The older two are working at the breakfast bar, finishing up their Latin. Smidge finished eating. He cleared his spot and ran down the hallway to finish getting dressed (why this is a two-part process, I do not know, but that's not the point of this post).
I heard John yell, "Walk!"
Now, the children tend to abuse any authority they might have over one another, so I try to discourage their desire to correct one another (even when they're right - yes, Smidge ought to have walked - John was just quicker on the draw than I). I'll allow it for life-endangering issues, but not for general purpose eye-poking. (There is a vain hope that if they know it's dangerous, then they'll be inclined to listen. This grand scheme, however, hinges on the others following that general pattern, which has yet to happen. And still, I persist. Go figure.)
So I said, in the same tone, "John!"
He replied, without skipping a beat, "Latin!"
Heh. Yeah. Latin.
They *know*. I know they know, because little exchanges like this tell me they've been listening. I have a choice: despair that they will never internalize and implement this knowledge; hope that eventually it will. sink. in.
I'm going for hope, today.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Thursday, February 7
Tuesday, February 5
Stay Safe, Guys
Tonight we sat on the front porch, enjoying a balmy (over 70 degrees, 73% humidity, breezy - absolutely, unnervingly beautiful for February) evening. The boys caught several moths for the lizard. I cleaned and read a bit. It felt so idyllic. Then I checked the weather online.
Oh. My. Word. Tornadoes are ripping through the South tonight, and a good portion of the region is under watch until the morning.
So. Be safe. Stay alert. Check in, and then turn that computer off and go hide in the tub or something, okay!?!? ACK.
It's okay. Go on. No pictures tonight, anyway. Due to an unfortunate miscommunication in basic procedures (evidently the 9yo and I do not speak a similar enough dialect of the same language to communicate effectively) I had to reschedule the hair appointment.
Tonight, let's just all hunker down and get comfy in a doorway or two, and meet back here tomorrow, shall we?
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Oh. My. Word. Tornadoes are ripping through the South tonight, and a good portion of the region is under watch until the morning.
So. Be safe. Stay alert. Check in, and then turn that computer off and go hide in the tub or something, okay!?!? ACK.
It's okay. Go on. No pictures tonight, anyway. Due to an unfortunate miscommunication in basic procedures (evidently the 9yo and I do not speak a similar enough dialect of the same language to communicate effectively) I had to reschedule the hair appointment.
Tonight, let's just all hunker down and get comfy in a doorway or two, and meet back here tomorrow, shall we?
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
There's Something to be Said for the "Grizzled Look"
Really, there is. I wasn't going to agree to pictures, because I wasn't entirely certain this could be fixed. So I rounded up all the baseball caps we own and contemplated asking Aunt B to sent me a really big, really gaudy sombrero from Juarez. I'm set for Spring!
As of right now, however, I have an appointment with a lady in the salon (actually, a different salon, but the same company - every time I called the first salon, HairGuy answered, and I panicked. I know, I'm a wuss. I accept that about myself.) This lady is supposed to be excellent with "color correction" (which is, I take it, a specific field within the hair-realm). So I'll see if I can get John to take some before and after shots. You're a sick bunch, you know that? ;-)
I do think, though, that after this incident I'm just going to let the wrinkles and the naturally bad hair come and ensconce me and call it good. Perhaps I can learn how to pack mules and hire out as a camp guide. Or I could tend the saloon in a re-enactment camp. There's always a use for our natural talents, if we'll just look for one.
Zorak suggested I go ahead and show you now, with this photo. (It's okay, I laughed, too. Then I choked on my coffee. I would have said it's more like this. But then I'd be lying. It's worse.)
And for the record, I'm just having a little fun with it. Yes, even my previous post was written with a grin. There is nothing that can be done to my head that will send me into tears or convince me the world is going to end. It's hair. It'll grow. Granted, a bad haircut grows only mildly slower than dying grass, but it'll grow. And if I'm going to stick with keeping it real, *whispers* this isn't the worst dye job I've ever had. Let me fill you in a bit...
1990: Henna. Yeah, bulk bin, mix-it-yourself, do-it-yourself Henna from the health food store. Did you know you *can* dye your hair calico? And your eyebrows, if you use the same mixture. And, did you know Henna doesn't come out without hardcore chemical warfare? It's true.
1993: my first experience with "cellophanes". In one fell swoop, my stylist chopped my then-golden (naturally golden, at that point) locks from waist length to a chin-length bob and turned what was left into something resembling an oil slick in a wet parking lot. It was a variegated eggplant, with hints of orange and purpley, and very, very shiny. It clashed horribly with my favorite fleece pullover (which had more red tones). I remember sitting at supper one evening with a gentleman friend who couldn't help but comment on the freaky irridescent halo cast by the romantic lights bouncing off the refractory of my head. He also bought me a different jacket to wear until the stuff wore off. Which, it never did. I looked like this for nearly a year. Evidently, my hair is terribly porous.
1996: I had red hair. Beautiful, Maureen O'Hara-style red hair. OH, how I loved it. Oh, how delightfully Irish and whimsical I felt. I loved having red hair. Until I picked up a different brand for a touch up. (It was on sale, and it looked the same on the box.) Turns out, different brands do not always get along. I spent the end of '96 and the first four months of '97 with what we affectionately refer to as "Biker Bitch Burgundy" hair. Lovely. And, wouldn't ya know it, that's the color it was in the last photograph taken of Mom and her four children before my sister passed away. So, yeah, there are 10x13 photos of this particular look hanging on several walls across the country. Nice, huh?
Spread out here and there are the inevitably bad hair cuts. The blunt cut Sphinx head. The Amazing Water Buffalo. The "so, were you mad at me" cut. The list goes on.
But amidst all that, I've managed to hold down jobs, pay for food and beer, expand my education, maintain absolutely fantastic friends (who all have a superb grasp on the absurd), find a delightful man (during one of my more normal phases, anyway - I don't know that he'd have come back to ask me to dance during the Irridescent Eggplant phase), and have children who love me enough to be honest with me when I make bad decisions. (Come to think of it, I can't believe not one of them shouted, "Bad Idea Fairy" when I walked in the door. Huh. I'd have thought that would be the most appropriate response, to be honest.)
Don't let a bad design presentation get ya down. Ever. It's not worth it.
As of right now, however, I have an appointment with a lady in the salon (actually, a different salon, but the same company - every time I called the first salon, HairGuy answered, and I panicked. I know, I'm a wuss. I accept that about myself.) This lady is supposed to be excellent with "color correction" (which is, I take it, a specific field within the hair-realm). So I'll see if I can get John to take some before and after shots. You're a sick bunch, you know that? ;-)
I do think, though, that after this incident I'm just going to let the wrinkles and the naturally bad hair come and ensconce me and call it good. Perhaps I can learn how to pack mules and hire out as a camp guide. Or I could tend the saloon in a re-enactment camp. There's always a use for our natural talents, if we'll just look for one.
Zorak suggested I go ahead and show you now, with this photo. (It's okay, I laughed, too. Then I choked on my coffee. I would have said it's more like this. But then I'd be lying. It's worse.)
And for the record, I'm just having a little fun with it. Yes, even my previous post was written with a grin. There is nothing that can be done to my head that will send me into tears or convince me the world is going to end. It's hair. It'll grow. Granted, a bad haircut grows only mildly slower than dying grass, but it'll grow. And if I'm going to stick with keeping it real, *whispers* this isn't the worst dye job I've ever had. Let me fill you in a bit...
1990: Henna. Yeah, bulk bin, mix-it-yourself, do-it-yourself Henna from the health food store. Did you know you *can* dye your hair calico? And your eyebrows, if you use the same mixture. And, did you know Henna doesn't come out without hardcore chemical warfare? It's true.
1993: my first experience with "cellophanes". In one fell swoop, my stylist chopped my then-golden (naturally golden, at that point) locks from waist length to a chin-length bob and turned what was left into something resembling an oil slick in a wet parking lot. It was a variegated eggplant, with hints of orange and purpley, and very, very shiny. It clashed horribly with my favorite fleece pullover (which had more red tones). I remember sitting at supper one evening with a gentleman friend who couldn't help but comment on the freaky irridescent halo cast by the romantic lights bouncing off the refractory of my head. He also bought me a different jacket to wear until the stuff wore off. Which, it never did. I looked like this for nearly a year. Evidently, my hair is terribly porous.
1996: I had red hair. Beautiful, Maureen O'Hara-style red hair. OH, how I loved it. Oh, how delightfully Irish and whimsical I felt. I loved having red hair. Until I picked up a different brand for a touch up. (It was on sale, and it looked the same on the box.) Turns out, different brands do not always get along. I spent the end of '96 and the first four months of '97 with what we affectionately refer to as "Biker Bitch Burgundy" hair. Lovely. And, wouldn't ya know it, that's the color it was in the last photograph taken of Mom and her four children before my sister passed away. So, yeah, there are 10x13 photos of this particular look hanging on several walls across the country. Nice, huh?
Spread out here and there are the inevitably bad hair cuts. The blunt cut Sphinx head. The Amazing Water Buffalo. The "so, were you mad at me" cut. The list goes on.
But amidst all that, I've managed to hold down jobs, pay for food and beer, expand my education, maintain absolutely fantastic friends (who all have a superb grasp on the absurd), find a delightful man (during one of my more normal phases, anyway - I don't know that he'd have come back to ask me to dance during the Irridescent Eggplant phase), and have children who love me enough to be honest with me when I make bad decisions. (Come to think of it, I can't believe not one of them shouted, "Bad Idea Fairy" when I walked in the door. Huh. I'd have thought that would be the most appropriate response, to be honest.)
Don't let a bad design presentation get ya down. Ever. It's not worth it.
Monday, February 4
Hopefully EmBaby Will By My Ally...
I *love* living in a house filled to the bursting point with male creatures. Really, I do. It's lively and funny (sometimes a little *too* funny). It's always active, creative, adventurous. It's also... um, brutally honest.
I made it to my hair appointment yesterday. HairGuy did all the work. I sat in my little chair, visited a bit, and read my latest brain candy. I don't know how to do what he does, so I don't try to follow along. Really, if your HairGuy is going to do something *wrong*, by the time you realize it, it's too late to stop it. Plus, there's always that doubt that perhaps it looks just fine and what you need is three days to live with it and adjust to the new look. (Am I right? I'm right.)
A house full of guys does. not. get. this.
I walked in and scooped up Smidge, gave him a big hug and told him how much I missed him. He pushed back a bit, furrowed his brow, and said,
"What did you do's to you's hair?"
I dropped him on the couch and wandered into the kitchen.
...Where Zorak started eyeballing my hair. I don't mean he admired it, or just looked at it. He eyeballed it like he suspected it of outlaw activity in an old Western mining camp.
"Did you pick that tone, or did he?"
(He did. I just sat there.)
He kept staring while he worked. A few minutes later, he could no longer resist and started picking at the front of it. My personal space was being invaded, and my vulnerability levels were already riding high (because it really is Very Very Light - much lighter than my borderline headcovering-like tendencies would have preferred - but I thought we'd already established that I didn't pick the tone.)
"Huh," he snorted. "You have a huge chunk at the front that he didn't get."
(Perfect. I didn't notice that when I'd left. Yet, notice I had not asked what he thought. I wasn't ready for that yet. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I'd have found the chunk, eventually, but right there in the kitchen, with Zorak rubbing teriyaki-covered fingers through my bangs was not the most comfortable way of having my hair critiqued.)
I wandered away to the school room to hide for a bit. James entered. He stopped dead in his tracks and did this wide-eyed, slapstick comedy, full halt that can only mean something painfully blunt is coming from a 9yo boy.
"What? Is? That? Are you going grey, or did you do this on purpose, Mom? You don't even look like the same Mom!"
(Yeah. Like you have any hope of ever dating with this approach, kiddo.)
"You know, how about next time, you just don't do that, okay? It doesn't look natural."
(It's highlights. It's highlights they had to blend into year-old highlights from another salon. I know it's not "natural". Nobody thinks this is my natural color.)
"Well, if you're going to do this..." (He starts messing with the hair on the sides.) "Why don't you try purple next time?" (There is something very wrong with the fact that I know he's trying to be helpful. I do get that.)
(I love you. And I'm going to go rearrange the food shelf in the basement, now. I'll be back when all of you are asleep.)
John? John may just have the mojo it takes to live with women. He never said a word. He smiled and acted like absolutely nothing was wrong. All. Evening. Good boy.
My hope lies with EmBaby, now. Will it come naturally, or is there some kind of indoctrination process I'll need to begin? And when should I start it?
I'll call the HairGuy today. He can fix the missing chunk, I'm sure, but the guys are simply going to have to adjust to the "tone" of my new hair for a while. (Which makes me laugh, because then I picture someone yelling at my hair, "You watch your tone, missy!" For the record, they don't get that, either. *snort*)
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
I made it to my hair appointment yesterday. HairGuy did all the work. I sat in my little chair, visited a bit, and read my latest brain candy. I don't know how to do what he does, so I don't try to follow along. Really, if your HairGuy is going to do something *wrong*, by the time you realize it, it's too late to stop it. Plus, there's always that doubt that perhaps it looks just fine and what you need is three days to live with it and adjust to the new look. (Am I right? I'm right.)
A house full of guys does. not. get. this.
I walked in and scooped up Smidge, gave him a big hug and told him how much I missed him. He pushed back a bit, furrowed his brow, and said,
"What did you do's to you's hair?"
I dropped him on the couch and wandered into the kitchen.
...Where Zorak started eyeballing my hair. I don't mean he admired it, or just looked at it. He eyeballed it like he suspected it of outlaw activity in an old Western mining camp.
"Did you pick that tone, or did he?"
(He did. I just sat there.)
He kept staring while he worked. A few minutes later, he could no longer resist and started picking at the front of it. My personal space was being invaded, and my vulnerability levels were already riding high (because it really is Very Very Light - much lighter than my borderline headcovering-like tendencies would have preferred - but I thought we'd already established that I didn't pick the tone.)
"Huh," he snorted. "You have a huge chunk at the front that he didn't get."
(Perfect. I didn't notice that when I'd left. Yet, notice I had not asked what he thought. I wasn't ready for that yet. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I'd have found the chunk, eventually, but right there in the kitchen, with Zorak rubbing teriyaki-covered fingers through my bangs was not the most comfortable way of having my hair critiqued.)
I wandered away to the school room to hide for a bit. James entered. He stopped dead in his tracks and did this wide-eyed, slapstick comedy, full halt that can only mean something painfully blunt is coming from a 9yo boy.
"What? Is? That? Are you going grey, or did you do this on purpose, Mom? You don't even look like the same Mom!"
(Yeah. Like you have any hope of ever dating with this approach, kiddo.)
"You know, how about next time, you just don't do that, okay? It doesn't look natural."
(It's highlights. It's highlights they had to blend into year-old highlights from another salon. I know it's not "natural". Nobody thinks this is my natural color.)
"Well, if you're going to do this..." (He starts messing with the hair on the sides.) "Why don't you try purple next time?" (There is something very wrong with the fact that I know he's trying to be helpful. I do get that.)
(I love you. And I'm going to go rearrange the food shelf in the basement, now. I'll be back when all of you are asleep.)
John? John may just have the mojo it takes to live with women. He never said a word. He smiled and acted like absolutely nothing was wrong. All. Evening. Good boy.
My hope lies with EmBaby, now. Will it come naturally, or is there some kind of indoctrination process I'll need to begin? And when should I start it?
I'll call the HairGuy today. He can fix the missing chunk, I'm sure, but the guys are simply going to have to adjust to the "tone" of my new hair for a while. (Which makes me laugh, because then I picture someone yelling at my hair, "You watch your tone, missy!" For the record, they don't get that, either. *snort*)
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Sunday, February 3
Sausage and Highlights and Denim
Today was sausage day. The guys made sausage. Oodles of sausage. Pizza sausage. Breakfast sausage. Cajuny sausage. There is a vice stuck to the dining table, and scads of little white sausage chubs in the freezer. I'm not sure what's left to do, but I do believe that by the end of the day tomorrow, I may have both the kitchen *and* the fridge back. (woo!)
I tried to get a cut and color in town today, but by the time I hauled my big ol' self into town, there wasn't enough time for the color to set before they rolled up the sidewalks. So, eh, I have to go in tomorrow. (Which, in itself, is a shocker - I'm surprised they're allowed to color on Sundays. However, I'm not going to complain, because I really, really need some hair-help, and Zorak really, really doesn't want to do it himself.)
James went to town with me, andI dragged him into, um, we stopped at Hancock Fabrics. I've signed up for their flier a handful of times, but their system refuses to add us. So I had no idea they were having a sale today. I was just desperate for *some* kind of fabric to cover the Cheech & Chong couch we're limping along. I lobbied hard for vinyl, but James wasn't going for it. After my third attempt, he led me back to the "normal fabrics". (P'shaw - what mother hasn't contemplated vinyl upholstery, at least once? Well, outside of summertime, anyway.) He also vetoed regular blue denim, which was my next choice. Finally, I turned the process over to him with the one requirement that it be either waterproof *or* machine washable. (Do I know how to pick my battles, or what?)
Turns out the kid has an eye for decorating fabric and he found one he loved - a great, heavy weight, 100% cotton, MACHINE WASHABLE, denim in a creamy tan color (did I mention that it's machine washable?), with small flecks of blue and dark brown, which, he pointed out, could easily be used for accent colors at any point. (Evidently, all those episodes of The Christopher Lowell show I watched while he was in utero have paid off.) And the best part, well, after the fact that it's MACHINE WASHABLE, is that had been marked down, marked down again, and was on sale for 50% off. YEEHAW! $15/yd. fabric for $4/yd. Life. is. good.
The kids got to run around outside today, which they needed. Then they didn't get to bed until very late, which I didn't need. (And I'll admit it, I went just a little teeny-tiny bit nutso around 10:30, when they were still up, making noise and moving about in the air that I needed desperately to be still and quiet at that time of night). BUT, no blood, no foul, everybody still knows they're loved. And, I suspect, that Mommy really might want to consider upping her B-complex dosages. However, they are all bright enough not to have mentioned that while I was kissing everyone goodnight and making them swear not to leave their room before the sun comes up tomorrow. It's all good. Every day can't be a stellar day, but if you can keep the perspective that even the things that *feel* big... aren't really that big (and we're learning that), and the things that may slip our minds... really shouldn't be allowed out of sight... well, that goes quite a long way toward restoring harmony and warm fuzzies all the way around.
Warm fuzzies for everyone!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
I tried to get a cut and color in town today, but by the time I hauled my big ol' self into town, there wasn't enough time for the color to set before they rolled up the sidewalks. So, eh, I have to go in tomorrow. (Which, in itself, is a shocker - I'm surprised they're allowed to color on Sundays. However, I'm not going to complain, because I really, really need some hair-help, and Zorak really, really doesn't want to do it himself.)
James went to town with me, and
Turns out the kid has an eye for decorating fabric and he found one he loved - a great, heavy weight, 100% cotton, MACHINE WASHABLE, denim in a creamy tan color (did I mention that it's machine washable?), with small flecks of blue and dark brown, which, he pointed out, could easily be used for accent colors at any point. (Evidently, all those episodes of The Christopher Lowell show I watched while he was in utero have paid off.) And the best part, well, after the fact that it's MACHINE WASHABLE, is that had been marked down, marked down again, and was on sale for 50% off. YEEHAW! $15/yd. fabric for $4/yd. Life. is. good.
The kids got to run around outside today, which they needed. Then they didn't get to bed until very late, which I didn't need. (And I'll admit it, I went just a little teeny-tiny bit nutso around 10:30, when they were still up, making noise and moving about in the air that I needed desperately to be still and quiet at that time of night). BUT, no blood, no foul, everybody still knows they're loved. And, I suspect, that Mommy really might want to consider upping her B-complex dosages. However, they are all bright enough not to have mentioned that while I was kissing everyone goodnight and making them swear not to leave their room before the sun comes up tomorrow. It's all good. Every day can't be a stellar day, but if you can keep the perspective that even the things that *feel* big... aren't really that big (and we're learning that), and the things that may slip our minds... really shouldn't be allowed out of sight... well, that goes quite a long way toward restoring harmony and warm fuzzies all the way around.
Warm fuzzies for everyone!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Friday, February 1
A happy change of plans.
(Hunting story ahead. If hunting or photos of game bother you, you may not care to read this post.)
I borrowed an episode of Little House on the Prairie from the library Wednesday, and planned a cozy evening introducing the boys to the Ingalls family Zorak and I grew up with. Popcorn, hot chocolate, hanging out as a family. Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? We did spend the evening hanging out as a family, but it was outside, up to our knees in a gut pile. I decided to skip the popcorn for this one.
Zorak's routine this season has been to give me a call when he hits the bridge on his way home, at which time I alert the Boy On Call that it's time to find his coat and pop on his shoes. When Dad gets home, they head into the woods to hunt for a bit before supper. So far, they hadn't brought anything home, but the time together has been fantastic for everyone. The children get one-on-one time with Dad. Dad gets some time to talk with each of his children. I get to stay inside, where it's warm. Total win-win.
Wednesday was James' turn. They weren't gone more than 30 minutes when we heard a shot. I didn't think anything of it, as we live in the country and there are shots fired all the time, from all directions. However, soon here came James, who'd run the entire way, to ask me to get everyone bundled up and bring the camera, and Dad's knife. I was surprised that he'd want us all to go down there (in the cold... and in, you know, the cold), but we rounded everyone up and headed down.
It was getting dark by the time I got down there (takes a while to get us up and out, ya know), but there in the meadow was a beautiful buck and One Happy Daddy. The first deer he's hunted on our own property. A full freezer. A chance to tan some leather and teach the boys new things. Then I understood why he wanted us there. That was a really great moment for him, and he wanted to share it with the people he loves the most. I'm glad we went.
We took the deer back to the house, where the boys helped him field dress it. I have only the photo of them all after they got it in the pickup, because once we started work, I realized pregnant olfactory issues aren't a big help in field dressing game. So, I stood as close to upwind as possible, and held the flashlight with one hand, my nose with the other.
They got it hung and then we came in to resume our planned family evening.
Yesterday, I took Em to Sam's for groceries while Zorak and the boys came home to skin and butcher the deer. When Em and I got home, Ben and his boys were here. It was total happy chaos. Kids everywhere, the guys happily packaging meat. The boys helped skin and prepare the deer, which they've happily recounted several times. Good stuff when you're a young man. I'm so glad Zorak is so willing to take things slowly and teach the boys as we go.
My kitchen was horriffic. The two covered porches looked like the staging area for Tremors5. We were able to send Ben home with a roast and some steaks, and then we enjoyed a delicious meal of backstrap steaks, green beans and fried potatoes last night. I was exhausted, but in a good way. It's been a very happy, well-fed two days here at the Forever Home.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Wednesday, January 30
Belated Bobcat Shots
I finally had a chance to upload and edit. (Or, if I must be completely upfront, I finally found the camera.) These were taken at the boys' pack meeting last week, when they both received their Bobcat Badges. (Which are still dangling precariously upside down, awaiting that Good Turn so they can be flipped and "official". I am so loathe to give up that leverage. Truly, I am.)
However, here they are, trying not to erupt in a fit of excitement and whooping, while they go through the ceremony.
But when it came time to do Dad, they were all business. (Actually, I got a stripe, too. The Scoutmaster was going to do two stripes on Zorak, but James asked if they could do one on him and one on me. I was holding the camera, so there is no photo of James doing my stripe. But I still smile a big, goofy smile when I think of it. They're such thoughtful boys.)
And then, they beamed...
Well, John beamed. James... James is just feelin' pretty cool, right about there. It's funny how they processed their new status differently. (Not that the difference stopped them from springing to the Suburban like leopards on crack when we left, but they do look so different, here.)
It was a good evening. A good experience. A rite of passage for them, but as Zorak said, also a big step for parents to see their children out there, doing things, achieving things on their own... suddenly seeming so capable and so... BIG. It's good, isn't it? Yep. Sure is.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
What is THIS???
James this morning has mentioned that he's excessively tired. He doesn't have a fever, and he isn't coughing. Throat isn't sore, no swelling, and his eyes dilate just fine. But he's *incredibly* tired. Honestly, I figured he'd been up too late last night reading and was suffering the consequences of his choices, and so, being the alma mater I am *snort*, I figured I'd proceed with business as usual and let him hang tough today (and hopefully, get some rest tonight, right? Um, yeah, right. Something like that.)
Anyhow, we sat down to breakfast, and I looked up and... YIKES! What HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?!?!?
You can see it across his nose, cheeks, and chin, here.
The left side is worse than the right.
He's never ruddy. I mean, he's pale, but he's not normally splotchy. Or red. He's not cold. He doesn't have this anywhere else on his body. He says it doesn't itch, it just feels "radiant, like when you get sunburned".
We've changed nothing recently - detergent, foods, vitamins. I wouldn't be concerned about this if he wasn't so doggedly exhausted this morning, as well. Any ideas?
Thanks, Dy
Tuesday, January 29
...And the wind howled...
We've read so many books with excellent descriptions of severe wind and storms. For the boys, however, it's usually just words when it comes to weather. They've always lived in moderately mild weather. They've never heard the wind howl, or scream, or whistle. I'm pretty sure they thought it was just rampant anthropomorphism.
Tonight, however, they've heard it whistle, and they've heard it howl. They've heard it beat against the windows, and they've heard the trees groan under the strain. The looks on the boys' faces, alone, as they realized what they were hearing, was worth every minute I've ever spent trying to explain it to them. Sometimes you've just got to experience something to make it real. The truly exciting thing, though, is that every story, every incident, came rushing back to them: Al and Harry and Shanks in the cave in the Arctic; Ma and the girls on the banks of Plum Creek; young Harvey on the Outer Banks, aboard the We're Here... all those pictures sprang to life tonight. Very cool, indeed.
******************
Oh, and now I'm laughing at myself! Smidge just came out to let me know he had really wanted to hear "one of the long chapters" (meaning, he'd sat in Em's room for story time with Dad tonight and missed story time with Mom in the process, and what's-up-with-that-anyway-mom!) I let him know we'd just read a short chapter tonight and would read more in the morning. Then, just as I reached to put my hand on his back to guide him back to bed, a gust of wind kicked up and actually moved the window frame that's right behind me!
I didn't jump, exactly, but I know I twitched a bit, and that motion sank in with him just as the sound of the wood creaking also reached him. He came straight up into the air, spun around and came back down in a spectacular fight-or-flight crouch. I didn't know those brown eyes could open so wide!
It was all I could do not to laugh, because it was funny. But still, that had to have been unnerving for the little guy. So I didn't laugh on the outside, and he's now tucked safely back in bed, reassured and snuggled. And now, I get to laugh, right?
Come to think of it, I think I'll go crawl under the covers, myself, and enjoy the sound of the storm from the comfort of thick, fluffy blankets!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Tonight, however, they've heard it whistle, and they've heard it howl. They've heard it beat against the windows, and they've heard the trees groan under the strain. The looks on the boys' faces, alone, as they realized what they were hearing, was worth every minute I've ever spent trying to explain it to them. Sometimes you've just got to experience something to make it real. The truly exciting thing, though, is that every story, every incident, came rushing back to them: Al and Harry and Shanks in the cave in the Arctic; Ma and the girls on the banks of Plum Creek; young Harvey on the Outer Banks, aboard the We're Here... all those pictures sprang to life tonight. Very cool, indeed.
******************
Oh, and now I'm laughing at myself! Smidge just came out to let me know he had really wanted to hear "one of the long chapters" (meaning, he'd sat in Em's room for story time with Dad tonight and missed story time with Mom in the process, and what's-up-with-that-anyway-mom!) I let him know we'd just read a short chapter tonight and would read more in the morning. Then, just as I reached to put my hand on his back to guide him back to bed, a gust of wind kicked up and actually moved the window frame that's right behind me!
I didn't jump, exactly, but I know I twitched a bit, and that motion sank in with him just as the sound of the wood creaking also reached him. He came straight up into the air, spun around and came back down in a spectacular fight-or-flight crouch. I didn't know those brown eyes could open so wide!
It was all I could do not to laugh, because it was funny. But still, that had to have been unnerving for the little guy. So I didn't laugh on the outside, and he's now tucked safely back in bed, reassured and snuggled. And now, I get to laugh, right?
Come to think of it, I think I'll go crawl under the covers, myself, and enjoy the sound of the storm from the comfort of thick, fluffy blankets!
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
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