Sunday, November 18 - 9:00 AM
Oh, Natalie is singing with her first-grade Sunday school class in church today! I need to grab the camera.
Sunday, November 18 - 10:30 AM
Dang it! I left the camera on the desk.
Sunday, November 18 - 10:45 AM
There she is! There's our big six-year-old, walking in with all the other kids. Only ... why is she limping?!? Oh! One of her shoes has fallen off! Whoops! Good thing she can put it back on while she hops to the front of the sanctuary.
Sunday, November 18 - 10:46 AM
OK, now I know why I've heard Natalie singing "'Tis So Sweet to Trust In Jesus" the last few weeks. She learned it at Sunday school. Look at all those kids singing that old, faithful hymn. ... Hi sweetie! Yes, I see you waving and smiling! I'm waving back!
Sunday, November 18 - 12:15 PM
Listen: She's singing to herself in the backseat of the van on the way home from church. What a precious little voice! Of course, the lyrics are getting butchered. ('Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus, just to tay him at his word, Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus. Oh for gray to trust Him or.) But still. That voice! Slightly off-key and innocent and sweet. If we could just get that on CD to give to the grandparents for Christmas. They would be bawling in ten seconds flat.
Sunday, November 18 - 1:00 PM
Isn't that funny? She's even singing absent-mindedly to herself while we eat lunch. That hymn must really go deep. ... Although it is a tad strange that she sings "oh for gray to trust Him or." Do you think I should correct her? ... Nah. She's just a kid. Enjoy the simplicity, Kelly.
Sunday, November 18 - 2:30 PM
Seriously? Still? The same song? And no other verses or the rest of the chorus or anything? Just "Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus, oh for gray to trust Him or. Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus, oh for gray to trust Him or."?!? ... Lord, would it squelch her spirit if I reminded her of the "how I've proved Him o'er and o'er" line? ... Yes? Well. Maybe you could get bring it to her trusting little mind?
Sunday, November 18 - 3:18 PM
The song. The mind-numbing song. It will never end. Please, Lord, make it stop! Just make it stop?
Sunday, November 18 - 3:36 PM
For the love of Pete! It's OH FOR GRACE TO TRUST HIM MORE! OH FOR GRACE TO TRUST HIM MORE!
Sunday, November 18 - 3:45 PM
Honey, how about if we sing a different song? Pick a Wiggles song. ANY Wiggles song.
Sunday, November 18 - 3:47 PM
Ahhhh! Never before have I appreciated the inherent beauty of "Toot, Toot, Chugga, Chugga, Big Red Car." Thank you, Lord, for Jeff and Murray and Anthony and Greg!
Thanksgiving, A Week Early
I woke up at 5:00 AM today. It wasn’t my intention, but pregnant women tend to awaken at all hours of the night. Either we’re suffocating due to the fact that we’ve somehow managed to lie on our backs, which “compresses both the inferior vena cava and the lower aorta.” (And here I didn’t even know I had a vena cava, much less one that was inferior. Should I send it to counseling, and if so, do you think it’s covered by my maternity insurance?). Or it’s time to visit – once again – the WC. (Note: If you can make your way to the bathroom, use the facilities and get back in bed without ever opening your eyes, you probably make the trip too much. As my husband said last week as I gulped down yet another bottle of water, “Wouldn’t it be easier just to pour it in the toilet and get a full night’s sleep?”)
So. I woke up. But I couldn’t get back to sleep. Which is strange for me. Sleeping is one of my better skills.
Instead, I lay in bed, thinking about my life. About the kids sleeping peacefully in their beds down the hall from me. About the man sleeping two inches from my face. About the baby sleeping (yes, sleeping – not rolling or kicking or mambo-ing) in my swollen belly. And I was suddenly overcome with such a deep feeling of gratitude that I was almost giddy.
“Thank you, God, for these blessings! Thank you that we have shelter over our heads. Thank you that we are healthy. Thank you that you have restored my relationship with my husband. Thank you that we’re building a family. Thank you for pursuing us and loving us and giving us all good things.”
And with that glow in my heart, I slowly – ever so slowly – went back to sleep. It only took me about 50 minutes.
Five minutes later, I heard the shuffle of pajamad feet coming toward our room. I cracked open an eyelid. 6:00 AM. Our four-year-old quickly appeared next to our bed and climbed in. (Translation: Sleep-time is so over.) My six-year-old daughter woke up about an hour later and immediately started whining. The four-year-old responded by hitting and spitting. The words “stupid” and “hate” may have been slung. Cries of indignation and hurt filled the air. And during our morning prayer time – a new things for us, so don’t get too impressed – my husband had the audacity to open his prayer by saying, “Lord, thank you that I get to go to work now.”
It wasn’t even 7:30 AM. Those warm and gooey feelings that had flooded me earlier melted away with the night. The day had begun.
During breakfast, the following events occurred.
1. My daughter refused to study her spelling words, even though she can’t spell many of them, because she’s “tired and it’s too hard.”
2. I mismeasured the amount of water needed for my hot Kashi, creating a bowl of watery gruel that was so hideous, I had to toss it and start over.
3. My son sat naked and crying in his bedroom for a full ten minutes while I ate my (second bowl of) Kashi because he didn’t want to put his clothes on by himself nor did he want to humble himself to ask for my help.
4. During an attempt to put something away in the pantry, I knocked over the brand-new-yet-open canister of cornmeal, which poured out like a yellow waterfall onto every shelf and every box and every floor item below.
5. My children accused me of trying to freeze them to death. (True, it was 63 degrees on the main level when we came down this morning. Since we’re in a middle townhouse unit, we haven’t needed to turn the heat on yet. But for crying out loud, people, this is Minnesota, and it’s only going to get worse before it gets better! Toughen up!)
Yes. It’s a wonderful world. Do you hear the music? Do you feel the love?
By the time I delivered Natalie to school and got into the car to return home, I was glum indeed.
But then, a song came on our local Christian radio station. And it wasn’t “Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me.” (Anyone else grow up watching “Hee-Haw?” Or is it only those of us who spent their early years in Kentucky?) It was Steven Curtis Chapman’s “Live Out Loud.”
It’s always been a favorite of mine. And this morning, it did something miraculous. It changed my attitude and reminded me that I’ve been given something far better than anything I could imagine – a new life, a forever heart, a restored relationship with the very God who created the universe.
"Why are you so downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God."
- Psalm 43:5
So for the rest of today, I’m going to live out loud. Even if my children launch into a whine worth of Napa. Even if the white laundry turns pink. Even if the chocolate-glazed pumpkin cookies I’m itching to bake this afternoon end up tasting like chocolate-glazed feather pillow.
Because I was made to live out loud. And nothing can steal that kind of joy.
So. I woke up. But I couldn’t get back to sleep. Which is strange for me. Sleeping is one of my better skills.
Instead, I lay in bed, thinking about my life. About the kids sleeping peacefully in their beds down the hall from me. About the man sleeping two inches from my face. About the baby sleeping (yes, sleeping – not rolling or kicking or mambo-ing) in my swollen belly. And I was suddenly overcome with such a deep feeling of gratitude that I was almost giddy.
“Thank you, God, for these blessings! Thank you that we have shelter over our heads. Thank you that we are healthy. Thank you that you have restored my relationship with my husband. Thank you that we’re building a family. Thank you for pursuing us and loving us and giving us all good things.”
And with that glow in my heart, I slowly – ever so slowly – went back to sleep. It only took me about 50 minutes.
Five minutes later, I heard the shuffle of pajamad feet coming toward our room. I cracked open an eyelid. 6:00 AM. Our four-year-old quickly appeared next to our bed and climbed in. (Translation: Sleep-time is so over.) My six-year-old daughter woke up about an hour later and immediately started whining. The four-year-old responded by hitting and spitting. The words “stupid” and “hate” may have been slung. Cries of indignation and hurt filled the air. And during our morning prayer time – a new things for us, so don’t get too impressed – my husband had the audacity to open his prayer by saying, “Lord, thank you that I get to go to work now.”
It wasn’t even 7:30 AM. Those warm and gooey feelings that had flooded me earlier melted away with the night. The day had begun.
During breakfast, the following events occurred.
1. My daughter refused to study her spelling words, even though she can’t spell many of them, because she’s “tired and it’s too hard.”
2. I mismeasured the amount of water needed for my hot Kashi, creating a bowl of watery gruel that was so hideous, I had to toss it and start over.
3. My son sat naked and crying in his bedroom for a full ten minutes while I ate my (second bowl of) Kashi because he didn’t want to put his clothes on by himself nor did he want to humble himself to ask for my help.
4. During an attempt to put something away in the pantry, I knocked over the brand-new-yet-open canister of cornmeal, which poured out like a yellow waterfall onto every shelf and every box and every floor item below.
5. My children accused me of trying to freeze them to death. (True, it was 63 degrees on the main level when we came down this morning. Since we’re in a middle townhouse unit, we haven’t needed to turn the heat on yet. But for crying out loud, people, this is Minnesota, and it’s only going to get worse before it gets better! Toughen up!)
Yes. It’s a wonderful world. Do you hear the music? Do you feel the love?
By the time I delivered Natalie to school and got into the car to return home, I was glum indeed.
But then, a song came on our local Christian radio station. And it wasn’t “Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me.” (Anyone else grow up watching “Hee-Haw?” Or is it only those of us who spent their early years in Kentucky?) It was Steven Curtis Chapman’s “Live Out Loud.”
It’s always been a favorite of mine. And this morning, it did something miraculous. It changed my attitude and reminded me that I’ve been given something far better than anything I could imagine – a new life, a forever heart, a restored relationship with the very God who created the universe.
"Why are you so downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God."
- Psalm 43:5
So for the rest of today, I’m going to live out loud. Even if my children launch into a whine worth of Napa. Even if the white laundry turns pink. Even if the chocolate-glazed pumpkin cookies I’m itching to bake this afternoon end up tasting like chocolate-glazed feather pillow.
Because I was made to live out loud. And nothing can steal that kind of joy.
That's Totally Ragical, Dude
A few mornings ago, I grabbed a loaf of homemade pumpkin bread from a box lid on top of the fridge.
My four-year-old son was in awe.
Pumpkin bread.
From the top of the fridge.
Instantly.
“Wow, Mom!" he said. "That was ragical!”
Which I like to think is a combination of “rad” and “magical,” in a nod to our California heritage.
You can take the family out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the family.
Mostly because smog works itself into the very DNA of your cells.
Dude.
My four-year-old son was in awe.
Pumpkin bread.
From the top of the fridge.
Instantly.
“Wow, Mom!" he said. "That was ragical!”
Which I like to think is a combination of “rad” and “magical,” in a nod to our California heritage.
You can take the family out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the family.
Mostly because smog works itself into the very DNA of your cells.
Dude.
Heffalump @ Love Well
So I'm 30 weeks pregnant now. And really, all things considered, I'm doing great.
It's just that -- I think I've turned into an elephant.
I don't walk. I lumber.
I don't move fast. I plod.
I don't stop quickly. It's not easy to halt this girth.
(Insert elephant trumpet sound here.)
When I get out of bed in the morning -- or, let's be honest, in the middle of the night to heed the siren call of the wild -- I puff and pant. My ligaments stretch and strain. My back muscles scream at me I struggle to right myself. My heart rate shoots up instantly. (Can walking to the bathroom constitute a strenuous workout?) I'm so front heavy, I'm developing a permanent swayback.
Oy.
I also have to contend with a female child in my abdomen who is training for "Dancing with the Stars." (I think she has a particular liking for the mambo.) She jabs and rolls, kicks and turns. She is in constant movement, making my stomach heave and roll like an ocean storm.
And then there are the special effects pregnancy performs on my face. About three weeks ago, I looked like a "before" picture from one of those old Clearsil commercials. Remember? The one where the announcer draws a constellation on the face of the unsuspecting teen, connecting the red acne dots with a black marker? "The Big Dipper!" "The North Star!"
Yeah. That was me. Only I think I was sporting a small galaxy on my visage. It was ... beyond words. I could only grimace and bear it and remind myself that this, too, shall pass. (And thank you, Lord, for Proactiv!)
I comforted myself with the thought that this only confirms the old wives' tale that says you're having a girl if you're uglier pregnant than you are normally. Because I certainly don't glow much when I'm with child.
Unless you count the shine from the oil, and I really think that's only attractive to Exxon executives.
But she's worth it right?
Pregnancy is such a strange, mysterious, amazing thing. I keep reminding myself, "It's not everyday that you get to be a part of a miracle, girl. Suck it up. Your energy and smaller self will return. Someday, you'll be able to walk across the room again without having to stop and catch your breath. Someday, you won't have to hike up your pants every time you get out of a chair. Someday, you'll get to meet this little girl and all the inconveniences and annoyances of pregnancy will fade like a Minnesota fall."
Oh. And since God might have seen that I needed a physical reminder? My sister-in-law had her baby on Friday. Here's my brother, my sister-in-law and their new son.
Aren't they precious?
Sigh.
It's worth it. It's all worth it.
P.S. But could someone please invent some slip-on shoes that are suitable for winter in a northern climate? Because I almost passed out this morning when I had to tie my boot laces. Who can bend over that long, people? I have a baby where my lungs used to be.
That's all I'm saying.
It's just that -- I think I've turned into an elephant.
I don't walk. I lumber.
I don't move fast. I plod.
I don't stop quickly. It's not easy to halt this girth.
(Insert elephant trumpet sound here.)
When I get out of bed in the morning -- or, let's be honest, in the middle of the night to heed the siren call of the wild -- I puff and pant. My ligaments stretch and strain. My back muscles scream at me I struggle to right myself. My heart rate shoots up instantly. (Can walking to the bathroom constitute a strenuous workout?) I'm so front heavy, I'm developing a permanent swayback.
Oy.
I also have to contend with a female child in my abdomen who is training for "Dancing with the Stars." (I think she has a particular liking for the mambo.) She jabs and rolls, kicks and turns. She is in constant movement, making my stomach heave and roll like an ocean storm.
And then there are the special effects pregnancy performs on my face. About three weeks ago, I looked like a "before" picture from one of those old Clearsil commercials. Remember? The one where the announcer draws a constellation on the face of the unsuspecting teen, connecting the red acne dots with a black marker? "The Big Dipper!" "The North Star!"
Yeah. That was me. Only I think I was sporting a small galaxy on my visage. It was ... beyond words. I could only grimace and bear it and remind myself that this, too, shall pass. (And thank you, Lord, for Proactiv!)
I comforted myself with the thought that this only confirms the old wives' tale that says you're having a girl if you're uglier pregnant than you are normally. Because I certainly don't glow much when I'm with child.
Unless you count the shine from the oil, and I really think that's only attractive to Exxon executives.
But she's worth it right?
Pregnancy is such a strange, mysterious, amazing thing. I keep reminding myself, "It's not everyday that you get to be a part of a miracle, girl. Suck it up. Your energy and smaller self will return. Someday, you'll be able to walk across the room again without having to stop and catch your breath. Someday, you won't have to hike up your pants every time you get out of a chair. Someday, you'll get to meet this little girl and all the inconveniences and annoyances of pregnancy will fade like a Minnesota fall."
Oh. And since God might have seen that I needed a physical reminder? My sister-in-law had her baby on Friday. Here's my brother, my sister-in-law and their new son.
Aren't they precious?
Sigh.
It's worth it. It's all worth it.
P.S. But could someone please invent some slip-on shoes that are suitable for winter in a northern climate? Because I almost passed out this morning when I had to tie my boot laces. Who can bend over that long, people? I have a baby where my lungs used to be.
That's all I'm saying.
Memories of a Pedicure
If you need a bit of Southern-style hilarity in your life today, go directly to this post at The Preacher's Wife and then read part two here.
No. Really.
Go now.
OK. Are you back? Are you done? Can I share my story now?
Being a mom to two young children, I haven't bothered to get a manicure since 2003 when my brother got married (to Julie who is one of my favorite people and who is now two days past her due date for her first baby, bless her heart; let's all give her a big shout out).
(Wait. I need to share a picture from their gorgeous wedding on the beach in San Diego. Will you indulge me?)
Aren't they adorable?!? I love that photo.
OK. Back to the story.
I realized then, in 2003, that, a. my hands are either continually in motion, in water or in trouble, and b. they don't make a nail polish strong enough for my life. Despite the beautiful job by the technician, my manicure chipped and smudged before I had even gotten to the car. (Something about my 20-month-old daughter wanting to admire Mommy's pretty hands.)
However. I believe that same visit also introduced me to the joy that is a pedicure. Apparently, my feet aren't subject to the same amount of abuse as my hands. So I can get an adorable pedicure, complete with hibiscus flowers that have a jewel in the middle that is fun and sassy, and it will look good for weeks if not months.
Fast-forward a few years. My daughter grew up watching me return from trips to California with cute and sparkling toes. (Yes, that's right. I had to travel to California to get a fun and sassy pedicure. Because there were no Asian salons in the small town where we lived at the time, and the white girls at the salons in town had never heard of hibiscus flowers and jewels. Heck, they weren't even sure they had heard of Asians.)
(I kid. But barely. My husband was the racial diversity were we used to live. But that's a post for another day.)
So. The daughter. She loved the toes. The sparkles. The jewels. The flowers. She admired them. It only seemed right that, on our next family trip to San Diego, I would take her to a real Asian salon to get Her Very First Pedicure.
I warned her in advance that very little English would be spoken at the salon -- but I assured her she would leave with the cutest toes ever.
Of course, I didn't think to warn her that her sweet tech was most likely going to be speaking Vietnamese. Which is why she did what any child who has been raised on Nick Jr. would do: She started speaking "Dora"-inspired Spanish to her tech whenever conversation grew quiet.
"Hola?" "Lo hicimos?" "Azul?" "Cuidado?
The slightly confused girl painting my daughter's toes would look at me quizzically. Being too far away to correct my daughter without embarrassing everyone, I could only smile and nod.
And thus, we ended our visit. My daughter was thrilled with her toes, as was I.
And after reading The Preacher's Wife post, I'm just happy Dora doesn't have an episode where she visits a chicken farm. It could have been much worse.
No. Really.
Go now.
OK. Are you back? Are you done? Can I share my story now?
Being a mom to two young children, I haven't bothered to get a manicure since 2003 when my brother got married (to Julie who is one of my favorite people and who is now two days past her due date for her first baby, bless her heart; let's all give her a big shout out).
(Wait. I need to share a picture from their gorgeous wedding on the beach in San Diego. Will you indulge me?)
Aren't they adorable?!? I love that photo.
OK. Back to the story.
I realized then, in 2003, that, a. my hands are either continually in motion, in water or in trouble, and b. they don't make a nail polish strong enough for my life. Despite the beautiful job by the technician, my manicure chipped and smudged before I had even gotten to the car. (Something about my 20-month-old daughter wanting to admire Mommy's pretty hands.)
However. I believe that same visit also introduced me to the joy that is a pedicure. Apparently, my feet aren't subject to the same amount of abuse as my hands. So I can get an adorable pedicure, complete with hibiscus flowers that have a jewel in the middle that is fun and sassy, and it will look good for weeks if not months.
Fast-forward a few years. My daughter grew up watching me return from trips to California with cute and sparkling toes. (Yes, that's right. I had to travel to California to get a fun and sassy pedicure. Because there were no Asian salons in the small town where we lived at the time, and the white girls at the salons in town had never heard of hibiscus flowers and jewels. Heck, they weren't even sure they had heard of Asians.)
(I kid. But barely. My husband was the racial diversity were we used to live. But that's a post for another day.)
So. The daughter. She loved the toes. The sparkles. The jewels. The flowers. She admired them. It only seemed right that, on our next family trip to San Diego, I would take her to a real Asian salon to get Her Very First Pedicure.
I warned her in advance that very little English would be spoken at the salon -- but I assured her she would leave with the cutest toes ever.
Of course, I didn't think to warn her that her sweet tech was most likely going to be speaking Vietnamese. Which is why she did what any child who has been raised on Nick Jr. would do: She started speaking "Dora"-inspired Spanish to her tech whenever conversation grew quiet.
"Hola?" "Lo hicimos?" "Azul?" "Cuidado?
The slightly confused girl painting my daughter's toes would look at me quizzically. Being too far away to correct my daughter without embarrassing everyone, I could only smile and nod.
And thus, we ended our visit. My daughter was thrilled with her toes, as was I.
And after reading The Preacher's Wife post, I'm just happy Dora doesn't have an episode where she visits a chicken farm. It could have been much worse.
Dang It If Robert Frost Isn't Right After All
Brisk.
It's a brisk morning in the Twin Cities, this sixth of November. It's as if winter has swooped in and commandeered autumn's territory, like some sort of climatological bully. Winter never asks; it just takes.
And so it begins. We ate dinner in the dark last night. Today began with temperatures in the low 30s and measurable wind chill. Gray clouds hide the sun, so all the glorious fall colors that were so gorgeous last week, now look muted and old. That bright golden tree near the school playground has grown pitiful and sad in less than 36 hours. Now, she's just a half-denuded tree with a smattering of dirty yellow leaves. The wind will do that this time of year. It strips everything of color and warmth. On the way home from school, I noticed the horizon; it was all bare limbs, dark against the gray sky.
Well. Yes. This is November in Minnesota. Best get used to it. Cheerio and all that. I suppose I'll just come home and brew another pot of coffee, turn on the fireplace (no more blazing blazes and woodsmoke for us, unfortunately; the townhouse fireplace is gas operated) and hunker down.
At least there's Thanksgiving to look forward to. Probably because of it's hype-lessness, it's one of my favorite holidays.
Plus, food is involved, and I love everything about food: the menu planning, the grocery shopping, the cooking and eating. I love it so much, I'm greedy about fixing Thanksgiving dinner for my family -- and whatever extended family happens to be in the area -- all by myself. Don't offer to bring something to my Thanksgiving dinner. Just don't. It irks me and makes my forehead wrinkle. Back away from the kitchen, people! Why would you try to steal my joy?
Something else that occurred to me about Thanksgiving this morning: It lacks the decorations that Christmas and Halloween hoist upon us. Not that I'm complaining; it's a Good Thing. But where are the turkey lights and the inflatable pilgrim hats for the lawn and the 20 days of Thanksgiving music? Doesn't it seem weird -- and yet entirely wonderful -- that Thanksgiving is the ugly red-headed stepchild of winter holidays?
It's a brisk morning in the Twin Cities, this sixth of November. It's as if winter has swooped in and commandeered autumn's territory, like some sort of climatological bully. Winter never asks; it just takes.
And so it begins. We ate dinner in the dark last night. Today began with temperatures in the low 30s and measurable wind chill. Gray clouds hide the sun, so all the glorious fall colors that were so gorgeous last week, now look muted and old. That bright golden tree near the school playground has grown pitiful and sad in less than 36 hours. Now, she's just a half-denuded tree with a smattering of dirty yellow leaves. The wind will do that this time of year. It strips everything of color and warmth. On the way home from school, I noticed the horizon; it was all bare limbs, dark against the gray sky.
Well. Yes. This is November in Minnesota. Best get used to it. Cheerio and all that. I suppose I'll just come home and brew another pot of coffee, turn on the fireplace (no more blazing blazes and woodsmoke for us, unfortunately; the townhouse fireplace is gas operated) and hunker down.
At least there's Thanksgiving to look forward to. Probably because of it's hype-lessness, it's one of my favorite holidays.
Plus, food is involved, and I love everything about food: the menu planning, the grocery shopping, the cooking and eating. I love it so much, I'm greedy about fixing Thanksgiving dinner for my family -- and whatever extended family happens to be in the area -- all by myself. Don't offer to bring something to my Thanksgiving dinner. Just don't. It irks me and makes my forehead wrinkle. Back away from the kitchen, people! Why would you try to steal my joy?
Something else that occurred to me about Thanksgiving this morning: It lacks the decorations that Christmas and Halloween hoist upon us. Not that I'm complaining; it's a Good Thing. But where are the turkey lights and the inflatable pilgrim hats for the lawn and the 20 days of Thanksgiving music? Doesn't it seem weird -- and yet entirely wonderful -- that Thanksgiving is the ugly red-headed stepchild of winter holidays?
Mommy Math, Halloween Edition
Someone explain this to me.
I bought two bags of candy at Target three weeks before Halloween. One bag was full of bite-sized chocolate favorites like Snickers, Milky Way and Twix. The other contained miniature boxes of movie candies like Dots, Milk Duds and Charleston Chews.
The bags were opened forthwith. Imunched my way through "Good Eats" each night ate a few pieces. The kids were allotted a few after various meals, a reward for when they ate their broccoli or apples or Corn Pops.
Halloween came. We trick-or-treated in our neighborhood only, since it was a chilly night. And since the development we live in is only half completed, we made about 12 stops total.
How is it, then, that the amount of candy we have in our kitchen has more than doubled in a week? We're like the widow's jar of oil. Or some kind of horror movie. It just keeps coming.
And guess where all those pounds of chocolate are going to end up eventually?
Here's a hint: I gained 10 pounds during the four weeks between my September and October doctor's appointments. My November appointment is tomorrow.
You do the math.
Coming soon: Mommy Math, the Fall-Back-to-Standard-Time Edition, when that one "extra" hour of sleep mystically transforms into four hours of toddler torture, when your child insists it's time to get up even though the clock reads 5:30 AM.
I bought two bags of candy at Target three weeks before Halloween. One bag was full of bite-sized chocolate favorites like Snickers, Milky Way and Twix. The other contained miniature boxes of movie candies like Dots, Milk Duds and Charleston Chews.
The bags were opened forthwith. I
Halloween came. We trick-or-treated in our neighborhood only, since it was a chilly night. And since the development we live in is only half completed, we made about 12 stops total.
How is it, then, that the amount of candy we have in our kitchen has more than doubled in a week? We're like the widow's jar of oil. Or some kind of horror movie. It just keeps coming.
And guess where all those pounds of chocolate are going to end up eventually?
Here's a hint: I gained 10 pounds during the four weeks between my September and October doctor's appointments. My November appointment is tomorrow.
You do the math.
Coming soon: Mommy Math, the Fall-Back-to-Standard-Time Edition, when that one "extra" hour of sleep mystically transforms into four hours of toddler torture, when your child insists it's time to get up even though the clock reads 5:30 AM.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
