Do You Remember the Time? (this is a really clever title if you think about it a minute)

Jaque-o and his family have been visiting this week. More to come.

Anyway, today we went to the beach. We walked in the door around 8:15, and I checked the computer. I don't know why...maybe it was because of the habit I developed long ago when kids were overly tired and they had to get ready for bed and I tried to run and hide somewhere. It didn't work then, but it's really working for me now.

I digress... I check the computer. The King of Pop was dead. I yelled out to the household (without regard for the feelings of others) MICHAEL JACKSON IS DEAD. Gasps ensue. And then I read the article that accompanied the headline. It stated that people would remember this day forever, that they would remember exactly where they were when they heard that the King of Pop had died, like unto when JFK was assinated.

So I thought I might share. I did a poll. This is where everyone was when they found out Michael Jackson, the King of Pop was dead:

Mommacita:

In front of the computer hiding like a baby.

Jenny:

Running up the stairs to fetch jammies

Ben:

In the bumbo.

Gracie:

Laying vertically on the stairs, moaning about how she didn't want to put on her pajamas and that she would just sleep there. Her head was on a different stair than the rest of her and was cocked to the left so it would fit on the stair. You know, like a pillow. (Just for the record, I had just asked the two girls if I could help them by doing eveything for them (all they had to do was lay there) and wailing ensued. Thus the hiding.)

Jake:

In the kid's bathroom, with Vulcan grip on a screaming Sophie trying to force her to brush her teeth.

Sophie:

In the kid's bathroom, in her father's Vulcan grip, squeezing the bubble gum flavored toothpaste as hard as she could so that there was a soft serve sized blob of toothpaste running down the side of the tube. Oh yeah, and she was vehemently defending her right to do it herself.

So yeah. That was where we all were when we found out the King of Pop was dead. And I kind of wanted to document it, even though I'm sort of ashamed of myself.

It appears that MJ loved purple AND kitties. Booyah.

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So ya. I'm dying to know, but only because it's like unto the JFK assasination. Where were you?

PS. Tonight we sat around the TV and watched MTV's continuous looping of Michael Jackson videos. We had so much fun remembering our lives as each song brought up memories of what was happening when the particular song was popular. I loved watching him move. He was a truly talented and gifted soul. Rest In Peace MJ, and teach Timmers to dance by the time I get there, would you?

Oly Power

A few days ago I received a phone call from a guy I know who works at the High School that all my kids graduated from. He was calling to ask if I would be willing to come to their Senior Awards assembly and give out a scholarship that the Athletic Booster Club sponsers in memory of Tim. Now I was aware that they gave out this scholarship because the year Mitch graduated, (the June after Tim's death), I had presented it. What I was not aware of, was that they have kept it going every year since.

I was heartened and touched that people other than our family are taking steps to keep alive his memory. I said yes, I would be honored to come, however as I said it I was kicking myself. I had been going through my files about 3 months ago, ran across the talk I gave 5 years ago, and thought, wow, remember this? Too bad I don't need it anymore... and I chucked it. So much for being inspired.

My kids have asked about what I said yesterday, to the entire school, and the parents of the graduating seniors. The stadium was full. So kids, here you go: the community was refreshed about your dad with this.... (I've deleted a couple of insignificant things..)

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ps. I want you to remember these things too

"Tim grew up in 35 miles NW of here, graduated from Law School, and was a trial attorney here in town until he lost a fight with cancer in November 2003. He and I raised 4 kids, who all graduated from here. Tim was athletic his entire life, and played from his childhood to just a few months before he died. The chemotherapy left him with residual numbness in his feet, but he still managed to move them on the tennis court with his friends. Athletics gives you the kind of friends who will invite you to play even it your feet might move a little slower because you are sick.

Tim not only played himself, but coached each of our kids as they grew up. I think he coached various teams for 13 years running. Along with the coaching, he supervised the Sky-ball Organization for several years, training other coaches, and covering our dining room table with schedules and brackets.

Tim was a rabid Oly fan. When our son was playing football, we would have the offensive line over for breakfast on game day. At 6:00 in the morning on that day, I would walk into the kitchen and discover that Tim had written on the orange placemats “Beat the Dirty Rotten Saxons” to get the boys pumped. When the team went to the state tournament, I would look around and there was Tim with all the other moms painting signs on someone’s garage floor. He was a member of the Athletic Booster Club for 10 years. At any athletic event, there was Tim, wearing orange garb that border-lined on the embarrassing.

I asked one of my sons how many kids that Tim had coached had gone on to play professional sports. The number was 2. I then asked how many had graduated from a 4 year university. We figured around 90 %. You can decide what you want about that, but I think that Tim knew how athletics teaches kids skills they use far beyond the court or field. He wanted his kids to have that, so he made it happen, enjoying life along the way.

I thought about what Tim would want to tell the student that is receiving the Athletic Booster Scholarship that bears his name. It came right to me, and this is it: Take these funds, and use them to help you learn every thing you wish. And when you have achieved your academic goals, take what you’ve learned, couple it with your standards and beliefs, and use that to build a better family. A happy family is what drove Tim to do anything he did. I hope that it drives you as well."

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5 bucks to the person who can identify who had a Nyquil Hangover

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PS. She got 1,000 bucks. Go O's.

Random bits of Freakishness

So I just have a few ribbons of thought that are twirling around in my head and may not be important to you, but I, on the other hand must like them because I'm throwing them at you like a tabloid throws information that you never needed, never wanted, and never asked for.

1. Speaking of tabloids, have any of you had enough of these two?






I am so sick sick SICK TO DEATH of being assaulted by their shenanigans when I am paying for my groceries. Quit the show and get your stinking stuff together and Pah Leeeeeeeze leave me out of it.


2. Speaking of groceries, a few days ago I purchased two of these





I purchased two of them because I was attracted to the giantsizedness and the freshness of them. They did not disappoint. I cooked them both together, thinking I would save one for the next day. They never saw the next day. Delish ee moseo. I suggest you go out right this second and get a giant sized artichoke for your eating pleasure.

3. Speaking of pleasure, I have a good one for you. Is Blogging Narcissistic?

Because I'm getting kind of sick of talking about me me me. My thoughts. My ideas. My world. My chocolate messes. My broken feet. My My My. Why should you care? I'm not so fond of the narcissists of the world. So now, am I one... because I am so self absorbed that I thought you would care about the fact that I don't like narcissists, even though now I might be one because I write this freaking blog? When I went to find the above visual on google, a bunch of sites came up about how to tell a narcissist on Facebook or MySpace. I learned just from reading the blips that Narcissists always put glamour shots of themselves on their pages. Well. That made me feel better, because 1st of all, I don't own a glamour shot and second of all I try like the dickens to keep my picture off this thing, for certain reasons that will remain unknown to you so I don't look like a narcissist.

4. Speaking of Dickens,

Today I was rummaging around in a closet, doing my favorite pastime of chucking stuff, and I came across a book entitled "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare"

I think to myself, "Hey Narcissist, you could probably profit from reading this book.People you admire have been know to quote this writer." And then I think "Where did this book come from anyhow, because I don't remember buying it?"

I concluded that one of my kids hit the jackpot when they married because they married someone who actually owns a book of this type, who actually travels with this book, and the in-law probably left it here on purpose maybe when they might of had a child born here under this roof, and they left it here to try and help me. Kind of like the Gideons and the Bibles in the hotels. When I read the book, I might be able to write more better, (see two sentences ago) and think more better (see content of this entire blog). But I'll still probably be a Narcissist because now that I realize that blogging might be narcissistic and if I continue blogging then that will mean my involment with this Freaking Blog makes me a you know what.

Geez, it's a lot of work being me sometimes.

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Hippa Smippa

Last week I had a mammogram. My favbrit. But apparently I got an "F" on it because they called me this week and scheduled me to come in and have a redo, along with an ultra sound.

So much for my new years resolution to stay out of Dr.'s Offices, thus not having to pay them.

I didn't let myself get too worked up about it, because I've been through this before.... while Timmers was having chemotherapy. It was a cyst then, so let's all conclude that it's a cyst now, right? I slept through the night with that thought rolling around my head. Along with this thought creeping around the edges: chemo by yourself...what a blast that would prove to be.

Yesterday I went in for the redo rodeo.

OK. I'm just telling you right here, right now, when you go in for the redo, the object is to smash you three times further with twice the grip. I seriously thought that when I stepped back from the mammography machine that I would look at the plate and I would be seeing my smashed mammo-grified part sitting there without me...like a skin tag removed with clippers. Mister, just thinking about that can smart like the dickens. Makes your spine curl, don't it?

Anyway, so as not to worry you any further, I got an A- on the redo, along with the ultra sound. I am fine.

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Physically.

However, I didn't realize how worried I might of been about it until I woke up this morning with a headache. (And now you know TWO pieces of Hippa information about me.) It was one of those post stress headaches, the kind that you get when you are carrying around too much baggage

So I've kind of been babying myself today. Laying on the couch, watching TV, and I even treated myself to some chocolate covered almonds, because we Sisters deserve the Chocolate after having had double the mammograms in one week. It's the Mommacita rule.

Around 4 o'clock, I talk myself into going to the grocery store. I think I need strawberries. So I drag my headachy self to Winco. As soon as I get in the store, I discover I have to visit the ladies room. So off I go. As I'm washing my hands I look in the mirror, and in my reflection, right above the V in my V necked t-shirt I see a two bruises.

I'M BRUISED!

I'M BRUISED!

I AM BRUISED FROM A MAMMOGRAM!!!

THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!!! I'M BRUISED!!!

Well I am just furious. I don't think we should go around bruising our Ladies there.

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So I very lightly touch one of the bruises. As I run my finger over my skin, I notice that the bruise follows my finger. In fact, it was a bruise that transferred to the bottom of my finger. It was one of those transferring bruises? Wha?

It's Chocolate. Melted Melty Chocolate. I've been walking around in public with an ink blot stain made out of chocolate on my chest. And let's not even be discussing how an ink blot shaped chocolatey schmear was tattooed on me, front and center. I have endured enough trauma.

I am admitting I am far too ridiculous to ever again talk in a disparaging manner about people who frequent Walmart. Even if they have digestive issues and are standing by me in line.

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And Schneebers, after hearing this story, I think you just might prefer that I wear my pajamas in public. You know. Instead of the plethora of alternatives.

Getting Real

Memorial Day.

I tried to give you a chance.

Today was a beautiful blue sky day, perfect temperature, and gentle breeze. I had just been to my parent's house. There they had a basement full of Mums...every color imaginable. They had been purchased and nurtured to be placed on an abundance of graves, to honor those who had gone before: Mothers, Fathers, Brothers, Sisters, and always a little arrangement for an infant daughter, my only sister. I grew up with this tradition. Every memorial day, our parents took us to the cemetery before we'd get together with cousins. It was the ultimate day of family, past and present.

When I got married, this tradition was erased. Tim's dad had died when he was 8. We never visited his grave, except for one time when we had only 2 kids left at home. That visit was on a beautiful day like today. The view was spectacular. At the time, I didn't understand Tim's way, but I was more than willing to go to the beach or the mountains or Grandma's for a Bar-B-Que whenever memorial day rolled around. I would have been willing to visit graves too, however, since he didn't seem to want to, I was more than happy to oblige.

This would probably be a good time to let you in on the fact that I have hardly ever visited Tim's grave. It might be for a number of reasons. The first time I went was a few days after his funeral. It was the grayest, rainiest, windiest, coldest, most horrible day ever. The grass on top of the grave was dead, and the funeral flowers on top of that were shriveled and dead as well. It took about two seconds for me to draw no less than two thousand parallels.

Another reason might be that I hate the marker. Tim insisted on the cheapest one. I would do it differently now if I could. Another reason is that I don't know what to do once I'm there. Where do I walk? Where do I stand? It is so awkward. Should I speak? Where do I look? If I look to the left I see the headstone of that girl that died 2 years ago on her prom night. Her parents spared no expense: there are at least 15 pictures of her engraved in the granite. To the right I see 3 siblings, younger than eight. More pictures of someones babies they had to let go of.

So when I got home from my trip last night, I noticed that 1 lone Calla lily had reached its peak in my front yard. I decided to take it and lay it on our headstone. (yes, ours, my name is on it, which maybe is another reason I can't get the visiting thing down.). This morning I cut the lily, giving it a big long stem, I brought it inside and tied a bow of white tulle about a quarter of the way down. I put it in water and drove it to the cemetery. I was going to pay my respects like all the other grown ups out there.

Even on a blue sky day, with perfect temperature, and a gentle breeze, and even after 5 1/2 years, I still do not like the cemetery. I left sad.

For me, if I want to talk to Tim, or feel him near, I go to one of our Church's Temples, for it is there I am reminded of the eternal nature of each soul, and the possibility of a forever family. When I go there, I always leave with hope, and gratitude, and a heart that is full of love for a Savior that would make it possible for Tim and I to be together again. There is no sadness in a Temple. I can always count on that.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLXYxmaHWQs

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Memorial Day, I gave you a shot. Tomorrow, I visit the Temple.

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Weekend Update. Like it's Only Been a Weekend Since I Posted

I just got home from a weekend with the parental units. Me Madre flew me down for me Padre's birthday party:

When the Queen Mum turned 85, she got a bunch of stamps to celebrate

Dad, sadly did not, even though he deserves them. I was hoping that my sister in law would email me the pictures of my Dad blowing out his candles, but I haven't got them yet. He was the cutes, sitting there in front of his ice cream cake, blowing out his candles. You never get to old to have fun blowing out your candles. Think about it for a minute, has there ever been a time in your life when you haven't felt special blowing out your birthday candles? I thought not. I loved sitting there watching my 85 year old Daddy, feeling special on his special day. LOVE him.

I stayed at my childhood home the whole weekend. 30 years ago, my parents turned my room into a TV room the second I was married because, hello, I wasn't coming back. I like their confidence. The first night there, I sat in the blue bean bag chair and watched Murder She Wrote on the Hallmark channel with my mom.

I'm not such a Murder She Wrote kind of gal. But Mom is. So we watched. And you can go ahead and imagine me watching Murder She Wrote if you like, because that would mean you will be imagining me being so tolerant, so selfless, so giving. Which might be a new experience for you.

The opening scene had Angela Lansbury with yellow rubber gloves on and her hair tied up in a red scarf'; and she was cleaning her oven like a demon when the Murder She Wrote phone call came in and she had to drop everything and get going to solve the mystery dejour. And no, it was not quite believable, thanks for asking. The show had a western theme so I was doubly b.o.r.e.d. what with the dust and the wranglers and the twang.

I had to keep pinching myself to make sure that yes, I WAS in my childhood bedroom watching that show.

In a vinyl bean bag chair.

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The next night I got to go to dinner with these two:

They are just as cute as a year ago. Except Mitch needs a haircut. And I think I mentioned it to him a couple of times, so he might have been happy to drop me off back at my childhood home. It's weird to have your child leave you at your childhood home. Just sayin.

We went to Ruth's Dinner, which is a spot up the canyon that I used to go when I was in college. Ultimate comfort food. I'm still thinking about the Chocolate Malt Pudding that we topped the meal off with. I'm a big ol' fan of pudding, especially if there is real whipped cream on top. And Ruth's was yummeristic.

I really really loves me that pudding.

Mitch also took me to the hospital to see Jennifer, of Blogging for Jennifer Wahlquist Day fame. (I can't get the link to work...so just scroll down three posts....)

I KNOW! I am so lucky! We walked in, and as I gently hugged her teeny little self she whispered in my ear: "Thank you, thank you so much". It was so tender, that I then had to fumble around for a tissue to wipe my eyes. I just love her so much.

So here's my report on Miss Jennifer:

Spirit: STRONG

Determination: STRONG

Love for her family: STRONG

Appreciation for her family: STRONG

Hair: Coming back STRONG

Attitude: STRONG

Typical Jennifer.

I know when adversity slaps you in the face as it has slapped Jennifer, you have to do alot of searching in your heart to make sense of it. You have to decide if everything you have ever believed in is what you will continue to believe in. As we conversed, I could see the direction of her heart is fast and true. And STRONG

Jennifer, if you're reading this, I'm high fiving you right now. On the side. Down low. Too Slow. With a Pickle. Tickle Tickle.

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And Jennifer, have those hospital folks bring you in a cake with some candles on it from me.

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(PS I know I shouldn't say this but just try and hold back your amazement of the kittie world and the people who live to document it)

About Being Invisible

When I was younger, skinnier, blonder, I remember sitting around my Mother-in-Law's dinner table and the subject of being invisible came up. I learned that day, that when you grow older, you become invisible to the world. It was an interesting concept, being this: that as you age, no one notices you anymore for your beauty, smarts, or stylin' attitude. Since I am a person that is happy with blending into the wallpaper, (hello, it is why I blog...no one can see me...) it was a fascinating idea to me. Do people really stop acknowledging that you exist? Do they eventually look right through you? When I'm over 50 I am no longer? Oh, but t'were it true.


However, today invisibility happened. And I'm not complaining. Well I sort of am, but you will see why.


Case in point #1
I'm in Costco. I'm looking at Carter's kid's pajamas. I'm digging for styles and sizes. I hear these 3 women across the table from me talking. They all have a stroller, which means they all have a baby. Which means they all have a birthing story. And let me ask you this: If you had a birthing story that included the words pain, yell, crown, push, gush, water, burst, etc. etc. etc, would you want some old lady putting that in her blog? You don't? Then for heaven sakes don't be yelling it around in Costco.

People! Invisible people can hear you.

Case in point #2
I'm in the Walmart, standing in the customer service line, returning non smear highlighter pens that smear. I'm standing behind 4 young people, probably around 18. One of the girls, the Blondie, had on some 'skinny' jeans which is another word for too tight, too low, and too creepy. She bent over a couple of times and it was not exactly what I would have chosen to see. But that's not the bad part. She and one of the boys, were playing "I can slap your face, no you can't yes I can" the entire time. And I was right behind them. I, the invisible female immediately behind them got to witness the slap giggle grab slap giggle pull up pants that are almost showing my woo hoo slapslapslap party that was a foot an a half away. I'm gagging a little right now just thinking about it.

Case in point #3

Still in Walmart. I'm standing in the pharmacy line. This guy and his adult grandson are sitting on the bench. Grandpa has on a soiled white (maybe beige) t-shirt. It is soiled all over the area where his belly protrudes underneath the t-shirt. He has on suspenders that go over his t-shirt. They are bright yellow, and are made to resemble a yellow tape measure. This guy is older than me. Why is he not invisible to me? Why am I trying to read the tape measure that goes from the front of his pants to the back of his pants to see what the measurement is? Why aren't I following the invisible protocols? Why?

Case in point #4
Still in the Walmart Pharmacy Line. Guy in front of me starts talking about swine flu. On and on and ON with the swine flu. 1,000's are going to die. Like in 1918. And in 1968. ...Wha? More and more on the swine flu. And even more. I am certainly not invisible to this guy. Not one bit.


Case in point #5
Still in the Walmart Pharmacy Line. Grandpa's adult grandson is talking on a lime green cell phone. Let's call him Limey. Limey is pacing back and forth. Talking loud. I'm trying to be invisible what with not wanting to encourage Swine Flu Guy any more. And then I notice that Limey has developed a flatulence situation that is going on and on. And then there was a curtain call and an encore. How lucky am I? Swine Flu Guy rips his head around and looks at me like he's my best girl friend. I thought his eyes were going to pop right out and tumble into my palms. Absolutely NO invisibility saving me here. What is the deal?


So yeah. This invisible notion. Here's the real skinny: After 50, the perks of invisibility never go your way. You're invisible when you don't want to be, and you're visible when you pray to be invisible. I've proven it to you five times. Perhaps I have to wait to turn 65 for perks.

And now, I don't want to think about today any any more.

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You Should Not Blog about Some Things

Yesterday, I was sitting in the children's meeting of our church. It is called 'Primary'. I'm sitting there, singing along with the kids, and I look up and notice that one of the 3 year olds who is sitting on the front row is wearing a tiger mask. It is one of those foam ones that grandmas make with their grandkids.

She's sitting there with that mask strapped to her face singing her little 3 year old heart out about Jesus. And nobody cares.

Nobody tells her to take it off. Nobody asks if it is pinching her head. Nobody tells her that tigers don't belong in church. Nobody tried to take it off of her and put it on themselves. Nobody laughed at her. Nobody compliments her on it. Nobody says it doesn't match her outfit. She was just allowed to sit there looking through two holes that had been punched through orange foam. It was messing up her hair.

Last night, when I was getting ready for bed, as I took off that undergarment that only we ladies wear I noticed it was probably getting time for me to go in and get measured and fitted for a new undergarment that only we ladies wear.

And I heaved a big sigh.

My neighbors could hear it.

I hate new undergarments that only we ladies wear. And here's why:

1. They are expensive. I believe in quality undergarments that only we ladies wear, because, hello, we wear them EVERY day, ALL day. There are no breaks except for the days we stay in our pajamas. You get what you pay for in undergarments that only we ladies wear. And Hello. Economy Eblonomy. It's a problem I tell you.

2. After wearing old worn out undergarments that only we ladies wear, breaking in a new undergarment is like walking around in a band aid that is pulling at the hairs on your arm. You are noticing it all the time.

3. Your old worn out undergarments that only we ladies wear are like old friends. You have to say goodbye. And they can't even go in the Good Will bag because they flew past that point 2 years ago. They have to go in the garbage. Which brings me to another question: Are we supposed to put them through the shredder? Because you could find out alot about me by examining my old undergarment that only we ladies wear.

4. There's the awkwardness of the dressing room fitting. I don't care how non threatening the sales clerk is, and I don't care how pink they make that measuring tape.....Having someone measure you there, WRITE IT DOWN, and then bring you in a bunch to try on (waving them around through the store shouting "these are for Mommacita"...OK they don't do that but it almost feels like they do) and they burst through the door with them while your standing there half neked with mirrors 360 degrees around you....it is not my finest hour. I do not throw my chest out and declare Come to Mama. I cower in the corner and suck my thumb and humbly apologize for offending the pink measuring tape.

5. I do not wish for anyone to try and sell me Spanx at any time, in any thing or in any place. Especially while buying undergarments that only we ladies wear. No, this did not happen to me, but it might have gone through my mind when I thought about the salesperson bursting through the door.

I am loco, no?

So back to last night, when all of the above went through my head when I took note of my undergarment that only we ladies wear, I wondered why I have to conform. If some people can wear tigermasks whenever they want and get away with it, why do ladies have to wear undergarments that only ladies wear? Who decided this expensive, constrictive rule? Aren't I happiest in my pajamas? Is this the reason? Is someone trying to restrict my freedoms? Did I just have an Aha moment?

And right then, right as I thought I might be having an Aha moment, someone in the cosmos who loves me very very much warned me that I was getting awfully close to wearing purple and a red hat.

Enough said cosmos.

Today I will make an appointment for a fitting.

And I will not be blogging about it.

Blogging for Jennifer Wahlquist Day

It's Blogging For Jennifer Wahlquist Day...Did you know?

Well it is, and I'm down with it. Downtown and all around.

The title "Blogging for Jennifer Wahlquist Day" kind of reminds me of a show I would watch on afternoon TV when I was home from school sick. It was called "Dialing For Dollars". They would show an old movie and during the commercial breaks they would have this big bin with every body's phone numbers in it and a guy in heavy rimmed glasses would roll the bin, pull out a number, and call that person on the telephone, and if they were watching, they won some dollars. They never called me. Or my house.

Jennifer is my niece-in-law and I love her. And I love her husband Todd. And their 3 amazing kids. And I love Todd's wonderful mother: Tim's sister Diana, who has helped keep the household running during the last 8 months. Since September, Jennifer's life has been in a Dialing for Dollars bin, spinning around and around and some random be-speckled weirdo has been pulling out all kinds of wrong numbers:

Bone Marrow Transplant

Graft Vs. Host Disease

In the Hospital

Out of the Hospital

In

Out

In

Out

pneumotosis

enterobacter aerogenes

streptococcus viridans

third colonoscopy

hook up antibiotics to the IV port in your vein

feeding tube out of her nose.

in her nose

out of her nose

gram negative rods, a nasty kind of bacteria

IVIG infusions

high dose steroids

skin rash

"D" word.

I lifted these terms from their blog, which has kept us all posted, with love, humor and a touch of sketchy politics. No offense Charlie T.

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Now I admit that putting all these nasty terms in one blog is not their way, (too negative) but I did it, because collectively, over the months, these are the words that have manipulated their lives. And I'm proud of them for not backing down to them.

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So to celebrate Jennifer Wahlquist Blogging Day, I propose a new list. A list that is fitting to what I have seen happening to the hearts of Jennifer, her family, and all who know her. Drum roll, fanfare, and three handfuls of gold and silver sparkles in the air if you please:

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Faith

Courage

Quick to Pray

Grit

Introspection

Desire

Perseverance

Togetherness

Love

Humor

Fun

More Love

Even More Love than Before

Support

Kindness

Sacrifice

Serving Gladly

Warmth

Knit Together

Family

Abundance

Grace

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So Yeah. They're Awesome. And Taryn, I heartily raise my hand.

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PS. Jennifer, Todd, Clara, Amelia, Charlie T., Diana, Brent: I heart you, I love you, and my prayers are with you every single day. Keep on keeping on. You can do this!

Dimples and Bunnies and Me. Never Thought I'd Want to Say That

Somebody (Benjamin Timothy) is a Chub-a-Lub, and there are dimples involved. First, there are dimples on both knees. I've heard of dimples on both knees, but I've never seen dimples on both knees. Here is a knee dimple in case you've never experienced it either: (towel strategically placed and you can thank me later Benniebob)



Next there are dimples on the right hand

And then there are dimples on the left hand (although this is a right hand picture too, but I'm banking on the facts that

1-- you know I'm all about artistic license and

2-- I was left with two right hand pictures after wrestling wiggly naked baby)

Next there are dimples (2) on the left elbow.....

And then there are dimples on the right elbow (got both pictures this time and this looks like it might be something else, say on first glance, but guess again because I'm not that kind of Mommacita so look to the left of the picture and you will see a face and remind yourself this is an ELBOW dimple and that will orient you.... you're welcome......)

Are you in dimple heaven? Yeah. Me too. I tried to fill the dimples in with kisses but they were too numerous and they were too deep.

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And if that's not enough to blow your mind, here are some little girl with bunnies shots (which can rivel kittie pictures in some minds):

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First, a bunnies-make-my dreams-come-true bigger girl:

And next a smaller but inwardly awestruck girl (who happened to think it was her birthday when she got dressed that morning):

I stood in line 30 minutes at Baby Animal Days just so bigger and smaller girls could have a crack at holding bunnies. Dimple Baby sat in the stroller like a perfect dimpled angel.

I also was just as excited as they were when they got to ride ponies Chip and Misty. And I was even more excited that they sprayed each helmet with lice spray inbetween riders.

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Yep. Grandma of the Year. And I'm not ashamed to toot it.

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Go ahead and leave all kinds of comments about how lucky I am.

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