tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-320728992024-03-05T03:08:24.593-05:00Oh Myparenting by instinct since 2007Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.comBlogger241125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-2453827542430689882009-08-31T20:21:00.001-05:002009-08-31T20:22:50.900-05:00Thinking of moving on...<a href="http://geggy.wordpress.com/">A blog I started in order to hide and be brutally honest in January of '08.<br /></a>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-30096138373046616292009-04-02T17:59:00.002-05:002009-04-02T18:05:23.455-05:00a fair question<span style="font-style: italic;">Mrs. G, what's that thing on your face?</span> the seven-year old asked. I knew exactly what she was referring to. It was large enough to have an economy larger than that of the Czech Republic and sustain a standing army.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's a big zit</span>, I replied calmly. I don't have any cover up, and it was so painful that covering it up at 6:45 a.m. would have hurt much more than letting it die a natural death.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What's a zit?</span> she inquired further.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's a thing that sometimes grows on grown-ups faces,</span> I explained, still smiling serenely at the child. I hate being a teacher sometimes.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, okay.</span> She skipped down the hall. <br />I popped it on the way to my car.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-16631238358432452572009-02-17T21:35:00.003-05:002009-02-17T21:50:07.719-05:00"want more fuck" or "no shit mama!"**Note the quotation marks. I have not said a swear word in several months. I did not say these swear words. My not quite two year old did.<br /><br />I'd heard the stories about small children who make the f-sound instead of the t-sound and how it leads to dirty looks from people whose children were obviously raised properly with a grasp of phonics upon leaving the womb. Since Mr. Independent has been calling trucks "rucks!" for months, I assumed I was safe from dirty looks related to my child's dirty language. This weekend I had an inkling that I might be wrong. <br />We were in the car. I don't remember where we were going or where we were coming from, but I thought I heard an excited "fuck!" from the backseat. I turned my head slightly and asked, "What's that, baby?"<br />"Ruck!" came the excited reply. I felt assured that I'd imagined it. <br />I didn't imagine it today. Driving home from daycare we saw a truck. <br />"Look, Mr. Independent! It's a truck!"<br />"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he squealed wriggling with delight. His arms waved and his entire body shook with joy as we passed the truck. <br />Then: "More fuck? More fuck?"<br />"I don't know, sweet boy. Maybe we'll see more trucks." I honestly didn't know if I wanted to see more or not. I didn't know if I was more amused or mortified by this recent trend.<br />"More FUCK! <span style="font-size:130%;">WANT MORE FUCK!</span> <span style="font-size:180%;">WANTMOREFUCK!</span>" He became more and more agitated and less and less inclined to accept my insistence that I am not, in fact, in charge of whether or not we see trucks on the drive home. Luckily an airplane distracted him, and he forgot all about the trucks.<br />But he didn't forget about sitting. Mr. Independent has definite ideas of who should sit, when they should sit, and where they should sit. If I'm sitting, and he doesn't want me to be sitting somewhere, he'll say, "Get up, Mama!" When several "Get up, Mamas!" don't work, he switches tactics. "No shit Mama! No shit!" His volume increases until I am caught in that parenting no-man's land of letting him get what he wants (me getting up) or listening to him yell "No shit Mama!" at Bible study. Tonight, I opted for getting up and leaving.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com65tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-68673530161783567952009-02-11T21:30:00.001-05:002009-02-13T20:14:37.592-05:00proudThis is who I married.<br /><a href="http://jenontheedge.com/2009/02/10/apple-trees/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Click</span></a>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-25084201282902225832009-02-08T21:41:00.001-05:002009-02-08T21:42:52.094-05:00Blogworthy...per Husband's request<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cXWoNxa36NpZlpC3w11eP1uy_8N084wCf9lTgdONddf1t7it0wKGUZiXu640xnJb-FAZ7yYqbwX1r6CFi8w8eyVoAxkmSDf2eo-gzGjiL_fpKgXRqZOT809lJDWXaDiGb7Z8/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+049.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cXWoNxa36NpZlpC3w11eP1uy_8N084wCf9lTgdONddf1t7it0wKGUZiXu640xnJb-FAZ7yYqbwX1r6CFi8w8eyVoAxkmSDf2eo-gzGjiL_fpKgXRqZOT809lJDWXaDiGb7Z8/s320/2008-September+and+October+049.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300622505161757490" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">We're so proud.<br /></div>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-69402855843907771142009-01-24T20:47:00.002-05:002009-01-24T21:18:41.913-05:00Is this the end of bubble-neigh?For me, one of the best parts of having a kid is watching him acquire language and new abilities. These days it seems like his brain is exploding with new words and sounds and knowledge. We can show him a picture of something and tell him what it is, and he'll repeat it and often remember it. <br />On Tuesday we talked a lot about Obama, and he can now say Obama and point to Obama if he sees his picture. It's really amazing to watch how he just tests words and sounds and retains them or forgets them.<br />His words are becoming more refined, as well, and he's losing that toddler incomprehensibility that I've found so endearing this past year. <span style="font-style: italic;">Again</span> is no longer <span style="font-style: italic;">ga-ga</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">want to dance</span> isn't <span style="font-style: italic;">uncle dad</span> anymore. I about cried the other day when he pointed to the cat in the hat and said <span style="font-style: italic;">cat-hat</span>, rather than <span style="font-style: italic;">meow-yat</span>. <br />Out of everything I've experienced being a mama so far, I think this is what I want to hold on to and this is what I will long for. I don't miss the days of holding a sleeping baby or nursing a baby to sleep, nor do I miss that time between about 6 and 9 months where he started learning that he can manipulate his environment, and he can move from place to place on his own. I remember being awed by it, but I don't miss it. <br />Today, at the zoo, Mr. Independent saw a zebra. Husband asked him if he could say zebra, and he did. He smiled and cried, <span style="font-style: italic;">bye zebra!</span> as we walked to the next exhibit. Until then his only exposure to zebras is his wooden zebra from Africa, placed on a shelf in his room next to a jar of bubbles. Each morning, and occasionally in the middle of the night, he gleefully cries <span style="font-style: italic;">bubble-neigh!</span> and points to the zebra. One day soon, he'll wake up and point, and say <span style="font-style: italic;">zebra! bubbles!</span>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-60334421568132660932009-01-23T20:50:00.003-05:002009-01-23T21:31:04.843-05:00nothing changesI had a strange experience at the gym yesterday. All during my time on the treadmill and walking back to the locker room I thought about how I was going to record all the witty thoughts I've been having lately about the trials of having to change clothes at a gym that's frequented by my students' parents. But then the 8th grade girls barged in on me in the locker room, and all my brilliantly funny thoughts died.<br />My shirt was halfway over my head when a giggling girl tugged on the curtain of my changing stall. <span style="font-style: italic;">Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you</span> she giggled. <span style="font-style: italic;">Can you please tell her</span>-she nodded her head at the giggling, much shorter girl next to her-<span style="font-style: italic;">that she's not fat?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span>I studied both of them, one short, like my height, the other a head taller, lanky, not quite grown into her limbs yet. Neither of them had a visible ounce of fat on their bodies.<br />I smiled and told them, <span style="font-style: italic;">Neither of you is fat. You're both lovely.</span> <br /><span style="font-style: italic;">See,</span> the first girl said to her friend, then turned to me. <span style="font-style: italic;">She's like 90 pounds and she's in eighth grade, and she thinks she's fat. I was like 90 pounds in first grade. If anyone's fat, it's me.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yeah,</span> I replied. <span style="font-style: italic;">You're really not fat. I wish I had known that when I looked like you. Now that I'm a bit lumpier than I used to be, I wish I'd enjoyed it more when I wasn't.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh my God!</span> she giggled.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>You are not lumpy at all! Thanks for telling her she's not fat. We're sorry we bothered you!<br />No bother! <br />Thank you! Bye! </span>They ran off, giggling and arguing over who was fatter.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span></span><br />I wasn't at my loveliest yesterday. I say that as objectively as a female can. My hair was a disaster since I'd gotten up late and couldn't fix it the way I normally do on a Thursday. My shirt fit too tightly, and when I exercise my entire body turns red, as does my face. I'd forgotten my contacts and a hair tie. I am on the lumpy side. Obviously I have the excuse of having a baby, but I think the statute of limitations on that one runs out after a year. <br />I have a picture taped to my desk at home. I'm looking at it right now. It's me, on a beach when I was 11 or 12. I'm wearing a two piece bathing suit that's not a tankini and striking a pose. My stomach was flat. I had no idea. <br />In some respects I think I have a healthier self-image than a lot of females because I can leave the house without make-up and I don't think about the way I look a whole lot, but when I do it's a poo-storm of disgust and self-loathing (although, with me, what's not a poo-storm of disgust and self-loathing?).<br />Yesterday, in that locker room, I knew my words to those girls were useless, but I had to say them anyway. I could have told them all sorts of things that I've learned about being fat and being not fat that I've learned in the fifteen years since I've been in eighth grade. It wouldn't have mattered, though. In eighth grade, and ninth, and tenth, and eleventh, and twelfth, and all through college and graduate school and the early years of marriage, I had that conversation, the <span style="font-style: italic;">no, I'm the one who's fat; you're not fat</span> conversation. No amount of people telling me I wasn't fat, that I was beautiful made any sort of difference. I believed what I saw, skewed though it might have been.<br />My words to those girls have disappeared. They won't come back to them for years, when they've put on a few pounds, maybe had a kid or two and see someone who looks like they once did, someone dissatisfied with their weight and looks. They'll remember. They'll remember they weren't fat, they were beautiful, and they didn't know it. <br />It's the circle of life. <br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></span>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-85736616905364972482009-01-23T20:49:00.000-05:002009-01-23T20:50:17.940-05:00for you...I have to share this <a href="http://www.yousuckatcraigslist.com/">link</a>. It might be my new favorite.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-24883629344802166142009-01-20T19:26:00.002-05:002009-01-20T19:37:43.725-05:00not thereAll year I planned on being in DC today, shoving my way into the crowds on the Mall. I didn't care who won; I was going to be there. I told my mother I was going to do that. I told a co-worker I was going to do that. <br />And then I got scared. I got scared of guns and bombs and people yelling terrible things and doing terrible things and whatif I took Mr. Independent up there and something terrible happened. So I didn't take my personal day. I didn't trek up 95 last night. I swam and went to Book Club and came home. I told myself that my students needed me and that it wasn't good for Mr. Independent to be in the cold for hours on end and that really we can't afford the gas anyway. But really, I got scared. And that's why, in the school gym, watching it on a screen with poor audio hook-up I squeezed my eyes to keep the tears away.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-16094009442277306832009-01-18T14:55:00.001-05:002009-01-18T14:57:33.092-05:00Awesome...At Target, the day after Christmas, I saw the following shirt on sale for $5. Was it necessary? No. Is is awesome? Oh, yeah.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJDhlTz3PT7wwyeHuoI7A792boGETeoYQbDp2bJRJnDK6iMrCpl_dM4c5H1DPj0CudXhfMM15bDTnoeWqnFrXa4SWcjE97ArGO_dfUPu6WilYNhgUKioumsf2AiFTCig_PVVCq/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+442.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJDhlTz3PT7wwyeHuoI7A792boGETeoYQbDp2bJRJnDK6iMrCpl_dM4c5H1DPj0CudXhfMM15bDTnoeWqnFrXa4SWcjE97ArGO_dfUPu6WilYNhgUKioumsf2AiFTCig_PVVCq/s320/2008-September+and+October+442.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292725224046464114" border="0" /></a>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-8279438194597899942009-01-18T14:46:00.005-05:002009-01-18T14:51:35.578-05:00This is not a real post...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbtdMrucovVVd0X_JMQWqBwlYUTyagXQBKasvTWWti2nzth0Yx0h25VR3as8IGX1gkw2C0emI5_naOKjPM36LSU941Z3dIUqXGVOpe3pxzIw_OZWzf8kZYD0jnsn8BeArq01b/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+462.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbtdMrucovVVd0X_JMQWqBwlYUTyagXQBKasvTWWti2nzth0Yx0h25VR3as8IGX1gkw2C0emI5_naOKjPM36LSU941Z3dIUqXGVOpe3pxzIw_OZWzf8kZYD0jnsn8BeArq01b/s320/2008-September+and+October+462.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292723803200940850" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisL3xoh4bVoZerbXH_-hdHBnF0I6ovLNQwJkFaXxbmsIOYp-FIR_sx76CUwKT5Vg1f9kVdoRuyvY6MbmOoXDHmpGxgz9p2faZgMXz7qw24T9NcSc7eNhK2zGc2_wctFpa9A3F9/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+455.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisL3xoh4bVoZerbXH_-hdHBnF0I6ovLNQwJkFaXxbmsIOYp-FIR_sx76CUwKT5Vg1f9kVdoRuyvY6MbmOoXDHmpGxgz9p2faZgMXz7qw24T9NcSc7eNhK2zGc2_wctFpa9A3F9/s320/2008-September+and+October+455.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292723564218577698" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVpWP7luXtAx1XUfpZurS0QkPVLi4MWzYMWolgMzjfAcN20jax_mmijVGvh6GgSE564kpuKVqr0TqE3uzBgeFwXOxfRQY8Ou0ZZCmXuDwChXhkvNey_Ga1sA0r-18D4sbcewdd/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+441.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVpWP7luXtAx1XUfpZurS0QkPVLi4MWzYMWolgMzjfAcN20jax_mmijVGvh6GgSE564kpuKVqr0TqE3uzBgeFwXOxfRQY8Ou0ZZCmXuDwChXhkvNey_Ga1sA0r-18D4sbcewdd/s320/2008-September+and+October+441.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292723337984665218" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NIHsi_tti7vzBGu1EkurU1g1zHSuoHIsUhezrivfGkcL1JU3W3afxW5LPHChdgCgdGUFTl3OLv6nByTFx5NvCtuOvA7_li6p8oQcqRxKZgMClMTIts7WdknftZovOXYh8VhC/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+438.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NIHsi_tti7vzBGu1EkurU1g1zHSuoHIsUhezrivfGkcL1JU3W3afxW5LPHChdgCgdGUFTl3OLv6nByTFx5NvCtuOvA7_li6p8oQcqRxKZgMClMTIts7WdknftZovOXYh8VhC/s320/2008-September+and+October+438.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292722916614451074" border="0" /></a>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-793429948965148332009-01-17T20:05:00.003-05:002009-01-18T14:59:11.509-05:00a conversation*The following is an actual conversation between Husband and Mr. Independent that took place this afternoon:<br />Husband: <span style="font-style: italic;">Mr. I, Mama doesn't like Daddy very much right now.</span><br />Mr. I: <span style="font-style: italic;">jews!</span><br />Husband: <span style="font-style: italic;">Mama and Daddy are getting a divorce.</span><br />Mr. I: <span style="font-style: italic;">Bye Daddy!<br /><br />*I am in no way trying to mock anyone who's been through divorce. Nor was Husband. <br /></span>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-77013997739653320402009-01-16T22:30:00.003-05:002009-01-16T22:56:18.454-05:00more wordsAs previously mentioned on here, Mr. Independent has an, um, interesting vocabulary. I recently made a comment about one of his daycare teachers, turned to him and said, <span style="font-style: italic;">Can you say 'surly teacher?</span>'<br />He replied: <span style="font-style: italic;">urly eecher.</span><br />So I've tried to watch what I say around him, lest he start saying these things on his own, without prompting. <br />Most of what he says is endearing, and we get stupidly excited, like last week when he saw two buses and said <span style="font-style: italic;">do bus!</span> (two buses, for those not fluent in toddler). He can't stop talking about his cousins and says their names together, followed with a pause, then 'ma! for Grandma. He can name cars, buses, trucks, bikes, and tractors, and he can also provide sound effects (the all go -<span style="font-style: italic;">roomroom!</span>). He can make the animal sounds for dog, cat, horse, cow, donkey, snake, duck, and <a href="http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/SmallMammals/fact-porcupine.cfm">porcupette</a>. He can say work and school, shirt, pants, and hat. The other day he pulled out grilled cheese for the first time and often requests reh-ries. Go ahead and send the mom of the year award this way. He knows his name and the name of his friends at daycare and recently pointed to a picture of Leighann and said <span style="font-style: italic;">eeenan.</span> Football is <span style="font-style: italic;">buttball</span>. He can say wine and then point to my mother or say <span style="font-style: italic;">memere wine</span>. He knows that anything from Starbucks is Mama juice and anything in a plastic 20 oz bottle is Daddy juice. <br />I taught him how to say <span style="font-style: italic;">Daddy's pooping</span> (<span style="font-style: italic;">Daddy poop!</span>). Husband retaliated in kind, and now whenever anyone walks into the bathroom, even if it's just to get a hair tie or lotion, he points to the door and yells <span style="font-style: italic;">Daddy poop!</span>, or occasionally, <span style="font-style: italic;">Mama poop!</span> He says <span style="font-style: italic;">eeeeeeeeeeeewwwww</span> whenever we change his diaper. We should probably start saving for his therapy now. <br />Occasionally his words are embarrassing, like when he yanks his shoes off in Target and yells <span style="font-style: italic;">Uh-oh, jew!</span> or when he sees clocks (cocks) or decides that he wants to cook, which often comes out as cock as well. <span style="font-style: italic;">Mama cock?</span> he'll ask. <span style="font-style: italic;">Daddy cock?</span><br />We can track the origins of most of his words; a lot of them come from us trying to entertain ourselves, like when I asked him if he could say butt, so he did, and the pointed at his butt. Or how his current favorite books talk about hot dog parties, so sometimes he comes up to us and says <span style="font-style: italic;">dog-barbie</span>. We cannot, however, figure out why he knows the word goggles. I'm not sure there's word less useful for an almost two year old than goggles.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-71867803689191750452009-01-12T14:16:00.002-05:002009-01-12T14:21:50.781-05:00Does not use time wiselyProductive things I've done today:<br />gone grocery shopping<br />washed a load of laundry (not dried)<br />ran the dishwasher (not emptied, am in the hoping someone else will do it mindset)<br />signed up for the <a href="http://www.sportsbackers.org/events/10k/10k.htm">Monument Avenue 1ok</a><br />wiped Mr. Independent's snotty nose approximately 643 times<br /><br />Non-productive things I've done today:<br />slept until 9:15<br />ate lunch at Five Guys with Husband and Mr. I<br />watched Shrek<br />checked Facebook approximately 643 times<br />checked my local moms board approximately 643 times<br />lamented curly hair while looking in the mirror<br />changed Facebook status 3 times (cause, you know, people care what I do all day long)<br />ate popcornGrace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-87535829505156265462009-01-11T22:15:00.001-05:002009-01-11T22:18:25.753-05:00SundaySundays are tricky. It's a challenge to get everything done, and the idea of the next morning's alarm looms constantly, reminding me that soon a new week will start, soon I will work again, and things planned will have to go undone until the next weekend. One day, I am sure, it will all come together, but this is not the day. One day, I am sure, Sunday will be a day of rest. This is not the day.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-9687893530650099102009-01-09T21:28:00.001-05:002009-01-09T21:29:27.318-05:00um, yeahI'm not sure when I became this awesome, but I am seriously considering going to bed right now. At 9:30. On a Friday night. Go me!Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-13824701786905971822009-01-06T23:19:00.003-05:002009-01-06T23:20:12.601-05:00What's a girl to do?I read Fast Food Nation over break. As a result, I have temporarily given up beef, especially ground beef. Tonight, my mom cooked ground sirloin steaks for dinner.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-296849237975356172009-01-05T20:21:00.001-05:002009-01-05T20:22:09.510-05:00Day 1I swam! I didn't sink! My swimming teacher said I did well! The endorphins are still going strong!Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-80363050213198905162009-01-04T18:27:00.002-05:002009-01-04T18:34:31.988-05:00The genius of Wii FitMy parents got me a Wii Fit for Christmas. I set it up last night while Husband went to pick up some take out. It's fun and difficult at the same time, and it has all the addictive qualities of a video game. I don't play video games much, but when I do, I find myself saying things like, <span style="font-style: italic;">I'll stop when I get to the next level</span>, or <span style="font-style: italic;">I just have to beat this one thing, then I'll stop.</span> And then it's four hours later. <br />Wii Fit seems to operate on that same principle. The games are very short-several are about a minute long, and it gives results immediately. So, for example, if I'm playing the game where I have to try to hit soccer balls that my Wii friends and family are throwing at me, while at the same time avoiding the shoes and Panda heads they're also throwing, I can see how I did at the end, and my instinct is to try to beat that score. I suck at that game, but I'm inclined to keep trying. I think I may get skinny after all.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-21200571385104025712009-01-04T00:40:00.001-05:002009-01-04T00:43:12.717-05:00todayToday was a good day. I took a 2 hour walk. I ate good food. It was a good day.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-50377540279253223952009-01-02T21:35:00.004-05:002009-01-02T21:49:12.541-05:00I will call him Mini-Me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCctDCO7Tu3_FLnynqOEHWalhiGoGAxVTXXbhrtM_ReodX2IAiu0j6D27GyHcNXEAHUHTm7rGe53gmVICb58Yx8h_thJ0xhcEGJuaWYEOiRidARSIbR93Klqo-6Kq95Iji1tO/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+438.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCctDCO7Tu3_FLnynqOEHWalhiGoGAxVTXXbhrtM_ReodX2IAiu0j6D27GyHcNXEAHUHTm7rGe53gmVICb58Yx8h_thJ0xhcEGJuaWYEOiRidARSIbR93Klqo-6Kq95Iji1tO/s320/2008-September+and+October+438.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286893608109827506" border="0" /></a><br />This is Husband's favorite outfit for himself. When I can get a picture of both of them together, I will post it.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-68070398017651425122009-01-01T19:42:00.008-05:002009-01-01T20:55:56.565-05:00Hell Day, or in which I give the baby cake for breakfast, ketchup for lunch, and realize I'm not in college anymoreFor most of my life, we've spent Thanksgiving in a beach house on Hatteras Island. When I was in elementary school, and middle school, and high school going to Hatteras really sucked. I was never allowed to bring a friend, and the kids from the family we share the house with were all younger than me, and there was an eight year gap between me and the family's daughter. I spent many Thanksgivings bored and restless and resenting my parents for making me come on the stupid trip. College changed all that when I had the freedom to arrive when I chose and leave when I chose. I'd drive down for a night or two, eat my fill, and head home. When Husband started coming around, Thanksgiving improved quite a bit. Finally, I was allowed to have a friend at the beach with me! Finally, I had someone to hang out with and talk to. Since being at Thanksgiving didn't suck anymore, and since my mom started sponsoring spa day, and since the daughter from the other family and I are both adults (sort of), I stopped coming in just for a night or two. This year, I dragged it out as long as I could, getting in late on Tuesday night and leaving on Saturday morning when everyone else left.<br />I can't remember the last time I was around for the day after Thanksgiving. Apparently, each year, everyone drives for 45 minutes, rides a ferry for 45 minutes, and drives for another 30 minutes to an island that has even less life to it than Hatteras. Husband and I, while not feeling particularly social, didn't want to be rude, and there was the promise of going out to lunch, so we tagged along on this year's outing to Ocracoke Island.<br />We drove, with four grown people and one small person, in our Civic, until we got to the ferry. Mr. Independent wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy with me since I took his cake away from him earlier that morning. Husband wasn't happy, since he found out that I'd allowed Mr. Independent to eat "gake" for breakfast. I wasn't happy because if Husband didn't want Mr. Independent to eat cake for breakfast, then he could have dragged his butt out of bed at 7:15 like I did and given the child a proper breakfast rather than fussing at me about it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdVJp5UsJ-cOb7XUEDpLA1D78FU7cVCKvvA_G2l-xnKF-ynbd_VENYEDGepkyFCDef1P8tg3SE9yCZwqF0RG3ND2erRbPSEA6nBcpvPYK-VYsa-jOo1El6U4dRVLlWNuhaPa8O/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+260.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdVJp5UsJ-cOb7XUEDpLA1D78FU7cVCKvvA_G2l-xnKF-ynbd_VENYEDGepkyFCDef1P8tg3SE9yCZwqF0RG3ND2erRbPSEA6nBcpvPYK-VYsa-jOo1El6U4dRVLlWNuhaPa8O/s320/2008-September+and+October+260.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286497017716655010" border="0" /></a>Exhibit A: Mr. Independent licking the last remnants of cake off of his fingers.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The ferry kept Mr. Independent entertained for awhile, as did <span style="font-style: italic;">Goodnight, Moon</span> (in the middle of the day).<br /><br /><br /></div></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_nutD758q0hiK9legGODfvFAlOO16DkP5MRWQcZlkac0q2KcNP98AXdnjqUqm2eLey8yk5DV9L4xMHHEw3upknCr8oqpAjq_cAZVXjm90i-3nUIBSsX0jG_cLcxO9HjMQRJ1/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+274.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_nutD758q0hiK9legGODfvFAlOO16DkP5MRWQcZlkac0q2KcNP98AXdnjqUqm2eLey8yk5DV9L4xMHHEw3upknCr8oqpAjq_cAZVXjm90i-3nUIBSsX0jG_cLcxO9HjMQRJ1/s320/2008-September+and+October+274.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286498245834761186" border="0" /></a><br />Exhibit B: Me, reading a book, which is not Goodnight, Moon, while Mr. Independent wins the pacifier battle.<br /><br />He was clearly tired, as evidenced by him getting up at 7:15 that morning, and eating an improper breakfast, but he would not sleep. He preferred fussing and playing the game where he wants to go to whoever is not currently holding him, but only for about a second and then he wants to go to whoever was just holding him. It's an awesome game, I promise.<br />His mood had deteriorated by the time we got to the restaurant, and he asked over and over and over again for milk. We promised to get him some milk, as well as a grilled cheese sandwich. The milk arrived, and Mr. Independent took a sip, got angry at it, swatted it like a kitten swats a string toy and squawked. We (okay, I) spent the time between when he got his milk and when our food arrived trying to keep Mr. Independent sitting in his high chair and prevent him from getting us kicked out of <a href="http://www.howardspub.com/ordereze/default.aspx">Howard's Pub</a>. When the food finally did arrive, Mr. Independent glared at it. Then he glared at me, patiently and lovingly tearing his grilled cheese into toddler sized portions. Then he glared at it again, and swatted his plate. It barely stayed on the table. I decided to pour some ketchup onto his plate, thinking that maybe he wanted to dip his grilled cheese in ketchup. He eyed the ketchup, then took his index finger, dipped it in the ketchup and sucked his finger. He repeated with the rest of his fingers. No amount of coaxing could get him to eat anything other than ketchup for lunch that day, and finally, I gave up trying and requested that the Mom of the Year award be sent to me in tequila form.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSGLYdER6nBiYIT-kNfzkrDtCpApTkMXXtQZS07bBpueSUCz_h8ioKT1mh78dkxFPLrBG2nE27ri5IG75UYPMzYgZcyXUrwhLJl4p7QXypz_wtDOl7hjJNOc0vvwWPY7JqQjV/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+308.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSGLYdER6nBiYIT-kNfzkrDtCpApTkMXXtQZS07bBpueSUCz_h8ioKT1mh78dkxFPLrBG2nE27ri5IG75UYPMzYgZcyXUrwhLJl4p7QXypz_wtDOl7hjJNOc0vvwWPY7JqQjV/s320/2008-September+and+October+308.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286502097680436706" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUb2_TNHkxHMBwXJ6IQinCO_F9vhl9VVhma-QgdG-s1ZaH5l_n90m45ixbAMDDRmiwHEw8LGQTZAf6RDzPRt06AOXXH4d81S_J3zY5IZC6wmJvzE8b6Vxog0wKdOSiT-73cdYN/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+309.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUb2_TNHkxHMBwXJ6IQinCO_F9vhl9VVhma-QgdG-s1ZaH5l_n90m45ixbAMDDRmiwHEw8LGQTZAf6RDzPRt06AOXXH4d81S_J3zY5IZC6wmJvzE8b6Vxog0wKdOSiT-73cdYN/s320/2008-September+and+October+309.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286502719694185314" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgK39-5WKXZT206FKkr-Dp-95DPmOYU3mVPsuasNTquY0OSlOp1mWm2rH7fZeGsPhpx_KTe8JvHWhykmo9RgSMEM0_epCTwr75zdblkCgtBNn7ufo0gjD2aFa-HWOMxwHdd9M/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+310.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgK39-5WKXZT206FKkr-Dp-95DPmOYU3mVPsuasNTquY0OSlOp1mWm2rH7fZeGsPhpx_KTe8JvHWhykmo9RgSMEM0_epCTwr75zdblkCgtBNn7ufo0gjD2aFa-HWOMxwHdd9M/s320/2008-September+and+October+310.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286503158466826530" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Exhibit C: ketchup for lunch. I guess it's sort of a vegetable.<br /></div><br /><br />We finally left the restaurant, drove around the island, and Mr. Independent finally fell asleep in the car. I informed Husband on the way home that I needed wine, and requested that he stop at Food Lion so I could purchase some Arbor Mist. Usually I don't drink wine like that, but Arbor Mist, set in the freezer for several hours, turns into an Arbor Mist slurpee. It's something we did in college occasionally, and I felt nostalgic. I grabbed a large bottle of blackberry merlot and strawberry something, and we headed home.<br />Several hours later, the baby was in bed, the parents were in bed, and it was just us kids, but now in semi-grown up form. We had wine, shots of Jaeger, board games, a deck of cards, leftover pizza, and ramen noodles. It was great. I ended the evening in an eyepatch.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpueSCbD1aA-rBKd__Jyp5hfeuoCNCy0E70fdjoCj9kcP3XYWwrIKtdZ0wUEO9yC3c2cXTzIgPZIkzA10xfV1QjdEQNAWAhEfoz6Gtole-RcD0mmmQ5AfkwjhTKz_unK9wSHEC/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+392.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpueSCbD1aA-rBKd__Jyp5hfeuoCNCy0E70fdjoCj9kcP3XYWwrIKtdZ0wUEO9yC3c2cXTzIgPZIkzA10xfV1QjdEQNAWAhEfoz6Gtole-RcD0mmmQ5AfkwjhTKz_unK9wSHEC/s320/2008-September+and+October+392.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286504969084577858" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Exhibit D: Eyepatches<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I didn't feel drunk. I'd tried to match my alcohol with water and food. I went to bed and slept soundly until 5 a.m. when I ran to the bathroom to puke my brains out. I eventually scraped myself off the bathroom floor and crawled into bed whimpering just loud enough to wake Husband. <br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Murmphsmurm?</span> he asked.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">No,</span> I replied. <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm really sick.</span><br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Murmphsmuruhumphhup,</span> he commiserated.<br />I wasn't satisfied with his response, so I did what any good wife would do in my situation. I poked him, repeatedly, until he rolled over, woke up, and started speaking English.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I'm really sick,</span> I repeated. <span style="font-style: italic;">I don't know why. I didn't drink that much.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">No, you didn't,</span> he agreed. <br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I don't know why I'm sick. I feel horrible. I want to die.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You don't want to die,</span> he said.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, I do.</span> <br />Husband fell back asleep. I didn't. I lay in bed for the next two hours praying that my internal organs would stay internal and that I'd be granted at least a little sleep before the five hour car ride home.<br />I thought about everything I'd eaten that day. I thought about all I drank. I thought about everything I'd done and watched on TV and read, and somewhere around 8 a.m., it hit me. Blackberry merlot. Merlot is red wine. Red wine makes me violently ill. I'd had blackberry merlot slushies with my husband and friends. Just because it was cheap didn't mean it wasn't still red wine. I woke Husband because I knew he'd want to know as well. I moaned to him what I'd just realized. He shrugged his shoulder, burrowed further under the covers, and mumbled, <span style="font-style: italic;">Why are you telling me this?</span> I didn't know. Why do I ever tell him anything? I thought back to the last time I'd gotten sick off of wine. June 1, 2008. Husband's birthday. We'd gone to a <a href="http://www.cancanbrasserie.com/cc_content.htm">fancy French restaurant</a>. I anguished over the wine list desperately wanting a glass of red, but knowing that red makes me mean-and occasionally ill. I ordered the red anyway and found myself, at 2 a.m. with my head over the toilet praying that my puking would not wake the baby. <span style="font-style: italic;">I think I'm allergic to red wine,</span> I announced to my mother and Husband the next day. As I explained several years of corretaional evidence, the nodded and humored me, and for once didn't tell me that my theory was stupid. I vowed to give it up and stick with white, which doesn't make me ill, and only makes me occasionally mean. And I did, until I forgot that cheap sorority girl red wine is still red wine and red wine makes me violently ill. Lesson learned. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-68761001085017253022009-01-01T19:17:00.005-05:002009-01-01T19:27:28.579-05:00Monster Butts!!!!Someone I know has an etsy shop and sells children's clothing and other accessories. One of my favorite items that she sells is called Monster Butts. Check out her etsy shop <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5722034">here</a>. Here is Mr. Independent modeling his Chirstmas Monster Butt.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJxuYWtTb5x8lxvtuPkd35iVz-uFXWQZ2JyEcAGk6XQmf_ldPnRCA6lSlkiF1PdzeK8cWu3ySJVrWIuGXUxhCsH8UU1UsKEf4h_ODovgySOyzSAfrtGm-xtS3i_iohEsklqBj/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+432.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJxuYWtTb5x8lxvtuPkd35iVz-uFXWQZ2JyEcAGk6XQmf_ldPnRCA6lSlkiF1PdzeK8cWu3ySJVrWIuGXUxhCsH8UU1UsKEf4h_ODovgySOyzSAfrtGm-xtS3i_iohEsklqBj/s320/2008-September+and+October+432.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286484697458584082" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Climbing, unsupervised, onto his learning tower (aka cage).<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2xZpSWtmNsW6n4wS7DXA0jngst_l3ZctSMw8BiOxIDuBilvx7lS9fLcUZVxa_yFQvhyphenhyphenXD5wuXj5VWsiLEc7syCUIJS4qgH_7ae3x2O7lRrZUjgEMeEiaOd59aTE_qIKiBjS4/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+433.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2xZpSWtmNsW6n4wS7DXA0jngst_l3ZctSMw8BiOxIDuBilvx7lS9fLcUZVxa_yFQvhyphenhyphenXD5wuXj5VWsiLEc7syCUIJS4qgH_7ae3x2O7lRrZUjgEMeEiaOd59aTE_qIKiBjS4/s320/2008-September+and+October+433.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286485226778777522" border="0" /></a>Checking out what's in the fruit bowl (fruit, duh).<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbS1fLFYxPRB-egAjohar9PUXATBTvt9qkRjp64omm1ajhI6RibADNZLigof4r48brH6Fe-dh1P1ltkCx7P_kAmg7E_Lo3v6X5DKEWj7wrU_WvrwhPUWM0z4W8sUdU0y_8zov/s1600-h/2008-September+and+October+435.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbS1fLFYxPRB-egAjohar9PUXATBTvt9qkRjp64omm1ajhI6RibADNZLigof4r48brH6Fe-dh1P1ltkCx7P_kAmg7E_Lo3v6X5DKEWj7wrU_WvrwhPUWM0z4W8sUdU0y_8zov/s320/2008-September+and+October+435.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286485849326272882" border="0" /></a>If I were a good mom, I'd get him down, rather than yelling at him to turn around and look at Mama.<br /></div>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-14886098411395009302008-12-31T21:16:00.002-05:002008-12-31T21:42:23.536-05:00New Year's Suckin' Eve, or Resolve, updatedI'm home alone on New Year's Eve. The details of why aren't important, nor will I share the awesome events of the pity party I'm currently throwing for my self (guest list: me and a box of doughnuts), but since it is New Year's, I should share how I did in <a href="http://rockyorthething.blogspot.com/2007/12/resolve.html">my resolution to read more books-this specific list</a>, and since this blog is about me, me, and me, I'll also share my resolutions for 2009. <br />So a year ago I posted that I was going to read 20 specific books. I said I'd take the books in chunks of 20 and once I made it through one chunk, I'd post another chunk of 20. Well, I never made it through the first chunk. From my list of 20, I read six. Two of those six (Beloved and Wonder Boys) were read for my book club, a great way to make sure I read. In addition to the six books from my list, I read:<br />Playing for Pizza by John Grisham (also for Book Club)<br />Plantation by someone I forget-it sucked (also for Book Club)<br />Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver<br />River of Doubt by an author I forget-Colleen something, I think. It was about Theodore Roosevelt, and I kind of have a crush on him now.<br />The Tale of Despereaux by Kate di Camillo, and I ended up teaching it.<br />Skakespeare: The World as Stage by Bill Bryson<br />The Shores of Silver Lake, The Long Winter, Little Town on the Prairie, and These Happy Golden Years by Laura Ingalls Wilder-it's like comfort food for my brain and heart.<br />The Doll People by several authors, including Ann M. Martin<br />Bonk by Mary Roach<br />A textbook on the Enlightenment and one on European Romanticism<br />I truly believe there's more that I'm forgetting. I didn't hit every book on my list, but I'm pleased with what I've done. If I finish <span style="font-style: italic;">Gathering Blue</span> tonight, then that'll be one more. <br /><br />As far as 2009 goes, I've thought about the typical lose weight, be better with money, get closer to God. Those are all good resolutions, and I do hope those things will happen, but I think I work better in specifics. Since we're about 2 hours away from '09, I'll list 9 goals.<br />1. Pray through the devotional Leighann gave me every day.<br />2. Lose 35 pounds, and on the way to that, fit into my red dress again.<br />3. Complete the triathlon in August.<br />4. Limit eating out to once a week or less.<br />5. Read more, specifically more fiction. I'm naturally inclined towards non-fiction, so it's a challenge for me to pick up a novel or short stories. I recently discovered there's a place that lets you borrow books for two weeks at a time-for free-so that should help me to read more.<br />6. Keep my house cleaner, like clean to the point where we don't have to get ourselves into a frenzy if people are coming over. <br />7. Save enough money to buy a new, fun pair of shoes.<br />8. Continue to learn more about where my food comes from and make responsible food choices that support ethical practices and local businesses.<br />9. Write on my blog everyday, even if it's just a sentence to show gratitude for something. <br /><br />I'll try to update my progress regularly. Happy New Year! A box of doughnuts is calling.Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32072899.post-69728606834631891302008-12-23T22:05:00.005-05:002008-12-23T23:04:40.939-05:00meaning, or thanks, church!<span style="font-size:100%;">This Advent, <a href="http://www.area10church.com/home.html">our church</a> has promoted the idea of rejecting the commercialism of Christmas and embracing a simpler version of the holiday, one the focuses on Christ, spending less money, spending more time, and making Christmas more about being with others and doing for others rather than buying for others. I think the attitude is admirable and important, except that it gave Husband some ideas.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Do you think we should make each other presents?</span> he asked on the way home from church a few Sundays ago.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Uh,</span> I replied.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Well, it's something they talked about in church today. Making presents. So since we don't have money to get each other presents, we could just make something for each other, </span>he explained.<br />My hesitation didn't stem from the idea of receiving a homemade present. I'm female, so I tend to like things that are homemade. I carried around a bag my sister made for me for a year until it broke from over use. I adore the quilt that Leighann and her mom made for Mr. Independent and each night when I tuck him in I ask, <span style="font-style: italic;">do you want me to cover you with your nice warm blanket</span>, and he smiles and nods yes. So I don't mind receiving homemade gifts. I'm happy with pretty much any present I get. I'll be honest. I like presents. I'll be honest again. I felt kind of depressed when we realized that we didn't have the money to get each other presents. And then, my mom told us at dinner one night that my dad wanted to give us money to buy presents for each other, and I think we simultaneously realized that there's nothing we need. At that moment, I couldn't even think of anything tangible that I wanted. All of my wants were intangilbe: better control of finances, more fiscal responsibility, less stress about money, less stress about my job, the depression to go away, the ADD to get better or at least managable, for Mr. Independent to somehow manage to escape the depression and anxiety that has hit at least four generations of my family. And for whatever reason, despite these intangible and possibly unattainable wants, I felt contented at that moment when we explained to my mother that we'd really just prefer to not do presents with each other this year. I have a child who I adore to cliched degrees. He speaks and walks and does what average almost two year olds do. As yet his short, fat genes haven't kicked in. As yet, the depression and anxiety haven't kicked in. He's more interested in reading books than watching television (mee-mo being the exception). I have a husband who comes home every night and who I hope will continue to come home every night for the next 60+ years. He works hard at most of what he does, and he does it without complaining. I have a house-cold no matter the thermostat's setting, but it's more than a lot of people have. I am clearly well fed, and I have clothes to wear, access to books and cable television. I have a job and live in a city that I love. I belong to a church that actually challenges me. I have enough.<br />Husband and I went around in circles that Sunday in the car, discussing whether or not we should make each other gifts, and do homemade gifts really carry more meaning than store bought gifts. Case in point: I have spent hours making Husband cds over the years that he rarely, if ever listens to. I think he just hasn't liked the music I've put on them. But when I bought him the illustrated <span style="font-style: italic;">Elements of Style</span> a few years ago, he brought it to his classroom for the rest of the year and even used it in some of his class activities. I'm not ready to write off store bought presents as meaningless, especially in our case. We never really made a decision.<br />But then, I started thinking of Husband not having anything to open on Christmas morning. I thought he probably wouldn't care, but I would feel sad not seeing him open anything from me. So I resolved to make something. I started mentally planning, working up the confidence to make something for someone who has stated over and over that he doesn't really like homemade gifts. Then I got mad at him. Not super mad, just a little annoyed, and decided that I didn't actually want to put effort into making him a gift that would seriously expose me-thoughts and feelings and the like-and that he'd probably hate. I resolved to NOT make him a gift and be content with seeing Mr. Independent rocking in the rocking chair that Santa will bring him. I'd be happy with the breakfast we'd cook together and the visit from family later that day. My mind was as contented as it gets, and I was self-satisfied and smug and a little spiteful thinking about how I wasn't going to have to spend hours laboring over a gift that exposed me (emotionally) that he'd have to fake gratitude for. That's where I was when he left for work yesterday afternoon. Hand on the door, <span style="font-style: italic;">he turned around and said, so, are we making each other presents or not?</span><br />If I hadn't given up swearing, I would have said the f-word then. <span style="font-style: italic;">But I have given it up, so instead I just said, I was going to make you something, but now I don't really feel like doing anything, so I'm not. Why, do you want to make each other presents?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's up to you,</span> came his infuriating reply.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">No. I want it to be your decision.</span><br />Repeat as needed.<br />I'm not sure who finally decided that we'd make presents, but I spent three hours working on it last night, and so far another three this evening. I'm almost done, and I'm tired. The present has meaning, but I'm still worried that he'll hate it, then I'll hate myself for making it, for putting myself out there. I'm worried that he'll fake being happy, but he'll secretly wish I'd spent the $50 to buy MarioKart for Wii.<br />I know this is the sort of thing where I'm supposed to learn a lesson, something about the true meaning of Christmas and togetherness and love or other sappy sentiments, but I'm not sure I have. I know that I don't feel sad anymore when I look at the fireplace and see three empty stockings hanging, two of which will remain empty this year. I feel calm, and contented, and, I'll be honest, a little curious about what he's going to make for me. <br /><br /> <br /></span>Grace Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02295113561650970965noreply@blogger.com2