This post had already been written. Badly. I'm sparing you that, and will instead get to the point.
Tom said this afternoon (after a full day of cleaning and organizing while Margaret watched the girls here at home), "This is fun!"
And again I say, "Ha!"
Monday, March 28, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
People Get Into Trouble For This, Right?
I do wonder if Fynn will some day sit across from a therapist and uncover hidden memories of being left alone. In a closet. With the door pulled shut.
Will she ever recall images of her parents high-fiving over their schemes to find the darkest recesses of their home and sprawl her out? Has she seen the desperate glee as we've plotted an end to her days of napping only in a carrier or someone's arms?
Or, as I sometimes suspect, will she someday drive us to weekly therapy sessions, where her father and I will try to figure out how we went from being two people who could successfully sleep train an infant for nights and naps in one day (bless you, Mad-A-Girl!) to people who have to bring Grandma up to the house to help with Fynn so we can get things done?
Only time will tell. For now, I'd better get all that pre-cleaning day laundry put away so I have time to deal with everything else tomorrow when Grandma's here.
Will she ever recall images of her parents high-fiving over their schemes to find the darkest recesses of their home and sprawl her out? Has she seen the desperate glee as we've plotted an end to her days of napping only in a carrier or someone's arms?
Or, as I sometimes suspect, will she someday drive us to weekly therapy sessions, where her father and I will try to figure out how we went from being two people who could successfully sleep train an infant for nights and naps in one day (bless you, Mad-A-Girl!) to people who have to bring Grandma up to the house to help with Fynn so we can get things done?
Only time will tell. For now, I'd better get all that pre-cleaning day laundry put away so I have time to deal with everything else tomorrow when Grandma's here.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Tribute to a Man I Never Met
MH II died far away from here this week. His father, a teacher I've only been working with for a couple of months has left to meet his son's body and bring him home.
I don't know how he died. I have the basic understanding of why he was in the Middle East that most of us have. So, like a lot of us, I don't really know why he died either. All I know is that a soldier is coming home with his father by his side. Twenty-four years are what they got together. In friend years, it's a lot. Not so much in parent-child years.
I don't know how he died. I have the basic understanding of why he was in the Middle East that most of us have. So, like a lot of us, I don't really know why he died either. All I know is that a soldier is coming home with his father by his side. Twenty-four years are what they got together. In friend years, it's a lot. Not so much in parent-child years.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Party Planning
Tom decided he'd like Mad's third birthday party to be WordWorld themed. Or The Wiggles. I have never really disliked a kids' show until seeing a few episodes of The Wiggles. Granted, they have some catchy tunes, but they also... okay, they're just weird. And they're not my kind of weird. Ugh!
More importantly, do we have to have commercial themes? We did get her a musical Elmo balloon last year (the music piece lasted five or six months longer than the balloon itself... an excellent investment in Mad's eyes), but are we really the type of people whose parties match up with television shows? We may as well shop at WalMart, catch Bieber fever and start teaching Mad that Hannah Montana is an excellent role model right now.
*sigh*
Margaret and I did a little birthday decoration reconnaissance Monday night. Stopped at a home decoration store rumored to have butterfly nets for cheap. When you're looking at a dozen kids, they weren't that cheap, and for some reason, the more appropriately sized small ones were twice as much as the large ones.
Went to the dollar section at Target and found the small ones for a buck. Along with some frog slippers and a frog magnifying glass. Have I ever mentioned Mad's unswerving adoration for frogs? I do find it ironic, since my dad insisted on calling me Froggie from age 11 to probably 19 or 20. It was cute for about three minutes. People loved to gift me with frog statuettes, stationary, stickers specially printed with my "name." Beginning at age 22, frogs were given away, donated or tossed with every move. I moved four times that year alone.
It's probably inevitable, Mad's frog love. She also loves ducks. They do not have quite the same luster as fwogs, rather they are fwogs' pond buddies and, as such, held in a position of esteem.
Behold part of her collection of frogs and ducks:
The other morning on the drive to Grandma's, I asked Mad, "What do you want to do for your birthday that is coming up?"
"I need chocwet."
"Yes, honey, that's because you're my daughter. What do you want to do?"
"I need chocwet and white."
"You want chocolate cake?"
"Yeth."
"And white cake?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Do you want a cake or would you rather have cupcakes?"
"I ravviveler have cupcakes!"
"Chocolate cupcakes and white cupcakes?"
"Yeth. I need chocwet cupcakes and white cupcakes. And a spoon. And ice cweam."
One thing I love about my girl, that ability to separate the needs from the wants.
Today we made more progress in the party planning details. There's a cupcake bakery that recently won Cupcake Wars. Margaret pulled the address for me so I could check 'em out. I asked Mad if she had any particular decorations she wanted on her cupcakes.
"Yes, ummm... I want fwogs."
"Anything else?"
"And ducks. And fwogs and ducks."
In case that wasn't clear, this evening she explained the whole situation to Tom. Covering her bases, don'tcha know.
Tonight Tom made invitations that feature a frog who is a complete unknown in the world of children's television. Or probably any television. Printed on duck yellow paper. Has some cute wording. I gave it a fun font. More of a garden/pond feeling than a theme. At our house in the desert. All is well. (Yes, I am dying to go all "ducky" here, but a modicum of restraint, people!)
More importantly, do we have to have commercial themes? We did get her a musical Elmo balloon last year (the music piece lasted five or six months longer than the balloon itself... an excellent investment in Mad's eyes), but are we really the type of people whose parties match up with television shows? We may as well shop at WalMart, catch Bieber fever and start teaching Mad that Hannah Montana is an excellent role model right now.
*sigh*
Margaret and I did a little birthday decoration reconnaissance Monday night. Stopped at a home decoration store rumored to have butterfly nets for cheap. When you're looking at a dozen kids, they weren't that cheap, and for some reason, the more appropriately sized small ones were twice as much as the large ones.
Went to the dollar section at Target and found the small ones for a buck. Along with some frog slippers and a frog magnifying glass. Have I ever mentioned Mad's unswerving adoration for frogs? I do find it ironic, since my dad insisted on calling me Froggie from age 11 to probably 19 or 20. It was cute for about three minutes. People loved to gift me with frog statuettes, stationary, stickers specially printed with my "name." Beginning at age 22, frogs were given away, donated or tossed with every move. I moved four times that year alone.
It's probably inevitable, Mad's frog love. She also loves ducks. They do not have quite the same luster as fwogs, rather they are fwogs' pond buddies and, as such, held in a position of esteem.
Behold part of her collection of frogs and ducks:
Allow me to introduce you to some of her friends. Back Row: Duck, New Frog, Backpack Frog, Other New Frog. Front Row: Another New Frog (sometimes known as Fynnie's Frog, which Mad reclaims as often as possible), Little Green Frog (AKA Original F.R.O.G., this is the dude that started the craze... ahem... for Tom... before Mad was born), Duck and Frog Blanket. (Not pictured because she's sleeping on him right now: Big Green Daddy Frog and a collection of fuzzy and rubber ducks, but no, not fuzzy rubber ducks.)
The other morning on the drive to Grandma's, I asked Mad, "What do you want to do for your birthday that is coming up?"
"I need chocwet."
"Yes, honey, that's because you're my daughter. What do you want to do?"
"I need chocwet and white."
"You want chocolate cake?"
"Yeth."
"And white cake?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Do you want a cake or would you rather have cupcakes?"
"I ravviveler have cupcakes!"
"Chocolate cupcakes and white cupcakes?"
"Yeth. I need chocwet cupcakes and white cupcakes. And a spoon. And ice cweam."
One thing I love about my girl, that ability to separate the needs from the wants.
Today we made more progress in the party planning details. There's a cupcake bakery that recently won Cupcake Wars. Margaret pulled the address for me so I could check 'em out. I asked Mad if she had any particular decorations she wanted on her cupcakes.
"Yes, ummm... I want fwogs."
"Anything else?"
"And ducks. And fwogs and ducks."
In case that wasn't clear, this evening she explained the whole situation to Tom. Covering her bases, don'tcha know.
Tonight Tom made invitations that feature a frog who is a complete unknown in the world of children's television. Or probably any television. Printed on duck yellow paper. Has some cute wording. I gave it a fun font. More of a garden/pond feeling than a theme. At our house in the desert. All is well. (Yes, I am dying to go all "ducky" here, but a modicum of restraint, people!)
Monday, March 07, 2011
Psychically Linked to My Physician
No, not the one who gave me the naked hug. I have a team of specialists, people. A team.
Or, well, I have an OB (AKA the Naked Hugger) and a regular doc. Regular Doc has been my dad and Margaret's GP since right before Margaret had her accident. Only he didn't know he was her doc yet. The switch was that right before. So when it came to getting doctor's orders for Margaret to be moved from an intermediate care unit at the hospital to a rehabilitation center, my dad had to call and explain. Only he couldn't deal with one more thing at that moment, so I called.
I explained the situation to the receptionist, figuring she'd speak with the doctor and either let me know what he said right then or call me back to do so. Do you know what happened? The man got on the phone within a matter of about 30 seconds, got the lowdown and approved the orders. Margaret was moved at 5:00 that night. That man is magical.
Do you know why else he's magical? Because my father, the man who throughout my childhood proudly displayed a poster with a picture of an orangutan and a caption that read, "If I want your opinion I'll beat it out of you" (yes, really... I have a photo of him sitting proudly on his Harley in full biker regalia in front of that poster... he gave one to each of his girls about 10 years ago), actually listens to the man. And follows his instructions. Dad's health isn't great (that's what being free and easy in the 70's will do to a person, I suppose). He gets blood work done regularly. And goes to all of his appointments with Dr. Mike.
Do you know why else he's magical? Because my mother, the woman who had an infection in her leg so bad that she basically slept through her mini-vacation at my grandparents and then promised them she'd go to the doctor as soon as she got home... but went to a cabin in the mountains ALONE for three days before going home (thereby keeping her word, don'tcha know), therefore ending up in the hospital for a week, followed by a couple weeks of home health care... she actually listens to the man. And follows his instructions, gets blood work, etc. etc.
In case you're wondering, yes, there was some confusion in the office with my dad, his wife and ex-wife all being patients. I think it's clear now.
Dr. Mike has officially been my doctor for a few years, but I'd never been to see him until recently. Mostly I don't get sick (this past fall and winter were an aberration... and if my aberration coughs on us one more time I will flip out all over him, mm-hmm). There was one time when I tried to get an appointment, but couldn't. Doc was on vacation and his receptionist didn't have an on-call alternative, nor would she schedule my appointment before he was back. It was bee-zarre, to say the least. And annoying.
I never bothered to find another doctor. When I recently had issues that should be dealt with, I tried again. I have to say I don't care for Dr. Mike's front office people. But the man? He took care of everything that could be handled by him, referred me to an orthopedist for a ganglion cyst (am I becoming freaking cyst-tastic or what?). When I had more issues, I saw his physician assistant, who ran labs and gave me some suggestions on how to manage my dizziness in the meantime.
I didn't get right on the blood work because that night was when Fynn got so sick. Then I was sick. Then I was on my period. I figured my best blood should be tested. So I went when things settled down (and after I resumed prenatals).
Today I was thinking about what the PA said about getting my test results. "If there's a problem, we'll contact you. If not, we won't." Personally, I don't trust this method of communication. Sometimes people overlook something or forget to make a call. Wouldn't it be nice if they could just call? Is that too much to ask?
This evening I asked Tom what came in the mail. "Bill for my car, something from DirecTV (dude, that's junk... have you noticed we've had FiOS going on two years now?) and something for you from some medical place. I don't know what it is."
Turns out it was a card from Dr. Mike's office, but in an envelope so that prying eyes would not know my test results. 'Cuz I'm mysterious like that. It says I'm normal. In writing. I don't care what you've heard or read. Dr. Mike said it, so it must be true. Like magic.
PS Coincidentally, now that Fynn's past that growth spurt/illness/teething thing, I get more sleep. Turns out I'm a lot less dizzy when I'm not exhausted. Go figure!
Or, well, I have an OB (AKA the Naked Hugger) and a regular doc. Regular Doc has been my dad and Margaret's GP since right before Margaret had her accident. Only he didn't know he was her doc yet. The switch was that right before. So when it came to getting doctor's orders for Margaret to be moved from an intermediate care unit at the hospital to a rehabilitation center, my dad had to call and explain. Only he couldn't deal with one more thing at that moment, so I called.
I explained the situation to the receptionist, figuring she'd speak with the doctor and either let me know what he said right then or call me back to do so. Do you know what happened? The man got on the phone within a matter of about 30 seconds, got the lowdown and approved the orders. Margaret was moved at 5:00 that night. That man is magical.
Do you know why else he's magical? Because my father, the man who throughout my childhood proudly displayed a poster with a picture of an orangutan and a caption that read, "If I want your opinion I'll beat it out of you" (yes, really... I have a photo of him sitting proudly on his Harley in full biker regalia in front of that poster... he gave one to each of his girls about 10 years ago), actually listens to the man. And follows his instructions. Dad's health isn't great (that's what being free and easy in the 70's will do to a person, I suppose). He gets blood work done regularly. And goes to all of his appointments with Dr. Mike.
Do you know why else he's magical? Because my mother, the woman who had an infection in her leg so bad that she basically slept through her mini-vacation at my grandparents and then promised them she'd go to the doctor as soon as she got home... but went to a cabin in the mountains ALONE for three days before going home (thereby keeping her word, don'tcha know), therefore ending up in the hospital for a week, followed by a couple weeks of home health care... she actually listens to the man. And follows his instructions, gets blood work, etc. etc.
In case you're wondering, yes, there was some confusion in the office with my dad, his wife and ex-wife all being patients. I think it's clear now.
Dr. Mike has officially been my doctor for a few years, but I'd never been to see him until recently. Mostly I don't get sick (this past fall and winter were an aberration... and if my aberration coughs on us one more time I will flip out all over him, mm-hmm). There was one time when I tried to get an appointment, but couldn't. Doc was on vacation and his receptionist didn't have an on-call alternative, nor would she schedule my appointment before he was back. It was bee-zarre, to say the least. And annoying.
I never bothered to find another doctor. When I recently had issues that should be dealt with, I tried again. I have to say I don't care for Dr. Mike's front office people. But the man? He took care of everything that could be handled by him, referred me to an orthopedist for a ganglion cyst (am I becoming freaking cyst-tastic or what?). When I had more issues, I saw his physician assistant, who ran labs and gave me some suggestions on how to manage my dizziness in the meantime.
I didn't get right on the blood work because that night was when Fynn got so sick. Then I was sick. Then I was on my period. I figured my best blood should be tested. So I went when things settled down (and after I resumed prenatals).
Today I was thinking about what the PA said about getting my test results. "If there's a problem, we'll contact you. If not, we won't." Personally, I don't trust this method of communication. Sometimes people overlook something or forget to make a call. Wouldn't it be nice if they could just call? Is that too much to ask?
This evening I asked Tom what came in the mail. "Bill for my car, something from DirecTV (dude, that's junk... have you noticed we've had FiOS going on two years now?) and something for you from some medical place. I don't know what it is."
Turns out it was a card from Dr. Mike's office, but in an envelope so that prying eyes would not know my test results. 'Cuz I'm mysterious like that. It says I'm normal. In writing. I don't care what you've heard or read. Dr. Mike said it, so it must be true. Like magic.
PS Coincidentally, now that Fynn's past that growth spurt/illness/teething thing, I get more sleep. Turns out I'm a lot less dizzy when I'm not exhausted. Go figure!
Saturday, March 05, 2011
Mish-Mosh
In case you were wondering, I love making food for Fynn, just as I loved making Mad's baby food. (Corey couldn't have cared less about food until around a year, so he just went straight to food.) It's easy, natural. The bananas Fynn eats are never pink (wth?).
I do not, however, love the feeling of Fynn's food on my hands or wrists while I'm feeding her. I was the same way with Mad. It's like being slimed. It practically is being slimed. I do not want to be slimed. On my hands. Clothes are fine, go for it.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The other night Tom brought the girls home after work. It just so happened that I arrived home about 45 minutes ahead of everybody else. Part of my free time was used doing dishes and getting the girls' dinners ready. I also went across the street to check our mail. We received a card from my in-laws with a check "to help offset those rising gas prices."
The mind immediately starts coming up with ideas, dreams, lofty goals for what we could do with the money. One thing was a priority, however, and that was getting oil changes for both cars. Tom's went to the Toyota dealership. Mine went to a local franchise tire shop. They had awesome reviews online (as opposed to either of the Ford dealerships within 30 miles). When I walked in, the two guys behind the counter were friendly... to the point of being charming... and said that my car would be ready in 20 minutes.
Going to a tire shop for an oil change usually means a bit of a wait, so Tom and the girls were in his car, ready to go shopping for each of us with some of the remaining money. With a 20 minute wait, we decided to hang around. On our way back from a jaunt up a hill, Michael called to tell me that my oil change was done, but that my rear differential needs to be serviced and that my tires need to be aligned.
*sigh*
Have I ever told you my theory about extra money? When the money comes, the problems will follow.
The upside? I mean aside from the fact that my girls will be safer travelling up and down the hill each day. Seriously, a couple of young mechanic types being charming. With me. I haven't come across charming mechanics in years. (Okay, my old guys were charming, but they were... you know... old). Yeah. I'm wondering if I just paid $200 to be charmed, too, but in my mind the answer is a resounding no. Stained baseball cap holding back unruly hair. No makeup. Clothes with this mornings bananas, cereal and breastmilk combo all over 'em. Bloated because my period's coming. I mean, these things are all normal for me, but I guess I should have sent Tom in for me. Bua.Ha.Ha.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I recently scouted out local eye doctors. Called one and inquired about the cost of frames. I haven't needed to wear glasses regularly for about eight years or so. When I did, I often allowed myself to be suckered into expensive frames. Those days are gone. I set a limit and don't want to try on anything over that amount. It makes sense to me that I should have a decent selection of lower cost frames in this area (where Tom recently discovered 48% of the population is on welfare, gah!) than down the hill.
I went in and spent about half an hour trying on glasses. (The less expensive ones were in a tray box in the corner, in case you're following my lead.) I go back on the 17th for the exam. After noticing that I had to walk 10 feet to see myself in the large mirror, Tiffany, the woman helping me suggested that I should perhaps not be too surprised if bifocals were necessary. In which case none of the glasses she's holding for me will work. Whatever. Then we talked about how my eyesight has just tanked since having Fynn, and how I'm going to be turning 40.
"Oh. Ohh yeah, that's it. That's the problem. Mm-hmm. It's the big FOUR-OH. Yep. That'll do it."
Again I say, whatever!
I do not, however, love the feeling of Fynn's food on my hands or wrists while I'm feeding her. I was the same way with Mad. It's like being slimed. It practically is being slimed. I do not want to be slimed. On my hands. Clothes are fine, go for it.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The other night Tom brought the girls home after work. It just so happened that I arrived home about 45 minutes ahead of everybody else. Part of my free time was used doing dishes and getting the girls' dinners ready. I also went across the street to check our mail. We received a card from my in-laws with a check "to help offset those rising gas prices."
The mind immediately starts coming up with ideas, dreams, lofty goals for what we could do with the money. One thing was a priority, however, and that was getting oil changes for both cars. Tom's went to the Toyota dealership. Mine went to a local franchise tire shop. They had awesome reviews online (as opposed to either of the Ford dealerships within 30 miles). When I walked in, the two guys behind the counter were friendly... to the point of being charming... and said that my car would be ready in 20 minutes.
Going to a tire shop for an oil change usually means a bit of a wait, so Tom and the girls were in his car, ready to go shopping for each of us with some of the remaining money. With a 20 minute wait, we decided to hang around. On our way back from a jaunt up a hill, Michael called to tell me that my oil change was done, but that my rear differential needs to be serviced and that my tires need to be aligned.
*sigh*
Have I ever told you my theory about extra money? When the money comes, the problems will follow.
The upside? I mean aside from the fact that my girls will be safer travelling up and down the hill each day. Seriously, a couple of young mechanic types being charming. With me. I haven't come across charming mechanics in years. (Okay, my old guys were charming, but they were... you know... old). Yeah. I'm wondering if I just paid $200 to be charmed, too, but in my mind the answer is a resounding no. Stained baseball cap holding back unruly hair. No makeup. Clothes with this mornings bananas, cereal and breastmilk combo all over 'em. Bloated because my period's coming. I mean, these things are all normal for me, but I guess I should have sent Tom in for me. Bua.Ha.Ha.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I recently scouted out local eye doctors. Called one and inquired about the cost of frames. I haven't needed to wear glasses regularly for about eight years or so. When I did, I often allowed myself to be suckered into expensive frames. Those days are gone. I set a limit and don't want to try on anything over that amount. It makes sense to me that I should have a decent selection of lower cost frames in this area (where Tom recently discovered 48% of the population is on welfare, gah!) than down the hill.
I went in and spent about half an hour trying on glasses. (The less expensive ones were in a tray box in the corner, in case you're following my lead.) I go back on the 17th for the exam. After noticing that I had to walk 10 feet to see myself in the large mirror, Tiffany, the woman helping me suggested that I should perhaps not be too surprised if bifocals were necessary. In which case none of the glasses she's holding for me will work. Whatever. Then we talked about how my eyesight has just tanked since having Fynn, and how I'm going to be turning 40.
"Oh. Ohh yeah, that's it. That's the problem. Mm-hmm. It's the big FOUR-OH. Yep. That'll do it."
Again I say, whatever!
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Awesome Hair Theory
Tom had jury duty yesterday. He was supposed to be at work 70 miles away at 4:00 in the morning, but instead he had to be at court five or so miles away by 12:00. Noon. Poor guy.
He spent a few hours in the jury box yesterday and had to return for continued jury selection today. At 10:30.
I was pulling for him to get selected. I've sat on a couple of juries, and have found the whole process fascinating. Okay, there was that awkward moment with my last service, when asked if I had any knowledge of anybody in the court, I admitted that I'd met the judge before. When he was in family court about two years earlier. The judge handled a situation with my ex-husband. Peering over his glasses at me, the judge said, "Wait. I remember you! Wasn't your husband, The Lurker?" *sigh* Yes, yes he was. Can we move along?
When Tom went back today, he spent roughly two minutes seated in the jury box before being summarily dismissed by the prosecution.
I said it's probably because Tom's been growing out his hair and it's just too awesome for them. I'm probably right, too. Tom said the next person to come out of the court room was another man, somewhat older, but with equally awesome hair.
He spent a few hours in the jury box yesterday and had to return for continued jury selection today. At 10:30.
I was pulling for him to get selected. I've sat on a couple of juries, and have found the whole process fascinating. Okay, there was that awkward moment with my last service, when asked if I had any knowledge of anybody in the court, I admitted that I'd met the judge before. When he was in family court about two years earlier. The judge handled a situation with my ex-husband. Peering over his glasses at me, the judge said, "Wait. I remember you! Wasn't your husband, The Lurker?" *sigh* Yes, yes he was. Can we move along?
When Tom went back today, he spent roughly two minutes seated in the jury box before being summarily dismissed by the prosecution.
I said it's probably because Tom's been growing out his hair and it's just too awesome for them. I'm probably right, too. Tom said the next person to come out of the court room was another man, somewhat older, but with equally awesome hair.
Peacefail Demonstration
A friend sent me a facebook invitation to this Friday's "a day of peace." I like peace. I signed up.
For the past two days I have been trying to practice the requirements.
I believe I've found a way to successfully do my part. It will involve sending the girls down with Tom and spending the day in the closet and maybe flicking the light on and off.
It will definitely not involve going to work, driving, talking to coworkers, relatives or certain friends, explaining why fantasy baseball isn't really a good enough reason to pull money from our meager savings, watching the news or listening to the radio.
The other option is to hold my tongue, between fingers or teeth.
For the past two days I have been trying to practice the requirements.
I have an idea... for a day of peace. Wouldn't it be amazing?Doesn't that sound nice?
Just one day in the year where we all held our tongues.
A day where we ignored others' shortcomings and made a valiant effort to be kind and understanding.
I believe I've found a way to successfully do my part. It will involve sending the girls down with Tom and spending the day in the closet and maybe flicking the light on and off.
It will definitely not involve going to work, driving, talking to coworkers, relatives or certain friends, explaining why fantasy baseball isn't really a good enough reason to pull money from our meager savings, watching the news or listening to the radio.
The other option is to hold my tongue, between fingers or teeth.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Milestones
Today, March 1 two things became irrevocably true.
One, Fynnie got her second tooth. Perhaps that's why we were up from 2:30 to 4:00 this morning, although she seemed perfectly happy.
Two, I must now say, "... when I turn 40 this month." Last year Tom threw a surprise party for me. To make up for the god-awful birthday of 2009. More than one person insinuated last year that I was "39 again." Dude! Today one of my coworkers said, "Is that all you're going to be?"
Apparently she meant that in the because 40 is so young sort of way (most of the women I work with are at least 50). Or that's what she tried to explain after hearing me gasp and seeing my mouth drop to the floor.
Not that mere weeks from 40 is old or anything, but today I borrowed a magnifying glass from my dad and Margaret so that I could do some paperwork at the office. We have to cross-check students based on this exceedingly long series of digits. Turns out I can't see much difference between 3, 6 and 8. Or 4,7 and 9. Okay, yes, sometimes I get 5 and 0 mixed up with other numbers. But 1, that I can handle, no problemo.
One, Fynnie got her second tooth. Perhaps that's why we were up from 2:30 to 4:00 this morning, although she seemed perfectly happy.
Two, I must now say, "... when I turn 40 this month." Last year Tom threw a surprise party for me. To make up for the god-awful birthday of 2009. More than one person insinuated last year that I was "39 again." Dude! Today one of my coworkers said, "Is that all you're going to be?"
Apparently she meant that in the because 40 is so young sort of way (most of the women I work with are at least 50). Or that's what she tried to explain after hearing me gasp and seeing my mouth drop to the floor.
Not that mere weeks from 40 is old or anything, but today I borrowed a magnifying glass from my dad and Margaret so that I could do some paperwork at the office. We have to cross-check students based on this exceedingly long series of digits. Turns out I can't see much difference between 3, 6 and 8. Or 4,7 and 9. Okay, yes, sometimes I get 5 and 0 mixed up with other numbers. But 1, that I can handle, no problemo.
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