As suggested by Briar: Popsicle popsTurkeyPrincess food. And Pony food. And Dora. And Diego.CheeseMore cheese. And the ‘nother kind of cheese.Corn and more cornCorn for AveryTomatoesJuiceMore tomatoesGrapes and bananas and peaches and brown asparagus *Edited to add photos demonstrating the use of Crayola markers to illustrate the colors of items, when she handed me the brown pen I asked what we could get that was brown, her response? “Brown uguh-spare-nagus.”
Ever found yourself cursing the hazards of modern day workplace conveniences? You know, like the blasted fill in the address feature of Outlook? Most of the time I use Constant Contact for the emails I send out for work, but the 1,500 people who are one that list are also in my Outlook address folder. I am not particularly gifted in the areas of math and science but suffice it to say that each time I go to send an email out, a drop down menu appears and I have about 30 options for most letters- for example: B – Brenda, Bill, Bonnie Baxter, Benton, BensonBrandon, Brendan, BartholomewBeasly, Beardsley, BomtchkeBenita, Boralta, BandaBuckley, Business, BeckyBruce, Brownell, BizBenedetti, Barbara, BerraultBrenda, Barcomb, BabyBrackley, Bracken, BrenkinBob, Burt, BrownBailey,…
I still tiptoe into their rooms to watch them sleep, sometimes by the eastern sun filtered through Briar’s pink sheers, others by gossamer beams of moonlight sneaking through the leaves to kiss Avery’s face. Stories at bedtime are tender, soft pads of little fingertips trace circles on my legs, or pull ringlets toward rosy lips and point to beloved characters. The hazy moments after lifting the girls from their beds we cuddle, little cheeks resting on my chest, my fingers slipping through the silky tendrils that catch on their eyelashes. It is bliss, and my love for them threatens to eclipse all else, until play time. To be clear on playtime, it is the time between 6am and 7pm. Thirteen hours, interrupted only twice…
I moved to the Northeast from the Pacific Northwest, hailing first from rainy Eugene, and later the desert of Yakima. I remember when I first arrived nearly everyone I met, upon hearing where I came from, said, “Oh dear, do you think you’ll be able to handle the winters?” First, who says no to that. “Why no, I actually think it will be more than I can handle and I’ll have to turn tail and head for warmer parts.” No, no, no, not my style. So I’d shrug and say, “Should be fun to find out.” As luck would have it my first few winters were nothing to write home about and I was able to set my chin in its stubborn jut and…
A while back, in the midst of a plumbing nightmare that I shan’t link back to since I doubt you want to relive it anymore than I do, I received a comment on this blog. It was short and appropriate and something in its tone and the words its author chose, made me respond as if an old friend had called. What makes the whole thing that much sweeter is, ain’t no old friend gonna be calling me. But I suppose that is for another post. Today it’s about a special person, Jenn, who, between her rabid fanaticism for a certain sports team and her tender posts about the richness of being a mom and losses she has suffered, has made me care for…