tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19103268344022079182024-02-19T00:19:48.048-07:00I'll think of a clever name LATER!Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-60813636558519197972012-05-31T11:03:00.002-06:002012-05-31T11:10:55.501-06:00Pinterest cleaning tip #324Let me save you some time and effort.<br />
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I found a tip for cleaning grout on pinterest that involved baking soda and vinegar.</div>
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Some of you, like me, may be remembering your elementary volcano science project.</div>
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Some of you, like me, may be remembering high school chemistry. In case you aren't, this is the important part:</div>
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Baking soda + vinegar = water + carbon dioxide + sodium acetate</div>
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Granted, some of that stuff sounds impressive. But here's a quick review of what it's good for and where you can find it.</div>
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1. Water--in addition to being handy for Sunday afternoon diversions involving pots and unsuspecting visitors getting in the middle of family bonding time, water is ALSO a universal solvent. Betcha didn't know that, huh? Where to find it? Everywhere. Except maybe Southern Utah.</div>
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2. Carbon dioxide--plants LOVE this stuff. It's the equivalent of plant Monster drinks. Where to find it? Everywhere people breathe successfully. </div>
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3. Sodium acetate--is pretty handy for a few cool homeschool science projects, like hot ice and some crystallization stuff. Where to find it? Ummmm....mix up some vinegar and baking soda.</div>
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Keep in mind, most of what you get from the famous volcano experiment is water--which you can also get from your tap, generally--and carbon dioxide, which you produce by being alive. Which also, coincidentally, diffuses into the very air you breath pretty much right after everything's mixed together.</div>
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So Saturday, in a desperate attempt to distract myself from the fact that the boys leave for a month today, I decided to try out the pinterest grout tip. As I was dumping the vinegar into the baking soda, all of the above went through my cabeza, which proceeded to spit out the following, pin-worthy (in my opinion) grout-cleaning tip:</div>
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Guys. Using baking soda and vinegar to clean your grout is about as effective as spritzing it with water and breathing on it. </div>
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Now, for the actual tip. This is the actual grout-cleaning hero:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJREXM-u1-eyZ1IUlv7BYLO7feEPhZFDXe7YEWN5lbaki9mCYTbPHxxWZSXeZcDd9WQER_pwcThtcDJ0VUb9gnAnF6BO_XxCjcVdlW07qp-a-QiF89ffYZwYw1c2axIq0F0vNpBetNwg/s1600/brush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJREXM-u1-eyZ1IUlv7BYLO7feEPhZFDXe7YEWN5lbaki9mCYTbPHxxWZSXeZcDd9WQER_pwcThtcDJ0VUb9gnAnF6BO_XxCjcVdlW07qp-a-QiF89ffYZwYw1c2axIq0F0vNpBetNwg/s320/brush.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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To keep with the technical nature of this post, here's what you need to effectively clean your grout:</div>
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Grout brush + water + manual labor = clean grout + dirty water</div>
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This formula has the added bonus of NOT causing you to smell like vinegar.</div>
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So you are aware, the limiting reactant in this equation is the manual labor part. I've decided to to a few tiles a day. It may take a few days, but sooner or later, I'll have clean grout. Just in time for it to get dirty again, I imagine. Seriously. Who uses light-colored grout? ALL GROUT should be dark brown. DARK brown. </div>
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Just be glad I didn't go off on my rant about breastfeeding, 16 oz sodas, P. Diddy's kid being unjustly criticized for having a successful father, and the honor student who was thrown in jail for missing ten days of school. Because I could. All of that is a nice distraction from the real issue at hand. Guys, I am having a PANIC ATTACK about this year's summer visit. Full blown PANIC ATTACK. Deep breath.</div>
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You know what this means? In six weeks, I get to have my semiannual dirty laundry rant. Ahhhhhhh yeah. Good times.</div>
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And for the record, the micropseudosuede fabric cleaning tip involving rubbing alcohol DOES work. Wonders. Again, though, the hero of the day is elbow grease.</div>
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Amazing how hard work pays off.</div>
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Unless you're P. Diddy's kid, then it gets you chewed out. </div>
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All right, I'm out. I'm going to carry on with my fall apart over laundry and a rice krispie treat. Take that, New York City soda ban!</div>
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<br /></div>Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-65490918962089686092012-05-13T18:44:00.001-06:002012-05-13T18:44:12.535-06:00I know why animals eat their young (a mother's day post)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's because they tattle. Or shove their dirty socks in between the couch cushions for me to find a week later. Or--my personal favorite--they literally rip open the bathroom door, splintering the door jamb, and causing me to have to teach them HOW TO CLOSE A DOOR CORRECTLY (turn the doorknob, THEN close--or open--the door). FACEPALM.
All of this is weighing heavily on my mind because the possibility of us moving to Mesa is becoming more, well, possible. As a result, we'll have to find new housing. And, since we aren't in a position to buy a house right now, we have to find a rental that will take dogs. Which I think is ironic (in the actual sense of the word), because our dogs have NEVER shattered a door jamb. Or dragged pointy bass endpins across wooden floors. Kids are infinitely more destructive than dogs. Truth.<br />
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Speaking of landlords: the morons next door. Holy smokes. They've been in the house THREE DAYS, and we've already had four police units and an emergency response vehicle at the property, searching for blunts and empties while an angry dad held his sixteen year old daughter by the arm because the lovely tenants wouldn't let her leave (read: she didn't want to leave, so the neighbors refused the parents' entry). THEN the lovely neighbors came to yell at us for having the audacity to call their landlord. We've gone the rounds before with the landlord over the tenants next door, so when we had the aromatic smell of marijuana wafting into our bedroom Friday night, our joint (HA!) iron fist made an appearance.
All of which has led me to the following conclusion: I would MUCH rather have a nice, openly gay couple living next door than those entitled meatheads. And let's not discuss the number of hits on the registered sex offender list that our block has, mmmmkay?<br />
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Yeah, Mesa's looking good.<br />
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Some of you may be wondering why I haven't blogged lately. Or been on Facebook. It's because I turn into She Hulk and start raging. And I don't like it. So let's post some relaxing pictures of all the non-rage-inducing things my wonderful kids have done recently. They really are great. I just have rage issues. Here they are:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaagrD7XBOaO0DJEKlVSCAdGdMTnkFD-bUTv0vP-u1aQiVq8Ccbi9iGYhf2OjrwYv7FzU_OOhAhjANrHhSp7EWsBMF-9wI9VnSDCgsuRfei-GCD9ApZh8jPsCChmyvDsT24UeFTw_cFv4/s1600/photo%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaagrD7XBOaO0DJEKlVSCAdGdMTnkFD-bUTv0vP-u1aQiVq8Ccbi9iGYhf2OjrwYv7FzU_OOhAhjANrHhSp7EWsBMF-9wI9VnSDCgsuRfei-GCD9ApZh8jPsCChmyvDsT24UeFTw_cFv4/s320/photo%25281%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please note the position of his feet. Ladies and gentlemen, he has mastered the scooter.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcJ3aGj7bzEpep3kxyy1WR0OIBKEghk4G92kyyh1WIZlhyphenhyphennCHJFSITsBTkXtkt8LJjfVk6qPC0coDDKelCiTNgFhVMYYEJ2K5B393fzF4c9h0ZBhpKFnn9raNuRZ3IwiyUiVrc51Wk10/s1600/photo%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcJ3aGj7bzEpep3kxyy1WR0OIBKEghk4G92kyyh1WIZlhyphenhyphennCHJFSITsBTkXtkt8LJjfVk6qPC0coDDKelCiTNgFhVMYYEJ2K5B393fzF4c9h0ZBhpKFnn9raNuRZ3IwiyUiVrc51Wk10/s320/photo%25283%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photobombed. Go Manny.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyabOiHCizWiMe6Y_ffVpP-LtLQ9_GtWSGidZMmh-PtvPmiC265FdS_T6UjSyxBEVUpdxW-iUHRWar_6rURGDAdO5dHS6xv89xrW4-7tDIcN1smlnRiQXtgMOUYr6CYbxxO6wRWfJW660/s1600/photo%25284%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyabOiHCizWiMe6Y_ffVpP-LtLQ9_GtWSGidZMmh-PtvPmiC265FdS_T6UjSyxBEVUpdxW-iUHRWar_6rURGDAdO5dHS6xv89xrW4-7tDIcN1smlnRiQXtgMOUYr6CYbxxO6wRWfJW660/s320/photo%25284%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethan ran a 5k at school a few weeks ago. Go, Ethan! Me? I run around trying to keep Gabriel and Jamie from fighting.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg62BE1XO7oD9RD4f4JHHB45taR5vkP3n0mPEYDH6HYbLpuQqry5nUHrK-_DkPpBP_IYq_1ZDhxeYVDIY5ZnKN8agcEMxoWypJObUpNbUlW6hWSgOq5nF5epfXkgiAuQ7r0AcqYz3erT4M/s1600/photo%25285%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg62BE1XO7oD9RD4f4JHHB45taR5vkP3n0mPEYDH6HYbLpuQqry5nUHrK-_DkPpBP_IYq_1ZDhxeYVDIY5ZnKN8agcEMxoWypJObUpNbUlW6hWSgOq5nF5epfXkgiAuQ7r0AcqYz3erT4M/s320/photo%25285%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David Tennant FTW.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brothers don't shake hands. Brothers gotta hug.</td></tr>
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Peace out.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-21237753193592914802011-12-28T14:22:00.000-07:002011-12-28T14:22:37.425-07:00It's going to be legen...wait for it...DARY!Lately, I've had a series of annoying age-related realizations. I'll spare you the details, because they likely fall into the category of "TMI," but I won't spare you the effects of said realizations. Because they are--like I said--LEGENDARY.<br />
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Here's the deal: if I don't change something quick, my pancreas is going to blow out like an overworked tire and I'll end up turning into a Meegan-shaped pile of sugar long before Jamie graduates from high school. This isn't good. So, in a nutshell, I've decided that--against my own better judgement--I am going to run in some sort of K race on or around my birthday. <br />
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However, I hate commitments. Also, I'm pretty sure that I look like this when I run:<br />
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To avoid all of that, I decided to make up my own event. And so, I am proud to announce the...<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;">First Annual </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mXWXwxPtXg" target="_blank">Guy Fleegman</a> Run for Your Life</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">(or walk. whatever. it's your life.)</span></div><br />
Here's how it will work:<br />
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1. Decide you're going to participate.<br />
2. Wake up on Sep. 22nd.<br />
3. Going for a run. Or a walk. You decide where and how far.<br />
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Now, it's been pointed out to me that one of the reasons people participate in these crazy things (when staying at home and eating donuts is so much more inviting) is for the t-shirt, so I added a few more instructions:<br />
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2a. Get out your red shirt and a sharpie. The shirt HAS to be red. In the spirit of Crewman Number Six(es) everywhere.<br />
2b. Write, "First Annual Guy Fleegman Run For Your Life, 2012" on the front and "I'm the plucky comic relief" on the back.<br />
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Also, as it will be Brianna's 15th birthday (one of the age-related realizations that freaked me out), I added yet ANOTHER instruction. I know, this is getting WAY too complicated, but here it is:<br />
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4. Eat a piece of cake and think about how this is the last year that Monna and Casey don't have to worry about living with a teenage driver.<br />
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Guys!!!!! This will be awesome! There will be literally three or four of us, dressed in our awesome red shirts (for unity!), from all four corners of Utah running for our lives.<br />
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To indicate your participation, text or email me the phrase, "By Grabthar's hammer, I WILL RUN IT!"<br />
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And if you missed the link the first time, here it is again for your viewing pleasure:<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mXWXwxPtXg" target="_blank">click on the dang link, already!</a>Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-69212328862148436752011-12-25T21:42:00.001-07:002011-12-25T21:42:15.353-07:00The month in review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Just after Thanksgiving, I started interviewing for a house helper. Several mischievous shelf-dwelling elves applied for the position, but I didn't think our boys needed any ideas. Fortunately, this guy turned up and saved the day. He is...the Alfred Family's Sneaky Snowman:<br />
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The weather has been unseasonably pleasant so far this winter...as long as by "pleasant," you mean "sunny," and don't care that the temperature never breaks thirty. There hasn't been much snow, either--can I get a hallelujah? It was causing Elijah much stress, though, so the snowman brought us a personal snow storm...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfbWpUoazPrbqLc0kYbrLdlVv2Pob8-bNQ9j9nGxaGeDrzxIWuwih9c1CRcIGalOb1OXRyrzEtffOkKRqn8DTOnckxsXRWBJfKAxC3XBPqdvPsD2HRHEbPuin176RH8QbmBkP1aflbMoY/s1600/PC042758+%2528768x1024%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfbWpUoazPrbqLc0kYbrLdlVv2Pob8-bNQ9j9nGxaGeDrzxIWuwih9c1CRcIGalOb1OXRyrzEtffOkKRqn8DTOnckxsXRWBJfKAxC3XBPqdvPsD2HRHEbPuin176RH8QbmBkP1aflbMoY/s320/PC042758+%2528768x1024%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a million space bucks if you can figure out why Ethan dubbed these "Nerd Flakes"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The Sneaky Snowman also went all Highlander on the fridge snowman (there can be only one!) and left, in its place, a massive Christmas present, complete with ribbons and bows. And, in what is clearly an example of going the second mile, he spared the boys from a long and painful death at the hands of their Evil Stepmother by cleaning their room (there was UNDERWEAR--dirty, of course--in the legos. Seriously. Boys. The hamper is three feet away).<br />
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On Ethan's birthday, he made dessert sushi. Ethan is a sushi FREAK. Note: the snowman reports that sushi is not as easy to make as it looks, even when the sticky rice is rice krispy treat.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0O2UaoU9LoadLABkvTI67ipFnTHTqZNkuWL_bUKo_aU1JrzODsSmYEmz3ExvajAP_JOa_jKBXl-wXlKksidoTAvPV1SBYfesfuhdDdGGSgSf4fPQucnNAsJJVrJAaauilv07OXDySl6Q/s1600/PC112782+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0O2UaoU9LoadLABkvTI67ipFnTHTqZNkuWL_bUKo_aU1JrzODsSmYEmz3ExvajAP_JOa_jKBXl-wXlKksidoTAvPV1SBYfesfuhdDdGGSgSf4fPQucnNAsJJVrJAaauilv07OXDySl6Q/s320/PC112782+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Speaking of Ethan's birthday, most of you know he turned twelve this year. This means, of course, that he has blown out the candles on twelve birthday cakes. At this point, you'd think he would have the routine down. Shockingly, not so much. I set the cake down in front of him, and he blew out the candles before we could sing. Facepalm. <br />
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I love that little space cadet. He did SO well passing the sacrament--I was massively proud of him. He didn't drop anything or whack anyone on the back of the head with a tray, which I consider a major victory for a kid who routinely walks into closed doors due to his poor situational awareness.<br />
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Anyhoo, the snowman wreaked pleasant havoc for the month. I think he'll stick around until the new year, as the boys are missing the last few days of his awesomeness while they are at their mom's for Christmas.<br />
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Speaking of Christmas, it took awhile, but Gabriel finally got into the Christmas groove...about the time Jamie woke up and we opened her presents:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGutXV6YXVNhT5cx7tKDClievUKe7_b7tBkJRUMv-yzxxmDWw7d2bx0icWo7MhctrOluXuNIk1i7T4uAR-zJZa3RAz8KIoPTpS3euJVBWzZBNXIrnVa53v1KSkoxstpcdWy5qFsSMJ6A/s1600/PC262830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGutXV6YXVNhT5cx7tKDClievUKe7_b7tBkJRUMv-yzxxmDWw7d2bx0icWo7MhctrOluXuNIk1i7T4uAR-zJZa3RAz8KIoPTpS3euJVBWzZBNXIrnVa53v1KSkoxstpcdWy5qFsSMJ6A/s320/PC262830.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Not that Jamie really cared...she found the wrapping paper cast offs and the rest was history. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3FtO2lj9wtbKh_ul9s5luFjDS7MW1UrewGkzvI49POFWG2LasJ_8yUJVK8qdd5i6Ui8zGCNt9OrqamsSE-Kb-hGvOY7sdNew_OxJOvxVzXe_00pvEcprQUy9hKqzjW5EHKvVEX4DIrU/s1600/PC262837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3FtO2lj9wtbKh_ul9s5luFjDS7MW1UrewGkzvI49POFWG2LasJ_8yUJVK8qdd5i6Ui8zGCNt9OrqamsSE-Kb-hGvOY7sdNew_OxJOvxVzXe_00pvEcprQUy9hKqzjW5EHKvVEX4DIrU/s320/PC262837.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
One of Jamie's gifts is a Baby Prison. To me, it was the most awesome puzzle ever and I was about to put it together when Jon and Gabriel realized that for me to do the honors would be an threat to their manhood.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZndojq5dX6MXtjIDmc7-xGPYYXupauJkoMN_SiHc8wfbp_ZsqyTMQAtdxXYeOL4eR73WDqVzz14o6dqfJVMCqs0jwUBcotTf3lPuNJ6hyphenhyphenaNnNQkxLCthRU33UCRWeVK0CAPnEdr8Kug/s1600/PC262864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZndojq5dX6MXtjIDmc7-xGPYYXupauJkoMN_SiHc8wfbp_ZsqyTMQAtdxXYeOL4eR73WDqVzz14o6dqfJVMCqs0jwUBcotTf3lPuNJ6hyphenhyphenaNnNQkxLCthRU33UCRWeVK0CAPnEdr8Kug/s320/PC262864.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7mjB39XJOGRiOK1t91bl4pu0T2ohgb6NWRIaDmgwIiCctTcYt6YnGloHQY5s_jBTUXSnsLvzVDrHYgj0cyUqn4L-ikFkWXteCtr75-FRmf-Pp0TyL5KRMNFpWKWokOtjkcCnfZrKGk8/s1600/PC262869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7mjB39XJOGRiOK1t91bl4pu0T2ohgb6NWRIaDmgwIiCctTcYt6YnGloHQY5s_jBTUXSnsLvzVDrHYgj0cyUqn4L-ikFkWXteCtr75-FRmf-Pp0TyL5KRMNFpWKWokOtjkcCnfZrKGk8/s320/PC262869.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><br />
Are you ready for some awesomeness? The Mirror Alfreds gave this to Gabriel. I'm pretty sure it's intended to be a cape for HIM, but Gabriel seems to think that I'm supposed to wear it and chase him around whilst roaring like a dinosaur. Either way, it's the cutest flipping cape EVER:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJL2IBmatDFI586VZs6Cp9VkIleZLnP06AfQDCPDhZ79RMgnzDFcjmn5C7nsDhHtNdACCb70tOBIyef3SSqDtYNWTZeVD0kb5LGEJla7z4DRdYYkAysKbg49QdLqifd8UNBHe1sWxFTVY/s1600/PC262870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJL2IBmatDFI586VZs6Cp9VkIleZLnP06AfQDCPDhZ79RMgnzDFcjmn5C7nsDhHtNdACCb70tOBIyef3SSqDtYNWTZeVD0kb5LGEJla7z4DRdYYkAysKbg49QdLqifd8UNBHe1sWxFTVY/s320/PC262870.JPG" width="182" /></a></div><br />
I don't know WHY Gabriel is scared to go in his tent...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI58WsZv-p2wj6wPtK-yaCvSzZvwgx-dykx_eH2h2N4Qub6K_U9mLUVddJmH9xXq4ykencOkvzXQNaxifVI57pi021F-v_dnASlKGTqBSxjCxCSPnMvOMhxNMS3QARNEmanIfbFOYJSyw/s1600/PC262875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI58WsZv-p2wj6wPtK-yaCvSzZvwgx-dykx_eH2h2N4Qub6K_U9mLUVddJmH9xXq4ykencOkvzXQNaxifVI57pi021F-v_dnASlKGTqBSxjCxCSPnMvOMhxNMS3QARNEmanIfbFOYJSyw/s320/PC262875.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
His man-eating dinosaur tent. Hmmm....when you put the facts together, it's not that startling.<br />
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And finally, I give you reason #132 why we freak out the neighbors:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNVt1S0kNDh0TEQucFVW62VY8lAHwrxC3n-adk6is1HLaIVgjiohK1CTaQMYoDza1JSUZC4ARHuwPfjeAhv89XmzYw4tMF1AyMIKrmzmyu-oZsnE-OGTOiPPAr4U0j84Ckot68lsswso/s1600/PC262880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNVt1S0kNDh0TEQucFVW62VY8lAHwrxC3n-adk6is1HLaIVgjiohK1CTaQMYoDza1JSUZC4ARHuwPfjeAhv89XmzYw4tMF1AyMIKrmzmyu-oZsnE-OGTOiPPAr4U0j84Ckot68lsswso/s320/PC262880.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Most voyeurs go for subtle. Not us. At our house, we're all, "We saw what you did last night, sickos, and we aren't going to hide it."<br />
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Merry Christmas.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-76844021522998562042011-11-19T16:10:00.000-07:002011-11-19T16:10:43.085-07:00Approximately 13,000 words for your reading pleasureI'm so incredibly, insanely tired.<br />
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Gabriel has croup, which means I got ZERO sleep last night, but I DID get to bring home a cool elephant breathing mask from our early-morning stay at the hospitable IHC Instacare around the corner.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjoIMkmZrkCfYhJ6GZZJm6dWtH-EEZxFp-VGHxaQ5afKmeHKm0fehXqd85EP16Zmy2KYB3yT3tYq4QADK6lfAlOvf4AdNzpB0ofyDezY7VwvaH7CvRtYrd9pUA1n0_Uuvo6dKifJHlgM/s1600/mask.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjoIMkmZrkCfYhJ6GZZJm6dWtH-EEZxFp-VGHxaQ5afKmeHKm0fehXqd85EP16Zmy2KYB3yT3tYq4QADK6lfAlOvf4AdNzpB0ofyDezY7VwvaH7CvRtYrd9pUA1n0_Uuvo6dKifJHlgM/s320/mask.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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Which, in turn, means that odds are good that Jamie will soon have croup, because Gabriel, like so many others, has decided to have a "thing" this month. However, unlike you cool, hip, talented people doing NaNoWriMo, Gabriel is participating in the lesser-known SiGeShaMo (Sibling Germ Sharing Month).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hkyA2SbpZoGZRTAM3t5meHGRdxQeYYTWclm-5jm1BOHL6ykJ8uQZTdzdihTnt5wJ7hBpJC8BR33SC-dnUekMTdovhpnVXVr337ToSrsxkXIFlvnPL8UHo0Q46nuLJczBCBYePwWPsmg/s1600/siblings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hkyA2SbpZoGZRTAM3t5meHGRdxQeYYTWclm-5jm1BOHL6ykJ8uQZTdzdihTnt5wJ7hBpJC8BR33SC-dnUekMTdovhpnVXVr337ToSrsxkXIFlvnPL8UHo0Q46nuLJczBCBYePwWPsmg/s320/siblings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So basically, I'm biding my time between sick kids. Let us pray...<br />
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In other news, I love the dollar store. Where else can five bucks get you a set of tires and a puppy? Nowhere. The dollar store rocks. <br />
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The dollar store is also responsible for the dramatic increase in ambient noise in our house. Cuz I bought a ping pong set. For a dollar. Clearly, we're dealing with high quality sporting equipment here. Which is probably for the best, as they will quickly either be lost (by one of our kidlets) or chewed to pieces (by one of our dogs. Or one of the boys. Who am I kidding? I'm a side of bacon away from living the cold weather version of Lord of the Flies.)<br />
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For your edification, here are some pictures of our mad Ping Pong skillz, as well as some important Alfred Family Ping Pong moves. Feel free to use our moves in your next ping pong game.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzp0sc3QASIalBUOudC6l_p1xe_hY-81SjEempGpDarp4goO556K0ORKrvRcVz6hGvMxfX-luaPzQ7LITwKNI87w07baxzWFhFIOEskwm8g-Dfsd31LgsBkqVLQ3Ov2HPtL02RY8Qdjc/s1600/pingpong1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzp0sc3QASIalBUOudC6l_p1xe_hY-81SjEempGpDarp4goO556K0ORKrvRcVz6hGvMxfX-luaPzQ7LITwKNI87w07baxzWFhFIOEskwm8g-Dfsd31LgsBkqVLQ3Ov2HPtL02RY8Qdjc/s320/pingpong1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The "Robyn:" to hit your opponent in the eye with the ball. HARD.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5KSXfSVpM_ABacL5W3B1_48CuXQ8Yt0Irc5_ZJUhNdgmqdktY7aR3PHVUCt5frVTCJQ2BKE17Tw2AcO8Ph6zWi66yzSfUtkuM0Ce520AlnoXY7Urebsx4zRZC-AFiPHqXq8-L0OhS9k/s1600/elijahpingpong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5KSXfSVpM_ABacL5W3B1_48CuXQ8Yt0Irc5_ZJUhNdgmqdktY7aR3PHVUCt5frVTCJQ2BKE17Tw2AcO8Ph6zWi66yzSfUtkuM0Ce520AlnoXY7Urebsx4zRZC-AFiPHqXq8-L0OhS9k/s320/elijahpingpong.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
The "Elijah:" to play a ball that bounces off a person on the sidelines<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4RWz0A6Ypwgg5um-RQZXUdwetl5BmtY0cBArhPhMdm91_Ko6FBniO3m9PgEAguVO0UOkbkClNS8bV-UyLRaoQiOSXP_wP5FMqilzHmmZ9gcW9_j9i2icuTd8VDbp_OlWQzXPmwr6W6KQ/s1600/pingpong2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4RWz0A6Ypwgg5um-RQZXUdwetl5BmtY0cBArhPhMdm91_Ko6FBniO3m9PgEAguVO0UOkbkClNS8bV-UyLRaoQiOSXP_wP5FMqilzHmmZ9gcW9_j9i2icuTd8VDbp_OlWQzXPmwr6W6KQ/s320/pingpong2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
The "Ethan:" to yell, "You've been SERVED!" Repeatedly.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYfue4Ytge-TDVdmlbh7BmC3RLM9qHKBifgzbHRijy13khyC8zGF7Tt4WEwlHezDBpEqwrxPgD3Ve0PzyA7RtCwiHbFBvhY66Qa9j6Ga4xTyus42y3-9sPGH5pfVbABsMNuOo7vVs7_I/s1600/ETHANPINGPONG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYfue4Ytge-TDVdmlbh7BmC3RLM9qHKBifgzbHRijy13khyC8zGF7Tt4WEwlHezDBpEqwrxPgD3Ve0PzyA7RtCwiHbFBvhY66Qa9j6Ga4xTyus42y3-9sPGH5pfVbABsMNuOo7vVs7_I/s320/ETHANPINGPONG.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The "Meegan:" to roll the ball down your chest before returning it.<br />
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In other news, I counted 5480 of these. THREE FREAKING TIMES. Because--apparently--I have poor listening comprehension. Thank heavens Robyn and Jon took pity on me and helped out. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzi-sL79JgxleV_ryleEa6KS347pn6v2SFTxTqvu6wg-XT4bK2mtPFS5pCrZABCFTyC1goBcBRLA8qgT6Gp45kfOJ_slRHMjUu_hHajLyXsjnSdFWFZpcbEhm3xIooHkj26cIVOZaOCU/s1600/boxtops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzi-sL79JgxleV_ryleEa6KS347pn6v2SFTxTqvu6wg-XT4bK2mtPFS5pCrZABCFTyC1goBcBRLA8qgT6Gp45kfOJ_slRHMjUu_hHajLyXsjnSdFWFZpcbEhm3xIooHkj26cIVOZaOCU/s320/boxtops.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Five thousand four hundred and eighty. Three times. If I had a million dollars, I would have just GIVEN the school the 548 dollars.<br />
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Then again...if I had a million dollars, I'd buy you some art...a Picasso or a Garfunkel...<br />
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(SNERK)<br />
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OK, moving on from the Bare Naked Ladies...I've actually been making stuff from Pinterest. You know, in between bouts of Gabriel not breathing and family ping pong tournaments (wherein I humiliate Robyn). <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHDw7etu1BYZClVH9L5WHQmfuwx89oLYZx70h2TjTyTA4_Syn0sySG5Zcqf8tf4Ts54FoEItCi3RKz5aKVmgKyIj_FJy1fGd4sjEFsAl5zp4YFrmqfQK7z4mpuAbTdSx-CEXHySA3538/s1600/lightswitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHDw7etu1BYZClVH9L5WHQmfuwx89oLYZx70h2TjTyTA4_Syn0sySG5Zcqf8tf4Ts54FoEItCi3RKz5aKVmgKyIj_FJy1fGd4sjEFsAl5zp4YFrmqfQK7z4mpuAbTdSx-CEXHySA3538/s320/lightswitch.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When Ethan saw this (it's in his room), he ran around the house freaking out because there was something wrong with his light switch. This from the kid we sent to Harry Potter camp. FACEPALM! </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3rJ7Xn6XPNCF_eHrdy3G3s_6N2h8Rv4Eii79S2NCRcItkP9gBDnpc6e_ItFlksMhqkMd54bQJgM-AXvYzrUJU7BeEfqkC-Hvcy72T6s4tuBDjn8O6UOt1zUqgqEDo5tt_DCXNPf06AU/s1600/jetpack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3rJ7Xn6XPNCF_eHrdy3G3s_6N2h8Rv4Eii79S2NCRcItkP9gBDnpc6e_ItFlksMhqkMd54bQJgM-AXvYzrUJU7BeEfqkC-Hvcy72T6s4tuBDjn8O6UOt1zUqgqEDo5tt_DCXNPf06AU/s320/jetpack.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLtNXCV_ZC-l3uA9AHwqytNlBfisJk2159C5abZyy-z0edW4b-75-LIC-7XaEKcFl8c7DhyphenhyphenBh87IfcJksGxQ-mumtYW78t9ym_miHbRVJB_S471p1_dO0DlpPTLsWY0t5iXuA3H1fukY/s1600/snowman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLtNXCV_ZC-l3uA9AHwqytNlBfisJk2159C5abZyy-z0edW4b-75-LIC-7XaEKcFl8c7DhyphenhyphenBh87IfcJksGxQ-mumtYW78t9ym_miHbRVJB_S471p1_dO0DlpPTLsWY0t5iXuA3H1fukY/s320/snowman.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gabriel already stripped Frosty of his buttons.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Happy Thanksgiving!Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-64130783291077686182011-10-14T12:00:00.000-06:002011-10-14T12:00:27.815-06:00Why I like the name Jack, #132<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIYaegeyN_ntjzHVciFbaf6zzFzPFJQY1hAImp_xmiQYxmph-9ZXmE2TVgscSD4qSWbBOk5-k46yXwQPAAS7EeX7j-HbIIt2MGEoWUDrS2LLeUCc9sqIkMMXkOpQy6CRTdG-aiH_HAPI/s1600/jack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIYaegeyN_ntjzHVciFbaf6zzFzPFJQY1hAImp_xmiQYxmph-9ZXmE2TVgscSD4qSWbBOk5-k46yXwQPAAS7EeX7j-HbIIt2MGEoWUDrS2LLeUCc9sqIkMMXkOpQy6CRTdG-aiH_HAPI/s320/jack.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table> I dare you to name a dorky Jack.<br />
<br />
(There are none.)<br />
<br />
If God decides to mock me and I somehow end up with another kid, that child will be named Jack.<br />
<br />
Even if it's a girl.<br />
<br />
That is all.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-89237189837013407502011-10-13T07:03:00.000-06:002011-10-13T07:03:01.660-06:00I'll think of a clever name LATER!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><i>Dear Fall Funk,</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I really don't like you. If it weren't for Winter Inversion, you'd be my least favorite seasonal event ever. Take a lesson from Summer Fun . Or even Spring Seasonal Allergies. I hope I give you a complex, you big jerk.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Hugs,</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Meegan</i><br />
<br />
***And now for something completely different***<br />
<br />
My friends are a motley crew. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvBYwnRhJCdccQEcUX0luHoM53_0wBPHXDBIiPyx6-PHCridKvVGastV22BmG8waWz6hhu1eiW5lh2s7HijNhO6TcaGdgwCydxlcL5F_HUGxJFoB33hUCLme3mvcH2-80UKS1oIbfCtc/s1600/PA082582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvBYwnRhJCdccQEcUX0luHoM53_0wBPHXDBIiPyx6-PHCridKvVGastV22BmG8waWz6hhu1eiW5lh2s7HijNhO6TcaGdgwCydxlcL5F_HUGxJFoB33hUCLme3mvcH2-80UKS1oIbfCtc/s320/PA082582.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And she's the GOOD influence in my life. I'm doomed.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Mollee and her Smurf-a-Day eating habit are nothing, though, when compared to my friend, April, who enticed me to join a cult. "Come and eat dinner, spend time with the girls and get away for a few hours," she said. <br />
<br />
So I did.<br />
<br />
And then I joined a cult. And, let me tell you, I'm a Mormon...wait...a Latter Day Saint (GAH!). Anyways, I know my cults. I should have seen it coming. Especially when she yelled, "You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders - The most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia" - but only slightly less well-known is this: "Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line"! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha..." <br />
<br />
Except replace "Sicilian" with "Mormon." And replace "death" with "bunco." <br />
<br />
But that's just semantics. I'm pretty sure my (now) fellow cult members take bunco a lot more seriously than the threat of death. I have never seen such intensity. At least, not outside of Las Vegas. <br />
<br />
Imagine a table with four women hunkered down over it, rolling dice as though their lives depended on it. Dice were prematurely grabbed. Hands were slapped away. Stuffed animals were thrown. Tears were shed. And tomorrow, they'll go back to their normal lives as moms and teachers and therapists and pretend that NOTHING HAPPENED and that they are PERFECTLY NORMAL, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. <br />
<br />
But I know the truth. And I'm in trouble, because I just happened to agree to sub on the night they drew for hosting duties for the coming year, and got suckered into being a permanent member of the group.<br />
<br />
April, you're a bad influence. You were there when I pierced my ears. And then when I finally succumbed to peer pressure and joined my first bunco group.<br />
<br />
(dramatic reenactment:)<br />
<br />
Me: This is madness!<br />
<br />
April: Madness? This is Bunco!<br />
<br />
I guess I should be glad she didn't kick me into a well at that point...<br />
<br />
***And now for something completely different*** <br />
<br />
Pictures of the cutest Two-th year old EVER:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWSxca7lSzT4tJ5p4xTkkRLTaWSH2TjO3kdjsI41QkhPHDEAZyp2XS_oY_c_yJbz5oYCoJCsF7qZzdOr2NUDOGCfpWWp46qh600lxe3SQhFqht7QM7PTP6hIV8wnK1tNUqs3P-zJkQnE/s1600/PA082523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWSxca7lSzT4tJ5p4xTkkRLTaWSH2TjO3kdjsI41QkhPHDEAZyp2XS_oY_c_yJbz5oYCoJCsF7qZzdOr2NUDOGCfpWWp46qh600lxe3SQhFqht7QM7PTP6hIV8wnK1tNUqs3P-zJkQnE/s320/PA082523.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We could have given him only the balloons and he would have been perfectly content.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKfjSKYQKEln0neLfDUnCILk6KhKsQefVesFrIn_bVPyotFqS8ST6Y-xxmFYJ7Alh4lfAvQ-jrV0w8tYur-dX8Sqtdhb15a6-dg6togdqxdICxZQOcx3FyAsP4YdId4lCwBi-o_YfUjg/s1600/PA082554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKfjSKYQKEln0neLfDUnCILk6KhKsQefVesFrIn_bVPyotFqS8ST6Y-xxmFYJ7Alh4lfAvQ-jrV0w8tYur-dX8Sqtdhb15a6-dg6togdqxdICxZQOcx3FyAsP4YdId4lCwBi-o_YfUjg/s320/PA082554.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But some of our friends got him bubbles, and that pretty much made his year.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2Kr7TL1PhIZ7PMhA9iL0ANw2oqqjdbhahlhnJSDy8jb2VQSuTldpt9FWFRzck-z6Il4ZjVGMUMCxV8We6AmRK34bR8EtLRbzkL3VqyPAcn-Va1I9VMOSnYd8IwBIsdQQQdkH18oxXd0/s1600/PA082562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2Kr7TL1PhIZ7PMhA9iL0ANw2oqqjdbhahlhnJSDy8jb2VQSuTldpt9FWFRzck-z6Il4ZjVGMUMCxV8We6AmRK34bR8EtLRbzkL3VqyPAcn-Va1I9VMOSnYd8IwBIsdQQQdkH18oxXd0/s320/PA082562.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few days later was Jon's 36nd birthday. Like I need a bad influence in my life. I'm my own worst enemy. I giggled for hours after this one, folks. Because apparently, I"m easily amused.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Some of Gabriel's gifts inspired the BEST. FAMILY HOME EVENING ACTIVITY. EVER.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Hoyb7lYsRqbZRCrjAvmzR0_rAa-WT7lFiFWN1fnBNy-hZKPFRYuC77d0HPf1yCOr2LRZloB3ReIIGbUqqaagGRx3kZgNZuDU5aqBYTtkOX8IOxwzLVJ_bhAEAwwxUb8oiYT4sY-vCx8/s1600/PA092584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Hoyb7lYsRqbZRCrjAvmzR0_rAa-WT7lFiFWN1fnBNy-hZKPFRYuC77d0HPf1yCOr2LRZloB3ReIIGbUqqaagGRx3kZgNZuDU5aqBYTtkOX8IOxwzLVJ_bhAEAwwxUb8oiYT4sY-vCx8/s320/PA092584.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUOB8TrckBkXVkVUdWamkmrmkxv-McxE5rF-gYQoVhzcM7GMKcevX4SV5Syw1XyrdRGEP0Mf4nmJLPzBkoO74uQkqINpM0KzVdCV-wB5Q1qSWG5soGqNM-1TDXAVu8GVs1QZQ8Ttzb7g/s1600/PA092587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUOB8TrckBkXVkVUdWamkmrmkxv-McxE5rF-gYQoVhzcM7GMKcevX4SV5Syw1XyrdRGEP0Mf4nmJLPzBkoO74uQkqINpM0KzVdCV-wB5Q1qSWG5soGqNM-1TDXAVu8GVs1QZQ8Ttzb7g/s320/PA092587.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTyTkLU3Rp6u3XVl1fRwrz04dVk6Eiyed6gitOQgHOeMh0H6HR2KxSRmqzyVbVMax8QgFlao_alUjSB6SG5s3au5o3A0_XyUmd7urn9tCQdThrN6o3P0ZqW-9f98vRiE2Sf3B9HXhEHU/s1600/PA092589.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTyTkLU3Rp6u3XVl1fRwrz04dVk6Eiyed6gitOQgHOeMh0H6HR2KxSRmqzyVbVMax8QgFlao_alUjSB6SG5s3au5o3A0_XyUmd7urn9tCQdThrN6o3P0ZqW-9f98vRiE2Sf3B9HXhEHU/s320/PA092589.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaFxXlPXVG4Da1lPJigbFI5g6yivS7KYiG-o8RAFvd2j8DjLYyKO9jvi3PyHoWqaINP0FIVcpJeDIT0DGP8TlXyOiWNcxM2nrfUxDgJKbPrAMqZ_6FWuTg31EigMlBgqe16MCikQfhec/s1600/PA092598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaFxXlPXVG4Da1lPJigbFI5g6yivS7KYiG-o8RAFvd2j8DjLYyKO9jvi3PyHoWqaINP0FIVcpJeDIT0DGP8TlXyOiWNcxM2nrfUxDgJKbPrAMqZ_6FWuTg31EigMlBgqe16MCikQfhec/s320/PA092598.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Awwwwww, yeah.<br />
<br />
Peace out.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-63186092617618990322011-10-04T12:32:00.009-06:002011-10-04T12:42:04.717-06:00Five things I didn't blog about due to the onset of Fall FunkHiya, my peeps. Long time, no see.<br />
<br />
After a pretty intense chastising from Mirror-Jon (yeah, Josh, I mean YOU!) regarding my dereliction of various duties, I've decided to drag myself out of my Fall Funk. I've been wallowing in grief over the passing of summer long enough, and I've missed relating several seriously blog-worthy events. So, in no particular order, I give you....<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What Was Going on in Our House Whilst I Was Fighting an Overwhelming Urge to Crawl Back Into Bed, Eat Chocolate, and Watch <u>Bones</u></span></div><br />
<br />
<b>1.</b><b> </b><u><b>I pierced my ears.</b></u> Well, <b><i>I</i></b> didn't pierce my ears. A friendly and helpful Claire's Boutique sales associate trained in the art/science of Ear Piercing was responsible for the actual piercings. Her name was Jamie, which made me like her in spite of the fact that I was paying her a surprising amount of money to put holes in my ears. As it turns out, the experience drove home the reality that I am, in fact, a walking Far Side character. I've known for years that I have a bulging eye that is neither a thyroid problem nor a tumor, as Dr. Doom n' Gloom the Optometrist predicted, but merely a freakishly bulging eye that doesn't affect my vision. I guess he just wanted me to be self-conscious about it for the rest of my life. (Thank you, Brian Regan. You nailed it.) Now, in addition to my bulging eye, it has ALSO been pointed out to me that my ears are excessively uneven AND one of them has a crease RIGHT WHERE THE PIERCING SHOULD BE. Put all that together with my FrankenToes and it's amazing that I even go out in public. <br />
<br />
<b>2. </b> <u><b>USU football BITES.</b></u> They can't hold on to a lead to save their lives. Or, as the joke goes, the USU football team goes to the dollar store. What do they buy? NOTHING, because they only have three quarters. MWAH HA HA HA HA!<br />
<br />
<b>3. <u>Elijah's football team made it into the playoffs.</u></b><u> </u> Now, this has been an ongoing blog-in-progress. From the first day of practice when I astutely noted that the first thing that they teach the boys is How To Walk Like a Jock, I have loved having Elijah on a football team. After several years of pestering Jon about what the heck is going on, I can finally follow what's going on, more or less. And, somehow, when the players are so little and enthusiastic, it's even more fun. Especially when your kid manages NOT to break his leg. That's always a bonus.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMehgNQlNnqapnbrq5bYsCoceFV3zMCHyb_sr8RpFJ717DapdUi-Rr3SBalzE_342mcy5zb_2WD5xJLxkHmXopRx0tqpikAWL6EW4bmXUiQXlso9Ijb716Hc1smB4-Guj0Sj5eg1-kZMc/s1600/football1+%25281024x683%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMehgNQlNnqapnbrq5bYsCoceFV3zMCHyb_sr8RpFJ717DapdUi-Rr3SBalzE_342mcy5zb_2WD5xJLxkHmXopRx0tqpikAWL6EW4bmXUiQXlso9Ijb716Hc1smB4-Guj0Sj5eg1-kZMc/s320/football1+%25281024x683%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
If you look closely, you can seen Elijah in the middle of the lump o' boys. Or, we assume it's him, as there is no other boy with our last name on his team (we're the burgundy and gold team). Having Elijah in football has actually brought out his awesomeness--I asked him if he wants to play again next year, and he does...but he's reluctant because the other boys swear and he doesn't like that. I told him not to let the doofuses ruin his fun and to be the example. Also, surprisingly, he tends to hold back. When Jon and I were talking to him about this, he said he doesn't like turning on his "Hulk," because he's scared he won't be able to turn it off. Seriously. How awesome is this kid? Very awesome. AND he spontaneously started saving money for a mission. <br />
<br />
<b>4. <u>Conference Tacos.</u> </b>(In this section, names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.) If you are unaware, conference tacos are greasy Tacos of Joy that my mom only makes on conference Sundays. After a few rounds of being the one in charge of making them, I know WHY she only makes them twice a year: they suck to make. Good to eat, a pain to make. Literally a pain, this year, because I inadvertently bought Super Splattery Oil (TM) to fry them in, and actually had hot oil spatter INTO MY MOUTH. Also, apparently I'm still functioning with my pregnancy-induced brainlessness, because I actually made Jon send a semi-snarky text to my friend and taco making minion, April, asking her why she was late to the taco making fiesta. As it turned out, I told her the wrong time. FACEPALM. She graciously came anyways (and bearing PIE, no less), and made the cutest little taco hor d'oeuvres (thank you, google, for spelling help. I was so far off on the spelling that spell check could only put up its proverbial hands in surrender). Back on the ranch. While April was busy salvaging remnants of tortillas and prettying them up, another taco making minion, who shall be referred to as Xobyn (the "X" is pronounced like an "R" in this instance)...well, Xobyn was busy making tacos that Picasso would have been proud of. They. Were. Awesome. That is, awesome as long as you don't mind toothpicks going through your soft palate, because I think towards the end, she was just shoving extra toothpicks in to make a statement, and that statement was, "Please write a blog about my mutant taco-making skillz." In Xobyn's defense, yes, they tasted the same. They just looked mean enough to eat you first, if you didn't hustle with the sour cream and beat them to the punch.<br />
<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>5. <u>Ethan and the Baritone.</u></b> Ethan decided he doesn't want to play the viola anymore, which means that, with the new addition of a viola to my personal strings collection, I'm a violin away from being a one-woman string quartet. Anyhoo, instead of the viola, he's playing the baritone, which is basically a small tuba. His reasoning for the change? I quote, "Being in orchestra is DORKY." I didn't have the heart to tell him about band stereotypes. Regardless, he seems to enjoy it MUCH MORE, which makes it all worth it. By "all," I am referring to the cow that seems to have taken up residence in our basement. Also, the fact that he doesn't seem to understand why emptying your spit valve on the living room floor is gross.<br />
<br />
Before I leave you, a few gratuitous family pictures.<br />
<br />
First, check out Gabriel's budding Mad Football Skillz: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31WrbR_cIwrvcmfnRxfT0Pr_AXDts-E97jdBrcYbXI97vZJavJDH0G64BVzM2mXFtvTXzK-eCN2B7IJOKxlUMlmzCZmomHAbSUhADjt7h7UtO2Vkydg-T3TYlhL5wa-UwraQkaUCbB_I/s1600/Gabriel2+running+withball+%2528571x800%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi31WrbR_cIwrvcmfnRxfT0Pr_AXDts-E97jdBrcYbXI97vZJavJDH0G64BVzM2mXFtvTXzK-eCN2B7IJOKxlUMlmzCZmomHAbSUhADjt7h7UtO2Vkydg-T3TYlhL5wa-UwraQkaUCbB_I/s320/Gabriel2+running+withball+%2528571x800%2529.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_WN_9wQ_QRkL2afdaV_rXKnEPpjiejNlrOy_ookLDQvSyaCCrC9WNinTMMD1LUyMlKbblRbAaYncd6WkMFPxGZe1havhqVyqV2UeR5iPkzcfUQZyCkjrSAyWjeRIklGadEH5cW5FFRs/s1600/Gabriel4+running+withball4+%2528571x800%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_WN_9wQ_QRkL2afdaV_rXKnEPpjiejNlrOy_ookLDQvSyaCCrC9WNinTMMD1LUyMlKbblRbAaYncd6WkMFPxGZe1havhqVyqV2UeR5iPkzcfUQZyCkjrSAyWjeRIklGadEH5cW5FFRs/s320/Gabriel4+running+withball4+%2528571x800%2529.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZbyHqtqKkjymsjhEOLj8cym4ruj6LaL6Z0LMeNM8ZnGp-AtlnSGl4h5dNJW6V8rpybBWfSL1oK2PRjaKPyFbBnUSDqtuaKU4qZAJm87p7e-9Nba55FZbyx425qYLicUcMbaSN9_fzO4/s1600/Gabriel5+running+withball2+%2528571x800%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZbyHqtqKkjymsjhEOLj8cym4ruj6LaL6Z0LMeNM8ZnGp-AtlnSGl4h5dNJW6V8rpybBWfSL1oK2PRjaKPyFbBnUSDqtuaKU4qZAJm87p7e-9Nba55FZbyx425qYLicUcMbaSN9_fzO4/s320/Gabriel5+running+withball2+%2528571x800%2529.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPAq9Q2YOsDP7vNx26IzO6uBAmALptfj-0ZgJ6Dn64fLUfBHHiz0MUwNutSrHA7djo1yQ7mwN-lZ1Ak06tlK925016Y1KTT1J5Naz2N5O04pSwt8Lzj2AFweD6IgpOTHPPGat3XE0PBQ4/s1600/babies+%2528683x1024%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPAq9Q2YOsDP7vNx26IzO6uBAmALptfj-0ZgJ6Dn64fLUfBHHiz0MUwNutSrHA7djo1yQ7mwN-lZ1Ak06tlK925016Y1KTT1J5Naz2N5O04pSwt8Lzj2AFweD6IgpOTHPPGat3XE0PBQ4/s320/babies+%2528683x1024%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's a family hike without a Sith Lord?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpPdf6XjiiIaemN4wTj4gzAs5C3lGTyrINDS0nsBKkbqUOrI7INqcn3rANq01cx6ozYJAOmkQTH0BBYfCWKFeFw7tuPEtIcFFopNlny0aB5njdP5aWflXI7DmOGXdqkGf9fgwUYREGjY/s1600/aJonsFave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpPdf6XjiiIaemN4wTj4gzAs5C3lGTyrINDS0nsBKkbqUOrI7INqcn3rANq01cx6ozYJAOmkQTH0BBYfCWKFeFw7tuPEtIcFFopNlny0aB5njdP5aWflXI7DmOGXdqkGf9fgwUYREGjY/s320/aJonsFave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcIkxnknTwQ2oKe_gaZHu231AZirhLOrwjQXpamvVuPsfUAvsyj-YENMx-MSVOJoGPvihpiDqjyTrXdKO7icpo9MjSw4ViQaq5gY8qtXHgC8LCgfIekD6yF5SHWvzZGmxTvxS924CGPfs/s1600/ajamie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcIkxnknTwQ2oKe_gaZHu231AZirhLOrwjQXpamvVuPsfUAvsyj-YENMx-MSVOJoGPvihpiDqjyTrXdKO7icpo9MjSw4ViQaq5gY8qtXHgC8LCgfIekD6yF5SHWvzZGmxTvxS924CGPfs/s320/ajamie.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She sleeps better at two months than Gabriel does at two years.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Special thanks to Oma Alfred for the pictures!<br />
<br />
Peace out, my peeps!Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-26456166141233784832011-09-02T14:10:00.001-06:002011-09-02T14:31:24.275-06:00It's so much more glamorous in the moviesThe boys finally got to live a dream: to experience first hand what it was like to live the life of a knight in the Middle Ages. <br />
<br />
For the last few days, we have had...<br />
<br />
...a moat on the north side of the house.<br />
...intermittent running water.<br />
...sewage build up in the basement.<br />
<br />
All we needed was to put one of the boys in stocks in the front yard and it would have been the Ultimate Medieval Experience.<br />
<br />
I'm telling you, any day that starts with you bailing household bilge out of your basement and ends with the "plumber" (I use the term loosely) telling you that your only option for fixing the washing machine's drainage issues is to run a hose from it to the toilet is a day to blog about. But I'm not going to discuss that much, except to say that the "plumber" had the audacity to put his magnet on our fridge. Without asking. Oh, yeah. That sucker's in the trash.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, what I AM going to blog about is, believe it or not, less pleasant than sewage. At least, it is for Jon. How can I put this delicately? Jon is...going to be "tutored" in a few weeks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87f935GWxGPJTmzUZ0ZMmzIAJxxHH6olh127u2QF6sT3lB9z03Y2VNj90zPMTiqFlUvSnLTZW_jGfBs6Nepd9JgRZtTTXaEaWM0DscO0YlNIg1oEVjbsKURhlO8TiDSbupAWQFV3VGkM/s1600/tutored.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87f935GWxGPJTmzUZ0ZMmzIAJxxHH6olh127u2QF6sT3lB9z03Y2VNj90zPMTiqFlUvSnLTZW_jGfBs6Nepd9JgRZtTTXaEaWM0DscO0YlNIg1oEVjbsKURhlO8TiDSbupAWQFV3VGkM/s320/tutored.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
His pre-op appointment was on Wednesday. Lucky Jon. His urologist is apparently an IDIOT, because he told Jon to warn me that he (Jon) has to take it totally easy for two days after the surgery.<br />
<br />
Question: what kind of moron would actually tell his postpartum wife that he HAS to be lazy? I imagine the conversation would go like this:<br />
<br />
Husband: The doctor says I have to take it easy after I'm tutored.<br />
<br />
Wife: (smacks husband)<br />
<br />
Funny story: Jon related this information to me while I was doing the dishes, which was perhaps not the best timing. I didn't maim him, but any sympathy I may have been feeling for him due to the impending permanent detour of his "Special Men" went out the window when I realized that not once, but TWICE, I have pushed a human being out of my body. And both times resulted in tearing in unmentionable places. And, sure, I got a hospital stay out of it (ONE NIGHT!), but even then the nurses made sure I was awake every two hours for one reason or another. There was NO talk of "ease taking."<br />
<br />
In a nutshell, there is a huge difference between men and women when it comes to interpreting and implementing a doctor's advice for recovering from physical trauma. A man will actually try to take it easy, up to and including breathing as little as possible. A woman will forgo mopping the floor and folding laundry.<br />
<br />
However, having said this, I am very grateful for my own personal husband, who is admittedly taking one for the team and will probably not take it as easy as my hormone-driven lunatic imaginings would have me believe. Because that would require intravenous nourishment, and although he likes to talk tough about being a lazy bum, he is generally incredibly helpful and involved with the kids. Even the infant ones.<br />
<br />
******and now for something completely different********<br />
<br />
Jon got me a two-kid jogging stroller for my birthday, on the off chance that I actually take up jogging. Or--more likely--sauntering. While watching Jon assemble it, I was perusing the instruction manual, which was, surprisingly, more complex than:<br />
<br />
1) Put the kid(s) in the stroller.<br />
2) Hold on to the handle.<br />
3) Run. <br />
<br />
One of the actual instructions was, and here I quote:<br />
<br />
"Always fold or unfold the Jogging Stroller slowly and with caution...Children left in a folded stroller may incur serious injury or death. Always remove children from the passenger compartment before folding and storing the Jogging Stroller."<br />
<br />
To quote Brian Regan, I give up on this species.<br />
<br />
Peace.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-33414505318245118172011-08-28T16:15:00.000-06:002011-08-28T16:15:57.881-06:00And now for something completely different....If you haven't heard of pinterest.com yet...beware the following post.<br />
<br />
You probably have. I've never been trendy...I'm usually several years behind..in fact, I'm thinking about stealing my mom's t-shirt and cutting it into pieces to make a super rad cumberbund I heard about.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, on the off chance that you're less aware of your surroundings than I am (which would basically make you an amoeba), and you have HOURS of time to waste in the middle of the night, I highly recommend pinterest.com for your time-wasting needs. It's like the internet on crack. It's like someone--several someones, in fact--took the time to sort through all the garbage floating around on the interwebs and post only the cool stuff.<br />
<br />
There is funny stuff:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMk-Go3dsUoFKXMXG0C-g0yM7Q1zQIo4GtcFJcJHnA1NYnuDn8mA_JHVhfdsXlwiHD0BIt5PSenRdqydu0RvErSzgVfr4JpBBABTfs-yrSnb6MOmGb-lEdhYKvQPUSq7eNAroUY5iUFM/s1600/bella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMk-Go3dsUoFKXMXG0C-g0yM7Q1zQIo4GtcFJcJHnA1NYnuDn8mA_JHVhfdsXlwiHD0BIt5PSenRdqydu0RvErSzgVfr4JpBBABTfs-yrSnb6MOmGb-lEdhYKvQPUSq7eNAroUY5iUFM/s400/bella.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The biggest setback in feminism since the sandwich."</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
And there is serious stuff:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp1QFfXU4LWUd410inMvGKGef5L1jI6HyWgYZ0dZvqhNoH4TIS4wnvYxi7HDf7xhCA_HAovrSve5gl6o6trVmU9m4Kyziz1txxJRs29Ld_SCGsMcONIJg5sMS2wu4szuDBZIz3XYUNS-w/s1600/loveme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp1QFfXU4LWUd410inMvGKGef5L1jI6HyWgYZ0dZvqhNoH4TIS4wnvYxi7HDf7xhCA_HAovrSve5gl6o6trVmU9m4Kyziz1txxJRs29Ld_SCGsMcONIJg5sMS2wu4szuDBZIz3XYUNS-w/s1600/loveme.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Then there's the pretty stuff:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhklaJgXTkVD_eQ3gCrn0PIBbMPDaKQ7z0OxuaAGGolOwpBD8thQkujLag8U9WqQoHNX6qjT11GhTqwhbrNBJFdi80EOBs_qjuiFQLWBiqgYfIybn0IlOzR6551c7jZdZvvJWkpy-9bXHs/s1600/booth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhklaJgXTkVD_eQ3gCrn0PIBbMPDaKQ7z0OxuaAGGolOwpBD8thQkujLag8U9WqQoHNX6qjT11GhTqwhbrNBJFdi80EOBs_qjuiFQLWBiqgYfIybn0IlOzR6551c7jZdZvvJWkpy-9bXHs/s1600/booth.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Crud. That's not the picture I meant to post. (heh heh heh). I meant, "Then there's the pretty stuff:"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuAM817k4KwTnde88tCfT4LVGK3Vnt9H2MBnLTv7RBLCqRwl2Mct5zB3bbrMDr9rle6i1qYK_X8BEyK-Aw-1TZ0p3lUuG2XDtoow8dMuQdT6i0I71f-BPrQRyLrmHpVaHAaC8OYyAFGs/s1600/hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuAM817k4KwTnde88tCfT4LVGK3Vnt9H2MBnLTv7RBLCqRwl2Mct5zB3bbrMDr9rle6i1qYK_X8BEyK-Aw-1TZ0p3lUuG2XDtoow8dMuQdT6i0I71f-BPrQRyLrmHpVaHAaC8OYyAFGs/s1600/hair.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
And the crafty stuff:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQm2ldJrWz7sx_Y4Jo_XS44H4EaaQOejEotQNYSay8aajfBlJqC5JGrD79C2eYTAhBpexeTi6C3sF8wJCzeHAoAzbl3GvwUYB5-8zxZzZ6NhMOiU7kTz_JaqZBbitJYkBL4Pp4LQJFZDk/s1600/cups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQm2ldJrWz7sx_Y4Jo_XS44H4EaaQOejEotQNYSay8aajfBlJqC5JGrD79C2eYTAhBpexeTi6C3sF8wJCzeHAoAzbl3GvwUYB5-8zxZzZ6NhMOiU7kTz_JaqZBbitJYkBL4Pp4LQJFZDk/s320/cups.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
And THERE ARE INSTRUCTIONS FOR HOW TO DO/MAKE IT. I may finally have decent/styled hair. At the very least, there is hope for Jamie.<br />
<br />
Did I mention that there's funny stuff?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKL2Cs-ViuUVcmBKMUgcuQmJbI2Bdg4_KRisoOCZ55GC_iV48AAFXcXM3k21GfcDGf5McicuCiW4QuPVKg-s0ZI12WuR5kkBFyZp4oa5TvhQ1BnOlUf-2MdpYQn5C4ymVy2SvhohLPz8/s1600/boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKL2Cs-ViuUVcmBKMUgcuQmJbI2Bdg4_KRisoOCZ55GC_iV48AAFXcXM3k21GfcDGf5McicuCiW4QuPVKg-s0ZI12WuR5kkBFyZp4oa5TvhQ1BnOlUf-2MdpYQn5C4ymVy2SvhohLPz8/s320/boy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And food ideas! Lots of food ideas! With recipes!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8o252o4DFcWlezAvHQBdoeO0tOFxNjYNwirLe1kaUKIlih4Dr3ZdVlTgKlk0ysrVdMI2f4ed7fnK1veaRIwZSqAVZSsibc15hUvN7dy_YObz5EfO-oa4rmHxP-hYHge2nT9pYCg9Cog/s1600/food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8o252o4DFcWlezAvHQBdoeO0tOFxNjYNwirLe1kaUKIlih4Dr3ZdVlTgKlk0ysrVdMI2f4ed7fnK1veaRIwZSqAVZSsibc15hUvN7dy_YObz5EfO-oa4rmHxP-hYHge2nT9pYCg9Cog/s320/food.jpg" width="141" /></a></div><br />
People! I have found the Relief Society Cheat Sheet! And it helps pass the time whilst nursing!<br />
<br />
And before I leave you, some pinterest wisdom (that was gleaned from icanhascheezburger):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYMV190TE7gQsoZqD5723t3MoPsri7Bamj5au000ffS4h6Y6kCig1ejMnoTFPSzQ1ULflGV-KtO6ctBg7ZhUSTKjmr60enuYneXjt64Dnt-lJzbxxmDa5vV1-7FTQ5oL5qbCQtY2FvPc/s1600/kitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYMV190TE7gQsoZqD5723t3MoPsri7Bamj5au000ffS4h6Y6kCig1ejMnoTFPSzQ1ULflGV-KtO6ctBg7ZhUSTKjmr60enuYneXjt64Dnt-lJzbxxmDa5vV1-7FTQ5oL5qbCQtY2FvPc/s320/kitty.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Aren't we all.<br />
<br />
Thanks, April, for bringing me out of the dark ages...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-23007810348951715892011-08-26T15:43:00.000-06:002011-08-26T15:43:07.491-06:00The War of the WillsI think my children have made a pact to try to break my will. If that doesn't work, they'll settle for inflicting as much pain as possible. Yesterday, I shared in the following text exchange with Elise:<br />
<br />
Me: Dang Abrahamson climbing gene. Gabers was on top of the freaking piano.<br />
<br />
Elise: Ahahaha! Has he discovered your cupboards yet?<br />
<br />
Me: Oh yes. He lurves the pantry, too. Dang it.<br />
<br />
Elise: Well the pantry does have a built in ladder. And food. Gabers is my kinda kid.<br />
<br />
Me: Yeah, this behavior was so much cuter when it was Erin and Macey doing it.<br />
<br />
Elise: It's frustrating and yet convenient for lazy parents like me who like it when their 4 yo makes their own toast. :)<br />
<br />
What this series of texts doesn't communicate is the twenty minutes AFTER finding Gabriel on top of the piano that I spent trying to find an alternate location for the piano bench that would prevent Gabriel from dragging the bench back into place and his subsequent use of the piano as a jungle gym. I was unsuccessful, I might add. There was a lot of Gabriel stomping around and yelling at me whilst dragging the bench back over to the piano. I was to the point of considering asking the Mirror-Alfreds to store it for us (along with all of our chairs and other ladder-ish furniture), but that would have been inconvenient in the event of actual piano playing. Or eating of dinner at the dining room table. It was an epic battle in the War of the Wills. And it was a draw.<br />
<br />
I'm not a dummy, though. I've figured out their strategy for breaking me. It's a three-pronged plan designed to make me fold like origami. <br />
<br />
Prong one: sleep deprivation. Gabriel takes the day shift, Jamie takes the night shift, and Ethan and Elijah pinch hit during the rare times that Gabriel accidentally falls asleep during nap time, which happens to coincide with their homework time (which is generally a battle in itself). When he DOES fall asleep, it looks like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrO39sRO1nQ78SDY46RvBY8SBHbGVXpdHt0s-xv8RAbS4ZN1OosFt3NEl1otX4ScLJK-WGCwnaijqw1IhlsGCEPWOGLZ3o3-m_D7f2uQtSLSip4TAkoadIqd_qyGiIOUKOj_6RxsbxWJk/s1600/Gabriel+hogs+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrO39sRO1nQ78SDY46RvBY8SBHbGVXpdHt0s-xv8RAbS4ZN1OosFt3NEl1otX4ScLJK-WGCwnaijqw1IhlsGCEPWOGLZ3o3-m_D7f2uQtSLSip4TAkoadIqd_qyGiIOUKOj_6RxsbxWJk/s320/Gabriel+hogs+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
YOU try to sleep with those paws kicking you in the kidney. You can't. What is it with children and their innate ability to always be perpendicular to their parents' backs? GAH.<br />
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Prong two: physical torture. Gabriel prefers straight forward hitting and stomping, while Jamie is more subtle. I won't get into the details of her preferred method of torture, but I will say that it involves lactation and she's a lot like the miners in Galaxy Quest...you know, they're aren't MINORS, they're MINERS. They look all cute and sweet and then they attack with brutal finality. OOWIE OOWIE OOWIE OOWIE.<br />
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Prong three: mind games. I think Gabriel's been watching Shrek when I finally collapse from exhaustion, because he's taken to doing a mean Puss In Boots impersonation. Witness:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0ZNKaeZo4PcliZKLuhqSQ_VIC8NW7NIAw8V2nNX_KPqF-oYOQiXtHsk5c9iBJqZRqzMR1Ani9ZN2_SsFf1YxJ4FD7_W0MVxmOnqke_iAFq1Jnsgy40PvEmzQTz58gYJcKQwBOqn1to8/s1600/puss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0ZNKaeZo4PcliZKLuhqSQ_VIC8NW7NIAw8V2nNX_KPqF-oYOQiXtHsk5c9iBJqZRqzMR1Ani9ZN2_SsFf1YxJ4FD7_W0MVxmOnqke_iAFq1Jnsgy40PvEmzQTz58gYJcKQwBOqn1to8/s1600/puss.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNJuirohwXBSHGQA3c6D2dD0JMkDMZskx5btWFXmlKbyugituShvG3k2Pi2z519MxjhkvcSlppZephGSts0IYtSB9pVWGxuBJ3MH6RXDTD-Lrp0PEq_mnqKS-YGFAFg7bmtLs4BtyoDc/s1600/hat+%2528768x1024%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNJuirohwXBSHGQA3c6D2dD0JMkDMZskx5btWFXmlKbyugituShvG3k2Pi2z519MxjhkvcSlppZephGSts0IYtSB9pVWGxuBJ3MH6RXDTD-Lrp0PEq_mnqKS-YGFAFg7bmtLs4BtyoDc/s320/hat+%2528768x1024%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
He pulls out the cute eyes...and then he goes all Puss In Boots on me and performs some act of toddler terrorism. Cruelly, the eyes totally hamstring me and my ability to fully utilize my naturally heartless nature. I've said it before and I'll say it again...cuteness is their one survival skill.<br />
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It's like I got dragged into a land war in Asia. I'm not exactly losing, but I can't declare a solid victory, either, and most of the time I'm two steps away from unwittingly setting off a land mine. The irony is, I'm not out to get them...I'm just trying to save them from the cruel forces of Gravity and Electricity. Once again, I think I have to bow to the wisdom of my mother, who I swear is more awesome every passing day. I need to...LET THE WOOKIEE WIN. She used to mutter that to me a lot, and it used to bug the tar out of me...but I totally get it, now that I have my very own Wookiee named Gabriel.<br />
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In news unrelated to the ongoing War of the Wills, Ethan and Elijah started school this week...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPtOFGULaZcCdwRQgDCHBk-LLVcRYc7aZFkEdb0Tc27SgSvMUgolrKsBuxGfcVJG6L29lANWU_SmNyUG5LkgVbUyg-v73mUMdC-wutmCbrLVKpg13ayPba-ovK3RWCmUcVauNlwCxoDRk/s1600/elijah+first+day+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPtOFGULaZcCdwRQgDCHBk-LLVcRYc7aZFkEdb0Tc27SgSvMUgolrKsBuxGfcVJG6L29lANWU_SmNyUG5LkgVbUyg-v73mUMdC-wutmCbrLVKpg13ayPba-ovK3RWCmUcVauNlwCxoDRk/s320/elijah+first+day+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy-go-lucky Elijah, totally not stressed out about opening a locker.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6CUNt4Zvl3icqxoehapcTcCEym603nVnT4lHxflofkwqzsvjpt6s2h_dKY8TgNxXS6TGNq8OcCT_7Hy6t1D5Z61ejRzy3q4mPSgmNQG4VZKdwo-D3FpWNlxCw8UHl72J-bs8NrmsCQGk/s1600/Ethan+first+day+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6CUNt4Zvl3icqxoehapcTcCEym603nVnT4lHxflofkwqzsvjpt6s2h_dKY8TgNxXS6TGNq8OcCT_7Hy6t1D5Z61ejRzy3q4mPSgmNQG4VZKdwo-D3FpWNlxCw8UHl72J-bs8NrmsCQGk/s320/Ethan+first+day+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"My stepmother is a total dork. I hate her and her picture obsession. She better not follow me to school!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And now, I need to go retaliate to Gabriel's latest offensive: Battle Silverware. He thinks it belongs on the floor, I don't. <br />
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Peace (I hope) out!Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-46533192157044516212011-08-19T20:09:00.000-06:002011-08-19T20:09:23.965-06:00They're BAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAACKThe boys came home on Monday. YAY!!!!!<br />
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This means that they got to meet Jamie.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDVZGAPFmv-glgLEqqX9J5zc_ALgV0zdDrSYqJe8mh8FEfEaZXxLhIWgLP5-TdPLgG8wlelzuIGi0LmXReXEderbjDEAcYDq6xhzOxInhKUxToKs98JxjNWO8gULFEw8b8Vo06uWA_SoA/s1600/EthanJamieSM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDVZGAPFmv-glgLEqqX9J5zc_ALgV0zdDrSYqJe8mh8FEfEaZXxLhIWgLP5-TdPLgG8wlelzuIGi0LmXReXEderbjDEAcYDq6xhzOxInhKUxToKs98JxjNWO8gULFEw8b8Vo06uWA_SoA/s320/EthanJamieSM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethan and Jamie</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CW9RpnNbuQKKBjPGS-dv8ppKvRcyMvt9_vEl2Fzpw2AEJPiqP7YJrZVkJFgQJdVHbV-Npz8q6MEViPtRMQJ3zliX6IGznpZTmbahEdasARDs2fjvEmmcALcE74C4PcbBXF0HFCDF53k/s1600/ElijahJamieSM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CW9RpnNbuQKKBjPGS-dv8ppKvRcyMvt9_vEl2Fzpw2AEJPiqP7YJrZVkJFgQJdVHbV-Npz8q6MEViPtRMQJ3zliX6IGznpZTmbahEdasARDs2fjvEmmcALcE74C4PcbBXF0HFCDF53k/s320/ElijahJamieSM.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elijah and Jamie</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>Funny story: on Monday, Jon posted a link to a video on Facebook that featured teenage boys dressed as "superheroes" launching aerial fireworks at each other and attempting to block them with cardboard "shields." Idiots. Anyhoo, Jon thought it was funny and showed it to me...with Ethan watching over my shoulder. Ethan, Mr. Prepubescent Low Wisdom Score...who thought shooting fireworks at other people was The. Best. Idea. Ever. Ladies and gentlemen, if Ethan and/or his friends end up in the ER with injuries from aerial fireworks...I BLAME THIS DAY. And Jon. <span style="font-size: x-small;"> (April and Josh, please let your children continue to play with ours. We promise to watch them closely.)</span><br />
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Tuesday morning, I/we unpacked their luggage. Yes, there was the obligatory dirty and wet clothing (one day, I will not call Jon to rant whilst unpacking the boys' luggage), but there was also...a dead animal.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JKPHRJ6_n1NfTDOql6XX8BRuCvpQ72eE2wkVo5zJOhW5GX3kpoc_XtCgFxfiLvSAQ3AXAdsiTlo1GXGyvAblWoCRUuhLfvZb3kuuvERF8bwy45iLx8_ohICGB6fK3eToNb5Fk5j_aWM/s1600/collection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JKPHRJ6_n1NfTDOql6XX8BRuCvpQ72eE2wkVo5zJOhW5GX3kpoc_XtCgFxfiLvSAQ3AXAdsiTlo1GXGyvAblWoCRUuhLfvZb3kuuvERF8bwy45iLx8_ohICGB6fK3eToNb5Fk5j_aWM/s320/collection.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of these things has no business going through airport security, especially since I had to throw away my menacing bottle of AquaFina and watch them do extensive chemical tests (complete with some kind of dip stick) on Gabriel's formula. There is no justice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Hint: it's the brown one, and it still had "hairs." I had no idea that sand dollars need styling product. Regardless, I got to unpack the marine version of a corpse because, you see, sand dollars aren't pristine white until...well, until the flesh has completely decomposed and they dry out. Until then, they smell. Really bad. And are surprisingly flexible. And unsurprisingly gross. Moving on.<br />
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Wednesday was Elijah's first day of TACKLE football.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6ENdnpryLJQ3jAHhyNZTWeBetS61-Nf4txqy_n_TkEZqYMGJWD868K-Dxi_YKWhB7YZYLZxLE8bKPdQl4MqlymlTIYRO62slPHMUyIeWCghB44iTYJh5BhbmF4UH4UYx6rtdDrL_69U/s1600/blindside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6ENdnpryLJQ3jAHhyNZTWeBetS61-Nf4txqy_n_TkEZqYMGJWD868K-Dxi_YKWhB7YZYLZxLE8bKPdQl4MqlymlTIYRO62slPHMUyIeWCghB44iTYJh5BhbmF4UH4UYx6rtdDrL_69U/s320/blindside.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
See the kid in front of the coach in the white shirt? Number 21? He's huge, so obviously he was put on the defensive line, where he repeatedly pushed his opponent down the field at his leisure. It was like watching the scene from <u>the Blindside</u> when Michael drove that obnoxious kid clear down the field and over the fence. I'm glad he's on Elijah's team for obvious reasons. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgS0ga4f8JjBRpdIMMISfKj7J-JtsHtLDlsjSec7KCKVbn9c_kHylvW7C7r0CZibz4iHo2IDRAiGjaJAjjxxO8mt5qiqjc2fMCraY9mZxU0pNBLly7q69znbjJ5Di1fngqyB3ntYoZtUY/s1600/huddle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgS0ga4f8JjBRpdIMMISfKj7J-JtsHtLDlsjSec7KCKVbn9c_kHylvW7C7r0CZibz4iHo2IDRAiGjaJAjjxxO8mt5qiqjc2fMCraY9mZxU0pNBLly7q69znbjJ5Di1fngqyB3ntYoZtUY/s320/huddle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
On Thursday, we registered Ethan for middle school. Overall, it wasn't a negative experience...until we got to his locker. Those lockers were HUGE, as they are intended to be shared by two students and have to accommodate two students' worth of Hoth Winter Gear. I felt like the worst parent ever, because my knee jerk reaction to seeing those lockers was...great. Nelson the bully won't even have to exert himself to shove Ethan in that sucker. Then, being the twisted family that we are, we decided that if ANYONE is going to shove Ethan into a locker, it's going to be US.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCgECT_YKsdrmuFKA5IOtB0WRB88dqHcofuwaWicXB5h1ckBJxnDRjxlPS5fJRPJJg3yZUoTqOByVaijTNWjrnQbNndbWCFslaz_WaBbUpZFDqzDxBT1ZmM-D9YYLds8etymP8eTyc57k/s1600/EthanLocker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCgECT_YKsdrmuFKA5IOtB0WRB88dqHcofuwaWicXB5h1ckBJxnDRjxlPS5fJRPJJg3yZUoTqOByVaijTNWjrnQbNndbWCFslaz_WaBbUpZFDqzDxBT1ZmM-D9YYLds8etymP8eTyc57k/s320/EthanLocker.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heartless Gabriel, slamming the door.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And, if we're going to scar one boy, we might as well finish the job and warp the other two:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikr8hmRYJbLM2eu7lp8JkykkTTE2I2gC-e43s0LCAPClwreXNqtC7aiVcgpL9YdDfTm_piIjVOnCFGGhTBQARd5fuxMMqRPwVrTlh-wMCzgiqWixyKmPLPxM_CfBYYbhq6G7FdTK18FaA/s1600/ElijahLocker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikr8hmRYJbLM2eu7lp8JkykkTTE2I2gC-e43s0LCAPClwreXNqtC7aiVcgpL9YdDfTm_piIjVOnCFGGhTBQARd5fuxMMqRPwVrTlh-wMCzgiqWixyKmPLPxM_CfBYYbhq6G7FdTK18FaA/s320/ElijahLocker.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopkQwZ5dFBdeJbf1gVWuHC8_-HqkuOeOsEm-SJUO0RKakEwGUEco0UrDAvrVWU643hgxnX0P07CglzC1RsRRSeM021OogUCMTJHN0tTIFpYtiBxxBS_OBuxqnfetEf1PnM6hP98Heeks/s1600/GabrielLocker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopkQwZ5dFBdeJbf1gVWuHC8_-HqkuOeOsEm-SJUO0RKakEwGUEco0UrDAvrVWU643hgxnX0P07CglzC1RsRRSeM021OogUCMTJHN0tTIFpYtiBxxBS_OBuxqnfetEf1PnM6hP98Heeks/s320/GabrielLocker.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br />
On the Jamie front, Thursday marked Jamie's one month birthday. To celebrate, I took another picture to give all y'all a sense of perspective:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4p8SqxHGphjaKMmpOXqbHkmLFiMRh1Cgi1VQdFdJJkLRXarjARLvP1_P1F7tuYtIp7wLgpgDGC8ApGIBWV53TY1lMENQhC5Oz1NjlTSSPVWaRhB4c-T-q3rJB3nQB19PtVAWQyF4Cwbg/s1600/nutella2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4p8SqxHGphjaKMmpOXqbHkmLFiMRh1Cgi1VQdFdJJkLRXarjARLvP1_P1F7tuYtIp7wLgpgDGC8ApGIBWV53TY1lMENQhC5Oz1NjlTSSPVWaRhB4c-T-q3rJB3nQB19PtVAWQyF4Cwbg/s320/nutella2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>She may still be in newborn clothes, but she's grown quite a bit. See?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjei_x9wISbL5rWOrKzk6msQoCbIGEqji6RTvC9cgTCEaglc0eBj4ni-VHUi6PnYto8PXx97Gs_VemzHGWJ2qV89QI1XSImp_Ib2_ObcI1JkrQK4c9tFg8tG6kXAOb6AcsRXftlGY4hTS8/s1600/P7212137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjei_x9wISbL5rWOrKzk6msQoCbIGEqji6RTvC9cgTCEaglc0eBj4ni-VHUi6PnYto8PXx97Gs_VemzHGWJ2qV89QI1XSImp_Ib2_ObcI1JkrQK4c9tFg8tG6kXAOb6AcsRXftlGY4hTS8/s320/P7212137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Nutella doesn't lie. Plus, you can see how much taller she is in comparison to the background pattern. I'm telling you, she was a MUNCHKIN when she was born. <br />
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And, last but CERTAINLY not least, I've tried to work the following picture in for the last three posts, but it just hasn't worked out. So, to get it out of my system, here you go:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCw929nqNiZz2py7qVsnDSBAG4-X-JZDidLR9Y4c_oymDyLl82P9rFT8kT9ru1FhYXII6c36NlrltIPrUEPmZ-6zlUpZNx9VSmc393hOp7C01eyeHbHVL351BgfnRMhKwQyxh8hyKu3eY/s1600/booth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCw929nqNiZz2py7qVsnDSBAG4-X-JZDidLR9Y4c_oymDyLl82P9rFT8kT9ru1FhYXII6c36NlrltIPrUEPmZ-6zlUpZNx9VSmc393hOp7C01eyeHbHVL351BgfnRMhKwQyxh8hyKu3eY/s1600/booth.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Really, there was a reason. I just couldn't get into the groove to finish the posts.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Enjoy.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-13870507096972485752011-08-11T19:11:00.001-06:002011-08-11T19:54:54.456-06:00Music 101I recently decided that I need to expose Gabriel to more music that is toddler-appropriate. This may or may not be a result of the "sexyback" hat incident. But it was DEFINITELY reinforced when I finally "listened" to the lyrics to that one Eminem song, which is NOT appropriate for ME, let alone the innocent toddler.<br />
<br />
So, in an attempt to be a decent mom, I went to the Cheesy Kids' Music section at the local Shop O Rama and chose a CD that I thought could meet both of our needs: my need to not slam my head in a door whilst listening to it, Gabriel's need to get his groove on, and my newly recognized need to not corrupt my toddler. It was an...<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">EPIC FAIL.</span></b><br />
<br />
It did not meet ANY of those needs. It did, however, meet my need to laugh riotously and make other drivers question my sanity as they passed us.<br />
<br />
It was an epic fail on two specific levels:<br />
<br />
1. It was massively historically inaccurate, so we could never listen to it with Jon.<br />
2. It wasn't really any cleaner than the music already on my iPod.<br />
<br />
Case in point: unless the wave of Hispanic immigration is farther reaching than I am aware of (and we're talking areas of high population density, not just the occasional outliers), if you wanted to see a senorita with flowers in her hair, I doubt you'd book a flight to Kentucky*. Nevertheless, song fourteen on disc two, "Going to Kentucky," started with the lyrics:<br />
<br />
<div class="SongBody"><i>I was going to Kentucky, I was going to the fair. </i></div><div class="SongBody"><i>To see the senorita, with flowers in her hair.</i></div><div class="SongBody"><br />
</div><div class="SongBody">(This is where Jon's head exploded. We didn't even make it to the cover of Yankee Doodle, which is responsible for children everywhere having bizarre mental images of Mac N Cheese-covered hats. Or was that just me?)<br />
<br />
</div><div class="SongBody"><i> </i></div><div class="SongBody">And then it went downhill. The next two lines were:</div><br />
<div class="SongBody"></div><div class="SongBody"><i>So, shake it, shake it, shake it. Shake it if you can.</i></div><i> </i><br />
<div class="SongBody"><i>You can shake it like a milkshake and do the best you can.</i></div><div class="SongBody"><br />
</div><div class="SongBody">Which immediately dredged up the following brain worms, which aren't exactly child-friendly, either:<i><br />
</i></div><div class="SongBody"><br />
</div><div class="SongBody"><i> Shake it like a Polaroid picture (Hey Ya, by Outkast)</i></div><div class="SongBody"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="SongBody">and </div><div class="SongBody"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="SongBody"><i>My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard (Milkshake, by some skeezy girl)</i></div><div class="SongBody"><br />
</div><div class="SongBody"><i> </i>True story that I find hysterical: when I googled the lyrics to Hey Ya, I got...THIS:</div><div class="SongBody"><i> </i></div><div class="SongBody"><i>Till' there's nothing at<br />
AaaaaaaaAAAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAAAaaaaaallllll..<br />
We get together<br />
Ohh, we get together<br />
But seperate's always better when there's feelings<br />
InvooooooOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOooooooOOOOOlved<br />
</i></div><div class="SongBody"><br />
</div><div class="SongBody">Talk about creative use of upper and lowercase letters to indicate pronunciation.</div><div class="SongBody"><br />
</div><div class="SongBody">Where was I? Totally off topic. Right. </div><div class="SongBody"><br />
I looked at Gabriel in the rearview mirror and--mercifully--the look on his face was just like mine. Namely, "What the heck are you making me listen to? Where's the GOOD music? Bring on the Guns N Roses!"<br />
<br />
</div><div class="SongBody">Anyhoo, at this point, we got home, turned on the iHome, and made lunch. Being selfish, I put on MY music...which happened to be pre-sellout Green Day. Which, as it turns out, Gabriel LOVES.<br />
<br />
And I'm OK with that.<br />
<br />
*I've been to Kentucky. There are very few Hispanics there. It was the strangest Taco Bell experience this West coast girl has ever had. </div>Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-50484526843158396982011-08-08T23:30:00.000-06:002011-08-08T23:30:35.320-06:0011:28 PM<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyAq22C5QGe-P0ULDJjJ85e6oeVP3uWbXOCdzAtF60sCpgih_HoltjHt9ZSZsVCrH8bmIJ0KHLM-BrLOoNxZoGuk3U5kEaTPPZwZgnDgh4j3WKS7OF6u3Pc-VM2k1PNV-f-bJ9_oNe6k/s1600/GabrielGunMed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGyAq22C5QGe-P0ULDJjJ85e6oeVP3uWbXOCdzAtF60sCpgih_HoltjHt9ZSZsVCrH8bmIJ0KHLM-BrLOoNxZoGuk3U5kEaTPPZwZgnDgh4j3WKS7OF6u3Pc-VM2k1PNV-f-bJ9_oNe6k/s320/GabrielGunMed.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keeping the playground safe from hoodlums</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNJuirohwXBSHGQA3c6D2dD0JMkDMZskx5btWFXmlKbyugituShvG3k2Pi2z519MxjhkvcSlppZephGSts0IYtSB9pVWGxuBJ3MH6RXDTD-Lrp0PEq_mnqKS-YGFAFg7bmtLs4BtyoDc/s1600/hat+%2528768x1024%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSNJuirohwXBSHGQA3c6D2dD0JMkDMZskx5btWFXmlKbyugituShvG3k2Pi2z519MxjhkvcSlppZephGSts0IYtSB9pVWGxuBJ3MH6RXDTD-Lrp0PEq_mnqKS-YGFAFg7bmtLs4BtyoDc/s320/hat+%2528768x1024%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I tried to tell him only Dbags wear their hats backwards. He said, and I quote, "I'm bringing sexyback." I've GOT to change my playlist to be more toddler appropriate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2GOCQRWM4BPuzhdIG-YmFvSPvJdWFrGeI22AswlXvkX1ZltQVlanwIGF6B7KhCOPYa3Gw2WNoO9bI2DsMcI6f1yrTKLV2WTNLgD0cyOsEw2TVNN45Jt44hLPZ87tDivu_3dhbmU-L7s/s1600/JamieBathmed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2GOCQRWM4BPuzhdIG-YmFvSPvJdWFrGeI22AswlXvkX1ZltQVlanwIGF6B7KhCOPYa3Gw2WNoO9bI2DsMcI6f1yrTKLV2WTNLgD0cyOsEw2TVNN45Jt44hLPZ87tDivu_3dhbmU-L7s/s320/JamieBathmed.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jamie's first bath</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'd write more...but typing with one hand takes FOREVER.<br />
<br />
The boys come home Monday...HAPPY DAY!<br />
<br />
That is all.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-81162901228220546282011-08-05T15:11:00.002-06:002011-08-05T15:16:48.031-06:00And so, in summary...Jon doesn't have children. He has spawn. I say that with all the love in my heart, because they are my spawn, too...but still. Spawn. Spawn that takes over your <b>body, mind, </b>and<b> will,</b> like one of those eels that Khan put in Chekhov's ear in Star Track (Elise!) II.<br />
<br />
<b>Body, </b>because...well, I'll spare you the gory lactation details, just in case my in-laws read this. But pregnancy... really, if the average male saw something writhing in HIS abdomen, they'd leap straight to "spawn," too. And then promptly go Sigourney Weaver on its butt.<br />
<br />
<b>Mind, </b>because...there is a list of stuff that I did NOT like until I was carrying Jon's spawn, but now I can't seem to get enough of it:<br />
<br />
1. Oreos<br />
2. Pepsi<br />
3. Guns N Roses<br />
<br />
I also acknowledge that vanilla is a flavor (although chocolate is still superior).<br />
<br />
<b>Will,</b> because....Gabriel thinks he's some kind of a Jedi. He's spent the last week working on his already impressive mind trick skillz. Examples include (but are not limited to): <br />
<br />
1. "You want to make me a bottomless chocolate sippy cup." <br />
2. "You want to let me have a chocolate chip granola bar for dinner. And a chocolate sippy cup."<br />
3. "You don't mind if I play on the computer all day long, with Dinosaur Train playing on the TV in the background. While I hold this chocolate sippy cup."<br />
4. "You want to feed me ALL of your bowl of 'I Can't Believe They Aren't Cap'n Crunch Berries.' You will not take ONE bite. Now hold my chocolate sippy cup."<br />
5. "I don't need to sleep. Ever. Now give me back my chocolate sippy cup."<br />
<br />
He's had limited success. When it doesn't work...let's just say...Mom, thanks for letting ME live to adulthood. Overall, mommy/toddler relations in the Alfred household for the week can be summarized thusly:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/X_SXL-LFvw4" width="425"></iframe><br />
<br />
I'm the guy with a squirrel gnawing on his jugular. It's probably my fault, though...as you can see in Exhibit A:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEXcv2hmLXdF6P_0uKB12KcSTXIm_J0rhp0OzwFdJ4_k_1Bm2WS0ARECkOamYOAz8b8amVtG4JkGUdyxqwPf5Q2Tphk_YrKtO6_pR-UV5SjYe7AtQnmI4arxGWVS33AM20OCZj5-IIF4/s1600/nutella+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEXcv2hmLXdF6P_0uKB12KcSTXIm_J0rhp0OzwFdJ4_k_1Bm2WS0ARECkOamYOAz8b8amVtG4JkGUdyxqwPf5Q2Tphk_YrKtO6_pR-UV5SjYe7AtQnmI4arxGWVS33AM20OCZj5-IIF4/s320/nutella+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The pic isn't blurry...he's vibrating because of the excess Nutella intake. He's like a junkie waiting for his fix to hit.<br />
<br />
But there's more than just a toddler in the house. What with an infant...strike that...NEWBORN in the house as well, I've had a huge amount of time to entertain myself late at night. And late at night, let me tell you, two things happen:<br />
<br />
1. My usual high standards for humor drop dramatically. Napoleon Dynamite is a big hit with me at 2 AM (also at 2 PM, but that's besides the point. And don't get me started on The Man Who Knew Too Little).<br />
2. I have a higher tolerance for naughtiness.<br />
3. I giggle like an idiot, waking Jon up even though we aren't even in the same room. Jon LOVES 2 AM Meegan. Loves her, I say!<br />
<br />
The newborn is also affecting my ability to count...anyhoo, back on the ranch. Late night boredom while nursing/keeping the wide-awake newborn company is how I found the squirrel video.<br />
<br />
<br />
Which somehow led to this:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Zb3fhsfs6ZU" width="425"></iframe><br />
<br />
I'm seriously disturbed that I laughed so hard at lamb...fries.<br />
<br />
CHOO CHOO! The train didn't stop there!<br />
<br />
Jen, the beyond awesome Cake Wrecks lady, posted <a href="http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/">THIS LINK TO MY NEW FAVORITE BLOG</a> on her other blog, Epbot. Warning: the Bloggess MOST DEFINITELY doesn't mind using "colorful metaphors," one of which would usually bug the tar out of me, but somehow...at 2 AM, I couldn't stop laughing. And then I found the most recent post (<a href="http://thebloggess.com/2011/08/listen-to-the-bananas/">HERE</a>) and thought...where WAS this lady when I was younger and looking for ways to entertain myself the LAST time I lived in Hoth?????<br />
<br />
And then I got thinking about oldie but goodie videos that I never seem to get tired of watching, which led me to this...<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/hRLjxjS72Gg" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
Guns N Roses...I tell ya, it's another Ceti Eel...which led to this...<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SAKUT-bln4g" width="425"></iframe><br />
<br />
And so, in summary:<br />
<br />
<br />
All of this leads me to the inescapable conclusion that the earwig I accidentally sucked out of the "straw" of my hospital sippy cup (which, sadly, NEVER had chocolate milk in it) may have actually been a Ceti Eel.<br />
<br />
It's the only thing that makes sense...Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-83271216693534496652011-07-22T23:39:00.000-06:002011-07-22T23:39:46.993-06:0011:18 PMJamie is starting to come out of the "sleep all the time" stage, moving into the "sleep all day, up all night" stage. I'll be witty (or more likely, by turns both cranky and slap-happy ) tomorrow. For now, here's a few pictures that say more than I could...<br />
<br />
First, a sense of scale for those of you outside of Logan:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjei_x9wISbL5rWOrKzk6msQoCbIGEqji6RTvC9cgTCEaglc0eBj4ni-VHUi6PnYto8PXx97Gs_VemzHGWJ2qV89QI1XSImp_Ib2_ObcI1JkrQK4c9tFg8tG6kXAOb6AcsRXftlGY4hTS8/s1600/P7212137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjei_x9wISbL5rWOrKzk6msQoCbIGEqji6RTvC9cgTCEaglc0eBj4ni-VHUi6PnYto8PXx97Gs_VemzHGWJ2qV89QI1XSImp_Ib2_ObcI1JkrQK4c9tFg8tG6kXAOb6AcsRXftlGY4hTS8/s320/P7212137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yes, it only took two pushes to get her here. I'm not some birthing pro; if I had stood up, she would have fallen out. She's TINY. And yes, Nutella is the standard by which all things should be measured (that's a 13 oz jar, btw). <br />
<br />
Here's a more American standard of measurement for those of you unfortunate enough not to be familiar with Nutella (FOOLS!):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdQXSBbLH2qO6lsUbWtLe_gr7qK5jDCx6l6p4finSMR9DwQu2bfLUzRrBoxfIh7szg00stpDzdS5ds_a0go070JBKKwcHHbpJzJY_nbgiY-W5_wCAM5G1UpgsAbJhkLpMYiBtmZcMksE/s1600/P7212142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdQXSBbLH2qO6lsUbWtLe_gr7qK5jDCx6l6p4finSMR9DwQu2bfLUzRrBoxfIh7szg00stpDzdS5ds_a0go070JBKKwcHHbpJzJY_nbgiY-W5_wCAM5G1UpgsAbJhkLpMYiBtmZcMksE/s320/P7212142.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
In other news, Gabriel is settling into his role as a big brother quite nicely:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfM7DF_a-Yq_1kRHkAJzhH5_MISO9czXJDns7Q24p3SLpdv3y2EQ3FdG7ajvwZlEkz5k7ztbmrd3uykIrK6DXxlJxKM130uBvabv23SLIlO5LO73SlQgWa3zLG_vfaS2zo64fAUHlrFUc/s1600/P7212135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfM7DF_a-Yq_1kRHkAJzhH5_MISO9czXJDns7Q24p3SLpdv3y2EQ3FdG7ajvwZlEkz5k7ztbmrd3uykIrK6DXxlJxKM130uBvabv23SLIlO5LO73SlQgWa3zLG_vfaS2zo64fAUHlrFUc/s320/P7212135.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How. Cute. Is. That.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNz3OgZqbkKnd95rfl5sIXdXiESGvCkcm_swub-Bo6SFBWAdd4VWy498QF6o9JxqJgV0_PF4oHugev9TUxWL87Z7g3xglYI2Mt65_lZjisitx1IEzpJwRwoMQA8vMWrZ0eGgb3-_VMY8/s1600/P7212136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNz3OgZqbkKnd95rfl5sIXdXiESGvCkcm_swub-Bo6SFBWAdd4VWy498QF6o9JxqJgV0_PF4oHugev9TUxWL87Z7g3xglYI2Mt65_lZjisitx1IEzpJwRwoMQA8vMWrZ0eGgb3-_VMY8/s320/P7212136.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon's hand was for stability, not to force the shot. But can we say, "blackmail?" Awwwww, yeah!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_6kLwiDFYcsWS9yBXGoBET5DCBFpcageNm1BbPI1QjZhWYCCcBsj1bFjLAEpxkkd11mtKQGgEurK8ZLyKFVU9yDfl2csqvAFjze6ufKnnnCiVRZpE-eTB5bYbSUm5dzFs7X_av12FLU/s1600/P7212143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_6kLwiDFYcsWS9yBXGoBET5DCBFpcageNm1BbPI1QjZhWYCCcBsj1bFjLAEpxkkd11mtKQGgEurK8ZLyKFVU9yDfl2csqvAFjze6ufKnnnCiVRZpE-eTB5bYbSUm5dzFs7X_av12FLU/s320/P7212143.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I found the two of them like this during naptime...for someone who was terrified to have a daughter, he seems to be settling in quite nicely, as well.<br />
<br />
Time: 11:38 PM. Jon tags me out at 2 or 3...I think I'll watch some Bones.<br />
<br />
Peace.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-41242564250625501002011-07-15T13:40:00.001-06:002011-07-15T13:42:38.132-06:00Warning: word vomit aheadThings I learned yesterday:<br />
<br />
1. Just because you're married DOESN'T mean your spouse will automatically be told if you are, say, still in seeing your OB/GYN a week and a half before your planned delivery. Even if he is your listed emergency contact, IHC will refuse to provide him with any information about you...which begs the question: what happens in the case of an emergency, like, say, a car accident? If he shows up randomly at the ER looking for me, is he out of luck? Do I rot, unconscious and alone, in a hospital room because I didn't give verbal or written permission for them to talk to him? My emergency contact? And speaking of permission, after six years of being treated by IHC facilities and providers, why was YESTERDAY the first time I saw or heard of the form to release information to my husband? I'm a little irritated. <br />
<br />
2. When your fetus has an erratic heartbeat during a fetal non stress test, your uber-careful obstetrician will bump your delivery up. To today/Friday. You will have to fight to schedule it on Monday, and that will only work when you play the "I need to arrange childcare" card and promise to come in if ANYTHING SEEMS WRONG AT ALL, since he's on call this weekend anyways. Man, it BITES being in multiple high risk groups.<br />
<br />
On the up side, you will have a VERY detailed ultrasound done and will get to see her "breathe." Also, glare at you in her sleep. She has a mean glare. It was awesome, and not just because I got visual confirmation that she is alive and well (she scored high on the biophysical whatever it was), but it was very reassuring to see her diaphragm moving and to be able to count her fingers and toes whilst waiting for her to move them. In the end, we're going ahead with the early delivery because the paranoid parts of me agree with the doc, and she's probably much better off out of my hostile diabetic womb than inside it, even if it is two weeks early (or four, depending on how you look at it).<br />
<br />
At any rate, as most of you know, my scheduled delivery has been bumped from the 25th to the 18th...which is...lemme see...THREE DAYS AWAY. Mercifully, we are mostly ready, physically at least. Mentally, probably not so much. I think my doc takes perverse pleasure in springing things like that on me. He did it with Gabriel (On a Monday: "What are you doing Thursday? How about having this baby?"), and he did it AGAIN with this one, EVEN THOUGH I tried to beat him to the punch and we had already scheduled for the 25th. And now...my to-do list for this weekend has changed DRAMATICALLY. I need to...<br />
<br />
<br />
1. Clean the fridge for the first time in...a long time...so I can refill it with non-science-experimenty food for us to survive on next week. Also, so I won't gross out Elizabeth, my SiL, if she ends up saving our bacon because labor goes long and I need someone to stay with Gabriel overnight. Curse the mirror Alfreds (our Gabriel sitters) for having the audacity to have a life and leave town. Sheesh. They totally should have predicted this. For revenge, on Monday night, I'm eating all the brownies they left out on their counter. That'll show them! (Just kidding, guys. I'm not upset. But I AM going to hose those brownies, and there's nothing you can do about it. MWAH HA HA HA HA!)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
2. Tease Jon because he nested. This morning, he set up the bassinet. And then--I kid you not--he flapped his arms like bird wings as he left the room.<br />
<br />
3. Sleep.<br />
<br />
4. Sleep some more.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, we'll keep you posted. It's likely that I'll be scheduled for early in the morning because of the whole "medical necessity" thing (finally, a PERK!). I'm sure there will be texts and facebook posts galore (facepalm!). Feel free to call...I promise that if it's not a good time, I just won't answer the phone.<br />
<br />
ALSO: now accepting bets as to weight/time of birth. Winner gets...something cool. Maybe naming rights? Warning: if anyone predicts a c-section, I will go crazy on them as only a hormone-controlled pregnant woman can. You have been warned!<br />
<br />
OH! OH! OH! For those of you who, like me, get spotty facebook updates, I have to share this with the world:<br />
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">"Everyone is a genius. But if you judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid." -A. Einstein</span></span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Which I realized when I watched one of "my" kids with a massive learning disability scurry up a climbing wall like a lizard, leaving the "genius" kids in the dust. I love that quote, even if it turns out that it comes from Alicia Einstein, not Albert Einstein.</span></span></span></h6>Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-58637644049311358282011-07-11T09:55:00.001-06:002011-07-11T09:56:20.335-06:00When being AWESOME isn't enough<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBIrQN7kDFl2Gd2Zg1i-qlDSyAMeWTQmOimICVAPoJ0SashyhI4ays7Y44vkPenrtd9VdtXUvRqpC1X43My4p8x2eDVVkggHE8Be7_wcIFpY-S0HAnOpTTYm8GObs8hcXC9wF20vs7BU/s1600/demotivational-posters-its-that-simple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBIrQN7kDFl2Gd2Zg1i-qlDSyAMeWTQmOimICVAPoJ0SashyhI4ays7Y44vkPenrtd9VdtXUvRqpC1X43My4p8x2eDVVkggHE8Be7_wcIFpY-S0HAnOpTTYm8GObs8hcXC9wF20vs7BU/s400/demotivational-posters-its-that-simple.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes you need backup. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-61494881789491153602011-07-10T17:14:00.002-06:002011-07-10T17:22:21.206-06:00True story!1. When you're 37 weeks pregnant, you might as well go camping. You'll be just as uncomfortable at home, even if it rains, and at least camping, you have fun. True story. <br />
<br />
2. I've been thinking, lately, about how my children perceive me. We passed a cool jeep the other day on the road and when I told Elijah I used to have one (that was even cooler), HE DIDN'T BELIEVE ME. So I didn't even TRY to tell him about other things I used to do (like stay up later than 10:30 PM regularly or do things besides take naps for fun). As a result, I realized that my current behavior means that my kids will grow up thinking that their mother/evil step mother is BORING. Also, that she shoots lasers out of her eyes if she doesn't get chocolate around 3:30 every afternoon. Thank heavens for sugar free Dove chocolate. True story.<br />
<br />
3. Behold, the monster more terrifying than anything previously seen at the Alfred home...and we have kids with Godzilla obsessions. You have been warned. Behold! (again):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgnNBdhxaGLyhgjd-d8xdg7r262hXiE2qM1m6SwWfi3O8vFWY9Fzj1dVLPY8mschnyzR_DqvONlTBWFK2I_CZPeng-CTlKZbs7kkNlY6_TxtXEWYbwNS8r_pgQt7CSCeMUbDJZGSfzuZc/s1600/shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgnNBdhxaGLyhgjd-d8xdg7r262hXiE2qM1m6SwWfi3O8vFWY9Fzj1dVLPY8mschnyzR_DqvONlTBWFK2I_CZPeng-CTlKZbs7kkNlY6_TxtXEWYbwNS8r_pgQt7CSCeMUbDJZGSfzuZc/s1600/shoes.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And that's just its FOOTWEAR. Can you <i>imagine</i> the monster that will WEAR those beasts????? In fifteen days (HALLELUJAH!) we won't have to imagine. MWAH HA HA HA HA!<br />
<br />
We inherited a box of baby clothes from one of Jon's professors...including a little pair of Mary Janes. Given Jon's reaction to the shoes, you would think they gave us something more like this:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhH_AFz4J3wN9R20E3FSrRRxNBhGS6edqREYm28LIMAY_MLKDgBZxvHr2y_VrrskZLmPdWDlqMOpVpdfvCWw8FZQ1NXbxKGrME_99O0D7b9jRyjurqNqfoYRlAEE0_Z3UGKQlbA6llck/s1600/monster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhH_AFz4J3wN9R20E3FSrRRxNBhGS6edqREYm28LIMAY_MLKDgBZxvHr2y_VrrskZLmPdWDlqMOpVpdfvCWw8FZQ1NXbxKGrME_99O0D7b9jRyjurqNqfoYRlAEE0_Z3UGKQlbA6llck/s320/monster.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a Mongolian Death Worm. True story.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
I'm trying to be the calm one, here, so in all my optimistic glory, I think we should hope for this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72SLWNDJw06uf-AnLmAhAl4b-WNRD_Df0WbWuj6i1WkLyHEkdCz2vXjPdjrssOOGBT63L1DaGdQLWvR1LLS765t74XWJdw1KmsYP5TV2GSwPpwCzeAGPXH6Cqvmc1OYsXROOHeGCJ87g/s1600/boogie-monsters-mjs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72SLWNDJw06uf-AnLmAhAl4b-WNRD_Df0WbWuj6i1WkLyHEkdCz2vXjPdjrssOOGBT63L1DaGdQLWvR1LLS765t74XWJdw1KmsYP5TV2GSwPpwCzeAGPXH6Cqvmc1OYsXROOHeGCJ87g/s320/boogie-monsters-mjs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I think that's a nice balance. <br />
<br />
4. We skyped with the boys the other day. I thought Gabriel was going to destroy the monitor, as he started trying to wrestle with Elijah/the monitor as soon as he saw him. Complete with choke holds and eye gouges. He just gazed at Ethan in awe. I think he misses his brothers. Early August won't come fast enough for a variety of reasons. True story.<br />
<br />
5. Speaking of Gabriel, I think I'm going to send him to nursery with a name tag that says, "My parents named me GABRIEL," since apparently telling the nursery workers this and loudly and obnoxiously calling him Gabriel doesn't do the trick. I realize that "Gabe" is an acceptable nickname for "Gabriel," but we don't want him called that. Shallow, but true. Other pet peeve: when people call Elijah, Eli. Grrrrrrr. It's like nails on a chalkboard. Exception: Baby Gabey...because--really--it's his BABY nickname that will likely NOT follow him into adulthood. After all, while my aunts still call me "Beegie," I don't mind because--OH YEAH--they used to change my diapers and chase me out of their rooms. I think that gives a person some latitude in the name department. Rant over. True story.<br />
<br />
6. I'm definitely ready to trade long blocks of sleep for dietary freedom and bladder capacity (although in 16 days, I'll probably regret that statement). True story.<br />
<br />
7. Speaking of sleep, I found this the other night at 2 AM when I couldn't sleep. Oh, the irony. The composer is Eric Whitacre, who is probably a diva/DB (as is common with many talented people), but who is a diva who wanted to be "the fifth member of Depeche Mode or the Cure," which made me like him even more. I've always like his stuff, this is one of my favorites. True story. Enjoy!<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="225" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/22960177?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" width="400"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/22960177">Eric Whitacre's Virtual Choir 2.0, 'Sleep'</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/ericwhitacre">Eric Whitacre</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
<br />
(Note: the choir consists of people who sent in web videos of themselves singing the various parts, which were then scrubbed and edited into...that. Freaking AWESOME, it is!)Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-73759174630181426822011-06-29T10:05:00.002-06:002011-06-29T10:22:12.037-06:00Time to be AWESOME insteadThe boys left for South Carolina for the month this morning...very early this morning. Very early. I acknowledge the necessity, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Taking a cue from humans everywhere, my method of dealing with it is to be angry, because anger is much easier to deal with than sadness (unless you're on the receiving end). <br />
<br />
It occurred to me, very early this morning, that the next time I would see the boys, I would no longer be pregnant, as they'll get home about a week after I'm due.<br />
<br />
That's when I realized I'm not really angry, I'm sad. Sad with a chunk of fear thrown in, because return tickets have not been purchased...although that shouldn't bother me; not once in the six years that I've been in the picture has she kept the boys for the full term of visitation. She generally gets annoyed--or something--and sends them home a week or so early. So, I shouldn't be scared of them not coming home, because she seems to prefer being a favorite aunt with bragging rights, as opposed to the more labor-intensive full-time mom. Also, I shouldn't be sad, because there is a light at the end of the tunnel, wherein we get the boys back AND I cease to be pregnant (can I get a hallelujah?) all in the same week.<br />
<br />
Hence, I've decided to take Barney's advice and stop being sad, and be AWESOME instead.<br />
<br />
But before I do, let me expound on the Joys Of Pregnancy yet again. <a href="http://reallifecomics.com/archive/110628.html">One of the web comics Jon reads, Real Life Comics</a>, managed to capture the REST of what's going on around Hoth this week:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_5VA5j6UgmY006n9XBZvi6ZXXfgXcd0Gv9J916RZl6QDYBF-riy7RM6DSDDpZVVeSom3WRls8NWNg5pumzURaMrnhYjBWUmBieVH6b3F3rRER4qdhw1cT0yjAWcz55Gok-034D0DxPg/s1600/reallife.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_5VA5j6UgmY006n9XBZvi6ZXXfgXcd0Gv9J916RZl6QDYBF-riy7RM6DSDDpZVVeSom3WRls8NWNg5pumzURaMrnhYjBWUmBieVH6b3F3rRER4qdhw1cT0yjAWcz55Gok-034D0DxPg/s320/reallife.png" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just realized it's too small to read. Drat. Click the link above. Totally worth it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I think it hit me as especially funny this week because Jon's been all whiney about his ear infection. Wah, wah, burst eardrum, wah wah. That's sarcasm, BTW...I really don't begrudge Jon his right to be unhappy/grumpy about the pain...mostly because I'm currently NOT in labor. But I have to admit, I may have had some eerily similar internal dialog at some point during bursting process. Sometimes I feel bad for the husbands/partners of pregnant women. There's just no way for them to win an "I'm miserable" show down for at least nine months without being a complete and insensitive jerk. Unfortunately for Jon, then the fetus will usually stomp on my bladder or some other disgusting and/or painful thing will happen, and I'm out for blood again.<br />
<br />
And...the sequel to "camping for grown ups" is apparently "camping for kids," wherein the boys "camp" in the backyard, learning at home the cardinal lesson of camping that I guess they didn't learn in the wilderness; namely, be sure to keep the tent door zipped to keep wasps and other insect life OUT:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_ohH-iVlKQhrR50fgwtimX18t0cn-9gKvPRZ0uFB3gn4od3C450nDqqxng8mwduZpA35tHea0lv2En4GgUdI9VkFeUawKDE_W1OmUfAxXdHD-vITqpJwew91dO_olA85v0ScZrsqhHg/s1600/P6242072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_ohH-iVlKQhrR50fgwtimX18t0cn-9gKvPRZ0uFB3gn4od3C450nDqqxng8mwduZpA35tHea0lv2En4GgUdI9VkFeUawKDE_W1OmUfAxXdHD-vITqpJwew91dO_olA85v0ScZrsqhHg/s320/P6242072.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you smell the fear? mwah ha ha ha ha! We eventually took pity and removed the offending wasps. And by "we," I mean, "Jon," because NO WAY was I going anywhere near them...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
In other family news, we signed Elijah up for junior tackle football.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw30Ez1bHlckHqErO5t-WiqwLoM3FQrciIW1rEMqXwBUXhEQP3nNZwyFy4epcnOfOWBsBwM9x1-VGVvI42j3LnfkgBcl6xjvxdefZaH91kC8CgEELWcEkdl5fKIiQZ_F-Kt7WGlDd9caU/s1600/P6282073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw30Ez1bHlckHqErO5t-WiqwLoM3FQrciIW1rEMqXwBUXhEQP3nNZwyFy4epcnOfOWBsBwM9x1-VGVvI42j3LnfkgBcl6xjvxdefZaH91kC8CgEELWcEkdl5fKIiQZ_F-Kt7WGlDd9caU/s320/P6282073.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Taking him to be fitted for his gear was one of the last things we did before sending them off to South Carolina. It was funny to watch him go from being headstrong and cocky to appropriately nervous about the prospect of being tackled by some hulking kid. Ladies and gentlemen, I await the spectacle. And not just that first week of conditioning, wherein he realizes that we didn't sign him up an XBox football/Madden tournament, but actual football. MWAH HA HA HA HA!<br />
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35 days and counting...Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-67695860430720081102011-06-19T15:10:00.000-06:002011-06-19T15:10:43.182-06:00Camping for grownupsFirst, a few items of housekeeping:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNb3Q-f4xuibMShgbsS6YBwBiHXW2VRoC2-iJ83E67ye2Dteh5a1TP1QVx-0JSeNRMIRSPAKidLkX6Reg7gZlIqk2Rn8d9-8pwD-DEiK-vOpB2TVM1QKXN4sLEn7LjR1FglFLPFlFA8J4/s1600/Jamie+2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNb3Q-f4xuibMShgbsS6YBwBiHXW2VRoC2-iJ83E67ye2Dteh5a1TP1QVx-0JSeNRMIRSPAKidLkX6Reg7gZlIqk2Rn8d9-8pwD-DEiK-vOpB2TVM1QKXN4sLEn7LjR1FglFLPFlFA8J4/s320/Jamie+2.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>This is Jamie. Or rather, this is what Jamie looked like 14 weeks ago. Now, Marianne and Frank (my sister and BiL) just had THEIR ultrasound done, and while their baby wins for Most Photogenic (seriously, that boy had the cutest smile I've EVER seen in an ultrasound picture), I firmly contend that Jamie wins for Biggest Frontal Lobe (thus dethroning me). Also, please note her pugilist's fists. I'll talk more about those in a bit.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOP13XFKe4yay3mmtMRZSS7_VWPB-gQmHboCfZaneLHCHyvriL5LgRknWcOWfYEOU-7DgtKbyecFzsaoM3UZbdR8c1NT6NN5NmYNnEs98Lt108SylYo8aaOgFclINIObMoQyEPssYvZeo/s1600/P6182061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOP13XFKe4yay3mmtMRZSS7_VWPB-gQmHboCfZaneLHCHyvriL5LgRknWcOWfYEOU-7DgtKbyecFzsaoM3UZbdR8c1NT6NN5NmYNnEs98Lt108SylYo8aaOgFclINIObMoQyEPssYvZeo/s320/P6182061.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yes, the boys' room is a mess. Yes, that's generally what it looks like (remember, we're talking about a pair of boys who don't understand why I go ballistic when I find out they haven't changed their underwear in two weeks...the laundry betrayed them). Anyhoo, let's look past the massive clutter and see the cuteness. Every night, the boys have a half hour of quiet time before we banish them to the darkness of dreams. They use the time to read, as a rule, and Gabriel has decided to join them. He finds a book and crawls in bed with Ethan to read it. Every night. It's adorable.<br />
<br />
Now, on to the real reason we're here: so you can hear about Camping in the Third Trimester. Subtitled, Next Time, I Swear I'm Bringing a PortaPotty.<br />
<br />
As it turns out, camping as a single girl at Lake Powell (which is the bulk of my camping experience) is radically different from camping in the mountains as a mom with three active boys and a girl fetus six-ish weeks away from being born. Both are enjoyable, but they are completely different beasts.<br />
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Way back when, camping preparation consisted of me wondering why the heck my mom was so stressed out the week before the trip (with SEVEN kids and several of their unsupervised friends). <br />
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Now, camping prep is allowing my children to live another day when they complained because I asked them to grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt (that <i><b>*I</b></i>* ultimately packed into the communal bag). Also, not rolling my eyes when Jon complained that I over packed...which I DIDN'T. If anything, I UNDER PACKED (and as a result, we didn't get to have the cobbler because we were missing some critical components). <br />
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Then, my biggest stress while camping was trying to weasel my way onto the boat for the morning gas run so I could use the bathroom at the marina instead of the bubka tent.<br />
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Now, the fetus's pugilist's fists stripped whatever dignity I may have had left after giving birth to Gabriel as I spent an embarrassing chunk of time that afternoon planning the most efficient way to handle the inevitable middle-of-the-night bathroom emergencies caused by Jamie hogging up the space that used to be taken up by my bladder. <br />
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Then, entertainment while camping was typical lake fun during the day and campfire games at night. Sometimes, we'd mix it up and recite the Little Mermaid by heart, including the songs (Jon can witness that my sisters and I can STILL do this. And HE LOVED LISTENING. Don't let the twitching fool you). <br />
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Now, camping entertainment is cataloging all the ways my children can maim and/or kill themselves using nothing but nature. I thought I had a pretty complete list at this point:<br />
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1. Fall into the campfire<br />
2. Fall into the ragingly flooding river<br />
3. Get lost in the forest and eaten by a bear<br />
4. Sneak food into the tent and get eaten by a bear<br />
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Then I found out I missed one: <br />
<br />
5. Get eaten by the chupacabra. <br />
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Jon and I got back from a walk with Gabers (the other boys were too busy falling into the flooding river and being eaten by bears to come with) when we noticed what looked like blood from the bite mark of either a really big vampire or smallish chupacabra dripping down the nape of Gaber's neck. I'm sticking with my chupacabra theory, although Jon is quick to point out it was a stupid chupacabra, because it missed the jugular and/or other major veins/arteries. It was still disturbing, though, and we never figured out what caused it. Talk about a campfire mystery.<br />
<br />
<br />
Speaking of bears, I'm with Stephen Colbert. Bears are on report. After rationally calming the boys' fear of being eaten by bears during the night, I spent the night freaking out the that boys were going to be eaten by bears (or would sleep walk into the flooding river). We were pretty clear about the NO FOOD IN YOUR TENT thing, so imagine my chagrin when I realized, the next morning, that Gabriel's diaper bag (which I rarely carry these days) was loaded with granola bars and fruit snacks to keep him quiet during sacrament meeting. FACEPALM. Thank heavens the chupacabra scared off the local bear population.<br />
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A few other things that make camping as a mom so unique...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1K3C9h4dQIp8ZteNptwXpoE8IJ0GHzZxNedzJeHfZ1VcnkmlQ3OwwnVP_Jw8TzDVk-tX98qyf4jcRRlbH2a6XP00siEc5x0Q2PtqLpjLSiArRv9VuRWTaZSAZapdXo4HLF2RcQ-7ciw/s1600/P6172046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1K3C9h4dQIp8ZteNptwXpoE8IJ0GHzZxNedzJeHfZ1VcnkmlQ3OwwnVP_Jw8TzDVk-tX98qyf4jcRRlbH2a6XP00siEc5x0Q2PtqLpjLSiArRv9VuRWTaZSAZapdXo4HLF2RcQ-7ciw/s320/P6172046.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Getting mad at the boys for declaring a hike to be "Boys Only" (and trying to exclude the Mirror-Alfred Daughters) and then laughing hysterically because the BOYS ended up picking flowers on the hike and reenacting the opening credits of Little House on the Prairie by romping down a rolling hill. Hail, the conquering hero:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-WZMstMDbSx6r92hQcxsH1J-RHdNT6UAX0KoMjUj8PZ8P-Fih0HvjQipNfIL8yfNwZFQ3cLhF1PZhdLtfXcyGjsFENnUJDVZFnhlgARmVVYi5SrpNZKieSK4A8kapBQvI3Rb8-BVXdms/s1600/P6172047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-WZMstMDbSx6r92hQcxsH1J-RHdNT6UAX0KoMjUj8PZ8P-Fih0HvjQipNfIL8yfNwZFQ3cLhF1PZhdLtfXcyGjsFENnUJDVZFnhlgARmVVYi5SrpNZKieSK4A8kapBQvI3Rb8-BVXdms/s320/P6172047.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Also, as a single girl at Lake Powell, I never got to listen to a nine-year-old pout his heart out because his friends/brothers changed the rules of a game so they didn't favor him anymore:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmsJtEOwAZs0pt4v2tNQdJySzMVROyJUG0MYvRLWhs2SRyh77tybIQfXrjWtZWYmhyphenhyphenZci-RN3-eRoajD4endP_Nt4d0yocQZRarkfEeouBssg2yeMe3DfYDycvZ8rQdcLXREvRfL_K4I/s1600/P6172053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmsJtEOwAZs0pt4v2tNQdJySzMVROyJUG0MYvRLWhs2SRyh77tybIQfXrjWtZWYmhyphenhyphenZci-RN3-eRoajD4endP_Nt4d0yocQZRarkfEeouBssg2yeMe3DfYDycvZ8rQdcLXREvRfL_K4I/s320/P6172053.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm pretty sure Elijah's telling us to take him to shore. (If you don't know, please don't ask. It's not a proud moment for me)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnkMlGM-Ce_yHTG9r4uqHJ0LUGgPUZZsuQ5M8xnEmUQnCcOAPoqi7nfxNbGooUvVF735KgP5Yyuq-WxETSMHuaSYQja4c7I-O0gRCNnU80ycVv2jqUw1xz99KgvrlE-HXg9l-ZptXza0/s1600/P6172050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnkMlGM-Ce_yHTG9r4uqHJ0LUGgPUZZsuQ5M8xnEmUQnCcOAPoqi7nfxNbGooUvVF735KgP5Yyuq-WxETSMHuaSYQja4c7I-O0gRCNnU80ycVv2jqUw1xz99KgvrlE-HXg9l-ZptXza0/s320/P6172050.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
At Lake Powell, I never got to watch my OCD toddler repeatedly move "his" camp chairs closer to the car...and then sit and stare longingly at the car and wait to be taken back to civilization.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kids enjoying the Mario Big World-style marshmallows and the resulting Monster S'Mores</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AHbrq1UnXvE4bhKumkjUnQE7hPKoOV330zg9YKHPyxB4SDhQsKJsFlJIaTeyVwZuSsQR0bWQorFMSQOHewa1nqOhksnCZvAF4dAyYvpStHHJ2RStB7iIz95vBOhckmRryo7OsZq08v4/s1600/P6172059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AHbrq1UnXvE4bhKumkjUnQE7hPKoOV330zg9YKHPyxB4SDhQsKJsFlJIaTeyVwZuSsQR0bWQorFMSQOHewa1nqOhksnCZvAF4dAyYvpStHHJ2RStB7iIz95vBOhckmRryo7OsZq08v4/s320/P6172059.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethan's version of a perfectly roasted marshmallow. Gag. I love the Marshmallow Smear all over Mirror Ethan's face. Snicker.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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And now, if you'll excuse me, I just checked my blood sugar and I REALLY need to go on a walk, so please pardon the abrupt ending...<br />
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Peace.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-13430316548133317292011-06-18T19:02:00.000-06:002011-06-18T19:02:06.406-06:00Adding to my list of people I really like against my better judgement....Click this link to see why I find myself really liking <a href="http://youtu.be/zkSpdvmXwDo">Neil Patrick Harris</a> these days. It's LEGEN...wait for it....DARY.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-59641917362656342892011-06-18T18:58:00.000-06:002011-06-18T18:58:06.743-06:00My new philosophy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7CISHSLmSaOGxhCzGQ9S4FnO_Iu89bm1jIckunlHw3bCiCpddlMqBG3B5zLIcg992e3-fjiU23Z61lMSFVHOH3tnoqBDAorE1Va8Vrl4STUdfmyq1SelKbNTbv70NF2ksghUjlUmUIg/s1600/nph-barney-quote.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7CISHSLmSaOGxhCzGQ9S4FnO_Iu89bm1jIckunlHw3bCiCpddlMqBG3B5zLIcg992e3-fjiU23Z61lMSFVHOH3tnoqBDAorE1Va8Vrl4STUdfmyq1SelKbNTbv70NF2ksghUjlUmUIg/s320/nph-barney-quote.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-26931192707229486812011-06-12T18:26:00.000-06:002011-06-12T18:26:41.161-06:00A thousand words<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGCzeDWjhTALkqNV3dANJRG1XvmqswHjjXgpGQ6AmgkDomDLlpkbHfB4NJkWkLGtagZKA0ljixl4o2azFW5rMzKlToeFWV9gleZqt-y-1gxdc_GcIbCQKy0to4Lmk4Xe-Uj9HN9Bj_HyE/s1600/carnivore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGCzeDWjhTALkqNV3dANJRG1XvmqswHjjXgpGQ6AmgkDomDLlpkbHfB4NJkWkLGtagZKA0ljixl4o2azFW5rMzKlToeFWV9gleZqt-y-1gxdc_GcIbCQKy0to4Lmk4Xe-Uj9HN9Bj_HyE/s400/carnivore.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Respectfully borrowed from passiveaggressivenotes.com</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><br />
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I especially love the T Rex.<br />
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That is all.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1910326834402207918.post-86660123639207165102011-06-08T15:08:00.001-06:002011-06-08T15:14:32.713-06:00Ripping off the bandaidIt's been a weird week. We're talking Star Trek/alternate reality weird, this week.<br />
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On Sunday, I was walking into a Stake Center for a baby blessing and for some reason, I thought of U2. Yes, that's right...for the first time in over fifteen years, the song Numb popped into my head. It was strangely appropriate. I think being numb was the only way for me to survive the day. Later, driving home to Hoth, it also hit me that I couldn't have been more uncomfortable at the time if there had been feet rubbing all over my face, like so:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRPgbktXi3yf-g3oivp33t1IjfpcOrR1laZ-lqsLKlgTAqUPi94FjebjguEMSTJGXnA6jr8HbkeP18f0WZJA3W6IOqVoXda75StAx8pzwUPtN2LzHr-KBnGbKEW1lSLtBgeM1HeKvU6c/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRPgbktXi3yf-g3oivp33t1IjfpcOrR1laZ-lqsLKlgTAqUPi94FjebjguEMSTJGXnA6jr8HbkeP18f0WZJA3W6IOqVoXda75StAx8pzwUPtN2LzHr-KBnGbKEW1lSLtBgeM1HeKvU6c/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor the Edge</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I've been mulling over the weekend and I realized that U2 is a pretty good metaphor for the weekend itself, because--in a nutshell--WHAT THE HECK, U2? You guys gave us Joshua Tree and Rattle and Hum and Sunday, Bloody Sunday and Where the Streets Have No Name and THEN YOU FREAKING HIT US WITH ZOOROPA?!?!?!?!?!? It was like reality had gone crazy.<br />
<br />
Where is MY reality, and how do I get back there? And, no, It's a Beautiful Day DOES NOT make up for everything post-Rattle and Hum.<br />
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In 1989, I never would have guessed that U2 would fall from absolute awesomeness to borderline fame-induced group psychosis. Of course, in 1989, I never would have seen last weekend coming, either.<br />
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Achtung! (baby (snerk!)) <br />
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Oh, well. Everyone played nice and pretended like we were meeting each other for the first time and I survived ripping off the band-aid that was meeting my dad's new wife in this freakish alternate reality. <br />
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Through it all, I've been trying to look for bright spots...sometimes with more success than others. However, there are definitely some good things going on...<br />
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Jon is gainfully employed. Yay for being productive members of society again! <br />
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Elijah, who has NEVER been known for his tact, DIDN'T blab to his mom the gossipy parts of why we were in St. George, which I'm really not ready for her to use as ammo against me. He--completely unprompted--just said we were there for a baby blessing. Thank you, Elijah. You made my day. This also helped (reason #12 having boys is awesome):<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpHYZWFuVkZBOpaGBUD-4xqRVqtL3yuv3rJ_MX3rHqjWgsFjXSues6hJdCT1AkjQAxz4zfssUs95094F4EF_n09E_z-eOE4lsFXaxmeKGitmDCzSw1rIi9vyHPavB0Ukwikh4HOjXzv8/s1600/elijah+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpHYZWFuVkZBOpaGBUD-4xqRVqtL3yuv3rJ_MX3rHqjWgsFjXSues6hJdCT1AkjQAxz4zfssUs95094F4EF_n09E_z-eOE4lsFXaxmeKGitmDCzSw1rIi9vyHPavB0Ukwikh4HOjXzv8/s320/elijah+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homemade helmet FOR THE WIN!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Ethan started Harry Potter camp this week. Oh, yeah. Our family just hit a new level of Geek...but he loves it, and I love to see him so excited about something.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCBpIAV1ueiLH4VE695biQ1AJ8QDGC2W954qd0n-5_B6cOAjUoIpia-QPq9XWMQ_bh4ltcHo-Z5388EbVZiI5iAnuMP42kGu30lH_zZloGjXiMRjaCjV-G5dwRGjPW15gFR6duF7JHak/s1600/ethan+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCBpIAV1ueiLH4VE695biQ1AJ8QDGC2W954qd0n-5_B6cOAjUoIpia-QPq9XWMQ_bh4ltcHo-Z5388EbVZiI5iAnuMP42kGu30lH_zZloGjXiMRjaCjV-G5dwRGjPW15gFR6duF7JHak/s320/ethan+%25281024x768%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His letter from "Hogwarts"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMNbZNBuXsmMJCJeGt9XR3iOVAWpXoJSiaOAijJKB2x5iJAAYhQPaa4pF3ZaStLxYOWha1U7VL4-YvL1We7EI9cYvytlf_v2n-2xqbOiuGoO40ij0RMDTaKt8LJroh46CJdb2UkZk43HY/s1600/ethanrobe+%2528768x1024%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMNbZNBuXsmMJCJeGt9XR3iOVAWpXoJSiaOAijJKB2x5iJAAYhQPaa4pF3ZaStLxYOWha1U7VL4-YvL1We7EI9cYvytlf_v2n-2xqbOiuGoO40ij0RMDTaKt8LJroh46CJdb2UkZk43HY/s320/ethanrobe+%2528768x1024%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His robes</td></tr>
</tbody></table> He got to make a wand, as well...I'll post that picture in a few days, I'm sure.<br />
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And, last but not least, I give you the beginning of Gabriel's descent into Dorkiness: <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/QvEzYE5tCnE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
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But the brightest spot, the one I have to keep reminding myself of, is this one:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEher9Sl9zvarJ9scwSpQ0iMbhKXKa8ESJWKtCV__jE7V16mNfSAuX42mpwIKkjAlBOd0msEQGhI_sf87nkX690g-wk0VWbHoZcCarb8-wiaJ31PV06sXW8qNu0Y-_ZZuVHZyZEu6upgwdA/s1600/christ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEher9Sl9zvarJ9scwSpQ0iMbhKXKa8ESJWKtCV__jE7V16mNfSAuX42mpwIKkjAlBOd0msEQGhI_sf87nkX690g-wk0VWbHoZcCarb8-wiaJ31PV06sXW8qNu0Y-_ZZuVHZyZEu6upgwdA/s320/christ.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DOC Christensen. Google it. I don't have anything approaching this level of talent and insight.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Everything is going to be all right in the end. If it's not all right, it's not the end.<br />
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And now, I have to go be violated by my OB/GYN. Thirty two weeks and counting.Meegan, the Evil Stepmotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044706351219990718noreply@blogger.com5