Cleaning

My mother-in-law will be here in a matter of hours.

Nothing like an impending visit from your husband's mother to motivate a girl to wash the windows.

Life with Guthrie

'Nuff said.

Maybe Santa's not such a good influence after all

My mom (thank you Mom!) sent the boys some Christmas DVDs - Rudolph, Frosty, Charlie Brown, the standards. Turner still has no interest in sitting and watching a screen (maybe if it was bigger than the 7-inch DVD player), which is not a bad thing. Guthrie has been watching them, though, and even figured out how to put them in the computer and start it up all by himself.

He just walked up to me, holding a little stick in his mouth, and telling me he was smoking a pipe. Now he has hte stuffed Santa smoking the pipe. I asked where he learned that (don't think anyone has ever smoked an actual pipe around him) and he said on his movie Santa smokes a pipe. I hadn't noticed that part, or thought anything of it.

So, what do I do? I remember my older cousin and I used to pretend our crayons were cigarettes and "smoke" them. And candy cigarettes and cigars used to be popular everywhere.

I suppose I just let him keep it up, and the novelty will wear off soon enough. If I don't let him, or make a big deal, he'll just want to do it even more, huh?

See, I knew watching TV taught you bad habits.

Let's build a fence

This is a story to remind us all why all illegal immigrants should be stopped. Why they are all evil, horrible, nasty people. And all that other BS propaganda some crazy fraidy-cats everywhere but around the border seem to believe.

Hopefully you can feel the sarcasm in my statement.

The story (really go read it) is about how an illegal immigrant in Arizona probably saved a little boy's life. The van he was in with his mom crashed, his mom was trapped inside, the boy crawled out to try to go for help but didn't know where to go. The man came along, tried to get the mother out (unfortunately, he couldn't, and she didn't survive), and then stayed with the boy, building a bonfire to protect him from the cold.

The boy, whose father had only recently died too, is fine, and the man is in custody. Because he's an evil law-breaking life-saver, or something.

There's one little boy who is glad there is no fence. Yet.

Things that would have once looked weird to me

no longer do.

The fact that there is a roasting pan sitting empty in the hallway.

The instructions to a "Dora the Explorer" computer game in the refrigerator.

All the kitchen towels in Eric's office, on the floor.

The chairs to the kitchen table in the living room.

And not a single room in the house (bathrooms and closets included) that does not have at least one train.

Really, I don't even bother to pick the things up most of the time anymore. If I do, Guthrie will just come wondering where the roasting pan is, and why I took his (boat, garage, shed, tent) away.

"If Turner cries again, I will put a bandage over his mouth."

Said by Guthrie, of course.

It's not quite as bad as it sounds. Turner has been a rather, well, LOUD child lately, screaming, whining, you know the rest. It was worse than normal - he was crying about everything, and none of us could figure out why - and Guthrie had given him a band-aid earlier when he fell and hit his forehead. So, I guess Guthrie figured a band-aid over the mouth would stop the crying.

Thankfully, he didn't try it. But Eric and I couldn't stop laughing. I'm still laughing about it.

MaaaaaMaaaa

Turner only calls for me when he is crying. I've been somewhat concerned over his lack of speech (although the ped told me not to worry, as has everyone else), and disappointed at not hearing him call for me, ever.

A few weeks ago when I came home from working out, Eric told me the whole time I was gone Turner screamed and cried, and he beat on the bathroom door (assuming I was in there) calling "Mama!" over and over again. He stopped (calling, not crying) before I got home.

I've now heard him too. Just a few minutes ago, when he woke up, he came running out of the bedroom, face wrinkled in a cry, calling "MaaaMaa Mamamamama MaaaaaaaaaMa."

I do feel better knowing he can talk, when he needs to. But it sure would be nice to hear him call me when he's happy and just wants to play.

NoMo

So I had this fantasy of doing NaBloPoMo, although I didn't sign up - something about my fear of commitment. I thought it might actually lead me to write here more often, and maybe, occasionally, write something of some merit or substance, let people actually get to know something more about Judy, not just how cute my kids are or how many trains I tripped over today.

It is night, now, and the only time I could really get to write something of substance. Unless I steal the time during Turner's nap, and let Guthrie watch another movie. My "me" time that I get on a regular basis is Monday, Wednesday, Friday (and sometimes Saturday) mornings going to the gym at roughly 9:30 (because that's when Jeopardy is on) to work out. And instead of writing something of substance, I am tired, and have decided to do what I usually do at this time, and sitting down with a glass of wine to converse with my husband, hopefully about something adult and substantive, that does not involve talking of poop, toys, or Thomas the Tank Engine.

Tonight's conversation, so far (Eric got called away briefly) is about taxes, and why they are not evil. That could be a post to itself, but it all frustrates me, and I start feeling so hopeless and angry at people who can't get their head around the whole idea (you drive on roads funded by taxes, you send your kids to schools funded by taxes, maybe your salary is even paid by taxes), that I just want to give up, and go join a group of Communists out there somewhere. Except I don't really want to become Amish.

And so to turn the conversation around, I'll probably bring up new words said by Turner, Guthrie's sudden interest in expanding his vocabulary, and Thomas the Tank Engine. Such is life around here.

Happy Birthday!

Yes, my daughter is 12 years old today. 12. 12?!?!?!

How the heck did that happen? 12?

Just as beautiful and smart as ever, too. Happy Birthday to my sweet baby girl.