Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Extra Verses

Hallie and Hanna love singing.  They love when I sing.  We sing a lot.  Sometimes I get tired of the same verses over and over, and so I make up new ones. Sometimes Hallie requests a song, and I have no idea what she is talking about, so I make one up.  In case you are in need of a new song or new verses, I will share them with you:

She begged and begged for a song about butterflies, but I knew no butterfly songs, so I came up with this. 
The Butterfly Song (to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star)
Flitter flutter, butterfly
You look so pretty in the sky
Come land on me and we will play
Together on this sunny day
Flitter flutter, butterfly
You look so pretty in the sky.

Hallie and Hanna are on a huge "Leafy Treetops" kick right now, and I got tired of singing the only two verses that I know over and over, so I came up with two more.
Extra Verses (to the tune of Leafy Treetops)
In the soft green grass the bunnies are hopping
Be nice to all your friends
Be nice to those you see
in the soft green grass the bunnies are hopping.

In the warm sunshine the bees are buzzing
We have some work to do
we must start right away
in the warm sunshine the bees are buzzing.

Now, the "Old Grey Mare" song is only two lines long, and Devin thought that was simply ridiculous, so I came up with a few new verses for that one.  This one was really fun for us to come up with.
Extra Verses (to the tune of Old Grey Mare)

Oh the jumpy little goat
knocked over my fence again
over my fence again
over my fence again
the jumpy little goat knocked over my fence again
I'll sell him to the zoo.
sell him to the zoo.
sell him to the zoo.
Oh the jumpy little goat knocked over my fence again
I'll sell him to the zoo.

Oh the old red rooster
crows in the morning
crows in the morning
crows in the morning
The old red rooster crows in the morning
and all the way through the night
All the way through the night
all the way through the night
Oh the old red rooster crows in the morning
and all the way through the night.

Oh the sweet brown cow
gives lots of good milk to us
lots of good milk to us
lots of good milk to us
The sweet brown cow gives lots of good milk to us
every day of the year.
Every day of the year
every day of the year
Oh the sweet brown cow gives lots of good milk to us
every day of the year.

Oh the soft little hens
make egg after egg for us
egg after egg for us
egg after egg for us
the soft little hens make egg after egg for us
morning, noon, and night.*
Morning noon and night
morning noon and night.
Oh the soft little hens make egg after egg for us
morning, noon, and night.

Oh the squealing pink pigs
eat all of our leftovers
all of our leftovers
all of our leftovers
the squealing pink pigs eat all of our leftovers
and soon we'll have bacon
soon we'll have bacon
soon we'll have bacon
oh the squealing pink pigs eat all of our leftovers
and soon we'll have bacon.

Oh, and don't forget the "Honey Song" that I made up when Hallie was desperate for a honey song, and again I didn't know one, so I made some adaptations to the infamous "Bunny Song" from Veggietales.
The Honey Song (to the tune of the Bunny Song)
The honey, the honey
Whoa! I ate the honey
I don't want my soup or my bread
Just the honey
I don't want a salad
I don't want a steak
I don't want a fork
The honey, the honey
Whoa! I ate the honey.
But now I feel sick
in my tummy
from the honey.

Happy Singing!

*I have no idea how often hens lay eggs.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Why Why Why

It doesn't take much to get her started.  Today, it began with nothing more exciting than a picture of a man driving a bus.

I thought that I had already mastered the art of deflecting the "why" questions, but today I was really tested - and I don't want to see my grade.

"Why is that man in the bus, mommy?"

"Because he is the bus driver."

"Why is he the bus driver?"

"Because that is his job."

(I will now forgo the quotation marks, and the separating per line, I think you get the picture.)

Why is that his job? Because that is what they pay him to do. Why do they pay him to do it? Because he needs the money.  Why does he need money?  So he can feed his family.  Why does he feed his family? Because he loves them.  But why does he feed them when he loves them? Because they get hungry. Why do they get hungry? Because they need to eat.  Why do they need to eat when they get hungry? Because their bodies need food. Why do their bodies need food?  Because that is where we get our energy to do things. Why do we need energy from food? Because that is the way God made us.

It is exhausting.  I feel sort of like my brain has just had a workout on one of those hamster wheels.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Love and Happiness

I found a scrap of paper a while back on which I had written some moments when I feel God's love, and just generally am very happy. 

I feel God's love when I hear a child laughing
It is eating cornbread hot with butter and honey.
It is seeing your mother's eyes in a brand new face.
It is bursting in fireworks in the night sky.

My sister added her thoughts as well:

I feel God's love when I see my baby's sleeping face.
It is smelling freshly cut grass.
It is watching "dead" plants come back to life in the spring.
It is catching my husband's eye and smile at the dinner table after a long day.
It is the part of me that I will never lose.

When do you feel God's love, or what never fails to make you happy?

Thursday, August 25, 2011


Today was the kind of day that starts off with all signs pointing toward awful, and you wonder desperately how you are going to get through it.

Yesterday was a good day, Hallie had some friends over and while they played the moms and I discussed our plans for play school this year, and it was so fun to have a houseful of friends - for the girls and for me.  The bad news is, I spent a great deal of time bending over picking up toys that had migrated from the toy room to every other room of the house.  Having 10 kids over will do that.  Bending over to pick up toys shouldn't be a problem, except for my little friend.  Remember my little friend?  Apparently I really aggravated it yesterday, because for most of the three and a half years that my little friend has been with me it hasn't bothered me more than a day or two here and there, but only during the last months of pregnancy when my belly is big and hello, things are stretching.

And so to have it hurt so much when I'm just over three months into this thing was disconcerting to say the least.  It got worse as the day went on, until at bedtime last night every breath I took felt like someone was beating me with a hammer, and every move I made felt like someone was skewering me with a sharp knife - from the inside.  I cried all night.

That is what made today's outlook so bleak.  This morning Devin asked me what I was going to do, how can I get through the day if not only can I not bend over but I can't pick up Hanna - can't put her in her high chair, car seat, CRIB - how can I be a mother if I can't even hold her to read her a story?  Hold her when she cries? Because doing all of those things = intense, unbearable pain.

And yet, I am here to tell you that I actually had quite a lovely day.  My friend Kristen called this morning and said she was coming over to take care of me.  An angel on earth, I tell you.  She came and was here from 9:30 this morning until 4 this afternoon.  I pray that blessings from heaven rain down on her head.  She fed my children, she carried them around, she read to them, played with them, and was basically mommy today while I... sat on the couch, and later while I... took a nap in my bed (because finally I could lay down without too much pain).  My friend Brooke came over as well and provided another pleasant distraction for me from the pain.

This is why today, which had all the earmarks of being one of the worst days on record for me personally ended up being quite nice.  I mean, raging internal pain (and subsequent headache) aside.  Let's hear it for friends!

Don't know what a hernia is? Mine is an umbilical hernia, and it means that there is a hole in my stomach muscles through which some of my stomach fat is bulging. Yes, you can see it, and yes it is gross.  And, also if you were wondering, originally the surgeon said I could wait to have surgery until my child bearing years were over, just to be safe, because it was very small then, but the hernia is at a point now (much larger) where I should not delay having surgery (obviously once this baby is born).

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Sweet Peaceful Moments

Yesterday when I was finished doing the girl's hair I was on my way out the door to go brush my own teeth and get myself ready for the day. Hanna wanted to read Go Dog Go, but so did Hallie.  Hallie had it first, and so I asked her if she could please just hold it so Hanna could see it also, and read it out loud to her.  (Hallie has many of her books memorized from hearing them so many times.)  Hallie said she didn't want to read it to Hanna, she just wanted to look at it.  I asked her to just please be nice and let Hanna at least see the pictures too.

Then, leaving them to their own devices (at certain points they have to work out their own relationship, don't you think?) and hoping that Hallie would, at least, decide to let her sister look at the pictures with her, I went to brush my teeth.  When I was done with that I saw that I still had about fifteen minutes before we had to leave to go wherever we were going, and so of course... I laid back down in bed.  I picked up my scriptures to read, because the house was quiet and you've got to grab those moments when you can, ya know?

So I'm reading in bed, enjoying the quiet, when I begin to hear sounds from the girls room.  I lowered my book to listen.  I hear Hallie say, "The light is red now. Stop dogs stop!" followed by Hanna yelling, "Stop!" Then I hear a page turn, and Hallie's voice, "The light is green now.  Go dogs go!" followed by Hanna yelling, "Go!".

Thank you so much Hallie, for giving mommy that sweet peaceful moment, and thank you for "reading" to your sister.  She loves it, and so do I.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

The Winker

A man winked at me at the library a few weeks ago.

But that isn't really the beginning of this story.

I knew that I wanted to marry Devin approximately five minutes after I met him.  When I knew for sure that we were going to be married, my friend Al printed off pages and pages of rings, wedding and engagement, and I went through and circled the ones I really liked, exed out the ones I couldn't stand, and so gave her a feeling for what I wanted.  And I really only wanted one ring. One very simple ring that I could wear first as an engagement ring, and then as my wedding ring.

Devin called Al up and asked her if she would help him find a ring that I would like.  They found the perfect one.  As a 17 or so year old girl at a church activity we had made wedding cans, where we put all our hopes and dreams and plans for our ideal wedding into a can, sealed it, and never opened it until we were engaged.  When I opened mine after Devin proposed, I found inside a picture cut from a magazine that was the mirror image of the ring he had given me.

It was a very simple ring, just a band with a string of small diamonds running across the top, inlaid into the band. I was very particular about not ever having a diamond scratch any future babies I might have.  The bad news is that Devin proposed in August, and so when I went to have my finger sized (so Al would know what size to tell Devin to get - we were all so sneaky sneaky behind everyone's backs) my finger was summer-plump. Yeah, I don't know if that is a medical issue for most people, but my fingers (apparently) swell considerably in the summer.

And so, I quickly learned that I had to take my ring off in the fall, when it got cold, go without it all winter, and could only put it back on in the spring when it began to warm up again.  Because if I tried to wear it through the winter it would fall off at random times: while trying to eat dinner at a restaurant (I had to crawl under the table), while waving goodbye to friends, while doing anything that involved moving my left hand. Which, I use considerably less than my right but is still in fairly frequent motion.

This system of wearing it only in the summer worked great for me, and Devin and I joked about it because he can't wear his ring in the summer. (a long story for another day) And so I was ringless in the cold months, and he ringless in the hot.  What a couple we were.  But as I said, we got used to this system and moved our merry way through life. Until an unexpectedly cold Saturday in March.  I had decided that it was finally warm enough for me to put my ring back on, and so doing I then went out to work in the yard.  I put on my gardening gloves and worked for hours.  It wasn't until the evening of the next day, Sunday, that I noticed it was missing.  I had gone for months without wearing it, remember, and so the naked finger didn't bother me immediately, but an awareness that something was wrong slowly overcame me until I figured it out. And started crying. Devin searched everywhere. He combed through the grass. The flower beds. He turned the gloves I had worn inside out.  We never found my ring.

I would occasionally think that I should get a new ring, but it felt like a betrayal to my old perfect one, and it felt like admitting defeat. That in buying a new one I was acknowledging the complete loss of the old one, and I was not prepared to deal with that.

Enter the library winker.  I had at times previously wished that I had a ring on my finger - that comforting symbol of marital status.  But it had never really been an obvious issue, as no one had paid much notice to me either way.  And then out of nowhere, I'm standing at the checkout line, helping Hallie check out her books, when I happen to look up and see a guy that I've seen at the library often turn at the same moment to look at me, and wink.  I'm sure it was a harmless wink, just a sort of nod your head gesture, or friendly wave, but geek that I am I totally freaked.  Not knowing how to respond I gave a sort of non-committal half smile that was certainly more of a grimace than anything else, scooped up Hallie, Hanna, and my books, and took off.

I was determined to get a new ring.  Granted, he probably was not flirting with me.  But I knew that I would feel better with one on my finger.  And, as fate would have it my friend invited me to a Lia Sophia party.  So I went, planning on only spending the birthday money my Grandma had sent me.  (Thanks Grandma!)  But then I saw a small, simple, shiny little ring calling to me and couldn't resist. Take that Library Winker, I thought as I ordered it. (Actually, I wasn't thinking about him at all. I was thinking, "I hope Devin doesn't mind that I just picked out my own "wedding ring" without telling him...")

It's true, this ring probably cost a fifth? a tenth? of what my original ring cost.  But as I have felt it safe and secure on my finger (I ordered two sizes smaller than my original ring), and each time I look down and see its bright and perky shine on my hand, I can't help but feel happy.

And Devin says that now that I've finally gotten a new ring I'll find the original one in the yard tomorrow.  I wish.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

What is Happening?

When Hanna was still waking up regularly at night and I would have to get out of bed and go to her, I would occasionally find Hallie curled up in a tight ball, asleep.  The strange part was that she would be asleep on the floor, in the middle of the hallway, sometimes right in front of our door.

Now, Devin and I don't lock our door at night. Hallie frequently comes in when she is sick, or even just when she has to go potty. She'll wake me up, I'll say, "Ok, go use the potty then get back in bed." She says "ok", she goes into our bathroom, does her business, flushes and then goes back to bed. I tell her good night as she goes out the door.  So I know that she knows she can come into our room if she needs something. So why in the world do I find her on the floor in the hallway?

One time I was in a deep sleep, but was suddenly jolted straight out of it.  I don't know if Hallie made a noise or if my subconscious just became aware of her presence, but one night I woke up to find her standing two inches from my face at the side of the bed, just staring at me.  I think I screamed, and jumped two feet in the air.  My socks might have flown straight off my feet.  I tried to calm down, and said, "Hallie, do you need something?" She didn't answer.  "Hallie, go back to bed."  She turned around, and walked back to her room. I presume. I wonder now if she didn't just go lay down in the hallway, curl up on the floor, and fall asleep.

One time I was awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of her crying.  It was not her normal cry, and I lay in bed for a minute just listening to it.  Then I got up to see what she needed.  Imagine my surprise when I found her sitting, head in her hands, at the top of the stairs.  "Hallie, what's wrong?" I asked her.  All she would say is that she needed her dog.  She never sleeps with a stuffed animal.  But, since it seemed to be important that night I found her a dog, and put her back in bed.  It scared me though, that she was sitting there at the top of the stairs. Did she know where she was?

I think I have caught her sleeping this way five or six times in the past few months, and I never thought anything of it, until last night.  I assumed toddlers sometimes just got out of bed and wanted to see what it was like to sleep somewhere else. But last night as I came up the stairs and saw a dark lump on the carpet and thought to myself "gee, I don't remember leaving anything on the floor right there", and upon closer investigation realizing that it was my daughter I began to wonder if this was, in fact, normal behavior.  Do children do this?  I don't know much about sleepwalking, but is it possible that she is sleepwalking?

This is totally normal though, right? Your children and your friend's children and your sister's children - they all do this too, yes?

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Momma Said

 What's that old saying? 
Something about not judging someone until you've walked a mile in their shoes?

 Unfortunately for me, I guess that means my children can judge me now.

Note to self: Start hiding shoes.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

A Description

I like to read.  I think most of you know this.  I recently finished reading Sherlock Holmes (collection) by Arthur Conan Doyle.  What impresses me most about these authors of the long - gone era, including Jane Austen, Wilkie Collins, and you know the kind of author I mean, is their incredible ability to describe their characters.  I refer you, as I did in this post, to Wilkie Collins' description of one of his characters:  "Some of us rush through life; and some of us saunter through life.  Mrs. Vesey sat through life. ... A mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil and harmless old lady, who never by any chance suggested the idea that she had been actually alive since the hour of her birth."

Nowadays, it seems that when an author wants to describe their character it goes something like this: "She looked at him, and she saw him. He had brown hair, and chocolate eyes.  He was hot. So hot she trembled."  (Not a paragraph from an actual book... but I've read similar statements.)

Now, is it just me or do you feel much more connected to Ms. Vesey, even if all she does is sit through life, than to this random hot guy with chocolate eyes? I mean, who is he? Why do we care about him? Just because he made her tremble with his smoldering good looks?

And so as I read these descriptions of characters I can never help myself but wonder how they would describe me if I were to be a character in one of their books.  If I were to be a side character in a Jane Austen, what would she have said about me? If I were coming to Sherlock Holmes for help in solving, say, the case of the cut finger, how would Sir Arthur describe me as I came in through the door of Baker Street?  I have no illusions that it would be entirely complimentary, if at all.  These authors sought for honest, real characters and they weren't afraid to show their faults and weaknesses.  And so, I present to you my attempts at making myself into a character in a novel.

"It was evident from her haphazard, staggered manner of breathing that her body had long ago forgotten how to inhale and exhale in a normal, repeatable pattern.  Her body clearly suffered from frequent attacks of anxiety.  Based on her outward dress and overall appearance the cause seemed to be a gaping chasm between the organization of lifestyle she craved, and the actual chaos within which she lived."

Or perhaps, this one:
"She had a comic air about her, in a tragic sort of way.  The details of her appearance suggested a deep disconnect between her mind and her body.  The disappointment evident in the lines of her features provided evidence that the factions were at war, and her body was not the victor.  Her limbs seemed to move of their own accord, as though the body were desperately trying to be engaged in doing something productive, an effort which was stymied by the disordered contents of her brain that demanded she do nothing, nothing at all."

I hope you know that I write these as representations of myself as I am right now.  And perhaps as I am in just the first trimester, too.

Monday, August 15, 2011

My Brain

To give you an indication of just how much I am struggling, I will give you some key indicators.

a. We have lived here for almost a year and a half now, and I still think of our zip code in Peoria when writing our address.  They aren't even close to being the same.

b. I frequently can not remember our phone number. Again, a year and a half I've had this number.  So please don't ask for our cell phone number, I don't really know it.

c. Every time I have to go somewhere, if I don't give myself an extra ten minutes to search for the keys, we'll be late. I always find them in the most random spot and think "why in the world would I have put the keys here?" I so wish I could blame this on the girls...

My main question as I lay awake at night is this: am I going to recover use of my brain in nine months, or is this permanent?  I mean, I remember mommy brain with Hallie and with Hanna, but right now I really feel like I'm sailing at half mast.  Does that even make sense?

Saturday, August 13, 2011

A Riddle. Just For You.

 When is a medium shrimp not a medium shrimp?


Any guesses?

None? None at all?

Come on, somebody?

All right. I'll tell you.

 A medium shrimp is not a medium shrimp when it is being used as a visual aid to represent the approximate size (this week) of our as of yet unborn third baby.

Last week, it was a lime. I think I liked last week better.

We're thinking February 2012.

(But we have high hopes for January -- wouldn't that be crazy?)

 (AND to my dear friends who may have felt neglected lately, I sincerely apologize. I haven't been well.)

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

The Mystery of the Cut Finger

I was downstairs on the computer, on the phone with Devin trying to work out his hotel reservations as he drove around Minneapolis hoping he wouldn't have to spend the night in his car.
My sister-in-law Rachel was upstairs, nursing baby Tabitha.  My brother Dan was on the top floor in the bedroom laying down.
Hallie (3 yrs), Emily (2 yrs), and Hanna (1 yr) were entertaining themselves, for the most part.

I came up the stairs when I was done on the phone/computer with Devin and sat down on the couch to talk to Rachel. I was about to start in on how Devin had accidentally reserved a smoking room, and the hotel had no non-smoking available yadda yadda yadda, when my little niece Emily came over to me, her face puckered up and sad. "Finger hurt," she said to me, holding up her bloody index finger for evidence.  I sprang to my feet midsentence, picked her up and rushed her to the bathroom so I could wash the blood off and see how deep the cut was.

Having washed the cut, I applied pressure to stop the bleeding so I could put a princess bandaid on her poor little finger. As I did this, I tried to figure out what had happened. "Emily, how did you hurt your finger?"
"Right there," she said, pointing to the spot where I held the toilet paper pressed down.  "But how did this happen?" I tried again.
"Finger hurts. Finger hurts," she repeated. Realizing that I wasn't going to get much more information than this, I put the bandaid on and went back out to survey the scene, and try to figure out for myself how she had cut her finger.
We had played with paper and scissors earlier, but I had been very careful to pick up all the scissors again. I double checked, but there were no scissors in sight.  I looked at the kitchen table and felt my stomach sink.  There was a very sharp knife still sitting on the table from when we had been cutting some cheese earlier. Why didn't I put that away? "Did you get the knife, Emily?" I asked her.  "Finger hurt," she said to me, frowning.  I apologized to her mom for having left the knife out, and leaving it at that we went upstairs to get ready for bed. 

At which time we realized that Emily also had a cut on the same hand, on her thumb.  I went back downstairs to get another bandaid, and looked closely at the knife while I was there.  No blood anywhere. On the knife, the chair, the table, no sign of blood.  She had been bleeding enough that there should have been blood.  I put the knife in the sink and went back upstairs.  "It couldn't have been the knife, it was clean, and how would it have cut her index finger and her thumb?"  I said to Rachel, completely perplexed and feeling bad that her child had hurt herself.  I sat and pondered as the girls put on their pajamas. 

I suddenly remembered a sharp pair of sewing scissors that I have whose blades overlap a little, and that had given Hanna a nasty cut once a few months ago.  I explained this theory to Rachel, and she said that was likely it. Emily is a bit of a climber, and certainly could have gotten ahold of my scissors.  So, we put this theory to Emily. "Emily, did you get the scissors?" "Scissors, yes finger hurt," she said, and we breathed a sigh of relief.  We had found the culprit, and while I felt bad that she had hurt herself on my scissors at least I could put them away on a higher surface and no one would get hurt anymore.  But just as I was settling in to my relief, Hallie piped up. "It was the pumpkin," She said.  "Pumpkin?" I asked, incredulous.  Why was Hallie talking about pumpkins?  "Emily hurt herself on the pumpkin," Hallie said, looking at me with sincerity in her face.  I had no idea how to respond to this, how could you hurt yourself on a pumpkin?  I dismissed her statement and finished reading her stories. 

Once the girls were in bed I went to investigate the table where my sewing was laying out.  Unfortunately for my investigation, the scissors were hidden underneath a pile of fabric, paper, and assorted other things and none of that stuff had any blood on it either.  I racked my brain trying to come up with the solution. Something in my house was hurting babies, and I had to find it.  I looked around again for a lone pair of scissors, or a different knife. Nothing. I could see nothing that was sharp.  Sighing, I went upstairs to go to bed myself.

The  next morning we were setting out breakfast, and I noticed the bright orange pumpkin sitting on the counter.  I had picked it from our garden the week previously, and I was so pleased with its cheerful autumn self.  Hallie caught me looking at it and said, "Emily hurt on the pumpkin."  Hallie seemed so insistent on this idea that I looked more closely at the pumpkin.  Now, I don't know if it is all pumpkins or just the variety that we grow in our backyard, but they have some vicious thorns on their stems.  These thorns remain when you pull the pumpkin off the vine.  Not to mention that the stem is just about the width of little Emily's hand, fitting snugly just about where her index finger and thumb would wrap. 

And so, based on the expert testimony of one Hallie Rose, and the evidence of the thorns on the pumpkin, in addition to the width of the stem and the positioning of the cuts on Emily's hand, I had to conclude that she had tried to lift the pumpkin by the stem in one hand, and had cut herself in the process.  Certainly the best theory we had so far.

Except for one thing. There was no blood anywhere on the pumpkin, counter, or on the chair she had used to climb, either.  I'd like to send this in to "Unsolved Mysteries" and let them have a crack at it.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Farmer Tan

Yesterday was Saturday. This means that Devin and I (and my brother and his wife, because they are visiting us, and visitors are not spared - ask anyone who has visited us over a Saturday, they'll tell you tales) spent hours in the yard, trying to tame the wilderness that disgruntles our neighbors.

Usually I put on sunscreen, because as most people know, hours in the sun cause sunburns, and repeated sunburns can cause skin cancer.  I am hoping to avoid this, and so we lather up the girls and ourselves before heading outside.  Now, to be clear and honest, usually when I lather up I put the screen on my face and arms.  I leave my legs alone, because those poor things never really see the light of day, and when they do in my cut-off-yard-working jeans I like them to catch a few rays.  Not that I've ever seen any evidence of them catching any at all, but hope dies hard and I just keep trying.  Yesterday was no exception, my legs were completely screen free, ready to take in any and all rays the sun sent their way. 

Once we felt satisfied with our work yesterday, we came in to take showers and get ready to go get some ice cream. Hard work should be rewarded, don't you think?  My turn in the shower came last, and as I looked down at my legs, I noticed a DISTINCT color difference on the skin of my calves, between my feet, where my socks had been, and my thighs, as my shorts had gone, of course, to my knees.  Colored skin can only mean one thing, my legs had finally caught up to to the color on my arms, which is not to say, strictly speaking, a tan, but something a shade darker than the glow-in-the-dark color I had been sporting on my legs.

Upon closer inspection however, I came to the sad realization that it was just a fine coating of dirt.  When it all came off in the shower I knew for sure.  There was no real tan here.  Thus, I nominate a second definition for the term "farmer tan".  Farmer tan: noun, a coloring of the skin resembling a tan caused by a fine layer of dirt resulting from a day of hard work in the yard.

Anyone to second my nomination?

Friday, August 5, 2011

Long Enough

It has been hot. And I have been tired.  These are my two excuses for staying away from my  blog for so long. But I can resist no longer, even though with the heat sucking all my energy away I have none left to write anything witty or creative or even interesting.  So I leave you with this picture, and the charge to come up with something fantastic to say about it yourselves, if you would like. Otherwise, just enjoy the moments. That's what I did.

 Hallie is reading the complete works of Jane Austen, Hanna is reading the last installment of the Harry Potter series.  These ladies know how to pick 'em. (Was that witty? Creative? Cute?)
Don't forget to take us! 
(This one, not so witty or creative right? Totally lame? Oh well.)