ADD."<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">"This is my daughter Janie. She's got Asperger's."<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">Why? Why do we feel compelled to do that? Why do we feel the need to proclaim these things? I'm not suggesting we hide a condition our child might have, but why do we have to define people by their alleged shortcomings? Imagine if we did that with ourselves:<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">"Hi, I'm Amy. I'm loud and sarcastic, have daddy issues and violent sibling rivalry, develop crushes on unattainable men, and live in a fantasy world where I'm Queen of Narnia so I can make out with Mr. Tumnus."</span></p><span style="color:#000000;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 149px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600097628920532946" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4OOULrcfO48/TbeLH3dQz9I/AAAAAAAAALM/QdjjomnOPDo/s200/mr.%2Btumnus.jpg" /><br /><br /><p align="justify"></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em>(Why, hello, Mr. Tumnus. Is that package for me?)<br /><br /></em></span><span style="color:#000000;">It certainly would make job interviews and business meetings nip along faster, wouldn't it?<br /><br />I hate labels. I was always labelled 'loud,' 'obnoxious,' 'loser,' or--my personal favorite--'a slut.' Now, this is where my Inner Mom will start saying things like, "They only say those things because they don't know you." or "They only say those things because they're jealous." And now this is where Inner <span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em>(Teen)</em></span> Me raises my tear-and-snot-smeared face off the table to wail, "Believe me, Inner Mom, the people calling me those names are, like, popular and stuff: they aren't jealous of <strong><u>me</u></strong>!!"<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color:#ffff33;"><em>(That'll be $100 for the hour, Mrs. Stott. My receptionist can validate your parking on the way out.)<br /><br /></em></span></span>I'm guilty of it too, though, the labelling. I'll make a snap judgement in a second. The worst part is, until you prove to me otherwise, I'll keep thinking my snap judgement is gospel. Worse than that? You prove my snap judgement (for example, that you are a total asswipe and douche-canoe) correct.<br /><br />I would love to Disney Princess out on you and say that we have to learn to live in a world without labels and see past the outside and judge people on their actions and not what we think we know about them, but guess what? Not gonna happen.<br /><br />Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a dirty, toothless man in a No Fat Chicks tee shirt leaning up against my car. Man, I hate rednecks.<br /><br />No, that wasn't a label; that was the truth. ;)</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-72289807509950435582011-04-15T00:12:00.003-04:002011-04-15T00:16:16.487-04:00In Which Amy Talks Junk . . . Food<div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Have you ever opened your cabinet, examined the contents and thought, "Damn it, there are just <u>not</u> enough snacks in here."? </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Have you ever lingered a little too long in front of the Little Debbie display at the grocery store?</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Have you ever jammed your kid's Goldfish crackers into your mouth while hiding behind the open door of the fridge as you dig them out a healthy snack of carrot sticks?</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">What?</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Me either.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em>(hanging head in shame)</em></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">I grew up in a house where junk food/snack food/good food was nearly non-existent. No soda, no chips, no sugary cereals, no candy, no snack cakes. Nothing. We had two drink choices: water or milk (if we were really lucky, there was a container of iced tea in the fridge, but that was only during the summer). Until I was about 10, I thought ice cream only came in one flavor combination--vanilla-chocolate-strawberry--and was served in minuscule servings of each flavor. The portions were so small, one scoop be eaten in one go and then you were down to two flavors. Nacho chips brought into the house were for "recipes" only, but I have no idea what freaking "recipe" Mom was using them for since I never saw them in or on anything that was served at dinnertime. And if a 6-pack of Diet Coke somehow snuck its way into the pantry, I would sniff that shit out so fast, bloodhounds would look at each other and say, "Damn. She is <u>good</u>."</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">We got candy three times a year: Halloween, Easter, and Christmas. And, honestly, there wasn't even that much on those days either. The Easter baskets and Christmas stockings would have candies in them in accordance with their respective holidays (ie chocolate bunnies, chocolate coins, and etc), but mostly the goodies were fun little tchotkies or--my favorite--new panty hose to wear to holiday dinner but would promptly rip as soon as I tried to put them on. Halloween candy never seemed to last as long as it should. Dad would commandeer the mini Snickers bars and Mom would reassure us that she was going to "check" the candy after we went to bed for the urban legend trifecta of razor blades, poison and syringe puncture marks.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em>(Check the candy my ass, Mom. Where the hell did all my Three Musketeer Bars go?)</em></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">One of my first paychecks from my first job was spent solely on junk food. No, seriously. I blew an entire paycheck on chips, candy, and other junk which I hid around my room. I made myself a list of the hiding spots (which I lost almost immediately, of course) and got down to the delightful business of eating all the snacks I could find. I never ate $40 worth of Lays potato chips and Twizzlers faster in my entire life. So fast, in fact, I'm not even sure why I hid it since I ate it all in <u>one</u> <u>night</u>. Except for the Milky Way I found later that summer melted all over the inside of one of my sneakers.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em>(Stop looking at me like that. Those actions are not signs of an eating disorder.)</em></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">The first time Erick and I went food shopping as a newly-moved-in-together couple, he asked me if I wanted anything to snack on.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">"What? Like chips?" I asked.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">"Sure."</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">"For real? Chips?"</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Erick looked at me kind of oddly and a little nervous like he was thinking, "What the hell is wrong with her?"</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Oh, the potato chip aisle. It was like something out of a dream for me. I couldn't have been happier than if you had told me Wonka's Chocolate Factory was a real place and I was allowed to live in the Chocolate Room. Chips and salsa had a regular spot on our shopping list from that day on.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">My love affair with junk food has hampered me though. Trying to squeeze into a wedding dress while consisting almost solely on a diet of soda and pizza is nearly impossible. Realizing that taking in a dress is easier then letting out a dress, I dieted my ass off and slid into that frothy raw silk confection on my wedding day like a spoon slides into a container of Fluff.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em>(Again with the looks. It's an <u>analogy</u>, people!)</em></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">I had a flat stomach for the first time in my life. Turning sideways in the mirror while on my honeymoon, I admired it. Wow, I was hot. There was no way I was going to loose that flat tummy and thin (okay, thin-ish) thighs. Then Erick and I went to Disney World and I proceeded to eat my weight in Mickey Mouse shaped ice cream bars.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">If you read my statuses on Facebook, they're pretty unvarying: rum, Lizzie, Erick's obsessive fantasy sports habit, food. In fact, one of my statuses tonight was about how I couldn't decide whether to eat another Little Debbie snack cake or crack open a pint of Ben & Jerry's.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Surprisingly, Lizzie doesn't share my swoony delight of the crap food. Oh, don't get me wrong: that girl can put away a serving of Ben & Jerry's Fair Trade Vanilla like a pro (it could be the fact I ate 3 to 4 pints of B & J a week when I was pregnant), but she will choose fruit over candy any day. In fact, she hates candy. Don't try to give her chocolates or gummy bears. She'll turn her perky little nose up at them every time and ask for grapes or carrots instead.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">She certainly didn't learn that behavior from me.</span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-29404755288863804222011-03-29T21:30:00.014-04:002011-03-30T01:25:19.705-04:00In Which Amy is Honest about Depression<div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">This is me:<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 169px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589694273312925282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8ApRU9H8OL1aU-sM8Hkh4f07Wz9fvdOcD-Jamqe2Tslae8hXTqz9gB9OB0uHW1nw2AW1gkQQw6nkypKF-K0v5Ul2CjHk34nVdE4QtZkdU1ahPb8g8NOQOl7Lpu1cVxUDy1D1SgVeaHYQ/s200/HPIM3387.JPG" /></span><span><span style="color:#000000;">That was me on a good day. I was wearing new glasses, having a great hair day, and was dreamily picking out PS3 games that I wanted (you will be mine, "Batman: Arkham Asylum," oh, yes, you will be mine). Days like that are rare; when I'm cheerful and sunny, when I don't feel there's a foreboding sense of dread hanging over me, when I don't regret my past, when I don't fear my future. </span></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span><span style="color:#000000;">Rare. Very rare. Like narwhal-spotting rare. </span></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;">Narwhals live in depths up to 1500 meters of dense pack ice in the Canadian Arctic and Greenlandic waters rarely south of 65 degrees North Latitude, so they're a tricky animal to spot.</span></em> </div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">This is me: <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 164px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589708251882438258" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x7F0WVDPUok/TZKiCh-FvnI/AAAAAAAAAKU/ZGKTtE1vTvk/s200/HPIM3442.JPG" /></span><span style="color:#000000;">That is me on a bad day. I'm still wearing the new-ish glasses, but am having a bad hair day and am obviously trying to hide in the kitchen, but was followed in by my shadow, who I let play with the camera. Days like that are more common; when I'm down and quiet, when I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, when I can't let go of mistakes I've made, when I'm convinced nothing will ever get better. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Common. Very common. Like mosquitoes in your backyard during a summer BBQ common. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;">Do I really need to explain that? The state motto should really be: Mosquitoes and New Jersey: Perfect Together. </span></em></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">There are warnings these days are coming. I start to eat chips and salsa as my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I lose my temper of the smallest infraction, real or imagined. I barely speak and tend to avoid looking at people so they won't keep asking me "Are you okay?" over and over again. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Like with many things that you fear, the days leading up to the bad days and the actual bad days have many names: Going to a Bad Place, Entering the Swamps of Sadness, My Black Mood, My Griselda Period. There's not much I can do when I'm wallowing in the depths of the Swamps of Sadness but trudge on, dragging Artex behind me, and pray that I'm far enough in front of The Nothing that I can save Fantasia. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Wait, no. That's not me. Damn it, I hate it when I confuse my life with movies from my childhood. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff33;"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">This is where I <strong>would</strong> include the video of Artex sinking into the Swamps of Sadness, but that scene still makes me cry 26 years after I first saw it.</span> </em></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Self-indulgent as I was (am?), I would spend My Griselda Period on whatever couch was closest (hating my life, my clothes, my boyfriend and/or husband, the couch I was on, the shade of blue the sky was, the sky, whatever), barely dragging myself to work, where I would compensate for My Black Mood by being so "up" that I once had a boss pull me aside and ask if I was high. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">I don't have that kind of luxury anymore. Having Lizzie means that when I'm Going to the Bad Place, I have to push my feelings down as much as possible so I can function as a mom. Erick will help out as much as he can, but, when he's at work and it's just Lizzie and me, panic will set in and I'll find myself worrying myself into an upset stomach over whether I can make her lunch or play with her or watch a movie with her without bursting into heaving sobs for no apparent reason. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Oh, and therapy doesn't work. You know why? Because I <strong>lie</strong> during therapy sessions. Oh, yeah, I <strong>lie my ass off</strong>: "No! Everything's fine! I don't even know why I'm here. This is so silly. I should just go." Three sessions and I never go back. I have no idea why I'm so desperate to abandon talking about my issues with a licensed professional, but have no problem crying all over a friend until their shirt is soaked with tears and snot. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Riding it out is my best option to getting through the bad days: </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 84px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589723199113592610" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NKZks2G_Ck0/TZKvokvs_yI/AAAAAAAAAKc/y1E47KszVLI/s200/Artax.jpg" /> </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">and back to the good days:</span></div><br /><p align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 149px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589725506808461442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb84tPC3gJxVkn6jF5Moolf8ag8Zud5PC9NsZkW9huiJ9_Ta9l9cGNiw22HG1GkkPHH4F5Upu0GEDbbKaWPg5QqDdtoGmcpQ57C6iHVgLgAov4CruZ9zHgAVGzLsseWm2yH-zZaEjzLfmo/s200/HPIM2905.JPG" /></span></p><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">I don't mind riding it out. I just hope there's enough chips and salsa in the house for the next time or there's gonna be hell to pay. </span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-77841918360355246412011-03-07T11:57:00.007-05:002011-03-07T13:31:24.025-05:00In Which Amy Watches Early March Snow Accumulate<span style="color:#000000;">Oh, hello, snow. Welcome back.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">For weeks, the dirty, late January-into-February snow has been melting. It's been glorious. The giant mound of snow at the end of my driveway that blocks my view of oncoming traffic has gotten a little smaller. Not small enough that I can see over or around it and notice if a giant oil truck is barrelling towards me or not, but smaller. I could see the ground. Of course, "ground" could be more aptly described as "over the ankle, shoe-grabbing, slimy muck," but I could still see it.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Winter here in MOFN takes forever to end. It seems to come earlier and earlier every year (this year, I'm convinced it started in October) and ends later and later every year. With the amount of snow we've gotten this winter, it'll be July before I can put on a tank top and complain about it being too hot. It would be one thing if I lived somewhere that's beautiful during the winter (Colorado, Switzerland, etc), but that isn't the case, so I make due.</span><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;">Yes, by "making due," I really do mean "bitch and complain until I'm blue in the face," but I digress.</span></em><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">So, over the past few days, Lizzie and I have been watching the snow melt and talking about getting to go to the park. I'd been thinking about letting Lizzie run wild through Mom's backyard. I'd starting making all the lists of the day trips I was going to insist on.</span><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;">First one? To The Windmill in Penn Yan, NY, quite possibly the awesomest outdoor/indoor shopping mall/flea market around. The food alone is worth the drive.</span></em><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">It was 57 degrees here on Saturday when I came back from running errands. We opened all the windows and let out some of the stale air, germs, and bad juju that builds up when three people are trapped in a small space for a prolonged period of time.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Then last night that evil witch Mother Nature decided to frig up The Coming of Spring (yeah, it deserves to be capitalized) by dumping over a foot of snow all over us. I watched it come down and wanted to weep. Where was my muddy, mucky ground going? What happened to my 57 degree day with open windows? And where the hell did my car disappear to? Oh, right, it's under that FOOT OF SNOW.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Thanks again, snow. Thanks for killing my dreams of putting away the scarves and gloves. Thanks for killing my dreams of opening the windows to let in the roar of traffic past the front of the house. Thanks for killing my dreams of eating my way up and down the paths of The Windmill.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Now, who wants to help me dig my car out?</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-54979313240505022632011-02-27T21:22:00.015-05:002011-02-28T00:19:21.719-05:00In Which Amy Compares the Contents of her Purse, Then & Now<div align="center"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#000000;">This is my favorite purse: </span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 178px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578602159815450450" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yw73sP6fHCw/TWstG48G31I/AAAAAAAAAJs/Z4kWSzqrVnY/s200/HPIM3357.JPG" /> <p align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;"><em>Nice, right? </em></span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#000000;">It's huge. It holds everything. So much stuff, in fact, that I'm pretty sure the contents of it reproduce overnight. This afternoon, I was emptying it out, marvelling at the amount of paper and change that can accumulate in a weeks' time when I realized that--aside from my wallet--pretty much everything in "my" purse belonged, in some way, to Lizzie. I mean, look for yourself:</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 149px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578602493919228962" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-betOwgBDjkg/TWstaVkp9CI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/994GOK4aPAM/s200/HPIM3359.JPG" /></span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#000000;">That's just insane. How can I carry around a $65 purse with wipes and Goldfish in it? I mean, it's not a <u>diaper</u> <u>bag</u>, for god's sake. I started thinking about what I used to carry around when I was single and not a mom. The contents of my bag looked a little bit more like this:</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 182px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578603084131398546" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9W0vnxYpRIs/TWst8sSM85I/AAAAAAAAAJ8/gzFOfyfWV2k/s200/HPIM3361.JPG" /></span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#000000;">Okay, now I'll agree that some of the things are quite similar: snacks, books, and panties. But there's a huge difference between a banana and a Three Musketeers bar; two Disney Princess books and the controversial absurdism of Christopher Moore; and Disney Princess panties and Victoria's Secret panties.<br /></span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#000000;">Know what the difference is?<br /></span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#000000;">One word: Mommy.</span></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-74856074362750818322011-02-03T11:55:00.000-05:002011-02-03T11:55:52.796-05:00In Which Amy Talks Valentine's DaySo, it's that time of year again. Just when you're done recovering from the crush of glitter, guilt, delight, and debt that is Christmas, Valentine's Day appears.<br /><br />Oh, how I dislike Valentine's Day. Forced to "celebrate" it in elementary school by scrawling my name on the bottom of cheap, cardboard-y cards from Cost Cutters emblazened with the legend "I Love You Bear-y Much!" and decorated by an uber-cute pink teddy bear who would totally get his ass kicked in Jellystone Park and then walking around the room to give them to my classmates, Valentine's Day always turned into an anxiety-driven nightmare of counting all the cards in my "mailbox" (usually two hearts stapled together with an opening left on the top to slip the cards in and taped to the front of the desk) and realizing that even though I made a card for everyone, not everyone gave me a card. Oh, the repressed tears when it occurred to me that the cutest boy in class didn't give me a card but the "rich girl" in class got <strong>two</strong> from him. It's all coming back to me now. Oh . . . good . . . god . . . *sniffle, sniff, sniff*<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;"><em>(I think that's the reason I ignored the "rich girl's" friend request on Facebook.)</em></span><br /><br />Middle school and high school brought on what I called All-Black Valentine's Day, when I would dress in an all-black outfit and skulk around the hallways, glaring at the girls who had multiple carnations pinned to their shirt. The days of the Cost Cutters Valentine's Day card give-outs were over. Now, the amount of popularity you had was measured in how many carnations you got in delivered to you during homeroom and 1st period. I never thought I'd miss the days of the anonymous desk mailbox delivery service ever in my life.<br /><br />Even if I had a boyfriend (or husband) during Valentine's Day, I would <strong>insist</strong> that we ignore Valentine's Day. No giant stuffed teddy bears, no gooey cards, no dinner dates, and no chocolates--well, they could still get me chocolate. I'd never turn down candy. The reaction of the guy involved would range from "Are you serious? You don't want <strong>anything</strong>?" (said in an incredulous tone with a look of delight and relief on his face) or "C'mon, you don't want a card or anything?" (said in a disappointed tone with a look of surprised worry on his face). When I stressed I "really don't want a thing," most guys get that panicky, deer in the headlights look and you can hear them start to internally freak out, <em>"Okay, does she really want nothing or is she doing that fucked up girl thing where she says she doesn't want anything but she really wants something and if I don't get her something, she's going to wig out and get all crazy? Shit, I should just break up with her. That's easier."</em><br /><br />Remember that post I wrote at Christmas time about <a href="http://peanutbutterandjellyblog.blogspot.com/2010/12/in-which-amy-talks-gifts.html"><span style="color:#ffffff;">jewelery commercials and my loathing of them</span></a>? Yeah, well, that applies here too. I'm convinced the ad men just digitally remove the Christmas decorations and replay the same commercials over again. I mean, that's what I would do to save money and not have to go through the nightmare of auditioning any more uber-adorable commercial kids.<br /><br />When I got pregnant with Lizzie and my OB told me that my baby was going to be born anywhere between February 11th and February 19th, I immediately thought, "Oh, god. It's gonna be born on Valentine's Day. I just know it." As my pregnancy progressed and I was able to narrow down my due date more and more, the prospect of my kid being born on Valentine's was getting more and more possible.<br /><br />"This is a nightmare. This is terrible," I lamented to Erick from my spot on the couch with a White Castle Crave Case of cheeseburger sliders balanced on my giant belly.<br /><br />"What is?" he asked, surprised. I never spoke while eating when I was pregnant unless it was to slap his hand away from my meal and growl "Get off my food!" at him like a starving tiger.<br /><br />"Because if she's <em><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ffff33;">(we already knew Lizzie was a girl at this point)</span></em> born on Valentine's Day, every birthday gift she's ever gonna get from every cheap guy she dates is gonna be Valentine's themed and he's gonna say, 'This is for your birthday <strong>and</strong> Valentine's.' Just like Mark and Christmas." (Erick's brother Mark's birthday falls on Christmas Eve.)<br /><br />"Aim, you really can't start worrying about that now," Erick reassured me.<br /><br />Too late. I was already crying on my sliders. "I don't want to have a Valentine's Day baby!"<br /><br />According to the ultrasound, Lizzie was weighing in at a whopping 9 pounds 6 ounces two weeks before my February 19th due date. When I saw my OB the next day, armed with Mom and Nannie's insistance that they induce me ASAP, he agreed that it was time to induce before she got any bigger and made the birth difficult. You know, because having a Thanksgiving turkey massing at your pelvis isn't difficult enough.<br /><br />I was induced on Valentine's Day. Lizzie made her appearance on February 14, 2007 at 10.18 pm after 6 hours of hard labor, 4.5 hours of pushing, and a (slighty emergency) C-section, weighing in at 9 pounds 12.2 ounces and measuring at 21 inches.<br /><br />Guess who never needs another Valentine's Day gift ever again.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-25789555751519159732011-01-15T20:54:00.008-05:002011-01-15T21:29:43.851-05:00In Which Amy Wishes She Stayed in Bed<span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color:#000000;">Sometimes there are days when I just want to stay in bed.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">You know those days. You open your eyes and look at the ceiling and think, "Oh, fuck this. Today already sucks." You don't know how you know it, but there's some little voice inside you whispering, "Stay in bed. Don't get up yet."</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">In my case, the little voice whispering is usually Lizzie, who always implores I not get out of bed so she can climb all over me like I'm a bouncy house. That's cute for about five minutes, then she'll stomp on my throat or jump on my right hip (you know, the "bad one"), and I'm like, <strong>"THAT'S IT! I'm getting up!!"</strong> and so starts our first Mommy-Daughter fight.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Today, the little voice whispering inside me not to get up was the subconscious part of my brain I call Amy2001, who liked to drink way too much and dance way too much and party way too much and wore <em>really</em> small shirts and had zero responsibilities and slept until noon on the weekends. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ffff33;"><em>(Sometimes I miss Amy2001. *sigh!*)</em></span><br /></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Well, last night, Amy2001 insisted that Bacardi Silver and Country Time Pink Lemonade would make a completely kick-ass cocktail. So I made two of those in a pint glass, doubling the shots of Bacardi because I couldn't taste it over the super-sweetness of the pink lemonade. Amy2001 shrieked gleefully, jumped on the stage at the Bamboo, and shimmied her 24 year old ass off as I drank them down. Man, talk about rum o'clock.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">That witch. I could totally kick her ass over the hangover I had this morning.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">The day got a little better when I realized I had <em>justenough</em> coffee to flood my system with enough caffeine to drown my hangover. The day got a little worse when I realized I had no more creamer left and had to use 2-day expired milk.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">And all this before 9.30am. Oh, my Christ on a cracker.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Aside from a speed metal concert, where's the worst place to go with a hangover? Yeah, that's right: the grocery store on a Saturday morning. By the frozen food section, I was taking deep cleansing breaths and shooting Jack Nicholson ala "The Shining" glares at people who looked at me wrong. Erick and Lizzie, blissfully dancing from one aisle to another, hardly noticed I was having a massive hangover-induced meltdown while Amy2001 screamed "Will you shut off that goddamn Muzak?!" and pulled the blankets over her head.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Oh, I should have rebelled and stayed in bed.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Now, if you'll excuse me, Amy2001 just showed up in our favourite boob shirt and that Bacardi Silver is looking awfully lonely in the freezer.</span></span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-28815199326569654392010-12-26T16:49:00.006-05:002010-12-26T17:03:36.378-05:00In Which Amy Lives with CaraGuess where I am.<div><br /></div><div>I bet you can't guess.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll give you a minute.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF33;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF33;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(cue "Jeopardy" theme music)</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm at Cara's house!! </div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, that's right. I'm here for the Christmas break. I'm so excited to be here; it's gonna be awesome.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mostly because I don't have to do anything.</div><div><br /></div><div>No, seriously, Cara is totally a Cruise Director and has set up playdates and daytrips and all type of cool things for us to do with the kids. Not only that, she's offered to watch Lizzie if I want to go off and do things by myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dude, I want to marry Cara. Does anyone think Bill would mind? </div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-28123260209348440912010-12-04T13:48:00.005-05:002010-12-04T14:28:12.734-05:00In Which Amy Talks Gifts<span style="color:#000000;">I'm watching the snow fall here in MOFN and I've resigned myself to the fact that winter is here. And with winter comes some undeniable, inescapable truths: it's really cold, it gets dark really early and the weather gets really crappy. Besides that also comes My Albatross:</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Holiday themed jewelry store commercials.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">On Facebook the other day I <em>may</em> have hinted that I find holiday jewelry commercials obnoxious, insulting, and exasperating. </span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">I loathe them. I really do. The women in them porn-gasm when they see the little box from Zales/Kay/Jared/Helzberg Diamonds. The men in them always have doofy grins on their faces like they just washed down a handful of 'ludes with a fifth of tequila. And if you're really, really (un)lucky, you get the uber-adorable commercial kids hiding in the other room making comments like, "They're so cute at that age."</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Oh, my Christ on a cracker. Somebody shoot me now.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">I think men who buy jewelry for their wives are lazy. Oh, I know some women <em>live</em> for the sparkly stuff and will pitch a fit if their isn't some kind of bling under the tree for them Christmas morning, and I feel for those husbands, I really do (even though this is when I can pull out the old "You knew she was like that when you married her" card). But, know what? Some women (yours truly included) would rather have our husbands buy them something that's less generic.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Don't look at me like that: Jewelry <em>is</em> generic. Do you know how many diamond heart pendants Kay Jewelers sell during the Hanukkah/Christmas season? Thousands. Thousands upon thousands, if I want to (kinda) exaggerate. So that gift you're buying your woman that you think is so special? Yeah, thousands of other women are going to open it and coo over it too.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Rock on, guy. That's the way to show your girl she's unique and original.</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">I would rather have something under the tree for me Christmas morning that shows me my husband knows me. That he knows what I like, what I'm interested in, and what will, in fact, make me porn-gasm. </span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">My Gift List is short, sweet, and super easy: I want Barnes & Noble gift cards, tickets to the New York Renaissance Faire (you don't even have to go with me!), written promises to wash dishes/load and unload the dishwasher once a week for a year, and maybe--if I'm feeling really extravagant--tickets to see a show on Broadway. </span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">That's it. Isn't that simple? In fact, I've never had any guy read my list and say, "Damn, Amy, don't you want an over-priced piece of sparkle that you'll only wear once or twice a year?" </span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Gee, Anonymous Male Person in my Life, I can't believe I didn't think about that. Why don't you run down to Zales and buy me over-sized, over-priced, over-jeweled ring that makes it look like I'm carting around half a South African diamond mine and dwarf the size of my hand?</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">No, thanks. Just wash the damn dinner dishes every once and a while and I'm</span> <span style="color:#000000;">a happy girl.</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-53943123391474928302010-11-25T14:58:00.004-05:002010-11-25T15:25:34.635-05:00In Which Amy Lists What She's Thankful For<span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Today is Thanksgiving. You might not have noticed since stores have decided to skip the entire month of November and started celebrating Christmas around October 30th, but I'm here to remind you that today is the day to celebrate what we're thankful for.<br /><br />Now this is where I'm supposed to be all "I'm thankful for my family and my friends and my health and blahdy blahdy blahdy," but that's all been done before, so I'm here to list the things I'm really thankful for.<br /><br />In no particular order, they are:<br /><br />1. <u>Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream</u>. More specifically Mint Chocolate Cookie, Strawberry Cheesecake, and Dublin Mudslide.<br /><br />2. <u>Captain Morgan</u>. No, not the pirate, the rum. In case you haven't noticed, I adore rum. In fact, I plan on drinking a little bit of it after dinner.<br /><br />3. <u>Jeans</u>. I love jeans. You can dress them up, you can dress them down, and--if you're wearing them just right--they have the ability to buy you drinks all night long.</span> <span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;">(now, some would argue that a good bra could also have the ability to buy you drinks all night long too, but jeans can get you drinks from the front <em><strong><u>or</u></strong></em> the back. no bra has that much talent.)</span><br /><br />4. <u>The Internet</u>. If I could ever figure out who actually invented the Internet, I'm going to kiss him/her right on the lips. Unless they're dead. Because that would be really disgusting.<br /><br />5. <u>Barnes & Noble gift cards</u>. Any denomination works for me.<br /><br />6. <u>Sarcasm</u>. I don't think that needs any explanation. Especially if you know me even a little bit.<br /><br />7. <u>My imagination</u>. At this point, I've been using my imagination to crown myself Queen of England, to win the lottery, to write stories, to escape from the crapartment, and to make myself smile for so long, I feel like I should give it an extended vacation . . . maybe over Christmas.<br /><br />8. <u>Facebook</u>. Oh, don't give me that look. You know you love Facebook. How on earth can you re-make friends and cyberstalk your enemies without it?<br /><br />9. <u>Bedtime</u>. It just makes me smile.<br /><br />10. <u>Salt air</u>. Nothing reminds me more of home and makes me happier then to stand on the beach and inhale a double lungful of salt air. Erick calls it "refilling my salt air tanks."<br /><br />11. <u>Converse</u>. High tops, black ones. Classic and awesome.<br /><br />12. <u>Coffee</u>. Wawa, Tim Horton's, Wegmans. I don't care; I love coffee.<br /><br />13. <u>Long car rides</u>. Now, I will admit I sometimes fall asleep during long car rides. Sometimes, I talk so much that I'm like a one-woman show in the passenger seat. Either way, we're going somewhere.<br /><br />14. <u>TV</u>. Don't be uppity. You freaking know you love the TV too.<br /><br />15. <u>Curling up on the couch with a book, a blanket, a cup of coffee, some good music and warm woolly socks on a cold winter's day</u>. Yeah. Oh, yeah. That's just nice.<br /><br />So, Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Be thankful for your family and your friends and etc, but think about what else you're thankful for. You know, the selfish stuff that's just about you.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-85780643439873270612010-11-20T22:20:00.004-05:002010-11-20T23:03:39.287-05:00In Which Amy Waxes Poetic About Words<div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">Words are awesome.<br /><br />I love words. I love to learn new words. I love to make words up. I love correcting people when they use the wrong words (yeah, that's one of my most endearing qualities). I love that some words are the same word with totally different meanings (think Coke and coke).<br /><br />But what I love most about words is how you use them with others. The way you speak and the words you use with your parents, for example, are usually completely different than the way you speak and the words you use with your friends. The simplest feelings can be expressed so simply, it's like poetry or so eloquently, you swoon.<br /><br />Words can make you melt. And it's not just the words someone uses; a lot of time it's their tone of voice or the look they give you as they say it. Said by the right person with the right look and in the right context, words can self-combust a pair of Victoria's Secret panties faster than gasoline can combust an old building on Devil's Night in Detroit.<br /><br />But, unless the words can touch you in some way, the tone, the look, and even the person don't mean a thing.<br /><br />Anyone can ask, "What do you like about me?" and get an answer like "'Cause I like you." or "'Cause you're cool." Wow. Thanks, Mr. Romance. But if you ask someone, "What do you like about me?" and they respond, "The way we banter. The way your hair smells when we hug hello. The way my hand fits perfectly in the small of your back.", you are <strong><em>way</em></strong> more likely to melt all over the floor than if they responded, "'Cause you kick ass at Halo more than anybody I know."<br /><br />Of course, unless you <strong><em>want</em></strong> to know that you kick ass at Halo more than anybody your crush knows. Then, good on ya.<br /><br />Guys get the short shrift when it comes to using words to their full advantage. Most men don't give women the answers listed above to the super-girly "What do you like about me?" question (notice I said "most"--I know a few guys who know <strong><em>exactly</em></strong> how to answer that question so the asker needs to be picked up off the floor).<br /><br />But women don't always use the right words either. Now, I'm not talking about screwing up "runs" for "touchdowns" or think "PAT" means "<em><strong>P</strong></em>oint <em><strong>A</strong></em>fter a<em><strong>T</strong></em>tempt." (oh, and fyi, girls: <strong><em>PAT</em></strong> means <strong><em>Point After Touchdown</em></strong>). Despite what guys might say, they want girls to throw out some wordy compliments too. Make it wordy, but make it short, ladies. It's tough to do, but if you get all Shakespearean on your man, his mind will start to wander. Then the next thing you know, you're yelling at him because he wasn't listening and he's trying to defend himself because when you asked him, "Are you listening? What are you thinking about?", he answered very honestly, "That part in <em>Titanic</em> when Kate Winslet gets out of the car in the beginning of the movie and she's wearing that purple hat. She's <strong><em>hot</em></strong>." (true story)<br /><br />Yeah, words are awesome. They can end a romance just as quickly as they can start one. </span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-70856069695005976722010-11-06T13:53:00.014-04:002010-11-06T15:07:30.734-04:00In Which Amy Talks About Blogging<span style="font-family:georgia;color:#000000;">Blogging seems like it should be so easy.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(No, this isn't going to be a re-hash of my </span><a href="http://peanutbutterandjellyblog.blogspot.com/2010/07/in-which-amy-laments-writers-block.html"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;">writer's block post</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">.)</span><br /><br /></span>You get an idea while washing dishes or scrambling eggs and it starts to germinate. You spend your day doing whatever you do all day long--keeping house, working, <strike>IM-ing</strike> doing homework as your 3 year old uses your body as her personal jungle gym--but all the while you're writing your blog post in your head.<br /><br />I find myself writing the whole blog post in my head, editing it, posting it, reading it, and then breaking my arm patting myself on the back because it's just frakking brilliant.<br /><br />The only drawback is that--wait for it--IT NEVER GETS WRITTEN.<br /><br />Something always comes up: more <strike>IM-ing</strike> homework, a child-related crisis ("Mommy! We have no GOLDFISH CRACKERS!"), Facebook, watching DVR'ed TV shows from 3 weeks ago with Husband before hustling off to school. Coming home at 10pm sort of kills the creative gene, but never stops me from watching TV until 1am.<br /><br />It was suggested to me that I purchase a digital voice recorder and ramble my ideas into it so I don't forget anything (I only knew that the person meant "handheld tape recorder" because the guys on <u>Ghost Hunters</u> will say <em>digital voice recorders</em> and then grab <em>handheld tape recorders</em>). It sounded like a really good idea for about 30 seconds, then I had a terrible flashback of rambling into a tape recorder during my pot-smoking days, thinking I was spouting off pearls of wisdom. But--when listened to when I was straight--was mostly just hours and hours of me crunching Pringles and meandering through half-thought-out statements and many, many, many, many instances of me saying, "Uhhhh . . . yeah . . . like . . . mmmmmmm . . . " which I assumed wasn't an actual pearl of wisdom I was trying to get out, but mostly my Maui Wowie-induced appreciation of overly-salted potato treats.<br /><br />Blogging is, in fact, harder than it looks. I can tell you a story that will make you laugh because of hand gestures and facial expressions and precisely placed sarcasm, but it loses a lot in translation when I type it up on a computer screen. <span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;">(A friend of mine came in contact with this phenomena the other day when I made a comment about rape and being glad I'm not a guy. I could feel his tense uncomfortable-ness through the Internet so I backpedalled quickly with the always safe "That sounded a lot cuter in my head.")</span> So many funny things happen around here during the day, but it always seems flat and boring when typed up. Told to girls I go to school with, though, it <strong>kills</strong>.<br /><br />I read on another blog I love that the key to blogging is to write everyday. Dude, <strong>really</strong>? Thanks for playing. If I could write everyday, two of my posts wouldn't be about how I can't write everyday. But that blogger had a point. There are so many blogs, so many news stories, so many things that happen during an average day, how can I possibly not find something to write about? Easy.<br /><br />1. Some things would make for great blog-fodder, but aren't worth the fight with {fill in blank with person or family member's name} that would follow the publication.<br />2. Some things really do lose <strong>a lot</strong> in translation. Read this statement: "I have no idea why you kept taking "no" for an answer. I couldn't if I were you. Guess it's a good thing I'm not a guy." Terrifying, right? Now picture me saying it while waving around a glass of white wine and giggling like mad with a flirty/snarky look on my face. Hysterical, right? <span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;">(you <strong>really</strong> have to know me and my sense of humour to think this is funny. you know who you are)</span><br /><br />So, I will press on, trying to find funny things to blog about. Don't be surprised if my next few blog posts are about my dull to the nth power life in MOFN or how I will never, never, never, never get to move back to New Jersey (this is the part of the sentence when I throw myself across the love seat with my hand to my forehead like a Massive Drama Queen).<br /><br />God help you all.<br /><br />Maybe Cara can save us all with some really, really brilliant blog posts. We know she can do <a href="http://peanutbutterandjellyblog.blogspot.com/2010/09/comfort-zone.html"><span style="color:#ffffff;">it</span></a>.</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-80132564323399520982010-10-23T22:37:00.006-04:002010-10-23T23:12:17.760-04:00In Which Amy Loves All Over Autumn<div align="justify"><span><span style="color:#000000;">There's some inherently delightful about Autumn.<br /><br />Is it the fact I can wear jeans again and no one will stare at me like I'm insane (I wear jeans all year long--even if it's so hot that you can fry eggs on the hood of your car)? Is it the fact that apples are my favourite fruit and they finally come into season in fall? Is it the fact that the nights get longer which means I can sleep longer (Oh, who am I kidding? I still stay up until 1am every night, regardless of the season)? Is it the fact that my birthday is in September?<br /><br />Well, now that I'm in my (gulp) mid-thirties, it might not be the birthday one that much anymore.<br /><br />Who knows and who cares? It's Autumn!<br /><br />The air is crisp and cool. The leaves change colours. Hoodie sweatshirts start to be acceptable to wear here, there, and everywhere. Halloween and Thanksgiving beckon with the promise of society-approved gluttony. I can finally go outside during the day without the skin melting off my face from the humidity. Kids hate Autumn because Autumn means back to school (which, ironically enough, is the reason a lot of my friends gave me for liking Autumn).<br /><br />Summer-loving people always lament the coming of Autumn because that means Summer is over. Oh, boo-hoo. Thanks to global warming, Spring has ceased to exist, so Summer starts in April now. Plus, when Summer ends, the bennies go home.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffff33;">(I AM NOT A BENNY. I haven't assimilated to life in MOFN that much. I might have Pennsie plates on the Vibe, but I'm still All Jersey. So much so that I'm pretty sure that 90% of people at school think my name is actually Jersey and not Amy.)<br /></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Autumn means driving with the car windows down. Autumn means the air smells like burning leaves. Autumn means pumpkin picking. Autumn means you dig out the slow cooker and make soup, stew, and chili.<br /><br />Autumn is like Earth's way to kiss outside life good-bye because Winter is just <strong>such</strong> a bitch.</span></span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-52422023205450776152010-10-19T09:57:00.006-04:002010-10-19T10:44:33.662-04:00Top Five Reasons why I Hate all Men--Literally<span style="color:#ffff33;">Ah, yes. Guest Blogger Tina had an awesome and hysterical thread under one of her Facebook statuses that I decided needed to be a blog post.</span><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;">I told you to start writing and sending Cara and me stories.</span><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;">Now do you believe me?</span><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;">Amy</span><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ffff33;">***************************************************************************************</span><br /><br /><u>Reason #1</u><br />First and most important, we <strong><em>men</em></strong>struate. Will someone please tell me why <strong>men</strong> gets to be part of that word? Why not call it <strong><em>lady</em></strong>struate or ladiesleaking? But, no. Some hoity-toity man thinks, "Ehhh, 'menstruate' is a good word." I think I'm going to call Websters and ask for an ethics committee meeting on the validity of using that word and its definition in print.<br /><br /><u>Reason #2</u><br />Fellas, the PMS blame is getting old. Anytime we are moody or bitchy, you blame our bad attitudes on PMS. I am here to set the record straight. Its not PMS: it's Y-O-U. Maybe if you cut the grass or took out the trash or played with your kids when we asked you to, we wouldn't get huffy and pissy when we see that, two hours later, you are still sitting on the couch. Then when we stomp past you to do it ourselves in a rage, you wouldn't have to wonder "What the hell's her problem?" and you wouldn't have to complain to your "boys" that your wife\girlfriend\whatever you call us now is ragging it or PMS-ing. Honestly, we are all pretty fun chicks if you would just <strong>help out a little</strong>.<br /><br /><u>Reason #3</u><br />When its time to pay bills, please wipe the dumbfounded look off your face and do not even bother asking, "Where is the money you got from me two weeks ago?" Please stop offering these ridiculously small amounts of cash like you are doing us a huge favor. Remember that running a house is more the rent\mortgage and utilities. We also need toilet paper, shampoo, food, laundry soap, diapers, wipes, tampons (see Reason #1 for clarification on this), etc. And throwing us a little cash and saying, "Buy yourself something nice." might be a nice thought but I see you are sporting some new kicks while my shoes have made it through two summers. Also this goes back to Reason #2. If we didn't have to beg for bill money repeatedly, we might be able to skip some of those PMS MOMENTS. Again, it's all on you.<br /><br /><u>Reason #4</u><br />You have been a male your entire life. Well, unless you had a sex change and I don't honestly know anyone who has. Please explain to me why someone who has peed the same way their entire life (minus the first two or three years) still finds a way to miss the toilet and instead pees on the seat, the floor, and all over bathroom carpets. Ahem, again this goes with Reason #2: if you didn't pee on my carpet, I wouldn't have to wash them. And if I didn't have to wash them so often they wouldn't fall apart leading me to stomp past you in a huff to throw them away. We wouldn't have to ask you for money to buy new ones, and you wouldn't be left telling your boys (again) how we were "PMS-ing" (yet again). See how Y-O-U created the problem?<br /><br /><u>Reason #5<br /></u>The question of all questions: "Do I look fat in this?" We are asking this for a reason. Do not try to over think this one. Don't chew on your lip and think, "Do I tell her that she looks like a babe or do I tell her that she looks like a beached whale?" Honestly, I will most likely take that lip chewing as a sign you are lying and I will write you off as <strong>NOT GETTING ANY</strong> tonight. If I ask "Do I look fat?" it's because:<br />1) Duhhh, I want to know.<br />2) If you tell me I look great and I wear it, I am going to run into my lady friends who say, "What the hell were you thinking packing Texas in your underpants this morning? The J-Lo look is <em>sooo</em> last season." or--worse and better that that--they will break into a <em>Glee</em>-style version of "I Like Big Butts" by the legendary Sir Mix-A-Lot. And all without Puck, which will just piss me off even more.<br />3) I know at some point someone is going to take my picture and add it to their Facebook album where I will be tormented for all eternity by the caption that reads "The Wide Load Truck posed with us, but we had to take pics anyway."<br />Moral of the story: If I look fat, say so and risk the chance of me being mad at you. That is probably the only time I will accept the story you give the boys about being raggy and PMS-y.<br /><br />Now, guys, I made this as easy as possible to understand. Don't break any more of these rules and we'll be good to go. If not, well, see Reason #2.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-8492353213599244832010-09-27T10:59:00.003-04:002010-09-27T11:20:58.916-04:00Would You Check That????<div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">Another Facebook note too good to pass up. This is by my "sister" Tina about being a strong single mom, whether she wants to or not.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">Better start blogging, girls. I'm on a mission.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">Amy</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">*******************************************************************************</span></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><span></span> </div><div align="justify"><span>So, I am left to ponder past experiences in my life and I have come up with a revelation: </span></div><span><div align="justify"><br />Men are scaredy cats.</div><div align="justify"><br />I remember a night (no particular night specifically) when I heard a loud noise downstairs. I said, "Hey did you hear that?" I got the "Mmmm-hmmm." response. So, as I mutter under my breath about the ladies who asked for equal rights, I go to check it out. I think our forewomen should've been more specific when asking for equal rights: like asking for equal pay for jobs. I don't think they had intentions of us cutting the grass, changing our own oil and tires, pumping our own gas, unclogging toilets, and any other job I want a man to do for me. I have a tail light out; my first thought is "Daddy Dearest." I don't mind the fact that I have to do these things as a single mom, I just think that very nice men friends should say, "Oh, how about I help with that?" (HINT HINT) </div><div align="justify"><br /> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">All of these little nights of being "The Man of the House" left me stronger for my life as a single mom. I have to do mommy duties and daddy duties and if that means being a bad ass at 3 am checking out noises, I will. </div><div align="justify"><br /> </div><div align="justify">Come to the present day. </div><div align="justify"><br /> </div><div align="justify">The other night, I was just starting to fully sleep. My insomnia has me up late most nights. This night, my tired butt was ready to fully knock out when my pit bull, Ruby, let out the most fierce barks I have ever heard. She ran to my windows looking into my yard, letting out these warnings. Truthfully, I was pretty scared. I know someone was out there. Yet, there I was, with my phone in hand to call for backup, checking out the noise. I look at the phone and think, "Shit. Do I need a man to save me? Hell no!" I exchange the phone for a butcher knife. So, note to any friend who thinks they want to surprise me at night: I come wielding knives. Big ones.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />I don't know if it was my pounding heart or the barking that scared the noise away. Maybe it was the wind. But I again was the brave one checking it out (Brave = Me + one bad ass pit bull). As I crawled my butt back into bed, I was full of thanks. And here was my quote of thanks: </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br /> </div><div align="justify">"Thank you God for putting pussy-ass men in my life to make me stronger. I appreciate you're thinking ahead for me."</span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-35051522204302885322010-09-27T10:33:00.004-04:002010-09-27T10:45:53.634-04:00A Skeptics Change of Heart or My First Experience with Kiddie Soccer!<div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">I gleaned this post from Facebook. My and Cara's mutual friend Merrie Napolitano (nee Reilly) posted a note about her son's first day with soccer. It was too good not to share with Blogger. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">And since NO ONE has taken us up on our offer to co-blog with us co-bloggers, I'll keep stealing notes from Facebook until you all contribute.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">Amy</span></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">**********************************************************************************</span></div><div align="justify"><br />Well, I experienced Kiddie Soccer yesterday afternoon. I was dreading going, being someone who has played soccer for half of her live at a very competitive level. I even brought something to distract me from the horror of Bumblebee Soccer (I <em>really</em> didn't think I could handle it). I also had no idea how Tristan would react to playing with other children, or if he would even enjoy playing a semi-structured sport.<br /><br />I was so bowled away by how the BTSA runs their Kiddie Soccer, and how excited Tristan was to play that I never touched my diversion. I found his cleats, shin guards and a ball over at Dick's for a great deal $34.99 and Tristan got to pick out his ball (he wanted the red one). Well, on the ride over, he informed Nick and I that he needed to give the ball to his coach. We told him that the coach didn't want his ball and in fact that the coach was going to give him a ball and a soccer shirt to play! But still he insisted, so we just agreed.<br /><br />We got to the field early since this was actually the second game but Tristan's first (he missed the first game the week before because of his cousins' 4th birthday). I sat him in the back of the car and put on his shin guards, socks and cleats, and when he jumped down he looked up at me and smiled, "I'm ready!" I smiled; this was a good sign. "Then let's go find your coach!" I said and off we all went. Armed with the stroller for Inara, a chair, blanket, lunch (for Inara), the camera, and the Flip we trudged to find someone to tell us where to find the Tigers.<br /><br />Having basically grown up on Pinewood Park fields I felt right at home, but had a rock in the pit of my stomach, completely unsure of what was to ensue once we reached the team and new coach. We were directed to the second field, and were told the Tigers were the dark blue team all the way at the end. Upon arrival at the correct field, his coach came over and introduced himself and spoke directly to Tristan (this was a major plus in my book), telling him he had the jersey (t-shirt) and a new ball for him. Tristan took to him right away, and had a smile on his face from the moment he stepped on the field until he took his nap that afternoon at about 3 o'clock.<br /><br />This is where my dread returned. Was Tristan going to listen to the coach? Would he behave? Even if he did actually listen, would he follow directions? Would I be able to handle 10 3-4 year olds buzzing in a hive after a tiny size three soccer ball? You will be thrilled to know (as I was), that all of my fears were untoward and I wish the hour could have been longer.<br /><br />During the 1/2 hour practice, Tristan listened like a champ and followed directions with ease. It left me wondering if there is a soccer camp that goes all year long! LOL And he showed a great skill for the sport. Plus I found that watching 3-4 year olds learn how to play soccer was therapeutic. I laughed the whole time. They were adorable learning new skills and then announcing their achievements when they could manage to do it without falling down. It made me realize that dribbling a soccer ball while running is a complicated skill that takes concentration and coordination! (Even if it comes naturally to the child they still have to think about it. After years of playing, you forget that it is not a natural movement).<br /><br />Then came the 1/2 hour game. I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. They were great! Running around after the ball and each other, they listened to the coaches shouted instructions with the skill of pros! Unfortunately they all listened to both coaches equally and weren't really sure which goal to shoot at or which way to turn and run, so there was a lot of running in circles. Two little girls on opposite teams were holding hands in the middle of the field talking. Tristan decided he needed hold up the goal post with another little girl at one point (Uncle Ryan insisted he was flirting). One little girl refused to put the ball down and pouted when it was taken away by the coach. And the best part was Tristan, who ran over to us a number of times asking for HIS soccer ball, because someone took the other one away! LMAO! Nick and I would laugh and wave him back on the field telling him he had to go get that one back, and he would smile, laugh and run back to get the game ball!<br /><br />He had a blast and out of the 8 children on the team, Tristan and another little girl were the only kids on the field for almost the whole 30 minutes! The coach was encouraging and I give him tons of credit for taking on this job. He certainly earned his wings!!! Upon leaving (which Tristan did NOT want to do), he asked to go back tomorrow and he refused to take his sweaty jersey until right before nap at!<br /><br />I had no idea what to expect coming in to this as a mom new to this world of Kiddie Soccer, but I was thrilled with Tristan's reaction to the sport, and my own reaction to what basically can be called organized chaos! I have to say thank you to the BTSA and their volunteer coaches for running such a great program and for making a skeptic and pessimist have to rethink her ideas of Kiddie Soccer. It was such a joy watching my son playing and loving a game that I loved as a child and adult! And thank you to those mommy's out there who gave the BTSA props when I wasn't sure it would be the right place for Tristan to play!</div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-64797577401884099622010-09-25T21:49:00.007-04:002010-09-25T23:38:24.024-04:00In Which Amy Tries to Understand Banning Books<div align="justify">The ALA (American Library Association) is launching Banned Books Week from 9/25 - 10/2. The tagline for this "celebration" is <a href="http://www.ala.org/ala/issuesadvocacy/banned/bannedbooksweek/index.cfm">Banned Books Week: Celebrating the Freedom to Read</a>.</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">Really?</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">I mean, <strong>really</strong>? Has book banning gotten <strong>so huge and out of control</strong> that it needs a whole week dedicated to it?</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">I love to read. Ask anyone who knows me or even sorta knows me, reading is my life. Running a close second and third to reading are writing and scarfing down pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream while wearing stretchy pants and watching Orlando Bloom movies, but I digress.</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">But I don't get banning books. How can you ban a book? Who gets to decide a book is "filthy" or "trashy" or "anti-family" or any of the others phrases that crazy nutjobs use? Can you really just remove a book from library shelves and reading lists because some whiny parents who probably haven't opened a book since high school suddenly got it in their heads that their kids' AP English teacher is peddling smut?</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">God, this kind of crap pisses me off.</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">Do you know what and who's on the Banned Books Lists? I mean, you've got the <a href="http://www.ala.org/ala/issuesadvocacy/banned/frequentlychallenged/challengedclassics/index.cfm">Usual Suspects of English Literature</a>--including <em>The Catcher in the Rye</em>, <em>To Kill a Mockingbird</em>, <em>The Grapes of Wrath</em>, <em>A Separate Peace</em>, <em>1984</em> and <em>The Great Gatsby</em> (all of which, excluding <em>To Kill a Mockingbird</em> and <em>1984</em>, make me want to stick pins in my eyes)--plus the Harry Potter series and pretty much every book written by Stephen King and Judy Blume, but you won't believe some of the others. You're going to die laughing<span style="color:#ffff66;">*</span>:</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"><em>Captain Underpants</em> (series) by Dave Pilkey </div><div align="justify"><em>Bridge To Terabithia</em> by Katherine Paterson </div><div align="justify"><em>A Wrinkle in Time</em> by Madeline L’Engle </div><div align="justify">And my two absolute favourites: </div><div align="justify"><em>Junie B. Jones</em> (series) by Barbara Park </div><div align="justify"><em>Fahrenheit 451</em> by Ray Bradbury </div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">C'mon, people! <em>Junie B. Jones</em>? Are you freaking kidding me? It's a chapter book written for elementary schoolers! What could possibly be wrong with it? Because Junie is a little sassy and acts too big for her britches now and then? Hello! What elementary schooler doesn't? I have a 3 year old who's sassy and acts too big for her britches. Junie always does right in the end and learns a good lesson.</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">I can't even fathom banning <em>Fahrenheit 451.</em> They do know that book is about <strong>BOOK BANNING AND BURNING</strong>, right? You'd think that the right wing fruitloops who decided that <em>Fahrenheit 451</em> needed to be banned would actually like the book and its ideals: Books are bad, reading is bad, critical thought is bad, and etc. The reasons that the novel was originally banned was because of the violence, disregard for human life and hedonism. But, if you <strong>really read</strong> <em>Fahrenheit 451</em>, you'll soon learn that the reason the book's population is so violent, hedonistic, and unintelligent was because books were being banned and destroyed in their world. </div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">Irony thy name is book banning.</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">While I do think some books deserve to have marshmallows roasted over them (Stephanie Meyer, <em>Twilight</em> hack, I'm looking at you, sweetheart), in this day and age, not enough kids are reading. And what they are choosing to read is getting banned more and more often. If you keep taking books out of the hands of kids and restricting what they have access to, how can we raise them into adults with opinions, ideas, and thoughts of their own?</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">I could never try to remove a book from a library shelf or high school reading list. Not only is it wrong, self-destructive, and just plain silly, I just don't have the wherewithal to start a letter-writing campaign and a legal battle just because some fictional character in a novel decided to say "fuck." Once.</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">So, go grab your copy of <em>Slaughterhouse-Five</em>, <em>Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret</em>, <em>Heather Has Two Mommies</em>, or <em>The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big, Round Things</em> and get ready to celebrate Banned Books Week; because if we don't celebrate it, who will?</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 133px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521060726127677250" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-oQrBPtkYQU/TJ6_eoQzT0I/AAAAAAAAAIE/eXhyatb7AAo/s200/bbtall_lg.jpg" /> <div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ffff66;">*These books are on the Top 100 Banned/Challenged Books 2000-2009.</span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3693679634561956016.post-75374575075327308192010-09-12T19:26:00.001-04:002010-09-13T01:19:15.664-04:00In Which Amy Views Her Future of Kids' Activities and Approved Snacks<p>So Cara is the volunteer coach for Will's soccer team. I think that is awesome. Volunteering is not really my thing. Lizzie's isn't involved with anything (yet, but I see Brownies and Girl Scouts in her future if not for a direct supplier for the cookies alone). I know Erick probably wants to get her involved with some sort of sport, but Kids' Crazy Sports Parents scare me.</p><p>I always picture Kids' Crazy Sports Parents as a pompous and officious little someone with a clipboard, doling out orders to the other parents because he's the one "in charge." </p><p>Someone whose wife shops at Whole Foods and buys $27 bottles of organic truffle oil because it looks pretty on the counter top.</p><p>Someone who comes up with and makes impossible to follow or understand "flow charts" with phone trees and snack lists.</p><p>Someone who will make Erick (or me, to be honest) react like this if we don't bring an Approved Snack:</p><p><object style="BACKGROUND-IMAGE: url(http://i2.ytimg.com/vi/MeukHLf1V0Q/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/MeukHLf1V0Q?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/MeukHLf1V0Q?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></p><p>Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I can see this happening.</p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18035371053836444489noreply@blogger.com2