my angel girl

Before I became your mother, my angel girl,
We were friends

I knew you
I wanted you
I missed you
I prayed for you
I carried you

Now you are my daughter, my angel girl,
But you will forever be my friend

the great snow story

I'm not a good story teller. I skip parts, have a hard time staying on track, miss punch lines, and I ramble. Little Boy thinks I'm a great story teller.

It's snowing today. While driving along, Little Boy and I had the following conversation:

LB: Is the snow coming from the sky?

Me: Yes, it comes from the clouds just like rain. When it rains when it's really cold outside, the rain turns to snow. If it gets warmer outside, the snow turns back into rain. That's why it's wet when it snows.

LB: (clapping hands) What a great story! I love that story, mom! What a great snow story.

If Little Boy thinks so, it must be so.

fat girl & little boy

They are my spuds, tater tots if you prefer.

Little Boy is in fact, a little boy. He is 3. He thinks he is a very big boy. He is into all things transportation with monster trucks and big jets at the top of the list. He can build a mean Lincoln Log house (or garage...those monster trucks and jets need a place to stay). He's a big bad preschooler with a giant imagination and a hunger for learning.

Fat Girl is well, sort of fluffy. She's really not fat, but it's a cute name, no? She does, however, have a very bubbly bum that J. Lo would be proud of. We are thinking of insuring it. She is 1. At some point, I'll have to stop letting her run around nekkid and giggle at her cheeks jiggling. Jiggle-Jiggle. Giggle-Giggle. It's just what we do. She's an angel in disquise as a moody girl. She loves to read books and I can't tell her no when she climbs on my lap and says "pease read" in that raspy voice that is signature Fat Girl.

I am the mom. The baker of the tots. The keeper of the spuds. The Constant Gardener.

tagged by taffi

I made the mistake of visiting Taffi's Blog today. I got tagged. I could just pretend I didn't go there and didn't see the post saying that anyone reading that had not been tagged yet could consider herself tagged. I could have done that. But, then I'd worry. I'd worry Taffi would say "So, did you read my blog?" And then I'd have to lie and say, "You have a blog?" Worse, GNO could come around and I would say "Taffi, That story about Sweet Girl and the pond was too funny." I'd be caught. Like a deer in headlights. So, tagged am I.

Seven Things to Do Before I Die:
1. Get caught up on my sleep
2. Catch up on scrapbooking
3. See all my grandchildren
4. Get a maid
5. Get a tummy tuck
6 Get a boob lift
7. Eat at The Melting Pot again

Seven Things I Cannot Do:
1. Draw
2. Play the Tuba (or any other instrument!)
3. Change the Past
4. Predict the Future
5. Live Alone
6. Dance
7. Fly

Seven Things that Attract Me to My Spouse:
1. He takes care of his body
2. He acts totally interested in my scrapbook pages
3. He rubs my feet while we watch TV
4. He doesn't watch a lot of sports and rarely watched ESPN
5. He helps me clean and take care of the kids
6. He is forgiving and overlooks my faults
7. He is a hard worker

Seven Things I Say (or write!) Most Often:
1. I love you!
2. Mommy is busy.
3. In a minute.
4. Stop that.
5. What do you want?
6. PLEASE pay attention when you pee!
7. My name isn't mommy anymore.

Seven Books (or series) I Love:
1. The Secret Garden
2. My Little Dinosaur
3. The Miracle of Forgiveness
4. Believing Christ
5. The Da Vinci Code
6. Harry Potter series
7. Trixie Beldon (are those still around?)

Seven Movies I Would Watch Over and Over Again:
1. Ever After
2. Pretty Woman
3. Runaway Bride
4. My Best Friend's Wedding
5. Princess Bride
6. Napoleon Dynamite
7. The Wedding Singer

People I Want to Join in:
I'd hate for anyone to miss out on the pleasure of answering such insightful questions, so I'm going to take a line from my good friend Taffi. If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged. You should do it. If you don't, you'll have 100 years bad luck. It's a proven fact, you know. It happened to my friend's uncle's old war buddy.

weaning is such sweet sorrow

I have freedom! My body is no longer solely for another creature's nutrition! I can go out! I can wear a bra without fold down flaps! I don't leak! Sweet! Sweet?

No! Sorrow! I don't have a still soft warm body cuddled up next to mine. I don't have those eyes staring up at me in complete and total bliss. I don't have the instant remedy for all hurts. I'm not needed, just wanted. I miss her.

the spuds are leaking

I hate runny noses. Slimy. Gross. Green. Ew.
Adult runny noses are bad enough, but kids are worse. They have a natural instinct to wipe it on the nearest parent or other unsuspecting adult. I just love snail trails on my clothes. Both of my kids have runny noses. Ew.