I apparently have a child with a beat box for a mouth. She aspires to 90's rapping greatness.
I'd like to point out that she does this responsively as well. The loud noises you hear are from me as I try to get her to make them herself.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Murder and Mayhem
Wow. I'm becoming one of those people I hate who only posts once a month. Sorry about that, to those of you who haven't given up on this blog. To those who have, you'll never know it because you don't check in anymore, but I don't blame you.
My wonderful husband has been saying for the last couple of weeks, "We really have to get going weeding the back garden. It's completely overgrown." Then I get snarly and storm off in a huff because he's singling out my failure to hold up my end of the yard work and it's not fair because I'm doing other stuff and I have lots of other stuff to do and if he'd just give me a for-crying-out-loud *chance* to get all this stuff done and . . . yes, I'm storming off in a huff because he's right. And boy was he right. I finally steeled myself and put BC down for her nap this morning and then marched outside expecting to spend a productive but not strenuous half hour doing this task that my husband thought was necessary because I'm a dutiful wife.
Two hours later, there were carcasses all over the yard. And I was in the shower trying to scrub down to my natural skin color from the brownish-green color all over me.
When we moved in to this house, I decided that I loved the previous owners' garden plans and I would do my level best to keep the beds pristine. There were iris and popppies and cone flowers and all manner of roses and lilies. They were positioned just right and were shown to their best advantage. I not only admired the previous owner's eye for gardening, but I sincerely hoped to preserve her hard work relatively weed-free and with undying commitment.
Then BC started shrieking and woke me from my dream state, and reality set in along with a mess of weeds, some of which were enjoying eye-level fellowship with the trees in our backyard.
I'm not kidding when I say that some of the things I pulled out of the garden and threw recklessly behind me onto Matt's beautifully mown yard (and -- I found out later -- little piles of Charlie poo, making clean-up unfriendly) were over five feet tall. I honestly don't know if they are weeds. But I honestly don't care. I have of necessity adopted a new attitude toward gardening. It's called the "I Don't Like It" method. It involves stumbling upon things that may or may not have cost money, but that now do not suit my fancy. When happening upon a victim, the first step is to consider it for a moment (longer if the luxury of time permits, which it usually doesn't). I then tug gently on it to see how rooted it is, and thereafter make a game time decision about how much I like or dislike it. The primary rule is that if I don't like it for any reason, it comes out. The secondary rule takes into account the ease of removal, which may then require reconsideration of my initial decision about its worthiness to remain. There are several roses in this bed that I would rather not preserve because they are hopelessly lost causes. But roses have thorns, as we all know thanks to Poison's lyrical ballad*, and I choose not to take them on. I find myself liking them much more when I consider what a pain in the arse it is going to be to remove them. This entire decision-making process takes approximately 4.5 seconds -- often far shorter than the actual extraction.
This method's primary rule has an inverse, which is "It doesn't matter if it's a weed, I like it." Some very cute little bright purple and pink flowers were saved from certain death today by their very cuteness, though I have no clue what they are.
Having applied this method as thoroughly and subjectively as possible, I created this:
The pile of death and destruction took two lawn trash bags to contain. And the now-cleared spots you can see inside the little white fencing that Charlie enjoys stepping over cavalierly to go and eat the bushes is worlds removed from what it was before. I wish I'd taken "before" pics. You couldn't see the ground at all before I weeded.
I strongly recommend this gardening style. Mindless, impulsive carnage is ever so much more fun than the carefully planned kind.
* Could we all just take a moment to appreciate the emo sigh that is the prelude to this song. Gutsy. That was long before emo was a "thing."
My wonderful husband has been saying for the last couple of weeks, "We really have to get going weeding the back garden. It's completely overgrown." Then I get snarly and storm off in a huff because he's singling out my failure to hold up my end of the yard work and it's not fair because I'm doing other stuff and I have lots of other stuff to do and if he'd just give me a for-crying-out-loud *chance* to get all this stuff done and . . . yes, I'm storming off in a huff because he's right. And boy was he right. I finally steeled myself and put BC down for her nap this morning and then marched outside expecting to spend a productive but not strenuous half hour doing this task that my husband thought was necessary because I'm a dutiful wife.
Two hours later, there were carcasses all over the yard. And I was in the shower trying to scrub down to my natural skin color from the brownish-green color all over me.
When we moved in to this house, I decided that I loved the previous owners' garden plans and I would do my level best to keep the beds pristine. There were iris and popppies and cone flowers and all manner of roses and lilies. They were positioned just right and were shown to their best advantage. I not only admired the previous owner's eye for gardening, but I sincerely hoped to preserve her hard work relatively weed-free and with undying commitment.
Then BC started shrieking and woke me from my dream state, and reality set in along with a mess of weeds, some of which were enjoying eye-level fellowship with the trees in our backyard.
I'm not kidding when I say that some of the things I pulled out of the garden and threw recklessly behind me onto Matt's beautifully mown yard (and -- I found out later -- little piles of Charlie poo, making clean-up unfriendly) were over five feet tall. I honestly don't know if they are weeds. But I honestly don't care. I have of necessity adopted a new attitude toward gardening. It's called the "I Don't Like It" method. It involves stumbling upon things that may or may not have cost money, but that now do not suit my fancy. When happening upon a victim, the first step is to consider it for a moment (longer if the luxury of time permits, which it usually doesn't). I then tug gently on it to see how rooted it is, and thereafter make a game time decision about how much I like or dislike it. The primary rule is that if I don't like it for any reason, it comes out. The secondary rule takes into account the ease of removal, which may then require reconsideration of my initial decision about its worthiness to remain. There are several roses in this bed that I would rather not preserve because they are hopelessly lost causes. But roses have thorns, as we all know thanks to Poison's lyrical ballad*, and I choose not to take them on. I find myself liking them much more when I consider what a pain in the arse it is going to be to remove them. This entire decision-making process takes approximately 4.5 seconds -- often far shorter than the actual extraction.
This method's primary rule has an inverse, which is "It doesn't matter if it's a weed, I like it." Some very cute little bright purple and pink flowers were saved from certain death today by their very cuteness, though I have no clue what they are.
Having applied this method as thoroughly and subjectively as possible, I created this:
The pile of death and destruction took two lawn trash bags to contain. And the now-cleared spots you can see inside the little white fencing that Charlie enjoys stepping over cavalierly to go and eat the bushes is worlds removed from what it was before. I wish I'd taken "before" pics. You couldn't see the ground at all before I weeded.
I strongly recommend this gardening style. Mindless, impulsive carnage is ever so much more fun than the carefully planned kind.
* Could we all just take a moment to appreciate the emo sigh that is the prelude to this song. Gutsy. That was long before emo was a "thing."
Monday, June 21, 2010
Auntie Michelle
This is my most wonderful friend Michelle and myself:
It's kind of scary how much we are alike. We're kind of the same person in two bodies. Like the blonde scary woman in Best in Show; we share a brain.
Or something.
As you can see, she looks much better after my pregnancy than I do.
We met in Canada at Augustine College (which I just realized has really snazzed up its website -- love it) while she was house mum and I was a student. She kept me from being petty and stupid, and I kept her a little bit more sane than she would otherwise have been. That says a lot about her situation, really.
She was then the maid of honor at Matt's and my wedding, and a good time was had by all.
Fast forward 6 years and she comes to visit us at our new house to see our new baby. That was about a month ago. And an even better time was had by all.
We discussed draperies, diapers and good books, as well as cooking and babies. I happened to have a very healthy specimen of the latter there for observation and comment. (We commented on the specimen. The specimen didn't comment so much.)
Here is Michelle observing the specimen, or perhaps having just observed the specimen and taken a break from doing so for purposes of looking at the camera:
Mahvelous, no?
One morning, we were cooking, as we were wont to do. I suspect we were making oatmeal buttermilk pancakes, though I am not certain. As we cooked, I had BC on the play mat in the living room. Soon, I realized that the chatter from the other room had ceased. Becoming concerned, I went into the living room to observe. I observed the following. (Grab your popcorn; it's a long'un.)
I did not cut this video because I thought it would make the point even more forcefully if I didn't. This child was not accidentally gumming the table leg. She was quite purposefully doing so. In fact, she continued to do so for a good while. The adequacy of my parenthood may well be called into question when I say it, but I have another 3 minute video of her eating the table leg. And there was a good minute in between videos. It was absurd.
Michelle, whose voice you hear in the background, is not only a compassionate and wonderful friend, but she has very humane instincts. She told me this was all quite funny. So I kept filming. I concur that it is ridiculously funny. I sincerely hope you do as well, because I have a legal career to maintain here.
It's kind of scary how much we are alike. We're kind of the same person in two bodies. Like the blonde scary woman in Best in Show; we share a brain.
Or something.
As you can see, she looks much better after my pregnancy than I do.
We met in Canada at Augustine College (which I just realized has really snazzed up its website -- love it) while she was house mum and I was a student. She kept me from being petty and stupid, and I kept her a little bit more sane than she would otherwise have been. That says a lot about her situation, really.
She was then the maid of honor at Matt's and my wedding, and a good time was had by all.
Fast forward 6 years and she comes to visit us at our new house to see our new baby. That was about a month ago. And an even better time was had by all.
We discussed draperies, diapers and good books, as well as cooking and babies. I happened to have a very healthy specimen of the latter there for observation and comment. (We commented on the specimen. The specimen didn't comment so much.)
Here is Michelle observing the specimen, or perhaps having just observed the specimen and taken a break from doing so for purposes of looking at the camera:
Mahvelous, no?
One morning, we were cooking, as we were wont to do. I suspect we were making oatmeal buttermilk pancakes, though I am not certain. As we cooked, I had BC on the play mat in the living room. Soon, I realized that the chatter from the other room had ceased. Becoming concerned, I went into the living room to observe. I observed the following. (Grab your popcorn; it's a long'un.)
I did not cut this video because I thought it would make the point even more forcefully if I didn't. This child was not accidentally gumming the table leg. She was quite purposefully doing so. In fact, she continued to do so for a good while. The adequacy of my parenthood may well be called into question when I say it, but I have another 3 minute video of her eating the table leg. And there was a good minute in between videos. It was absurd.
Michelle, whose voice you hear in the background, is not only a compassionate and wonderful friend, but she has very humane instincts. She told me this was all quite funny. So I kept filming. I concur that it is ridiculously funny. I sincerely hope you do as well, because I have a legal career to maintain here.
Happy [belated] Father's Day!
This was Matt's first Father's Day, and what a joy it was! I am daily amazed at my little family and how it is changing and growing. BC brings out new and wonderful things in us every day. (We won't mention what else she can bring out in me at 3 a.m. but she doesn't do that too much any more!)
I knew that Matt had come to terms with the idea that we couldn't put off parenthood much longer before my head (or womb) exploded. But I didn't imagine the ways that he would embrace it.
Matt, your wife is awed by you as you have anticipated and then embraced becoming a father to our little BC.
When I was moving from hinting to pressuring about starting a family, you just came out and said, "Let's go for it."
When I came to you completely convinced I was pregnant because I was all of 2 days late, you may have thought I was crazy (and it wouldn't be the first time). But you went with me to buy the test. That positive result made me cry (like most good news does), and you sat on the floor of our bedroom where my knees had given out, and you held me and prayed with me and loved that moment just as I did.
You made me breakfast every morning that summer to make sure I ate well.
You did not use your brand new grill -- much as I know you wanted to -- because it made me pukey to smell BBQ. [Please, use it as much as you want to this summer. You've definitely earned it!]
You patiently listened as I read to you each week about our baby's newly developed arm buds or eyes or hearing or taste buds or . . .
I started researching how I wanted this baby to come into the world and I landed on Bradley's method. And I didn't give you enough credit. I thought you'd never do it, or you'd give me reasons it would never work. But the second I mentioned it, you told me to go for it. You faithfully went to every class and did the work and agreed with me completely that our baby would be born as naturally as possible. And you never doubted my ability to have a natural birth. I can't tell you what that meant to me.
You massaged my sore feet and watched my belly move with BC's hiccups and took on extra housework while I was pregnant.
The night of the big event, you didn't bat an eyelash. You knelt beside the couch with me as I experienced my first contractions and stared labor in the face. And then you calmly went about packing up the car, only to hustle in for my next contraction!
And you pulled me through that labor with a calmness and love I deeply admired. I know how much you love me, and that night was a shining example. You completely awed my mother!
As scared as you must have been, you embraced our little girl as she entered our lives. And you haven't looked back. You may have felt a little awkward as you took that tiny person in your arms; you may have been intimidated by those first diaper changes and dressing sessions. But you did it.
This summer, you are caring for BC with patience that I don't even think you knew you had.
For all of the crying fits and spit-ups and messy didies and tears, you are learning to be a source of comfort and happiness for our baby.
Even when you read to her from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles about judgment and hellfire and gory deaths, she hears your voice and it calms her. (But I don't recommend that particular reading material for much longer. Sooner or later she'll "get it," and it will make for long nights.)
When she needs horsey rides on your knee or belly tickles or airplane rides or roller coaster rocking, you are there for her . . . and for me.
You are amazing and I love you. Happy Father's Day, Bear! BC and I are lucky girls.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Finally!
I can't believe how long it's been since I've posted! Matt's year was winding down and I have headed back to work (part time), which has been quite a change for us. And that is especially so for Matt, who is now home with BC when I'm at work. Suddenly, it doesn't seem quite enough for Matt to acknowledge that babies cry a lot . . .
I had written a "happy three-month birthday" post for BC. Kind of. I couldn't quite finish it because I couldn't concentrate. She was screaming her head off while I wrote it! But now I'm going to prepare a happy four-month birthday post and post some videos here instead.
This is a classic inconsolable BC moment. The only thing that would slow down her crabbing was Daddy's bouncing her. You'll see that nothing short of constant motion is acceptable. Then, about 3/4 of the way through, Charlie happened past. You can see his poor possum tail bopping past, and then he licks BC's feet. Then he licks BC's binky, which was not well-received. Silly beast.
Please bear with me! I'll update . . . slowly!
I had written a "happy three-month birthday" post for BC. Kind of. I couldn't quite finish it because I couldn't concentrate. She was screaming her head off while I wrote it! But now I'm going to prepare a happy four-month birthday post and post some videos here instead.
This is a classic inconsolable BC moment. The only thing that would slow down her crabbing was Daddy's bouncing her. You'll see that nothing short of constant motion is acceptable. Then, about 3/4 of the way through, Charlie happened past. You can see his poor possum tail bopping past, and then he licks BC's feet. Then he licks BC's binky, which was not well-received. Silly beast.
Please bear with me! I'll update . . . slowly!
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Two month pics -- Growing too fast!
 |
| At dinner for my very first Mother's Day! |
 |
| Sleepytime! |
 |
| More sleepytime! |
 |
| She can smile. She just chooses not to. |
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| Little smiles! |
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| At Longhorn with Grampa |
Monday, May 17, 2010
Daddy's girl
I have to admit that I wasn't sure how Matt would respond to the whole fatherhood gig. I knew he'd be a great father; I just wasn't sure whether he would feel comfortable in the role.
Apparently, he does.
Poor guy has been completely inundated since she was born. But he has always made time in the evenings to hold her and to play with his "Baby Girl."
He also has a curious method of "calming" BC.
He insisted when BC first came home that if he just matched pitch with her wailing she would simmer down. I'm surprised he didn't go hoarse, because she wasn't slowing down at all. When his method didn't work, his response was generally to laugh heartily.
(Placing her bum on his head did not improve her mood. He's just lucky I'd put the diaper on properly!)
I must admit that it annoyed me to no end that he found it all so darned amusing. After being around the shrieking all day, I was not nearly as amused.
But then he discovered another method:
It involves Matt's singing a particularly cowboyish theme (Bonanza, Lone Ranger, The Gambler) and bouncing BC along on his knee. Not an uncommon method, I'm sure. But he's honed it quite well, and it now requires a uniform:
It is now known as the "Giddyap" method of child soothing. I'm sure it will soon take the place of Happiest Baby on the Block and Dr. Spock.
Apparently, he does.
Poor guy has been completely inundated since she was born. But he has always made time in the evenings to hold her and to play with his "Baby Girl."
He also has a curious method of "calming" BC.
He insisted when BC first came home that if he just matched pitch with her wailing she would simmer down. I'm surprised he didn't go hoarse, because she wasn't slowing down at all. When his method didn't work, his response was generally to laugh heartily.
(Placing her bum on his head did not improve her mood. He's just lucky I'd put the diaper on properly!)
I must admit that it annoyed me to no end that he found it all so darned amusing. After being around the shrieking all day, I was not nearly as amused.
But then he discovered another method:
It involves Matt's singing a particularly cowboyish theme (Bonanza, Lone Ranger, The Gambler) and bouncing BC along on his knee. Not an uncommon method, I'm sure. But he's honed it quite well, and it now requires a uniform:
It is now known as the "Giddyap" method of child soothing. I'm sure it will soon take the place of Happiest Baby on the Block and Dr. Spock.
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