Monday, February 27, 2012
Smoothie mustache
Last week I took advantage of the new blender my Mom gave me for Christmas and made Ryan a smoothie. As you can tell...it was a big hit!
Friday, February 24, 2012
Lubbock
Last week Ryan and I joined Roo on a trip to Lubbock. He was going up to talk to some ROTC cadets at Texas Tech University and I'll take any excuse that I can get to get out of town. We met at a Sushi place with some of the other presenters and then went to Chuck-E-Cheese when he was done. It was a fun day!
Waiting for our food to come.
Looking at the fish. Supposedly it's not good to throw pennies when live fish are in the pond. Weird.
The only picture that I got. Of course as soon as it started Ryan started being noisy. Any time that I went back in the room he called for Roo--so I had to quickly leave. I think that overall I was a good poster child for staying in school.
I don't know why Ryan didn't look very excited...he really was!
He rolls the balls up...
...and then they come back down. Hours of fun for only one token.
We crashed a birthday party and watched Chuck-E interacting with the birthday girl.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
The circus
Yesterday we took Ryan to his first circus. I wasn't too sure how he would do (with a 21 month old--you just never know)...but he actually did really well and he seemed to really enjoy it.
He liked watching the elephants...though I just found it really sad! At least Ryan is hiding the chain that the elephant in the background had on him. Roo said it was for safety so he didn't trample kids...or something like that. Sad!
Waiting for the show to start. We put him in my Mom's favorite outfit...his OshKosh B'gosh overalls. She thinks every kid should have a pair.
I'm thinking that with my abnormally large arm I could join a circus...don't know what's up with that!
Some ladies performing. It wasn't quite Cirque de Soleil, but not bad for Amarillo ,TX
During intermission I took Ryan back out to see the elephants. I think it was $10 to ride. That's why he's standing at the fence.
He seemed to enjoy just watching the elephants walk around.
Watching the miniature ponies. This again cost money...which is why he's standing outside the ring.
Don't worry though...I didn't share some of my cotton candy with him. I'm not THAT cheap!
The elephants performing. I like to think that they were trained with lots of love and peanuts!
It was pretty neat!
Friday, February 10, 2012
The wheels on the bus
I promised my Mom that I would take video of Ryan singing "The Wheels on the Bus". I just want to apologize in advance for my singing voice...and for the fact that I had to shorten the song. Every time that Ryan sees the camera he wants to watch video of him bowling, so I had to make it as quick as possible.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Super bowl party
Sunday Ryan and I went over to a friends house for a Super Bowl party (Roo was sick and in bed all weekend). We had a fun time hanging out...and over eating! I am so grateful to have a good group of friends here!!
Ryan and Ms. June
He's so big!!
I love my friends!!
Go figure that we were hanging out by all of the food instead of watching the game. P.S--we should have gotten a group pic with all the ladies. Sorry!
So handsome!
Rachel and I...she's going to be my running buddy in a race in April.
Monday, February 6, 2012
For the penguins
My Dad is on a bowling team, The Penguins, at McChord. Every time we visit we love to go watch them...Ryan's sort-of their good luck charm. While we were in Chicago there was a bowling game. My Dad dedicated this roll to his team.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Family pictures
A while ago we took family pictures. The idea was to make Christmas cards to send out...but I think I only sent like 5. Sorry!! Here are some pics from the shoot.
This picture was on our card. I think that my eyes look weird...which of course Roo said they didn't until AFTER I printed out the cards. Then he said the deciding factor on if I look weird is if Dave will say anything about it. So...what do you think?
Overall Ryan did really well. It was kind-of cold out...and he's a kid.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Love it
I'm sure most people have already seen this floating around FB...but I really like it, so I figure that I'll post it again!
To the Mother With Only One Child
by Simcha Fisher Thursday, January 19, 2012 7:00 AM Comments (560) Dear Mother of Only One Child,
Don’t say it. Before the words can even pass your lips, let me beg you: don’t say, “Wow, you have nine kids? I thought it was hard with just my one!”
My dear, it is hard. You’re not being a wuss or a whiner when you feel like your life is hard. I know, because I remember having “only one child.” You may not even believe how many times I stop and reflect on how much easier my life is, now that I have nine children.
All right, so there is a lot more laundry. Keeping up with each child’s needs, and making sure they all get enough attention, is a constant worry. And a stomach bug is pretty much the end of the world, when nine digestive tracts are afflicted.
But I remember having only one child, and it was hard—so very hard. Some of the difficulties were just practical: I didn’t know what I was doing, had to learn everything. People pushed me around because I was young and inexperienced. But even worse were the emotional struggles of learning to be a mother.
When I had only one child, I truly suffered during those long, long, long days in our little apartment, no one but the two of us, baby and me, dealing with each other all day long. I invented errands and dawdled and took the long way home, but still had hours and hours to fill before I would hear my husband’s key in the door.
I cared so much what other people thought about her—they had to notice how beautiful she was, they had to be impressed at my natural mothering skills. I obsessed over childhood development charts, tense with fear that my mothering was lacking—that I hadn’t stimulated her enough, or maybe had just passed on the wrong kind of genes. I cringe when I remember how I pushed her—a little baby!—to achieve milestones she wasn’t ready for.
I lived in terror for her physical safety (I once brought her to Urgent Care, where the doctor somewhat irritably diagnosed a case of moderate sniffles) fearing every imaginable disease and injury. In my sleep-deprived state, I would have sudden insane hallucinations that her head had fallen off, her knees had suddenly broken themselves in the night, and so on.
My husband didn’t know how to help me. I didn’t know how to ask for help. My husband had become a father, and I adored him for it. My husband got to leave the house every day, and sleep every night. He got to go to the bathroom alone. I hated him for it.
When I had only one child, I told myself over and over that motherhood was fulfilling and sanctifying and was filling my heart to the brim with peace and satisfaction. And so I felt horribly guilty for being so bored, so resentful, so exhausted. This is a joyful time, dammit! I should enjoy being suddenly transformed into the Doyenne of Anything that Smells Bad.
I loved my baby, I loved pushing her on the swing, watching squirrels at the park together, introducing her to apple sauce, and watching her lips move in joyful dreams of milk. But it was hard, hard, hard. All this work: is this who I am now? I remember!
So now? Yes, the practical parts are a thousand times easier: I’m a virtuoso. I worry, but then I move along. Nobody pushes me around, and I have helpers galore. Someone fetches clean diapers and gets rid of the dirty ones. When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night for the ten thousandth time, I sigh and roll my eyes, maybe even cry a little bit for sheer tiredness—but I know it will pass, it will pass.
It’s becoming easier, and it will be easier still. They are passing me by.
I’m broken in. There’s no collision of worlds. We’re so darn busy that it’s a sheer delight to take some time to wash some small child’s small limbs in a quiet bath, or to read The Story of Ferdinand one more time. Taking care of them is easy. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, but when I stop and take a breath, I see that it’s almost like a charade of work. All these things, the dishes, the diapers, the spills—they must be taken care of, but they don’t matter. They aren’t who I am.
To become a mother, I had to learn how to care about someone more than I did about myself, and that was terrible. But who I am now is something more terrible: the protector who can’t always protect; the one with arms that are designed to hold, always having to let go.
Dear mother of only one child, don’t blame yourself for thinking that your life is hard. You’re suffering now because you’re turning into a new woman, a woman who is never allowed to be alone. For what? Only so that you can become strong enough to be a woman who will be left.
When I had only one child, she was so heavy. Now I can see that children are as light as air. They float past you, nudging against you like balloons as they ascend.
Dear mother, don’t worry about enjoying your life. Your life is hard; your life will be hard. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong—it means you’re doing it right.
Don’t say it. Before the words can even pass your lips, let me beg you: don’t say, “Wow, you have nine kids? I thought it was hard with just my one!”
My dear, it is hard. You’re not being a wuss or a whiner when you feel like your life is hard. I know, because I remember having “only one child.” You may not even believe how many times I stop and reflect on how much easier my life is, now that I have nine children.
All right, so there is a lot more laundry. Keeping up with each child’s needs, and making sure they all get enough attention, is a constant worry. And a stomach bug is pretty much the end of the world, when nine digestive tracts are afflicted.
But I remember having only one child, and it was hard—so very hard. Some of the difficulties were just practical: I didn’t know what I was doing, had to learn everything. People pushed me around because I was young and inexperienced. But even worse were the emotional struggles of learning to be a mother.
When I had only one child, I truly suffered during those long, long, long days in our little apartment, no one but the two of us, baby and me, dealing with each other all day long. I invented errands and dawdled and took the long way home, but still had hours and hours to fill before I would hear my husband’s key in the door.
I cared so much what other people thought about her—they had to notice how beautiful she was, they had to be impressed at my natural mothering skills. I obsessed over childhood development charts, tense with fear that my mothering was lacking—that I hadn’t stimulated her enough, or maybe had just passed on the wrong kind of genes. I cringe when I remember how I pushed her—a little baby!—to achieve milestones she wasn’t ready for.
I lived in terror for her physical safety (I once brought her to Urgent Care, where the doctor somewhat irritably diagnosed a case of moderate sniffles) fearing every imaginable disease and injury. In my sleep-deprived state, I would have sudden insane hallucinations that her head had fallen off, her knees had suddenly broken themselves in the night, and so on.
My husband didn’t know how to help me. I didn’t know how to ask for help. My husband had become a father, and I adored him for it. My husband got to leave the house every day, and sleep every night. He got to go to the bathroom alone. I hated him for it.
When I had only one child, I told myself over and over that motherhood was fulfilling and sanctifying and was filling my heart to the brim with peace and satisfaction. And so I felt horribly guilty for being so bored, so resentful, so exhausted. This is a joyful time, dammit! I should enjoy being suddenly transformed into the Doyenne of Anything that Smells Bad.
I loved my baby, I loved pushing her on the swing, watching squirrels at the park together, introducing her to apple sauce, and watching her lips move in joyful dreams of milk. But it was hard, hard, hard. All this work: is this who I am now? I remember!
So now? Yes, the practical parts are a thousand times easier: I’m a virtuoso. I worry, but then I move along. Nobody pushes me around, and I have helpers galore. Someone fetches clean diapers and gets rid of the dirty ones. When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night for the ten thousandth time, I sigh and roll my eyes, maybe even cry a little bit for sheer tiredness—but I know it will pass, it will pass.
It’s becoming easier, and it will be easier still. They are passing me by.
I’m broken in. There’s no collision of worlds. We’re so darn busy that it’s a sheer delight to take some time to wash some small child’s small limbs in a quiet bath, or to read The Story of Ferdinand one more time. Taking care of them is easy. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, but when I stop and take a breath, I see that it’s almost like a charade of work. All these things, the dishes, the diapers, the spills—they must be taken care of, but they don’t matter. They aren’t who I am.
To become a mother, I had to learn how to care about someone more than I did about myself, and that was terrible. But who I am now is something more terrible: the protector who can’t always protect; the one with arms that are designed to hold, always having to let go.
Dear mother of only one child, don’t blame yourself for thinking that your life is hard. You’re suffering now because you’re turning into a new woman, a woman who is never allowed to be alone. For what? Only so that you can become strong enough to be a woman who will be left.
When I had only one child, she was so heavy. Now I can see that children are as light as air. They float past you, nudging against you like balloons as they ascend.
Dear mother, don’t worry about enjoying your life. Your life is hard; your life will be hard. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong—it means you’re doing it right.
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