How is it not okay for my kids to eat Cup O' Noodles for breakfast, but as soon as they leave for the day, that's all I crave?
Yep, kettle warming as we speak.
It's been a week and noodles fix everything.
I know. Such hypocrites we parents are. My kids will read this blog someday and know my crimes.
Half the time, Eldest is reading over my shoulder as write.
He knows far too much about me than perhaps he should.
Maybe that's one of my gifts to him. He can honestly say he knows me. I mean who amongst us knows, I mean really knows, their mother?
As for the noodles? No worries son. I left you one in the pantry for after school.
Thx for the flickr pic by JanneM
Friday, January 30, 2009
Yep, more bleak news.
I know. I know.
It's getting old. I promise to go back to your regular, snarky Scout any minute now, but I have got to get this out.
So we know already:
Monday and Tuesday truth comes out about family finding blog + aftermath still unresolved= bad news
Also Tuesday, I get lab results that our dog we treat more like a family member whose been in remission has melanoma again+ $1000 surgery needed= bad news
Wednesday, I start heavy-heartedly censoring my blog out of respect for siblings feelings.
Thursday, I get call from vet that dog's cancer has metastasized so hopeless+pain likely unless we still go ahead with $1000 surgery+less than one year prognosis=bad news
Also Thursday, the love of my life, father of my three children and our sole provider went in to have in-depth MRI done of three lesions in his lungs they've been watching since discovering them while getting cardiology study done about his TWO, I repeat, two different heart conditions (vasovegal response and Wolfe-Parkison-White Syndrome) and sustained, high, possibly genetically-high cholesterol from cardiologist.
Also Thursday, my husband decides to finally make appointment same day with GP about hand issues. They are cold, swollen and times and painful which is difficult when a keyboard is your God like my Computer Geek (CG). I've been saying Reynaud's for months. Yep, self-diagnosing does run in the family especially when you have wicked Google skills.
GP says Reynaud's and orders vascular study. Then husband casually mentions his optometrist mentioned being able to see cholesterol build up in his eye's vascular system on his last exam. Doctor orders another vascular study and mentions that type of cholesterol can lead to
Did we mention that CG's grandfather died from surgery from a blocked carotid artery??!!
And now, I see on the same day my blog was shared with sisters, I had visitors from my parent's hometown who went directly to specifically targeted blogs about my father at about the same time. Ah, isn't blog tracking software grand? It could be an coincidence. What do you think?
And now the best for last, all the stress and crying has led to me for once not getting my period when I usually will get it twice in a month when stressed.
That should be good given my history right?
Um, for once, no. See, it took me 6 months to get uterine ablation consultation. I finally did it, but I had to wait 4 months for appointment. Appointment that was timed to not coincide with period since that type of flow gets in the way of exams.
Now looks like I'll have my period right on that appointment.
The universe hates me. It's stomping me. I must have stepped on a butterfly or something.
Either that or it wants me to know I've been watching too much American Idol and House and I need to snap out of it and go back to living.
The pain is there to make me feel alive, right? Right?
Alrighty, no more pity party.
Just feeling withered and broken.
You can all go back to your happy lives full of bouncy bunnies, giggling babies and sparkling houses while I figure out how to get out of this fetal position.
I guess I'm not that bendy any more when it comes to my heart.
Blognotes: Thx for the Flickr pics by 妳兒子很皮 and by funadium and by Yves. and by SleepingBear
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 9:15 AM
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I listened calmly as the vet told me the x-rays show the cancer had metastasized.
It was in her lungs. If we left the tumor on her shoulder, it would cause her pain. If we took it out (lungs inoperable), handling tumor could cause cells to slough and spread to make more tumors which didn't matter since it already has. Spread.
It was likely either way she would have less than a year because of lungs.
Tumors grow slow in lungs. They grow faster in shoulder muscle and then bone.
It was my choice. Up to me. I told her quietly I would call her back.
Then I went to the laundry room and bawled.
CG found me.
Was one more possible year worth surgery, another $1000 operation we really can't afford, and potential pain for her if slough cells grow back into tumor?
CG called vet back for details since I couldn't remember them. All I heard was pain, one year tops, and metastasized.
I love him for saying while looking at my teary, dripping face that of course we would operate.
He is usually the one who doesn't do death well. I am usually the pragmatic one.
I even teased him about it last week. His coping mechanism is avoidance. So when I heard PB tell Li'l Man on Monday after overhearing my call to the vet about Grendel's surgery that , "We shouldn't think about Grendel's tumor. We shouldn't even think about it. Ignore it."
As if it would go away? I told CG that she was his daughter.
This way will keep her optimistically pain free unless other tumors start. This way will keep her with us maybe one more year.
I hate making the decisions. I wish I could find her gone in her sleep rather than having to make these hard decisions.
This also reminds me how fleeting life is amongst other loved ones in my life. If I am this much a bloody mess about our Grendel girl, I don't know how I will handle my 70 year old parent's mortality.
It hurts too much.
Cancer seems so vague.
One year is too much information.
Now I will wait for a year. It gives me more time, but it also gives me more heart ache.
For now I wait to hear news from vet about operation. She has no worries that her 14 year old body can handle it.
Now me? I just can't seem to stop crying this week. Seb follows me around room to room. He is my shadow, the big lug. Grendel is my baby.
How will I tell the children??
Sadly, here's an update...
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 12:10 PM
I dropped off our Grendel girl at the vet today.
Cross your fingers for us.
This melanoma has been a kicker--emotionally and financially.
$3500 in surgeries that we can't afford. This doesn't include hundreds in medications annually. Just add it to the credit bills.
Honestly, if she looked or acted old, I would stop this party right here, but she doesn't.
She still leaps around like a puppy to get treats.
She cuddles with PB at night and shadows CG all day.
Yes, she sleeps a lot. Yes, she is incontinent which is now helped by medication and reminders to go potty.
I don't think she appreciates our wet Seattle weather. She is a sun dog, hence the melanoma in the first place from our California dreaming days.
Yes, she can be a pain.
But she is our first baby.
Friends we've known since college say they knew CG and I would be forever when we got Grendel. She was our first commitment.
Our first glue.
The first binding for the chapters of our life together. The introduction if you will.
We won't unstick without her, but I do feel a few pages of that volume will blow away once she leaves us.
Am I crazy to try with all my might to hold on to those pages?
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 9:55 AM
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
This is their latest supposed "too racy for the Super Bowl" ad:
'Veggie Love': PETA's Banned Super Bowl Ad
I know I'm falling prey to their ad campaign by putting it on my blog, but it also amuses me how much thay have turned into a bunch of crazy, attention whores.
Guys will enjoy the ad while eating their steaks and loosening their leather belts and their leather boots in front of the tv.
Do any of you think this ad will truly inspire vegetarianism?! Or the naked displays on the streets? The guys probably flock to those demonstrations after picking up a burger, eh?
I doubt it will inspire any women to be sex objects for vegetarianism.
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 7:30 PM
The words, the venom directed at each other has been shocking. I took part in the brawl. Yes, all out, throw the gloves off, vicious fighting directed at my sisters.
It started to become a "They aren't worth it" situation.
I've been known when stress gets too high and the hurt is too much to bear, to permanently remove family members from our lives.
Slam doors never to be open. Napalm bridges never to be rebuilt.
It almost came to that.
I might have mentioned with family like them, who needed enemies. I also might have said blood doesn't make family. I was definitely wrong.
I sat weeping openly at the public library last night at a table waiting for the kids to be done with swimming as I read hurtful, angry email after hurtful, vicious email from one sister in particular who now openly admits it wasn't an accident. That she deliberately outed my blog to a sister who would be extremely hurt and was extremely hurt by my blog. That sister then passed on my email to another sister who I feel set up a Facebook just to attack me. She says she didn't.
Then, wiping tears, I angrily, shot back nasty reply after nasty reply. I pounded the keyboard. I made the faces I do when I blog. I huffed. My face burned. My heart beat madly. The other patrons around me gave me a very wide berth. I could tell they thought me just another loon in that library.
What unspeakable weapons we have over each other when family fights, no-holds-barred.
We questioned each other's parenting, need for therapy, and honesty. We hurled insults. We went into minutae of every transgression. It went from my blog to attacking another sister who doesn't host family dinners for the holiday. I defended that sister. I defended her to this other sister in way unimaginable. In very wrong ways.
In the thick of it, I misdirected an email to my parents. I tried to recall it. I desperately IM-ed one sister and CG to call and have my mother delete it. I didn't have my phone. My mother did, delete, but I think they already read it.
This still did not stop the emails between two sisters from that same mother.
They were bitter. Venomous is fitting. The last email ended in a threat by me to expose her via emails she had sent to her husband's family as retribution. Not my finest hour.
So ugly, I ended up picking up the kids over an hour late from swimming.
After dinner, I obsessed and re-read every email written.
All day, I had forwarded emails to "my" side of our family of six siblings and she forwarded copies to "her" side of the family.
I went to bed still angry. Then I awoke to a shining beacon.
We are a family of five girls and one brother. My brother and I had a difficult relationship as children, but he has become an amazing guy over the years. I've long since forgiven him. It's a regret that I really didn't get to spend time and my kids didn't get to spend time with the new man that he is since moving here.
My brother wrote the most amazing email. His words were like bullets to my anger. It slowly deflated and seeped away.
Asking for peace. Acknowledging the divide between the six children, now adults, both religious and political, but asking for acceptance of each other and their differences. Asking for forgiveness.
One sister came to the table with an email.
I have yet to respond. I am hurt. I am angry. I at the same time know what I did is wrong by writing unflattering comments about some of them in my blog.
I tried to apologize yesterday and that apology apparently was passed around the other sisters and mocked.
I now trust that nothing I write will go only to one of them. I guess they feel the same in reference to my blog.
Where do we go from here?
I wish that same strong hope applied to my family. I am trying. I am trying to wrap my mind around it. I am having difficulty getting past being called pathetic, sad and disturbed by not one, but two sisters because I write here.
They don't understand.
This blog became private last night. Then it went back public today. Bear with me while I decide what to do.
Everything seems nebulous.
Trying to wrap my brain around what's been said and how to react.
I will probably be making some surgerical cuts in this blog. Removing the parts of me that include them to a private blog.
Hopefully that will help. My husband, the engineer by degree and by Army training, keeps chanting bridges.
blognotes: Thx for the pics by marvinjonataylor by majamom and by Ευτυχία (Jim is Nice) and by hippohere and by yuzu
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 8:02 AM
Monday, January 26, 2009
It seems something happened I have always wished wouldn't.
My family found my blog.
I never invited them here, but they found out and came one by one.
They didn't like what they saw.
My advice: Please don't come back if it offends you. Please don't set up Facebook accounts and "friend" me only to write bitter, angry comments as torpedos on my marriage and my worth as soon as I try to make a friendly comment.
Mature people don't use Facebook to get even.
Also, as we all know, our entire family all talk behind each others backs. We all discuss what we don't like about each other. Say it's not true, then you are lying.
It's hypocritical to get mad at me for writing honestly about my experiences while you titter and gossip behind my back and then each other's backs.
I am sure telephones will be ringing amongst family members today. I am sure my ears will burn with what I know is being said about me and apparently has been said about me. Don't think I didn't notice the lack of calls and falling off the Christmas card lists.
I know you hate my politics especially my support of my friends' gay marriages. I know you dislike that I disagree and think that your religion is intolerant. I know you think me repugnant with my open discussion of my marriage including our sexual issues. You dislike my frank discussions of our childhood. In general though, you are barely in my blog. You see this blog is not about you.
The difference is I allow you your opinions. I don't bejudge how you feel or believe which is very different than the way I feel or believe. I try to understand. I try to be tolerant. I just wish I were allotted the same tolerance and respect that I may have a different viewpoint than you all.
My blog is a way to vent. I am at times brutally honest. I share things that you might not want shared. Looking over my blog, sometimes I could have been nicer. I don't sugar coat it. I wish you could see all the nice things I have written like:
How I think Mormons are good people that I gravitate toward
We sisters need to stick together & how much I value your love & support.
Mormon are good Peeps!
There really is much more positive than negative.
I am very sorry if I hurt you. I never meant to do that.
I also never invited you here especially if you don't want to hear different beliefs than your own.
My question to you is how does how you act and talk behind family members' backs make you a good person?
Full of worth?
Make you one of the faithful in your religion?
Make you so better than me that you feel able to judge and be angry?
Please, sisters, take a look in the mirror.
If you can say you haven't said things I would be hurt by to others, then cast a stone at that mirror.
**Blognotes: Thx for the pics from by tripp-e and by Ye Olde Wig Shoppe and by babymellowdee
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 11:38 AM
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Ummm, got a wild mad scientist in our family here. This showed up in the kitchen yesterday:
Talk about guarding her "esperement..."
In our sleep?
I'm locking the doors tonight 'cause that pit's got to go. Li'l Man came running into to tell me indignantly that that someone put a "chunk of meat" in a cup of water. He was sooo looking to get
a sibling somebody in trouble.
By the way, should I worry that she lisps in her writing? Heh!
Esperement, esperement, esperement...
Shaking my head.
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 12:31 PM
Saturday, January 10, 2009
This classroom has been dealing with the lice for three months now. Five alerts this school year, you evil mothereffin parents that keep send lousy kids to school with da vermin!
I try to figure out the source by asking Li'l Man who was absent.
We have never had lice in this family.
Scouty willing, we never will.
Maybe can we flea dip the fucking hippo?
Li'l Man resists...
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 2:31 PM
Friday, January 9, 2009
I'm addicted, but I must quit you because the house is a mess, dinner isn't started, and I have kids' homework to check.
Yet, I get offers for a quickie play date.
Come back to me, they scream. We need a bath. We're hungry. Plaaaay with me!
Or we'll shit our pants and you'll see flies surrounding me, your friend's pet, next time you log in.
It works to my motherly instincts.
Okay, what's a few more minutes...
Apparently my efforts were not enough. After dinner, I came to back to find my husband's super pet full 'o shite and covered in flies:
Fecal matter is serious shit in this household and must be purged immediately.
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 12:00 AM
Thursday, January 8, 2009
You know! Like the turd-colored ornaments and treasures made from dog biscuits, bottle cleaners, and twine. Solely lacking any effort or thought on the teacher's behalf?
So Li'l Man presented his snow day delayed gift to us this morning.
I steeled myself for yet another craptastrophe.
Then along came this handmade 1st grade beauty:
I gushed. So stinking cute. Can't wait to put it on the tree.
...and, yes, you read that right, our Christmas tree is still up shutthefuckupthankyouverymuch.
Even better, it came with this heart slayer from said six year old:
"Dear Mom and Dad,I iprishiate you guys!
And you care for me, (Eldest), and (PB).
I love you!"
In the meantime, I'll drink coffee and put it on the best mommy coaster ever hand glazed by Miss PB:
I know you're jealous.
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 12:16 PM
I got this warning in the mail today:
It seems that someone thinks I was cheating in the HOV (Washington carpool) lane.
As in without spawn.
Seems this dipwad took time out of their day to
What dumbass doesn't know is that I would gladly pay the $124 if I could drive just one night without spawn.
However, that never, ever happens.
What does happen is a surly 12 year old with bad posture slinks to the very back row when I drive him on Sundays to swim practice. It's hard to see him with tinted windows. He crouches over his IPOD video. Ass hat probably didn't see him.
Or perhaps he didn't see the itty-bitty six year old in a booster who also likes to spread out in the back row with his DS.
However, some clues such as the thought that perhaps an eight-passenger, gas guzzling, tinted glass SUV with swim team stickers with a crazy eyed mom yammering and raving like a loon to apparently nothing, but thin air, might have another passenger that caused that the on-the-edge-of-insanity look in said swim mom's eyes deserves consideration.
This might have been apparent on close perusal.
Whatever the situation was, I found it hardly amusing after driving back from swim practice tonight in the driving rain to find evidence in my mail box that someone thinks I didn't have a right to drive in the HOV lane.
So asshat whistle-blower? Yes you! The one who rushed to judgment and probably tattled on me while holding your cell phone because you saw a mom driving and the second row was empty? You can shove this up your arse:
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 12:00 AM
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Those crazy Canucks!
You might not have recognized this as mac 'n cheese for its' pudding-like texture.
Sadly, my 12 year son decided in the making of this amalgam of mushy carbs that he would flick boiling water from the pot at his nine year old
Wrong move there, buddy.
But, but, but nothing.
Yep. Go to your room while your macaroni dissolves. Yes, it's a waste of four boxes of food, but I'm trying to keep you from becoming a serial killer here, buckaroo, so that trumps food waste.
And what you see above is your sister's attempt trying to salvage it for you and your brother.
Yes, the sister you directed boiling water at tried to salvage it for you. Yum! Macaroni boiled for 22 minutes. Delicious!
It was discovered by all that 22 minutes is at least one minute past inedible.
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 5:43 PM
CG has been saying for years that Gorillas don't have opposable thumbs.
I always doubted him.
I'm no monkey expert, but I thought all primates had 'em. How could they grab branches after all? The difference was today I decided to Google it while he was still talking.
I was right. He was wrong.
High on my intellectual authority I Googled his practice of freezing batteries.
Uhhhh, wrong! Only if we were over 100 degrees for an entire year would we lose an negligible 5% of an alkaline battery. Not likely in Seattle or anywhere really except Egypt.
I was dizzy.
What else could I prove him wrong on?
Ah, yes 4X4's don't work on ice.
Suddenly, I see his face.
Okay, I am a bitch. Google is bad for the marriage.
I've got to leave the man some illusions...
So I can prove him wrong another day.
My intellectual authority is going to get me thrown out of the Fish Taco shack tonight.
Blog Notes: thx for the pic courtesy of by lucianvenutian
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 11:21 AM
CG asks me out of the blue who was President in 1958.
It's been so long since those bits of trivia where accessed from this noggin of fluff that once was a Berkeley Poli Sci major's cranium.
I swear I heard reluctant creaking between my ears and blue screens of 'dows doom flashed hard disk error in front of my decrepit orbs.
Wait for it.....wait for it...
"Ummm, Eisenhower, I think?"
CG asks if that was before or after FDR.
That was easy.
I then quickly Googled it.
I was right. I was not humble in my triumph. I might have done a jiggy dance.
CG says dryly, "Congratulations, my dear, you are well on your way to getting more oral sex."
Yep, I got hooked. He played me.
The opportunist was throwing my conversation right back at me. I mentioned to him a blog earlier in the day:
"High-income women get more oral sex. Maybe."
I relayed to him that results indicated that the higher the level of education and higher the salary a woman has, the more oral sex she gets.
Hmmm...I got me sum edumacation, but I am still facked on the salary.
I've made enough for two, count them, t-w-o, delicious dinners of Chipotle burritos for my family from my Blogherads. Google Ads might one day spring for a side of churros, but it's unlikely.
Sadly, not enough for getting fish tacos eaten according to the study.
Seriously, I am swimming in fish taco buffets and CG wants you all to know it,my friends because more important than a woman's salary or education is the quality of mate she chooses.
And CG? You're quality goods. I think I'll keep you. You are my Mr. Fish Taco. The El Cajon de Fish Taco. I know anytime I need some nibbling on fish tacos, you are my guy.
Come hither my fish taco lov-ah!
Blog Notes: Thx for the pic courtesy of by Wha'ppen.
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 12:00 AM
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
I sit here, silent, scurrying around the edge of the office. I might as well have a gag on.
CG is on a video teleconference. He did warn me because he knows I freak out that someone will see me in my workout pants, barely combed hair, and humongous, pulsating zit on my chin.
Or maybe he was afraid I would start coveting uterine ablation again. Aloud.
Must stay out of view.
They may hear my keyboard taps, but I am not here. Lalalal!
So, I am inhibited from making my usual comments and making faces at CG while he works. This stifles my creative juices
Doode! He just taught his underlings a silly, but popular Army creed.
Obviously his worker bees didn't get it.
"Fuck it and drive on."
Soooo professional, don't you think? I think he wishes he was in the Army again. I don't miss it for a minute for him or me.
I think I'll cut my finger nails and start flicking them at him to skeeve him out. Nail cutting always get him.
Yes, manly former Army man who now demand plans for the world's largest ice cream company, you so sexy. Don't laugh. Must maintain composure.
Don't mind me laughing my ass off at comparing you in a blazing hot dessert with your light infantry attached platoon in Egypt barking, "FIDO," with a four nerdy minions on a geeky video teleconference discussing demands and software analysis for making fudge ripple.
Oh, wait, my professional husband is now discussing movies and "basic physics analysis" of James T. Kirk pulling someone over the edge of a cliff during his bizness call.
Yep, still eavesdropping. One of the perks of being a stay at home wife that has a work at home husband.
Oh, the opportunities for mockery.
Oh, wait. The call is ending.
He just summarized the call. "We learned some good stuff including that the XBOX really does work."
He's chatting about gaming now?
Now he just said in appropriately nerdy white boy voice, "Wut'up, G?"
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?
Blognotes: Thx for the pic courtesy of g.rohs
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 11:31 AM
This is a statement I hear uttered from my husband's mouth all too frequently. He rarely slays one with brutal honesty.
He'll just make the non-comment.
A vocal non-statement.
Yes, that's an idea.
Not good. Not bad. Just indifferent
He has used this tact successfully on (edited: people we know). CG diffuses the situation with, "Well, that's an idea."
If you aren't quick, you might not even catch it.
People assume those four short words come with positivity. Affirmation even. The speaker, CG in that case, knows it does not. Both parties walk away happy. Placated.
I watch it with bemusement. I even point it out (edited: to a friend). She wished her husband could choose this path of non-statement rather than feel antagonized.
She is full of mirth ... that is until she realized CG uses the non-statement ofttimes on her as well.
So today, I discovered I also use the non-statement in my parenting. The reservation of judgment in lieu of stifling imagination and creative thinking in my kids.
Take today for instance. Li'l Man has nostrils that contain endless bogeys. He is the crusty crown of our family.
He had been sent endless times to clean out the bat caves.
The last time he returned like this:
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 10:18 AM
Sunday, January 4, 2009
This is for those of you sick of hearing about how cool people's Christmases were.
For those who had a real craptastic Christmas (not me! heh!) like I can claim from my childhood, this just hits the spot:
PB made this for Christmas this year:
Isn't it cool? I love it and it's a little known fact I have a maple leaf and snowflake obsession. Love them. So this gorgeous,hand- glazed ceramic leaf where my keys will now reside? Looooove it! Her teacher? She rocked it. She just did.
As opposed to this abomination from Li'l Man's teacher last year:
I mean, what the fack?
No amount of gold lacquer will make me want to put golden macaroni ornament on my tricked ou Christmas tree.
And this coming from Eldest's school in California:
This laziness? Carboard is sure to get mis-shapen over the years, bottle cleaner, and wire?
This is why we have to have a kid's tree to put all toilet paper ornaments, dog biscuit reindeer, yarn god's head ornaments, faded construction paper blobs of nothings, painted over netflix cds and glued on paper snowflakes.
This was crap and I feel I'm entitled to critique because I art docent at our school. You can come up with some very cool things to make. It takes very minimal imagination and sometimes just a quick google search for great ideas.
So enough already.
No turd colored salt dough ornaments, puh-lease:
Take a clue from PB's teacher. We love homemade. We love personalized. We don't love crap, especially when we then have to reconcile the guilt of hiding said ornament so it doesn't go on one's specially themed formal tree with one's child's memory of said ornament's existence.
Or worse in the Old & Tired Christmas crate I try to hide from the kids every year:
Fack! Get it together, people!
Now these snowflake trivets made by PB & Eldest in 4th grade below? These are great:
And finally! Finally! For you evil incarnate mother-in-laws out there:
Don't assuage your guilt by fobbing off all your precious baby's (now my 34 year old husband) handmade, faded construction paper, Popsicle sticks, and aluminum foil ornaments on your daughter-in-law.
Gifting us this salt dough, tempura painted angel made by my husband when he was six is just not cool:
Woman, I have my own guilt to deal with without scheming to break these ornaments when CG isn't looking, m'kay?
So CG took umbrage with this post. He failed to see my point that I will think anything my kids make is special as evidenced by the crates of their scribbles when they were two. My point was some teachers seek out ugly monstrosities as "gifts," knowing parents will have to love it. CG says I'm all "wrong-ity." Heh. (raised eyebrow) How is that news?!
'lisciously scribed by Heather Murphy-Raines @ 8:56 AM