Just kidding. No babies for sale here. At least not today. But for those of you asking about the wrapping paper, here's the link:
www.sallyfoster.com
Click on the red button in the top right corner that read "Support a Fundraiser." Ellie's seller number is 79013. She is with Westside School. Happy shopping!
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Ready Or Not, Here I...Wait, What Was I Doing?
For your viewing pleasure, Harry's version of Hide and Wait For Me to Count To Eleventeen And Then Run Around Aimlessly:
For the record, they never did "find" Daddy. That may or may not be because Daddy was unaware that he was actually hiding. Or maybe it was because no one thought to look in the basement where the beer was being brewed.
Also, is it just me or do I sound remarkably like my cousin Christy in this. I only lived in Alabama for three years. I swear.
For the record, they never did "find" Daddy. That may or may not be because Daddy was unaware that he was actually hiding. Or maybe it was because no one thought to look in the basement where the beer was being brewed.
Also, is it just me or do I sound remarkably like my cousin Christy in this. I only lived in Alabama for three years. I swear.
Friday, August 26, 2011
A-B-C! Easy as 1-2-3!
Ellie is a kindergartner. Terrifying. She started a couple of weeks ago and things seem to be going well, sort of. She's in uniforms, which is both convenient and adorable. Exhibits A and B:
Here's what she likes about kindergarten: recess, lunch (as long as they're serving grilled cheese, tacos are a no-go...hard shells, boooooo!), art, PE, music. Here's what she doesn't like about kindergarten: getting up early, going to bed early, that mean second grader on the bus, hard shell tacos (see above), rules.
All in all, pretty reasonable. She is getting into the swing of things, but she's never going to like mornings. To cut down on it a little, we've incorporated sponge rollers into our nighttime routine to ease the morning prep. I will admit, she is adorable in sponge rollers in a Frenchy from Grease kind of way:
We try to get intel out of her every night at dinner on how her day went. Mostly she just gives a run down of who got in trouble and why, or what she needs to do to win the next prize being offered. For instance, I know Kevin* with a "K" got his clothespin put on blue yesterday and was not able to play at recess. That's bad. Ellie almost got on blue, but only because she was soooooo tired from getting up so early that she couldn't listen right. Kindergarten should start later. But if she keeps from getting on blue the rest of the week she can get a prize out of the treasure chest. Also, if she sells enough wrapping paper**, she gets to go in the money tank. If she gets money in the money tank she's going to buy a new pillow pet, or maybe a puppy.
It seems to be going well or as well as kindergarten with all its minefields can go. In the meantime, Harry went back to preschool. It's. Killing. Me. He did great days one through four. On day five he clung to me. Sobbed as I left. Generally broke my heart. This continued on day six and day seven. On day eight, as soon as we pulled into the school parking lot he did this:
He was defeated. He walked in like he was heading to the gallows. He sat with a long, sad face and whispered "bye-bye mama." I almost couldn't make it to work. I was thinking home schooling might be a good option. But, as I should have figured, yesterday he ran to his classroom and hugged the teacher. Today, he hopped out of the car, refused to hold my hand and grabbed the first dump truck he saw upon entry. I didn't even get a glance goodbye. You know, home schooling might be good.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and the not so innocent.
**Anyone need any wrapping paper?
All in all, pretty reasonable. She is getting into the swing of things, but she's never going to like mornings. To cut down on it a little, we've incorporated sponge rollers into our nighttime routine to ease the morning prep. I will admit, she is adorable in sponge rollers in a Frenchy from Grease kind of way:
We try to get intel out of her every night at dinner on how her day went. Mostly she just gives a run down of who got in trouble and why, or what she needs to do to win the next prize being offered. For instance, I know Kevin* with a "K" got his clothespin put on blue yesterday and was not able to play at recess. That's bad. Ellie almost got on blue, but only because she was soooooo tired from getting up so early that she couldn't listen right. Kindergarten should start later. But if she keeps from getting on blue the rest of the week she can get a prize out of the treasure chest. Also, if she sells enough wrapping paper**, she gets to go in the money tank. If she gets money in the money tank she's going to buy a new pillow pet, or maybe a puppy.
It seems to be going well or as well as kindergarten with all its minefields can go. In the meantime, Harry went back to preschool. It's. Killing. Me. He did great days one through four. On day five he clung to me. Sobbed as I left. Generally broke my heart. This continued on day six and day seven. On day eight, as soon as we pulled into the school parking lot he did this:
He was defeated. He walked in like he was heading to the gallows. He sat with a long, sad face and whispered "bye-bye mama." I almost couldn't make it to work. I was thinking home schooling might be a good option. But, as I should have figured, yesterday he ran to his classroom and hugged the teacher. Today, he hopped out of the car, refused to hold my hand and grabbed the first dump truck he saw upon entry. I didn't even get a glance goodbye. You know, home schooling might be good.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and the not so innocent.
**Anyone need any wrapping paper?
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Open Gate
Last weekend I was heading to the office just after Wes and the kids left to run some errands. As I'm walking out the door I was frustrated to see this:
My first instinct was to cuss my husband for his forgetfulness. My second thought, of course, was "crap, where's Max." Then I remembered that the big guy could not have escaped into the street because he wasn't with us anymore.
We made the decision to have Max put down on the Monday after we returned from vacation. He'd been steadily losing weight over the past few months, and had not eaten in several days. He was with Allen and Peggy, Wes's parents, which was a mixed blessing. While we knew he had been well cared for and loved in his last couple of weeks while we were away on vacation, not being there when he passed out of this world was hard, especially on Wes.
Max was Wes's dog from day one. He and I never saw eye to eye (except when he reared up on his hind legs and then we were, quite literally, eye to eye). He tortured Munson, the most perfect dawg in the world (who, I am quite sure, was highly irritated when Max showed up a couple of weeks ago). He shed like crazy. He ate outdoor furniture. He ate indoor furniture. He "retrieved" possum carcasses for me. He brought me a dead rat. He refused to listen to my commands no matter how deep I made my voice. Like I said, he was Wes's dog.
But after Munson died, Max and I came to an understanding. If he would simmer down a little, I would rub his ears. If I would remember to bring the outdoor cushions inside, he wouldn't eat them. As he got older, we became friends. While he had generally ignored Ellie after she was born, he and Harry really got along well. I have the picture to prove it.
I'll admit it, I miss him. I wish I had to close the gate. I wish I had to holler for him down the driveway as he chased after some poor vermin. We will get another dog. That dog won't outweigh me. But I will never have another dog that I can dance with. Did I mention that? Max was an excellent dancer. He also learned to treat the furniture with respect, sort of:
Play well, Maxwell. You were a damn good dawg.
My first instinct was to cuss my husband for his forgetfulness. My second thought, of course, was "crap, where's Max." Then I remembered that the big guy could not have escaped into the street because he wasn't with us anymore.
We made the decision to have Max put down on the Monday after we returned from vacation. He'd been steadily losing weight over the past few months, and had not eaten in several days. He was with Allen and Peggy, Wes's parents, which was a mixed blessing. While we knew he had been well cared for and loved in his last couple of weeks while we were away on vacation, not being there when he passed out of this world was hard, especially on Wes.
Max was Wes's dog from day one. He and I never saw eye to eye (except when he reared up on his hind legs and then we were, quite literally, eye to eye). He tortured Munson, the most perfect dawg in the world (who, I am quite sure, was highly irritated when Max showed up a couple of weeks ago). He shed like crazy. He ate outdoor furniture. He ate indoor furniture. He "retrieved" possum carcasses for me. He brought me a dead rat. He refused to listen to my commands no matter how deep I made my voice. Like I said, he was Wes's dog.
But after Munson died, Max and I came to an understanding. If he would simmer down a little, I would rub his ears. If I would remember to bring the outdoor cushions inside, he wouldn't eat them. As he got older, we became friends. While he had generally ignored Ellie after she was born, he and Harry really got along well. I have the picture to prove it.
I'll admit it, I miss him. I wish I had to close the gate. I wish I had to holler for him down the driveway as he chased after some poor vermin. We will get another dog. That dog won't outweigh me. But I will never have another dog that I can dance with. Did I mention that? Max was an excellent dancer. He also learned to treat the furniture with respect, sort of:
Play well, Maxwell. You were a damn good dawg.
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