tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27122778459466711382024-03-13T21:00:46.854-07:00see jenny runJenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-59867181200011795402013-02-14T10:58:00.000-08:002013-02-14T11:05:52.149-08:00Happy Valentine's Day! Hey friends! I hope you are all having a lovely day. <br />
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As part of our February fourteenth decor, I made an eye-chart inspired poster featuring a quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways/I love thee..."<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Batuf-6SUVQ/UR0v738H1FI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/0ZObE6nWBtQ/s1600/eye+love+you+valentine+notecard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Batuf-6SUVQ/UR0v738H1FI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/0ZObE6nWBtQ/s640/eye+love+you+valentine+notecard.jpg" width="492" /></a></div>
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And guess what? I resized my image for you, just in case you need a last minute valentine. Download and print right <a href="https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B5ckThncJ6UPUE1sNzVFaTMtQVU/edit?usp=sharing">here</a>.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">For personal use only. Thanks!</span></i> Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-14595254198898505182013-02-10T12:55:00.001-08:002013-02-10T12:56:00.323-08:00Beauty and the Boys: the challenge of raising a "nice guy" <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gUZxJZBwdVI/URgAnaH1s0I/AAAAAAAAAb4/cIWPPmQBMY0/s1600/sibling+love_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" height="251" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gUZxJZBwdVI/URgAnaH1s0I/AAAAAAAAAb4/cIWPPmQBMY0/s320/sibling+love_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">One of my favorite snapshots, taken last spring. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I straightened my hair in front of the bathroom mirror,
my three-year-old son walked through the door and asked what I was doing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Straightening my hair." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Why?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"To make it look pretty."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The moment the words came out of my mouth, I wished I could
have taken them back. What I really
meant is that I like the way I look with my hair straightened, just like I like
the way I look with makeup on, or when I wear my favorite clothes. But it wasn’t what I said. What my son heard was that my hair would be
pretty <i>after</i> I had finished
straightening it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are days when my hair isn't done, when my makeup isn't
on, and days when I’m wearing yoga pants and a worn t-shirt leftover from high
school. Most of the time, I am less than
pulled-together. I only occasionally
wear makeup, my hair is almost always thrown into some form of haphazard
bun/ponytail thing. When it’s time to
head out the door, my hurried attempts to spruce up my own appearance are often
accompanied by negative self-criticism. We parents, and especially mothers, are
the lens our children see the world through.
If I am constantly criticizing my own appearance, it doesn't matter how
many times I tell them that "everyone is beautiful," or "you’re perfect just
the way you are" if I stand in front of the mirror audibly complaining about my
hair/love handles/bags under my eyes.
Children are not stupid. They see the hypocrisy (probably better than I
can). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have read a ton of articles on raising strong, confident
daughters. I worry about the social
pressures that my daughter will face; I worry that she won't feel pretty enough
or smart enough or just plain enough.
But until recently, I hadn't really thought about how all of this affects
my son. The truth of the matter is that he
is exposed to cultural ideas of beauty and womanhood and "pretty" just as much
as my daughter is. He's sitting next to
her on the couch when they watch Disney princess movies and beside her in the
shopping cart when we walk down the girly aisles at Target. He sees the perfume ads on the backs of my
Martha Stewart magazine just like she does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What makes me even more nervous for my son is that if I
don't model and teach what I believe true beauty to be—intelligence,
compassion, verve, perseverance, integrity—he has the potential to become part
of the same sort of patriarchy that I want so badly for my daughter to discount. Additionally, it would be naïve to assume boys
are never self-conscious of their own appearance. Too short/tall/fat/ whatever is an issue both
boys and girls face. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My question today is not how to raise a strong
daughter. There are scores of articles
and essays and lists on this topic already. What I’m after is how to raise a
son who respects women and who recognizes the true beauty in others and in
himself. A quick internet search
produced some very general lists of answers: teach him that it’s okay to have
feelings, positive father involvement, etc.
Some good thoughts, but like I said, very general. After giving this topic a lot of consideration, I've decided to share some of my own ideas. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's my list for me and The Buster: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">1. Sometimes dress up to do ordinary things. I’m not talking every day, and I’m not talking
evening-wear dress-up. Wear a skirt on a
Tuesday to go grocery shopping. Put on
makeup for my turn to host playgroup. Be
comfortable and confident in being feminine.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">2. Sometimes don’t dress up at all. Wear yoga pants and clean the house
together. Get sweaty and go on a bike
ride together. Let him wear my apron to
help make dinner. Make certain he knows
how much I value spending time with him.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">3. In reference to other people’s appearances (and my own),
use kind words. Think before I
speak.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">4. Tell him he’s smart.
Thank him for being kind. Admire
his bravery. But also tell him the
things I love about the way he looks: his red curls, that one-in-a-million
freckle that sits dead center on the tip of his nose, how he can make great
monster faces, and how much I love his smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">5. Tell him his sister is smart. That she is just as smart as he is. That she can be as brave as he is. That she is beautiful. But also tell him that he is lucky to have a
sister, and even luckier that she can be his friend. Encourage him to use kind words. Agree with him when he says she has “Rapunzel
hair” or exclaims “she looks like a princess!” when she wears a hair bow. Tell him all girls are princesses. Tell him princesses are smart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">6. Tell him I am smart.
Help him find answers to his questions when I don’t know instead of telling
him to wait and “ask Dad when he gets home from work.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">7. Read together, fiction and non-fiction. Read some books off of those “raising strong
girls” book lists. Introduce him to
female characters that are smart, compassionate, funny, and engaging. Let him see me reading. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">8. Explain that sometimes people—girls and
boys—have a hard time remembering that they are beautiful. Remind him that we are all the same, all
children of God. Remind him to be kind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">9. Give him lots of hugs and kisses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">10. Tell him every single day that I love him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">What about you? What
would you add to this list? </span></i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-79006639219225186332013-01-18T21:37:00.000-08:002013-01-18T21:37:32.423-08:00(No) Thanks for the Recommendation, Netflix! <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wNSx9Qjn8EU/UPovgzvWAFI/AAAAAAAAAbg/FzFmXd0TlqQ/s1600/the+wheels+on+the+bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wNSx9Qjn8EU/UPovgzvWAFI/AAAAAAAAAbg/FzFmXd0TlqQ/s1600/the+wheels+on+the+bus.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">image via amazon.com</span></i></div>
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Today, The Buster found a children’s program on Netflix
called <i><a href="http://www.thewheelsonthebus.com/component/option,com_frontpage/Itemid,1/">The Wheels on the Bus</a> </i>and immediately begged to watch it. As far as I can tell, the premise of the show
is to ride around on a bus singing repetitive songs and to foster basic childhood
skills (the episode we watched promoted the virtues of getting along, sharing,
not procrastinating, washing our hands, and eating healthy snacks). Sometimes the passengers get off of the bus
and the viewers are treated to a video montage of things like insects and
parades. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m sure this doesn't sound much different
than any other children’s program. But the thing is that the people on the bus are crazy-weird. The bus is driven by Roger Daltrey (lead singer of <i>The Who</i>) dressed in a
full-body dragon costume. Or at least
the dragon is <i>voiced</i> by Roger Daltrey…it’s
likely someone else wearing the actual costume. Other bus riders include an assortment of
mismatched puppets, some people wearing what look like cast-off mascot
costumes, and some (mostly) normal people.
The kids are all future music-dance-theater majors, the grown-ups keep
on smiling, and there is some guy dressed up like a clown/mime. Add in some terrible computer animation and
some random children appearing as singing, dancing, fairies and you have half
an hour of my life that I will never get back.
Naturally, The Buster was riveted to the screen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is where good-mommy-me and I-like-the-arts-me have an
internal struggle. The overall message
of <i>The Wheels on the Bus</i> is great. No one is hitting anyone else. No one is being called stupid or dumb. We’re learning about taking turns. I <i>want</i>
to like it, but the part of me that sat through all those theatre, literature,
and film classes is threatening to throw a fit.
The lessons are a bit heavy-handed, the production values poor. I want children’s programming to be smart,
funny, and high-quality. And I want it
to be watchable, and not just by The Buster and Miss Meatball. I want to see what they are watching—is there
a new concept that I need to explain or help reinforce? Or something a character did that I don’t
want my kids doing? We spend a limited
amount of time watching TV and I don’t want to spend it watching rubbish. Or things I find straight-up annoying (<i>Dora the Explorer</i>, I’m looking at you). </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of great stuff out there.
The PBS line-up is predictably good—where
we live <i>Barney</i> is out and <i>Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood</i> is in (thank
goodness). <i>Sesame Street</i> is as fantastic as ever. And while I still think that the Man in the
Yellow Hat is a terrible pet owner (seriously, if Curious George were a human
child, DFACS would have stepped in) and that <i>Super Why</i> should stop changing all those stories, I’m grateful for
all the quality children’s media options available. </div>
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What are your favorite children’s television programs? Least favorite? In addition to the shows mentioned above, we
like <i>Kipper</i>, <i>Charlie and Lola</i>, and <i>The
Octonauts</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-66950175943381131322013-01-16T20:42:00.001-08:002013-01-16T21:14:46.508-08:00My Les Mis<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Rty1iTOD5dw/UPeANLgQS_I/AAAAAAAAAaY/h15pyz6_5xI/s1600/One+Day+More.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Rty1iTOD5dw/UPeANLgQS_I/AAAAAAAAAaY/h15pyz6_5xI/s320/One+Day+More.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">There I am, right next to Jean Valjean. My eyes are shut because, apparently, that note is a beast to hit. Or I'm just blinking. Or both. </span></div>
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It seems somehow appropriate that the film version of <i>Les Misérables</i> was released this
year—ten years after my own <i>Les Mis</i>
experience. I saw the film version a
couple of weeks ago and I still can’t stop singing the songs (you’re welcome,
family). I loved the movie for both its
own sake (seriously, were you listening to Anne Hathaway? and looking at that
camera work?) and for all of the <i>Les Mis</i>-associated
memories it brought back. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The original London cast performance of <i>Les Misérables</i> opened on October 8, 1985, the day before I was
born. In a very literal sense, <i>Les Mis</i> has been there my whole life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can’t pinpoint the moment the musical entered my
consciousness, but I know it hadn’t registered as important until the year my
high school drama teacher decided we would put on a production in our run-down
auditorium. I knew some of the songs, a
bit about the plot, and absolutely nothing about what the musical would do to
my junior year of high school. <i>Les Mis</i> changed me. I know it sounds kind of hokey and clichéd,
but really. It did. That production, my production, was one of the
defining experiences of my adolescent years.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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At seventeen, the themes of love, redemption, and identity
resonated with me—really, aren’t they what being a teenager is about? Figuring out who you are, messing up a lot
and trying again, learning that love is both exquisitely simple and
devastatingly complex. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tqxlrfYhGpY/UPeG2jtokoI/AAAAAAAAAaw/cXekOPDfFhs/s1600/img004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tqxlrfYhGpY/UPeG2jtokoI/AAAAAAAAAaw/cXekOPDfFhs/s320/img004.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Check out that hoop skirt! </span></div>
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And then there was just how hard we all worked and the
people we had the opportunity to work with.
The musical was so very big and we were all so very young. Talented, but young and only minimally
experienced. Few of us had performed
outside of other school productions. Our
teachers believed that we could do it, though.
Matt and Kelly and Trevor and the loads of other adults who I used to
call Mr. and Mrs. never questioned whether or not we were capable. Instead, they told us to keep working. I wish I could adequately thank them all for
that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Of all the hundreds of hours of rehearsals, I remember one
in particular; we visited a homeless shelter to sing some highlights of the
musical. I remember our teacher’s words
as he spoke to the people there about the songs we would sing. Jean Valjean was transformed for me…he became
someone who was “down on his luck” who “wanted a better life.” And there were nods and mmm-hmms and eyes
that brightened with comprehension. I
remember the sudden understanding that this wasn’t a story written for a dressed-up,
theatre-going elite. “For the wretched
of the earth/there is a flame that never dies/even the darkest night will
end/and the sun will rise;” we were singing about hope and hope is for everyone,
particularly the hopeless. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I just dug out a cd someone made of one of our dress
rehearsals, and I am struck more than anything by the sincerity of our
voices. I love that. I listen to the pit orchestra struggle along
in the background as Jared sings “Stars.”
Ben and Jessica break my heart with “A Little Fall of Rain.” I shake my head at the number of high Cs I
hit. “One Day More” still gives me goose
bumps from the moment Matt starts singing.
I miss that entire cast. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Favorite Les Mis memories, HHS or otherwise, go! <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ouj720GnmQ4/UPeIcndcx9I/AAAAAAAAAbI/Nfj87dtHiKs/s1600/img005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ouj720GnmQ4/UPeIcndcx9I/AAAAAAAAAbI/Nfj87dtHiKs/s320/img005.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Yeah...everyone else is paying attention to something important and I'm looking at a Mr. T coloring book.</span></div>
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Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-25410136043650192962012-12-29T22:30:00.000-08:002012-12-29T22:30:56.419-08:00Jacket <br />
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I have this favorite jacket that Mr. O has been trying to
get me to throw out for years. Since we
got married, really. I picked it up on
clearance from some cheapy, teen-oriented store at the mall for seven dollars. SEVEN. How could I pass that up? It definitely wasn't made to last, but I like
the color and it is one of the most comfortable things I have ever owned. In addition to these virtues, I wore it the
summer I spent in Scotland, so I’m pretty sentimentally attached. I love my jacket. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It pains me to admit it, but Mr. O is right. It’s been looking a bit shabby (“ratty,” he
calls it) for quite some time now. Every
time I consider throwing it away the soppy, emotional part of me takes over—I have so
many good memories were made wearing this coat.
It is a reminder of many, many wonderful adventures. I haven't <i>wanted</i> to replace it. But the fabric is fraying and the lining is
torn and the zipper on the left pocket is broken. A trip through the washing machine would
probably finish my beloved jacket all together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My favorite day with this jacket: a self-guided walking tour
of the Lake District. When some locals
suggested that it would be impossible for my friends and me to walk from the
shores of Lake Windermere all the way to the home of Beatrix Potter, we took it
as a personal challenge and tromped through the English countryside for an
entire day, much of it in pouring rain. I have never at any other point in my life been so entirely, thoroughly, joyfully soaked. Beatrix Potter’s garden is lovely in the rain. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Memories aside, it is time to say goodbye. I bought new
jacket. I was finally won over by a (discounted) blue and grey beauty in Target. Will I miss my old jacket? Definitely.
But I am glad to have a new one. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CeRwV7p1R0Y/UN_cijxp4VI/AAAAAAAAAaA/S6iposCRTV4/s1600/when+in+Orkney_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CeRwV7p1R0Y/UN_cijxp4VI/AAAAAAAAAaA/S6iposCRTV4/s320/when+in+Orkney_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">me and my jacket on the island of Orkney, Scotland </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(also pictured: favorite pair of earrings that have gone missing)</span> </div>
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What about you? I’m
sure I’m not the only one to ever have a hard time parting with a worn-out
piece of clothing. I would love to hear about yours! <o:p></o:p></div>
Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-45771206912350761252012-12-08T14:37:00.000-08:002012-12-08T14:42:34.329-08:00Adjustments <span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">I have spent the past couple of months adjusting to the idea of my family growing from two children to three. They have been months of dry heaving and exhaustion punctuated by The Buster and Miss Meatball's steadily increasing penchant for getting into things they shouldn't. Miss Meatball is part monkey and The Buster is the brute squad; they are a mischief match made in heaven (or possibly somewhere a bit warmer...I'm not actually sure which). Just when I felt like I'd started to get a handle on things, it is time for more adjustment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">I went to the doctor on Friday for what was supposed to be a routine visit, a welcome-to-my-second-trimester-of-pregnancy with my weight measured, blood pressure taken, and the opportunity to listen to baby's heartbeat. </span><span style="color: #222222;">Except when the doctor pressed the </span><span style="color: #222222;">Doppler</span><span style="color: #222222;"> device to my stomach, the only sound it picked up was the rushing of my own blood. She sent me in for an ultrasound. I could see the baby on the screen, see its tiny head and spine, but I didn't see a heartbeat. I didn't see a heartbeat and the </span><span style="color: #222222;">ultrasound</span><span style="color: #222222;"> technician didn't say any of the normal "and here is baby's head" types of things. She didn't say anything. And I knew exactly what was going on, that pretty soon I would be sitting back in the exam room waiting to hear about Options and Procedures because sometime in the last few days, the heart of my unborn child stopped beating. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">The doctor was kind. The nurses were kind. Everyone was kind. You want people to be kind in situations like this. You expect them to say sympathetic things and to give half-smiles in that sort of you-poor-thing way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">The doctor called it a “tragedy.” Her word choice pulled me away from my search for another tissue. Tragedy is one of those words I don't like to hear tossed around. Tragedy means Anitigone's punishment for burying her dead brother, Oedipus gouging out his own eyes, Horatio left alone at the play's end. I feel that tragedy, at its very core, carries with it a degree of hopelessness and futility that does not apply to me right now. Tragedy is the wrong word. I'm not sure what the right word is, though. Loss, perhaps. Or a kind of acute, almost quantum grief where I mourn for possibilities and might-have-beens. My heart hurts, and although <a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2006/04/broken-things-to-mend?lang=eng">I know it will mend</a>, right now I feel raw, exposed. </span><span style="color: #222222;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I need to adjust. </span></div>
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Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-88343475880813087792012-10-13T15:16:00.001-07:002012-10-13T15:21:00.281-07:00Bedtime Story Essentials <br />
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A couple of months ago, I wrote about going to the public
library and was struck by a friend’s comment that “it’s so good to hear you
talk about books again.” While I haven’t
ever stopped <i>thinking</i> about books, I
definitely don’t share what we’re reading here at Family O often enough. Since we read so much (too much?), and
because I really do love to talk about books and reading, you can expect a lot
more posts in this vein. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Reading together is important. When we read to young children, they cuddle
close to see the pictures, snuggling into our arms and into the magic of a
well-told story. The words and pictures
become an integral part of our relationships; my childhood memories of my
favorite picture books are recorded in the voices of my parents. Even now as I read some of these familiar
stories aloud, I find myself reading them the same way my mom does…the same
inflections, pauses, the same rhythm of the page turns. Stories connect us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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While I share many stories with my kids throughout the day,
bedtime is one of my favorite times for reading together. The following are the
five bedtime stories that I consider essential for babies and young toddlers;
these are books that both The Buster and Miss Meatball have consistently
adored. An added bonus, they are good
enough to engage older children (think 3-6) as well. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><i>Big Red Barn</i> by
Margaret Wise Brown</b></div>
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I know everyone always touts Brown’s <i>Goodnight Moon</i> as the quintessential bedtime story, but I’m going to go ahead and risk heresy here
and say that I like her Big Red Barn waaaaaay better. The story is simple; we meet a variety of
farm animals that, at the story’s end, go to sleep in the big red barn. The Buster and Miss Meatball love pointing to
the illustrations of familiar animals and making animal sounds as we read. Like <i>Goodnight
Moon</i>, the text has a soothing, easy rhythm and simple rhyme. Unlike <i>Goodnight
Moon</i>, it does not have any confusing pages that say “Goodnight nobody.” </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><i>Llama Llama Red
Pajama</i> by Anna Dewdney</b></div>
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If you haven’t read this book, go out and get it right
now. With its all-too familiar
situation (baby llama wants mama to come back upstairs after being tucked in)
and catchy rhymes, you will likely find yourself quoting the text. In fact, you may find yourself quoting the
text when you wish you didn’t <i>need </i>to
quote the text. Example: “Please stop all this llama drama and be
patient for your mama!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><i>Chicka Chicka Boom
Boom</i> by Bill Martin Jr. & John Archambault</b></div>
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While not strictly a bedtime story, this is the perfect book
for the evenings we need to get extra wiggles out before saying goodnight. My kids love the drum-like rhythm of the text
and the bold illustrations of alphabet letters.
A good first introduction to the alphabet, the illustrations show both
lower and uppercase letters. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><i>Goodnight Gorilla</i> by
Peggy Rathmann</b></div>
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This may just be the perfect bedtime story. The premise is simple: a group of zoo
animals, aided by a key-stealing gorilla, follow the zookeeper home at bedtime. The simple text and bright, engaging pictures
make for a wonderful read-aloud, allowing room for the reader to add their own
dialogue and descriptions. This is Miss
Meatball’s current favorite, which means we read it at least half a dozen times
a day. I’m not sick of it yet. No, really, I’m not. It’s that good. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><i>How Do Dinosaurs Say
Goodnight</i> by Jane Yolen </b></div>
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I like all of the “How do Dinosaurs” series, but <i>How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight</i> is my
favorite. With its illustrations of
misbehaving dinosaurs and rhyming text, this book is a big hit with The Buster
and Miss Meatball. What’s not to love
about a T-rex puckering up his lips for a goodnight kiss? Because the dinosaurs do the same things that
children do at bedtime, the pictures are full of familiar actions and
objects.<br />
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How about you? What bedtime books do you find your family grabbing night after night? <o:p></o:p></div>
Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-52645676718944036792012-09-27T12:31:00.001-07:002012-09-27T17:57:12.924-07:00That Post where I Rant about Education (also why I built a cell model)I spent yesterday afternoon and evening helping my neighbor, Fatima, make a model of a cell. She came to my apartment armed with a Hobby Lobby bag full of things her mom and she guessed she might need to make a model (Styrofoam balls, pom-poms, pipe cleaners, paint, paint brushes, a glue gun) and full of questions: Did I know what a cell was? Could I help her make one? Did I have a computer with internet? A printer?<br />
<br />
Fatima is in the seventh grade. She is bright, enthusiastic, and responsible. However, she was given an assignment that was beyond her capability to complete on her own. I remember plenty of projects like that in middle school and high school. You remember those, right? The kind of projects that I’m pretty sure our moms did most of (thanks again for all those dioramas, Mom).<br />
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Fatima’s family immigrated to the United States from Honduras. Her parents speak only limited English. They do not have internet or a working computer in their home. She told me she had asked her mom for help with her project, but that her mom didn’t know what a cell was. She doesn’t have her own science textbook, because text books are required to remain in the classroom. All she had was a grading rubric stating how many points the project was worth. The expectation was that the students could look up any information they needed on the internet.<br />
<br />
Hey, I have a good idea! Let’s give a twelve year old a list of really big words like endoplasmic reticulum and phospholipids and say hey, go build a model of all these things with no picture to follow. Don’t worry; it’s only worth most of your grade for the quarter.<br />
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I’m not placing all the blame on the teacher (although there is a part of me that wants to march down to the middle school and complain about the lack of clear instructions or any kind of diagram to follow). I know that teaching middle school science is, in the best of circumstances, a hard job. We don’t have the best circumstances. Here in small-town Georgia, literacy estimates for our county show 21% of the adult population as illiterate, meaning as many as 6 students in an average-sized class come from homes with illiterate parents. That’s as many as six kids in EVERY class whose parents can’t help them with their homework.<br />
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I guess what I’m trying to say from up here on my soapbox is that if we want our communities to thrive, the education of children—ALL children—needs to be a priority. Even really great teachers cannot do it all alone, and in cases where the parents cannot fill in the gaps, we have a responsibility to step in and help out where we can. Give your time. There are kids in each of our communities who need extra help in order to succeed.<br />
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In case you were wondering, Fatima’s model turned out great.Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-50011988552863339192012-09-03T19:35:00.000-07:002012-09-03T19:35:57.489-07:00Back to Normal It hardly seems possible that August is over. Mr. O has started a new semester, piano lessons are back in full swing, and The Buster, Miss Meatball and I are easing into our school year schedule. It’s funny to me—even though my kids are way too <del>tiny</del> young (there’s nothing tiny about The Buster) for school, there is definitely a change to the rhythm of our days as school recommences for everyone who goes to school. With the approach of autumn, my summertime laziness disappears. Maybe it is because I’m an autumn girl—my birthday falls in early October, my favorite time of year. The weather here is still summertime hot, but I’m full of hope for a beautiful fall.<br />
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One of the mental challenges I have with writing this blog is that I feel like I should have some kind of “topic,” like it’s a paper that I’m writing and that if posts don’t form a cohesive or consistent theme that maybe I’m going to be docked points on the final or something. But then I remember that the theme of this blog is “what my family and I do that makes us happy/frustrated/crazy.” And also maybe “here’s my family and what they do/how they cope while I’m being happy/frustrated/crazy.” The topic is my life, and I’ve got a lot going on. Some of those goings on are going to be getting more blog-time. As we return to a more consistent schedule for our family, I am excited to dedicate more time to writing, both in this space and for myself. Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-40007662014423468752012-09-02T21:14:00.001-07:002012-09-02T21:15:26.476-07:00Summer, in pictures <embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="https://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="400" height="267" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&noautoplay=1&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=https%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2F101637381835678247242%2Falbumid%2F5783788247387703489%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26authkey%3DGv1sRgCP6WssqNtKLcPg%26hl%3Den_US" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed>
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After a wonderful summer, we're back to the delightful whirlwind of regular life.Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-7019783507908714242012-07-22T19:16:00.000-07:002012-07-22T19:17:03.918-07:00In Memoriam<br />
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My grandmother passed away early last Monday morning. She was 90 years old.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My grandmother, called Gram, and I were never very
close. Part of this definitely had to do
with distance—my family lived in Texas, then Alaska, then Washington. Meanwhile, Gram lived mostly in Montana, with
some lengthy stints abroad; she accompanied my granddad to Yemen where he did
some sort of agricultural work. Later
the two of them traveled as missionaries to Europe. After Grandad’s death, she spent some more
time as a missionary in the southern United States. In my pre-internet, pre-cellphone childhood,
letters came infrequently and phone calls were expensive. There were visits, but they were always
short. Too short. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I do remember her coming to stay with us when my mother had
surgery. It was right after my eighth
birthday, and she took me to Fred Meyers to spend the birthday money she had
given me—a dollar for each year. I
bought a package of Lip Smackers chap sticks.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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On another visit, she went on a walk with my dad and
me. We passed a section of sidewalk that
had a footprint of a dog in the cement, and she made up a story about the
people chasing after the naughty puppy that had gotten away. I still think about that story every time I
walk or drive past that spot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It isn’t that there weren’t other visits, there were. She came along on a family vacation to the
seashore once, and we visited her a handful of times in Montana. Eventually, she moved to Utah while I was there
attending BYU, and we saw each other more frequently. It’s just that we didn’t know each other. We spent the past four years trying to build the
relationship that should have already been there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I often wished she had been a greater presence in my
life—that she had been there to applaud at my school plays, to bake cookies, to
have sleepovers. I realize now that the
problem with that wish is that I wanted her to be my <i>idea</i> of what a grandma should be, rather than understanding who she
actually was. I didn’t understand the
years of hard work, of poverty, of generous service to others. I didn’t understand the loneliness of her
motherless childhood, the loneliness of being widowed, the loneliness of
growing old. I didn’t often think about
what I could do for her, but instead about what she hadn’t done for me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But you know what? She
loved me anyway. <br />
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I think she knew I loved her anyway, too. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">my last visit with Gram, late June of this year</span> <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-18402268401925711492012-06-21T22:53:00.002-07:002012-06-21T22:57:11.531-07:00<span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">Tonight, Miss Meatball wouldn't (or couldn't) go to sleep. </span><br />
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Children that do not go to bed when they are supposed to are one of my pet peeves. Sometimes it makes me so frustrated I could swear. Sometimes it makes me so frustrated that I actually swear. </div>
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Tonight was different. When I picked up my screaming baby and she looked at me with her big eyes, I felt an overwhelming sense of contentment. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We walked outside in the evening quiet, up one side of the street and then down the other. The stillness was like my favorite Wordsworth sonnet: "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free / The holy time is quiet as a Nun / Breathless with adoration." I stood on the front lawn, watching the pencil-line of moon brighten until I felt Miss Meatball's tightfisted grip on my t-shirt loosen. She was asleep. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Crescent Moon & Treetop by CmdrGravy </i></span></div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-23279672045929020212012-06-12T14:34:00.002-07:002012-06-14T10:13:51.786-07:00Summer at the Library<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ALWfUFCFYLU/T9ez_MUMzII/AAAAAAAAAN4/k1K83K1VOjc/s1600/CIMG5671.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ALWfUFCFYLU/T9ez_MUMzII/AAAAAAAAAN4/k1K83K1VOjc/s320/CIMG5671.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">our library books for the week </span></div>
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I am a big fan of public libraries. To me, summertime and the public library belong together. Just like watermelon or running through the sprinkler, frequent trips to the library are an important part of summer. Growing up, my mom would take my brothers and me to the library often during our summer break; I remember the feeling of my chin pressed against my towering armful of books, trying to balance them all as we walked out of the cool library into the over-bright parking lot.<br />
<br />
Our local library here is small--it's a branch library. And if it does have an out-dated collection of records (Barbara Streisand circa 1970, anyone?) and too many romance novels, it also has a pretty decent selection of books. Even though neither The Buster or Miss Meatball are big enough to read to themselves yet, we are all loving the library's summer reading program. For the program, we're doing lots of simple activities like reading picture books together and learning nursery rhymes. It's a lot of fun.<br />
<br />
Warning: This is where I climb on my soapbox for a minute. I have <strike>pretty</strike> really strong feelings about the importance of childhood literacy, and firmly believe that one of the best things we can do for our kids is to teach them to love books. Have you heard about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emergent_literacies">emergent literacy</a>? It's important. Read to your kids! Take them to the library! <br />
<br />
Anyway, we're loving the summer reading program here, especially the library-sponsored activities. For such a small library, the activities they have really are impressive. Today's activity had The Buster near hyperventilation out of excitement. Several large trucks, including a drilling rig, a fire engine, and a tow truck, all parked in the library parking lot and the kids got to see them up close. We're talking sit-in-the-driver's seat-touch-the-controls close. The Buster was in heaven. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Buster takes the wheel</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">checking out the drilling rig with its friendly driver</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">fire engine controls</span></div>
Anybody else signed up for their summer reading program? I hope you are, even if your kids can't read to themselves yet. I'd love to hear what kind of special activities your library hosting this summer!Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-70302031085166469392012-05-30T15:05:00.001-07:002012-06-03T18:51:33.356-07:00Savannah, Georgia (with lots of pictures!)<div style="text-align: left;">
In a burst of spontanaity, we went to the beach! That's right folks, I have now seen the Atlantic Ocean. We spent two fun-filled days in Savannah, hitting the beach, checking out some historical sites, and enjoying the Southern charm of this beautiful city. </div>
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Of course we all loved the beach. I am still amazed at how warm the water was. Prior to this trip, the only beaches I'd been to were pretty cold (the Pacific Northwest, Alaska, Scotland). Or really cold, now that I think about it. </div>
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Miss Meatball was born to go to the beach. From the moment we plopped her down on the wet sand, she sat splashing in the little waves and giggling. Much to my relief, she showed no interest in eating sand, although she did taste a seashell or two. The waves made The Buster a little bit nervous, but it didn't take long for him to start running in the waves with Mr. O. Mostly The Buster spent his time digging for sharks, which he claimed were "hiding" in the sand. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">digging for sharks</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">all of us after our happy day at the beach </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">We spent the evening hanging out at in historic downtown, where we snacked on some yummy gelato and then </span><strike style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">listened</strike><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> rocked out to some live music. The Buster is a </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VSkMWv2XyI&feature=youtube_gdata_player" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">dancing machine</a><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">. I was a little disappointed in the popular </span><a href="http://www.vinnievangogo.com/" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Vinnie VanGoGo's</a><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> pizza, but then, I have very definite opinions about pizza sauce. </span></div>
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The next day, we visited Fort Pulaski, which was pretty cool. Aside from its interesting history and musket-firing demonstration (which we skipped due to The Buster's already keen interest in firearms), the fort provided The Buster and Miss Meatball tons of open space to explore. The Buster went from cannon to cannon, checking for cannon balls and yelling "BOOM." </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">she makes ME smile</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> BOOM!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">one day this child WILL look directly at the camera </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> me and my girl Meatball : ) </span></div>
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One of my favorite places we visited was Forsythe Park. Located in Savannah's Victorian District, the park looked just like I imagined Savannah would look like: wide, shaded sidewalks, trees dripping in Spanish moss, a massive Civil War monument, and an absolutely gorgeous fountain.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Spanish moss! </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">I think most of these decorative/atmospheric elements escaped The Buster's notice, but there was also a toddler-friendly playground, a splash fountain for The Buster to soak himself in, and a guy selling snow cones. Miss Meatball really liked the snow cones. All in all, we had a great little trip and are already gearing up for our next adventure. What did you do over Memorial Day weekend? Hopefully you had as much fun as we did! </span><br />
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Cheers.Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-76872357063537332812012-05-29T20:12:00.000-07:002012-06-03T18:56:06.918-07:00Mr. O<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Mr. O and The Buster at about this time last year. </span></div>
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Today is a pretty important day here at the Family O: It's Mr. O's birthday. <br />
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Mr. O and I met at a museum lecture about printing presses. I was late, and as fate would have it, the only empty seat was next to Mr. O. He smiled at me, I smiled at him. I wish that I could say that it was love at first sight, but it wasn't. I don't think we said more than a dozen words to each other: "Is this seat taken?" "No, go ahead." </div>
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We were formally introduced a few months later, and the possibility of love should have been crushed when I yelled something at him about being obnoxious (yes, I really did). An ordinary man would have run. But for some reason that I still don't fully understand, he fell in love with me instead. </div>
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Mr. O is one of the most patient people that I know--even though sometimes I accuse him of being otherwise. He tolerates my anxiety and insecurities, believing in me when I don't believe in myself. I will be the first to admit that being married to me cannot possibly be a cakewalk, yet he keeps on loving me through all my ups and downs. He is the best husband, the best dad, and my best friend. So, Happy Birthday, Mr. O. I love you the most. </div>
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Cheers. </div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-89011456075731697252012-05-21T21:09:00.001-07:002012-06-03T18:56:43.995-07:00Summertime<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Miss Meatball taking a dip in our makeshift swimming pool.</span> </div>
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It actually feels like summer has been here for awhile. It is already so darn hot! It feels like we skipped spring altogether, or had it back in February. I didn't understand what people meant when they said "at least it's a dry heat" until we moved to the South. If you have never experienced humidity, believe me. It's brutal. I would happily take a dry 95 degrees over a humid 82 degrees any day of the week. <br />
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With the arrival of summer, I still get that school's-out-let's-play feeling, even though 1.) I completed my degree 3 years ago 2.) The Buster and Miss Meatball still have awhile before they are big enough to go to school, and 3.) Summer doesn't really mean no school for Mr. O. In spite of this, I find myself getting really excited for all of the possible fun to do summertime things. As I'm gearing up to put together my summertime wish-list of things to do and places to visit, I've been thinking a lot about <a href="http://www.designmom.com/2012/02/love-the-place-you-live-2/">this series of posts</a> from Design Mom. <br />
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Basically, they are a reminder to get out and to explore where you are living, finding fun things to do in your own backyard (granted, Design Mom's backyard is France and my back yard is the rural South, but still...). This is an idea that really resonates with me. Maybe it is in part because more often than I like to admit, I don't love the place I live. Because of Mr. O's schooling, where we live has a very temporary feeling to it. This time next year, we will probably be neck-deep in moving boxes and gearing up for the next leg of our adventure. Sometimes it is really easy to fixate on that "next leg" before we get there. The days when it is too hot to play outside, the kids are cranky, I am frustrated with our town's lack of bookstores and a restaurant that isn't Chick-Fil-A, or Mr. O needs the car yet again because there isn't any public transportation...those are the days that I find myself dreaming of a fully-funded doctoral program someplace perfect. The problem with these daydreams is that they take the place of actually getting out and doing something. Comparison is the enemy of contentment, even if the comparison being made is between the present reality and unrealistic possibility. For me, there is an active, decisive component to loving the place where I live. And not just the geographical place, but the stage of life I'm in as well. I'm talking embracing life as it is, right here and now (that's right, Mr. O, I just went all existential). <br />
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There are a lot of things that I want to do, and a lot of places I would love to see around the South. I'm thinking some Civil War battle grounds, possibly the beach (I've never seen the Atlantic Ocean), and some big-city attractions as well as some local berry-picking, trips to the public library, and an unprecedented amount of popsicle-eating. I'm feeling inspired by this <a href="http://megduerksen.typepad.com/whatever/2011/06/the-summer-list.html">chalkboard chalkboard checklist</a> and this <a href="http://goodhappyday.blogspot.com/2009/07/summer-list.html">family list project</a>, even though my list is more likely to land on the back of a used envelope. <br />
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What's on your list this summer? Will you make a giant to-do list for the whole family? Will your adventures focus on things close-to-home, or will you travel far away? <br />
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Cheers. <br />
<br />Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-44356464746814049772012-03-15T18:53:00.005-07:002012-06-03T18:52:28.962-07:00TV Time<span style="font-size: 100%;">Every once and awhile, I'll stumble across a blog post or an article or some real-life mom that champions the benefits of a television-free lifestyle. Don't let the kids watch TV, engage their minds instead! Create craft projects! Read stories! Sing songs! Go outside! </span><br />
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These encounters result in bouts of mom-guilt. I experience a gnawing fear somewhere in my intestines that my children are going to grow up deficient. While kids with good moms are putting on puppet shows and going on nature walks, my wee ones' brains are going to atrophy into some horrible grey sludge and they will never have any friends and they won't go to college and they will probably never get a job. And it will all be because I let them watch TV. <br />
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I then vow that there will be No More TV In Our House. We will have one TV-free day, my conscience is soothed, and the next day life returns to normal. </div>
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I made it from Monday night all the way to 6:00 this evening with no TV for the kids. In the past three days, we have been to the park, to playgroup, and to the public library. We have read 38 picture books. We sat and watched some construction workers tear up a strip of parking lot with their bulldozer. We have done art projects and educational activities. Quite frankly, <span style="font-size: 100%;">I am exhausted. The Buster may feel enriched, but I didn't do the laundry and our dinners have been pretty lack-luster (another PB&J sandwich, anyone?). The living room floor needs to be vacuumed</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><i>. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">The past three days have reminded me that I have no desire to be a fully TV-free home. I need some time to do the laundry and unload the dishwasher in peace. For me, television is a necessary evil. I'm not even sure that I can call it evil. We LOVE </span><i style="font-size: 100%;">Sesame Street </i><span style="font-size: 100%;">and </span><i style="font-size: 100%;">Dinosaur Train </i><span style="font-size: 100%;">at our house. Even so, </span>turning<span style="font-size: 100%;"> off the TV has prompted me to reevaluate our TV habits. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;">The important thing (for me at least) is to think before I switch on the TV, to ask myself </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;">why</i><span style="font-size: 100%;"> I am turning it on. Is there a specific program we want to watch? Do I have a specific task to complete that I need the Buster to be entertained during? Or am I just turning it on because I haven't thought of anything else to do? I'm hoping that asking </span>myself<span style="font-size: 100%;"> these questions will help me find the right balance of what is the "right" amount of TV for us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">What do you think? What are your policies/ideas about TV time? </span></div>
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Cheers. </div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-49952884955420134532012-03-10T13:12:00.005-08:002012-06-03T18:53:19.595-07:00Going to the Zoo (and an adventure in breastfeeding!)<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;">I read a magazine article yesterday that pointed out the average child only has 940 Saturdays between the time they are born and the time they leave for college. Special moments and activities with children are important, they won't stay little forever, etc. The author went so far as to suggest that every time you find yourself getting frustrated by your children, you should picture your house as completely clean and quiet and remember that someday it will be that way, and then you will learn to more fully appreciate each minute with your kids. In my case, rather than sending me into a quiet "I love my children" state-of-mind, this technique would probably result in a </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">hyperventilating, sobbing fit during which I would hug the kids strangle-tight and the Buster would start screaming that he was trapped and he would probably think his mama had gone crazy. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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Right this minute, Miss Meatball is happily tearing said magazine to shreds. </div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">Normally, I wait to go to the zoo until Mr. O can come too. It's just easier. But as Mr. O had other obligations, and because there are only 940 Saturdays, </span></span>I decided to take the Buster and Miss Meatball to the zoo all by myself. It was so much fun! Miss Meatball happily rode in the baby-sling, cooing from her perch on my hip. The Buster willingly sat in his stroller, getting in and out without fuss </span><i>even </i><span style="font-style: normal;">when it meant leaving the tiger exhibit. During the three hours we were at the zoo, the only time the Buster cried was when we rode the little zoo train. It turns out that while the Buster loves the</span><i> idea</i> of trains and tunnels, he is terrified of tunnels. He literally SOBBED the entire 7 minutes we were on the ride and then promptly asked to go again. Go figure. </div>
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I left the zoo feeling empowered. We did the zoo without Mr. O, and it was fine. It was more than fine- it was great. <span style="font-size: 100%;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Here is where things got dodgy (or at least felt dodgy). I should have just found a bench at the zoo and sat down there to feed Miss Meatball. But, as she is highly distractable, I thought that it would be easier to find an out-of-the-way park bench or picnic table to feed her, so I did just that. I was less than five-minutes away from finishing feeding Miss Meatball when this Rastafarian-looking man started towards my table. As he came closer, it became obvious that he was stoned out of his mind. He picked up an old bottle of Poweraid that he found on the ground and started drinking it (major eww). He was walking all around the picnic table, piking up half-smoked cigarettes and checking the trash can for any left-over goodies. I seriously thought he was going to get down on his hands and knees and start collecting the cheerios the Buster had thrown on the ground for the "quirrels." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">So, there I was, trying to get Miss Meatball to finish eating as fast as possible so we can leave. Here I should probably mention that I breastfeed. While I use a nursing cover for modesty's sake, I am not particularly prudish about the whole process. Someone catches a glimpse of my chest while my babe's latched on? No big deal. With one exception. This man. If this crazy-stoned/potentially homeless guy catches a glimpse of my naked breast, I think I might die. It is at this moment that the Buster reaches out and grabs my nursing cover. I am trying to keep myself covered, trying to keep Miss Meatball from falling off of my lap, and trying to yank the nursing cover out of the Buster's fist. The man is about five feet away from us, staring blankly at me. Societal norms do not apply when you are that drugged, so the man sat down at the picnic table. I detached Miss Meatball, straightened my shirt, and threw our stuff into the bottom of the stroller in record time. Which is a good thing, because the man was getting ready to smoke another joint. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Just in case you are worried that I was actually in any danger (Mom, I know you're reading this), my "out-of-the-way" table was only twenty feet away from the walking path where twenty or thirty people were going to and from the zoo at any given time. And the man was most likely harmless, albeit not the kind of person with whom I wanted to hang out with while breastfeeding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">We made it back to the car, and I loaded the kids in, (a painstakingly slow process made to feel even slower because some lady was waiting for my parking spot and glaring at me because I wasn't leaving fast enough). The kids fell asleep the minute we pulled out of the parking lot and slept the whole drive home. And even if the Buster and Miss Meatball don't remember this Saturday, it's okay. I'll remember for them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Cheers. </span></div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-17953256799135298172012-02-29T06:24:00.004-08:002012-06-03T18:53:34.643-07:00Rhino ReturnsIt took me forever to mend the Buster's stuffed rhino. The poor toy has been sitting in the laundry closet with a gaping hole in his side. The Buster would see the rhino sitting on top of the dryer and beg to hold it. He would kiss his horn and gingerly pat the hole. When I told him it was time to put rhino back because he was "sick", the Buster would ask to give "mores kisses" to his friend.<br />
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This has been happening at least once a week for the past two months. I know. I'm basically mom-of-the-year. But, I finally fixed the rhino.</div>
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The Buster couldn't be happier. </div>
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Cheers.</div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-46781476493440219382012-02-23T10:41:00.007-08:002012-06-03T18:54:09.648-07:00Sick<div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal;">In my pre-parenting days, I </span>assumed that if a child is up in the middle of the night screaming, sick, and miserable, the next day the child would want to sleep and take it easy. How little I knew then. </div>
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When he is sick, the Buster develops a kind of superpower. He can scream and cry for hours in the middle of the night and still be full of energy the next morning. Extra-energetic, even. The amount of energy he has the morning after a nighttime illness seems to directly correlate to the amount of energy I do not have. Example: I am so tired that I try to feed Miss Meatball without taking the pacifier out of her mouth. The Buster is running laps around the couch, shouting out the names of different animals and begging for a cup of milk. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">This energy spike pushes the Buster's ability for mischief into overdrive. In the time it took me to transfer one load of laundry from the washer to the dryer, he had amassed a collection of items including (but not limited to) my hairdryer, one chopstick, the kitchen scissors, a large metal spatula, and a candy thermometer. When he saw me coming, he dove behind the couch cushions, clutching the pair of scissors. "NO! MINES!" he screamed as I removed them from his chubby fist. He is exhausting and I <i>started</i> the day with an energy deficit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Mercifully, by the evening he is worn out. He cuddles, telling me about his trip to the doctor's office. He reminds me of the important details so that I wouldn't forget that his ear hurt and that he got a sticker. He even suggests that his stuffed </span>rhinoceros should go to the doctor to get his "ouch" fixed. I make a mental note to move the rhino to the top of my mending pile. The Buster gets one more hug, one more kiss, and a lullaby from Mr. O. When all is said and done, we have had better days, but we have also had worse. <span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Cheers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-6992269551085027512012-02-17T20:06:00.018-08:002012-06-03T18:55:10.733-07:00Valentine's Day<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">This year marks the first time I've ever really decorated for Valentine</span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">'s Day. I hav</span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">e always loved the idea of Valentine's decor</span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">ations, but we have never really had a good spot to display them until now. Some of those Pinterest projects I've been ey</span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">eing finally came to life! The Buster has been pretty ex</span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">cited about all the "sharks" (Buster-speak for heart). Between the framed hearts and the mini-heart garland, we have been talking a</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">bout sharks a lot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">See the lightbulb? That's what I gave Mr. O thi</span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">s year for Valentine's Day. It turns out that it is a lot harder to hollow out an old light bulb than the i</span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">nternet claims it is. Confession: I made Mr. O do it because I was afraid of shattered glass all over the kitchen floor. He basically made all the hard parts of his own gift and still acted surprised and thrilled with t</span><span style="font-size: 100%; text-align: left;">he final result. I love that man.</span></div>
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Our favorite B-horror film posters got a dose of Valentine's Day cheer as well.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">We postponed our Valentine's Day dinner until Friday night. Totally worth the wait. Since we no longer live near our <a href="http://www.pizzeria712.com/">favorite pizza place</a>, we made pizza and roasted asparagus for dinner. Definitely not the same as cooked in a w</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">ood-burning brick oven</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">, but pretty yummy all the same. I am certain that even if we had gone out for pizza, they wouldn't have cut our pepperoni into hearts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">We finished our meal off with some strawberry cupcakes and then hauled the Buster upstairs to shampoo the frosting out of his hair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">I love Valentine's Day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">Cheers.</span></div>
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</div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-74793315800643798712012-02-14T22:41:00.011-08:002012-06-03T18:55:35.442-07:00The Family OBecause it's been so long since I've regularly posted to this space, I thought I would fill everyone in on some Family O basics.<br />
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We live in a small town in the rural South. It is the kind of place where you find roadside stands that sell "hot boiled peanuts," and Civil War reinactors march in the Fourth of July parade. People here are for the most part friendly, chatty, and unhurried.</div>
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Mr. O is attending graduate school. When he is not cramming his brains full of more knowledge, he is interested in comic books, horror films, and hanging out with the kids and me.</div>
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I am a stay-at-home mom. I do many stay-at-home mom things. I read to the kids; sometimes I even read to myself. I do play-dates and grocery trips. I attempt all sorts of craftable projects. I make dinners and lunches and snacks and a shocking number of cookies. Aside from the typical stuff, I also teach piano lessons. </div>
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Of course, you can't meet the Family O without meeting <b>the Buster. </b></div>
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bust•er /ˈbəstər/</div>
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Noun:</div>
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1. A person or thing that <b>breaks, destroys, or overpowers</b> something</div>
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2. Used as a mildly <b>humorous</b> form of address, esp. to a man or boy</div>
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3. An <b>unusually sturdy</b> child</div>
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4. A busy, <b>much-loved</b> redhead belonging to the Family O (see above photograph)</div>
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Our newest family member is the sunny <b>Miss Meatball</b>.</div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">What do you think she has stashed in those adorable, fat cheeks? Mr. O thinks</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <b>it might be meatballs.</b></span><br />
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<span lang="en-US">Hopefully this nickname doesn't cause any permanent emotional damage or social awkwardness in later life. At present, she doesn't seem to mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">That's the cliff-notes version of my family. I hope you all had a wonderful, love-filled February fourteenth. We are celebrating Valentine's Day a day late because Mr. O had a crazy class schedule. Check back later for some of our postponed holiday fun!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">Cheers.</span></div>
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</div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2712277845946671138.post-62145459887380302212012-01-16T13:25:00.000-08:002012-02-03T18:55:23.625-08:00Back AgainOnce upon a time two years ago, I decided to write a blog. I wrote half a dozen posts, then stopped writing. In part, this is because I am a painfully slow writer. The I-have-a-degree-in-English part of me takes over and I turn into a self-editing nightmare. I over-think. The over-thinking is followed by frustration; e.g. I have just spent an entire hour writing three paragraphs, and I don't even have some nifty tutorial to show for it. <div><br /></div><div>And I worried about my little blog not being one of those fancy-schmancy blogs that strangers read and like. I mean, if I was writing a blog, I felt that I should probably become one of <i>those</i> bloggers. You know the ones I'm talking about. The bloggers who somehow manage to present their lives in a way that makes you wish that you were more like them. They have time to make stacks of darling, stylish handmade clothing for their darling, stylish children. These same women are also gourmet cooks, consummate party-planners, and have homes full of their chic DIY projects. Sounds like me, right? Wrong. </div><div><br /></div><div>The past two years have seen a major shift in my goals and priorities. I am not looking to be perfect. I am looking to be happy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Welcome to the blog where I write about the crazy hodgepodge of things that are my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Cheers. </div><div><br /></div><div><i> </i></div><div><br /></div>Jenny http://www.blogger.com/profile/08404887584407447131noreply@blogger.com0