Beautiful Moments

My sis-in-law, her kids, my kids, my mama-in-law, my sister and I all went adventuring to a much known, not so very little pumpkin patch on a day predetermined to be "a good day" for such things.
We:
*went through a maze in which EVERYONE got lost with the exception of my freakishly directionally able sister--who, not only found her own way out, but also returned for those of us more directionally challenged than able and lead us through. Did i mention she's 14 w/ that kind of compass?? It's just sick...sick and wrong.

*visited a little room called the "apple tasting center," where we (gasp) tasted apples. They were crunchy and delicious by the way...and I would share but technology being what it isn't, that's just not possible:)
*saw what had to be the absolute largest pumpkin ever oogled by 8 females and 1 male child at once. (all members of our adventure crew.)


*decided wrangling 5 small kids, 1 teen and 3 moms into a zone with a few hundred persons, animals, gourds and children might be better done on another day. Say, one during the week--when it might be safe to assume only a COUPLE hundred persons, animals, pumpkins and kiddos might appear scampering 'round.

*were astonished by the number of times twinkling blue eyes over a button nose can convince you to go down the slide just once more....

*found hay and wheat in places not usually reserved for hay or wheat.

*touched upon the age old knowledge, that if you stand by a humongous pumpkin looking mildly confused for long enough, a man will appear and offer to put it in the wheelbarrow for you:)

Life without the shades

Sometimes life just isn't what we expect it to be. We ask for experience in abundance, life in abundance and we receive in abundance--so much so that sometimes, just occasionally, we become like so many dirty wash rags. Too much life-ness to soak in, to soak up. We're pulled up short, wrung out, twisted dry and tossed in the laundry room for a good wash.

And so we sit in the filth and ugliness of something just too much to bear, waiting for someone to come along and throw us in the machine. Wash the day clean somebody won't you? Bleach out the memory and return things good as new. Please?

Sometimes life just doesn't happen the way we plan. We are predisposed due to ignorance, experience or any number of reasons to believe, "Surely it will be like this." ...and it isn't. We are not God; not even close. But we know the story should go this way, end this way. We yearn for- anticipate that "happily ever after," that Hollywood ending, those rose-colored glasses. Removing the rose tinted shades is a move cold as death and usually as abrupt.

But, though we are not God, we have God. He's the big kidney bean in the sky, the dude who really does know how the story ends and why. So from our vantage point among the grime, goo and other miscellaneous grossness wasting away in the laundry bin, we look up with eyes hopeful and watch a hand reach in to start us along the trek toward cleaning up, sewing the holes, stitching the buttons back in place. Hollywood ending affixed? Not so much. But understanding, grace and learning achieved? You betcha:)

Be hopeful: Genna

Fallin' Hard for the Thirties

Lately I'm a big fan of 30's-ish. I mean, what to do with 30's isn't amazing? (Great Depression aside.) First off the dude whose ring permanently rests on my finger is 30. So right there, we have a winner hands down. :)
But the actual 30's had this:

(that's jimmy stewart and some other guy in "Mr. Smith goes to Washington." Pretty sure this is one of the best movies EVER!)

(who doesn't want fashion so over the top it's, well...fashionable?)

Sure, in a couple weeks I'll be in love with the 40's or the 50's or something along those lines but for now it's all about being back in a time with funky lookin' cars, smoke fumes issuing from every mouth, black n' white movies, assuming "pounding the pavement" means walking 'round looking for a job, having to use an actual public phone to call anyone at a restaurant. Do you realize how brave these people were?! No sanitation gel!! Just a brazen determination (or general ignorance of bacteria..whichever) to call whoever come hell or dirty phone. At any rate, as long as we don't explore the "hoovervilles" phenomenon etc, the 30's are swell....

Still in her 20's: Genna

Tor-tea-ya Soup

Yup. Tortilla Soup. Mmm, good stuff. Or well, it would have been had the resident chef (craftily disguised as a house wife: complete with urchins hanging off her apron strings, flour across her nose, and random thumps, whams & the pitter patter of madly dashing little feet) not completely annihilated the recipe with a mite too much adobo sauce.

Note to self: when reading small type in a cook book make sure you're reading the same line ALL the way across! Make sure, for instance it doesn't say "dump whole can of tomato sauce into pot" instead of what you might mistakenly think reads, "dump whole can of jalapenos in adobo sauce in pot." The true jalapeno line went something like this "add 1 to 2 jalapenos in adobo sauce from the can (chopped)" Trust me, reading the directions is a good thing. Reading the same line is a good thing. Having a astigmatism is a bad thing. There were so very many unexpected consequences of this one tiny little act I had to create a list...

Pros of adding a whole can:

*Effectively withering the toe hair off your husbands freakishly hairy feet.
* You will discover mad oula!-it's-PBJ-night-in-the-blink-of-an-eye skills
* Your kids will eat ALL their dinner

Cons:
* your mans feet will now be cold thanks to you
* You will eat PBJ
*You will remember PBJ isn't nearly as awesome when enjoyed for two out of the three daily meals...

Gonna Try Again: Genna

Portion Control

Patience please-- I've had 3 hours of sleep today:) It's a weird place to write from....

Coming from a place of only 3 hours conk-time I was a little hard on myself today and started realizing I'm a "half person." As in half arsed, half cocked, half n half etc, etc. Usually it's OK because while fully rested, halving life is doable. (not to be mistaken with double..remember we're talking in halves here, not second helpings.)

My house is ALWAYS half clean. There's a good reason. There is. Because: if you happen to be one of those folk who might actually be ADD but were never diagnosed you might:

* Do half the dishes before realizing the floor you're walking on might be more crumbs than tile so you
* Sweep the floor but don't actually mop it right then because you notice
* The laundry is washed and needs to be switched over which means the dried clothes must come out
*So you start to fold those clothes and put half away in the kids' rooms before seeing the mountain of toys
*That you help marshal the chillin's into picking up while finding a wrapper under the dresser from something or other. This causes you to head to the kitchen where the trashcan is located which means you see the
* dishes are only half done, so you finish the dishes....
* And since you're in the kitchen you make snack/lunch or dinner (depends on the clock)

Are you seeing where this goes?? Yes, eventually everything gets done. But not until the end of the day. As in approx. 10 minutes before the man walks home and says "Did you have a good day? What did you guys do today??"

On a non-well rested day; say a day where one might be running on about 180 minutes Zzz's - being a "halfinator" has drawbacks. It means getting dressed doesn't happen until almost noon since it took you that long to feed, cloth, and clean up the morning routine and it's attendees, find an item of clothing you can confidently decide looks good (which is not easy when 1. you're eyes are playing saboteur w/ you're brains bid for sight and 2. you don't really want to climb out of the jammies that so cruelly remind you that in fact, you really do miss your bed.) and then relay to your limbs what gymnastics to employ to both pull the clothing on and wrestle the 3 year old w/ the grip of a mildly deranged leech off your calf.

Now that I've semi-explained things: goodnight. I'm going a'courting those Zzz's early:)

TWO?!

Two?! How is she two? Well, turns out Izy didn't believe it either...and it WASN'T her birthday. And she DIDN'T want cake...or her pretty headband! Or so she insisted in the mini-video we took cataloging another "happy birthday." But hey, it was her party...she could cry and all that.

(note the tears-she really believed in her cause)

She did agree that she's 1.99 though. So we celebrated her 1.99th birthday with the usual :

Cake


Super-fly Friends


Life-Like Crying Dolls

It was a good 1.99th celebration. Wait until we actually get to two:)

No, it's not Blood...

We went a little crazy this summer picking berries. The blue, the straw, the rasp and any other kind we could lay hands on. I'm guessing there's a good 40 pounds of 'em in the house at this very moment. (not including those we already "eated.")

True Story: I ate SO many blueberries, the baby (Mia) had blue poo in her otherwise pristine BumGenius. I was going to take a picture but then this post would've been PG-13. It was that gross/scary. Trust me. I'm still seeing a counselor:)

But I did take this:

Caught. Red-Handed.
(Death of a Good Strawberry By Mauling.)

Poor thing. What a way to go...she doesn't even have teeth yet.

Penny for Your Thoughts

Did you know our beloved law-makers recently created a "tanning tax?" As in, if you go to the tanning salon, you must pay a tax.

Perhaps they grow weary of seeing the folk who aren't holed up inside a cramped office building writing mysterious documents, flaunt their brown-oisty. Maybe they are attempting a new, sociological movement in an earnest effort to quell skin cancer.


Maybe they are trying to find creative ways to pay for road improvements and figure, since these people can obviously afford synthetically toasted skin, they can pitch in a smidge more for the pavement surrounding those faculties.... One can only guess.

And since we mentioned taxes; why don't we get a tax credit or write off or something for being alive to pay our taxes?? I'm just saying that if they need "the people" to pay those taxes, then there should be some sort of nod to our generosity in frequenting the planet long enough to donate to the government cause. Right? It would probably increase life expectancy. Say if one were to think "oh, now don't kick up the daisies yet...you'll miss your tax write off!!" Great motivator yes?

Blatantly Pale: Gen

Remember...

Ever have one of those "good Lord what happened to my body?" moments? yeah, I'm right there with ya. So let's just say for the sake of argument that while I technically fit into my fat pants they are 1) a little on the snug side yet preferable to maternity pants but are still 2) called "fat pants." Need I say more?? So today is about remembering WHY those fat pants (and later down the line those maternity pants) were pulled from the closet and actually made to fit. Recalling how a finger-wide, scar-like line appeared on my right hip bone and why...dear Lord WHY one could possibly trace a route cross country utilizing only the little "roads" marking my lower belly. Here are my reasons:

And:

And we can't forget this:

Or this:

Reasonably: Gen

Death of a Good Thing-a-ma-jig

Yesterday was a day of renovation and realization. Yesterday:

*I continued paint-rolling my way along the "paint every room in the house" gig

*Matt transported the shower into the bathtub and started replacing faucets as a first step into tearing apart/ remodeling the bathroom. (that's right, I married me one of those "Manly-men." The kind that can FIX things, think nothing of the calloused condition of their hands and know their way around a car engine--which is a good thing because I can't even change a flat.)

*I calculated costs for dry wall & tile do-it-ones self-style decor.

*Matt slapped some things on Craigslist to help finance that calculation...

* I broke the stove...

OH WAIT..that's was part of the "realization list."

That was when I realized that having an emergency fund is an exceptionally awesome thing; but having a man who knows his way around a car engine AND knows his way around a stove/oven (or what I've recently been taught is actually called a "range." Ok, sure. But who really calls it a range? I mean really. Like really-really. My point exactly.) is an even better thing.


Turns out, I am in possession of both:) Kudos. Two hours later, I had a working stove/oven thing-a-ma-jig. Albeit, only three burners attain heat enough to defrost a mildly frozen halibut... still, who uses 4 burners for dinner anyway? Who wants to? That implies a certain number of dirty dishes I don't even want to think about in my lacking-anything-remotely-akin-to-a-dishwasher state.

We're heading to the new-to-us store in a few days on a search for a new (ish) thing-a-ma-jig to replace our handicapped appliance. Dave Ramsey would be so proud! What I want to know is...does it count against you to pay the pizza boy with emergency fund money if it's an EMERGENCY? Say, if you're range exploded itsself in a frizzle of sparks and popping sounds? (we didn't actually have to do that, we had pizza $...I'm just sayin' IF that were to happen THEN what??)

Live like no one else:
Gen

Birthday Girl...a must read for my Mama:)

Life. Is. Awesome.

Today is my Mama's 44th birthday. And though she would gladly strangle me for leaking the info to ye of the internet world, I say --own that number!! you rock Mama!! Let me just say, there's a lot to live up to from this woman.

First of all she birthed and raised me; not an easy undertaking. trust me, i've seen the family videos.

She donated 12 life years to the Navy. (this implies a certain amount of time spent in boot camp. *shudder*)

She retains a level of optimism bordering on insanity. (When driving for 4 hours to a water park with a van load -ie 6- kids arguing in the back, what sane person continues to insist "No, this is a family trip and we're having FUN!!...Isn't this fun kids?...Of course it is, because I said so!" )

She has run a few 5k's

Has a B.S and working on yet another degree

Stands at 5'4" *jealous*

Visited Japan, and went on a cruise.

Can remember all 6 kids and 4 grandkids full names and birthdays at a moment's notice. AND never forgets to send cards/presents etc on time! (and she's usually had them wrapped for a few months already.)

That's a lot to live up to...so as I said: You rock, flaunt those 44 years of life! :) Happy Bday mama!

this was in 1989:)

Reality

It seems there are quite a few things on my list of "stuff i'll have when I grow up." that, under further inspection, don't seem so swell. This used to be my list:

A horse
A salt water tank swimming pool (so you can scuba dive while at home)-sorry joy, it had to be said:)

A giant dog
ducks
a goat (apparently, I was gonna own a farm)
a secret library hidden in the house
to be as tall as my mom
to see Ireland, Italy and a million other places


Ok, so now let's review minus the rose colored glasses of childhood.

*A horse -um, nix the horse...unless i can have it with a groom and stables, basically maintanence free.

*A salt water swimming pool tank thingie (again, awesome idea, plus the dude to take care of it...puts a whole new meaning on the term "pool boy" doesn't it?)

*A giant dog --that still applies, who doesn't want a dog capable of sticking your head in it's mouth? Or doubling as a horse for that matter:) ?

*ducks--NO CHICKENS! THEY ARE EVIL!! I still have nightmares about the chickens my grandpa owned. Think it's enough to say any adventurers into his backyard carried bats and ran with the speed of the four winds.

*A goat- Goats. Are. Awesome.

*A secret library--I have the man to build it now too:)

*to be as tall as my mom--alas, it's not to be.

*to see the world--in the works

Though it hasn't changed entirely, the list has lengthened to include:

*to see my kids grow up to be people of integrity and value, loving God:)

*watching matt get old and crinkly (because I doubt pot bellied will ever apply.)

*to stop accidently sticking a finger in poo/yark/mysterious wet substances each day (there's an end in sight right?)

*to inspire others:)



Be inspired~~Gen



*

Boogy Down with the King Kidney Bean

And speaking of Shel Silverstien (oh, we weren't? well, just go with me on this...) Does anyone remember that poem Description? It goes like this:

George said, "God is short and fat."
Nick said, "No. He's tall and lean."
Len said, "With a long white beard."
"No," said John, "He's shaven clean."
Will said, "He's black," Bob said, "He's white."
Rhonda Rose said, "He's a She."
I smiled but never showed 'em all
The autographed photograph God sent to me.

Will (my Will) had a "God is" moment the other day. Will says God is "big and hairy" (he recently learned about "that Esau boy" and since he got the tale from his kid bible and anything in the kid-bible is about God...well, obviously God is big and hairy.)I'm glad my son has reasonable expectations of God. --I'm glad he's not suffering under strange delusions involving God and giant dancing kidney beans...or was that just me? Hey no judgment, my mommy said God is not a he or a she, God is a being.

Note to moms everywhere: realize that when you tell children something is a "being" they will assume you mean "bean." So to this day I harbor a mental image of God as a giant, crowned, tap-dancing kidney bean (complete with cane and yellow halo-ish light shining from behind.) Which means when we get to heaven we'll boogey down with the big bean of the universe, right?

On the other hand (this is not veggie tales, so the bean has hands) picturing God as big and hairy might bring on a whole host of other issues: what happens when he meets one of those oober-hair, cousin of bigfoot men? You know the type: the men who not only wax off any extra belly fuzz, but could also- at any given moment- scribble your name, birthdate and "will you marry me?" into their back-fur via electric razor? Perhaps we'll scale that wall (or Nair that back, whichever.) when we get to it:)

This begs the question: does anyone ELSE still harbor childhood desciptions of the Big Hairy Bean that skim shy of padded-cell worthy? Do share, we all need a lil autographed photograph to carry 'round:)

In Spontaneity We Trust

I'm not a bad parent. I'm not a bad parent. I'm not a bad parent. (deep breath--and repeat)

So I may have run out of "healthy" snacks today and in a moment of desperation, grabbed a can of black beans and attempted to pass it off as a bowl of "bean bugs." As in "guess what kids? we're having BEAN BUGS for snack! Squish 'em with your monster teeth!" (ok give me a break, my first born is a boy...this is how we talk in relate-to-little-boy-world.)

And may have actually allowed my three year old access to a paint roller (tangent: WHAT is the official name of a paint roller anyway? what do the painting guys in the white jump suits call them? Do they just throw a hardy "hey mark, toss me that paint roller o'er there will ya?" over there shoulder when they need to switch up?) while finishing up my accent wall (sounds snazzy huh? it is, you should come see. i'm in love.)

And I maybe, just maybe allowed my 21 mos old daughter to eat a little lipstick this morning. (though in my defense, I did tell the girl it's gross, but obviously parents have NO idea what they're talking about. If it's pink and comes out of an amazing swirly container it HAS to taste like heaven...turns out, it doesn't. And the ensuing pink spittle that results isn't all that cool of a clean up item either. Ranks up there with mashed blueberries and grape juice stains.)

BUT Oregon was unusually compliant today and I scored an alarmingly compelling set of pics. (complete with almost everyone looking and smiling at the camera at the same time! a miracle, that is.)
(note the bowl of "bean bugs.")


the three amigos:)

Why I Fear My Toddlers (aka who got butt paste on my boots?)

Early this mornin' a young woman is carefully applying her black, ultimate mascara brush to those lashes that are never as full as she might wish (why is that?) when she freezes, transfixed--horror, dread and anxiety all warring within her suddenly pounding breast. For what she hears, Dear Lord, what she hears is the sound of utter and complete silence--AND she realizes, breath bordering on hyperventilation, she has heard this silence for a good SEVENISH minutes!

Why does this silence so move her? Why, you might ask, could this cause such obvious dismay? Well, my friends, because this young woman is a MOTHER. A mother of waist-high-children. A mother, in short, of TODDLERS. In parent-of-toddlers world silence= terror.

Furthermore, this mother is me. Which means there be not one but two of them!

Flinging myself from the bathroom, I steathily race down the hall (who doesn't want to catch a culprit in the act after all?) turn a corner and...

AHHHHHHHHHH! GOOD LORD! HOLY TOLEDO! BLIMEY O'RIELLY'S GREENISH TROUSERS!!! EGAD! (etc etc)

There, on the gravesite of two once fine examples of diaper-bagdom- business cards mingle w/ more wipes than could possibly have come out of a travel case, swathes of orange that might once have been a snack hidden away in one of the pockets, butt paste smeared in places butt paste was never meant to be smeared, several small squished ants (what!?) pairs of socks now matched to the wrong mate....or bathing in paste or worse-juice! And two child-sized pairs of feet edging toward the beginning of their hopeful retreat. HA! right.

Poor, Sweet Baby

Baby girl was sick late last night. And I mean SICK. --Of the sniffling, hacking up a tiny lung, running a 103.2 fever variety. Can you say pray?

And while we be not of the "medicate that child!" camp, we buzzed my midwife, who gave us the down low on acceptable infant fevers...then proceeded to buzz the doc, who in turn gave us the kids Tylenol dosage for such a wee one as she. Fortunately, we'd recently re-organized the medicine/band aid/all things first aid cupboard and were actually able to find some--unfortunately, the expiration date read 10/08 (AND it was an unopened box!) So the hot blond I married then rushed out to the store (all 0 hours of sleep of him), found kiddos Tylenol and helped get it down our wee bairn. (Really not that much a feat, she was a little on the overly limp and compliant side right then.)

Fever came down to more reasonable levels, hasn't actually broken as yet but I'll take the sliver lining where I can get it, esp. when that sliver lining means I don't have to suffer any more visions of tiny little Mia with tubes sticking out of her chubby baby arms while they try to cheer on the fluid levels in her system. Phew. Okay, so maybe that's a mite on the dramatic side, but isn't that part of the "mom" job description? Good thing God gave us the midwife hint:)

Ode to a caffinated, chocolatey drink I once had.

Oh, how stand you there in such beautiful snowflakey-white, ice-cold blue, dutch brothery coat? Containing one dozen plus four ounces of pure, whirled ice-chunks, coffee and syrups unknown.
Bliss, they name is blended mocha!

Be caffeinated:) ~gen

Style? who said anything about style?

I have this friend, let's call her Audry Hepburn (because that's not her name) who introduced me to this little Wardrobe Therapy blog. Here is the beginning of the end. The beginning to actually dressing like an adult....and then end of pretending I don't fall into the category of a "twenty-something." *sniff-sniff* And since this blog is primarily a mere replacement therapy theory for my scrawling urges (and subsequent frantic searches for a pen), I feel the compelling call to issue a dire warning: tread with caution on this one. You probably didn't want to know I once owned a pair of zebra-stripped skinny jeans (before they were called skinny jeans, and went by the slightly less complimentary adjective: odd and eccentric.)

1. Thinking primarily (but not necessarily exclusively) about looks, who's your favorite performer of your own gender and species? Why?

You never seem to catch this woman in scrubs. I like it. I love slacks, heels, dresses and the occasional well-fitted jean. She's a classy dresser and a girly dresser:)

2. If you could live in any historic era with a really good clothing budget (as well as soap, toothpaste, and delicing as needed), when would you choose?
I'm torn. I love the simplicity of the medieval dress. It lets the female form be what it is and allows for a bust and hips, while emphasizing the waist...
But then there's this ((see right) and not in yellow might I add) which I suppose does just about the same thing:) Conclusion: I'd live now, but I'd have that better budget to buy dresses that just let a girl look like a girl.

3. What's your favorite painting or other form of visual art? Why?
I have to have a favorite painting for wardrobe therapy? I'm not sure I can do this after all...Um, one that looks good on my wall? Of which I currently have none--so does that count?

4.What is your first memory in which clothes are important?
I was three, my mama had dressed me up in a frilly, lacy, white little dress with matching stockings and cute little shoes with bows..there was even a bow in my hair. I'm pretty sure that's also the first day I'd ever ingested NyQuil (the nighttime sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so you can rest medicine....why don't they ever include "vile, nasty or nausea inducing?") 'Nuff said--I'm pretty sure mom never forgave me that one...:)

5.What is your favorite garment ever? Why?
Peek-a-boo heels or knee high, zip-up boots(without the seriously pointy toe) Reason: I'm short and they make your legs look nice.

6.What is the worst clothing purchase you can remember making?
See earlier comment on zebra stripped skinny pants.

7.Do you consider yourself low-, medium-, or high-maintenance?
Low, of necessity. I have three little people ages 3 and under. Quickie makeup, however long it takes to dry hair and brush it and throw on some (pre-meditated while drying hair) clothes. I'm sure, if most of my wardrobe actually fit (erhem. youngest baby is only 3 mos old) it'd take a lil longer to pick out an outfit.

Hmmm, this has not been the most inspiring of therapy sessions....

World Peace...in a cheesey fashion

When I was growing up, there were 10 of us. Two parents, two dogs, six kids (and various other natural life--potted plants, birds, gerbils etc....but essentially, there were the core 10.) With such a large sum of persons, there were also the inevitable battles, skirmishes and (the occasional) all-out-war.

But then up stood Mom and her mad hatter solutions. The mad hattiest of which was this: hugging!! Whoever was enough of a degenerate to participate in a spat then regretted it from the soles of their sneakers to the tippiest piece of their blush burned face. You got it, we were forced to stand hugging our most vile opponent until a solution (or forgiveness) blossumed.



Don't think it worked? Well, you try despising someone with your arms wrapped tight about their neck (no limp, sloppy hugs permitted of course.) Telling you now, it's not possible--either as a result of complete and utter shared embarassment or in the creation of a new common enemy (the mama and her war-deflating tactics!)

So why not try it on the fighting nations? Collar the defiant leaders and toss 'em up on the world stage in a brother-creating, rib-busting hug...watch peace ensue. "No, you can't leave or sign that bill or order that attack until you have a smile--a REAL smile-- on your face mister! Until we can tell you love your brother and have smudged away the differences. Don't you give me that look! I mean it!" If nothing else, it'd be a new (though sadly, most likely unrealistic) approach...

Why Grandma's House is Wowsome

Lovin' the outdoors!






I'll just let the pictures speak for themselves which leaves me w/ nothing more to say.....other than I can't figure out how the "underline" option came into being but it's not going away. So sorry folks:)

Ants Believe In Sabbath!

We have made a violently cool discovery!!

ANTS BELIEVE IN THE SABBATH DAY! woohoo!

It must be so, it must be true! Because two days ago there were only 5 dishes in my sink to be washed. The ants sent their scouts. I washed 'em and we had company over for dinner. Then there were oh, let's say...15 dishes in my sink, the scouts send word home to the nest and a gathering committee launched itself to well, gather. I squished them all and crawled into bed But didn't wash those dishes-- we had friends over again.

Now there are..well, there are enough dishes that it would take more than a couple minutes to count them. And not an ant in sight!! (please note, I am not a slovenly person--we have no dish washer and usually have a packed weekend. So occasionally it just doesn't happen.)

I can hear the hallelujah chorus starting up in my heart of hearts and feel tap dancing urges in my soles. I'm also envisioning thousands of creepy, crawly ants resting from their persistent pestilential role. God is good, ants are bad...but ants, apparently, believe in Sabbath. Yeah, God! This--to me-- reaffirms that God is most def. a great, great God:)

Jumping Bean

This is our son, with him we are well pleased:) Born William Daniel after his grandpa and a very good friend of ours (indicated by his status as best man when we did the "happily ever after" thing.) The boy be "ALL BOY." Not being all boy myself, this occasionally presents a bit of an issue.



Case in point, WHY- oh, why why WHY! is it necessary to launch ones self from various surfaces of dubious heights (say a couch...or better yet a counter top your mama has no idea how you surmounted in the first place) onto other surfaces (say, the back of a mobile--as in rocking--chair) of dubious distance from point of origin? And WHY is the split lip resulting from a crash collision with a door frame (which was SO there first) "cool?" It must make sense to somebody (ie his dad) but really, this line of reasoning eludes me completely. :)

The thing I DO get however, is that the boy has a compassionate heart. I was able to snap a super-touching-proud-mama-feather-fluffing-awesome-big-brother-moment photo a couple weeks back when his little sis was essentially milking a stubbed toe for all it could possibly ever be worth to ANYONE in hearing distance. Will gallumps (that walk between normal striding and his own walk that just doesn't wanna go w/ the legs that are currently just a touch longer than the rest of him seems to have caught onto yet) up to our wee lass, throws an arm 'round about her shoulders, puts her head on his chest and explains that everything will be "okay" and offers my resident drama queen daughter any number of distractions ranging from (i kid you not) stubbing his own toe, to inventing a complicated game involving plastic screw-drivers and babydoll heads. (please don't ask.) Now that, I tell you, is love!

A Touch of Church

Swoosh...Haoooosh..Swooshhhh.

Waves sing such lovely songs. Must be why we ply our children w/ 15 minute recordings of their greatest hits in a desperate attempt to keep babies asleep past that anxiety-ridden moment when you separate them from your arms and entrust them to the embrace of a couch, bassinett, crib etc.

Waves sing such lovely songs. Must be why we purchase albums full of them for ourselves- to detox from the intensity of life in the middle lane (since we all know the "fast lane" is now only used by those moving at the slowest pace, while the "slow lane" is reserved almost exclusively for semi-trucks.)

A yoga class running to its beat might sound something like this:
"Swoosh....Haoosh"
"OOOmmm"
"Swaooosh...OOOmmmmm." :)

Waves sing such lovely songs. But my personal favorite doesn't usually show itself in any cd/child's toy/yoga class. And that's just fine, it's dandy, it's wonderful...because it means in order to experience this wonderful melody I must take action and head to the coast!

What is this sound of glory? The crash and boom and swoosh and lap of waves at their most indignant, their most passionate. When they're whipped into a frenzy by a usually teasing wind, turned down-right sour. Who doesn't love a good storm?



As it turns out- a good many people. Head to the coast when the most foul sort of weather rears its head in your forecast (plan on it a day earlier or a day later. we all know it will never show up when Bob-the-weather-man claims. Though he flashes his most convincing smile and nods in his most I-have-a-four-year-degree-in-weather-pattern-movement-and-you-don't,so-trust-me-on-this sort of nod, the weather simply doesn't care, and thus will stubbornly refuse to arrive at his demand.) In any case, head out to that coast on a foul-weather day and note the lack of other persons. Can i get a hallelujah here? It's great! --minus the masses and a front row seat to hear the orchestra. :)

If you didn't know before, I grew up right by the ocean. And Salem, while pretty darn cool, is an HOUR away from that ocean! Can you believe it? A WHOLE HOUR! CRICKY! Seeing as it has been MONTHS, long-long MONTHS since my last mad dash to the very edgity-edge of our country, another trip is in order. So, when's the next storm? Or should I gun for a nice day? In either case I'll have the company of three small persons to teach this love to.

Fortunately for me, a trip of such magnitude is basically guaranteed to cause utter kid exhaustion. At the end of such a trip Matt and I can gleefully look forward to 3 small urchins passing out like a small calico cat hit with an elephant-grade tranquilizer. Yes, yes-that is peace:) *sigh*

Rain Or What Have You...

This be not an ode to rain. This be not a sonnet to rain. This be not a love note to rain.

What this be ladies and gents. is a casual reminder that while we may love nature, we do not have to love that which grows it. In a word: rain. (cringe)

The dictionary def. for which is thus: "water falling in drops from vapor condensed in the atmosphere."

Whoever created such a banal explanation for something which causes so much joy and so many soggy shoes, pant hems, socks, hairs etc. obviously never visited Oregon else wise they might instead considered jotting: "A noxious substance comprising two parts H and one part O, deflater and elater of a simple farmers prayers, heaven send of flowers, creator of countless muddy, jumpable puddles, smiter of all haircare product attempts, cause for yearly-ish purchase of wipers and scrouge of innumerable cats."

Don't get me wrong. Rain is lovely. Beautiful. Smell-nice-i-ful. Reason for a good book, hot soup and curling up in front a fire-i-ful.

It's the wet part that cats, hair stylists, short people with wet pants hems and most of the general female populace might consider petitioning against.

Am I wrong??

Big 'tude, lil package

I'm without much witty/ironic material for today's blog and thus, decided to enlighten the world on one of the people who makes up my life and w/ whom I spend each day:)

This is our first little girl, second child: Izabella Marie. Now, her name means Merrily Sanctified to God, but there's not an awful lot about Iz I'd call "merry." Merry alludes to a plump, slightly addle-patted female possessing nondescpit brown hair either caught in a bun at her neck or fizzing slightly 'round her face.

Izy is none of those things. This gal is joyous, clever and sweet as a that pup peering out at you from under the covers, but most of all...she's sassy:) My daughter learned to say her first words at 7 mos old, and those words were: mama, dada and MINE! soon followed by NO! Now I'm just saying, but we should have seen it coming w/ the introduction of the latter two. There is a great deal more 'tude and willpower in that little body than there are sardines shoved in a can.

Is this simply a stage? Pre-terrible two's? Allow me disabuse the masses of this opinion with a little story.
Socks, as we all know, were created for a reason, yes? A good reason. A sensible reason. Frostbite and gangreen are commonly considered undesireable companions. Most chil'ens adore the putting on and taking off of the sock...most chil'ens don't simply reject the very notion of sockdom out of hand. Most children are not Izy:) You might not think a toddler with fewer than the average number of hairs upon her head could, with such fevor, protest the addition of cloth on her tooties...you'd be wrong. Apparently, feet must feel the death-cold, hard wood floors some loony deemed wise to place in our home w/out the added addition (haha) of insulation. They must be free to..well, to be free. Or else victoriously captured within the rubbery confines of a purply-pink sneaker. Yes, before our daughter introduced herself to our lives, we were obviously under great dillusions as to the actual purpose of the sock. Toes everywhere rejoice at this new fount of knowledge, wisedome and I-know-besthood.

And that is our daughter; clever, undeniably precious, sweet, joyous and the sassiest little thing you ever did meet off a side street of silverton road:)

Double Blogger

Hey all.
I'm starting another blog. Really. Today...or rather tonight. Here's the why and wherefore (actually as you English buffs probably know, wherefore means the same thing as why. This is the reason it annoys me when people cry out "wherefore art thou Romeo" when looking for someone. Read it w/ the true meaning and they sound ridiculous right?lol) .
Numerous persons have asked (quite frequently) how we get by spending only $200 per month to feed our family (of 5, though only 4 really count as the 5th is currently getting her food stuffs from the Mama). Mr. Dave Ramsey himself spent $500 when his family was tight on money. so to my way of thinking a blog w/ tasty, inexpensive meals would prove a most helpful addition to the internet world, yes? Besides which fact, I LOVE to cook. Love as in LOVE. All in caps, and (if the computer would let me do it) surrounded by little heart thingys too:) Sharing ideas etc. is just an extension of that happy hobby/necessity:) Also, in taking on this blog-erific idea, I shall achieve the elevated status of a Double Blogger. And we all know that is a BIG deal. SO stay tuned, for tonight the first entry shall appear...

An Unrequited Death Wish

This is my permanent roommate, the conqueror of trees, daddy of my chil'ens, mechanic/detailer of my car, mover/lifter of various large items, killer of bugs, destroyer of the evil moth, general do-er of manly-type things (refer to pic) , bring-home(er) of the bacon, my (cliche but true) best friend, that amazing dude I married: Matt.

In case you have been residing in a swamp or don't know him all that well, Matt is also huge on justice/non-allowance of hooligans running amok. It is to this end that he has: driven after and called in numerous drunk drivers, followed young men doodling foul signs on neighborhood fencing, gotten into numerous fights as a kid, called into the Oregon Rep. offices, chased down some dude breaking into a (his) car, and confronted shifty(Is it just me, or does everyone else envision a scruffy looking dude in black with a french hat, 2 days growth of beard and tiny, little red-shot eyes when they hear the word "shifty?") looking characters in front of our street.

Last night produced such a confrontation.

The scene: Day has breathed it's last and surrendered to late evening, a darkened street in the almost-not-so-nice section of town, winter trees twisting in a buffeting wind, a stray cat ambling out of the shadows. Four young men, garbed in hoodies and various other baggy textiles, are gathered on a street corner, faces indecipherable within their hoods. ---Questionable enough, no?

Well, those persons remained on that street corner (our street corner) for upwards of 30minutes. Since we happen to live in that almost-not-so-nice part of town, Matt heads out of the house to "get a look at faces and see what they're up to." Not only does the man go outside to the very edge of our yard...he crosses the street and strides up to that corner they've apparently staked out! Please note he had no defensive mechanism on his person. There was one of him and FOUR of them. Yes. That's right. Four. Can you understand how this might make me, the wife, that person peering from our front window, nursing a baby while visually scanning the room for her phone in case of an emergency, nervous?

Yes, I thought you'd understand.

From my perch on the edge of our couch, I watch one of the "hooligans" saunter right up to this very mortal man that I married.

Frowning in both concern and a fair dose of irritation at his blatant lack of caution, I wait as Matt slowly returns home (well, mostly I keep an eye on that little group...just in case.)

Once inside, he says, "Bunch of junior high kids. Just waiting for a ride. One of 'em lives up the road from us. No problem." ...Ugh! Guess they weren't so shifty after all. Hmm, that whole exchange appears a lot different in light of this hither fore unknown piece of info...

(this is just another great "man" picture.)

Dance of the Happy Nudist

The other night was bath night. (yeah for bath night!) and no, i'm not referring to mommy bath night, I mean little kid bath night so you can calm those concerns cropping up about how often i shower and how close you actually have to get to my person when we bump into each other at Wal-mart. :)

Bath night...a good thing. Bath time produces some of most ridiculous future black mail pictures in childhood(a good thing), occupies the blank space between dinner and bedtime (a great thing) and provides multiple opportunities for accidental drowning(a bad thing).

But the time right AFTER bath time is the absolute BEST! It's run-through-the-house-naked time!! yes!! (In case you missed out on the awesomeness that is the nudist dance; you must fling yourself from your towel, out into the slightly chilly air and prance about in wild abandon all the while screaming "NAKED!" at the very tip-top of you vocal cords...it's amazing. trust me.)


I'm wondering when we lose this urge to vault through the front rooms, in full view of God and everyone screeching on about our nudity? Told the resident head-of-the-wife I want to join in the revelry after bath and asked what he would do?...."Buy curtains." :)

So what i'm wondering is, is that another phrasing for "go ahead?" ....

T.M.I

Remember this phrase? Back in elm. school or junior high somebody lets just a little too much slip and it's, "Gosh, Georgiana-T.M.I!" (not that I've ever met anyone named Georgiana but the sentence seemed to call for it.) This was always said in that huffy, valley girl voice we all know and mock so well:) Ok then consider yourself warned; this is a bit of a TMI situation.

Please note before beginning 1) there are 3 kids ages 3 and under in this house and 2) I'm nursing the new baby.

Yesterday, I most likely resembled nothing so much as a cockroach with it's head cut off. (chicken is much too cliche and cockroaches are more disgusting, and cooler owing to their ability to live for 3 days w/ no head!) Yesterday Matt was gone from 7:30am until 8:30 pm. Yesterday, I attempted to mop. Yesterday I didn't get dressed until 11am. Yesterday was the terrifying epitome of all those "inept mother" jokes.

7am: Attempted to ready self, children, various paraphernalia, husband and husbands lunch for departure in 30 minutes.

7:30am: Failed miserably.

7:35am: Need use restroom. Realized all cloth diapers with the inconsequential exception of 2 were dirty...changed baby.

7:40am: Realized NOW all cloth diapers with the inconsequential exception of 1 were dirty.
(7:41am: washed diapers) Notice need to use restroom increase.

7:41am: Sent hi-jacker of my car (Matt) off to work. Skipped MOPS meeting on account of car hi-jacking.

7:50-8:30am: Showered, Make-uped, Ate and answered 3 phone calls in between. Told 3 yr old off for whacking 18mos old. Really need to pee.



9am: Told 3 year old off for playing in curtins. Phone rings--answer. Attempt to politely end convo w/ chatty relative for next 20 min. Told 3 year old off for attempting to jump over back of couch onto bookshelf. Head for restroom--baby cries, milk lets down- pick up baby and go to change my now drenched shirt. Notice going to have to pee soon or risk lose of bladder due to internal combustion.

9:30am: Calm 18 mos old with promises of snack time. Make snack. Must. Go. Potty!

9:50am: Tell off 3 year old for crashing snack into his sister's snack...tell 18mos old off for throwing food on floor. Tell 3 year old off for telling 18 mos old off for throwing food on floor. --Clean up floor. Change baby w/ last diaper. Begin dancing about while finding a place to set baby so can RUN to "go potty."

10:15am: Set baby in vibro-chair. Explain children must stay at the table to eat snack.

10:20am: FINALLY- went potty TWO HOURS later! oh geez.

Where is the bread crumb trail?

Our house is currently under attack from one of the Egyptian plagues/pestilences...that of the bugs. At one point there were small sugar ants crowding into various nooks, crannies, crevices , cracks in our house. You name it, and they were forcing entry from it.

Fortunately, there is a sleek, chic method of ensuring those little sugar minions DIE. It comes in a spray bottle even! no mess, no fuss...just death:) love it.

Then came the flies. What?? We never have flies; but we did. FRUIT FLIES. how do you get rid of fruit flies?! ...such is the abundance of internet info. we soon had our answer. --apple cider vinegar (tiny bit) in the bottom of a glass w/ a funnel on top and a small drop of dish soap in the vinegar breaks surface tension so they can't climb back up.) it's quite literally a death trap:) and within minutes we had nigh on 50 little black bodies floating/sinking to a vinegary end. yeah!

But that was not the end.

Now there are slugs! ugh! SLUGS!

It began with just one fairly fat creature. Matt kills bugs...I do not. (unless needlessly provoked as in the case w/ the little sugar addicts who started this parasitic parade.) But in this case, Izy was discovered attempting to suck on it's head. EWW!



This was one slug in the wrong house...I sent him home to the sewers. Over the last couple nights there have been 3 other mini-slugs we've found in the shower or on the bathroom floor...was the slug not fat but pregnant?? And where are they coming from? We can't find a point of entry! But one thing is certain...this is undoubtedly WAR! Really. All in caps. and even proceeding an exclamation point! Now to plan our attack strategy. It may be tough as the enemy seems to have created a few waves of alliances, but we multiple digit fingered, higher brain developed beings of the house shall prevail! Besides, we have the advantages of squishing on our side:) ....

Booger Baby.

Now would this be considered sibling abuse or "helping a sista out?" This is Will and Izy. Not really sure how old Iz is here..I'm guessing she's around 4 mos but who knows? I'm loving that there seems to be about as much hair sprouting from her head in this shot as sits atop her cranium currently!



Been going through a brief period of shock of late: looking through old photos, and pulling out Izy's baby clothes (for her sister) wondering how she is already techinically a toddler! My babies are in fast forward! Isn't there some movie involving a remote to control the speed of life? I want that! Can we just pause them at the infant stage? Where there's no real discipline to distribute in a fair and even manner?, no tantrums to subtley navigate around? Just the squishable, snuggly, drooly stage (with strategic fastforwarding for night time wake ups?) Think that's achievable...hmm, well on the plus side those scary toddlers are doing pre-school and mastering it with a vengence! we'll call that 10 points to the Briggs team!


Back to the pictures at hand. I'd like to point out that not only does Will generously pick his own nose and that of his sister...he ALSO disposes of the evidence in an environmentally friendly manner. yes, it's revolting but still my boy is eco-friendly! Go Will!

Also note, his sister seems pretty darn pleased with his generosity! With that smile, you know she's just thinking," thanks brother mine, that booger's been tickling my nostril for ages!" ...or not, in any case an stellar series of pictures that just happened to catch one of life's nastier sides:)

Am I Right??

This is not Izy (the comparative abundance of hair probably gave that away.) This is me...at age 2ish. Thought it might be nice for some to see the blonde Genna so folk don't continue to mistakenly say "all of your kids look like Matt."

They don't.

They look MOSTLY like Matt, but there's just a little bit of their mama present too! --Really!...There is! You have to look fairly close-and may be required to procure a magnifying glass and study the images at length...BUT you CAN find the resemblance:)

Aside from that, I just wanted to put another picture of their overwhelming cuteness up:) We have three now, it's kind of hard to contemplate...not that we really have any spare time to mind, but it's just a funny concept. THREE...in 3.5 years! wow. The tall, handsome blonde I married says that's an amazing rate of productivity...we could open shop, take requests, charge a flat rate..that sort of thing. --He's an odd cookie that man.

He does have something of a point though; at this rate, in another 3.5 years, how many Briggs kids might there be strapped into our (by then necessary) full sized van?? geesh! Aside from sheer numbers...how would one go about naming all those munchkins?...oh wait, one of those gals I count friend owns the market on names. Though she did consider the name "Fabritcio" for her son. hmmm....:)

Randomization

Today I learned five (a WHOLE five!) new facts and decided to share them w/ you, my anonymous mystery stalker crew!

Fact 1. (or A, take your pick)- apparently putting your placenta into pill capsules after the babe is born and eating them helps w/ postpartum depression...wierd.

2. The gestation period for the worlds largest mammal (the blue whale) is 1 year...but the gestation period for an elephant is 22 months (aka almost 2 years). this confuses me...














3. eating too many cookies will make you just as ill as eating too much batter...

4. a group of geese sitting/standing etc on the ground is a gaggle but once in the air they're a skein. --i have no comment for the oddities of the English lang.

5. The state of Florida is bigger than England. --just wow.

Funnily enough, I will probably remember these few facts more accurately than I will recall how to do proofs for Geometry; and we spent a few weeks on the latter! oh well.