I heard the news on Facebook where all news seems to come from these days -- a new baby has been born to our family. She is a little girl born to our niece, the second baby in that family. We've not seen either baby in person as they are on the other end of the continent from us, but we have been watching the oldest one grow, also via Facebook.
I clicked on the picture that was posted and started yelling for the family to come see. They all came running to see the newest baby girl, so adorable and pink and chubby-cheeked.
Tristan started whining immediately. "I WANTED BABY ISAIAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
"No, this is cool, Tristan," I was quick to reassure him. "This is cool because this is a NEW baby cousin, like an extra one. So you can have Baby Isaiah AND now you can have this new cousin Holly."
"Is she ours?" His voice was hopeful.
"No, but she is in our family. This is cousin Avery's little sister."
"I want her to live with us for ever and ever and EVER." He stomped off to finish his dinner.
Moments later he asked from the far end of the room, "Who laid that baby??"
Apparently, I have a bit of explaining to do.
February 7, 2011
February 3, 2011
Mad Skillz with Women (or at Least CYA)
In the kitchen, my youngest son, four, stands with his back against the stove and his arms stretched across the stove door handle. He leans back and gives me a good looking-over.
"You used to be SOOOO pretty. But now you're not."
I stop what I'm doing, which is slaving over a hot sink of dishes -- or something. Some tedious chore or other thing that improves my child's life.
I raise my eyebrows at him and say, "I'm not pretty anymore? That's really not a very nice thing to say."
He thinks about it for a split-second and then adds, "Well, without your make-up, I mean."
Excellent save, my child.
"You used to be SOOOO pretty. But now you're not."
I stop what I'm doing, which is slaving over a hot sink of dishes -- or something. Some tedious chore or other thing that improves my child's life.
I raise my eyebrows at him and say, "I'm not pretty anymore? That's really not a very nice thing to say."
He thinks about it for a split-second and then adds, "Well, without your make-up, I mean."
Excellent save, my child.
December 27, 2010
My Love Affair with Bacon
It's starting to get embarrassing, this love affair I have with bacon. And it's not actually like I eat bacon all the time. In fact, I think I love bacon so much because I don't eat it much at all.
Over the last few months I've chosen to pursue more healthy eating habits -- moderate portions, fresh foods, less processed food, very little sugar. I thought it would suck, but far from it. I have had more energy and have noticed quite a few other health benefits that would be of interest to no one but me. The great bonus is I'm 25 pounds lighter and my husband is about 40 pounds lighter.
But back to this bacon thing...
The other night I had the most amazing dream in which bacon had a starring role. I was in a tight little galley kitchen that was mostly stainless steel counters and industrial looking kitchen doo-dads all around. My niece was there. I think she was cooking. I might have been cooking, too, or rather "over cooking" as I frequently do.
But what was special about this dream was not what was happening as much as the level of sensory detail that was occurring. It was if it were really happening. The details were rich. I could smell bacon cooking, hear and feel the popping of hot grease, feel the cold stainless steel on my hands, feel the awkward moment when you must squeeze past someone in a tight space as you try to slip by, your body rubbing against theirs. I could hear the clink of the spatula, the pan rubbing across the cooking grate. Ambient noises.
In the dream, I slipped past row after row of extensive "bacon production" and as I went past I snatched up a cooked piece that I thought would go unnoticed and bit into it heartily, hungrily. And just as I was about to experience the wondrous burst of flavor would send me into artery-clogging nirvana, I woke up.
Why? Because I had just bit into the fingers of my right hand. In real life. In my sleep. I'd say that's a dream gone too far.
Honestly, if I'm gonna have a dream like that I'm disappointed I wasted it on bacon.
Over the last few months I've chosen to pursue more healthy eating habits -- moderate portions, fresh foods, less processed food, very little sugar. I thought it would suck, but far from it. I have had more energy and have noticed quite a few other health benefits that would be of interest to no one but me. The great bonus is I'm 25 pounds lighter and my husband is about 40 pounds lighter.
But back to this bacon thing...
The other night I had the most amazing dream in which bacon had a starring role. I was in a tight little galley kitchen that was mostly stainless steel counters and industrial looking kitchen doo-dads all around. My niece was there. I think she was cooking. I might have been cooking, too, or rather "over cooking" as I frequently do.
But what was special about this dream was not what was happening as much as the level of sensory detail that was occurring. It was if it were really happening. The details were rich. I could smell bacon cooking, hear and feel the popping of hot grease, feel the cold stainless steel on my hands, feel the awkward moment when you must squeeze past someone in a tight space as you try to slip by, your body rubbing against theirs. I could hear the clink of the spatula, the pan rubbing across the cooking grate. Ambient noises.
In the dream, I slipped past row after row of extensive "bacon production" and as I went past I snatched up a cooked piece that I thought would go unnoticed and bit into it heartily, hungrily. And just as I was about to experience the wondrous burst of flavor would send me into artery-clogging nirvana, I woke up.
Why? Because I had just bit into the fingers of my right hand. In real life. In my sleep. I'd say that's a dream gone too far.
Honestly, if I'm gonna have a dream like that I'm disappointed I wasted it on bacon.
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