A little over a month ago we got a mouse. We acquired it in the traditional way.....
Henry, "Hey mom, look what I found."(his friend's mouse had babies, the mom wouldn't keep them all)
Me, "WHAT THE? Ewww."
Henry, "Mom, if we don't keep it THEY are going to let it go, in a field!(gasp) It is just a baby! It will DIE!"( huge gasp)
Me, "Let me look at it again.................Oh, it is a baby (losing the battle)"
Henry, "He needs us."
Me, "Go ask Dad." (trying to hold on to some thread of control)
Needless to say we kept said mouse and then 5 days later added another rodent to the family in much the same manner. There they were, Fred and Emily(who was later re-named Emilio) And we loved them. We bought a new cage, a wheel, a dish and a water dropper. Things were going smoothly. Turtle and mice and happy boys. Then.............
"Fred is dead." said completely in monotone.
We buried his little body on the side of the house by the water meter. A few words were said. Sad day. Turtle and mouse and melancholy boys.
The next day.
Henry, "Mom, I was talking to Tortuga (our turtle)about Fred."
Me, "Oh?" (wondering if this is his grief rearing it's ugly head, Has my poor child started thinking that his animals can talk? Should I call someone?)
Henry, "I asked him if he even cared that Fred was dead?"
Me, "And?" (is that anger? does he wish it would have been Tortuga?)
Henry, "He went like this" (imitating the turtle nodding it's head)
Me, "Well that is sweet of him."(trying not to giggle)
I love these people. Thank you Fred for your place in our lives. You will be missed, by all of us.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
On being true
I had to wait a few days to talk about this. But before I do, I need to explain something about myself. Now this is not for the weak, so if you have any doubts about what you can or can not handle reading, now would be a good time to click the back arrow and move on.
I was born a klutz. A true dyed-in-the-wool spaz. It is not only a physical malady but a social, mental and possibly, spiritual issue.
Let's talk about the first day of sixth grade. There I was in my white and pink pinstripe pants, my white moccasins, and my delicate pink button-up shirt. My hair was washed and combed and a pink bow was placed ever-so-neatly on top. I had on my very favorite jelly bracelets and let's face it folks I was the picture of sixth grade perfection. Now let's move forward to lunch. Out on the hill the boys were playing a game of flag football. In my desire to be more than your typical sixth grade girl I decided I needed to play. As I ran on to the field with all of my young girl exuberance and freedom I failed to take notice of the only place on the whole school grounds that was a muddy bog the exact place that every other human in the vicinity had been able to avoid. As stated earlier, klutz. As my foot hit the mud I found myself "slip-sliding away". When I stood up it looked as if I had been hosed down with mud and muck. I had gone from sixth grade darling to crap-house rat, all in a matter of seconds.
Now that is just one story. I could tell you about the fact that I did not make it through one meal until...wait, nope...I haven't made it through one meal in my life w/o spilling something on myself, I have bruises and cuts all the time from banging into door jams, cupboards, car doors, what-have-you, I have accidentally spilled bleach on more clothes than Wal-Mart stocks, I have walked into more than 1 or 10 glass doors, I have fallen into puddles, lakes, fires, holes, love, window wells, and countless other depths, I have fallen up and down many flights of stairs, I have tripped, fallen, banged, bumped, whipped, brained, slit, cut, hit, slammed and crunched myself so often I don't always remember where or when specific injuries occurred. I am a verifiable mess.
Now that I have explained myself let me get to the whole point of the story. On Tuesday night, after watching the Dancing with the Stars finale on-line, Go Yamaguchi! I was doing my nightly lock up. I opened the garage door and realized that I had not parked Van Helsing( the boys picked the name) inside. There are three concrete steps from the laundry room to the floor of the garage and I only grazed the first. I completely fell off the stairs breaking my toe (for the fifteenth time, literally) bruising my other foot, slamming my hip into the concrete and shredding any and all self-respect I had for myself. You want to know the worst part? All I could do was cry like a little girl. I had had enough. Right then and there was the culmination of all of my years of klutziness and I could take no more! #@!#%$&* this body and it's inability to protect itself! I was through. I limped my little wounded self to the bathroom sat on the edge of the tub and wept. (All the while my poor, sweet Dave was asking if there was anything he could do.)
Now the problem with my klutziness is it is never bad enough to warrant hospitalization or surgery or anything that might awaken my body to the fact that it is slowly destroying itself. So instead of flowers, get-well cards, and concern. I get snickers, smirks and embarrassment. So I decided on the edge of that tub that I was done, good-bye klutz hello graceful butterfly. And I tried, I really did, I tried to find my inner grace. Right up until the point that I was walking out of my bedroom, tripped on the box of wipes, caught my foot in the handle of the diaper bag, slammed my shoulder into the side of the door and kicked the actual door with my broken toe. Then I realized ......I am what I am. So my friends, all I can say is..................................Hello, my name is Marnae and I am a klutz.
I was born a klutz. A true dyed-in-the-wool spaz. It is not only a physical malady but a social, mental and possibly, spiritual issue.
Let's talk about the first day of sixth grade. There I was in my white and pink pinstripe pants, my white moccasins, and my delicate pink button-up shirt. My hair was washed and combed and a pink bow was placed ever-so-neatly on top. I had on my very favorite jelly bracelets and let's face it folks I was the picture of sixth grade perfection. Now let's move forward to lunch. Out on the hill the boys were playing a game of flag football. In my desire to be more than your typical sixth grade girl I decided I needed to play. As I ran on to the field with all of my young girl exuberance and freedom I failed to take notice of the only place on the whole school grounds that was a muddy bog the exact place that every other human in the vicinity had been able to avoid. As stated earlier, klutz. As my foot hit the mud I found myself "slip-sliding away". When I stood up it looked as if I had been hosed down with mud and muck. I had gone from sixth grade darling to crap-house rat, all in a matter of seconds.
Now that is just one story. I could tell you about the fact that I did not make it through one meal until...wait, nope...I haven't made it through one meal in my life w/o spilling something on myself, I have bruises and cuts all the time from banging into door jams, cupboards, car doors, what-have-you, I have accidentally spilled bleach on more clothes than Wal-Mart stocks, I have walked into more than 1 or 10 glass doors, I have fallen into puddles, lakes, fires, holes, love, window wells, and countless other depths, I have fallen up and down many flights of stairs, I have tripped, fallen, banged, bumped, whipped, brained, slit, cut, hit, slammed and crunched myself so often I don't always remember where or when specific injuries occurred. I am a verifiable mess.
Now that I have explained myself let me get to the whole point of the story. On Tuesday night, after watching the Dancing with the Stars finale on-line, Go Yamaguchi! I was doing my nightly lock up. I opened the garage door and realized that I had not parked Van Helsing( the boys picked the name) inside. There are three concrete steps from the laundry room to the floor of the garage and I only grazed the first. I completely fell off the stairs breaking my toe (for the fifteenth time, literally) bruising my other foot, slamming my hip into the concrete and shredding any and all self-respect I had for myself. You want to know the worst part? All I could do was cry like a little girl. I had had enough. Right then and there was the culmination of all of my years of klutziness and I could take no more! #@!#%$&* this body and it's inability to protect itself! I was through. I limped my little wounded self to the bathroom sat on the edge of the tub and wept. (All the while my poor, sweet Dave was asking if there was anything he could do.)
Now the problem with my klutziness is it is never bad enough to warrant hospitalization or surgery or anything that might awaken my body to the fact that it is slowly destroying itself. So instead of flowers, get-well cards, and concern. I get snickers, smirks and embarrassment. So I decided on the edge of that tub that I was done, good-bye klutz hello graceful butterfly. And I tried, I really did, I tried to find my inner grace. Right up until the point that I was walking out of my bedroom, tripped on the box of wipes, caught my foot in the handle of the diaper bag, slammed my shoulder into the side of the door and kicked the actual door with my broken toe. Then I realized ......I am what I am. So my friends, all I can say is..................................Hello, my name is Marnae and I am a klutz.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Professional portraits anyone?
Turns out my little brother Matthew is a real-life photographer and so agreed to take some shots of my wee ones.Shoot started out great we hiked ourselves up into a cow pasture dodging pies and calves with ease. We set up and the kids were cooperative and cute. Shangri-la, if you will. Then about 13.35 minutes into the shoot Millie decides that all of the cooperation and ease are over. She decides she is a ravenous wolf and that she will only smile, look at the camera, or quit crying when she wants to and no amount of snacks, goofy faces, or singing is going to change her mind.
Diva! Luckily my brother has the patience of Ghandi ( and also the eating habits-that boy is skinny) and so acted as if all was well and tried to have the camera at the ready for the few moments Millie decided she would participate. The boys on the other hand acted just like my own little Derek Zoolander and Hansel 
and mugged it up like professional male models ( who just happen to be really, really, really good-looking). 
I was so pleased with the pictures and swear Matt deserves some kind of reward for getting any good shots of Millie. In fact the one where they are all walking away, Millie is screaming like a stuck pig. Thanks Matthew. You can check out his work here.
P.S. the photo that is my header was taken by him, genius.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Confession time
What I am about to say can not leave this blog. I am a crappy mother. Now I mean it in the true sense of the word. I may be destroying my childrens' souls. You see, I was a single, working, schooling mom for many years. Everyday I dreamed of the day when I would be done with school and working and I could see my children more. When I could be more present in their lives. Well guess what? I got something even better. David. And with him the chance to be a full-time stay-at home mommy. Something that I did not even dare to dream about. So here I am in dreamland and I am truly struggling. Domestic goddess, I am not. I worry about the wrong things. I go over-board with punishments or I completely let things slide. I freakout or am as cool as a cucumber. It is like I parent as a Manic-depressive. I dreamed this different. In my dreams the house was neat, tidy and homey. The days were spent helping with homework, listening to every spoken and unspoken word, baking cookies, making paper mache` solar systems and guiding my children into lives as productive, kind adults. In dreamland I was one hot mama with plenty of time to excercise, it was a place where I whipped up healthy delicious meals all the while looking radiant and calm. A place where dowdiness was nary in sight. The reality is more like the dream where you go to school and realize you don't have any clothes on. You feel vulnerable and stupid and completely confused as to how something like this could happen. So here I am, naked in mommy land. Please don't get me wrong. Even though I don't look great naked, this reality is exactly where I want to be. I just need to figure it all out. I love these peeps with every cell in my body. I just want to do right by them. I want to make all of their dreams come true. Is there some kind of training for this?
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Hello and Welcome
My very best Liz welcomed her newest little bundle of joy into the world on May 10. Gavin Lee Miller weighed in at a whopping 8.5lbs and was 21.5 inches long. Big brother Blaise and big sister Myra couldn't be happier. 
The only problem with this whole thing is that his aunt Marnae is not there to hold him and love on him. I am so happy for Liz and Russ. I love him already. He is perfect!
The only problem with this whole thing is that his aunt Marnae is not there to hold him and love on him. I am so happy for Liz and Russ. I love him already. He is perfect!
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Seriously? Fo' Sho!
Well I took this little test just to prove to myself how great my blog is and this is what I get. Kind of reminds me of the John Denver debacle.
Just to add insult to injury.....this is how Dave's is rated......................
I was told that I should try and marry above myself and it looks as if I have! Go ME!
Icky sicky!
Let me just say that sickness + Millie-my patience, divided by the square root of human suffering over the croup X excessive nasal emissions = lots of tears and not a few kleenexes. My gal has been sick, for what seems like the dawn of time. It has been pretty rough around here. She has that painful, barky cough and watery eyes and that tight weezy-breathing chest and that faucet-o-snot nose and could possibly be teething and has a weird, ithcy rash on her bum cheek and she is down-right sick of it. Mostly she is whimpering or full-fledged crying or in a bizarre state of bliss or in the tub. So pray for us because it doesn't seem to be letting up. What I need to do is just pop over the border and get us some Paragoric and put us both on a very high dose. (Anyone remember this stuff? Opium in a bottle. Parents doled it out for all kinds of maladies, mainly diarrhea. Kids are lulled into an opium-induced state of calm and parents get a few hours of peace. Sadly you can't buy it OTC in the States anymore. Man, the FDA are a bunch of kill-joys)
A contrast: Above-Millie sick and afflicted. Below- my gal in her true state
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