Deja Vu

Driving down the highway, the following conversation ensued.

Q: So I was the biggest baby?

Me: Yep, you were the tallest.  21".

Q: And Rafe was the fattest baby?

Me: Yep.

Q: Was I as big as Rafe was when he was 2 when I was born?

Me: Uh....no.

Q: When do babies start to talk?

Me: About 18 - 24 months.

Q: No, I mean real words.

Me: Yeah, about 18-14 months.

Q: And what was my first word?

Me: I don't know.

Q (increasingly whining pitch to voice):  Why didn't you write this stuff down?  Why do you remember Rafe's word but not mine or Eliza's?

Me (totally not seeing ANYTHING in this season of post-Christmas lights and an overcast night):  WOW!!  LOOK AT THAT STAR!!


It. totally. worked.

The boy got suckered.  He found a star or something twinkly somewhere and I was so relieved.

And yes, I plan on using this tactic in the future until he figures it out and I can't get away with it anymore.

Or until the sun starts staying up past their bedtimes and we really can't see any stars because the sky isn't black.

Which ever comes first.

Paranoia

Yeah, it's finally gotten to me.

But not so much about my kids - I know, I'm a bad mom.  No, I'm paranoid about certain, ahem, people finding this blog and reading and perhaps future employers (I know - dare to dream) and while my parents get an A+ for originality in the name department (my Facebook app said it was so, so it must be so), that A+ makes it really easy for anything related to me to pop up when one googles my name.

On that note, I'm now Windy (a punny name that my father so enjoys using with me) and my children are all renamed.  It is what it is.

Who knows?  Someday I'll get another wild hair and change it all back.

Stay tuned.....

Reader Discretion is Advised

When a certain time of month occurs, I feel as if someone has slowly peeled all the skin from my body and I stand before everyone bloody, naked, nerves exposed.  A soft breath, a sound, a smell, the world is too hard, too abrasive, too prevalent.  I want to shrink back, wrap myself in the softest of eider down that somehow only floats around me without touching me.  I want food, drink and babysitting to magically appear without ever having to interact with anyone else.

And I don't know how to change this.

And I don't know how to deal with life in these moments.

Today Is A Weepy, Weepy Day

That's it.

Nothing more to post.

Except that I loved this post of Sue's and I concur.

Except that instead of service postings, I will probably just be sporadic (sort of like 2009, now that I think about it).

Except that I tend to do the opposite of what I say I'll do and now that I've announced all of this, I'll end up pulling out of my sorrow and have the best year ever.

Yeah.

I should quit while I'm ahead.

Today is just a weepy day.

Perhaps the Blur Makes It Look Better?

I know.  A week isn't long and I'm not optimistic about my chances, but what do you think?

Amazing amount of poundage and inches lost, right?

Rethinking Food Storage

It occurred to me this weekend, as some sort of stomach virus is running through the family, that Gatorade needs to be added to our food storage.

I really don't want to be stuck with vomiting children, or myself, and have no way to re-hydrate them thus encouraging more vomiting.

Perhaps the church should consider adding something similar to their list of "basic needs."

On the upside, perhaps my diet of Gatorade and saltines will help with with the Fantasstic challenge....mmmm, we'll see.

Lazy Mom

Wednesday afternoon Q called me from school and said that he wasn't feeling well.  I picked him up and brought him home; he was so pale he made chalk look tan.  He vomited that night.

So, I'm sad that my child doesn't feel well but I have to say that I've become a very lazy caretaker.

I mean, sure, I snuggled Q extensively on Wednesday and through the night, but it was mainly because I didn't have to make dinner and got to go bed early instead of getting the other kids ready for bed.

Sure, I spent the day at home with Q on Thursday and didn't go to work, but it was mainly so I could play on the computer without having to really accomplish anything.  (On the other hand, my blogs never had so many new posts!)

Now Rafe is sick and I've relegated him to his bedroom so the other kids can play the Wii and so I have room on the couch.

*sigh*  After watching Supernanny yesterday, I'm pretty sure Jo would yell at me for my choices.

Oh well.  I guess I'll just have to go spend the day by myself, being left alone with no questions and requests, in the naughty spot.

Darn it.

See.  I told you I was becoming a lazy, lazy mom.

Grrrrr....

So I'm wondering this morning, "What makes a feminist?"

Because I tend to think of myself as a feminist but apparently, I'm not radical enough.

It's all quite, quite silly and I'm trying to let it go but apparently I have nothing better to do today and apparently I am a petty girl. (I'm calling myself the names because I'm annoyed with myself that I'm letting this bother me so much.)

On Facebook, there's this whole thing about posting your bra color to raise awareness for breast cancer and self-exams.

OK. I realize that this is really not going to do a whole lot for breast cancer but I think it's a fair reminder for self-exams and I think it's just F.U.N.  It amazes me how many of us "old" ladies are wearing white.

But apparently, I'm giving into the patriarchy.

This radical feminist loathes the patriarchy and is going to wait for this color nonsense to pass.

 I'm annoyed for a couple reasons. If someone wants to do a silly sheep meme about bra colour, fine, cool, have fun - but telling me it's somehow connected to breast cancer 'awareness' is ridiculous - especially since part of the meme is 'keeping it a secret from the men'. Huh? And then there's the 'awareness' part. Awareness is useless unless it inspires action. Does knowing your bra colour inspire me to act in a way that can further research, prevention, a cure? No, it does not. And then finally, and this is just a personal thing, I'm annoyed at the trivialization of cancer. It's not trivial, it's taken the lives of people I love. Using it to spread a meme offends me. Especially since meme's don't really need an incentive....people are sheepy enough without extra encouragement. /rant

So, I'm gathering that to be a feminist I can't be improper, silly or admit to wearing a bra (after all, didn't we burn those babies back in the 70's?).

To be a feminist, I have to be uptight and find fault in everything in the current world.  I have to call all those who disagree with me sheep who just don't know their own mind and aren't aware of how the world is really against us and we need to fight the power.

Bah.  Bah.  Bah.

I told you that it was silly and stupid and petty and I need to just let it go.  But it's stuck in my craw for some reason; perhaps you can tell me the real reason this is rubbing me the wrong way?

PS - what ever would they say about my butt photo?

PPS - I think I'm just tired to being called a sheep and an anti-feminist.  I also think I don't like being told that I'm wrong.  Shocking, I know.

PPPS - Is a devout Mormon woman automatically excluded from the feminist club just because she's a devout Mormon?  Is that one of the requirements too?

Emerald Green

Sheer black.

Red.

Crimson.

Blush.

Chartreuse.

Puce.

Purple.

Magenta.

Navy.

Baby blue.

Nude.

Beige.

White.

Daffodil.

Marigold.

Rust.

Sundial gold.

Silver with rhinestones.

Orange.

Purple.

Evergreen.

Cornflower.

Antique brass.

Aquamarine,

Tangerine.

Cerise.

Cotton Candy.

Fuzzy wuzzy.

Granny Smith Apple.

Lavender.

Purple mountain's majesty.

Sunset orange.

Thistle.

Burnt sienna.

Brown.

Dark chocolate.

Wisteria.

*sigh*

I think I've gotten all my snarkiness out.

I Can't Believe I'm Doing This

For me, this is harder than any Polar Bear Swim.  It's one of those things that I making myself do because, hey, I'm only going around once but it's also one of those things that I think will seem dream like when I recall the moment, like the time I ran for class president (long story, let's not discuss).

Anyhoo, I am joining in Miss Amy's Fantastic Asstastic Challenge 2010.  Vote for my pink non-fuzzy butt and I'll send you imaginary, non-fuzzy, chocolate chip cookies.  Because seriously, this ass needs work!

Also, please note that the above photos were made as small as possible to minimize any permanent retinal damage.  If you're daring, feel free to click on them and see my hiney in all it's technicolor glory.

PPS - I need crazy stories to tell the grandkids.  Yeah, that's my rationalization and I'm sticking to it.

PPPS - The contestants are up and may I say that I think I will be voted off by next Wednesday.

My Daughter Cracks Me Up

Eliza [while playing baseball against the computer on our new Wii (thank you Grandma)]:  Show us what your momma gave you!

(she swung and missed)

Eliza: Your momma sure gave you somthin'!

******

A few days ago I stumbled upon Eliza playing with her Barbies.  She hasn't had a male doll and she got some paper dolls for Christmas including some princes.  So, I find her with two female Barbies making out.

Me: Eliza, why are those girls kissing?

Eliza: They love each other.

Me: Are they married?

(For Eliza, our discussions about marriage have been the right to kiss on the lips; we explained Grandma and Grandpa's divorce by saying they couldn't kiss each other anymore.)

Eliza: Yeah, to him.

Me:  They're both married to him?

Eliza: No, all three of them.

Me: He has three wives.

Eliza:  Yep.

Apparently, for some children, polygamy is just intuitive.  And the sexual relationships within that marriage are, oh, flexible.

Happy New Year!

My aunt, my mother's sister, was dared to join a Polar Bear Dip in exchange for $200 donated to a charity of her choice.  My aunt, kindly, and oh so thoughtfully, invited me to join her.  My aunt is 65 and since I always like a friend to go with me I said, "Sure.  Why not?"

Of course, I figured that I would need financial incentive as well so I invited all my facebook friends (feel free to join in) to donate to the Children's Miracle Network in memory of my nephew Rayden League.

New Year's came and I braced myself:

• swimsuit - check.
  
• towel -  check.
• five layers of clothes -  check, check, check, check, check!
• two sets of little hotties hand warmers (one for hands, one for toes)- check and check.
  
• hot chocolate - damn forgot that.
• armload of wood for the fire - double damn.

But take the plunge I did.

 There's something wonderfully wild and crazy about lining up with like-minded insane people to plunge into the ocean when the ambient temperature is a balmy 23 degrees Fahrenheit.  My aunt was the first one in the water and I followed her lead; when she dove, I dove.

The wonderful thing about plunging into such cold water is that 23 degrees suddenly feels like a warm summer day.  Then every thing becomes tingly and I could literally feel every pore on my skin.  I felt energetic. I COULD CONQUER THE WORLD!!!

Then the adrenaline stopped, my body decided that I was NOT in an emergent situation and that it didn't need to worry and should leave me to my own stupidity.

I got cold.

I must say, though, that the hand warmers on my toes, inside my wool socks, were the most perfect thing and the best idea I had the whole day.  That and the grande hot chocolate from a local coffee shack.

When I got home, I slept the afternoon away.

Shocking, I know.

But in the end, for only about 2 minutes of work and a few hours of cold, I managed to raise $76+.  (You could make it more....)

I'm thinking this could be a new tradition.

**PS - do you see how big my chest looks?  Holy big bosoms batman!