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.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Cute and Cuddly My Ass
I know, I know. I'll try to be more diligent on the posting. Onward.
We have a garden. I like the idea of a garden. Ellie LOVES the idea of the garden. Wes is obsessed with the garden. Since the garden is not a train, Harry does not care about the garden. There. All our bases are covered.
Recently I have been coming home from work to find Wes forlornly holding decimated green tomatoes in his hand. Tomatoes that have not met their tomato sandwich destiny. Instead, their spotless smooth green skins have been pierced by the fangs of some insidious garden beast. Ellie will tell me with all the compassion of an Emergency Room doctor, touching her little hand to my shoulder and affecting a very concerned look, "Daddy found more tomatoes that have been eaten. He's very sad." I try to muster up the appropriate level of gravitas, but really I'm just thinking that Whole Foods has some really nice tomatoes and I've never seen teeth marks in them. I'm also thinking did I put that wine in the fridge yesterday? I really need some wine. Oh, right, tomatoes. Yeah, that sucks.
Fast forward a couple of days. Wes has decided it's a varmint (his words, I'm not kidding, yes, I live with Yosemite Sam) that's damaging our "crop." He sets out rat traps. He catches something. In my mind, moments before it fell into the trap it looked like this:
Yep. That's a chipmunk.
Apparently, he's got friends, so the battle wages on. Even today. Luckily, I think we may get some help on the front lines.
Last Sunday our pastor gave the children's sermon on the rabbits in his front yard. He was expressing his pleasure in watching the rabbits frolic in the yard and about how much he and his wife wanted the rabbits to feel welcome. Midway through this discussion a little voice pipes up: "do the rabbits eat your vegetables?" Now, just who do you think interrupted the pastor? I'll give you one guess. He assures her that there are no vegetables in his front yard and the rabbits aren't hurting anything. The sermon continues uninterrupted. However, as she's processing out she stops, turns, walks up to Dr. Sam and says (none too quietly...not a trait she inherited) "WE DON'T HAVE RABBITS...WE HAVE CHIPMUNKS...THEY EAT OUR TOMATOES...BUT MY DADDY KILLED THEM SO IT'S OKAY."
Dr. Sam had a hard time getting his composure back for the big kids' sermon.
We have a garden. I like the idea of a garden. Ellie LOVES the idea of the garden. Wes is obsessed with the garden. Since the garden is not a train, Harry does not care about the garden. There. All our bases are covered.
Recently I have been coming home from work to find Wes forlornly holding decimated green tomatoes in his hand. Tomatoes that have not met their tomato sandwich destiny. Instead, their spotless smooth green skins have been pierced by the fangs of some insidious garden beast. Ellie will tell me with all the compassion of an Emergency Room doctor, touching her little hand to my shoulder and affecting a very concerned look, "Daddy found more tomatoes that have been eaten. He's very sad." I try to muster up the appropriate level of gravitas, but really I'm just thinking that Whole Foods has some really nice tomatoes and I've never seen teeth marks in them. I'm also thinking did I put that wine in the fridge yesterday? I really need some wine. Oh, right, tomatoes. Yeah, that sucks.
Fast forward a couple of days. Wes has decided it's a varmint (his words, I'm not kidding, yes, I live with Yosemite Sam) that's damaging our "crop." He sets out rat traps. He catches something. In my mind, moments before it fell into the trap it looked like this:
Apparently, he's got friends, so the battle wages on. Even today. Luckily, I think we may get some help on the front lines.
Last Sunday our pastor gave the children's sermon on the rabbits in his front yard. He was expressing his pleasure in watching the rabbits frolic in the yard and about how much he and his wife wanted the rabbits to feel welcome. Midway through this discussion a little voice pipes up: "do the rabbits eat your vegetables?" Now, just who do you think interrupted the pastor? I'll give you one guess. He assures her that there are no vegetables in his front yard and the rabbits aren't hurting anything. The sermon continues uninterrupted. However, as she's processing out she stops, turns, walks up to Dr. Sam and says (none too quietly...not a trait she inherited) "WE DON'T HAVE RABBITS...WE HAVE CHIPMUNKS...THEY EAT OUR TOMATOES...BUT MY DADDY KILLED THEM SO IT'S OKAY."
Dr. Sam had a hard time getting his composure back for the big kids' sermon.
Monday, December 6, 2010
An Open Letter From Your Friendly Neighborhood Elf
Dear Friends and Family,
Another Tacky Sweater Party has come and gone. While I am pleased that everyone presumably had an amazing time, I feel I would be remiss if I did not address certain behaviors that I, and my boss, find troubling.
Despite the fact that my line of work does subject me to the high potential for injury from toddler maiming or falls from precarious perches, I do not, at present, have the need for an attorney. Therefore, I must insist that you refrain from filling the cubbies on the Smith family advent calendar with your business cards. I assure you, if the day comes when I need the assistance of C. Lee Davis, Jeffery L. Dickerson, Ryan G. Prescott, Suzanne T. Prescott, Carey Olson or Clay Seaton O'Daniel, I will know where to find you. I always know where to find you. In the meantime, I have no need for the business cards (or 9 business cards in the case of Mr. O'Daniel...you're an eager one) you so graciously left for me in the space generally reserved for the deposit of children's gifts.
Similarly, I am currently without the need of the services of one Amy M. Harrison. As Santa pays me in leftover Christmas Cookies and Eggnog, I have no taxable income and no use for an accountant. Thankfully the laws at the North Pole are flexible in that regard.
As for the office furniture salesman and "Keith" working for Intelux, you have demonstrated excellent networking skills in having your cards delivered without (1) being present at the party, or (2) ever having met the Smiths before. Santa likes to reward dedication to the job. You can expect a little extra in your stocking this year. Clever. As a devious elf, I can appreciate that.
While I am thankful for your willingness to serve, I do ask, in the future, please do not make my job more difficult by unnecessarily crowding the calendar. I'm a small elf. Those cards are hard for me to dispose of. Also, I must ask that you please conduct yourselves like adults in the future. Crab risotto appetizers are meant to be eaten, not tossed at each other as in a middle school food fight, for some poor elf to pick up the next day. Remember, Santa is watching. Please, govern yourselves accordingly.
Sincerely,
Jacque-Jacque Le Elf
Child Observational Specialist, First Class
 |
| He's not impressed. |
Another Tacky Sweater Party has come and gone. While I am pleased that everyone presumably had an amazing time, I feel I would be remiss if I did not address certain behaviors that I, and my boss, find troubling.
Despite the fact that my line of work does subject me to the high potential for injury from toddler maiming or falls from precarious perches, I do not, at present, have the need for an attorney. Therefore, I must insist that you refrain from filling the cubbies on the Smith family advent calendar with your business cards. I assure you, if the day comes when I need the assistance of C. Lee Davis, Jeffery L. Dickerson, Ryan G. Prescott, Suzanne T. Prescott, Carey Olson or Clay Seaton O'Daniel, I will know where to find you. I always know where to find you. In the meantime, I have no need for the business cards (or 9 business cards in the case of Mr. O'Daniel...you're an eager one) you so graciously left for me in the space generally reserved for the deposit of children's gifts.
Similarly, I am currently without the need of the services of one Amy M. Harrison. As Santa pays me in leftover Christmas Cookies and Eggnog, I have no taxable income and no use for an accountant. Thankfully the laws at the North Pole are flexible in that regard.
As for the office furniture salesman and "Keith" working for Intelux, you have demonstrated excellent networking skills in having your cards delivered without (1) being present at the party, or (2) ever having met the Smiths before. Santa likes to reward dedication to the job. You can expect a little extra in your stocking this year. Clever. As a devious elf, I can appreciate that.
While I am thankful for your willingness to serve, I do ask, in the future, please do not make my job more difficult by unnecessarily crowding the calendar. I'm a small elf. Those cards are hard for me to dispose of. Also, I must ask that you please conduct yourselves like adults in the future. Crab risotto appetizers are meant to be eaten, not tossed at each other as in a middle school food fight, for some poor elf to pick up the next day. Remember, Santa is watching. Please, govern yourselves accordingly.
Sincerely,
Jacque-Jacque Le Elf
Child Observational Specialist, First Class
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Life Imitates Art. Or Is It The Other Way Around?
I'm not sure she's a true artiste, but Ellie's drawings are definitely becoming more realistic. Just last week she came home with this:
I asked her who was in the picture. She says (with an exaggerated eye roll) "Mommy, of course it's you telling me 'no'!" Well, of course. How silly of me.
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