tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32367172084260681582024-03-04T23:51:46.798-06:00The Harris FamilyThe Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-9871471943537063752015-02-23T21:38:00.000-06:002015-02-24T08:54:41.238-06:00Click. A ho-hum Wednesday morning. I wake up, put the coffee on, wait for the sound of small footsteps trampling down the stairs, wait for the rush of three breakfasts and three clothes changes and two backpacks, school lunches, goodbye kisses, walking to the bus stop, still in my pajamas. Busy busy busy, always so busy, rushing from one thing to another, one child to another, dodging grief that threatens to sit on my chest until I cannot do anything but gasp for air. My dad is gone. He is gone, gone at the hands of what used to be one of us, and everything written on the lists is checked off, done. Funerals, packing boxes of his things, the first court date. Now I just miss him, a hole in the seemingly perfect little world I had created for myself. So us girls, we check on each other more often, say I love you with more meaning, mend things that need mending between family members, because if you can't learn love from this, then there's no hope for any of it. A normal Wednesday morning with text messages to make sure everyone is okay, or as okay as we can be. This is what we do now: tally the living. Make sure everyone is accounted for, because it can sneak up on you in a second, someone leaving. During the third cup of coffee I realize I haven't spoken to mom in a couple of days, send off a fast text just to check in with her. "Everything ok? Love you, call me after work." I head off into my day, laundry, errands, cleaning, taking care of the baby. I notice I haven't heard back from mom yet, but know that it is probably because she is at work. I text the sisters to see if they have heard from her, we compare notes about when we each last spoke to her. I was not the last, so I feel better. I send another, joking text to mom. "I am calling the police if you don't text me back, I swear to God. Don't be alarmed when they come knocking on your door to check on you, haha. You can yell at me later." Haha. She can yell at me later. I am joking, nervous laughing, knowing in my head that she's just busy at her new job and knowing in my bones that this is not true. I head to the chiropractor for therapy, an injection in my spine for nerve damage. I will always remember this, and, after today, will never return to this doctors office. I take the baby to a quick lunch, but we never make it in the door. I am not out of the car before my phone rings, and it is one of the sisters, one of the sisters that I don't regularly talk to on the phone so I know this means business.-------------------------------------------------------------------
Click. I am five years old, helping mom wallpaper the dining room. There are only three babies, so we still live in a small house, and mom is wallpapering the dining room. I read books beside her in the sun coming through the windows, listening to her hum as she works. I sit up to watch, noticing that the pattern on the paper looks like tiny duck's feet in a basket. She laughs and says I am imaginative and quite observant. The whole exchange is written in my baby book, and I find it years later. But I already remembered.----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Click. I am eight years old, and my parents are going out for the night, leaving us with a babysitter. Watching her get dressed in her dressy clothes, carefully applying her pink lipstick. I think she must be the most beautiful woman in the world, and I want to be her when I grow up. She winks at me as she sprays perfume on each wrist. Later that night they will get home and I will hear both of them come into my room to tuck me in tighter. My mom lingers longer to give me an extra hug, and I smell her perfume on her neck, mixed with cigarette smoke. "Some people were smoking", she said, and I nod, not caring because it smelled grown up and good to me, like how probably fancy people would smell at midnight on a Saturday.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Click. I am twelve years old and at track practice. She is there helping to assist the coach, she used to run track, too, and helps out when she can. Setting up the hurdles and walking back to the starting line I catch her staring and smiling, and I throw my hands up in the air. "What?!" I yell, maybe a small bit annoyed. "Look at your long legs. You are so graceful. I don't know how you glide over those things so easily. I am so proud of you." I roll my eyes, since that is what you do when you are twelve and your mom says things, anything, in front of your friends. But I smile when I turn around to run. I am loved, and she is proud of me. I remember this. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Click. I am seventeen and fighting with her. I want to go out with friends, and she says that I will go upstairs and change clothes before I leave. I say awful things to her, but I don't stop, not considering how I am hurting her. I am seventeen, I don't care yet. She stands strong and I change clothes so I can go. Years later as a parent I say I am sorry for the things that were said, and she shrugs it off. But I know since I am a parent how hurtful that would be, and I always remember this.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Click. I am getting married and everyone I love is around me, fussing over me, bringing my flowers, helping me dress. My parents, long divorced, are there and hugging each other and crying over letting their first girl go. It is a perfect, flawless memory, and I always remember it.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Click. I am fending off phone calls every ten minutes asking if I am in labor yet, if the baby is coming. I think that never in the history of babies has a baby been so anticipated, and I wish they would anticipate her a little less. Everyone at the hospital and she is here. I have never known love like this and my heart is bursting at the seams and I am so so tired and I look at my mom and think "Oh. So, that was this." I know it all in an instant. We went from mother and daughter to something more in the blink of an eye. Mothers, friends.--------------------------------------------------
Click. There are hundreds of phone conversations, more babies, tears, but mostly laughter and joy and food. Then the one conversation that sounds like screeching tires when I remember it now: Your dad is dead. Then blurry, stumbly days and weeks go by and we bury my sweet dad and we talk to police and we steel our hearts against what is coming. The hearing and saying of things that should never be heard or said, things that people wouldn't guess unless we told them, they are that bad. The information sometimes leaks in slowly, we are not privy to everything they know, surprisingly. This feels like insult upon insult, that we are kept in the dark about such important things. But somehow each trickle feels more like a blow to the gut, sucking all of the air out of the room, when we ask for information it feels like asking for a black eye. Still, we call each other, we check on each other and care for each other and form what feels like a tiny makeshift island of survivors who only have each other to lean on while all of the shiny happy people pass by us, smiling and wondering what is wrong.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Click. I am talking to my husband, saying that mom doesn't seem to be doing too well, she is not eating and she doesn't sound good. None of us are good, that word hasn't entered the conversation yet. But even still, this is a lot to handle, knowing ones own can grow into what he has grown into, doing the heinous things he has done to someone that she cares about, had babies with, was in love with once. We talk about the possibility of asking her to live with us in the future, let us take a little of the burden off of her just for a bit. We decide we will keep talking about it and ask her when she seems to get worse, if that happens. I will always, <i>always</i> remember this.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Click. Sobbing, screaming at me that she is gone. My sister doesn't sound like herself, I don't know who this is that I'm talking to right now. What is happening? No, this is not that, she's just at work we will get her home and ask her what the hell she was thinking, making us worry about her like this. I am so mad that she would make us worry about her like this. But as I am thinking this my car is steering itself out of the parking lot, and I find myself at my husband's office, so my hands at least know what is true, has been true since early that morning while I went about my busy day, kissing kids and packing lunches and folding tiny clothes. I fall to the pavement outside the building, screaming that she's gone, my mom is dead, but not crying. My body will not let me cry. I heave and spit and lay there, but I do not cry. I think, "I am out of tears, a person can ACTUALLY run out of tears. Huh." So I sit, staring at nothing, at the sky, smoking cigarette after cigarette until my fingers burn, because that seems like the only thing to do: look up at the sky for answers and smoke. I don't even know where they are coming from, someone is handing them to me one after another and no one is speaking. I am an hour away, and I think that my sisters are there, at her house, and click. I think about the news reports of a large black bag being wheeled out of my dad's house on a gurney, into an ambulance and I know what my sisters are seeing at that moment. I know they will be the first inside her house, all the photos of grandkids and finger paintings and her sink probably still full of dishes from the day before. I think of my mom's mom and sisters at the beach on vacation, getting the news that we were all too late and they are too far away. Still I do not cry. My head is a movie, playing every memory that has been burned into it over the course of 32 years, because you don't have to die for your life to flash before your eyes. I do not cry. I realize that I do not have the same thoughts after we were told my dad was gone, when something like that happens it is big, it is news, there are questions, it is not commonplace and it is shocking to your core, so you scream questions and demand answers and there are people to help answer those questions and there are things to do to make you feel useful, like you are doing something. But this. This is a slipping. It is a slipping away of her, and it is too late to grab at anything. There are small questions to ask later, but they won't make a difference at all, not in the slightest. There is no one to point a finger at, to arrest, to place all of our hatred onto. This is a slow sliding away, her sliding through my hands, sliding away and I didn't even know it was happening.
The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-65019307921349722862011-06-01T13:50:00.002-05:002011-06-01T14:45:29.708-05:00Is this real life? Where am I?Holy shit, I am blogging. It seems I may have taken such a long hiatus from this blog that I, um, missed a WHOLE SEASON OF THIS YEAR. This shall be known as The Year That Spring Did Not Happen On The Harris Family. It was brought to my attention that I haven't blogged since the dead of winter, and so I am all set to remedy this situation. With pictures! And boring updates! I could spout off the same old, tired "We've had SO much going on, I just couldn't blog." But that isn't true, not really. I've just kinda...been....I don't know. Busy? Kind of, a little bit. But more than that I think I've just got more on my plate every day than I used to have. Finding that ever elusive "balance" has proven harder and way more challenging than it used to be, what with two actual kids, not a kid and a baby anymore. And keeping up with those kids, and the house, and cooking, and carving out some me time for workouts and friends. So while I am shifting things around and putting things in their places and rearranging life like a Rubik's cube to make everything just FIT, dammit, I will at least throw you some photos and get you up to speed on the happenings here.<br /><br />-THIS happened. I don't really want to talk about it right now.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/PreK%20Graduation/?action=view&current=IMG_0581.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/PreK%20Graduation/IMG_0581.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />My BABY. Is a Pre-K graduate.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/PreK%20Graduation/?action=view&current=IMG_0607.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/PreK%20Graduation/IMG_0607.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />She was so excited, and felt like the occasion called for a celebratory dance. 'Cause those two years of preschool were HARD, y'all.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/PreK%20Graduation/?action=view&current=IMG_0612.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/PreK%20Graduation/IMG_0612.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Next stop: Kindergarten. But only after we have on hell of a summer. I want it to be full of just fun stuff...the pool, friends, books, art projects that make a mess, and probably lots and lots of glitter. We will deal with kindergarten when it gets here. But for now we are enjoying the sun and laid-back-ness that summer has brought with it.<br /><br />-The husband and I took a trip! The first travelling we have done alone since we had Charlie. And it. was. GLORIOUS. Three nights in Vegas was just the break we needed, and it made me oh so appreciative of the semi-quiet life I lead back here in the middle of nowhere.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Vegas%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0483-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Vegas%202011/IMG_0483-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Vegas%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0450.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Vegas%202011/IMG_0450.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Vegas%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0476.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Vegas%202011/IMG_0476.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />-Recital. Or more accurately, Ella's first and last dance recital. She is adamant that she does not want to take dance lessons again this fall, but you could have fooled me because this girl had the time of her life at the big show last week. Girlfriend was in seventh heaven with all of the sparkly costumes and tons of makeup and being the recipient of large bouquets of flowers. <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0630.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/IMG_0630.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0620.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/IMG_0620.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0657.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/IMG_0657.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0692.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/IMG_0692.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0679.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/IMG_0679.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/?action=view&current=IMG_0707.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Ella%20Recital%202011/IMG_0707.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />She tapped and twirled and waved to us from the stage and danced her little heart out and had fun doing it. So I guess this year was a success, even if she didn't find dancing to be her "thing". <br /><br />And now it is officially summer, which means the sprinkler and slip-n-slide have been christened, lemonade drunk, delicious summer food grilled on the deck while the grown ups sip ice cold beer. Everything in my house is beginning to smell like sunscreen and fresh-cut grass, and I love it. I have a feeling this is going to be a fantastic summer. And if you need me? I'll be outside playing with the kids, getting soaking wet with the hose, and probably laughing.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-87072464240964311742011-02-04T07:30:00.006-06:002011-02-04T15:17:29.431-06:00A smattering of pointless crap.Snow storms, pop-up warm patches of weather, family members in bad health, dogs who insist on pooping behind the couch no matter how many times you take them outside I AM TALKING TO YOU, ALICE, kids with head colds and green snot, kids getting shots at the doctor and screaming bloody murder, and, later today, more snow storms! My head feels like it is about ready to explode. I offer up as proof of my mental status the fact that I was debating between writing about those Vicks-scented Kleenexes or Things That Can Possibly Make Your Dog's Turds Turn Purple. All of that to say, I've got nothin'. So I give you a post about...nothing. Random thoughts from a stir-crazy mom over the last week or so. You're WELCOME.<br /><br />Barbie: A Fashion Fairytale. Also known as Barbie: Catalyst For The Apocalypse, End Times Are Drawing Near. This movie made me want to stab both my eyeballs and eardrums just to escape the glitterific awesomeness that is this movie. Thanks, Barbie, for stealing not only an hour and a half of my life, but also parts of my soul. You entertained my five year old and made her scream with glee, but these are some of the comments that could be heard from the husband's side of the couch while watching your movie. "I wish that Barbie would run for president. You know, so someone could assassinate her. I would do it. I would risk it." And, "I wonder if they could have found a way to put Barbie on the spaceship Challenger." And (after watching seventeen previews for other Barbie movies in which she discovers she is both a championship surfer <em>and</em> a mermaid, both a fashionista <em>and</em> a fairy), "Next up, Barbie: The Second Coming of Jesus Christ. Her crown of thorns has sassy sparkles!". This is the trailer for the Fairy Secret video. She's walking the runway. She's fabulous and glittery. She's.....A FAIRY?! Holy shit! Barbie? You just made me question everything I know about reality. <br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2aIEncvbJ_Q" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />_________________________________________<br /><br />Dear Gym Bunnies: You know who you are. You know why you are at the gym (hint: It isn't to break a good sweat and get in shape). You should also know that you look like an imbecile, strolling out of the locker room wearing shimmery eyeshadows, hot-pink lipstick, and a tshirt so tight that I can see your nipples through it. Stop. Just stop it now, mkay? You could just do us all a favor and stand outside with a sign that reads "I am here to pick up guys. Call 931-555-5454 if interested." You would also save yourself the embarrassment of walking at a one-mile-per-hour pace on the treadmill while flipping your ponytail in the direction of the losers over in the weights section. Can I ask you something, Temptress of the Treadmill? Why do you think it is that you see the same backwards-ballcap-wearing morons at the gym at 9:30am every single day? I'll tell you a secret: It's because they more likely than not DON'T HAVE JOBS. They are mid-to-late twenties losers who live with their parents and watch Jersey Shore marathons, and have the spare time to spend five hours a day at the gym. Just so you know.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=GymWhore.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/GymWhore.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><em>Sadly, this picture is not far off from what I see at the gym every day. What you can't see is the smell of desperation and the half-a-bottle of Clinique Happy in the air.</em><br />________________________________________________<br /><br />The husband and I recently (a good two years behind the rest of civilization, I know) watched Food Inc. And I wanted to throw up, then clean my refrigerator and pantry of every single thing and start over. And then maybe throw up some more. Y'all, meat is disgusting. It would seem that it is making us sick and/or possibly killing us. Resisting the urge to drive an hour to Whole Foods and blow five hundred bucks, the husband and I decided that we would go organic for the really important stuff: Meat, milk, eggs, fruits and veggies. We just can't realistically afford for EVERY single thing in our house to be organic or all natural. We agreed that sometimes it's just okay for a kid to have a frozen Eggo waffle. But today. OH, today! I met a mother that just takes the cake (the cake would almost certainly, in her case, be flour-less, egg-less, gluten-free, and consist mainly of air and love). At the library she raved on and on about how a good 50% of her husband's salary goes toward making sure that every single bite of food that passes her children's' lips is organic and dairy free. She ranted about how she is currently MAD at Whole Foods because of some super scandalous alfalfa sprout controversy. Alfalfagate 2011, I assume. This woman didn't know a single person in the room, yet projected her beliefs and cuh-raziness onto anyone unlucky enough to be within a twenty foot radius of her. After a (no joke) fifteen minute long lecture on why her kids don't eat meat and it causes them to have crazy tantrums and be out of control, her five year old daughter began to beat a little boy's head with a toy truck. OrganiMom rushed over, scooped up her daughter, and held her tightly while whispering weird sounds. Probably putting a curse on the little boy's mother because they had said something about going to McDonalds for lunch. Anyway, the little girl just kept screaming and screaming and STILL TRYING TO HIT THE BOY, who couldn't have been more than two years old. I was dumbstruck. At that moment, another mother who I presume I could be best friends with based on her quick wit, whispered, "Hmmm. Maybe she got a hold of some meat?" Ha. Ha. HAHAHAHAHAHA. <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=Mccruelty.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/Mccruelty.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><em>"Chicken McCruelty: Broken Wings And Legs...but SOOOO GOOD!"</em>The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-90674403702958679142011-01-26T12:15:00.004-06:002011-01-26T15:15:01.678-06:00I can see now how the whole Unabomber thing happened.I woke up to this:<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0253.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0253.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />And this:<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0252.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0252.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />And briefly felt like this: <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=jump_off_building1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/jump_off_building1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br />For all the amazement and shrieks of delight that a heavy snow elicited from me as a child, I have now gone to the exact opposite side of the excitement spectrum over this issue. Snow as a kid: +7,058 Joy. Snow as an adult: -7,058 Joy. The shortest days of the year suddenly turn into very, awfully long ones, filled with "Can I go play in the snow NOW?" and "I have to PEE!" as soon as that last zipper is zipped, and finally "Just go watch one more movie and stop fighting over the two My Little Ponies, my GOD, they are identical in every way." The isolation, at least for me, is extreme. I can see how people forced (for whatever reason...either the force of others or the crazy voices in their own head) to live completely alone can lose it, maybe just a little bit. That the Unabomber came up with a conspiracy theory and then sent out packages that exploded with nails and shrapnel or whatever the hell he did after living in a one-room shack in the wilderness doesn't seem quite so insane when I am staring down the barrel of a twelve hour day alone. I pride myself on getting things done, so much so that I have a schedule for nearly every day of the week. Go to the gym every weekday? Check. Drop off/pick up from preschool, followed by a quick lunch and nap time? Check. Art and reading time after naps, followed by dinner and family togetherness and bedtime? Check check check. But I am rapidly learning that my confident, pulled-together self rapidly frays into tiny bits and pieces when faced with the dreaded Snow Day. What should we do? We can't go anywhere, so that leaves...???? I never really know. I settle for a drawn out breakfast hour, then maybe some coloring and painting, moving quickly from one fun idea to the next, and before I know it we have run out of things to do. Which is why I came up with this next doozy of an idea. In hindsight (looking out of the laundry room, might I add) this maybe wasn't the best use of our time at home. Ella sure had fun, and God help me, Charlie had fun, and aside from the lip gloss now staining my bedspread, I actually enjoyed it. Ask me again how I feel about these precious memories when the lipstick doesn't wash out. And now, I give you...The Snow Day That We All Got Makeovers With Mom's Makeup.<br /><br />Getting started...the possibilities for color combinations are ENDLESS! And yes, that is a Christmas dress. At the end of January. What of it?<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0205.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0205.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0216.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0216.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0220.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0220.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0208.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0208.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />We even learned about testing/matching colors on our hands first. This resulted in two cream blush covered hands. Guess what? Cream blush is apparently soap AND water proof! Aha!<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0229.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0229.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Wait, who is that sneaking in on the action?<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0211.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0211.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Well, hello. <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0210.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0210.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Once Charlie got his hands on a brush and a compact and a tube of lip gloss, nothing was spared.<br /><br />The bed.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0247.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0247.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />My legs.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0249.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0249.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />My face.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0243.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0243.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />His face and my legs.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0218.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0218.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />But Ella had the most fun a little girl can possibly have, using grown up makeup meant for grown up faces, feeling so fancy and like such a "grown up lady woman", as she put it. As she posed and pursed and twirled in her Christmas dress and hooker makeup, I figured that even if I had to do seven loads of laundry to rinse out the stains, it was worth it.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0227.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0227.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0233.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0233.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0250.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0250.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0251.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0251.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-70811432222492534572011-01-21T09:11:00.002-06:002011-01-21T09:38:12.333-06:00Snapshots of a snow day.It snowed! Again! School is cancelled! Again! Rather than let this loss of a schedule get me down, I resolved this morning to make it the best, most lazy snow day ever in the history of snow days. So we will build with blocks, read books, lay about on the couch, listen to good music while we clean, make blanket tents, bake something yet to be determined, brave the cold to play in the snow, cook dinner all day in the crock pot, and make the most of this most recent stuck-inside day. And drink lots and lots of coffee.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0180.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0180.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0178.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0178.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0184.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0184.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0191.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0191.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0189.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0189.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0196.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0196.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0193.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0193.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0192.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0192.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0198.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0198.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-84581415554907119692011-01-13T14:45:00.005-06:002011-01-13T16:39:12.482-06:00Working Hypothesis: Most alcoholics have two year olds.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJ3dy6nZ8h19OP88jBUn3GF7WXf3RVaHSoIRQ2_HcBY2t-bM6oRbpkD8fGBhysjiQF7IYaOBxfPmL8tJ0GaSqs54pQ-STKFjBfnjCBY2zB3ysgmGhv7fzDxX1uWLcv1Pl-naV_MjKR6Dl/s1600/tantrums.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJ3dy6nZ8h19OP88jBUn3GF7WXf3RVaHSoIRQ2_HcBY2t-bM6oRbpkD8fGBhysjiQF7IYaOBxfPmL8tJ0GaSqs54pQ-STKFjBfnjCBY2zB3ysgmGhv7fzDxX1uWLcv1Pl-naV_MjKR6Dl/s400/tantrums.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561788521860768002" /></a><br /><em>Has lost his will to live, for no other reason than the sun chose to rise again that morning.</em><br /><br /><br />There is a general rule of thumb in parenting, kind of sort of, that girls tend to experience the Terrible Threes and boy children stick to the more traditional Terrible Twos. Many a play date was centered around discussing this theory: the moms of boys watched in horror while their little darlings laid in the middle of the parking lot and screamed bloody murder, while us girl parents looked down to see our now-horrified precious little angels watching the whole spectacle, no doubt wondering what in the hell was wrong with that kid. Same scenario, one year later, but flip the gender roles on their heads. Girls screaming and crying and sassing it up at age three, three year old boys playing tag in the background. I used to think, Hey! Things are pretty even, every kid eventually gets around to the Tantrum Stage in life. What does it matter <em>when</em> it happens?! I will tell you what the hell it matters, people. Ever talked to a two year old? And then talked to a three year old? Now tell me which can talk more clearly, can say more words and articulate what they want or need. Also? Three year olds, while still very much works in progress on the whole "Controlling My Emotions" front, are just that much better at, well, controlling their emotions than their 24-month-old peers. So while Ella's tantrums at age three were pretty bad, Charlie's at age two are, well, indescribable. There is no logic. There is no reason. There is only screaming, crying, throwing things, RAGE. If you have ever tried to reason with a legitimately insane human being (one who also has the tendency to throw their body on the floor and writhe about as if they are repeatedly being stabbed with a fork) then you might have one speck of an idea what two year old tantrums are like. <br /><br />Yesterday was an epic day in Tantrumland. Epic, I tell you! Let's examine all of the "reasons" that Charlie decided that he hated his life and everyone in it. And probably a lot of people who aren't.<br /><br /><em>1. Inferior tv programming schedule.</em> Super Why is not on tv. This means that you should definitely throw your breakfast plate across the room while shrieking at the top of your lungs and walking clumsily from room to room because you are just too forlorn to sit still, you must pace the floors. Also a good idea is to keep walking at a fast pace even when your tears have become so thick that you cannot even see where you are going, because this will ensure that you run into at least one wall or piece of furniture and do bodily harm.<br /><br /><em>2. You got hurt.</em> See #1. Injuries can include, but are not limited to, bumps on the head and/or face from walking into the corner of a wall, scrapes on your legs from tripping over something like oh, I don't know, YOUR BREAKFAST PLATE THAT IS NOW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR. <br /><br /><em>3. You want juice, and you don't really care that I just gave you juice.</em> This particular variety of tantrum is especially intriguing to me (Read: Horrifying and the absolute bane of my existence). While having one of the previously aforementioned tantrums the yelling and crying is just as loud as with any meltdown, but at least the parent <em>knows</em> why the kid is upset. You can pinpoint the problem and either fix it or not, but you know what the problem is. Oh, but in this type of screamfest there is no problem. There is only this: Kid wants juice. Mom fixes a sippy cup of juice and hands it to kid. Kid sobs and screams that he wants JUICE. Mom reasons with kid that she just gave him juice, see, it's in your hand, darling?! Kid throws sippy cup of juice against the wall, all the while screaming for juice. Mom gives up and walks away, which makes screaming toddler even more mad, so kid picks up cup of juice and throws it against something else, probably a table or a pet, just for effect. He wants you to know that he wants his juice, and he is going to let you know it by....throwing his juice across the room? Jesus Christ, kids are batshit crazy.<br /><br /><em>4. I do mysefff.</em> There are many different ways that this particular tantrum can manifest itself, but in Charlie it is almost always the same way as #3 up there. As a stay at home mom, I usually have plenty of time to let my kids do things themselves when and how they want to do them. Want to try and master the art of zipping up your own coat? Great! We don't have to be anywhere any time soon. But Charlie is having none of it, he has truly stepped up his game in the "I do MYSEFFF" category. Last night we hit an all time high (or low? Who knows! What I do know is that this encounter left me ready to slam my face through a wall just to relieve the pain my brain was feeling at that point.): Kid wants to brush his teeth himself, Mom squirts toothpaste on his little toddler toothbrush and tells him to go to town. Kid takes one look at the toothbrush, looks at Mom standing nearby, I'm guessing he assumes mom is maybe, sort of, I don't know, POSSIBLY considering thwarting his plans to do it himself, thus kid launches into a twenty minute scream session about how he wants to "do it MYSEFFFFF!"...........WHILE HE IS DOING IT HIMSELF. He was brushing his own teeth while screaming these words. In fact, he had to physically remove the toothbrush from his own mouth so he could scream some more about doing it himself. Say what? I was standing there, blinking incredulously at this creature, this being that I birthed, that apparently lacks all common sense and reasoning abilities. I mean, what do you <em>say</em> to that? What I said was, "Ummm, Charlie? You ARE doing it yourself, dude." This enraged him more. He is now not even bothering to take the toothbrush out of his mouth before he wails about doing it himself. Tears are making his pajamas sopping wet, snot is running down his chin from crying so hard. Goddammit. I did the only thing I could do: pinned him down, brushed his little teeth myself, and put him to bed immediately. See, they trick you into thinking that there is a possibility of using logic with them. Like maybe when I told him that he was, in fact, currently brushing his own damn teeth, he would look at his hand holding the toothbrush, look at me, promptly stop screaming, and apologize to me. "I'm sorry, mom, there seems to have been a misunderstanding. I didn't realize I was brushing my own teeth! Wow! I apologize profusely." No, there is no logic and reason. There is only Plan B: ESCAPE. <br /><br />So there it is. A day's worth of life-altering, earth-shattering horribleness in the world of Charlie. If you are past the Terrible Twos then I commend you for escaping with your sanity intact. If you have not experienced them yet, then you have my utmost pity and a pat on the back. Actually, scratch that. You have my utmost pity, and a wish that you have access to an unlimited supply of vodka.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-19764821477899212782011-01-07T14:23:00.002-06:002011-01-07T15:13:56.163-06:00Five Things.We have officially reached the weeks of the year that, in my opinion, should be marked through on the calendar with a big red X: January and February. They serve no purpose other than to make you slowly lose your mind from the sheer proximity of your children. There is no shooing the kids outside to play for an hour. There are no long mornings at the park that simultaneously keep the kids busy and wear them the hell out, promising a blissful three hour nap for everyone in the house. No, there are just two kids, every morning, staring at me like I am the Gatekeeper Of The Fun, asking "What now, Mama?". The newness of the Christmas toys has worn off a bit, so the eager willingness to sit for hours on end exploring their stacks of loot has given way to "I don't have ANYthing to play with! All of my stuff is BORING!". You would think that this would be an excellent time of year for getting new things posted to one's blog. You would be wrong. After thirteen straight hours of bickering and picky eaters and oh my GOD, if you scowl at me one more time I am going to smack your face, I am left at the end of each day not only exhausted, but somewhat incapable of even remembering my own name and age, let alone how to turn the computer on. <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0004.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0004.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /> <em>"I want YOUR SOUL. Also, play Thomas The Train with me again. NOW."</em><br /><br /><br />In the interest of having something on this blog that has been written in the last two weeks, I give you a list (coughcough *cop out* cough). Lazy blogging for the win! Five things that have made me happy in the new year. Go.<br /><br />1. Warm January Days: Say Whhaaat?<br /><br />Yes, in the south we have the odd warm-ish day here and there. While still chilly, it is not face-numbingly cold enough that my girl and I cannot go outside for an hour and blow bubbles. <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0023.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0023.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0038.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0038.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0050.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0050.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br />2. The Best Christmas Gift EVER.<br /><br />My mom got me this for Christmas. I am in love with it, and plan to cover my entire side of the bathroom in this woman's art. Erinsmithart.com to get your own smart-ass wall art of awesomeness.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0013.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0013.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />3. New songs on my running playlist.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=ihatetreadmills.png" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/ihatetreadmills.png" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />This one? Is basically trying to shine a happy, smiley light on a shitty thing: I have to run on the treadmill. The days are just too short to fit in an outside run during daylight hours, and so I trek to the gym five days a week to run like a hamster on its wheel. But! This is made slightly more bearable by having spruced up my running playlist on my ipod. Nothing like hearing new songs to get you through a crappy run on a crappy treadmill next to a stupid woman doing arm yoga while powerwalking and a guy who apparently thinks the recommended application method for his can of Axe body spray is "Spray whole can all over self. Repeat with second can if needed. Maybe also a third." Also too? Keeps me distracted from the New Year's Resolutioners who can't even figure out how to turn the treadmill ON. <br /><br />4. Best friends.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=IMG_0008.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/IMG_0008.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />These two really do love each other, and seeing this huuuuge dog snuggling a tiny, wee little pup makes me giggle. <br /><br />5. Dysfunctional Family Dynamics.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=happyholidays.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/happyholidays.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I am far enough removed from almost 99% of my family's drama to make the holidays highly, stupendously enjoyable and entertaining for me. Who is going to get mad at who for maybe suggesting that someone's hair needs a style change? Who will be just drunk enough that they will say something inappropriate and/or something that was meant to be kept a secret? (Answer: EVERYONE.) While I still hate living here, there is something nice about visiting my family, catching up with everyone, and offering a friendly, "See y'all later!" and hightailing it back home. <br /><br /><br />So, Happy 2011! Here's to not losing your everloving mind before spring decides to show up.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-43658568028882399562010-12-24T10:06:00.004-06:002010-12-24T10:18:57.142-06:00A thrill of hope.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEian3ZFnt1biBabBQ9DpW8mYknvlaNpRkDWPP0TtUFPwPRQ9KG6mf0Y_qBF8MTylAgM0qbgZ6uttOQYJjVk7Bb2cHqX0lpuaUAMk2FibakzFXqM8nj-Ie0tQBdBYrIvvZ_dl6BfaMnbf0L_/s1600/nativity2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEian3ZFnt1biBabBQ9DpW8mYknvlaNpRkDWPP0TtUFPwPRQ9KG6mf0Y_qBF8MTylAgM0qbgZ6uttOQYJjVk7Bb2cHqX0lpuaUAMk2FibakzFXqM8nj-Ie0tQBdBYrIvvZ_dl6BfaMnbf0L_/s400/nativity2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554283902762958754" /></a><br />And we're off! This year's Christmas festivities officially begin this afternoon, with cookie-baking in preparation for Santa's arrival tonight, then on to church for Christmas Eve service. Christmas morning is the climax for the kids, and there will be a mad dash for the Christmas tree and shrieks of joy when their loot is discovered. Driving to grandparents' houses, family dinners with seven hundred relatives from all corners of the country, and there will surely be two exhausted kids and two even more exhausted parents at the end of this weekend. But through all of it, we are keeping certain things in mind, things that put the reason for these days in perspective. Like, there were no late-night Walmart runs going on in Bethlehem. No stressing out over batteries and toys that require twelve hours of assembly surrounded the manger. We have Santa and presents and yes, probably a little bit of stressing out over the required rushing around to visit family. But we also have this: A thrill of hope, and the real reason for the season.<br /><br />Merry Christmas!The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-13255208806930658392010-12-20T06:22:00.004-06:002010-12-20T07:38:15.342-06:00And now she is five.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmj9Zb_3D5GSpP7pWdMtHOS2kTcVVMnfM97FxXz78iWSdyn15tUwsEGZPHxzN1hQ7XpRu_uvF1MHmWZWdr13nYIYJWORkDQnbSR_Xcy5aCyjiDkEC3SvQfk9fbJwtF0eQWptqlL2kROHb_/s1600/DSC_0606.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmj9Zb_3D5GSpP7pWdMtHOS2kTcVVMnfM97FxXz78iWSdyn15tUwsEGZPHxzN1hQ7XpRu_uvF1MHmWZWdr13nYIYJWORkDQnbSR_Xcy5aCyjiDkEC3SvQfk9fbJwtF0eQWptqlL2kROHb_/s400/DSC_0606.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552748103974117362" /></a><br /><br /><br />Ella's birthday was actually eleven days ago. I have had a five year old for eleven days now, and I am still getting acquainted with the idea. As bittersweet as it is to watch the baby of the family get older, knowing that this is my last time to watch a childhood unfold, it is perhaps more heart wrenching to sit by as my Big Girl gets older. She is the first, the one who made me a mom, the girl who made my parents into grandparents. For three years it was just me and her, all day, the two of us learning together how to do this thing we were doing every day. She is my first, and for that she and I will always have a special-ness that no one else on this planet can share.<br /><br />Ella, at five (FIVE. I still have trouble saying it some days.) you are incredibly smart, and funny, and curious, and a million other things that I couldn't even begin to describe right now. Your intelligence astounds me sometimes. You throw around words like 'nocturnal' and 'interpretive dance', and you know what they mean. It really was just yesterday that you were a toddler, saying 'amaaaano' for 'tomato' and running around the house in a diaper. You are starting to read, and the perfectionist in you cannot stand it that you can't read really big words quite yet. I say to you, "Be patient, girl." You are at the jumping off point, thisclose to being ready to leave "little kid-hood" behind for good, ready to leap head first into big, important things: real, big kid school, making new friends, growing up into the person that you will be. I think you know this, can sense it, and while you are excited about what is to come you hold tightly to the little girl in you. Not quite old enough to be interested in all of the "tween" stuff like Hannah Montana and liking boys, but a little too old for toddler toys and games. Again I will say: Be patient, girl. It is coming. You have so much greatness in you, so many good, exciting things heading your way in the not-so-distant future. Some days I want to grab you tightly and say "slow down" to see if that makes it stop, this growing up thing you are doing. <br /><br />At five, you are curious about everything around you, and this is evident in the million and one questions that you ask me every single day. I hope you never lose this curiosity, this need to learn things about everything in the world, to find answers for things that you wonder about. I love watching the world through your eyes these days...everything is a mystery to be solved or figured out, mundane things are miraculous through your five-year-old eyes. You are letting me go through childhood again, kid, and for that I thank you. I've learned that it really <em>is</em> pretty incredible that hawks can hunt for their food from way up in the air, and it <em>is</em> amazing how tulips know just when to pop up through the ground in the spring time. <br /><br />I would say that I am proud to be your mother, but that word, "Proud", doesn't do it justice, really. I am honored to be the one you spend your days with, and I am already mourning the loss of these lazy days as we rapidly approach Kindergarten next fall. Because that means that many fewer hugs, that many fewer stories I read to you, that many fewer times that I am the one to hug you when you fall down, when you are out of the nest next year. <br /><br />I'm not sure how this has turned into a letter to you, Ella, but here it is. My hope is that you keep being who you are, quirks and all, and that you always, always know this: I love you more than ice cream, and to the moon and back, my five-year-old.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-12210821804243597522010-12-02T17:14:00.003-06:002010-12-03T05:53:25.992-06:00And now he is two.Exactly two years ago right this very minute I was pacing the floor nervously, my hair wet from just having showered at 4am. "This is it," I told myself. "You will have two babies in a little while. TWO." I was scared beyond belief. Scared that I wasn't cut out for this motherhood thing after all, scared that I wouldn't be up to taking care of two human beings at the same time by myself, scared of a horrible recovery like I had with Ella. Hours later, this boy came screaming screaming screaming into the world:<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Charlie/?action=view&current=a003-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Charlie/a003-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />"I did it!", I thought. "I have successfully birthed two living, breathing (HUGE) children and lived to tell about it." Little did I know the ride I was in for.<br /><br />Charlie, you have shaken my soul to the core. That may sound cheesy but it is the only way I know to describe it and you. You shake <em>everything</em> to the core. You love big, looking me in my eyes and saying "I wuv ooo, Mama" while touching my chin, hugging my legs so tight that I can't move. You play big, zooming around the house in a blur, attempting things that Ella still wouldn't dare to try at her age. You scream big, wailing when I have to change a diaper or wipe your nose. While Ella is the person who made me a mother, you have made me a <em>better</em> mother. You have taught me patience, kindness, to let the little things go, and most of all, to love big, right now. <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=DSCN0302.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/DSCN0302.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />You have taught me countless other things that may seem insignificant to others, too. I now know the characters' names on Thomas The Train. I also know that it is a good idea to glue the air vents to the floor, and that crayons are usually okay to just go ahead and flush down the toilet, don't bother fishing them out with your hand. Most importantly I know that there truly, truly, truly is nothing else on this earth like a Mama and Her Boy. <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=DSCN0410.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/DSCN0410.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />It has been possibly the hardest two years of my life, getting you through the stages of being a newborn and an infant and that wobbly first year of toddlerhood. But we did it! Gone are the sleep issues and teething, here to stay (for now) are the funny words you say and the silly games you play. <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=DSCN0313.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/DSCN0313.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />So, happy birthday, my boy. I love you with every single fiber of my being, and can't wait to see what your next year brings us. <br /><br /><em>I figured I should include a picture of what you look like 99.9% of the time you are awake...peanut butter on your face, food hanging out of your mouth, a little drool on your chin. Perfect.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/?action=view&current=DSCN0415.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/DSCN0415.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-75392580970089715182010-12-01T06:42:00.011-06:002010-12-02T07:28:20.097-06:00In which I whine incessantly about stupid things.Thanksgiving is over, bitches. I was (and am) thankful for all that I have: healthy, happy kids, a husband who puts food on the table and is a wonderful father, a lovely roof over our heads, a good life. But, there are a few things pissing me off right now. As Peter Griffin would say, this is what "really grinds my gears" lately. Let's get started, shall we?<br /><br /><strong>1. Sudden Service.</strong> <br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=stupidslogans.gif" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/stupidslogans.gif" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />There is a chain of gas stations in Tennessee called Sudden Service. This bothers me. I am sure that the CEO or whomever runs this business chose the name because it implies that your service will be speedy, prompt, or otherwise convenient. It does not imply this to me. To me it means that there are probably gas station attendants hiding behind each gas pump, waiting to spring out at you with a 64 ounce Dr Pepper and some Cheetos. They will pounce on you before you have even put your car in park, your gas tank will be filled before you even open your door to get out. Scary, is what this is to me. I get what they were going for with the name: Two S words! Cleverness! But why not Simply Service, or Service With A Smile, or any one of a hundred other S words in the dictionary? They might as well have named it Shocking Service. I figured if you're going to be called Sudden Service, you should probably just go balls-to-the-wall with the theme you've chosen, so I came up with a new logo to get the folks at Sudden Service started. You're welcome, guys.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=suddenservice_Page_01.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/suddenservice_Page_01.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>2. Ridiculous Barbies. </strong><br /><br />Ella is at the age where she is enchanted with all things Barbie. She can spend hours dressing them, making up elaborate stories and playing them out with her plastic dolls. So it was no surprise when she asked for more Barbies for Christmas this year. What <em>was</em> surprising? How utterly stupid Barbie has gotten. When I was a kid, Barbie came in four different designs: Blonde, Brunette, African American, and Skipper. They were all packaged wearing something simple like a sundress or a bathing suit, and you could then choose from about ten outfits to purchase separately. Not anymore. Here is a sampling of what I found when browsing an online toy retailer. Also? The morons at Barbie Inc. must know what they're doing because Ella wants all of these crappy dolls for Christmas. Of <em>course</em> she does.<br /><br /><em>Totally Stylin Tattoos Barbie</em><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=barbietattoo.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/barbietattoo.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Barbie wants a tattoo, and YOU get to give it to her! Also included are tattoos for your child to put on themselves. Awesome. I am super excited about my five year old becoming an apprentice to the profession of "body art". Not included are the five tequila shots Barbie did before deciding to get a tramp stamp on her lower back.<br /><br /><em>Turning Tricks Barbie, aka Fashion Fever Fashionista Doll: Sassy.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=barbiewhoredoll.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/barbiewhoredoll.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />There's not much to say about this one, other than stating the obvious: This is a whore doll. I am not thrilled about my five year old daughter playing with this pro-prostitution plaything, or thinking that "fashionista" is really just fancy-talk for "gets paid in fives and ones, and more likely than not has The Clap".<br /><br /><br /><em>I've Given Up On My Hopes And Dreams Barbie</em><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=barbiehasgivenuponlifedoll.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/barbiehasgivenuponlifedoll.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />There is a whole line of Barbies called the "I Can Be" Barbies. Among these dolls there is a Barbie pet vet, a Barbie doctor, there is even a Barbie race car driver. In theory this is a great idea, it shows young girls that if you work hard you can become whatever you want to be. Then I scrolled down and saw this one. The I Can Be A Cheerleader Barbie. Barbie seems to have said "fuck it" to any aspirations to become a lawyer, a teacher, or hell, even a housewife. She's aiming high, folks. A cheerleader. I see nothing wrong with little girls and teenagers being cheerleaders. I was even one for a couple of years there. But all of the other dolls in this series are obviously adults, as evidenced by the aforementioned doctors and race car drivers. So by the same logic, this is an adult cheerleader. If Ella graduates from college and says, "Hey, Mom, I know I just got a degree in bioengineering and all, but I'm gonna just sack those plans and be a cheerleader", I will hang her up from my roof by her toenails until she changes her little mind.<br /><br /><strong>3. The Christmas Season Morons.</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=idiotsshopping.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/idiotsshopping.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Starting the week before Thanksgiving, I saw no fewer than four different stories on tv and the internet that spelled out ways to save money during the holiday shopping season. Mostly I clicked on these links wondering if they were going to give me some life-changing advice, or perhaps a coupon for $500. Nope. Their "advice"? Don't put Christmas presents on your credit cards. Don't finance Christmas gifts. Shop sales. Don't buy more gifts than you can afford. Now, maybe I'm just smarter than the average person, but to me this seems like common sense. We adhere strictly to the school of thought that if we can't pay cash for it, then we don't get it. But I know there are those out there that will max out credit cards and take out loans just to ensure that little Susan gets that $200 Dream Dollhouse. When I was a mortgage broker December was actually a really busy time of year for us. People called in by the hundreds to take out second mortgages on their house just to pay for an over-the-top Christmas. Sure, little Jimmy may be overjoyed when he sees that holy grail of gifts under the tree on Christmas morning. But will he really be so thrilled when he's eating hot dogs and beans for the twentieth night in a row, all because Mommy and Daddy have to pay off Christmas? I think not. Idiots.<br /><br /><strong>4. THIS.</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/?action=view&current=DSCN0377.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Decorated%20images/DSCN0377.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Dear makers of push-to-open boxes: Stop lying to me. They do not open when you push them. All that happens is that my thumbnail breaks off and my two year old learns a new curse word that day, and then gets to watch mommy throw the box of macaroni against the wall. Stop it. It would be more accurate if you put this on the box: "Try to open this box from the side, get increasingly annoyed and try opening the top, and finally resort to furiously ripping the entire box apart with nothing but your teeth and hatred."The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-55562515760820151442010-11-24T09:12:00.002-06:002010-12-01T06:42:30.001-06:00I got this.Saturday night at about midnight, Ella came down the stairs and said she had to use the bathroom. Weird, I thought, because she will usually just go by herself and go back to bed. But I thought nothing of it. I took her back to bed and we curled up under the covers for a minute, talking about what we would do the next day. "I need a sip of water, Mom," she told me. I went to the bathroom and filled her little pink cup, brought it back to her room, and was instantly greeted by the sounds of an almost-five-year-old throwing up in her bed. And everywhere else within a five foot radius of her bed. About 10% of my brain was horrified, sad for myself for a fleeting moment for what this meant for <em>me</em>: a loooong night of hair holding, scrubbing floors and beds, changing sheets, and definitely not sleeping. But the other 90% of my brain kicked into Calm Kick-Ass Overdrive, sweeping around the house gathering supplies for the long night ahead, planning ahead for things that she might need in the midst of this stomach bug, all while comforting a crying, frightened girl. "Go time," my brain told me. "I got this. I GOT. THIS." <br /><br />As terrible as it is to have an illness sweep through your family, leaving stained sheets and carpets and crying kids in its wake, I find that it's in these moments that I shine as a parent. I instinctively know what needs to be done: Gather all of the towels in the house, make sure we have plenty of washcloths and changes of clothes for the sick kid and myself, prop up pillows in my bed, and hunker down for a long night of caretaking. <br /><br />There is something about taking care of your sick child that just defines the word "mothering". During the course of a normal day, of course I parent my kids: I enforce rules such as "No Hitting" and "No Throwing Crayons In The Toilet Or Air Vent". I make lunches and apply band aids to scrapes. But when my kids are truly ill, I can see clearly my mission: Make it better, because they REALLY need me right now. With a stomach virus, especially, for they are not only sick and feeling like complete shit, but they are scared, terrified, of what is happening. So hair is held back, cold washcloths are placed on hot foreheads, backs are rubbed, and the tiny words of Helping are uttered in the wee morning hours: It's okay, it will be okay, I'm right here, I'm here. I'm here I'm here I'm here. <br /><br />As the night wears on and things seem to be looking up and I am laying crooked in my bed with a child passed out on my chest, breathing their flu directly into my nose, I make bets with myself about when this will all hit me. "Will I start throwing up tomorrow, or will I have a few days of thinking that maybe I am lucky enough to have not caught it and then BAM?". For I will almost certainly catch whatever it is that they have. But then I think to myself that it's okay. It's okay if I am ten times as sick as they were, because for one night, I made it all better for them.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-33812603327888568472010-11-01T08:57:00.003-05:002010-11-01T14:45:55.094-05:00The most fun that the world can offer.I love music. Like, love LOVE music, in a maybe kind of unhealthy way, a way that makes me obsessed with a certain band or artist or song for months on end and when I have good music playing all is right with the world and nothing bad can happen and I just love life so much that I type really long run-on sentences. If I had to choose one thing to keep (aside from my family, of course), music would beat out books for the win. There are different songs and albums for different moods and days, and I have very often been in the car with two screaming kids and thought to myself, "Nap time is coming. I can put on THAT song, lie on the couch and listen to it, and everything will be okay." Music is like church, like a superhero who can come flying in to rescue my day from mediocrity, like a band aid that fixes things, if only for three minutes and twenty seconds at a time. I have loved to attend live shows of my favorite bands for as long as I can remember, and I can recall the first time I was in the audience at a really great show and my breath left my body and it was good. As you can imagine, having young children and a busy life are things that do not lend themselves to late nights spent out listening to music, so my concert-going days have been limited over the last few years. Rarely is there a show that I want to see badly enough that I am willing to go through the whole finding a babysitter-getting tickets-showering and getting dressed in real people clothes routine. But? A few months ago I noticed one of my favorite bands was coming to Nashville, and to a great venue, no less. I had to have tickets. I <em>needed</em> to go. And so the sister and her fiance and the husband and I decided to make a night of it for my birthday. Tickets were bought, then re-purchased for the night before when we had an "oh shit" moment and realized that the concert fell on the night we were supposed to take the kids trick or treating. The sister drove in and we picked them up and had a lovely dinner and many adult beverages, and I was feeling good. Great, even. We headed to the auditorium, tickets in hand, listening to the men folk cracking jokes about all of the scummy hippies who had beards. I didn't care: I knew what was about to happen, and not even snide comments from the peanut gallery could bring me down. We visited the beer line (thank you, Ryman Auditorium, for selling really, ridiculously large beers, by the way), took our seats, and waited. I was seated between the husband and another man who was holding a half empty cup of something that was most definitely NOT beer, and from the sound of his conversation with his group of friends, this cup was probably about his seventh. Or twelfth. "You guys fans?" he asked the husband and me. "'Cause I'm not really. I mean, I don't listen to their albums or anything. But I will drive to any one of their shows, any day, any where," he said. "They are unreal when you see them playing live." And oh, my. They took the stage and there was no talking to the audience, no "performing" and trying to be our friends. They were there to<em> play</em>. From the very first song until the end of the encore I was in that happy place, with eyes closed and hands clapping, and maybe even jumping about like a crazed lunatic every now and then. Words fail me when I try to describe how, how...just amazing they were. The drunkard next to me was right: they were <em>unreal</em>. The show reminded me of every single thing I have ever loved about music, real music, good music. And I'm with you now, drunk whiskey man sitting next to me: I will travel to any show they play near me happily, and enjoy the feeling of losing myself in pure greatness while I'm there. <br /><br />I found this video of my favorite song of theirs, and one of the comments says this: "The last minute of this performance is so perfect it makes me cry. It looks like the most fun that the world can offer." Amen, youtube commenter. Agreed. The show felt just like this, although probably slightly less smelly and dirty, since this video was taken at Bonnaroo, after all. <br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fDAicNrBIe8?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fDAicNrBIe8?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-21626732636760805662010-10-15T13:50:00.003-05:002010-10-15T14:30:26.296-05:00Done. Or am I? Okay, I'm done. Pretty positively maybe done.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8PBF6m1KiLJvVEV9PFR5Mny3CmpvP_JFnQd-vcWyv-nMZzKFHQ0uv8jMO7B0umQ2V-loqeqhQeKftpQ3-5EfnJ3E7zj9nqS8GlHPYmNe2XmektMcJpmPzm_ONsxOuE-eUq7eV-IbU2cJ0/s1600/DSC_0292.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8PBF6m1KiLJvVEV9PFR5Mny3CmpvP_JFnQd-vcWyv-nMZzKFHQ0uv8jMO7B0umQ2V-loqeqhQeKftpQ3-5EfnJ3E7zj9nqS8GlHPYmNe2XmektMcJpmPzm_ONsxOuE-eUq7eV-IbU2cJ0/s400/DSC_0292.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528356784451509122" /></a><br /><em>Maybe if we didn't make such breathtakingly beautiful babies, this wouldn't be quite so difficult for me.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As Charlie nears his second birthday, as he becomes more "big boy" and less "my baby", and as Ella is inching closer and closer to the first day of kindergarten (ohmygod) I find myself in a sort of a pickle. I am torn between being excited that we are moving beyond the baby days, the diapers, the teething, and being sad to wave goodbye to this season of my life, with the snuggles and the first words and the milestones. <br /><br />Some days are full of smiles and hugs and I-love-yous, and I think "YES! I could totally have three kids, no problem. This would be easy, because I am so on top of my life and have everything completely together." And the idea seems plausible, do-able, even like it might be a (gasp) <em>good idea</em>. After all, there is nothing more delicious than the smell of a newborn, or fat baby legs just begging to be kissed and/or eaten whole, or the way that they sleep on your chest curled up like a little tree frog. Then the next day Charlie slams his face into the wall while running seventy miles an hour and needs hugs at the exact moment that Ella needs me to wipe her in the bathroom and the oven timer is beeping and the dog just puked and we have to be in the car to drive to dance class in three minutes. And then the idea seems horrific, scary, and not at all like something a semi-sane person would consider doing, ever. After all, there would be nothing worse than adding MORE poop for me to manage, or reverting back to the twelve gallon diaper bag days, during which I feel like a damned pack mule, and let's not forget the reason that babies sleep like sweet, sleeping little tree frogs is because it is 3:45am and they finally pass out on your chest after you have walked around the house for seven hours doing the Baby Jiggle. And they wake up ten minutes later to eat. No thanks. <br /><br />I think that in all of this I am mostly just mourning the loss of this whole time in my life: The Baby Bearing Days. I will never feel another little foot kick my ribs from the inside. I will never fold teeny tiny onesies with a smile on my face, anticipating a new little someone's arrival any day. I will never smell baby neck in the wee hours of the morning as it snuggles into my side. And I will never watch another baby of mine cross from baby to toddler with one drunken, wobbly step. But, I will also never have to heat up another bottle at 4am, or go through colic again, or know the pain of caring for two kids while recovering from childbirth again. So I guess I can only be so sad about the changing of the seasons for so long, because we are on to other things. Things that people with newborns cannot do, like take family vacations, or be thisclose to being completely done with diapers FOREVER (I think I gave myself chills just typing that...IMAGINE! NO DIAPERS!), or go out to eat without a newborn screaming at the top of their lungs. So while I may be sad about the end of my baby-making career, I know that we have already made two awesome ones that will give me more than a lifetime of happy things to come. And that will be enough.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-84788433553593601872010-10-02T07:04:00.007-05:002010-10-02T09:26:19.664-05:00I'm terrified of the country, y'all.So, I've been running for a while now. When we moved into this house I was excited to map out a serene, isolated route for my morning jogs, one where I wouldn't have to worry about crossing busy streets and running in the grass to dodge traffic. Two paths presented themselves: Running back through our neighborhood, complete with streetlights and houses and a general feeling of safety. Or I could run on the golf cart path that winds its way through the middle of our neighborhood, with no lights and very few houses around. This is what I pictured when I thought about running the golf cart path:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFwH6AjopxoCuk2E7unlBUTRVjgiYfgC7sM_uEd7jacTRVOhBhBQIYpsK0WQ3SvEDajEk1gekLDOzRaP_RK3Cl7byr4AXGV7CGbF7eR4OFucyN3QyUgIeIWy0FFxf39NL1_-OuRZj0v2C/s1600/certaindeath.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFwH6AjopxoCuk2E7unlBUTRVjgiYfgC7sM_uEd7jacTRVOhBhBQIYpsK0WQ3SvEDajEk1gekLDOzRaP_RK3Cl7byr4AXGV7CGbF7eR4OFucyN3QyUgIeIWy0FFxf39NL1_-OuRZj0v2C/s400/certaindeath.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523443305639981730" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Needless to say, I chose to run through the neighborhood. "This is gonna be GREAT! And QUIET! And so peaceful! Not to mention that I have the safety of other houses being nearby, but I run early enough in the morning that no one will be out to witness my ass jiggling up those huge hills" I thought. So I set out at 5:30am for my inaugural run. Everything was going great until I reached a stretch of road that is completely, 100% pitch black, with no houses....and it crosses under the interstate overpasses. Having lived in the city my whole life, interstate overpasses mean one thing to me: homeless people. They live under them. They have grocery shopping carts full of god knows what, probably rags soaked in gasoline and some carving knives. But! In the city, this is not generally a problem because you are on a CITY street, with lots of other people around. Lots of witnesses. Not so at 5:30am on a country road that runs straight in between a deserted golf course and a not-corn field. City homeless people know that they are surrounded by people, and thus they remain harmless. But country homeless, left all alone in the forest, could start to get <em>ideas</em>. The husband eased my worries by pointing out that homeless people don't generally hang out near the golf course. Well, he tried to ease my worries, but I tend to catastrophize things until my brain can see nothing but DANGER! FEAR! TERROR! and I have a mini freakout over something that just isn't really deserving of that level of panic.<br /><br />So off I started, into the darkness with my ipod blaring. This is another thing that is problematic: I am incapable of running without music pounding into my ears. I hear people say that going for a run centers them, lets them think about their problems and meditate, in some form. Well, I hear enough whining and bitching during my days, thank you, and I do not need to hear it from myself for 45 minutes every morning. "You just shut your brain off, young lady, and you RUN", I tell myself. The idea that it makes sense to listen to myself is insane to me, I would much rather listen to The Killers screaming into my ear about what someone told them about a boyfriend or a girlfriend or whatever. This becomes a problem when my brain starts spinning its wheels and realizing that I couldn't hear the overpass-dwelling homeless guy's footsteps approaching with my music up so loud. So I settle for turning my head every ten steps or so just to make sure I am truly still alone out there in the wilderness. While I am looking back, preparing for the inevitable attack, I approach the interstate. Enter fucked up brain again. The interstate is so loud, my brain tells me, that anyone could do anything to anyone out here and no one would hear a thing. Well, shit. So now on top of looking behind me every ten steps I am also now sprinting in the darkness at full speed. Also? Sometimes the pants that I run in tend to slip and slide and maybe start to fall off a little, so what I am doing at this point is sprinting, head-turning, and pulling up my pants at the same time. Somewhere in between the first interstate and the second I become increasingly afraid and maybe start to sing whatever song is on my ipod, just as a coping mechanism. Or, quite possibly, the Homeless Murderers who live on our golf course will think I am certifiably insane and leave me alone. Just then, when the fear has ramped up to Code Red, PANIC, I spot the field. In this field there are very large hay bales scattered about, and in the dark, at 5:30am, they look remarkably like hiding spots for someone to lay in wait for an innocent jogger to pass by and then BAM. What is the "BAM", you might ask? I once saw an episode of CSI where there was a pig farmer who abducted young girls and then killed them and fed them to his pigs. Brain: Stage Left. Running at a heart attack inducing speed, singing "Sexy Back" by Justin Timberlake, pulling my pants up, looking behind me in terror, and now scanning the horizon for pig farmers. This? Is not the peaceful morning jog that I had in mind. As I near the entrance to our neighborhood and see the sweet safety of a street light, I can only imagine what anyone inside their house who might be witnessing this insane spectacle is thinking. "God bless her little heart, there's that retarded girl again. She must really like jogging, she always runs so FAST. She also sings Britney Spears songs while she's coming up that hill, which is weird." <br /><br />About a month ago my new chiropractor told me that due to me having the "spine of a 55 year old", I should most definitely never, ever run again or I could cause horrific back pain and a possible future surgery on two of my discs. Do you think if I explained to him that the country was trying to kill me, so I had to RUN FOR MY LIFE, he would be cool with it? Sorry, Dr. Josh, but there was a pack of pig farmers after me. Plus the homeless guy. I <em>had</em> to run, the voices told me so.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-181856226404038052010-10-01T14:04:00.004-05:002010-10-01T14:29:17.382-05:00I'm reaching the end of my rapidly fraying rope.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRB6U3GwoIXLqljdWaf3B2TArm-PkuouZ2jOqC-11yqcq8OlRDpYPGwW8Y8wMqgTr79i2VYBizARK6xlvNei0KjlyizxNEI8oxVKGMCnIFW4fyMErjM5d6ZxH3IGlLGyWKJJQ6mvtkQKZ/s1600/untitled.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 183px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRB6U3GwoIXLqljdWaf3B2TArm-PkuouZ2jOqC-11yqcq8OlRDpYPGwW8Y8wMqgTr79i2VYBizARK6xlvNei0KjlyizxNEI8oxVKGMCnIFW4fyMErjM5d6ZxH3IGlLGyWKJJQ6mvtkQKZ/s320/untitled.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523161565181983970" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Maybe it just comes with getting older, maybe having a beyond-busy schedule with two kids and school and dance and laundry and playgroups and everything else that comes with having kids has something to do with this, maybe I've just always been this way but am only recently <em>really</em> realizing it. Whatever the explanation, I find myself rapidly becoming OVER IT. I think that if I was someone who got tattoos, I would get that inscribed somewhere on my body, probably on my forehead so everyone could see it. I'm just...over it. Over people who are fake and flaky and just generally crappy people. People who patronize and blather on and on about meaningless things, when all I really want to say is "SAY WHAT YOU MEAN AND MOVE ON." Friends who do nothing but take take take, and then take some more, with no regard to what may be happening with me or my family. People who waste my time with petty bullshit when I seldom have time to waste on anything, let alone bullshit. Anyone who has a holier-than-thou perspective, and people who look at the world through NOTHING but rose-colored glasses. 'Cause guess what? Life isn't always beautiful. Things suck. No need to paint a bad situation with your sunny yellow paintbrush and call it a masterpiece, when what it really is is sick kids up all night, or a mountain of laundry that is threatening to overtake the house, or seventeen bills all being due in the same week. Shut up. Life IS beautiful most of the time, but your inability to say anything other than "This is GREAT! It's an opportunity to GROW as a PERSON!" makes me want to scream, because it makes me feel crazy. "IS life really perfect, and do I maybe just have a shitty one?" I wonder to myself. After much deep conversation with the sister about this subject, I can say without a doubt that no, no I do not have a shitty life. I have a quite wonderful one, actually. I love my kids with a fierceness that sometimes scares me, I love my husband, and I get to stay home and take care of all of them. But when you, oh, get a flea infestation in your house that makes you consider moving again, and you have seventeen hundred flea bites on your legs and nothing will get rid of the damn fleas? THIS is not beautiful. Bad things happen. It's okay to let the words "This sucks" pass through your lips. <br /><br />Not sure where I was going with this except to say that I'm over it. All the fake people, the fake happiness, and bad friends. Like I said, maybe it's just getting older that has allowed me to lower my tolerance for these types of people. But lowered, it is. And I have a feeling it's not going to go back up any time soon. <br /><br />PS: After another conversation with the sister, I realized that I have been censoring myself. I have a fairly filthy mouth (not around the kids, of course), but thoughts in the back of my head have kept me from writing the way that I want to write. "But, I know that such-and-such reads my blog, I can't say THAT!!!1!". That is not to say that I am going to scatter the F-word about just for the hell of it, but if I want to say it, goddammit, I will. So there. And if you have a problem with it? Just go and read this blog instead:<br /><br />http://www.dailycuteness.com/The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-31642359761822063632010-09-07T15:22:00.003-05:002010-09-07T15:39:01.891-05:00Dear Charlie.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZQqSNPNhaQjqaiCNrwAM-jYMyzp_Th_16bT9dVBcVPyGv-J4MFilsuZcQiatWNUW6uM0CawxwhwvF70JEm9SLMvniKrFvxXkFZLERLukyw6uxY1xWjDgfJ6J8-NQp4RKx_I8Kp9_AbVp/s1600/DSC_0360.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZQqSNPNhaQjqaiCNrwAM-jYMyzp_Th_16bT9dVBcVPyGv-J4MFilsuZcQiatWNUW6uM0CawxwhwvF70JEm9SLMvniKrFvxXkFZLERLukyw6uxY1xWjDgfJ6J8-NQp4RKx_I8Kp9_AbVp/s400/DSC_0360.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514271478902073266" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There is no special milestone in your life happening right now. You are exactly 21 months and 4 days old, and I figured it was high time that I write something for you and only you. I can't promise you that this will be a regular, every-six-months thing. In fact, I can promise exactly the opposite: I will probably fail to record moments of your life with any regularity, try as I might. Such is the life of the second-born, kid. Get over it. But while I have a few minutes to jot down a few things about your spectacular self, I will take advantage of it.<br /> <br />Oh, Charlie. You are simultaneously hilarious (to the point that I laugh at you so hard sometimes that I cannot breathe) and frustrating (to the point that it is not uncommon for me to consider both drinking and full-time day care within a ten minute span of time). You are very much a two year old already..."NO" and "MINE" are among your favorite words these days, and they are said with such force that it nearly knocks me backwards when you shout them. But oh! That brings me to one of my most favorite things about this age: short-term memory loss. You are a pro at laying in the floor, swatting at whoever dares get within two feet of you, while screaming and crying and kicking. And then BAM. Over. Done. Happy, smiling Charlie, curled up in my lap giving me a hug. This comes in handy because EVERYthing seems to set you off these days....we ran out of waffles this morning, you don't want the ceiling fan blowing on you, your tv show ended and the tv got turned off, you are beyond frustrated that the plug to the vacuum will not plug into the outlet cover I installed, Ella looked at you or breathed near you, or <em>thought</em> about breathing near you. I am learning to sit tight, ride out the storm, and wait for your smiley self to come bring me a book, saying "I wead, I wead dis book." You give excellent hugs, along with some fantastically sloppy french kisses, and you are learning the meaning of "gentle" as you very slowly walk up to Ella and pat her leg. The look on your face tells me that you are using every single ounce of self restraint in your tiny body not to smack her or bite her ankle, but still you are learning it. I can already tell that you will be something amazing when you grow up. I can almost see you aching to be the center of attention all the time, and the best thing in your little world is when everyone laughs at something funny you say or do, which guarantees that we all get to see or hear you do it ninety-five more times. You can make me smile like no one else can, just by walking in the room and saying, "Hi, Mom! Hi, Mom, I Charlie!" or grabbing my leg and saying "I up you". You are completely and utterly fascinated by anything mechanical, and could sit in our cars all day long pushing buttons and honking the horn. Every single thing with wheels, be it a car or truck or motorcycle, is a "Vroom" to you. And, ohmygod, you LOVE your vrooms. You love anything with wheels, including our rolling suitcases and the vacuum, and everything with wheels makes the "vroom" sound. <br /> <br />By far my favorite thing about this age is the sheer amazement you get while seeing everyday things. A few weeks ago, I hung up some framed art in the play room, stood back to make sure that the frames were all in a straight line, and there you were right next to me, clasping your hands in front of you and yelling, "AMAZING! I excited!" It is not uncommon to hear these words from you about any number of mundane things...you managed to get a baby bottle into a baby doll's mouth, and it's AMAZING! You see a butterfly that got into our screened in porch and is flying right in front of the window, right in front of your eyes, and it is AMAZING! You get buckled into your car seat and I say that we are going to the gas station or to the library, and I hear "I EXCITED!".<br /> <br />While I may not have the time these days to sit for hours composing love letters to you or to Ella, know that I feel them, those letters, every day that you are here with me. I am "that bad mom", whose kids' baby books sit waiting for me to catch up on them "when I have an hour or two (ha!)", but know that we love you, baby book or not. We love all of you, every bit of you, screaming, vrooming, sloppy kisses and all.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-86130236401042198242010-08-06T14:52:00.005-05:002010-08-06T20:10:51.485-05:00Bliss.As the sun slowly disappears for the day, so do the rules of the house. "No jumping on the bed". "Stop yelling and running around". "Don't splash that water all over the floor, it will make a mess". After dinner we head upstairs for what has become my favorite time of the day, and the sillies come out. Laughing, splashing, running wild around our room, jumping and tumbling on our big bed. It is one of those rare occurrences where you can sit back and say, "This. THIS is a memory that will stay with me for the rest of my days, it is that good." Sweet-smelling babies, drunk with sleepiness and the fun of the day that we're finishing. Bliss. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGp9nYyjJjac3rywHcJyaGKxaCGmtqK0ErxjNBiTSulFkPn_M5qE3PzwfIPyS4CnRagdaLMJ5Swvp0DCfuzv5SV2aUxGQ-5YWFZT1pQ1Wv5DtOplJlcqYP7rBswfNwRA1SolrkvvxkdmV6/s1600/charlie+bath.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGp9nYyjJjac3rywHcJyaGKxaCGmtqK0ErxjNBiTSulFkPn_M5qE3PzwfIPyS4CnRagdaLMJ5Swvp0DCfuzv5SV2aUxGQ-5YWFZT1pQ1Wv5DtOplJlcqYP7rBswfNwRA1SolrkvvxkdmV6/s400/charlie+bath.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502468159264665442" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElr969opGobrTePQUZmUfKReJ-abEaexzzUWFvzqFOmIOY1OyV9AEmVd4B_F2RZsr6fM-76WnfY14-4Sk-kV2yqKZznL0MfUy6yab2qO8yQDpHGqXYlxYFl3Y10CjA8MC-sKRtU1jeNje/s1600/kids+bed2.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElr969opGobrTePQUZmUfKReJ-abEaexzzUWFvzqFOmIOY1OyV9AEmVd4B_F2RZsr6fM-76WnfY14-4Sk-kV2yqKZznL0MfUy6yab2qO8yQDpHGqXYlxYFl3Y10CjA8MC-sKRtU1jeNje/s400/kids+bed2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502468599791784194" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDZH1IjLLqQl10isBLWWiCUo4u1CrTIDRr41BDE4TepCcHdKI89ucboNAUboDDUpVpG4B8J_Kewa-57GKT0H9FzbSFm__AnfSNNtWdFN2cAkwPZ9gxaOUYbppp5e0S3qfNvEf5K6YNCUk/s1600/kids+bed1.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 374px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDZH1IjLLqQl10isBLWWiCUo4u1CrTIDRr41BDE4TepCcHdKI89ucboNAUboDDUpVpG4B8J_Kewa-57GKT0H9FzbSFm__AnfSNNtWdFN2cAkwPZ9gxaOUYbppp5e0S3qfNvEf5K6YNCUk/s400/kids+bed1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502468813888603618" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQlV6e6okNcUSzNOFjWvocS6QTlWwsKiWRF7ScI-iTHSK1ysr46KZ_WGbOljzCLpSkrkrqlFc9Ub0XHMgPkJRyPtrVh3N1xccCZ-Mi7yYsqGeehyphenhyphenVfQIM65lAFdX70YbocWC8aNJOFAXd/s1600/kids+bed3.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQlV6e6okNcUSzNOFjWvocS6QTlWwsKiWRF7ScI-iTHSK1ysr46KZ_WGbOljzCLpSkrkrqlFc9Ub0XHMgPkJRyPtrVh3N1xccCZ-Mi7yYsqGeehyphenhyphenVfQIM65lAFdX70YbocWC8aNJOFAXd/s400/kids+bed3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502469001744546722" /></a>The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-73016735252977324812010-08-02T12:54:00.003-05:002010-08-02T13:00:06.558-05:00Duuuuuuuuun. Done.I had every intention of typing out a lovely blog post for today, but then Charlie moved from "slightly snotty nose" land firmly into "full-blown sick with cough and fever" territory. And the kids are fighting. And I'm still recovering from an exhaustingly fast-paced road trip this weekend that involved about four hours of sleep. And I have cleaned up dog puke twice before noon. And I am about ready to sign my house payment over to The Laundry, because it clearly owns this home. And I just finished cleaning poop out of an air duct in the playroom. Don't ask. This day? Is awesome so far. I think I'm done with it. Can I even really say that with a straight face at 12:00? Maybe I'll just write a haiku about it. <br /><br />Bedtime feels light years<br />away right now.<br />Bourbon helps.<br /><br />I think I've officially lost my mind.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-10681762003234350482010-07-27T08:16:00.003-05:002010-07-27T09:59:13.391-05:00Fight.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_o4dstAejqGn6mKyuApY6AgWjJJ2SmNibe-VqnPbpLZWyEDtBEVqZYFGI_e5nyOsfAklOpovfMvDzUScJht6UrNP9ppivOJXE9QjlAZbtN8HNNV_h7O6hMp31-8f24c7hd-wZYkZThRW/s1600/DSC_0336.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_o4dstAejqGn6mKyuApY6AgWjJJ2SmNibe-VqnPbpLZWyEDtBEVqZYFGI_e5nyOsfAklOpovfMvDzUScJht6UrNP9ppivOJXE9QjlAZbtN8HNNV_h7O6hMp31-8f24c7hd-wZYkZThRW/s400/DSC_0336.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498600359458967362" /></a><br /><br /><br />I am continually amazed at how different two children from the same family can be. When my babies were newborns, I did things pretty much exactly the same way for them both. Why then, despite all parenting efforts, have they turned out to be so entirely opposite? I hate to admit it, but I was that judge-y mom whose face had a look of abject horror on it when I would witness a toddler throwing a massive tantrum in public. Because, well, Ella just...didn't do that. Ever. I wrongly assumed that those "other" moms were doing something wrong, taking an incorrect turn somewhere in their parenting, that was causing their kid to behave that way. And then came Charlie. Charlie, who has shattered every single one of my previously-held ideas about parenting to smithereens, who yells and screams and hits and gets mad, despite my best efforts to get him to stop. "I don't know how to parent this child," I have said on many occasions, both to myself and to others in exasperation. I have had many, many people tell me that he is perhaps the wildest, most stubborn kid they have EVER seen in their lives, and most say it either in shock or judgement (as I once did) or in pity for me, his full-time parent. But. BUT! Last week I had a revelation, an epiphany, my AHA! moment. My job with Charlie is not to get him to "stop" being himself, it is to somehow find a way to use his personality and channel all of his energy for GOOD, as opposed to EVIL (as in, biting his sister because he gets mad that his favorite tv show just ended). And oh, the things he will do with all of his energy if he chooses to use it for good. He has more fight and spunk in his little toe than most people posses in their entire body, and my purpose is to show him how to be a good person and have a good life, without changing him and beating his personality out of him (*disclaimer* NO actual beating occurs here in this house, it's just a catchphrase, people). I had, fruitlessly, been trying to get him to change, to stop being so wild and screamy and opinionated, for the love of GOD, just stop already. So, what triggered this aha moment, you may ask? This. This excerpt from a blog post on a website I read regularly, Mommy Wants Vodka, written about her daughter, who sounds eerily similar to Charlie.<br /><br /><em>Yes! I say to her, YES, my brave, sweet girl, you FIGHT against it. You get good and god-damned mad and you take that anger and you channel it into something good and you use it for all it’s worth. That is the tiger in you, my child. And you let that tiger out and you let it ROAR and God HELP anyone who gets in your way. That fight will remind you that you're alive.</em><br /><br />When I read that, I thought YES! Yes! You scream good and loud, Charlie, because one day you will scream when someone is doing you wrong and people will HEAR YOU. You, my child, are no wallflower, content to let others have their way while you sit idly by, taking it in. This fight that you have in you can lead to great things for you if I do my job and teach you how to let it lead you down the right path in life. So you fight, Charlie, and you let yourself be heard. And even though it may be the death of me while you are a toddler, that fight in your heart is what will carry you on to do great things, son. Rage on. <br /><br />And I? Am slowly learning to look past these toddler years and the frustration that Charlie's temperament can cause me. I am looking forward to when he is a teenager and doesn't let people push him around, or when he is a man and stands up for what he believes in with his loud voice booming. And I am learning to love this about him.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-64657354650326975972010-07-22T09:25:00.001-05:002010-07-22T12:00:26.192-05:00Sometimes you just need some sparkle.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYJi0nFdYgOTYJutfgtJsyvrQs7Br1w2aEkxwveEIJuECXS51MIivK8KJQdAeDb9XgwFQpCW9fHwNN39qF-2H84teV36nr7mB5rrX9cMR7CUp9wHUY5xul7dhjlA7NdmwkjzK3-YvK4Kw/s1600/DSC_0358+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYJi0nFdYgOTYJutfgtJsyvrQs7Br1w2aEkxwveEIJuECXS51MIivK8KJQdAeDb9XgwFQpCW9fHwNN39qF-2H84teV36nr7mB5rrX9cMR7CUp9wHUY5xul7dhjlA7NdmwkjzK3-YvK4Kw/s400/DSC_0358+-+Copy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495728045853918578" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />The day was off to a decidedly rough start: I slept through my alarm for maybe the second time in my adult life, leaving me with less time to accomplish things before the kids woke up. And when those kids did wake up, oh boy, were they in a mood. A whining, crying, fighting, yelling, grabbing, hitting, and tantrum-throwing kind of a mood. I very quickly made an executive decision: Charlie could not (for my sanity and his own) make it to his 1:00pm nap time, so down he went at 9:30am for a quickie nap. I breathed in a sigh of relief, glad to have the screaming over with for even just 30 minutes. But I realized that the morning's rough start had left me in a funk, and all I felt like doing was staring blankly at the wall while Ella did whatever her heart desired. "This day is kicking my ass and it hasn't even started yet," I told myself. Just then I heard a chair scooting across the kitchen floor, heard Ella getting up into the art cabinet, heard her close the cabinet door and make her way into the living room. "Mom," she said, "I think what we need right now is some sparkles." She held her glue and her plastic baggie of sequins and stickers and her giant pad of art paper. And for thirty minutes we sprawled out on the floor and drew butterflies and flowers, gluing rainbow-colored sparkles inside our artwork to color them in. I felt myself let go, start over. And wouldn't you know it? Some sparkles was just what this day needed.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-82894525266100619072010-07-15T06:40:00.003-05:002010-07-19T15:42:27.208-05:00The Business Of SummerWhen the husband calls me on his lunch break, and asks what we've been doing that day, I usually answer, "Oh, nothing. Just hanging around the house." But, oh, we've been busy. Busy taking care of all that needs doing in these hot summer months, busy letting the kids just be kids and run wild, busy having long and lazy mornings on the couch with our blankies and loveys and sippies of juice, busy enjoying the long days and packing all that we can into the daylight hours. There are sprinklers to run through, popsicles to eat, cookouts with family to attend, and lightning bugs to catch. Having a to-do list with the many, many things of summer on it does not leave me much time for this here blog, but I'll take it. I'll take every single bit of it.<br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0352-Copy.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0352-Copy.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0329-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0329-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0337-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0337-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0338-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0338-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0424.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0424.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0570.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0570.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0560.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0560.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0422.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0422.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0409.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0409.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0487-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0487-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/?action=view¤t=DSC_0494.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i47.photobucket.com/albums/f167/elladee/Summer%202010/DSC_0494.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-87186344057451419132010-07-09T12:26:00.000-05:002010-07-09T16:22:20.388-05:00How To Win Friends And Influence People, Housewife Edition.Moving away from Nashville has affected me the most, I believe. The husband is from this town, so even if he doesn't "technically" have friends here yet, he is always running into this classmate from high school or that childhood friend. Ella did have to say goodbye to her friends, but come on, she is four years old. She asked about them a lot the first couple of weeks, not so much last week, and each passing day brings fewer questions about when we can go see her friends. But I, on the other hand, had an amazing network of friends in my hometown. Friends who were stay-at-home-moms like me, friends to go grab a coffee with, friends to sit next to while we watched the newest vampire/werewolf saga on the big screen (shut UP. I KNOW.) There was never a shortage of people to call when the kids and I felt like getting out of the house and I needed some grown-up conversation while the kids ran around the park. So this? This lonely day-to-day existence with virtually NO adult interaction of any kind? This is brand new to me. And it is starting to suck. I can literally feel myself going crazy every day, bit by bit, which is kind of understandable seeing as the only conversations I am having are centered around Barbies and answering questions such as "Is that God singing on the radio?". So last week I made a real, conscious effort to put myself out there and meet people. Here is my story.<br /><br />Day 1: Woke up and showered, giving myself ample time to actually "get ready", which is the exact opposite of my daily ponytail-and-tshirt-and-shorts-and-no-makeup routine. If I wanted people to like me, I reasoned, then I had better not stink or scare them off with my frightening, makeup-free face. Dressed the kids in their cutest play clothes, same reasoning applying here: No one wants their kids to play with Those Kids, the ones who are wearing a too small Elmo tshirt that shows their bellies and look as if they possibly have lice. We looked like a damned JCrew catalogue picture, and I felt like I was heading out for a job interview. At the park, Ella immediately ran over and began playing with a little girl about her age, and I noticed that her mother had a little boy just a bit older than Charlie. Oh my God, I thought. This is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. She is going to love me and we are going to be best mommy friends forevermore. I trekked across the playground and set down our things about six feet from Friend Candidate #1. I did not even get the chance to open my mouth before Ella and her new friend trotted over to say hello. Except Ella apparently had other things on her mind. "Hey, guess what?", I heard her telling her new friend. "My mommy has on the most beautiful green polka dot bra today. And guess what ELSE?!?! It has a cute bow RIGHT IN BETWEEN HER BOOBIES!" I laughed nervously, waiting to see what the other mom's reaction would be to this revelation. Apparently it was to haul ass out of there. "Come on kids, it's time to go! Mommy needs to get us home so we can fix lunch." And that was that. We were left at the park alone. "Wait!" I wanted to yell. "Wait! You would probably really like me if I didn't have my kids with me!". Making a good first impression on the Moms of Clarksville: FAIL.<br /><br />Day 2: Banking on the fact that Friend Candidate #1 was probably not going to chance running into us again at the same park, the kids and I headed back the next day. The kids may have whined something about not wanting to play outside, that it was too hot, and I may have said something to the effect of "We will go to the park and YOU WILL LIKE IT, dammit. Mommy needs some friends." We lasted longer this time, I even struck up a conversation with another mom there with a daughter that was Ella's age. Things were going swimmingly: she had two kids, lived near us, our kids were zoned for the same school district, blah blah blah. When she got up to go check on her younger kid, I noticed Ella coming closer with the girl by her side. "Oh, sweet Jesus, please do not let her say anything to ruin this for me," I silently pleaded. No such luck. Apparently while we had been in the car on the way to the park, a song had come on the radio that she took a particular liking to. I hadn't even noticed it was on, which is all to say that NO, I do NOT let my four year old listen to songs about smoking weed. I could hear her from twenty feet away: "Who says I can't get stoned, call up a girl that I used to know...". She had memorized almost all the lyrics, just from hearing it once, God help me. Before the other mother could come back and discover her preschooler hanging around with That Kid who is singing about smoking a joint and arranging a one night stand, I yanked up both kids and trotted to the car. Friendship Making: FAIL.<br /><br />Day 3: I believe I mentioned it in the last post I wrote, but we have been kicked in the ass all week by a vicious head cold. Fevers, aches, chills, snot, and coughing was abundant here for about four days. I do not feel like I need to tell you what this meant for my appearance. Suffice it to say that my bathrobe aged ten years in one week. I didn't realize that this day was going to be a day in which I would make a first impression on someone, or I may have actually tried to run a comb through my hair (that hadn't been washed in, oh, three days) or scrape the boogers off my tshirt (courtesy of Ella, who believes I am a walking snot rag). But around 4pm, when I was just approaching the height of my sexiness for the week, there it was: a knock on the door. Oh, Lordy, who could it be? I thought. Turns out it was our next door neighbors that we had yet to meet. A lovely family, one that was standing there looking at me and my disheveled, snot-covered children in what I can only assume was horror. They were dressed to go to church. Ella had on a princess nightgown that has seen better days, and Charlie had on a too big tshirt with watercolor paint stains on the front. And a diaper. After they introduced themselves and made small talk for all of thirty seconds, they thrust a houseplant through my doorway and made their way home. Probably to take a shower or bathe in hand sanitizer. Meeting the neighbors and not making them want to put their house up for sale: FAIL.<br /><br />I give up. If anyone knows of any nice, normal moms here that want someone to host a playgroup, have them call me. That is if they don't mind the fact that I wear polka-dotted bras, my four year old sometimes sings about firing up a joint, and I may have snot on me at any given point in the day. And if they do mind? Then I probably wouldn't want to be friends with them anyway.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-35646479595211735602010-07-08T06:22:00.006-05:002010-07-08T06:43:44.576-05:00The Last Few Weeks......we have:<br /><br />~ Settled in nicely to our new house, and are still loving just as much as the day we moved in. Aside from the stack of framed pictures waiting to be hung, we are unpacked and this is starting to feel like home to all of us. We have met our neighbors (more on that later), and they seem nice. They have a daughter who babysat the kids who lived here before we did, which: SCORE.<br /><br />~ Visited the nearest park a handful of times. My first impression of this park was....just okay. The playground equipment is on top of a field of gravel instead of the more traditional wood chips or rubber flooring, which is kind of weird to me. The rocks get stuck in your sandals and make it incredibly hard to walk...watching Charlie try to trek across the playground is hysterical, something akin to him trying to walk through a field of marshmallow fluff. Oh and also too? This park is ruled by a nasty little dictator, who does not discriminate when choosing his victims. He will attack swiftly and viciously, and his attack method goes something like this: KEEP STINGING, A thousand times if necessary. I have no clue what this little creature actually is (another mom at the park said maybe a carpenter bee, I'm leaning more towards demon-possessed henchman of the devil), but Charlie has been hit twice by it and we have witnessed two other children being attacked. Seriously, this thing will swarm at you with the intensity of a thousand suns and NOT STOP. For no reason, it flies right at your head. So yeah. We're not going to that park anymore.<br /><br />~ We have been felled, FELLED I say!, by a nasty cold. Fevers, snot-noses, aches and chills are rampant here right now. Add to that the fact that I feel like I have stomach cancer*, and you can just imagine the fun being had in our house this week.<br /><br />~ Charlie has apparently discovered that he has the capability to speak the English language, and is taking full advantage of his new found love of words. He has also discovered that if he cocks his head to one side, holds his hand out, and says, "Peeeeeeese?", he will probably get what he wants. Research results still pending, but this may have something to do in the dramatic rise in temper tantrums here.<br /><br /><br /><br />* Not really stomach cancer. Probably an ulcer or something. But. Still painful, ouch.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236717208426068158.post-11684419371621019072010-06-24T12:33:00.004-05:002010-06-26T06:44:08.514-05:00Of Wagon Wheels And Armenian Store Clerks.Let me just begin by saying that though I was born and raised in Nashville, I am far from a "city slicker". I enjoyed living in the suburbs of the city, while still being right smack dab in the middle of everything I could ever need. I was not out at clubs and bars and hailing taxis to go grocery shopping, and I was not at art gallery openings and doing other fabulous things you think of when you think of city living. But we still lived in the city, a five minute drive to be right downtown in the middle of everything. Every restaurant you could ever want, right there. I can parallel park, I can navigate one-way streets and ten story parking garages, I grew up on the streets of the city. That makes it sound like I was a homeless teenage prostitute, but it's true. Instead of hanging out at the Sonic drive-in or the nearest corn field, we went club-hopping after football games in high school, fake id in hand. All of this to say...yeah. I live in the country now. And it's been an interesting two weeks. Here are just a few things that are making my head spin, and also a few that are making me surprisingly happy that we are living across the street from a wheat field (I think it's wheat. I know it's not corn, but that's about all I can tell you about the field. So lets just call it a Not Corn Field. Sorghum? Is sorghum grown in Tennessee? What is sorghum? It sounds countryish.). <br /><br />~On our road, a house is not complete without the perfect finishing touch...half-visible wagon wheels adorning either side of the driveway, right at the very end where everyone can see them. They flank the driveway like two guard rails, halfway buried underground. This look may work on a charming cottage that is fabulously "country-chic", and might lend just a touch of irony to the whole decorative scheme, but when you live in an ACTUAL FARMHOUSE WITH CHICKENS IN THE FRONT YARD, it says (to me, at least), "Hey, Elmer, that there wagon wheel fell off the wagon last month and done got sunk in the mud out there by the road. Wull, I reckon I'd just leave it, then." I do not understand buried wagon wheels as lawn ornaments.<br /><br />~A few people have looked at me in wonder when I told them where we live, and then followed it up with something like, "Yeah, it's going to take me a little while to get used to living in the country." As if to say "Girl, you do NOT live in the country. I'll SHOW you country." Well, guess what, People Who Are Accustomed To Living In A House With Goats In The Backyard? If you see a tractor driving four miles an hour down your street every morning, or a large farm-equipment-like machine hauling seventy bales of hay greets you every morning with the sunrise, or you can hear a rooster crow somewhere in a one mile radius from your house,or you LIVE ACROSS THE STREET from a massive Not-Corn/sorghum field, then yes, you live in the country. <br /><br />~It is a little bit odd to me that in this town (CITY! CITY, it is a city, oh GOD I have been corrected so many times), the general consensus from it's more normal (read: people who have teeth) residents seems to be this: They want to be taken seriously, they don't want to be known ONLY as a small farming community, they are proud of their city's modern development in the last couple of decades and want to be known more as a smallish city rather than a largeish farm town. I get it! I get it, Clarksville, I really do. But for God's sake, if you want to be a CITY, then get more than one of the major chain stores and/or really important things that people use every day. Like, oh, LIBRARIES. There is one library. There is one YMCA. There is but one Target and one Chik-fil-a. The latest population info suggests that as of two years ago this town had a population of more than 120,000. All cramming themselves into one library, one YMCA...you get the idea. <br /><br />~Dear Creepy Armenian Gas Station Attendant: You do not fit into my idyllic picture of country living that I see all around me on a daily basis. When I enter the corner store that is situated directly across from both horses galloping in a field and a gorgeous 100-year-old barn in all its authentic, rustic-y glory, the last thing I expect to find is a middle aged wind-breaker wearing man with Jheri curl dripping on the counter tops. Stop it. You should either be a sixty year old pleasantly plump grandmother wearing an apron, or a really old farmer guy wearing overalls and a John Deere cap and calling me Darlin'. You should not be wearing gold rings on every finger and staring at my boobs like you've never seen a woman under the age of eighty. Stop it.<br /><br />~But, oh! It is beautiful out here, y'all. I kind of get the best of both worlds here in this house. Out the front windows I get to watch the sun rise over the Not Corn/sorghum field, while listening to birds sing and roosters crow. It is peaceful and serene and from the rocking-chair front porch, there is not another house or building anywhere in sight. From the back porch we see our neighbors' houses and can sit and watch golfers golfing all day long, the soundtrack is one of lawnmowers and golf clubs pinging sharply against golf balls. On the front porch I feel like I should be sipping a mint julep or iced tea and my name should be Mabel. On the back porch my name is Bitsy and I am wearing palm tree patterned Bermuda shorts while drinking a bloody mary at 9am. I like this about our house, that it's a little bipolar.<br /><br />~I love that my kids will grow up with a strong sense of family history here. We live either ON or across from (I can't remember) land that was once owned by the husband's family, years and years and years ago. Every country road we drive down holds a story from the husband's childhood or a house still occupied by a great uncle or third cousin. I swear to GOD that the first night we lived here, these actual words came out of the husband's mouth: "I remember when I was a kid and we used to walk across that field to *Uncle Johnny's watering hole....". For real, y'all, a watering hole. <br /><br /><br />*Not sure his name was actually Johnny. I can't remember what the husband said. It may have been any one of the following names suitable for a really old farmer: Herbert, Lewis, Billy, Willy, or Hank.The Harris Familyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348081711936505616noreply@blogger.com0