tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12387219814180191522024-03-13T23:47:10.661-06:00because I really can't get enough of myselfno, I'm not vain - I think I just need more attention.melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.comBlogger397125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-85480240205365878002023-09-15T22:55:00.001-06:002023-09-15T22:55:32.302-06:00<br /><br /> Remember when I was young? No? Me neither.<br /><br />Sometimes my brain is like, "You could be 28 still!!" But my body goes, "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, that's cute." And you know how science and crap say that brains rule over bodies? That's wrong.<br /><br />So back when I was young I used to be funny and write blog posts that people actually wanted to read. It was a good time. Now things are different. You know what I've been entertaining myself with a lot lately? AI. Text and images.<br /><br />At first I was like, "AI is evil and I don't want to touch it. Because someday when it takes over the world, I'll have contributed to it's power!" But then I was like, "Meh, it's gonna happen either way."<br /><br />I discovered that playing with AI is fun. And easy. It makes me laugh all the time. Like when it tries to make baby fingers and they come out as nightmares. Or when I make it write stupid poems about random things.<br /><br />So I feel like I'm going to be posting more often. But a lot of it could be AI generated. Not the boring, helpful, I'm-trying-to-be-a-professional type of AI generated stuff though. More of the look-what-I-made-it-do-now stuff. <br /><br />Or.....I dunno......who knows. Maybe I won't. <br /><br />But for right now, here's a picture and wonderful poem that AI and I created about leftovers:<div><br />In the fridge, a graveyard drear, </div><div>Leftovers lurked, inspiring fear. </div><div>Beneath the foil, they'd bided time, </div><div>A culinary grime, a ghastly crime.<br /><br />Once a feast, a taste sensation, <div>Now a detestable and dire situation. </div><div>They'd morphed and mutated, a moldy surprise, </div><div>A symphony of stenches, a feast for the flies.<br /><br />I ignored the warning, now it's clear, </div><div>Eating those leftovers, I shed a tear. </div><div>What once was savory, now reeks of decay, </div><div>A cautionary tale, for me to convey.<br /><br />Oh, the regret that churns in my gut, </div><div>For consuming that food, I'm now in a rut. </div><div>I'll toss out the remnants, let them find their rest, </div><div>And vow to never again put my colon to the test!<p></p></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ_fvobqxXtujnWucs0fjnnA0xsgNPYWWrlBvD30tO1481OSZaL5te5KXvV6bFKCwdZyfooNGFhbPpWrgud0K1U7K0t2PYOn9RXYdqZiOL5qxEsCnO0QHHZ-kMKrrn95e8iyVlTDDI5IWrDUQCVmUb2WXYINOg9gUSbivi7TUcoQq02fv4Q86YHW5R2274" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="924" height="661" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ_fvobqxXtujnWucs0fjnnA0xsgNPYWWrlBvD30tO1481OSZaL5te5KXvV6bFKCwdZyfooNGFhbPpWrgud0K1U7K0t2PYOn9RXYdqZiOL5qxEsCnO0QHHZ-kMKrrn95e8iyVlTDDI5IWrDUQCVmUb2WXYINOg9gUSbivi7TUcoQq02fv4Q86YHW5R2274=w659-h661" width="659" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-78415642232146671752021-10-20T12:20:00.003-06:002021-10-20T12:20:36.772-06:00Living in a House Full of TeenagersSometimes my 6 year old, Spike, must thinks he's 16. I mean, when all you have are teenage siblings, I guess the whole "treat mom like she knows nothing" schtick just rubs off easily? Because that's what we have going on here the past few days. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uLYSDVC-TI4/YXBcZqCl_yI/AAAAAAAAKHM/vDmp_Xt4Yo8xAhxKtOHx45H5BrQ1bY0KACLcBGAsYHQ/s1961/20210130_164724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="1961" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uLYSDVC-TI4/YXBcZqCl_yI/AAAAAAAAKHM/vDmp_Xt4Yo8xAhxKtOHx45H5BrQ1bY0KACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210130_164724.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>Every fall, when it starts to get cold, I refuse to turn on the heater for as long as possible. You know that smell that happens when you first use your heater and it makes you feel like you're choking on the dust of a thousand mummies? I hate that. So I just put on a sweater. And socks. And slippers. And maybe carry a blanket around. All in the name of avoiding mummy dust. </div><div><br /></div><div>Spike however has other opinions. </div><div><br /></div><div>Do you know how many times I've heard that kid yell, "Why do you always have to keep it so cold in here?!!" At least 8 times a day. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning my husband was getting the kids ready and off to school while I slept in and Spike came into my bedroom just to stand next to my bed and yell, "MOM! While I'm gone will you PLEASE turn on the heater?!!" And then he wouldn't go away until I said I would. </div><div><br /></div><div>To be fair, it has been fairly chilly in our house lately. But still - MUMMY DUST. </div><div><br /></div><div>Spike also pulls out the teenager "duh mom" moments at other times. Like I'm planning a Halloween party for him kind of last minute, so we printed out invitations and were going over the guest list. I wrote all his friends' names down and emphasized how important it was that they got the invitations today at school....because the party is on saturday (last minute-like). And then I said, "Ok, don't forget you'll be giving the invitations to these people" and read off the list of names again. You know, just to cement things in his brain. And then he deadpans, "MOM, I think I know who my friends are." </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm waiting for him to master the eye roll to go with his sass.</div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G6NlSoTi-aA/YXBcZASpCsI/AAAAAAAAKHE/dKHff5qMYbAuhQ9pT-hISNwJUyT_XD4IgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2543/20210119_231003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="342" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G6NlSoTi-aA/YXBcZASpCsI/AAAAAAAAKHE/dKHff5qMYbAuhQ9pT-hISNwJUyT_XD4IgCLcBGAsYHQ/w697-h342/20210119_231003.jpg" width="697" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Spike in his Luchador outfit about to ruin his father's day.)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>There are days where I'm positive I'm the only adult in a house full of teenagers (because sometimes husbands forget they're also adults). It's super fun and also great for my mental health. I'm not going crazy AT ALL. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Except that I am. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Please send help. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And chocolate.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-80650978853961798832021-10-07T00:53:00.000-06:002021-10-07T00:53:14.425-06:00I still hate showersEarlier today I watched 14 year old Monkey playing his electric guitar. He's getting pretty good. And then I thought about a video that I posted when he was 2, loving the new little plastic guitar he'd just gotten for Christmas, "playing" along to Guns N Roses while wearing snowman pajamas, spiderman slippers, and a pink binky. And then I wanted to watch that video, but a horrible thought crossed my mind: "Oh my gosh, does my blog even still exist?!" So I came and found it. Because yes, it's still here. I'm just not.
Which is sad...
This thing used to bring me so much joy. I could get all my weirdo thoughts out there. And then I could go read other people's blogs and feel like I was making friends. And then I'd meet those other people in real life and realize that I actually was friends with them. And then we'd all blog and be friends. I MISS THAT.
I was reading through a bunch of old posts tonight. I wrote a lot of stuff about diapers.
Back when I used to write a lot I had 4 tiny kids. With easy tiny kid problems. And chubby tiny kid cheeks. And funny tiny kid stories.
You know what I have now?
Four teenagers and a 6 year old.
No one ever warned me that when you reach the teenager stage of parenting that you'll have quite a few moments of wishing super SUPER hard to go back to the days when you had 3 kids in diapers. Because as kids get bigger, so do their problems, so does the stress, so does the amount of money they need, and so do the amount of times you say "time passes too fast!!!"
And you know what else teenagers will give you? Gray hairs. Lots of them. And also, when you try and lie about your age, no one believes you're 28 when you're dropping your child off at college.
That's right.
I HAVE A KID IN COLLEGE NOW.
Time passes too fast!!!
Thank goodness for my little Spike. He's my 6 year old. He's the sweetness my days need. When my 16 year old does nothing but grunt at me, and my 14 year old smells up the entire basement with his shoes, and my 13 year old is having a PMS driven meltdown about placemats, and I remember that I'm old enough to have a kid in college, my sweet Spike will run into the room and blow me a kiss. Just because he wanted to. And then I don't have the mental breakdown that was rapidly downloading in my brain.
But you know, after all these years of neglecting my blog while my children have grown, there is one thing that has remained the same. I still really hate showering. It takes SO LONG. And you have to redo hair and makeup and wah wah wah wah ugh. Showers. Totally overrated.melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-53901394634006875352016-03-11T13:23:00.000-07:002016-03-11T13:23:00.890-07:00A Not Yet Forgotten MomentI have one grandma that loves telling us stories, but my other grandma never thinks her stories would interest us and therefore keeps them to herself. Now that she's aging, she's sadly starting to forget the stories. And besides that, she's wrong - her stories would very much interest me.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jI0tABP7Yeg/VuHXp12KSHI/AAAAAAAABPQ/MD0QpZKWPig/s1600/grandma%2Bvan%2BChristmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="395" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jI0tABP7Yeg/VuHXp12KSHI/AAAAAAAABPQ/MD0QpZKWPig/s400/grandma%2Bvan%2BChristmas.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandma Deonna (Morgan) Van Nosdol, my dad in the middle, and my two uncles.</td></tr>
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Sometimes I try to get tricky and ask round about questions to get her to tell me stuff from her past. She gets upset when she can't remember certain things. But then sometimes things just come right out. <br />
<br />
For instance, a few weeks ago I was talking to her about a frustration I was having with one of my kids, and asked what my dad was like when he was younger. Grandma started talking about how my dad was a very calm and serious child. He would go outside behind their house, over by the clothes line, and build stuff all day. He had wood and nails and he would keep himself entertained while my Uncle Bart played Tarzan by climbing all over their swing set.<br />
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She got a little smile on her face while she remembered. It makes me think that maybe she misses those days. And that maybe I should focus a little less on the frustrating parts of raising kids because some day I'll be the old forgetful one, happy to remember things like nerf guns and school plays.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-36504045450853215772016-03-10T12:39:00.001-07:002016-03-10T12:39:51.482-07:00get it together manWe've been making changes around here lately. Because I was tired of feeling like we were constantly playing "why is life going too fast, how many things did we forget today, and can't I just take a nap?!" (It's not a very fun game to play, and yet we seem to be doing it a lot.)<br />
<br />
So I made a meal plan - complete with assigned children helpers (because my kids should really know how to cook stuff by now). And we listed ideas as a family, and individually, on what we could work on. Then I made "expectations of...." papers for each person that are now hanging on our wall. (Not that everyone always follows through on what is expected of them, but at least now no one can claim, "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to shove my dirty socks in the crack between my dresser and the wall!" and "You never said I had to shower more than once a year!" and "What homework?")<br />
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I also made some work goals. Among them was finally launching my own independent online store (which wasn't hard, but took many many hours). If you want to look at it, here you go: http://dorky-doodles.myshopify.com<br />
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One of the biggest changes though is that I gave up my office. <br />
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I really liked having an office. It had a door that closed and everything, and it wasn't in my bedroom (that was my least favorite arrangement ever). But now we have another bedroom and my office lives here.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YKEvjajEWmA/VuHDFVeOGUI/AAAAAAAABO0/Cku6wBLVcmY/s1600/20160307_104256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YKEvjajEWmA/VuHDFVeOGUI/AAAAAAAABO0/Cku6wBLVcmY/s640/20160307_104256.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
That's our living room. Except we call it "the front room" because it's not like it ever functioned as a formal living room or anything. <br />
<br />
Most of our books were in this room before. We made the kids move all of them. You wouldn't believe the amount of drama that incurred. Opie was like, "I'm sweating!" And I was like, "It's good for you - it's exercise." And then Two Bits was like, "I hate exercise!" And that was followed by very loud complaining, some tears, and much whining. But it got done and no one even died.<br />
<br />
And now Monkey has his own room for the very first time ever, and Opie is preparing to share his room with Spike (once Spike decides to start sleeping through the night - because I'd rather hang out in my room at 3 AM than in a room that smells like 11 year old boy feet).<br />
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There are some pros and cons to this new working situation. <br />
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For one, I can no longer pretend to not be home when someone knocks on the front door. Because the widow right there looks out onto the front porch, and it's really hard to pretend to not notice when someone is looking right at you.<br />
<br />
Also, I really miss having a door. Doors are my favorite.<br />
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However, this new location has greatly improved my ability to multitask. For instance, I can now do laundry, and play peek-a-boo over the edge of my desk, while working all day.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IB6VgTRpfyI/VuHDHCUSsXI/AAAAAAAABPA/7hZ2EsaektQ/s1600/20160309_123902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IB6VgTRpfyI/VuHDHCUSsXI/AAAAAAAABPA/7hZ2EsaektQ/s640/20160309_123902.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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And it's not just a game for babies, but is enjoyed by children of all ages.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mpm4DYqmbA4/VuHDFBvLcEI/AAAAAAAABPA/Ayu-SSdlwEw/s1600/20160308_145307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mpm4DYqmbA4/VuHDFBvLcEI/AAAAAAAABPA/Ayu-SSdlwEw/s640/20160308_145307.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Also, it gave Opie the amazing opportunity to make and enforce this sign:<br />
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I'm starting to feel like things are running a little more smoothly around here. I wouldn't say that we're completely on top of everything, but I don't feel like I'm constantly on the verge of becoming Gertrude the Unstable Stress Donkey anymore, and that's never a bad thing.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-32170884017191834252015-11-20T12:00:00.000-07:002015-11-20T12:00:02.899-07:00Snowpocalypse 2105Monday was a really bad for probably everyone in the town in which I live. Because on Monday we had a fairly decent SNOWPOCALYPSE. And it was not pleasant.<br />
<br />
Monday was the day that Opie was supposed to get braces. His first set of braces. Because he's lucky enough to need them twice (and while we're on the subject, teeth are ridiculously expensive. If you're planning on having a lot of children and you have small mouth genes, just DON'T DO IT, the orthodontics bills are killer). <br />
<br />
I had worked out my day perfectly. The Jr High gets out early on Mondays so I had scheduled Opie's appointment for when Two Bits would be home to watch Spike. Because being baby free for an hour long orthodontics appointment sounds pretty heavenly. However the skies were being the opposite of heavenly.....if hell can come in frozen form.<br />
<br />
It snowed. And snowed. SO MUCH SNOW.<br />
<br />
I went outside an hour and a half before I needed to pick up Two Bits and Opie and tried to clean off the driveway a little. There was over a foot of heavy snow out there. I spent 20 minutes freezing all of my parts off while Spike screamed (alone) inside, and it didn't really make any difference because the snow had recovered every dent I made. So I gave up and hoped our minivan could power through it all.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This wasn't even all of it, because at this point it was still falling.</td></tr>
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It just kept snowing.<br />
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I left the house 45 minutes early because I was afraid it would take longer to get to the schools. I bundled up Spike and he thankfully fell asleep in his carseat, because the next hour was pure torture.<br />
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For the record, our minivan CANNOT power it's way through deep snow. In case you were naive enough to think it would....like I did.<br />
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Also, here's some handy information - if you run out of salt, using potting soil and charcoal briquettes DO NOT work the same.<br />
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After trying to dig myself out for an hour my next door neighbor came out and tried to help. Then I slid off the edge of the driveway into an area between our driveways that has gravel and we knew I was doomed. So she tried to get her car out of her driveway so she could help me get my kids. But then her car got stuck.<br />
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And it just kept snowing.<br />
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And then severe desperation kicked in.<br />
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The Jr High is about a mile from our house, and Two Bits was expecting me with no other way home. So I got out our wrap and attached Spike to my chest. I threw my coat on backwards to keep him warm and started walking.<br />
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In over a foot of snow.<br />
<br />
In my jeans and boots that really weren't meant to ever see snow in their lives.<br />
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And it just kept snowing.<br />
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<b>DESPERATION. </b><br />
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Luckily I had only gotten to the end of the block when a teenager we go to church with offered me a ride in his truck. Because it was going to take me a LOOOOOOOOOONG time to go that mile. And then back.<br />
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After that I made Husband come home early from work. And between him, our next door neighbor, the 12 year old boy across the street, me, and another hour we managed to get both vehicles unstuck and back in the garages. Then Husband stayed outside shoveling the rest of our driveway and pushing every car that attempted to go down the street.<br />
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That day I know of at least 5 cars, a delivery truck, and a school bus that managed to get stuck in our neighborhood. Trees and bushes (including two of ours) were breaking and falling from all the extra weight. Then every cell phone and landline in town went out. And the internet went down everywhere. And I wondered if we should start boiling water or pulling out our oil lanterns. <br />
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Every time the internet goes down I feel like the world is ending, and this time it felt so much more <i>real</i>. Because, you know, SNOWPOCALYPSE.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's our tree - - it USED to stand upright without problems.</td></tr>
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However the world didn't actually end. And it didn't even snow much other than in our little town. And we woke up to phone and internet service the next morning. And everyone was expected to resume life as usual even though there were still mountains of snow outside and the mild cold I had been sporting had turned into razor blades in my throat and a monkey doing calisthenics in my cranium. But we did it anyway - we resumed.<br />
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But we did have to reschedule that orthodontist appointment. I don't think Opie minded.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-41249661684505614512015-11-19T21:57:00.002-07:002015-11-19T22:04:20.514-07:00Animal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I got the latest version of one of my favorite drawing programs on my Surface today and played. It had been so long since I had used this particular program that I had forgotten how much fun it is. It's perfect for anyone who likes to doodle. And I'm a really big fan of doodling. In fact, I doodled this for <a href="http://illustrationfriday.com/" target="_blank">Illustration Friday</a>. This week's theme is "animal". </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l9bw-1F6JSU/Vk6nEKJHFmI/AAAAAAAAA-A/ioyFOy83O9M/s1600/fox%2Btea%2Btime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l9bw-1F6JSU/Vk6nEKJHFmI/AAAAAAAAA-A/ioyFOy83O9M/s640/fox%2Btea%2Btime.jpg" /></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-18631784535343040912015-10-21T14:58:00.000-06:002015-10-21T14:58:04.605-06:00StuffedEveryone once in awhile I realize that I'm not really trying very hard to improve my artistic abilities. I just settle into my current jobs and don't push myself. But then I kick myself and get all gung ho about the ways that I want to practice and improve. And shortly after that I poop out on myself until the realization hits again. But for RIGHT THIS SECOND, I'm working on it. <br />
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I drew this for Illustration Friday - this week's theme is "stuffed".<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2hRjKkAOHks/Vif6nVcWU6I/AAAAAAAAA3Q/T-vlsoe-bEI/s1600/pumpkin%2Bstuffed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2hRjKkAOHks/Vif6nVcWU6I/AAAAAAAAA3Q/T-vlsoe-bEI/s640/pumpkin%2Bstuffed.jpg" width="600" /></a></div>
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I forced myself to draw the whole thing on my Surface - which my mom gave me over a year ago for the specific purpose of drawing. I've been lazy and have gotten so used to drawing with my mouse at my desktop that it felt weird drawing on a screen again. But the goal is to get good at both. And then I'll start drawing with my toes and see how that goes. Because I'm all about realistic goals here.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-21666777931003172322015-10-02T16:50:00.001-06:002015-10-02T16:50:31.958-06:00The Most Beautiful Velvet CapeWhen my Grandma Millie was a little girl she was kind of spoiled. She was the surprise baby at the end and all her siblings were quite a bit older than her, kind of like our little spoiled Spike. Except her family called her "Toots".<br />
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Because of the age gap she played on her own a lot as a young kid. She had cool toys like a wicker doll stroller and a play washing machine. And one Christmas, her brother gave her a beautiful "grown up girl" doll. </div>
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My grandma lived with her parents on a sheep ranch. They sold the wool to make long underwear for the soldiers during World War II. The ranch was pretty far away from town, and even the "country school" was 15 miles away. Most of the other kids in the area would live with families closer to the school, but my great grandparents didn't want to be away from their little Toots so they rented a small house near the school for her and my great grandmother to stay during the week.</div>
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One of the girls staying at the house next door had a pretty "grown up doll" too. They would play dolls together almost every day after school. Except the girl next door's doll had a fancy velvet cape. And my grandma wanted her doll to have a fancy cape too. This was during a world war, and her family lived on a modest budget, so it's not like velvet was just....around. But she was just a little seven year old girl who really really wanted a doll cape.</div>
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And being the well-loved child that she was, she got that cape.</div>
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Somehow my great grandmother found a scrap of velvet to make a fancy doll cape just to please her Toots. My grandma isn't sure how she managed to do it, but she was thrilled to have a doll cape just like her friend.</div>
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And to this day, whenever my grandma sees a cape, or a scrap of velvet, she remembers how the velvet doll cape her mom made her was the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.</div>
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So, the moral of this story is: You can give your age gap babies really fun nicknames and then spoil them as much as you want, and they'll turn out to be pretty amazing anyway.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This story is about my grandma Mildred (Allen) Ray. I hope to share more family history stories on a regular basis....but since I have a hard time even posting ANYTHING regularly, don't hold your breath.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-10228717713282001402015-09-25T09:54:00.002-06:002015-09-25T09:54:39.227-06:00The MomentThe other day a moment from my past popped into my head. It wasn't an especially pivotal moment or anything, but the impact is still being felt.<br />
<br />
It happened quite a few years ago. We had lived in an apartment and gotten to know some of the other church members in the same complex. I didn't get to know anyone really well -I'm slow at making friends- but you know, I knew who they were and had a general sense of their character and whatever. And then we moved, and I only kept in minimal contact with a couple of the people I knew.<br />
<br />
Fast forward a couple of years.<br />
<br />
Opie was about 4 years old and I had no idea what to do with him. He was especially Dr Jekyl/Mr Hyde-ish back then. He could be the sweetest, most lovable, chubby cheeked cherub and then switch to crazed, destructo, demon child in a fraction of a second for very little cause. It was also when everyone was very young - 4 kids ages 1-5 young - which just made things harder.<br />
<br />
For those who don't know the church we go helps people in lots of different ways, such as offering free counseling to those who need it. Like, real, professional, actual psychologist, counseling. Because it can be overwhelmingly expensive, and we had reached that point.<br />
<br />
This is when IT happened.<br />
<br />
I had to fill out paperwork in a church office dedicated to people who are applying for counseling. It was quite a bit of paperwork, and as I sat there I noticed that across the room another woman was also filling out counseling paperwork. And this woman used to go to church with us when we lived in the apartment. And we knew each other well enough to recognize each other. <br />
<br />
Except that we didn't.<br />
<br />
We both just ducked our heads and kept filling out paperwork, pretending there was no one else in the room.<br />
<br />
And that was it. THE MOMENT. <br />
<br />
It doesn't seem like a huge moment at all. But here's the thing - I remember thinking, "I should go say hi and see if she's doing ok, which she obviously isn't seeing as she's seeking professional counseling..." But I was too embarrassed and afraid. I mean, what do you say to someone in a situation like that? I would imagine the conversation like this:<br />
<br />
Me: Hey, I haven't seen you in awhile. So I see you're failing at adulthood just as much as me. High five!!<br />
<br />
Her: Hi! Oh yes, I am very much crapping out on this "being a grown up" thing and it's amazing!<br />
<br />
Me: So, what are you here for?<br />
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Her: Marriage is insanely tricky, and right now I could flush all my husband's clothes down a giant pee-soaked toilet! You?<br />
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Me: That sounds familiar, but I'm actually here because I have no idea how to parent my own child and sometimes I fantasize about running away to a remote island where everyone's sterile!<br />
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Her: Oh yes, I've had that one. Well it's good catching up - I need to go yell at everyone in my house now.<br />
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Me: Me too, right after I grab dinner at Burger King for the third time this week. Bye!<br />
<br />
Conversations rarely go that way.<br />
<br />
I've found that talking about real problems makes people uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
Have you ever noticed that when you do bring up a sincere problem in a conversation 90% of the time the other person immediately jumps to generalized statements of praise? Like if I had said, "My child is out of control and I think God made a mistake giving him to me" (which was a thought I had often at that stage of Opie's life), first of all I probably would've horrified whoever I was talking to, but they'd hide it and say something like, "But you're doing so great with him! And all your other kids are so well behaved! And your frizzy ponytail goes so well with your twitching eyelid! And wow, you are just, SO GREAT! But I need to go now, bye!" And I'd be left standing there feeling worse about my problem.<br />
<br />
Aside from a handful of my friends, most of my conversations are void anything of real substance. But what if they weren't? What if we could let go of all the embarrassment and all the judging and just SAY REAL STUFF and have people say REAL STUFF back? Even people we don't know that well?<br />
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Not that I think all conversations should be a complain-o-thon because <i>yikes</i>, but if you're having a bad day and the clerk at the grocery store says, "How are you today?" You could say "It's not my best day" instead of the perfunctory, "I'm fine, how are you?" And then maybe you could even have a real conversation while they ring up your purchase of donut holes and Diet Coke.<br />
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Wouldn't it be better if we all felt safe to BE REAL?<br />
<br />
Mostly though, I just want to go back in time to THE MOMENT and tell that woman hi. And tell her that it's ok to struggle with life. Because adulting is the hardest. And neither one of us should have been embarrassed to admit that, when it makes life easier and better when you know you're not the only one who has reached the point of filling out paperwork for professional counseling. And I think I needed to hear it that day too.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-34964549193948566752015-07-07T01:31:00.001-06:002015-07-07T01:31:53.294-06:00I'm just Scared and StupidOnce upon a time, early July 2003, I was terrified. I had just had my first baby. My mom was there to help me, but then something horrible happened.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">SHE WENT HOME.</span><br />
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My family lived far away. Like 18 hours in a car away. Which felt much farther as I stood by the window, watching my mom drive away, while I clutched my newborn infant with the realization that I had no idea what I was doing with this human being I created.<br />
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I don't think I had ever truly been that terrified before or since.<br />
<br />
<i>Until now.</i><br />
<br />
Something new and extremely daunting now sits in my path. It's like this giant monster that is just sitting there, blocking the entire path, and needs to be dealt with because there's no way around it. And I have no idea what to do.<br />
<br />
This thing is called "<b>parenting a preteen</b>".<br />
<br />
I AM REALLY NOT EQUIP TO DEAL WITH THIS.<br />
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I look into the gorgeous face of my amazing daughter who just turned 12 and I think, "I'm going to mess this up so much. But I don't mean to. I'm just scared. And stupid. So stupid. And I have no idea how to parent you. And I'm sorry. I'm so so <span style="font-size: large;">so</span> <span style="font-size: large;">very</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> sorry.</span>"<br />
<br />
This preteen parenting thing is hard. <br />
<br />
First of all, I don't have dealing-with-preteen-emotional-outburst skills. I mean, I understand the physiology behind the emotional outburst. Crazy hormonal changes make for crazy emotional outbursts. That part makes sense. I get it. But I'm clueless on what to do about them. <br />
<br />
I'm not really one of those sweet "come cry on my shoulder" kind of people. I'm more of a "suck it up, you're going to be fine" kind of person. This does not go well with preteen emotional outbursts. However, I'm not exactly sure what kind of strategy would actually work, since these outbursts are completely lacking any logical reasoning. But I still feel bad - sorry for not dealing well with your confusing emotions my beautiful daughter.<br />
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I also get really awkward. I am naturally awkward anyway. So introducing awkward topics makes me doubly awkward. There's really no word that can describe the awkward that I become. It's beyond the bounds of human speech. <br />
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But we talk about awkward topics a lot. Because I want my kids to know that they can talk to me about everything. And the next few years are going to contain SO MUCH AWKWARD. So I'm sorry, amazing daughter, that I'm a giant weirdo who talks a lot and hardly ever says the right things.<br />
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I also expect a lot. Because I don't know if I've made it clear or not, but my daughter is amazing. She is gorgeous on the outside and even more beautiful and talented and smart and hilarious and fun on the inside. But sometimes I don't feel like that gets paraded around enough. Because I want the entire world to know all about how insanely awesome she is. But she's shy about it. So I push.<br />
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Sometimes I push a lot. Sometimes it's too much.<br />
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I'm sorry I push you too much my talented girl. <br />
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Having a first child is the hardest. Because no matter what stage they're in, everything is new for everyone. And parents are idiots. And they make mistakes. And even though they try really hard, they will continue to be idiots and make mistakes. And most of them will be made with the oldest child, because, you know, that whole "everything is new" thing. Sorry my oldest child.<br />
<br />
This new challenge is so overwhelmingly scary that it will be pretty miraculous if we make it through the preteen years with all our limbs and sanity intact. <br />
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And if we do there's just more scarier daunting-ier monster-sized things in my future path. Like the parenting of four more preteens. And the fact that they will eventually become <b>TEENAGERS</b>. <br />
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And teenage parenting is a whole other EXTREMELY TERRIFYING beast that I am going to continue to deny until it's staring me in the face (at which time I may be found rocking myself in a dark corner, in the fetal position, while repeating phrases like "he used to love me" and "where did my sweet baby go?" and "HELP ME!").<br />
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But for now there are some things that I want my glorious preteen daughter to know: I love you so much more than I can ever express. You amaze me every day just by being you. I'm sorry I'm not a better parent and that I'm scared and stupid, but somehow we made it through that first terrifying time so hopefully we'll make it through this too. <br />
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P.S. Please don't ever become a teenager.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-11607005310380134342015-07-02T14:08:00.002-06:002015-07-02T14:08:46.629-06:00The Perks of Age GapsI feel like since I stopped blogging I've become much less articulate. And my vocabulary has shrunk down to just "really" "awesome" and "whoa". Except I like to spell it "woah", because in my head it looks better.<br />
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I don't know if you know this, but I had another baby. Seven and a half months ago. And he's incredibly awesome. Really. (See? I need new adjectives.) <br />
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Here's a picture of my new baby. We call him Spike.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SpCQe-eby0M/VZWUPOf3NiI/AAAAAAAAAxo/KiZEDLzJIiQ/s1600/RDK_7036-edit%2BSMALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SpCQe-eby0M/VZWUPOf3NiI/AAAAAAAAAxo/KiZEDLzJIiQ/s640/RDK_7036-edit%2BSMALL.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(If anyone is looking for a <a href="http://www.keelephotography.com/Portfolio" target="_blank">great photographer in Utah County </a>- I can refer you to ours.)</td></tr>
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For 3 more days my kids will be the ages: 11, 10, 8, 7, and 7 months. But then the old one turns 12 and those first four sound much less dramatic. There's a pretty huge gap between the two youngest though, and I have to tell you - <span style="font-size: x-large;">IT IS THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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I say that now, because it's true. For now. I might change my mind later. But here are some of the major perks of having a bunch of kids, then waiting 6 1/2 years and having another one:<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">1- Built in entertainment.</span> Back in the day I had to pee with the door open. Or stash the current baby safely in a bouncy chair in the bathroom with me to protect them from the current toddler/preschooler. These days I just say "I need to use the bathroom, who wants to play with the baby?" And I immediately have 4 happy volunteers. And I can even stay in the bathroom and play games on my phone and no one even cares.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">2- Built in babysitters.</span> This kind of goes along with that first thing, except it's better. My oldest is just reaching an age where she can babysit, but no one else knows yet. And she doesn't have a life yet either. So guess who can run to the grocery store sans baby whenever they want? ME. Granted, I stress and worry about things at home the whole time, but I still get to do it. So, yeah.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">3- It's like having your first baby all over again except you're not stupid this time.</span> It seems like a really long time ago that my other kids were babies so it all feels new. But it's not new. So I actually know what I'm doing. And while I get to re-experience all the amazingly wonderful joys of what it's like to have and hold and love a baby, I'm not stressed out about "doing things wrong" or "the baby just exploded like a chubby little poop bomb and I have no idea what to do" like I was when I actually had my first baby. (Throwing a fully clothed, poop covered baby in the tub and hosing them down is a skill that just sticks with you, even if you thought you forgot about all that stuff.)<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">4- Babies are awesome.</span> It doesn't really matter WHEN you have them, they just are. And Spike is kind of a stellar baby. He's easy going, sleeps well, laughs at my jokes. All the good stuff. Not to mention, he's stinking adorable. You saw that picture, right? ADORABLE.<br />
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At this point, I would totally wait another six and a half years and have another baby. I mean, we <i>won't</i> be doing that, but I would if I could. Because it's just that really awesome woah.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00052733518432347713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-28199469241595621072014-06-09T13:56:00.000-06:002014-06-09T13:58:18.814-06:00popsiclesI used to blog all the time. And then I got burnt out. And then blogging changed. And now I just leave snarky comments on facebook posts and call it good.<br />
<br />
But I still miss blogging.<br />
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And I miss my blogging friends.<br />
<br />
So today I will blog. For a minute. I guess.<br />
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Let's talk about summer. My kids are out of school now, and so it's officially summer whether or not the calendar, or solstice, or whatever, agrees. Summer starts when school gets out - that's fact.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not all of these kids are mine....but we like to pretend.</td></tr>
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This summer I'm feeling particularly lazy. Like, "Hey kids, go play outside by yourselves, Mommy is busy eating this popsicle". Or "Hey kids, go play video games in the other room, Mommy wants to read these 17 books by 5:30". Or "Hey kids, why don't you sleep in anymore, don't you know Mommy requires quiet in the mornings?"<br />
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But as dominant as my laziness is right now, I also remember that my kids are getting old REALLY FAST. Way way much really insanely too fast. And how many more summers will there be that they want me throw water balloons at them, or make animals out of that foamy paper stuff, or tell me about every single bug they found outside?<br />
<br />
I'm running out of summers.<br />
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And it makes me sad.<br />
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So I've promised myself to be a little more involved this summer. Like when they ask me to go outside with them, I'll do it. I mean, I can still take my popsicles and books out there, right? <br />
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But I still think I require quiet in the mornings. Because if I don't get to sleep in, then it's just not summer at all.melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-24698617247942179252013-09-23T11:50:00.002-06:002013-09-23T11:50:21.848-06:00homework grievance I have beef with homework. I don't like it. I know that <i>some </i>homework is necessary, but the amount of homework my kids have to do it ridiculous.<br />
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I especially hate kindergarten homework. I think it's unnecessary. And, frankly, it just makes me mad.<br />
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Number Four's kindergarten teacher sends home a weekly homework sheet with two small activities to do every day, plus we are <i>required </i>to read 20+ minutes every single day of the week. I have nothing against reading or the small homework activities, but sometimes we are busy, with stuff like, you know, LIFE, and we don't have time to devote to writing the letter H 20 times and drawing something that rhymes with rat. And maybe we only read billboards on the freeway that day, because, you know, LIFE.<br />
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This kindergarten homework <i>could </i>be tolerable, and we <i>could </i>make up the missed assignments on less busy days, but the teacher is also sending home "bonus" worksheets that she expects my daughter to do. <br />
<br />
Last week she sent home five double-sided math worksheets straight out of the Common Core workbook. These would be the worksheets that she, as a teachers, is required teach and complete IN CLASS, but apparently the teacher doesn't do that? Not to mention, it was five, FIVE, worksheets, double sided. For a kindergartener.<br />
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So last week I refused to make Number Four do those "bonus" worksheets. She just turned them back in at the end of the week, not done.<br />
<br />
She just came home from school today. Now she has the new week's homework activities, four new double-sided "bonus" worksheets, and a note that says "Please finish your math from last week!" Plus another note about how we forgot to write down her reading on the paper AND online, so guess what? It doesn't count.<br />
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And did I mention that we also have to list each and every book we read this month? Because it's not annoying to list the ten books that you can fit into ONE 20 minute reading session (times 30 for each day of the month she's required to read).<br />
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And I haven't even mentioned the other kids' homework amounts. After spending all day in school, they have to come home and spend another hour doing school work. And then if we have soccer practices, or dance or, heaven forbid, ERRANDS, they never get a chance to just chill or do normal kid stuff like play outside, or do chores, or see how far they can jump out of the neighbor's swing onto the trampoline. And kids should be able to do these things daily.<br />
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So yeah, I pretty much hate homework.<br />
<br />melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-23163625542056451982013-09-20T00:48:00.000-06:002013-09-20T00:48:13.399-06:00I think I just saw a shadow move in the basement....I have an intense fear of basements. It's illogical at best. (Certifiable at worst.) I know I shouldn't be afraid of them, but basements, as a whole, creep me out.<br />
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I lived in a basement bedroom for most of my childhood years. I was afraid of them back then too. But I figured that once I became an adult I would be impervious to such things as basementophobia. What I didn't count on was the fact that being a grownup is pretty much like being yourself, but old. So I'm still mostly terrified of basements.<br />
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I can usually get over it and go downstairs as long as it's not dark. Or if I'm home alone. And if I'm home alone after the sun sets, you can pretty much put money on my NEVER going into a basement. <br />
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At our last house, our 1930's house, I didn't like the basement because the original owner was down there. He was a crotchety old dude with boots and a hat, and possibly overalls. Of course he wasn't REALLY in the basement. But in my mind he was. Mostly I thought about him in the tiny bedroom down there. Because, naturally, being the spirit of the deceased home owner he would choose to hang out in the darkest and smallest rooms of the whole house?<br />
<br />
At first, in my brain, this old guy ghost didn't like us. But I made my kids sleep in the basement anyway. Because a fear of basements isn't something I talk about with my kids. In fact, it's a well guarded secret that I deny on a daily basis. So, say one of my kids is whining about not wanting to go down there alone, I can just say, "Oh please, it's JUST the basement. It's TOTALLY FINE." When really I'm thinking, "Well, I'm not going down there alone, and <i>someone </i>needs to put this away."<br />
<br />
After we lived in our 1930's house for awhile the crocheting old man ghost started to like us. Because my family is amazingly endearable. So after awhile that basement seemed less scary. (Except that's also where the spiders liked to hide, but that's a whole other phobia altogether.)<br />
<br />
When we moved to our current home I wasn't too worried about the basement. It's unfinished down there, but we've made it quite liveable/useable. No one has to sleep down there, but we go down there multiple times a day. <br />
<br />
Except after awhile my brain decided that there's the ghost of a little girl down there. Because, WHY NOT? This girl ghost has a corner she likes to hide in. And, because my brain likes to come up with the creepiest possible scenarios, sometimes she likes to follow me up the stairs. But not at normal human speed - she does that horrific ghost speed thing where they'll stand at the bottom of the stairs, and then suddenly they're RIGHT BEHIND YOU at the top of the stairs. And I think about this MUCH MUCH TOO OFTEN. <br />
<br />
I know that there's probably absolutely no ghost girls in our basement, or following me up the stairs, or creeping around in dark corners. But my imagination is never ever dormant. It's just there, always coming up with new ways to freak me out. (If there was a contest on who's brain was the most creative at finding ways to scare it's owner, I would be a top contender.)<br />
<br />
And besides, tonight when husband needed to iron a shirt, he got a couple steps down the basement stairs when he stopped. I asked him why and he said, "Because I think I just saw a shadow move down there." AND HE WASN'T EVEN JOKING.<br />
<br />
So I pretty much won't ever be going in our basement again. I really hope one of the kids picks up a love of laundry, because the washing machine is down there and I'd really hate to never have clean clothes again.melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-21528271901481986642013-06-25T02:40:00.001-06:002013-06-25T02:40:16.363-06:00Why I'm writing this post at 2:40 AMI always have to pee right before I go to sleep. Sure, I go just before going to bed. But then I just lay there, for hours, NOT SLEEPING. <br />
<br />
Insomnia is awesome like that.<br />
<br />
I can be completely dead tired, but I still just lay in bed, in the dark, with my brain in squirrel mode. NOT SLEEPING.<br />
<br />
And then finally, FINALLY, my brain will be like, "ooh, sleep, yeah...." But then guess who wakes up? <br />
<br />
My big fat jerk bladder. <br />
<br />
Because suddenly it's like, "Whoa, remember that swallow and a half of water you had at 10:00? Hey, let's go to the bathroom!" And it's not like you want to ignore that knd of urge all night.<br />
<br />
So then I stumble the five steps into the bathroom, which jiggles my brain awake a little.<br />
<br />
And then I remember that I like to think about ghosts whenever I walk near the stairs at night, which scares my brain awake more.<br />
<br />
And then I have to turn on the light to make sure there are no giant spiders lying in wait for me behind the toilet, which pretty much is the final brain waking trigger.<br />
<br />
So that stupid "final" trip to the bathroom combined with my insomnia prone brain means that I'm literally laying bed with my iPad typing this blog post and hoping that I don't drop it on my face while laying on my back to spell check everything.<br />
<br />
Because dropping an iPad on your face kind of hurts. And it would be pretty embarrassing, you know, if the entire world weren't already asleep, but watching me instead.<br />
<br />
And now, dear friends, I'll probably peruse pinterest some more, until my brain decides to turn off again, all the while hoping that my bladder doesn't decide to wake up again before morning.<br />
<br />melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-90738133055446647222013-06-10T10:26:00.001-06:002013-06-10T10:26:59.034-06:00my medical conditionI just wrote this in an email, but because I think I am hilarious beyond reason I thought I'd post it here too:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I have been suffering from a serious medical condition the past few weeks. The medical term for this condition is Lazeeassitis with severe Motivational Deficiency. I've been looking for treatments everywhere - the movie theater, McDonalds, at the bottom of a Doritos bag, in the game Candy Crush, and I've even been reading a series of paranormal teen fiction, but I just can't seem to find anything that will cure me. I've been thinking about seeing a specialist about it, but no one makes home visits these days so that's out. Perhaps it's terminal and I'll just have to lay around sipping cherry coke while watching Netflix until I die. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Goodbye cruel world......</span>melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-53097031877630587712013-05-31T14:14:00.001-06:002013-05-31T14:14:48.891-06:00the time our house explodedOnce upon a time, last friday at 3:00 in the afternoon, my house exploded. Kind of. It all happened like this (imagine that your vision is suddenly going into wavy lines and you hear a harp as I take you into my flashback):<br />
<br />
I was letting Two Bits have a sleepover. Which is huge. Because I am anti-all-things-sleepover. But one of her best friends is moving, and she's never had best friends before, plus her birthday is coming up in a little over a month, and her other party idea was buying everyone a build-a-bear with all the clothes and accessories which made my bank account curl up into the fetal position and whimper a little.<br />
<br />
Two Bits and her two best friends walked to our house after school that day. Fridays are short days here, so they all showed up by 1:00 PM. By 2:55 PM they were devastatingly bored. Because that's what my kids do best when they have friends over. So I decided to set up our badminton net for them in the backyard.<br />
<br />
One thing you need to know about our backyard - it has tree problems. There are big trees back there, and during the winter lots of branches broke from the weight of the snow. I've asked our landlord to get them taken care of so that they don't randomly fall from the precarious position in which they are dangling from on high to crush one of my offspring, but it just hasn't happened yet.<br />
<br />
The next door neighbors also have a few tree problems. They've also been doing major work on their backyard. So, last friday, as I was setting up a badminton net, while a bunch of kids that weren't all mine watched, the next door neighbor's contractor took down a branch that took down another branch that fell on our power line that ripped the weather head off the back of our house that fell to the ground in a shower of sparks that lit the grass on fire that shot an electrical current into our breaker box that exploded and filled our basement with thick smoke and fried our living room outlets and took out multiple electronic devices around the rest of the house including our furnace and a tv.<br />
<br />
It all happened fairly quickly.<br />
<br />
Right after everything came down, and the sparks started flying, the contractor ran into our backyard to find me standing there slack jawed and surrounded by kids. He stamped out our grass and yelled for the kids to stand back. <br />
<br />
It took me a second, but I recovered from my shock and ran inside to make sure everything was ok in there. I heard the smoke detector going off in the basement so I ran down there to make sure nothing was on fire. It was pretty hard to tell though because the smoke was so thick that I couldn't see or breath. But I was pretty sure there were no flames so I ran to the window and killed half of my lungs getting it open.<br />
<br />
At this point in the story, as I was telling it to my mother, she said, "You ran into the basement TOWARDS a potential fire?" But isn't that what people do? The really dumb people.....<br />
<br />
The next part of the story gets kind of boring because there were lots of phone calls made and lots of watching the contractor run around frantically. But we got the power company to come sever the fallen line since there was still partial electricity going into our house, which may or may not have caused real fires, or something. Then the contractor got us a hotel reservation (I requested the one with a water slide) and by around 6:30 we packed up our four kids, and the two extra kids, and headed off to the hotel.<br />
<br />
Of course it wasn't all smooth sailing after that. There were a bunch of small, yet super annoying, instances that occurred.<br />
<br />
We stopped off at Little Caesars pizza because they have the "hot and ready $5 pizza" thing, but they weren't "hot and ready" like they claimed so I got to sit in the car with all the kids squished and cranky for 20 minutes while we waited.<br />
<br />
There was a problem with our hotel reservations so when we showed up we didn't have a room. So we made the kids stand around in the parking lot and eat pizza while it got figured out. But it took a little longer than pizza eating, and it somehow that extra 20 minutes in the car made the kids super energetic so I had to reel in their crazy with a game of Simon Says where I was Simon and I said for them to pretend to be statues, and dirty socks, and road kill, just so they'd stop screaming and running in circles.<br />
<br />
The hotel didn't have adjoining rooms, so I got to spend the night with 3 fourth graders, after my patience had already been tested beyond my personal best limit. By about 11:30 I told them that they <i>had </i>to sleep, and I turned out the light, and said, "SHHHHHHH" a lot.<br />
<br />
The next day we went swimming, but that got boring after about an hour. So then we went to the aquarium, because it's not like you can contain six kids in a hotel all day (and we had aquarium passes for our family, so it was the cheapest thing we could think to do). After that we went to McDonalds and got 40 chicken nuggets and 3 drinks (we're so cheap that it's embarrassing) and we let the kids play for another 40 minutes. <br />
<br />
Then we tried to drop off the extra kids.<br />
<br />
But their parents weren't home.<br />
<br />
So then we got to hang out at our house, that had no power, until their parents got home. But, by that point, I was just.....YOU KNOW..... So I said that I "had to check on the neighbor" because I just wanted to go somewhere away from all the kids for a few minutes and talk to an adult.<br />
<br />
It was about 4:30 when we finally took Two Bits friends home, and things started getting a little better. Very slowly.<br />
<br />
The stay at the hotel was long because they needed permits and inspections that weren't happening on Memorial Day weekend, but by sunday night we were in adjoining rooms so we were able to have a kid side and an adult side and that helped. On monday and tuesday evenings we had people from church feed us, which was nice (fast food burgers and the bagels we smuggled from the free breakfasts were getting old). And we were back in our house, with some power, by wednesday morning. <br />
<br />
Of course, it was when we got home that we realized how many things had been fried. Like every outlet in the living room. And the light on the ceiling in the girls' bedroom. Plus a tv, 2 small stereos, and our furnace. But the contractor has been very helpful and quick through the whole process (if it weren't for that pesky 3 day holiday weekend, we would have been home sooner) and everything is fixed or will be replaced by monday.<br />
<br />
So, basically, our house (sort of) exploded, we were all safe, nothing was permanently damaged, and we got to spend 5 nights in a hotel with a water slide. GOOD TIMES.melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-23900526550570420122013-05-20T14:21:00.000-06:002013-05-20T14:21:00.709-06:00I'm Awkward and Have No FriendsI find that I'm not really fitting in lately. Ok, rewind, I have never really felt like I exactly fit in, <i>ever</i>. I've always been a little awkward. But lately, it's been much more apparent.<br />
<br />
We moved to our current abode last October. And I know that's not an incredibly long time to live somewhere, but long enough to make a few church friends, right?<br />
<br />
Today we were at the public library catching a puppet show and checking out some books. As we were looking at Star Wars graphic novels a kid came up to Monkey and goes, "Hey, I know you!" And then he proceeded to tell us all about how they're in the same class at church. Monkey was super shy, but this kid went on and on and on.<br />
<br />
Then the kid goes, "MOM - come over here, I know them!"<br />
<br />
So then his mom comes over. Obviously she goes to the same church as us. Since October. And she's like, "How do you know them?" And then I tell her that they're in the same church class. And honestly I didn't know her kid, so it was totally ok with her not knowing Monkey. But then she said, "Oh, how nice....." and had one of those obvious fake smiles plastered to her face where you could tell she was trying to think of an excuse to leave as quickly as possible.<br />
<br />
I'm not good at the obvious fake smile. Or perhaps mine is just much MUCH too obvious, which would make me an expert? I dunno. Either way, I decided that it would be best to just go back to looking at Star Wars books and make it easy for the church lady to go away. Which she did.<br />
<br />
And that pretty much sums up all the local interaction I've had here.<br />
<br />
The only person I can exclude from this is my next door neighbors. Not the drunk guys who live on the other side of our duplex (who just moved anyway) but the one in the house next to that. Those people are pretty cool. And our kids play together outside pretty much every day.<br />
<br />
But I think I scare them.<br />
<br />
I have to work a lot. Which means that I sit at my computer lots and lots and lots. So I don't talk to them too much, even though they see my kids daily. But then when I do actually have a conversation with them, it's been so long since I've had adult social interaction that I turn into a 3 year old and questions start spewing out of my mouth like this: "What are you doing? How long does that take? Is it hard? Your living room is fabulous, what did it look like before you remodeled? What about this light, was it there before? Oooh, look at your kitchen - did you do the subway tiles yourself? That's awesome. Where did you live before this? When is your daughter's birthday? Do you have a dog? How long have you been married? What color is your toothbrush?"<br />
<br />
Also, sometimes I forget that some people aren't ok when I forget to use filters.<br />
<br />
I think I need to take a class where everyone just has to sit around and practice "polite conversation". Or if there was a class called "People Skills for Beginners" I might be able to learn something. Maybe then I could perfect my fake smile. <br />
<br />
And then, just maybe, I'll be able to fit in better here......melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-41892266284245979792013-05-17T14:45:00.000-06:002013-05-17T14:45:09.101-06:00The Magic AssemblyA couple days ago the kids were talking about an assembly they had at school. We were all sitting around the dinner table, and the story came out in pieces as they ate. So, originally, I thought things occurred like this:<br />
<br />
All the classes were sitting in the gymnacafetorium, ready to watch The Amazing Whatever-His-Name-Was Magician. Which was probably a big relief from all the school work that never occurs in May anyway (is it just me, or does the last month of school seem like a complete waste of time?). <br />
<br />
At some point during the show, the magician's dove escaped from some unknown hiding place and starting frantically flying around the room.<br />
<br />
I imagined lots of flying, and a totally flustered set of adults trying to catch said bird. All the while, in my mind, the magician was standing on stage feeling like a total hack. I mean, what kind of crap magician can't contain his hidden dove before his "watch how I make this dove appear out of thin air" trick?<br />
<br />
So the bird swoops around the gymnacafetorium while teachers and the principal chase him, and finally, after all that drama, the dove swoops down and lands on the little blond head of a kid in Opie's class. <br />
<br />
Everyone is shocked that the bird has landed on a student's head until another kid in that class holds out his hand and, with the magic touch of Radagast the brown, gets the bird to slide onto his fingers. Then he calmly walks the bird up to the magician, who is now so horrifically embarrassed that he has to immediately pack up and move to a foreign country.<br />
<br />
And that's how the story went in my head, after hearing the tidbits of information from Opie and Two Bits, in between their bites of tuna casserole.<br />
<br />
However, it turns out it wasn't that exciting. I asked questions and we got the actual story out of it.<br />
<br />
Apparently the dove didn't escape while it was supposed to be hidden. The magician had just done his "dove appearing from nothing" trick, and when the kids applauded the dove got skittish and took flight.<br />
<br />
Apparently the dove did NOT fly around the room with a group of frantic adults chasing after it. In fact, I guess there was very little drama. The dove fly straight from the magician's hand to the unsuspecting head of a 2nd grader.<br />
<br />
The kid who got the bird off his classmate's head must have had his own birds, because he apparently knew what he was doing.<br />
<br />
And, apparently, the magician finished his show and was hardly embarrassed at all.<br />
<br />
So, basically, the point of all this is: things always play out much better in my imagination than they do in real life.<br />
<br />
The end.melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-19682468561653704332013-05-09T17:02:00.000-06:002013-05-09T17:02:00.944-06:00a letter to my nemesisDear Evil Shower Curtain,<br />
<br />
You think you are <i>sooooo</i> clever, don't you? That you have it all worked out. That you can defeat me. But let's think about this logically - do you <i>really </i>think you can beat someone with my abilities and mental prowess? ha ha ha. Your confidence is humorous.<br />
<br />
I am on to your plan, evil curtain of fear. I know how you mock me with your attractive fabric - the fabric you use to shield my vision from the rest of the bathroom. Do not think you can fool me - I KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON.<br />
<br />
I know that you're hiding serial killers in the tub when I have to pee at night. I know these killers have knives or deadly ninja throwing stars. And I know that you think you're tricky when I pull back the curtain at lightening speed to find the tub empty.<br />
<br />
I don't know where you're putting the assassins, but I will figure it out - that you can be sure of.<br />
<br />
I know that when I'm showering you like to invite the satanic girl from The Ring to spy on me. I know that you wait for me to turn around to shave my legs or rinse the shampoo out of my hair, and then have her creepily pull the curtain back in the bottom corner of the tub so that when I turn around again I'll see her evil little face looking at me.<br />
<br />
Don't think you can surprise me.<br />
<br />
I also know that you are in league with the spider king - I know that he sends his legions to infiltrate the shower just to catch me unaware and vulnerable. But don't think that I can't reach for that can of aerosol hairspray that I keep handy just for the gluing of the crawling demons to wall.<br />
<br />
One of these days I will vanquish you shower curtain, and you will no longer be able to to torture me with your campaign of paranoia. Possibly I will just enlist the help of your benign cousin, the clear plastic shower liner. He may be your ghetto relative with no sense of style, but with his help I would be able to see all parts of the bathroom at all times. And then I could forever banish you to the nether regions of the hall closet. And what good is your power there, hmmm?<br />
<br />
Mwaha haha ha ha ha ha ha h aha HA. You better start watching your back.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Your Greatest Foemelissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-78612609909529358322013-05-06T16:33:00.000-06:002013-05-06T16:40:34.701-06:00garbage from my sleeping brainI think dreams are rubbish. Well, ok, I don't know about YOUR dreams. They could be absolutely amazing and insightful.<br />
<br />
You could be one of those people that have other worldly knowledge planted into your brain during your unconscious hours. Or the kind of who seems to work out all their waking struggles through a good dream sequence. Who knows, maybe you just dream about math - not exactly earth shattering, but still falling in the spectrum of "intelligence".<br />
<br />
My dreams, however, are more like this:<br />
<a href="http://reactiongifs.com/?p=4044"><img src="http://www.reactiongifs.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/bonkers.gif" /></a><br />
<br />
Figuratively speaking, of course. (Spongebob rarely graces my sleeping brain, which is starting to make me wonder - why don't I dream in cartoon?)<br />
<br />
The other night I was having one of those dreams where you just bounce around the whole time, and nothing really links together. Like there I was eating french fries and I couldn't for the life of me get my fry to land in the fry sauce without splattering all over my boobs. And then, the next thing I know, I'm sitting in a public library where a huge shipment of second-hand shoes shows up. And then I spent the next fifteen minutes of my dream locating matching pairs of shoes for a homeless boy who likes Converse.<br />
<br />
Plus remember that one time that I dreamed that <a href="http://becauseireallycantgetenoughofmyself.blogspot.com/2008/09/psycho-dreamland.html" target="_blank">I was dating a Kid Rock look alike straight out of prison</a>? Or the time that<a href="http://becauseireallycantgetenoughofmyself.blogspot.com/2011/05/baskaliskamanders.html" target="_blank"> I had to save my kids from a basiliskamander over and over</a>?<br />
<br />
So you just go right ahead and keep dreaming about important things, or messages from beyond the veil or whatever. And I'll keep having the kind of dreams that belong in a trash receptacle, or the mind of a mental patient.<br />
<br />
<br />melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-71736800927258355602013-04-10T09:36:00.003-06:002013-04-10T14:09:15.088-06:00birds are the most annoying creatures on this planetOnce upon a time some birds moved into our ceiling.<br />
<br />
"Your ceiling?" You say, "Surely you mean something else?"<br />
<br />
To which I reply, "No, I mean ceiling. And don't call me Shirley."<br />
<br />
The birds have made a hole is the house just above my bedroom window which allows them easy access into the ceiling. At first different birds tried to lay claim to the new nesting territory and chaos ensued. One time Two Bits compared the noise to a squirrel and a bird killing each other, so I had to calm her nerves by stating that squirrels aren't stupid enough to challenge a pointy-beaked, crazed feather duster over something as gross as our crappy duplex.<br />
<br />
Things were just getting ridiculous. The bird world rumbles that were occurring above our heads were enough to make the Sharks and the Jets dismiss any feelings of prettiness from Maria. In the end, however, the finer sex overthrew all conflict and now we're hosting a birdy love shack.<br />
<br />
I don't know if this particular species of bird only have one mate per season, but what I can tell you is that they are obnoxiously loud when thoughts of little baby birds are on their minds. And it's practically ALL they have on their minds these days.<br />
<br />
The last thing we need is a nest of baby birds in the ceiling. A couple years ago we made the mistake of letting birds get into our grill, and I can't even convey the noisiness of those stupid birdlings. Not to mention the territory issues that made it impossible to go in our backyard. And not only that, but did you know that some birds will still live with their parents even after they're fully grown? <br />
<br />
It is true, I tell you.<br />
<br />
Because when I finally worked up the courage to open the lid of our grill, effectively exposing the nest, about five adult size birds came flying out at my head, and I had no choice but to run into the house screaming and ducking. And then I had to hose bird poo off our grill for the next 3 hours and eventually just lit it on fire.<br />
<br />
So we keep trying to get rid of the ceiling birds. Every time I hear them getting it on I pound on the walls, or pick up this big roll of paper I have next to my desk and smack it against the ceiling. This used to scare the them off, but now they're just like, "whatevs, stupid human".<br />
<br />
A couple weeks ago Husband put vinegar into my huge super soaker water gun and sprayed the bird hole with it (the hole is pretty high on the house, so we needed to pull out the big guns, so to speak.). It seemed to work for awhile. But then I guess it stopped smelling or the birds just got used to the stench.<br />
<br />
And now we don't know what to do. <br />
<br />
Our landlord isn't very "hands-on" so I'm pretty sure telling her about it will not solve the problem.<br />
<br />
Husband keeps suggesting we buy a BB gun and shoot any and all birds within a 2 block radius of our house. But that seems a tad excessive.<br />
<br />
So tell me, my awesome gentle readers, how does one annhiolate all birds in existence? Or at least the ones nesting in my bedroom ceiling?melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-32989558826350464402013-04-08T12:03:00.002-06:002013-04-08T12:03:49.508-06:00not my best idea<br />
It's been raining all day. But when it came time to pick Monkey up from kindergarten I didn't care about the weather. I thought, "Oh yeah? Forget you rain - we have these things called UMBRELLAS!"<br />
<br />
And then Number Four and I left to walk to the school.<br />
<br />
The first thing I quickly noticed was that a four year old yielding an umbrella makes not a pleasant walking companion. She was whacking me all over the place with that thing, because instead of watching where she was going she kept looking up at the center of the umbrella or down at her feet.<br />
<br />
The second thing I noticed was that a day of downpour equals overflowing curb gutters. The flow of water was so wide that I had a hard time spanning them in one giant stride, and with a couple of little kids in tow we might as well have been crossing a river. <br />
<br />
We made it to the school, got Monkey, and walked most of the way home with about as much annoyance as you can imagine in those particular circumstances. But then things got much more annoying. <br />
<br />
We had just gotten over the gutter on one side of the road. Which meant that I had to close my umbrella, straddle the thinnest part of the gutter and then lift my kids, one at a time, over the flowing water. Not only is straddling a 3 ft wide flow of rain water not the easiest thing for a fat woman to do, but umbrellas went flying in the little hands of their lifted occupants. And I don't know about you, but I don't especially love getting a facer from a drenched umbrella.<br />
<br />
We had just got onto the street, and just because we're lucky, a car turns the corner down the block and starts heading towards us. And this car is not going slowly (even though we were on a residential road in a school zone - obviously that car was being driven by a jerk). So I was trying to quickly cross the street and lift the kids over the even wider expanse of running gutter water on the other side. <br />
<br />
And then my kids decided to act like they'd never been on a road before.<br />
<br />
Instead of waiting on the side of the road so I could hurry and lift them to safety, both kids start running in opposite directions. And by the sound of it, the car behind us isn't approaching any slower, and it was getting close (the jerk). <br />
<br />
This only left one option: I grabbed onto whatever part of my kids I could reach, dragged their unwilling little bodies to the side of the road, which required the excessive umbrella combat, and threw them onto the sidewalk ignoring my own, now soaked, feet.<br />
<br />
And the car zoomed past us. (HUGE JERK.)<br />
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And that is why next time it's raining, I will be driving.<br />
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<br />melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238721981418019152.post-52621310906383349522013-03-28T00:34:00.001-06:002013-03-28T00:34:16.660-06:00things I am tired of sayingThere are certain things that I must say multiple times a day. These things are not things that I <i>choose</i> to say, but most definitely the things that <b><i>need </i></b>to be said. But I still get tired of saying them.<br />
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This one is the bane of motherhood:<br />
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I used to threaten stuff like "clean up or I'll sell all your stuff to gypsies!" or "clean up or you'll never eat cheese again!" But the kids never took me seriously. So now I have to get real. And no iPad privilages for a week? Life doesn't get much more real than that.<br />
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This is something I say every single school morning:<br />
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The Monkey still has a hard time doing things for himself. And we never get out of bed with enough time to leisurely get ready for our day. We're not morning people, we're "hit snooze at least 7 times and then get angry at the sun for shining" people. So when there is only 3 minutes until people need to be leaving, and the Monkey is still standing there stuck halfway into a shirt and pantless, it's up to me to get him put together. And for some reason he thinks that he can go all floppy fish noodle on me, requiring me to shove his foot in his shoe for him. It's super really obnoxious. Because he's a six year old human being and not a floppy fish noodle for crying out loud.<br />
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I get really <i>REALLY</i> tired of this daily conversation:<br />
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I seriously loathe making dinner. Because first you have to think of something to make. And then you have to make sure you have all the stuff you need to make it. Then you have to change tactics half way through when you realize that you are, in fact, missing multiple ingredients. Then you have to spend an hour in the kitchen figuring out healthy side dishes and stirring things on a hot stove. Then you have to dish it up for everyone on the right colored plates in the right proportions and serve it with the right utensils. Then you have to sit at the table while every wails and moans about how disgusting the food is. And I find that no matter what the dinner is, at least one of the kids is going to hate it.<br />
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As much as I hate saying all those things, this next one is the number one most abhorred utterance that I am required to declare once, if not seven times, a day:<br />
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I don't know what kind of logic makes a human being think it's ok to leave putrid floaters in the bathroom. And why am I ALWAYS the one to discover such repulsive offerings? I wonder sometimes if the kids do it on purpose. Most likely though is that my children are disgusting creatures of habit that are much too distracted by legos and scooters to bother remembering to flush. Which really makes me wonder about hand washing.<br />
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And those are some things I'm tired of saying. What about you? Do you have anything great (greatly annoying, that is) to add to the list?<br />
<br />melissabastowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07707231121450160335noreply@blogger.com6