Spaghetti
I stole the concept. MckMama does a stream of consciousness series on her blog. I couldn't steal the title from her too, so I stole it in part from this book. And yes, I am like spaghetti.
Or, I think like spaghetti. You know. I don't really look like spaghetti. I do like spaghetti, though.
Seems maybe I write the way I think anyway, so the title might just be a formality.
Anyway.
On nice-weather days when I am working in the office, I use my lunch-half-hour to walk. My mile-and-a-quarter path takes me through parts of the campus, past a small collection of shops, by the massive colonial houses of historic town, and lastly to a park, where I pause to watch the families, ache to be with my boys, then turn around and head back.
One of the shops is a florist. Passing by yesterday, I saw a line of minivans and SUVs parked alongside the road, hatches and doors open, dozens of "I love you" balloons whipping in the wind, and hundreds of red roses waiting to be delivered.
I have absolutely no desire for flowers on Valentine's day. But this made me smile.
As did the beautiful, refreshing weather that made possible my walk. I know, I know, all of the stuff that comes with warm weather - sweat, bugs, snakes in the basement - but how I long to watch my boys romp in the grass. And be healthy.
For the second year in a row, Brandon will be leading his basketball team to the regional tournament. So, so proud of him.
Trey has a new game where he runs laps around the kitchen table. Never says a word, just runs. Around and around. If I hold Aden so he can watch, every time Trey gets near, Aden makes a very loud noise and flaps his arms.
Trey is refusing to eat. Might eat breakfast once a week. Might eat dinner twice a week. For lunch, will eat assuming the meal consists of a turkey sandwich, cucumber, and fruit. Don't know what to do with him. Love this boy.
Aden is not refusing to eat. In fact, we could go so far as to say that Aden doesn't really have meals plural, just short breaks between courses of a 14-hour long meal. Love this boy.
Headline of the week: "Laughing gas returning as option for laboring moms". Come on. Seriously, people.
I am so ashamed of my new recipe trial for February that I'm not even going to post it. Utter failure. We ate noodles out of a bag. I'll pick another recipe and try again later.
Parent-teacher conferences for Trey's preschool were last week. He has forgotten his colors. Or maybe he hasn't, but was unwilling to answer the question. Which happens. Colors are a right-brained thing anyway, right? But the teacher encouraged us to talk with Trey about hurt feelings. Apparently it makes him pretty sad to ask a friend to play and have that friend turn him down.
And as she is saying these words I start crying on the phone, reliving so many moments from my childhood. Ugh. How on earth do I handle this? I know, I know, I have to let him hurt, so he can learn how to handle hurt, and try to explain to him that the rejection has nothing to do with him.
The same things my incredible mother said to me as I was growing up. Of course we are learning that Trey is very much like me, so he may not listen. (Sorry I didn't listen, Mom.)
I am heading to preschool later today for Trey's Valentine party. And praying for the self-control not to mentally scorn every child I see. Kind of excited about the party, actually. We're supposed to decorate cookies and build a fruit parfait. Trey and I enjoy doing food work together, so this should be fun.
Trey is tall. He'll be 4 this summer. Aden will be 1 in a few short months. This is almost too much for me to bear. I should probably look for Aden's baby book - hopefully I won't have to fudge too many milestone dates to get it updated.
This rambling has gotten me in trouble. I'm going to stop thinking now.
Or, I think like spaghetti. You know. I don't really look like spaghetti. I do like spaghetti, though.
Seems maybe I write the way I think anyway, so the title might just be a formality.
Anyway.
On nice-weather days when I am working in the office, I use my lunch-half-hour to walk. My mile-and-a-quarter path takes me through parts of the campus, past a small collection of shops, by the massive colonial houses of historic town, and lastly to a park, where I pause to watch the families, ache to be with my boys, then turn around and head back.
One of the shops is a florist. Passing by yesterday, I saw a line of minivans and SUVs parked alongside the road, hatches and doors open, dozens of "I love you" balloons whipping in the wind, and hundreds of red roses waiting to be delivered.
I have absolutely no desire for flowers on Valentine's day. But this made me smile.
As did the beautiful, refreshing weather that made possible my walk. I know, I know, all of the stuff that comes with warm weather - sweat, bugs, snakes in the basement - but how I long to watch my boys romp in the grass. And be healthy.
For the second year in a row, Brandon will be leading his basketball team to the regional tournament. So, so proud of him.
Trey has a new game where he runs laps around the kitchen table. Never says a word, just runs. Around and around. If I hold Aden so he can watch, every time Trey gets near, Aden makes a very loud noise and flaps his arms.
Trey is refusing to eat. Might eat breakfast once a week. Might eat dinner twice a week. For lunch, will eat assuming the meal consists of a turkey sandwich, cucumber, and fruit. Don't know what to do with him. Love this boy.
Aden is not refusing to eat. In fact, we could go so far as to say that Aden doesn't really have meals plural, just short breaks between courses of a 14-hour long meal. Love this boy.
Headline of the week: "Laughing gas returning as option for laboring moms". Come on. Seriously, people.
I am so ashamed of my new recipe trial for February that I'm not even going to post it. Utter failure. We ate noodles out of a bag. I'll pick another recipe and try again later.
Parent-teacher conferences for Trey's preschool were last week. He has forgotten his colors. Or maybe he hasn't, but was unwilling to answer the question. Which happens. Colors are a right-brained thing anyway, right? But the teacher encouraged us to talk with Trey about hurt feelings. Apparently it makes him pretty sad to ask a friend to play and have that friend turn him down.
And as she is saying these words I start crying on the phone, reliving so many moments from my childhood. Ugh. How on earth do I handle this? I know, I know, I have to let him hurt, so he can learn how to handle hurt, and try to explain to him that the rejection has nothing to do with him.
The same things my incredible mother said to me as I was growing up. Of course we are learning that Trey is very much like me, so he may not listen. (Sorry I didn't listen, Mom.)
I am heading to preschool later today for Trey's Valentine party. And praying for the self-control not to mentally scorn every child I see. Kind of excited about the party, actually. We're supposed to decorate cookies and build a fruit parfait. Trey and I enjoy doing food work together, so this should be fun.
Trey is tall. He'll be 4 this summer. Aden will be 1 in a few short months. This is almost too much for me to bear. I should probably look for Aden's baby book - hopefully I won't have to fudge too many milestone dates to get it updated.
This rambling has gotten me in trouble. I'm going to stop thinking now.
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