On the radio this morning, I heard this song and flashed back to my childhood. My father, a Ronnie Milsap fan, played a cassette of Milsap’s greatest hits in the car whenever we took a family trip. My siblings and I know all the words to these songs, and with every country chorus, the memories flood my mind.
Enjoy!
Well, folks… It finally happened. I met one of those moms. A CompetiMom. Read about my experience over at the Imperfect Parent.
I haven’t yet read any books in the Twilight series. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. I just cannot get into them. I read a few sentences of the first book (my sister owns all the books currently released) and I was bored. People think I’m crazy, and promptly tell me how awesome these novels are, and I’m sure they are amazing. Just not my thing right now. I’ve got other books piling up on my “to-be-read” list.
This morning Dawson dragged a chair from the dining room into the kitchen and was scavenging the cabinets looking for something to eat. Something he probably shouldn’t have, like fruit snacks or Froot Loops straight out of the box. When I went into the kitchen to bust him, he turned around and said, “This happens every time. Daddy brings home the treats, and BOOM! They’re gone!” I fought the urge to laugh and replied, “Who do you think you are? Madden?” To which my son rolled his eyes and said, “I have no idea what that means.” I promptly peed my pants from the incessant laughter that followed.
Even funnier morning tale: Dawson was standing in the living room, playing with his new Transformers Bumblebee toy (that he conned me into buying when we went to K-Mart to pick up my prescriptions). He was explaining how it worked and said something like, “So you move his arms and then his legs and BAM! He’s a robot!” Continuing the witty reparte I said, “Dawson, you sound like Emeril.” Again, my child looked at me funny and replied, “Mom, you gotta stop saying such crazy things. I don’t know what a ‘Mer-ill is!” That child cracks me up.
I’m sick of being pregnant. I know that sounds horrible. I’m just anxious. I want to meet the little guy who kicks me incessantly. I want the bloating, the horrible ligament pain and the bat-shit crazy mood swings to be over. Nine weeks to go. NINE. Will I make it?
The nesting phase has begun. Yesterday morning, post work, post doctor appointments, I had this insane urge to organize the playroom slash exercise room. I began moving boxes and realized I needed help, so my awesome sister came over and helped me make sense of all the crap in the basement. All the holiday decorations were moved into the closet in our family room. Toys and books were sorted, and two boxes were set aside for Goodwill. Next, I cleaned out my closet and finally parted with some too small clothes I was clinging to. My sister took the ones she liked, the rest were given to GW. It was hard to get rid of some of those things, but I closed my eyes and the box before I changed my mind. In total, seven boxes were loaded into the Jimmy, and Goodwill was very happy to receive them.
Today, I have a nagging urge to start organizing the room that Dawson and Baby O will share. I’m starting to look at the things in my house as entirely too much crap. Where did all this stuff come from? And how do I decide what to save, what to toss and what to donate?
Both UPS and FedEx dropped packages at the front door yesterday. I received the really awesome thing I won from bTrendie (in a BlogHer giveaway) and then we also got Hooked on Phonics (Parent Bloggers Network campaign) and Dawson and I are excited to try HoP. Stay tuned for more details on that.
My wonderful husband has decided to finally get down to business and remove the old, ugly, yellow shag carpet from the other spare bedroom downstairs. (I have only asked four hundred times.) I’ve decided I need an office, with a door, to work in peace. Currently, I do my work from the kitchen table or the sofa. I’m thinking a desk is needed, too. I just don’t want to spend too much money with a new baby on the way. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.
I’ve got a confession to make. I’m addicted to watching Roseanne re-runs on TV Land. I can’t help it. I love the early years of this show because it reminds me so much of my family (circa the 80s) when I was growing up. We were the typical middle class family, two hard working parents trying to make ends meet, two daughters and one son… And then it became even more real when Roseanne had a son later in life, just like my mother had my youngest brother at 39. Then the Conners won the lottery (JUMPED THE SHARK) and I couldn’t stand it anymore. So, I suppose I’m reliving some old memories by watching those pre-lottery winning episodes.
I’m in love with the DVR. We’ve had it for a month now, and I don’t know how we ever got along with out it. I record Phineas & Ferb for Dawson, and that Transformers cartoon that airs at 5:00 a.m., and movies I’d like to see but don’t have the time right now. It’s entertainment magic. Love, love, love. It will come in handy when Dancing With the Stars airs in three weeks. Yay! Miss that show terribly, but I’m sure a certain baby arriving will make it hard to watch the show live.
I think I’m suffering from ADD. I want to read seven different books all at once, good books, from the library. Due in 12 days. I’m starting to mix up the story lines and information (some are non-ficiton). Perhaps I should just stick to one book at a time.
Back to pregnancy… I’m feeling a wee bit claustrophobic. Antsy. And my arms and legs and stomach itch every so often. I’m starting to think the baby is trying to bust out. October, please hurry.
On Tuesday, my husband celebrated his 39th birthday for the third year in a row. Yes, that means he’s really…. can I say how old he is on the blog, because he threatened to tell people I have gray hair at 30. Ooh, I’m scared. Considering I’ve already blogged about my getting gray hair much earlier than I’d like to admit, I figure telling the internet he’s 41 is fair game.
To celebrate Doug’s birthday we went on a family fishing trip. Doug loaded and hitched the boat and we dropped anchor on the Wisconsin River at Galecki Park near our house. After slathering on a ton of sunscreen we settled in for some line fishing. Okay, I didn’t fish, because that whole thing is not my bag. I read a book and took photos while Doug and Dawson waited patiently for the fish to bite.
The weather was gorgeous, around 75 degrees and not too humid. The sun was shining, with a few clouds here and there, and a light breeze swept the air. We had a marvelous time. And three hours later, just before we had decided to go back to the dock, an amazing thing happened:
Dawson caught his first fish, a walleye, and he was beyond excited! He was so happy and so proud of his accomplishment. Doug and I were so proud, too!
Doug helped him cast the line, and showed him how to jig, and after many long moments of waiting and a few snags, suddenly something pulled on his line. Dawson didn’t even realize it was a fish at first. He thought he had another snag. But Doug instructed him to reel in his line, and Dawson was so excited when he realized he had to fight the fish into the boat.
“Daddy! It’s a strong fish! Help!”
Doug told him to keep reeling, and once the fish was out of the water he helped Dawson get him into the boat for a picture. The smile on our son’s face was so magical, and so priceless. I was so happy for him. Dawson couldn’t wait to tell his grandpas about his first catch. We took a little video to remember the occasion:
(Please ignore my husband’s attempt to ignore the camera. He hates pictures, and always looks so crabby on video. He’s really NOT a serial killer, even though he looks like one in this vid.)
More fishing photos here.
He was a quiet man, my grandfather, never saying much to anyone, yet always humming a tune softly to himself.
Whether he was sitting at the kitchen table playing a game of solitaire or nestled into his arm chair to watch the Cubs on WGN, Grandpa was a man of few words. Still, he always hummed. Always.
I can remember nearly every conversation I ever had with Grandpa Florian. We’d talk about baseball, the Milwaukee Brewers and Chicago Cubs especially, and I can still see the smile rise at the corners of his mouth as he reminisced about the days of Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron. His eyes shined as he spoke about homeruns and RBIs and which pitcher had the best average.
“Grandpa, which team is your favorite? The Brewers or the Cubbies?” I asked.
“Hmmm…well, let’s see…I don’t really have a favorite. But I do like the Cubs. I love the anticipation of seeing them go all the way. They just might do it yet, you know. Maybe even in my lifetime.”
I loved sitting on Grandpa’s lap as we watched baseball. Even though my dad was a Brewers fan and raised me to be the same, I took pride in cheering for the Cubbies with Grandpa. It was our secret.
“Little missy, your daddy better not catch you rooting for the Cubs! He might never let you come back here.”
“Okay, Grandpa. I promise I won’t tell him. I’ll say we watched Paul Molitor and Robin Yount on television and it was the most fun ever.”
Grandpa would kiss the top of my forehead, wink at me, and go right back to humming. That was his way of saying he loved me. Even though he smelled like Copenhagen and saltine crackers, I didn’t care. I just loved being with Grandpa.
As I sit here and watch the Chicago Cubs blow the snot out of my Milwaukee Brewers, secretly I’m cheering for those Cubbies. I imagine Grandpa is smiling down on me, happy that his little missy still loves baseball and kept a promise made so long ago.
