I'm twittering myself right now.

And, I'm so confused!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Since joining the active world of blogging, (reading, commenting, joining social networks, etc.) I've noticed that EVERYONE seems to be on Twitter. No, I'm not exaggerating. EVERYONE.

At first, I didn't see why people would bother with it. Isn't it the same as blogging? Isn't it the same as commenting on other people's blogs? Isn't it just randomly talking?

Yes, yes, and yes.

But, according to the articles, posts, and tips I've been reading, Twitter is (apparently) the thing to do if you are a serious blogger.

"Wait . . . I want to be a serious blogger!" (That's the excuse I've been giving my husband to explain away the HOURS I've spent in the blogging world the past two weeks)

The pressure was on. In an attitude of seriousness, cup of coffee in front of me and my hyper child finally asleep, I went to the Twitter site, ready to start twittering along with everyone else.

I'm not sure what I expected, but those expectations were not met. I signed up, uploaded a picture, told Twitter what I was doing, and then, after 15 exacerbating minutes of searching, found the code to add a widget to my blog.

Then, I waited.

Nothing happened. My little "what I'm doing" update sat all by its lonesome in the right hand column. I don't need to know what I'm doing -- I'm doing it. I know! What about all the updates I'm supposed to receive?

More scrambling across the Internet occurred as I tried to research how the heck this thing is supposed to work. Oh -- I am supposed to go to each person's site and tell Twitter I want to follow that person. Isn't that what I've already been doing as I've spent the past days, weeks, and months LURKING????

I didn't know it would be so much work.

To make matters worse, the twitter widget looks ugly on my page -- just another bunch of words on an already gaudy blog site. This isn't the best of experiences for this blogger, especially as I'd already committed myself to simplifying my site (which hasn't happened yet).

So now I sit, seriously twittering by myself, debating whether or not I should "follow" people or just get rid of Twitter altogether.

(By the way, is it a sign I'm getting old if I can't patiently figure out how to work a simple online application? I am a Myspace genius! I can manipulate css/html code! I showed my whole family how to myspace and blog. But I can't learn how to twitter with the best of them???)

Great -- I've just noticed that my updates aren't showing up on my page. Anyone know where I can go to tell Twitter to "twitter off?"

Semi-Wordless Wednesday

Today's submission is one of the Little Lady's infamous "bad pics"

(there are a lot of them & they are being saved for future blackmailing purposes!).

Sharing my Find

A Year of Crock-potting

I love this blog!!! If you are not familiar with it, you definitely need to check it out. This mom is devoted to using her crock-pot every day in 2008!!!

I love using my crock-pot but I never think about it when I plan my menus. The only time it generally gets used is if I'm doing a beef roast or whole chicken.

But not anymore!!! The Crock-Pot Lady's site has left me very excited to try more crock-pot recipes. I'm introducing 2 into our menu this week: Peppercorn Steak and Coq au Vin.

I'll let you know how they turn out!

Dear Little Lady,

This is your Mommy and we need to talk.

First of all, I want to thank you for being a cute and delightfully personable little girl. Your smiles, giggles, and silly antics make your Daddy and me laugh nearly everytime we're around you. You have such a fun personality -- I love seeing it develop and grow each day.

But, sometimes, having a fun personality doesn't excuse our poor choices and naughty behavior. Lately, you have been doing some things that just, well, aren't lady-like. And you, my dear, WILL be a lady. I know that sometimes Daddy laughs when you do these crude/gross things, but Daddy is a boy. Boys are gross -- it's a fact. Even as they grow up, they will still laugh at gross stuff. That's what boys do.

There are two particular things that Mommy doesn't find enjoyable, and I think you'll learn the rest of the world doesn't either. I want to bring them to your attention.

Item #1: I understand that you are very curious. You should be -- you just turned 1 and curiosity is helping you develop that little brain of yours. But, there are somethings that needn't spark ANY curiosity from you. I'm talking about your snot.

I know that you just realized that you have a nose, which is my fault. I wanted to be able to show off you and your tricks. Since you didn't have any tricks, I decided it was time to come up with one. Learning the location of the nose seemed easy -- you picked it up so quickly. But, I didn't want you to learn that your nose had holes and that those holes sometimes produce sticky stuff. It's my job to worry about the sticky stuff -- not yours!

You do not need to stick your finger up your nose. I promise it's not necessary. And, you certainly don't need to pull out any mucus, examine it, or eat it. That's just plain gross. It is not endearing, not cute, and not pleasant to watch. You need to stop. You gain nothing from the digestion of snot except the disgusted stares of strangers. Stop.

Item #2: I know you are starting to learn possession. This is a good thing. You need to know which shoes are yours & which ones aren't . . .which paci is yours & which one isn't. Learning what is yours is good. I'm proud that you are starting to recognize these things. But, just because something is "yours" doesn't mean you need to keep it. This time, I'm talking about your poo.

Yesterday, during your 3rd dirty diaper of the day (which, incidentally, does seem a bit much don't you think?), you insisted on being able to claim your poo. You repeatedly tried to put your hand around your hip, fingers desperately reaching to grab said poo.

I know that it came from your body, making you think that you need it, but, as I told you yesterday, we do not keep poo. It's smelly and gross. Little ladies should not be fascinated with it. There is nothing about it that needs saving -- we only do that if the doctor tells us to do so, and your doctor has not said keeping poo is necessary.

And, by the way, throwing a fit on the changing table (kicking, screaming, bucking, crying. . . remember doing all of that?) does not make me want to give you the poo. Don't bother with such antics. They will never work.

Now that I've passed all of this along, I want to thank you for being so cute last night when we had company. During that time, you behaved wonderfully. Your mommy and daddy appreciate that kind of behavior. If you could be that cute & ladylike all day long, when just mommy is around, that would be even better. MOMMY would absolutely love it!

Love,
Mommy

My name is Rachel. I kill small animals. That's what I do.

No -- I'm not a sadistic, cruel, evil, animal-hating person.

I just drive a car.

This weekend marked the passing of another small, helpless, creature due to my inability to react quickly behind the steering wheel.

Goodbye, Mr. Armadillo.

(I know this isn't your picture, Mr. Armadillo, but my tired husband wouldn't let me stop our car on Highway 16 at 2:15 am to take a photo. Not that I blame him -- to be honest, you really didn't look that good. Of course, that's my fault.)

Honestly, I don't know how many animals have perished while I've been at the wheel. The first I remember was a small gray-brown squirrel in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. Poor thing -- he was just scampering across the road with his brother/sister/lover/mistress/wife (you really can't tell the gender or role of a squirrel with just a glance), trying to find some nuts (squirrels eat nuts, right?). Then, I came down the road -- the faded paint of my 1992 Mercury Topaz wanting to shine in the glare of that hot Oklahoma sun. I was 16 and the owner of a driver's license. There was nothing that could stop me or stand in my way . . as the squirrel, unfortunately, discovered.

The next major accident occurred two years later. I was 18 and a few months shy of graduating high school. The night in question had been the final night of my performance as Dolly Levi in (you guessed it) "Hello, Dolly!". I sang, pretended to dance, stage-kissed, and bowed my heart out that night; later, as I drove home down the dark, lonely gravel road, visions of Broadway grandure danced through my head. SURELY if the masses of Pryor, Oklahoma loved me, then New York would! (a girl can dream)

I learned, in the next few minutes of driving, that one should not let any visions dance while driving. It's not safe. Not for you or stray dogs that decide to run across the road. Well, it was just one dog. And, I don't know if he was a stray. I do know that he was ugly, not that it justifies his fate. I'm just "saying."

As far as Mr. Armadillo is concerned, it really was a sad affair. You see, I thought I was going to miss him.

Our family left Houston around 9 o'clock Friday night to head to the booming metropolis of Medina, TX, a town of roughly 2,900 people located on the other side of San Antonio. (facts checked by Wikipedia -- I know how to research.) We shouldn't have left so late; it's a 5 hour drive from our house to that of my in-laws, but we did. I drove the second half of the journey, listening to my IPOD and trying to avoid the numerous deer out that night. I really do try to keep from hitting animals. Really.

As I skillfully manuevered around the curves of Highway 16, pretending to be a race-car driver (although a s-l-o-w driver since I had a sleeping husband and baby in the back seat), I didn't realize that another fatality would soon be added to my kill list.

Then, I saw him -- metallic coat reflecting the bright light streaming from my headlights. He was right smack dab in the middle of the road, and he was frozen in fear. Well, I assume he was frozen out of fear; I would be if I saw me getting ready to drive over me!

I didn't know what to do -- I have horrible reaction skills. There were only a few seconds to make a choice. Swerving away scared me. So, I decided just to aim the car, a speeding silver bullet of death, right over him so that the armadillo would go underneath, between the tires, and out of harm's way.

I didn't learn until after that decision had been made and "executed" that armadillos, in reaction to fear, stand straight up on all four paws. He made himself taller at the wrong moment. . . tall enough to be hit by my front bumper.

The dull thud woke my husband, and I had to admit that another helpless animal had fallen victim to my driving ability. The tragic news didn't cause him panic, heartache, or sorrow as it did me. He just mumbled something, blinked a little, and went back to sleep. He had a clean conscience. I had to be sad by myself.

Once again, goodbye, Mr. Armadillo. I'm sorry I killed you.

Awwww

Susan sent me some "blog love."

It was very sweet of her to do this and I really apppreciate the sentiment. You do need to visit her blog -- she's an amazing mom living an amazing life!

I'm going to continue the cycle by nominating some more fantastic blogs as a "Brillante Weblog."

These blogs are all written by women who have been particularly encouraging to me this week and/or have written on topics that "hit home" for me. Thanks, ladies!

There are a couple of "rules" for those who receive this award:

1. Put the logo on your blog.
2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.
3. Nominate at least seven other blogs.
4. Add links to those blogs on your blog.
5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blog.

Here are my nominees:

1. Carrie, http://raisingworldchangers.blogspot.com/

2. http://ourcrookedtree.blogspot.com/

3. Lindsay, http://yoderlife.blogspot.com/

4. Laura, http://grocerymama.typepad.com/

5. Willow, http://apronstringsandangst.com/

6. Tricia, http://thefikesfamily.blogspot.com/

7. Hannah, http://hannahnoelh.blogspot.com/

The Reasons Why I Say "Yes."

Today, there are no stories -- it's all about a list. Yesterday, I posed a question to myself. And now, like all people who have excellent communication skills with their own self, I will answer.

If I'd Known Then What I Know Now . . . Would I Still Have Married My Husband?

"Absolutely!"

Here's why:

1) Despite keeping the window blinds up, he keeps the toilet seat down.

2) He lets me control the television remote, enduring countless hours of Project Runway, Murder She Wrote, Top Chef, What Not to Wear, and House Hunters.

3) He can make me feel beautifully sexy (even though I am not as hot as I was when we met).

4) He prays for us each and every day.

5) After nearly 5 years of being together, he still makes me laugh like a crazy woman.

6) He pays attention to the advice on What Not to Wear so that he can help me shop (because he knows that I hate shopping and easily get depressed in dressing rooms).

7) He is in love me.

8) He massages my shoulders everyday, without prompting!

9) He handles my temper with grace, understanding that sometimes I just need to blow off some steam.

10) He has never belittled me.

11) He understood my ache to have children and held me when I learned it wouldn't be possible "the old-fashioned way."

12) He embraced the idea of adoption.

13) Even though Dumb and Dumber is his all-time favorite movie, he's only watched it once since we were married.

14) One of his top goals is to be an amazing, Godly husband -- and, he succeeds!

15) He understands my need to dress the Little Lady in adorable clothes.

16) He went shopping, on his own and without prompting, for the Little Lady's birthday and purchased a CUTE, CUTE outfit!

17) He has already started teaching the Little Lady how to have a pretend tea-party; after their first successful party, he excitedly brought her downstairs to show how she could "pretend" to eat and drink.

18) He loves to rock our daughter as much as I do.

19) He softly kisses me goodbye every morning.

20) He is, undoubtedly, the man God fashioned for me.

If I'd Known Then What I Know Now . . .

Would I have still married my husband?

There are some days where that is a legitimate question.

Take yesterday for example. My husband is fascinated by people, AND, he has ADD. Now in some situations, that combination is just fine and wonderful. Yeah, but not when it comes to my bathroom!

Hubby wakes early, around 6:30 a.m., to get ready for work. Sometimes, I get up that early too, just to have a little more "awake-time" with him. But, most mornings, I stay bed. That is the one perk I get for leaving the teaching field (where I awoke at 4:30 A.M every morning). I do not apologize for my enjoyment of sleeping in.

On the mornings when I sleep in, Hubby fluctuates between boredom and distraction. He needs structure and routine; without it, he can easily get sucked into the television, watching "Backyardigans," the Weather Channel, or whatever happens to be on TV. Suddenly, he'll look up and realize he has only a few minutes left to eat, shower, shave, get dressed, and leave. Panicking, he rushes into our room, clattering and clashing everything that can be clattered and clashed. (This is the point where I pull the comforter over my face and turn from the light. Remember -- I'm not ashamed.) Then, he's out the door and I go back to the last few precious minutes I have before The Little Lady wakes up and my day really begins.

Back to yesterday. I guess Hubby had decided to skip TV in an effort to stay on schedule. Good for him; I'm so proud. I don't know how long he went about the house -- TV off, no noise, no cartoon characters singing or Houston weather forecasters cheesily saying "Helloooo, Dolly." At some point, he finished breakfast and came upstairs. And, the boredom struck.

I don't know how one gets bored using the bathroom, but, apparently, my husband can. When Hubby gets bored in the bathroom, he likes to raise the blinds of the window (which is a 4-foot tall window RIGHT by the toilet) and "people watch." I know -- I don't get it either. Normally, he is a polite husband and lowers the blinds when finished, out of respect for me. Yesterday, that didn't happen.

Fast-foward to around 8:30 p.m. that same day. Because The Little Lady and I are downstairs for the majority of our day, I've not had a chance to venture into our master-bath. But, it's night time and I'm upstairs having just put The Little Lady to bed. The Little Lady is in a "stage" right now; she likes to be rocked and rocked and rocked and rocked before she decides she can go to bed. So, last night I rocked and rocked and rocked. . . you get the picture. Well, maybe you don't. I rocked and rocked after consuming several gallons of sweet tea at dinner. Imagine rocking after that!

She finally allows me to put her in bed ("thank you, your Highness") and I rush to the master-bath. Oh, the horror! Oh, the insanity! Oh, the tackiness! The window blinds are up.

No problem, right? I rush over and pull the cord. The blinds go up. A slight lump of panic moves into my throat. I shift weight from one leg to the other and attempt to lower the blinds again. No luck; those off-white, stubborn slats of plastic are jeering at me from the top of the window frame. The lump in my throat becomes larger. I suppress the angry, scared scream that is knocking at the back of my vocal cords. I have other physiological reactions taking over. "The Dance" has begun. What? Oh, I danced the dance! You know which one I'm talking about. (I'm not ashamed -- it was an emergency!)

I look out the window and see the world below welcoming the darkness that has arrived. Great -- now I really stand out, up here in the obnoxious, incandescent glow beaming out of the naked window. All because my husband was bored that morning.

Eventually, whether through skill, desperation, or anger, I managed to bring the blinds down. The crisis was over. I went downstairs to find the perpetrator of this entire fiasco. His crisis was just begining.

Semi-Wordless Day

I'm taking a break from blogging today in order to tackle the mounds of laundry spilling out of my closet go on a thrilling adventure, full of death-defying moments.

In the meantime, enjoy a picture of The Little Lady playing the part of "Nature Baby" (photo courtesy of yesterday's playtime).

DON'T drink the water.

I don't understand the fascination, the obsession.

I've told her it's disgusting, dirty, unsanitary, and gross. I've twisted my lips, wrinkled my nose and narrowed my eyes hoping that would help to convey the nastiness. I have even physically tried to stop her. But, she just laughs and continues to gulp.

My daughter is a bath-water drinker.

Nevermind the remainder of dinner (green beans, cheese, or bread crumbs) and grass that is floating in the water -- she just drinks and drinks and drinks. Last night, it didn't matter how many cute and thrilling toys I placed in the tub with her. She took turns ignoring them completely or using them to funnel water to her mouth. When they got in her way, she just bent over and lapped like a little puppy.

Why doesn't she listen to me? I am a sage, wise beyond my twenty-something years; I have taken a thousand baths in my day, taken biology classes, and watched the Discovery channel: I KNOW WHAT'S IN THE BATHWATER!

I tried to distract her by getting down to the business of washing. But, she promptly grabbed the wash cloth (she's freakishly strong) and proceeded to suck and slurp every drop of water out of the brown terry-cloth. Nasty little thing.

What's a mommy to do? Was there nothing I could do to stop this revolting habit? Then it hit me -- BUBBLES! If the water is covered with an effervescent foam, she won't be able to drink it. I AM A GENIUS!

She ate the bubbles.

It was time to retaliate. Childish spite rose up within me -- I was going to show her who was boss! I popped open the shampoo lid and gleefully watched the look of fear enter her eyes.

I began to lather her hair, which she hates. I ignored the whimpers and sniffles. "I'm the mama," I bragged, "I can wash your hair if I want to!" Scrubbing the thin whisps of hair and rubbing her scalp clean, I showed her that I was in control. No more water drinking in this bathtub!

Then, just because I was in a mischievous mood, I decided to prove one last time and give her a new hair-style. Just because I could.

See that expression? Oh, yeah -- she knows who's boss.

I win.

Monday's Naptime = Question of the Week

Breast-milk Jewelry (click for full article)

This topic recently came up on my mom's board. Artists have discovered a technique that turns the proteins in milk (in this case, human milk) into a moldable plastic.

Question: Would you do this?

Since our adoption was on "short-notice," I was not able to breast feed The Little Lady. This is one mothering experience I wish I could have experienced -- there is something so intimate, primal, eternal in that act. No matter the scientific, technological or scientific advances, we women still have this one unique ability that connects us and puts us on the same level as all women who came before us.

But, would I save the "mother's milk" (my milk) in a solid, artistic form? I'm honestly not sure. I keep trying to remind myself that it is no different than substances made from animals; bones, hides, furs have been used and accepted for centuries as beautiful objects. Yet, there just seems something odd about it. What would my child think of it? Would it become a treasured heirloom passed on through my descendants? Or would it get tossed in the basement as "Crazy Grandma Rachel's milk-stone?"

But is it any different than saving your baby's curls from the first hair cut? Practically every mom does that (I'm planning on it, if Miss Thing will ever decide to grow some hair!!!!). Of course, what happens to those locks? They don't exactly make it as treasure forever. Just ask my sister. A few weeks ago, during my trip back home to Oklahoma, we found a tattered envelope sticking out of an open cardboard box. The box was old; it was obvious to even the most casual of observers that it had been a favorite night-spot for mice. In fact, when the envelope first caught my eye, I thought I saw the remains of a mouse in it. But, no -- that was just the remains of Hannah's long ago haircut. Twenty years later, those cherished baby locks were collecting dust and mouse DNA. I don't think those curls will end up getting passed on to Hannah's kids.

I digress. Back to the topic; I guess in the end it doesn't really matter (to quote Linkin Park) if I find it a bit weird. I don't have the option of creating such a piece, but I am planning on saving things other people will probably find weird. That's just the right we have as mamas, I guess. We can treasure whatever the heck we want to.

It's Officially Monday and I Can Blog

12:10 am. . . WOO HOO! (no, I haven't outgrown my love of that phrase; you just have to deal with it.)

"Why the excitement, oh, Crazy One?"

"My self imposed 'No-Blogging-On-Sundays-So-My-Husband-Won't-Feel-Left-Out' BAN is over!"

Poor Hubby. He really is getting the shaft thanks to this new addiction: his lunch, his laundry, the dishes . . . even MySpace is taking a backseat to blogging these days. I don't know why this hobby suddenly has completely overcome my thoughts. Seriously, I think about blogging (writing and reading) nearly all day long. I map out posts (most of which haven't found their way into reality), think about blogs I need to check, remind myself of comments I need to return, ponder ways to dress-up my blog's overall look. . . see? This is going through my brain ALL DAY LONG!

He looked so pitiful yesterday afternoon. I, of course, wasn't pitiful; I was having fun! For hours, my fingers furiously typed addresses, moved the mouse over links, opened page after page while my eager eyes skimmed the witty and provoking posts written by amateur and professional bloggers alike. I was a very busy and content girl. But Hubby -- he was pitiful.

After the 15th sad, little boyish sigh, I finally came out of my colorful blogging haze and realized that he was hungry, lonely, and tired of being a single dad. When I begrudgingly turned from the monitor, I saw him sitting on the floor, shoulders slumped, picking at the carpet. HOW sad is that?

Then, I noticed my daughter. Hubby had made sure that she looked pitiful too. Crumbs from lunch were still on her face and in her hair (what little hair she has), her nose was runny, and she was wearing clothing TWO sizes too small (needless to say, the outfit didn't match: pink pants high waters and a green Saint Patty's day shirt midriff). While her belly-button is cute, I don't usually choose to show it off.

So, for the sake of my daughter's future fashion sense and my husband's overall well-being, I've decided to set some parameters when it comes to my blogging fix. One of those new rules is to save Sunday for family and church only. All kidding aside, I need to do this. I wrote, several weeks ago, that I wanted to realign my priorities. Today, thanks to a pitiful husband and child, I was reminded of that commitment and my failure to comply fully.

I'm still a blogger -- I'll definitely keep writing, reading, and commenting. But, it won't happen at the expense of my family. They need to come first. After all, they are providing the material for this blog anyway.

She should be a Jedi Master

A one year old CAN play mind games with you.

A couple of nights ago, I made a dinner that The Little Lady LOVED: pan-seared chicken and corn on the cob. She couldn't get enough of it, which left me ecstatic! Finally, a combo that seemed a sure-fire hit.

Today's lunch was a repeat of that meal. I knew she was hungry (she was giving all of the annoying signs: screaming, screaching, and pointing to anything edible in the kitchen), so I figured she'd love chicken and corn.

I held the Little Lady as I prepared the dinner; she Oooo'd and Ahhhh'd over my culinary skills, impressed with each turn of the chicken, the sprinkles of pepper, and the dash (a very tiny dash) of salt. I knew that in her eyes, I was a cooking genius. I watched her eyes get big as I lifted each piece of chicken from the pan, the succulent meat glistening in the light of the vent hoood. She pointed and squealed in my arms -- it was finally time to eat!

Eagerly, the Little Lady allowed me to put her in the highchair and attach the tray. She impatiently pounded said tray as I cut the meat (apparently, she was not impressed with my turtle-slow knife skills). Bit by bit, I dropped pieces of juicy, perfectly cooked chicken on the tray. She pointed to the corn. Oh, yeah -- I'd forgotten about that. I placed the mini-ear of corn on the tray too.

She grinned -- a sign I assumed to be showing her gratitude.

Then Baby Yoda took over.

I swear, without using her hands, that kid managed to throw every piece of chicken off the tray. It was flying everywhere! As soon as I picked up a piece, another was replacing it.

Of course, I sternly told her to stop and "told her" (I know she understood) that big girls do NOT throw food around. I pointed at her corn and told her to eat it.

Yoda Baby slowly grinned and pointed at the corn. I watched it slowly, independently roll across the tray to the other side.

I looked at the corn.

I looked at Yoda Baby.

Yoda Baby looked me.

She looked at the corn.

Then (still grinning mind you) she lowered her hand, picked up the corn, and held the piece of corn over the floor.

(It really was this dramatic)

In slow motion, she released the buttery corn and I watched it, horrified, as it careened to the floor, where it bounced twice, splattering butter in every possible direction, before slowly rolling several inches. . . a trail of moisture left in its wake.

I turned my eyes back to my Jedi daughter.

She raised her arms and said "Done!"

************************************

At least there is never a dull moment.

Not Now

Mommies should be invincible. We should be above feeling tired, worn out, or sickly. We have too much to do, and I, for one, cannot take time out of life to be sick.

But, I am sick.

I felt it coming on all day: achy bones, sore throat, dull headache, and TIRED body. For the first time in a long time, I napped when the Little Lady did. I felt exhausted and could not keep my eyes open. I slept through phone calls and HGTV episodes (my normal TV line-up when the Little Lady's asleep).

Of course, once she was awake, the Energetic Mommy costume was back in place and I took care of my Baby Diva, but I was anxiously awaiting Daddy's arrival. I needed someone else to entertain the Little Lady, even if just for a few minutes.

Once she was down for the night, I allowed myself a little bit of time to "feel" sick. Unfortunately, once I mentioned it to Hubby, out came the Thera-Flu. It's his answer to EVERY malady.

"Oh, you're head hurts? Here's some Thera-Flu."
"You stubbed your big toe? Did you drink some Thera-Flu?"
"Yeah, that's a nasty paper cut. You should take some Thera-Flu and sleep it off."

THERA-FLU IS NOT THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING! ESPECIALLY SINCE IT TASTES HORRIBLY!!!!

I hate, hate, hate Thera-Flu; I gag everytime it pours into my mouth. It is the nastiest tasting medicine out there.

But, my throat isn't quite as sore now, my head isn't pounding, and I'm up at 10:54 p.m., writing a blog entry. Maybe it's worthwhile after all.

Just don't tell my husband he was right.

(she's) Following In My Shoes

I've changed the title of my blog (again). The last change was to commemorate the fact that I was a new Mama. Well, the newness has worn off. I'm an old, tired, worn-out Mama these days (who isn't when you have a toddler?).

Today was a rough day as a SAHM. the Little Lady was still cranky and restless from her shots yesterday AND it was our first day, in over a month, without something to do or someone at our house. She had gotten used to having personal entertainement (via Gramie, Papa, Nina, Poppi, Auntie Sarah or Uncle Seth) and her Mama had gotten used to have a break (via the same people)! The absence of these fine folk made today very, very, very long: I didn't get a break and the Little Lady was stuck with just me.

Several times today I became very frustrated; the Little Lady and I just seemed to have a lot of problems communicating with each other. She would obviously want or need something, and, 9 times out of 10, I couldn't figure out what that thing was. This little girl is getting to the stage where she wants and tries to communicate with us -- and quickly gets very upset and frustrated when we can't figure out what she wants. Little temper tantrums are starting to flare (an occurrance I never expected, given her easy-going nature of the past).

But, there were also some hilarious moments. the Little Lady really has a funny personality and a definite sense of humor. She loves to play games, sing silly songs, make silly faces . . . it really is easy to tickle her funny bone. Her laughter is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world and infectious! Hubby and I find ourselves giggling right along with her everytime she starts to laugh.

The Little Lady has become a mimic. She tries to repeat nearly everything we say or do. It's amazing how much she picks up. We've noticed her mimicking our mannerisms, body language, sounds, etc. I never realized how much kids, as young as she is, really do learn from watching those around them.

For example, at one point today, I went to the kitchen, telling the Little Lady that I was going to get a drink. I heard her little voice calling after me, "Dink . . .dink," which was my signal that she wanted a drink too. A few seconds later, I heard a shuffled clunking noise. I turned back toward the living room and saw my precocious little girl trying to wear (and walk in) the shoes I'd left beside the couch.

That image of a daughter wearing her mother's shoes is iconic and, almost, cliche: the idea of dressing up like your mother, taking on her clothing, mannerisms, voice, and personality. And, today, I got to see my daughter in her first attempt at dressing like me.

She's only one year old but she is already learning everything about being a woman from me. I'm the example she's learning from every minute. And, the question that came to mind a few weeks ago surfaced again: am I being a good example to her? Am I truly, every moment, showing her what it is that I want her to learn? The answer: no.

Today, I showed her impatience, frustration, anger, low-self esteem, etc. I don't want these emotions to be the first lessons she memorizes. I don't want my little girl to ever repeat what I told my husband today: "I hate the way I look." Yet, that's a lesson she's on her way to learning because it's what I show her.

Being the mother of a daughter is a heavier burden than I ever realized. Coming from a household of girls, I thought girls were easy -- a piece of cake. I've always scoffed at people who say "girls are harder to raise," but now I'm not so sure that I disagree. I suppose it would have been an easy job if I had never realized that her big, blue eyes are watching my every move and her little ears are listening to every word. But, as it is, I learned my own lesson today: I'm her teacher, I haven't finished preparing my lesson plans, and class started a year ago.

All of this brings me back to the topic of this post: she's following in my shoes. I wanted to remember this day, to remember this "mothering epiphany." And, so, I changed my blog title -- to always remind me of a petite little diva who is following in my path.

One Year Check-Up

I "HATE, LOATHE, DESPISE, and ABOMINATE" vaccinations!

(quote from Meet Me in St. Louis, in case you were wondering!)

The Little Lady received THREE today at her check-up. It was awful! She was perfectly fine prior to the needles -- laughing, making faces at the nurse, and talking up a storm. Then, the piercing moment. She looked up at me (I had the fantastic job of holding down her hands), eyes growing big, and let out a shrieking cry. It's absolutely horrible to have to look down at your baby while she wonders why this is happening. . . and why YOU aren't doing anything to stop it.

Sigh.

Other news from the visit:

The Little Lady is now 28.5 inches tall and 17 lbs, 8 oz. A very "petite" child, as her doctor put it. She's in the 25th percentile for height and 5th percentile for weight. But, her doctor is not concerned as she is growing properly according to her curve (meaning: she has always been in these percentiles and hasn't dropped off).

Developmentally, her speach is at an 18 month stage!!!! I knew she was a chatterbox, but I didn't realize she was ahead for her age. She has 15 words right now and learns more each day.

Overall, it was a very good visit as the doctor was excited by how well Ellie was doing. Unfortunately, we go back in 2-3 months for more shots. The nurse said that next time, the Little Lady will probably remember this visit and be more anxious the whole time. Great.

The Little Lady's Birthday was a month ago!

Yikes! She's no longer a 12 month old -- and I haven't posted any pics! Silly mama!

Here are a "few" from the past month. . . in a COMPLETELY random order!


Screaming for her Uncle Seth at her Oklahoma party.


Showing off her Hula Girl outfit at her Oklahoma Birthday party.






Mmmm -- liking the sugar!



Posing on the 4th of July



Beautiful Girl




We discovered that the Little Lady LOVES corn on the cob. It's amazing how well she can eat it with just a few baby teeth!





the Little Lady -- amazed at her discovery of a stick.








Feeling big in Gramie's porch glider.





Of all the presents at her party, she loved this box the best.









Birthday party in Houston.















the Little Lady & her boyfriend, Micah.





Making faces with Sam.

Meet the New Puppies!

As of today, our four little girls and one little boy are 2 weeks old! Nearly all of them have their eyes open -- they are adorable! Here are some pics:



Truvy:




Wheezer (the largest):




M'Lynn:




Drum (the only boy):




Clarie (the tiniest!):



Drum and Wheezer:




Truvy's Cute Little Head:




Mama Sarabella taking care of her brood: