Last Saturday we drove 400 miles and parked in front of this tree. After 10 years of married living, we returned, this time with daughter in tow, to our honeymoon destination in the Ozarks. The weekend was fun, relaxing, peaceful, and just what we needed. Stay tuned for more blogging on Dear’s Rest.
After my last haircut Livia told me I looked like ElastiGirl. And while wearing Liv’s birthday mask (something she’s warming up to, something I predict will be lots of fun to her in the future) I felt like a superhero. There’s just something exciting and daring about the mask… I felt like I was up to something great as I wiped down the kitchen counters, ran laundry to the basement and snapped photos of my amazing super self.
How did people make fools of themselves before blogs? Did anyone ever really have fun before public embarrassment?
Last weekend I had the privilege of working backstage for Studio 139’s dance recital. And let me tell you something, there’s just nothing cuter than little dancers. (I should know; my own tiny dancer about knocked my socks off with cuteness each week during lessons. But then we took her out of dance because sitting in another mommy’s lap during class just didn’t seem worth the tuition.)
Here are some tap dancin’ girls backstage during rehearsal. I love it that they were practicing on their own accord, without their instructor present.
The dances were beautiful—this one may have been my favorite. The girls danced on pointe to music by Furusato-Nanbu Morioka and it was really lovely. They did a wonderful job.
Sometimes the stagehand got a bit bored during dress rehearsal and started doing silly things, things like photographing herself in semi-dramatic poses. This shot reminds me of my grandmother Iola. If she had been young in the digital age she totally would’ve taken shots like these.
Many congrats to Joie for putting on such a wonderful show. It was amazing and I’m excited for next year.
While eating breakfast, I thought I heard Livia say, “Nasty!” while shaking her finger. (Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not what you think it is.)
Me: What’s bothering you?
Liv: The Rice Krispie. [pause] It’s MASTY.
Me: Masty, eh?
God help me, I know I should correct her, but I can’t help it. I’ll just giggle now and let Jeremy straighten her out.
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A few days ago Livia and I enjoyed ice cream on the front porch while Jeremy was gardening out back. We heard a monstrous sneeze over the roof of the house to which Livia replied, “Bless you, Daddy!” We heard back: “Thank you, Liv!”
Me: How did you know that was Daddy?
Liv, after thinking for a moment: Because I love him.
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Finally, though I thought I was simply being thorough, Livia accused me of being too “wough” while washing her hair. So if my child’s head stinks a bit in coming days, please know I’m just trying to avoid being labeled as “wough.” I want to be known as a gentle mom.
NARAL makes my stomach churn. I can’t help but think of my body in Fall 2006, how I got to hear my baby’s heartbeat at 8 weeks gestation, then listened fearfully only to hear silence a week later. With sadness I think of my miscarriage and I wonder how it’s considered a right to actually stop a baby’s heart from beating. How is that okay? Why do we celebrate a fetus’s first movements in the womb and in the next breath say that’s it’s okay to abort a human being of the same age? Baffles me.
NARAL has endorsed Barack Obama for president. And why not? Clearly, the candidate is pro-choice.
Boo to NARAL.
Boo to Obama for supporting abortion.
Boo to this presidential election.
Here’s a pic of me and a few of my favorite moms… (Later I’ll post a pic of my mom-in-law Karen after we celebrate with her.) That’s my mom Claudia on the left and my sister-in-law Kristin in the middle. Kristin graduated from Creighton on Saturday with her Master’s—yay, Kris!! Graduation ceremonies, albeit long and fairly uneventful, always impress me. All these people who’ve worked so hard to achieve their goals, celebrating together in one room, preparing to fill the workforce as tomorrow’s teachers, lawyers, counselors. It’s almost enough to make me want to go to grad school. Ha.
Mother’s Day was awesome. Jeremy took all household responsibilities off my shoulders and gave me a blessedly relaxing day. I loved every minute of it. Remember that baking cookbook I wrote about? Now I own it. Thank you, Jeremy!
After a few busy weeks of activities at church, Renae’s baby shower, Livia’s 4th birthday, and the weekend of celebrations, I feel like life is free to get back to normal. Well, as normal as it can ever be!
A mom is a mom is a mom. I’m pooped out tonight and boy do I wish you all could catch my drift based on the first sentence alone. Alas, I’ll forge ahead…
A women is a mother when she has children. Doesn’t matter if those children are biologically hers or adopted. In addition a child is HER child no matter what. It doesn’t matter if this child was adopted at 7 weeks or 7 years or 17 years of age. I find it offensive when journalists write about how Susie Somebody has two daughters and an adopted son. If the fact of adoption must be known, then the sentence begs parallel structure and should point out that the daughters are biological children.
What I’m trying to say is that we should all have a little more compassion, sensitivity and level headedness when it comes to how families are made these days. Just as it’s no longer acceptable to call me “spotted” (seriously, people used to use that term for freckles!), it’s no longer acceptable to make a kid feel different or strange or like an outsider because of his beginnings. Let’s get with the program, people—it’s time for a change.
And for the record, NBC, you still didn’t get it right. Adoptive mothers don’t fit in the same category as loving neighbors. You’ve made an improvement, but you’ve still got a ways to go. Why not salute all mothers without using categories to do so?
Happy birthday, big girl! May you always have enough hats to keep the bees out of your hair(!), may you continue to make your mom and dad laugh a whole lot, and may the Lord bless you and keep you always.
We love you more than you can imagine, Livia Raine. Happy 4th birthday!
**Friends, if you have a Livia memory or story to share, I’d love to have them posted here for Liv to read later in life.
Several mamas, along with our multitude of chilluns, drove out to Bloom Where You’re Planted Farm in Avoca last week. Like an idiot, I tried to locate the farm at 108th Street in Lincoln (note to self: Lincoln is NOT Avoca) and thus arrived a bit on the late side. All motherly gaffes aside, the visit was a joy. Our crazy preschoolers ran around the farm petting cows and attempting to pet horses. Some kids even listened a little bit to the mini-lessons on farming. The highlight of the visit had to be the opportunity to drink milk of multiple hues, including Cotton Candy milk, Rootbeer milk, and Strawberry milk. The good folks at Bloom Where You’re Planted and Legacy Dairy rocked… Thanks for a very fun visit!
