A whiny baby, singing Daddy, and some kind of threat...
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Madness #19--our little ballerina
Who knew that a couple shakes of the elbow or wiggles of the butt could make us laugh this hard?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
a-camping we will go
Or actually, a-camping we have gone.
Fun times this past weekend with the Browns and Pecauts, Bobby's sister Meghan included. Everyone graciously put up with my screaming child who appeared to be terrified of our tent, and who liked to wander off into the woods or nearest campsite on his own, requiring constant chasing after. But whiney attitudes aside, on all the Moseleys' parts, it was a great trip.
Think bouldering on the beach and rock-climbing wifeys and children eating sand and banana slugs in sleeping bags and big blue balls and over-priced graham crackers and spider horror stories and a huge metal duck and more redneck hicks than anyone would know what to do with. Other than round them up for a salmon and flower-salad dinner and watch them dance to harmonica music, wine coolers in hand.
My highlight this weekend, though? Actually rock-climbing for the very first time. I don't have climbing shoes so I haven't even tried scaling the wall in our backyard. But Candace had an extra pair and since we both have equally large feet, I no longer had an excuse to stay grounded. I climbed probably the easiest boulder ever, but that feeling of reaching the top and knowing that your own strength and endurance got you there is quite the high. I get it, Billy.
What say we do this again next year? Anyone else care to join in? Really, the prancing country-folk and sandy diapers are something you just have to see for yourself.
Fun times this past weekend with the Browns and Pecauts, Bobby's sister Meghan included. Everyone graciously put up with my screaming child who appeared to be terrified of our tent, and who liked to wander off into the woods or nearest campsite on his own, requiring constant chasing after. But whiney attitudes aside, on all the Moseleys' parts, it was a great trip.
Think bouldering on the beach and rock-climbing wifeys and children eating sand and banana slugs in sleeping bags and big blue balls and over-priced graham crackers and spider horror stories and a huge metal duck and more redneck hicks than anyone would know what to do with. Other than round them up for a salmon and flower-salad dinner and watch them dance to harmonica music, wine coolers in hand.
My highlight this weekend, though? Actually rock-climbing for the very first time. I don't have climbing shoes so I haven't even tried scaling the wall in our backyard. But Candace had an extra pair and since we both have equally large feet, I no longer had an excuse to stay grounded. I climbed probably the easiest boulder ever, but that feeling of reaching the top and knowing that your own strength and endurance got you there is quite the high. I get it, Billy.
What say we do this again next year? Anyone else care to join in? Really, the prancing country-folk and sandy diapers are something you just have to see for yourself.
Monday, August 25, 2008
back to senior prom
Happy one week count-down to our "cruise-a-birth-a-versary". (Bobby's word to describe the "cruise" we're taking to celebrate Marty's 30th "birth"-day, but that happens to fall on our anni-"versary").
Explanation of our weirdness aside, that's right folks, a week from now, Marty and I will be sailing the high seas, sans baby. And I can't freakin' wait. Who cares if we're only going to San Diego, Catalina Island, and Ensenada? Who cares if it was the cheapest cruise we could find and apparently the oldest ship that Royal Carribean will still put in water? We've never cruised before, so it'll all be magical to us, cheesey 80's cruise ship decor included.
And being the outfit planner that I am--whether or not this is the only area in my life that I bother thinking ahead about--I've been wrestling for weeks over what to wear for our one formal dinner. I have to look fabulous. Without spending a dime.
Last week I decided to get creative and pull my old prom dresses out of the guestroom closet. I dusted them off and thought I'd see if I could squeeze into one. My "senior in high school" body is long gone, so I prepared myself for the worst. Shock and awe, after a couple minutes of fighting with a zipper or two, I did it! Expanded post-pregnancy rib cage and all! Maybe I HAVE been losing weight recently. Wouldn't know. I hid our bathroom scale a long time ago.
Now how to update the "senior in high school" beaded halter-top look to something a little more current? Here's where my Project Runway-ish-ness came into play. I folded down the halter straps to make it a strapless evening gown. And it doesn't look too stupid! I'm my own little Vera Wang in the making. Proof of my designer intellect:
Explanation of our weirdness aside, that's right folks, a week from now, Marty and I will be sailing the high seas, sans baby. And I can't freakin' wait. Who cares if we're only going to San Diego, Catalina Island, and Ensenada? Who cares if it was the cheapest cruise we could find and apparently the oldest ship that Royal Carribean will still put in water? We've never cruised before, so it'll all be magical to us, cheesey 80's cruise ship decor included.
And being the outfit planner that I am--whether or not this is the only area in my life that I bother thinking ahead about--I've been wrestling for weeks over what to wear for our one formal dinner. I have to look fabulous. Without spending a dime.
Last week I decided to get creative and pull my old prom dresses out of the guestroom closet. I dusted them off and thought I'd see if I could squeeze into one. My "senior in high school" body is long gone, so I prepared myself for the worst. Shock and awe, after a couple minutes of fighting with a zipper or two, I did it! Expanded post-pregnancy rib cage and all! Maybe I HAVE been losing weight recently. Wouldn't know. I hid our bathroom scale a long time ago.
Now how to update the "senior in high school" beaded halter-top look to something a little more current? Here's where my Project Runway-ish-ness came into play. I folded down the halter straps to make it a strapless evening gown. And it doesn't look too stupid! I'm my own little Vera Wang in the making. Proof of my designer intellect:
So I get to recycle a great dress, save money in the process, but still sport a totally new look! That's heaven to a penniless shopoholic like myself.
I should start a little fashion disaster hotline, for those women like myself whose budgets don't allow for a shopping spree every time another formal event comes up, but who still like to feel pretty in something new. Maybe fashion.crisis.aversion.com? Or 1-800-SENIOR-PROM?
Thanks to my prowess during this particular tale, I'll be rockin' the boat.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
sisterly love
My baby sister is all grown up.
Today, she's moving to Denmark.
Hannah has always been the smartest of us Palm kids. We're all nerds, but her nerdiness outshines even my brother's newest Ti-89 graphing calculator. And the fact that I know what a Ti-89 graphing calculator is.
Anyway, that smartness has propelled her into intellectual areas I'd never be brave enough to touch. How about four AP classes her senior year? How about getting a perfect score on each one of those AP tests? How about attending a prestigious college and taking organic chemistry? Getting grades that make o-chem look as easy as bowling-101?
Need I even mention that I'm pretty proud of her? For a college-dropout like myself, she more than makes up for my lack of academic achievements. She's our family's own shining star.
So she's moving to Copenhagen. To study abroad for a couple months and see the world in the process. The difference between Hannah and the rest of us? She actually does the things she's always dreamed of doing. She's going to be a pediatrician, which means my siblings and I will be fighting over which of our home-towns she'll be moving to someday. Wanting her to take care of our kids in all her loving-ness and that smart-ness I've been bragging about.
But in the meantime, Europe gets to house our Hannie for a spell. And while I can't stand the thought of not seeing her for four months--my boo, my lovey love--I'm so excited for her and for this adventure she's brave enough to embark on by herself.
Today, she's moving to Denmark.
Hannah has always been the smartest of us Palm kids. We're all nerds, but her nerdiness outshines even my brother's newest Ti-89 graphing calculator. And the fact that I know what a Ti-89 graphing calculator is.
Anyway, that smartness has propelled her into intellectual areas I'd never be brave enough to touch. How about four AP classes her senior year? How about getting a perfect score on each one of those AP tests? How about attending a prestigious college and taking organic chemistry? Getting grades that make o-chem look as easy as bowling-101?
Need I even mention that I'm pretty proud of her? For a college-dropout like myself, she more than makes up for my lack of academic achievements. She's our family's own shining star.
So she's moving to Copenhagen. To study abroad for a couple months and see the world in the process. The difference between Hannah and the rest of us? She actually does the things she's always dreamed of doing. She's going to be a pediatrician, which means my siblings and I will be fighting over which of our home-towns she'll be moving to someday. Wanting her to take care of our kids in all her loving-ness and that smart-ness I've been bragging about.
But in the meantime, Europe gets to house our Hannie for a spell. And while I can't stand the thought of not seeing her for four months--my boo, my lovey love--I'm so excited for her and for this adventure she's brave enough to embark on by herself.
I just wish Denmark and Redding were a LITTLE bit closer to each other.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
old at heart
I know I don't quite look my age. I don't have to be reminded.
My whole life I've dealt with people thinking I'm younger than I actually am. I can remember being offered a kiddie menu as a teenager. I can remember people confusing me with my younger sister because they just couldn't believe that I was the older sibling. I cried at my bachelorette party because a loud-mouthed onlooker accused me of being too young to get married, claiming I looked twelve, and that she hoped it ended in a divorce. And you better believe that any time I try to buy alcohol or order a drink, I get the weirdest looks. I'm carded every time, and have even had my license checked to see if I was toting a fake ID. I look THAT young.
And just today, in the Dutch Bros drive-thru, I was asked if I was on my way home from school. As in high school. Maybe the baby talking in my truck's backseat wasn't clue enough, so I said, "I don't go to school. I'm a mom." Of course, I got that "too bad you got knocked up before your senior year" look.
I've mentioned this frustration before. But I never really explained why a trait that others would envy has always bothered me so much.
See, I was diagnosed with my Crohns disease at the end of my sixth grade year. So while all my friends were going through their crazy growth spurts, my body had stopped growing altogether. It kind of took a couple years off, as it worked on fighting the inflammation in my intestines and adapting to all the medication I was taking.
It kind of made me bitter watching my buddies buy their training bras and shaving their legs, while I was stuck in "little girl" mode. Sure, I caught up later, but know that even that one year affected me for a lifetime. I would have been taller. I probably would look my age. And it makes me mad that my illness took that from me.
I know I'll be thankful for my youthful appearance someday, but for now I find myself fighting it. I wrestle over what outits make me look too juvenile. I've tried several different haircuts over the years to see what added that little bit of maturity to my look. I've mastered the art of flashing my wedding ring to prove that I'm married. That I'm legit. My best friend is three years older than me and somehow, when we're out together, she makes me feel like I look more "mom-ish".
But hey, years down the road, I'll get to be that "hot mama" that I've always wanted to be. I just better look older than the little girlfriends my son brings home!
My whole life I've dealt with people thinking I'm younger than I actually am. I can remember being offered a kiddie menu as a teenager. I can remember people confusing me with my younger sister because they just couldn't believe that I was the older sibling. I cried at my bachelorette party because a loud-mouthed onlooker accused me of being too young to get married, claiming I looked twelve, and that she hoped it ended in a divorce. And you better believe that any time I try to buy alcohol or order a drink, I get the weirdest looks. I'm carded every time, and have even had my license checked to see if I was toting a fake ID. I look THAT young.
And just today, in the Dutch Bros drive-thru, I was asked if I was on my way home from school. As in high school. Maybe the baby talking in my truck's backseat wasn't clue enough, so I said, "I don't go to school. I'm a mom." Of course, I got that "too bad you got knocked up before your senior year" look.
I've mentioned this frustration before. But I never really explained why a trait that others would envy has always bothered me so much.
See, I was diagnosed with my Crohns disease at the end of my sixth grade year. So while all my friends were going through their crazy growth spurts, my body had stopped growing altogether. It kind of took a couple years off, as it worked on fighting the inflammation in my intestines and adapting to all the medication I was taking.
It kind of made me bitter watching my buddies buy their training bras and shaving their legs, while I was stuck in "little girl" mode. Sure, I caught up later, but know that even that one year affected me for a lifetime. I would have been taller. I probably would look my age. And it makes me mad that my illness took that from me.
I know I'll be thankful for my youthful appearance someday, but for now I find myself fighting it. I wrestle over what outits make me look too juvenile. I've tried several different haircuts over the years to see what added that little bit of maturity to my look. I've mastered the art of flashing my wedding ring to prove that I'm married. That I'm legit. My best friend is three years older than me and somehow, when we're out together, she makes me feel like I look more "mom-ish".
But hey, years down the road, I'll get to be that "hot mama" that I've always wanted to be. I just better look older than the little girlfriends my son brings home!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
why I smile...
Happiness is...
...finding a diaper rash cream that actually DOES reduce redness in one diaper change.
...a loving husband who's willing to get up in the middle of the night to grab an extra blanket for you.
...saving money on shampoo by cutting eight inches off your hair.
...watching your son try to rock climb for the first time.
...a nice, long, hot shower.
...knowing that letting your child watch "Sesame Street" once a week doesn't make you a bad mom.
...finding time to nap in the middle of the day.
...a new polka-dotted shirt from Macy's that only cost you eight bucks.
...having someone tell you that you look thinner even though you're not trying to lose weight.
...being told that you're going to be a first-time auntie.
...a bowl of cold applesauce.
...knowing that it's okay to cry over the phone when you're talking to your mom.
...sleeping in.
...seeing your best friend's face light up with joy over her precious little family.
...your son playing so hard during the day that when it's time for bed he practically hugs his crib.
...watching "Smallville" episodes back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back.
...having sisters.
...a piece of confetti cake with cow-print icing.
...sitting down with your husband after a long day and getting to just talk.
...getting out that piece of corn that's been stuck in your teeth all night.
...a sippy cup full of cold milk.
...a sippy cup full of cold milk with one ice cube in it.
...acknowledging that you actually have something to be happy about.
...finding a diaper rash cream that actually DOES reduce redness in one diaper change.
...a loving husband who's willing to get up in the middle of the night to grab an extra blanket for you.
...saving money on shampoo by cutting eight inches off your hair.
...watching your son try to rock climb for the first time.
...a nice, long, hot shower.
...knowing that letting your child watch "Sesame Street" once a week doesn't make you a bad mom.
...finding time to nap in the middle of the day.
...a new polka-dotted shirt from Macy's that only cost you eight bucks.
...having someone tell you that you look thinner even though you're not trying to lose weight.
...being told that you're going to be a first-time auntie.
...a bowl of cold applesauce.
...knowing that it's okay to cry over the phone when you're talking to your mom.
...sleeping in.
...seeing your best friend's face light up with joy over her precious little family.
...your son playing so hard during the day that when it's time for bed he practically hugs his crib.
...watching "Smallville" episodes back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back.
...having sisters.
...a piece of confetti cake with cow-print icing.
...sitting down with your husband after a long day and getting to just talk.
...getting out that piece of corn that's been stuck in your teeth all night.
...a sippy cup full of cold milk.
...a sippy cup full of cold milk with one ice cube in it.
...acknowledging that you actually have something to be happy about.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Madness #19--that first word
So, we finally figured out what Marty's first word was.
See, for so long, he's been babbling like a brook, saying all sorts of things in his own special language. Several times we'd hear words that sounded familiar, and wonder if they counted as his first step into a recognizable vocabulary. He's said "gek-um" and "ba", as his proud and curious parents looked on, thinking he was saying "you're welcome" or describing his favorite rubber ball.
Nope. Funny that he usually only said those things right after we did.
Another mom, probably mine, explained that a baby's first word is the first word that they not only recognize, but understand how to use. Like they have to say it in the right context.
So even though Marty knows what it means to be "all done" and obediently brings me things when I ask for them, he has to actually say something to make it count as word number one.
That word finally graced his lips. Drumroll, please.
My son's very first official utterance? "Whoa". Seriously, why am I not surprised that my kid would be the one with such a weird first word? Write THAT one in a baby book. Add THAT one to his first-year scrapbook. Goo. Whoa.
It started when we were in Pennsylvania last month, and my crazy family tried to do a water balloon toss with all however-many-like-sixty-ish of us. Apparently every time the balloons were tossed, he'd respond at the appropriate time with a little "whoa". Shocked face and bug eyes and all.
Enter Marty's 30th birthday party at the Pecauts last weekend. We played cornhole, and every time a beanbag was thrown across the yard his little "whoas" would come out to play too.
Enter watching the olympics with my brother and his wife Sunday morning. Marty and I love all the water sports--swimming, diving, polo. Synchronized, though Marty would never admit that. Anyway, we were checking out the divers, and every time an athlete would hit the water, every time there was even the smallest splash, he'd yell a huge "whoa" from his high chair. And he had the best seat in the house, so he didn't miss a single dive. He'd even "whoa" the slo-mo replays.
Adorable. I'd say it got old after a while, but I'd be lying if I did. Still hilarious every time. You just have to see his little "whoa" face to appreciate the full effect.
So sometime, when he's around, you've got to either toss something or do a double-flip-twisty-bendy-somersault into a pool. And you'll get the cutest little "whoa" you've ever heard.
See, for so long, he's been babbling like a brook, saying all sorts of things in his own special language. Several times we'd hear words that sounded familiar, and wonder if they counted as his first step into a recognizable vocabulary. He's said "gek-um" and "ba", as his proud and curious parents looked on, thinking he was saying "you're welcome" or describing his favorite rubber ball.
Nope. Funny that he usually only said those things right after we did.
Another mom, probably mine, explained that a baby's first word is the first word that they not only recognize, but understand how to use. Like they have to say it in the right context.
So even though Marty knows what it means to be "all done" and obediently brings me things when I ask for them, he has to actually say something to make it count as word number one.
That word finally graced his lips. Drumroll, please.
My son's very first official utterance? "Whoa". Seriously, why am I not surprised that my kid would be the one with such a weird first word? Write THAT one in a baby book. Add THAT one to his first-year scrapbook. Goo. Whoa.
It started when we were in Pennsylvania last month, and my crazy family tried to do a water balloon toss with all however-many-like-sixty-ish of us. Apparently every time the balloons were tossed, he'd respond at the appropriate time with a little "whoa". Shocked face and bug eyes and all.
Enter Marty's 30th birthday party at the Pecauts last weekend. We played cornhole, and every time a beanbag was thrown across the yard his little "whoas" would come out to play too.
Enter watching the olympics with my brother and his wife Sunday morning. Marty and I love all the water sports--swimming, diving, polo. Synchronized, though Marty would never admit that. Anyway, we were checking out the divers, and every time an athlete would hit the water, every time there was even the smallest splash, he'd yell a huge "whoa" from his high chair. And he had the best seat in the house, so he didn't miss a single dive. He'd even "whoa" the slo-mo replays.
Adorable. I'd say it got old after a while, but I'd be lying if I did. Still hilarious every time. You just have to see his little "whoa" face to appreciate the full effect.
So sometime, when he's around, you've got to either toss something or do a double-flip-twisty-bendy-somersault into a pool. And you'll get the cutest little "whoa" you've ever heard.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Starbucks gear for sale...
Sigh. I can't believe I'm stooping to this level. Read on.
Friends and fellow Starbucks fanatics, I'm trying to unload my stash. Of Starbucks gear, that is.
Check out the goods at starbucksstuff.blogspot.com.
I worked for the company for three years, two as a shift supervisor. During my time there, when waking up at 4am seemed normal to me, I managed to build up quite the collection. I have rare Starbucks cards and other collectibles worth checking out. I've listed all the prices, but would be willing to negotiate.
I guess I'm ready for that chapter of my life to be over, huh?
Anyway, email me at mamamoseley@hotmail.com if anything interests you! Or just leave a comment on the blog with your email address.
Thanks for looking, and keep on drinking!
P.S. Is it painfully obvious that Marty and I are trying to score some extra cash? Poopy pants.
Friends and fellow Starbucks fanatics, I'm trying to unload my stash. Of Starbucks gear, that is.
Check out the goods at starbucksstuff.blogspot.com.
I worked for the company for three years, two as a shift supervisor. During my time there, when waking up at 4am seemed normal to me, I managed to build up quite the collection. I have rare Starbucks cards and other collectibles worth checking out. I've listed all the prices, but would be willing to negotiate.
I guess I'm ready for that chapter of my life to be over, huh?
Anyway, email me at mamamoseley@hotmail.com if anything interests you! Or just leave a comment on the blog with your email address.
Thanks for looking, and keep on drinking!
P.S. Is it painfully obvious that Marty and I are trying to score some extra cash? Poopy pants.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
"Why Parents Drink"
A father passing by his son's bedroom was astonished to see that his son's bed was nicely made and everything usually adorning his messy floor was picked up. Then he noticed an envelope, propped up prominently on the pillow and addressed to 'Dad.' With a horrible feeling in his gut, he opened the envelope with trembling hands and read the letter.
"Dear Dad,
It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. But I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with you and Mom. Stacy is so nice, and we've developed a passionate relationship in the week we've been dating. I never brought her home, since I knew you would not approve of her piercings, tattoos, tight motorcycle clothes and the fact that she is much older than I am. But it's not only the passion, Dad. She's pregnant.
Stacy promises that we will be very happy. She owns a trailer in the woods and a stack of firewood that'll last us the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children. And Stacy has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it for ourselves and trading it with the other people that live nearby for their cocaine and ecstasy. So really, it's a great business investment. In the meantime, we will pray that science finds a cure for AIDS so Stacy can get better. She deserves it.
But don't worry Dad. I'm 15 and I know how to take care of myself. Someday I'm sure that we will be back to visit so that you can get to know your grandchildren and new daughter-in-law, even if she's Mom's age. Maybe they could be friends.
Love,
your son John
PS. Dad, none of the above is true. I'm over at Tommy's house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the report card that's in my top desk drawer. I love you. Call me when it's safe to come home."
"Dear Dad,
It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. But I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with you and Mom. Stacy is so nice, and we've developed a passionate relationship in the week we've been dating. I never brought her home, since I knew you would not approve of her piercings, tattoos, tight motorcycle clothes and the fact that she is much older than I am. But it's not only the passion, Dad. She's pregnant.
Stacy promises that we will be very happy. She owns a trailer in the woods and a stack of firewood that'll last us the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children. And Stacy has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it for ourselves and trading it with the other people that live nearby for their cocaine and ecstasy. So really, it's a great business investment. In the meantime, we will pray that science finds a cure for AIDS so Stacy can get better. She deserves it.
But don't worry Dad. I'm 15 and I know how to take care of myself. Someday I'm sure that we will be back to visit so that you can get to know your grandchildren and new daughter-in-law, even if she's Mom's age. Maybe they could be friends.
Love,
your son John
PS. Dad, none of the above is true. I'm over at Tommy's house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the report card that's in my top desk drawer. I love you. Call me when it's safe to come home."
Monday, August 11, 2008
Madness #18--magic sippys
My son is growing up too fast. And I seem to be getting dumber all the while.
So Marty graduated to a "big boy" sippy cup a couple months ago. I'm even contemplating packing up his bottles and storing them in the garage until Moseley #4 comes along. Gasp. Those bottles have gotten us through some sleepless nights, so it would be a rough goodbye for me.
But it's time to move on. We started little Goobie off with your basic, 6-ounce sippy, with a rubbery top so he could suck on it pretty easily. But six measly ounces just doesn't cut it anymore. I knew I had to invest in some 10-ouncers, so he wouldn't keep coming to me for refills a hundred times a day.
Went to Target. Picked out Gerber's finest--really, the ones that were on sale, and even cheaper with my coupon. And of course, we had to get the boy colors, since I knew my husband would not appreciate seeing his son drink out of a pink cup, no matter how often he takes a sip here and there when Alyssum's is lying around. But blue and green it was.
That night, I eagerly filled Goob's blue sippy with water and stuck it in the fridge so it would be nice and cold the next morning. Kind of a "good morning, breakfast wake-me-up". But when I went to retrieve it the following AM, the sippy was gone! In its place was a purple one of the same make and model. Purple?! But that's a girl color!
My mom happened to be standing there, and I showed her what happened, asking how the purple one got into the fridge. I must have been tired, because I could have sworn that someone broke into my house and pulled a sippy switch on me. But nothing else in the house was different. I was so confused. Until my mom calmly answered, "Becky, it probably just changes color when it gets cold."
So Marty graduated to a "big boy" sippy cup a couple months ago. I'm even contemplating packing up his bottles and storing them in the garage until Moseley #4 comes along. Gasp. Those bottles have gotten us through some sleepless nights, so it would be a rough goodbye for me.
But it's time to move on. We started little Goobie off with your basic, 6-ounce sippy, with a rubbery top so he could suck on it pretty easily. But six measly ounces just doesn't cut it anymore. I knew I had to invest in some 10-ouncers, so he wouldn't keep coming to me for refills a hundred times a day.
Went to Target. Picked out Gerber's finest--really, the ones that were on sale, and even cheaper with my coupon. And of course, we had to get the boy colors, since I knew my husband would not appreciate seeing his son drink out of a pink cup, no matter how often he takes a sip here and there when Alyssum's is lying around. But blue and green it was.
That night, I eagerly filled Goob's blue sippy with water and stuck it in the fridge so it would be nice and cold the next morning. Kind of a "good morning, breakfast wake-me-up". But when I went to retrieve it the following AM, the sippy was gone! In its place was a purple one of the same make and model. Purple?! But that's a girl color!
My mom happened to be standing there, and I showed her what happened, asking how the purple one got into the fridge. I must have been tired, because I could have sworn that someone broke into my house and pulled a sippy switch on me. But nothing else in the house was different. I was so confused. Until my mom calmly answered, "Becky, it probably just changes color when it gets cold."
D'oh! Can I blame this one on being blonde as a child? I swear, I think I have the smarts, and then pull a stunt like this one. I'm sure it'll go down in my family history next to the time I thought that Canadians said "ya" instead of "eh". My Swedish roots were surely shuddering in the one-eighth of me they occupy.
Maybe I'll blame all this on the fact that I converse with a fourteen-month-old most of the day, whose latest intellectual acheivement was to immitate his Mommy saying, "Don't touch." And to toss a beanbag at his little baby buddies. So in the grand scheme of things, thinking a sippy-snatcher broke into my fridge is really not that bad.
Right? Guys? Right?!
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
two weddings and a baby
Seems like we're always out-of-town these days.
Some of our trips have been obligation trips. But most have been "because we really really want to be there" trips. Last weekend was one of those.
Later, on the dance floor, I tried to shake it and failed miserably. I should really stop trying--I STILL look like a duck trying to whistle when I dance.
The festivities were held in Monterey, so my best friend from high school, Amanda, and her husband Ryan, tagged along with Marty and I in our beastly truck. On the way there, we had to stop and pee, a detour during which one of our Amanda and Becky Adventures readily ensued. Seriously, weird things happen to us. Let's just say we laughed so hard we almost had to pee all over again. Icky icky.
Some of our trips have been obligation trips. But most have been "because we really really want to be there" trips. Last weekend was one of those.
We drove down to San Jose Thursday night and got to hang out with my brother and sister-in-law at the old Bux for a couple hours. Enjoying a few laughs over lattes. Then we headed to my in-laws where we were met with some pretty freakin' cool news--I'm going to be an aunt thanks to Matt and Anna's mad baby-making skills. I started crying right away, as did all the other women there, one of which can at least blame it on pregnancy hormones. But really, our little Moseley fam couldn't be more thrilled to be welcoming another tiny member.
Friday we attended one of the ritziest (is that a word?) weddings I've probably ever been to. And thankfully I didn't have to chase a little munchy munchkin around the whole time, since we dropped precious Goobie off with my parents that morning. But really, the wedding was gorgeous and made my own nuptual affair seem more WalMart-status next to this wedding's Martha Stewart-ness. There were even pearls hanging from trees.
I loved being a part--the bride is a Moseley family friend who Marty grew up with and I knew from church. The highlight, though? A fellow guest admitting to me that she wasn't wearing underwear, another admitting that her thong was riding up her butt, and Matt, my brother-in-law, chasing down the appetizer trays on behalf of his adorably pregnant wife.
Later, on the dance floor, I tried to shake it and failed miserably. I should really stop trying--I STILL look like a duck trying to whistle when I dance.Saturday held wedding number two in honor of one of my dearest friends from high school, Mrs. Mary Christine Virginia Baynhem Pitts Wilcox. No joke. But my sweet Christie looked fabulous.
The festivities were held in Monterey, so my best friend from high school, Amanda, and her husband Ryan, tagged along with Marty and I in our beastly truck. On the way there, we had to stop and pee, a detour during which one of our Amanda and Becky Adventures readily ensued. Seriously, weird things happen to us. Let's just say we laughed so hard we almost had to pee all over again. Icky icky.
Funny how when I hang out with my high school buds, it's easy to revert back to my goofy, slightly annoying and loud-mouthed high school self. My pal Nathan was there, and we enjoyed laughing over watery margaritas and salted rims on plastic cups. Laughing AT the people who were drunk within five minutes of us being there, the people who cheered at every little thing and tried to dance while holding their beer. Beats us trying to entertain ourselves in ninth grade by dressing up like Christian punks and walking the local mall.
So walking back to our car in Monterey, even if we weren't walking in a straight line, we passed California's very first theater. And being the drama buff that I am, I had to stop and pose. See, I played the leading lady in all of my high school's musicals, and most of the plays we performed. If ever you want some quality blackmail on me, my mom still has a video tape of me belting out a song or two as Little Orphan Annie, curly red wig and all. Broadway, I'd kiss your hand if you had one to kiss.
So, fun weddings and fun times. Marty and I looked fabulous in our get-up. We bought Marty a suit for his birthday, so technically a "birthday suit". Gray and a paisley black silk tie and a good-smelling-ness. I wore an adorable pink silky vintage dress, and at least tried to get my hair to cooperate and be twisted and pulled off to the side to complete my vintage look. Blood, sweat, and bobby pins notwithstanding, I think we really can dress up when we bother putting in the effort.
So, Sunday. Lunch at my parents' house. Yellow shirts. All my sisters lovingly patting each other's legs.
After a long but very fun weekend, we headed home to celebrate a little alone time. Yes, we were sad to leave.
But considering our track record so far this summer, another getaway is on the horizon. Four are coming up within the next month to be exact. So if you come a-knockin' and we don't come a-answerin', we're probably off enjoying another rendevous.
Let's hope they're all as good as this one was. With just as many puke-flavored smoothies and shoe-matchy emergencies. Sigh.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The Stirring's dinner ministry
So, friends, in Leah's absence, I've taken over organizing dinners for The Stirring attendees that need a little culinary relief. Whether someone's just had a baby and dinner needs to be the last thing on their mind, or someone's just undergone surgery and can't really get up and make dinner for themselves, our little ministry seeks to bless via frozen lasagnas and Ceasar salad in a bag.
Usually I send out emails letting people know about our current family member in need, and I've already sent the usual "Hello, it's me again" to those of you in my address book regarding our latest "dinner mission". But if, for some reason, I don't have your contact info, and you'd like to be a part of what we do, just leave a little comment with your email address and I'll punch you in.
And even if making dinner isn't your thing, driving In-N-Out over to someone's house counts, too. Trust me, when you're desperate for help, nothing tastes better than food you didn't have to prepare! Let's keep those blessings flowing...
Usually I send out emails letting people know about our current family member in need, and I've already sent the usual "Hello, it's me again" to those of you in my address book regarding our latest "dinner mission". But if, for some reason, I don't have your contact info, and you'd like to be a part of what we do, just leave a little comment with your email address and I'll punch you in.
And even if making dinner isn't your thing, driving In-N-Out over to someone's house counts, too. Trust me, when you're desperate for help, nothing tastes better than food you didn't have to prepare! Let's keep those blessings flowing...
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