"Honey. Please don't wear your pajamas," he added before he left this morning.Although it sounds like he was being frisky, I guarantee you he wasn't. No-one gets frisky in front of their 5 kids and right before they head off to work.
Okay....so maybe some people do...but Hubs does not.
I thought to myself, "Hey! I do get dressed." I just choose to get dressed the night before.
For most people this means putting on clothes they call pajamas. Me? I wear my exercise clothes to bed and call them exercise clothes.
Why do I wear them to bed? Because if I have them on when I wake up, I am that much more likely to exercise in the morning. Or at least in theory. It hasn't worked perfectly yet, but I have hope that it will. And hope is what keeps me in my sleeps...er...I mean exercise clothes that I wear to bed.
But, as being a mother of 5 children always goes, things come up. Someone forgot their lunch, or their homework, or is feeling sick, or, all of the above. So, without a moment to change, I pick up and drop off...all in my exercise clothes.
It's not my fault that one of these times it was HE who had forgotten something. And so, being the giver that I am, I ran it over to him in my exercise clothes. And let me tell you I was looking hot! Uh-hmmmmmmmmmm. (I had brushed my teeth, by the way. Just in case you were wondering. I do that at night before I go to bed as well....but also in the morning for good measure.)
So imagine my suprise when I told him this morning I would be coming in to have lunch, his response was, "Honey. Please don't wear your pajamas."
Well, of course I won't wear my pajamas.
But I may wear my exercise clothes.
**I didn't, by the way. And for the record I almost always get dressed by 10am. Just so you know.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Slugs, snails and puppy dog tails
He wished we were all boys.
My dad.
He had 7 girls...and then finally a boy. Okay, technically it was my mom who birthed us out, but you know...the whole two-to-tango thing. That. Yup, but he wished we were all boys.
Oh, he would never say that out loud. But I knew.
It wasn't because he treated us badly. Or tried to force us to wear boy clothes. He didn't make us swear or spit or pass gas or burp or anything like that. We weren't required to wrestle, or play with trucks or guns or green army guys. He didn't make us sit and watch hours and hours of NFL, NBA, NHL or WWF.
In fact, he was the perfect girl daddy.
He loved Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea and loved musicals. He listened to and sang show tunes. He cried often. He talked about his feelings. There were even times when you could catch him wearing pink. Yeah, I know. Perfect, right?
That's what he wanted all of us to believe.
Oatmeal.
It was the oatmeal that gave it away.
You see, every time he made oatmeal, he made about 3xs more than us girls could ever eat. It wasn't just once, or once in a while. It wasn't once a month or every now and again. It was probably 2 times a week. I kid you not.
To keep us from getting suspicious he would said something like, "Darn it all. Looks like I made too much oatmeal again." But what he was really thinking was, "Eight boys could have eaten this much and never blinked an eye."
See, he was subtle. He thought he was fooling us. But I knew.
It was in the oatmeal.
My dad.
He had 7 girls...and then finally a boy. Okay, technically it was my mom who birthed us out, but you know...the whole two-to-tango thing. That. Yup, but he wished we were all boys.
Oh, he would never say that out loud. But I knew.
It wasn't because he treated us badly. Or tried to force us to wear boy clothes. He didn't make us swear or spit or pass gas or burp or anything like that. We weren't required to wrestle, or play with trucks or guns or green army guys. He didn't make us sit and watch hours and hours of NFL, NBA, NHL or WWF.
In fact, he was the perfect girl daddy.
He loved Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea and loved musicals. He listened to and sang show tunes. He cried often. He talked about his feelings. There were even times when you could catch him wearing pink. Yeah, I know. Perfect, right?
That's what he wanted all of us to believe.
Oatmeal.
It was the oatmeal that gave it away.
You see, every time he made oatmeal, he made about 3xs more than us girls could ever eat. It wasn't just once, or once in a while. It wasn't once a month or every now and again. It was probably 2 times a week. I kid you not.
To keep us from getting suspicious he would said something like, "Darn it all. Looks like I made too much oatmeal again." But what he was really thinking was, "Eight boys could have eaten this much and never blinked an eye."
See, he was subtle. He thought he was fooling us. But I knew.
It was in the oatmeal.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Don't give up on me....
I used to be a blogger
Who posted everyday
And I was always tickled
With how much I had to say
I'd talk about my children
My husband and my life
My childhood and my children
Wait, I just said that twice
I'd wake up every morning
My comments sure to read
"How many people do I have
Who want to follow me? "
They'd read my blog and I theirs
Because that's what we do
I'd leave my sentence on their post
And watch as my numbers grew
Then something happened, call it life,
Or tuggers on my time
But the posts that flowed so easily
I couldn't beat out of my mind.
People say "I've lost my mojo,"
others say "Writers block"
With five kids and a husband
I've not time upon my clock
By the time I have a moment
To sit and catch my breath
My brain has gone all mushy
No creativity left.
I'm still married to a Deaf Man
And children I still have five.
I'm still a little quirky
And have family stories to contrive.
So if you're wondering where I've gone
Don't worry, do not fret.
Although I write less frequently
I've got some stories yet.
Who posted everyday
And I was always tickled
With how much I had to say
I'd talk about my children
My husband and my life
My childhood and my children
Wait, I just said that twice
I'd wake up every morning
My comments sure to read
"How many people do I have
Who want to follow me? "
They'd read my blog and I theirs
Because that's what we do
I'd leave my sentence on their post
And watch as my numbers grew
Then something happened, call it life,
Or tuggers on my time
But the posts that flowed so easily
I couldn't beat out of my mind.
People say "I've lost my mojo,"
others say "Writers block"
With five kids and a husband
I've not time upon my clock
By the time I have a moment
To sit and catch my breath
My brain has gone all mushy
No creativity left.
I'm still married to a Deaf Man
And children I still have five.
I'm still a little quirky
And have family stories to contrive.
So if you're wondering where I've gone
Don't worry, do not fret.
Although I write less frequently
I've got some stories yet.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Won Twin-Tea Won
121. One hundred twenty one. CXXI. One Two One.
121....the temperature at which one should decide to move to another state. I know. I felt that way when I lived in AZ.
121...the number of hours I work outside my home every month. Believe me, the IN-home hours are much harder, and yet that's where I would choose to spend my time.
121....11x11 (In case you didn't remember.)
121...the number of times my children asked for costumes when we had to go to Party City today. I know. I know. I was asking for it, taking them there this time of year. But sometimes we are glutton for punishment. (What an odd idiom...)
121...from today would be Feb 3 2013. This date has no significance to me other than it fits into my 121 theme. But if it has significance to you, note that it is only 121 days from today.
121... an age I hope I never reach.
121...the number of hours I sleep every 18 days.
121...an unattainable weight...for me...at my age...and at my motivation level. Not happening.
121...the number of pictures my 3 year old took that I just deleted off my phone. They were mostly blurry pictures of my neighborhood, his shoes, the back of my head, total strangers...his shoes.
121....the temperature at which one should decide to move to another state. I know. I felt that way when I lived in AZ.
121...the number of hours I work outside my home every month. Believe me, the IN-home hours are much harder, and yet that's where I would choose to spend my time.
121....11x11 (In case you didn't remember.)
121...the number of times my children asked for costumes when we had to go to Party City today. I know. I know. I was asking for it, taking them there this time of year. But sometimes we are glutton for punishment. (What an odd idiom...)
121...from today would be Feb 3 2013. This date has no significance to me other than it fits into my 121 theme. But if it has significance to you, note that it is only 121 days from today.
121... an age I hope I never reach.
121...the number of hours I sleep every 18 days.
121...an unattainable weight...for me...at my age...and at my motivation level. Not happening.
121...the number of pictures my 3 year old took that I just deleted off my phone. They were mostly blurry pictures of my neighborhood, his shoes, the back of my head, total strangers...his shoes.
They are pretty cool shoes. At least he thought so.
121 times.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Humiliated
My earliest memory was being dropped on my head. But since I really can't remember the details...only that it hurt, a lot....and a story without details isn't a story at all, I will tell you of the first memory that I can remember.
So my first real memory is of me hugging a stranger's leg. What? You didn't hug stranger's legs? Me either. I think that is why I remember it so well.
I am pretty sure I was like 2 or 3 years old. I remember my dad was wearing this turquoise suit. Yes, my dad was all that...whatever that was. This may also be a reason for remembering the hugging...grown man in a turquoise suit, traumatizing. Who makes that kind of suit....I mean...yikes! And who buys them...zoik!!
It happened in the front lawn of our church. My dad was talking to some guy...who apparently had legs that looked like his. Not paying attention, I grabbed onto the man's leg, thinking it was my dad's.
I know I held on long enough for my dad to notice and to say my name. I remember looking over at my dad and up at the man and then realizing, "Hey, why do you have my dad's leg?"
Then I cried.
This was the first time I remember feeling embarrassed and humiliated. Don't you feel that way when you grab something that doesn't belong to you.
Like the time I was a senior in high school and I joined band because I loved it so much!! Okay, so maybe my boyfriend was in band and they were taking a trip to Six Flags. That may have influenced my decision to join...a little.
I, of course, spent the whole time with him. Standing in long lines, going on rides, standing in long lines, holding hands, standing in long lines. It was in one of these long lines that I reached back to hold his hand. I grabbed on, only to realize that my boyfriend was standing to the side of me and I was holding a total stranger's hand.
That was embarrassing. But when I did it a second time, 10 minutes later to the same guy....yeah, I felt humiliated. And I cried.
And I remembered the turquoise suit.
So my first real memory is of me hugging a stranger's leg. What? You didn't hug stranger's legs? Me either. I think that is why I remember it so well.
I am pretty sure I was like 2 or 3 years old. I remember my dad was wearing this turquoise suit. Yes, my dad was all that...whatever that was. This may also be a reason for remembering the hugging...grown man in a turquoise suit, traumatizing. Who makes that kind of suit....I mean...yikes! And who buys them...zoik!!
It happened in the front lawn of our church. My dad was talking to some guy...who apparently had legs that looked like his. Not paying attention, I grabbed onto the man's leg, thinking it was my dad's.
I know I held on long enough for my dad to notice and to say my name. I remember looking over at my dad and up at the man and then realizing, "Hey, why do you have my dad's leg?"
Then I cried.
This was the first time I remember feeling embarrassed and humiliated. Don't you feel that way when you grab something that doesn't belong to you.
Like the time I was a senior in high school and I joined band because I loved it so much!! Okay, so maybe my boyfriend was in band and they were taking a trip to Six Flags. That may have influenced my decision to join...a little.
I, of course, spent the whole time with him. Standing in long lines, going on rides, standing in long lines, holding hands, standing in long lines. It was in one of these long lines that I reached back to hold his hand. I grabbed on, only to realize that my boyfriend was standing to the side of me and I was holding a total stranger's hand.
That was embarrassing. But when I did it a second time, 10 minutes later to the same guy....yeah, I felt humiliated. And I cried.
And I remembered the turquoise suit.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Re-Post:So I married A Deaf: Speak Up Sony.
Resist the urge.
When you meet someone who is Deaf, do not talk louder. Resist, I say.
Resist unless that person is over the age of 75 and has a lot of white hair and at least one person calls them Grandma/Grandpa. If this is the case, then by all means, shout away.
But if the person is like Hubs, Deaf from birth or an early age, no amount of voice raising is going to change that the fact that they just can't hear a word you are saying.
I think it is just natural that when we are told someone is Deaf, we assume that means that they simply can't hear us. It is true. They can't. So we take our voices up a notch.
Not only does this draw attention to you, the person who is yelling, but also the innocent Deaf person who may or may not be wondering why everyone around them is staring at them like they must be dense to need this person to yell their conversation. All for naught.
It is really funny, however, when that person knows Hubs, knows that he can't hear diddly squat and still...
My mom, for example. She knows Hubs. She knows Hubs can't hear. At all. So why, for the love of Pete, will she call out, loudly, for him to turn around. Or why, when she is trying to communicate with him, does she speak in an abnormally loud voice.
Did she forget?
It doesn't bother either of us, really. We are used to it. We simply laugh it off. And my mom isn't the only one. Many friends and acquaintances, family and professionals do the same thing.
Resist. Believe me, if they need you to speak up, they will tell you.
So let me save you the trouble. Hubs is opting out of the shout.
Because if you talk louder...
...he still can't hear you.
When you meet someone who is Deaf, do not talk louder. Resist, I say.
Resist unless that person is over the age of 75 and has a lot of white hair and at least one person calls them Grandma/Grandpa. If this is the case, then by all means, shout away.
But if the person is like Hubs, Deaf from birth or an early age, no amount of voice raising is going to change that the fact that they just can't hear a word you are saying.
I think it is just natural that when we are told someone is Deaf, we assume that means that they simply can't hear us. It is true. They can't. So we take our voices up a notch.
Not only does this draw attention to you, the person who is yelling, but also the innocent Deaf person who may or may not be wondering why everyone around them is staring at them like they must be dense to need this person to yell their conversation. All for naught.
It is really funny, however, when that person knows Hubs, knows that he can't hear diddly squat and still...
My mom, for example. She knows Hubs. She knows Hubs can't hear. At all. So why, for the love of Pete, will she call out, loudly, for him to turn around. Or why, when she is trying to communicate with him, does she speak in an abnormally loud voice.
Did she forget?
It doesn't bother either of us, really. We are used to it. We simply laugh it off. And my mom isn't the only one. Many friends and acquaintances, family and professionals do the same thing.
Resist. Believe me, if they need you to speak up, they will tell you.
So let me save you the trouble. Hubs is opting out of the shout.
Because if you talk louder...
...he still can't hear you.
Monday, October 1, 2012
5 passions
If you are passionate about something, you would spend every waking hour with it. You would surround yourself with that thing. One look around your house and people would know...that's your passion.
One look around my house and you would assume that my passions were:
Laundry... because you know I have a ton of it. And I practically spend every waking hour with it. I have piles and piles and piles. Practically in every room of my house. Dirty. Clean. Folded. Unfolded. We have laundry.
or
Soccer balls. For whatever reason I seem to have an abnormal amount of soccer balls. If I had to count I would guess I have 13+ soccer balls. Between me coaching two soccer teams last year and one this year...then add to it that to get the great deal on soccer shoes and shin guards, you have to get a ball...times 2 boys times 2 years. Then I bought them the wrong sized balls but couldn't return them because we had already used them. Don't ask where the other ones came from....yes there are others....because I don't know where they came from.
or
Smiths plastic bags. Remember, I have 7 people in my family. We eat a lot of food. So it is no shock that I often visit the grocery store. And since I want to destroy the Earth I make sure to get as many plastic bags as I can get each time I visit. Which is a lot. Too many. They're taking over my pantry. I do throw them away because, again, Earth hater.
or
Toys. This week it's Lego's. Other days it's Galactic Heroes. Blocks. Cars. I've tried to get rid of them....but they are like rabbits...they multiply in the box. I am not even kidding. Okay, yes I am. But wouldn't that be insane. Can you imagine? If toys could multiply and replenish the Earth? Yeah, now take that image and write Stef's House on it. Too many toys!!
or
Hair. I know. That's gross, right? Not gross because it sounds like I am confessing to being a hairy...not that there's anything wrong with that...err...ummm. But let's be clear: I am not hairy. But I shed. More than I knew. Plus a have a daughter with long hair. She inherited my sheddy-ness. I also have a lab....not a place where I do experiments on my children kind of lab, although...hmmm... I am talking about the barking, fetching, wet nose, mark my bedroom kind of lab. The dog kind. And he sheds more than all of us. Boy, do we have hair.
Are these my passions? Not in the least. But if you walked into my house...
....you might disagree.
What's your passion??
One look around my house and you would assume that my passions were:
Laundry... because you know I have a ton of it. And I practically spend every waking hour with it. I have piles and piles and piles. Practically in every room of my house. Dirty. Clean. Folded. Unfolded. We have laundry.
or
Soccer balls. For whatever reason I seem to have an abnormal amount of soccer balls. If I had to count I would guess I have 13+ soccer balls. Between me coaching two soccer teams last year and one this year...then add to it that to get the great deal on soccer shoes and shin guards, you have to get a ball...times 2 boys times 2 years. Then I bought them the wrong sized balls but couldn't return them because we had already used them. Don't ask where the other ones came from....yes there are others....because I don't know where they came from.
or
Smiths plastic bags. Remember, I have 7 people in my family. We eat a lot of food. So it is no shock that I often visit the grocery store. And since I want to destroy the Earth I make sure to get as many plastic bags as I can get each time I visit. Which is a lot. Too many. They're taking over my pantry. I do throw them away because, again, Earth hater.
or
Toys. This week it's Lego's. Other days it's Galactic Heroes. Blocks. Cars. I've tried to get rid of them....but they are like rabbits...they multiply in the box. I am not even kidding. Okay, yes I am. But wouldn't that be insane. Can you imagine? If toys could multiply and replenish the Earth? Yeah, now take that image and write Stef's House on it. Too many toys!!
or
Hair. I know. That's gross, right? Not gross because it sounds like I am confessing to being a hairy...not that there's anything wrong with that...err...ummm. But let's be clear: I am not hairy. But I shed. More than I knew. Plus a have a daughter with long hair. She inherited my sheddy-ness. I also have a lab....not a place where I do experiments on my children kind of lab, although...hmmm... I am talking about the barking, fetching, wet nose, mark my bedroom kind of lab. The dog kind. And he sheds more than all of us. Boy, do we have hair.
Are these my passions? Not in the least. But if you walked into my house...
....you might disagree.
What's your passion??
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