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*