{Kendall is sitting in the kitchen having Nerds (the candy) for dessert and drops one down her leotard}
Kendall: "Mom, can you please get the nerd out of my shirt?"
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
DEEP THOUGHTS by Max
{Received this email from Max's teacher}
You may need to pick up a litter box before 11:40. Max just announced, “Ms. Erickson… I seriously think I’m turning into a cat. I just meowed.”
You may need to pick up a litter box before 11:40. Max just announced, “Ms. Erickson… I seriously think I’m turning into a cat. I just meowed.”
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
DEEP THOUGHTS by Max
Kev received a text message and shared it with me as we ate dinner at a restaurant. There was a not-so-nice word and he chose to spell it (as we always do) so the kids wouldn't learn a new word they could share with their friends at school. Why were we using that word?...don't ask.
Kevin: "...S-L-U-T..."
Max: "Slut! It's slut! Slut! Right? Sssslllut!"
Kevin: "No Max, that's not it, that's not what it spells."
Two strikes with one pitch on this parenting exercise.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Reminder
I pulled this from a newspaper blog online. Just a reminder for myself and the 2 or 3 moms, grandmas, and even dads and grandpas who might read this blog.
Last weekend, my family traveled to attend my oldest niece's Sweet Sixteen party. My brother and sister-in-law planned this party for many months and intended it to be a big surprise, and it included a photo booth for the guests.
I showed up to the party a bit late and, as usual, slightly askew from trying to dress myself and all my little people for such a special night out. I'm still carrying a fair amount of baby weight and wearing a nursing bra, and I don't fit into my cute clothes. I felt awkward and tired and rumpled.
I was leaning my aching back against the bar, my now 5-month-old baby sleeping in a carrier on my chest (despite the pounding bass and dulcet tones of LMFAO blasting through the room) when my 5-year-old son ran up to me.
"Come take pictures with me, Mommy," he yelled over the music, "in the photo booth!"
I hesitated. I avoid photographic evidence of my existence these days. To be honest, I avoid even mirrors. When I see myself in pictures, it makes me wince. I know I am far from alone; I know that many of my friends also avoid the camera.
It seems logical. We're sporting mama bodies and we're not as young as we used to be. We don't always have time to blow dry our hair, apply make-up, perhaps even bathe (ducking). The kids are so much cuter than we are; better to just take their pictures, we think.
But we really need to make an effort to get in the picture. Our sons need to see how young and beautiful and human their mamas were. Our daughters need to see us vulnerable and open and just being ourselves -- women, mamas, people living lives. Avoiding the camera because we don't like to see our own pictures? How can that be okay?
Too much of a mama's life goes undocumented and unseen. People, including my children, don't see the way I make sure my kids' favorite stuffed animals are on their beds at night. They don't know how I walk the grocery store aisles looking for treats that will thrill them for a special day. They don't know that I saved their side-snap, paper-thin baby shirts from the hospital where they were born or their little hospital bracelets in keepsake boxes high on the top shelves of their closets. They don't see me tossing and turning in bed wondering if I am doing an okay job as a mother, if they are okay in their schools, where we should take them for a vacation, what we should do for their birthdays. I'm up long past the news on Christmas Eve wrapping presents and eating cookies and milk, and I spend hours hunting the Internet and the local Targets for specially-requested Halloween costumes and birthday presents. They don't see any of that.
Someday, I want them to see me, documented, sitting right there beside them: me, the woman who gave birth to them, whom they can thank for their ample thighs and their pretty hair; me, the woman who nursed them all for the first years of their lives, enduring porn star-sized boobs and leaking through her shirts for months on end; me, who ran around gathering snacks to be the week's parent reader or planning the class Valentine's Day party; me, who cried when I dropped them off at preschool, breathed in the smell of their post-bath hair when I read them bedtime stories, and defied speeding laws when I had to rush them to the pediatric ER in the middle of the night for fill-in-the-blank (ear infections, croup, rotavirus).
I'm everywhere in their young lives, and yet I have very few pictures of me with them. Someday I won't be here -- and I don't know if that someday is tomorrow or thirty or forty or fifty years from now -- but I want them to have pictures of me. I want them to see the way I looked at them, see how much I loved them. I am not perfect to look at and I am not perfect to love, but I am perfectly their mother.
When I look at pictures of my own mother, I don't look at cellulite or hair debacles. I just see her -- her kind eyes, her open-mouthed, joyful smile, her familiar clothes. That's the mother I remember. My mother's body is the vessel that carries all the memories of my childhood. I always loved that her stomach was soft, her skin freckled, her fingers long. I didn't care that she didn't look like a model. She was my mama.
So when all is said and done, if I can't do it for myself, I want to do it for my kids. I want to be in the picture, to give them that visual memory of me. I want them to see how much I am here, how my body looks wrapped around them in a hug, how loved they are.
I will save the little printed page with four squares of pictures on it and the words "Morgan's Sweet Sixteen" scrawled across the top with the date. There I am, hair not quite coiffed, make-up minimal, face fuller than I would like -- one hand holding a sleeping baby's head, and the other wrapped around my sweet littlest guy, who could not care less what I look like.
Last weekend, my family traveled to attend my oldest niece's Sweet Sixteen party. My brother and sister-in-law planned this party for many months and intended it to be a big surprise, and it included a photo booth for the guests.
I showed up to the party a bit late and, as usual, slightly askew from trying to dress myself and all my little people for such a special night out. I'm still carrying a fair amount of baby weight and wearing a nursing bra, and I don't fit into my cute clothes. I felt awkward and tired and rumpled.
I was leaning my aching back against the bar, my now 5-month-old baby sleeping in a carrier on my chest (despite the pounding bass and dulcet tones of LMFAO blasting through the room) when my 5-year-old son ran up to me.
"Come take pictures with me, Mommy," he yelled over the music, "in the photo booth!"
I hesitated. I avoid photographic evidence of my existence these days. To be honest, I avoid even mirrors. When I see myself in pictures, it makes me wince. I know I am far from alone; I know that many of my friends also avoid the camera.
It seems logical. We're sporting mama bodies and we're not as young as we used to be. We don't always have time to blow dry our hair, apply make-up, perhaps even bathe (ducking). The kids are so much cuter than we are; better to just take their pictures, we think.
But we really need to make an effort to get in the picture. Our sons need to see how young and beautiful and human their mamas were. Our daughters need to see us vulnerable and open and just being ourselves -- women, mamas, people living lives. Avoiding the camera because we don't like to see our own pictures? How can that be okay?
Too much of a mama's life goes undocumented and unseen. People, including my children, don't see the way I make sure my kids' favorite stuffed animals are on their beds at night. They don't know how I walk the grocery store aisles looking for treats that will thrill them for a special day. They don't know that I saved their side-snap, paper-thin baby shirts from the hospital where they were born or their little hospital bracelets in keepsake boxes high on the top shelves of their closets. They don't see me tossing and turning in bed wondering if I am doing an okay job as a mother, if they are okay in their schools, where we should take them for a vacation, what we should do for their birthdays. I'm up long past the news on Christmas Eve wrapping presents and eating cookies and milk, and I spend hours hunting the Internet and the local Targets for specially-requested Halloween costumes and birthday presents. They don't see any of that.
Someday, I want them to see me, documented, sitting right there beside them: me, the woman who gave birth to them, whom they can thank for their ample thighs and their pretty hair; me, the woman who nursed them all for the first years of their lives, enduring porn star-sized boobs and leaking through her shirts for months on end; me, who ran around gathering snacks to be the week's parent reader or planning the class Valentine's Day party; me, who cried when I dropped them off at preschool, breathed in the smell of their post-bath hair when I read them bedtime stories, and defied speeding laws when I had to rush them to the pediatric ER in the middle of the night for fill-in-the-blank (ear infections, croup, rotavirus).
I'm everywhere in their young lives, and yet I have very few pictures of me with them. Someday I won't be here -- and I don't know if that someday is tomorrow or thirty or forty or fifty years from now -- but I want them to have pictures of me. I want them to see the way I looked at them, see how much I loved them. I am not perfect to look at and I am not perfect to love, but I am perfectly their mother.
When I look at pictures of my own mother, I don't look at cellulite or hair debacles. I just see her -- her kind eyes, her open-mouthed, joyful smile, her familiar clothes. That's the mother I remember. My mother's body is the vessel that carries all the memories of my childhood. I always loved that her stomach was soft, her skin freckled, her fingers long. I didn't care that she didn't look like a model. She was my mama.
So when all is said and done, if I can't do it for myself, I want to do it for my kids. I want to be in the picture, to give them that visual memory of me. I want them to see how much I am here, how my body looks wrapped around them in a hug, how loved they are.
I will save the little printed page with four squares of pictures on it and the words "Morgan's Sweet Sixteen" scrawled across the top with the date. There I am, hair not quite coiffed, make-up minimal, face fuller than I would like -- one hand holding a sleeping baby's head, and the other wrapped around my sweet littlest guy, who could not care less what I look like.
Friday, September 7, 2012
DEEP THOUGHTS by Max
Max: {on toilet} "Mom, something was going through my body. It was like a fireball zooming through me."
Mom: "It's called diarrhea."
Mom: "It's called diarrhea."
Saturday, July 21, 2012
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Friday, July 20, 2012
Happy Birthday, Haf!
Linds was in town doing wedding prep stuff and stopped in for a visit. It just so happened to be her birthday as well! We threw a party complete with singing, ice cream cake, cupcakes, and a movie outside. Rachel provided some entertainment by lighting her hair on fire with a candle. (Four months later, I swear I can still smell burnt hair in my kitchen.)
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
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Monday, July 9, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
4th of July
neighborhood bike parade
popsicle social
neighborhood cookout
stillwell parade
no fireworks due to the burn ban
Monday, July 2, 2012
Artwork
Kendall drew this picture of Grandma and Grandpa. The one with the curly hair is Grandma, and the one with glasses and a belly is Grandpa :)
Sunday, July 1, 2012
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Thursday, June 28, 2012
"Super Heroes"
You know those rare moments when your kids are quietly playing together out of sight? Any idea what they do? Apparently, this is what mine do...
"I am Naked Man!"
...5 seconds later
"I am Naked Girl"
shows up
Look familiar to any of you SNL fans???
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Deanna Rose for Dex's Birthday
The Klug's were in town for one of Owen's appointments, so we hit up Deanna Rose for pre-birthday celebration for Dex.
We did some fishing , mining for gold, and lots of playing.
Fish Count
Gavin - 42 fish
Adrienne - 1 fish
Kevin - 0 fish
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Friday, June 8, 2012
Dance Photo
I think we could win some sort of bad photo contest with this one...
Can you say Bride of Chuckie???
She's even strangling the scary-looking doll.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Friday, June 1, 2012
Legoland, Build-A-Dino, & Joe's Crab Shack for Max's Birthday
Legoland tickets were sold out a week in advance, so we opted for Build-A-Dino on his birthday. That night, the Maximuk's joined us at Joe's Crab Shack for some crab legs and birthday dancing and singing. The following week we hit Legoland. An extra week of celebrating, Max wasn't complaining.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
End of Swim Session
Max killed it...no more preschool lessons, time to hang with the big kids in Level 2.
It was a valiant effort by Kendall. Good thing she wears those goggles to every lesson considering she never put her eyes in the water. Look how proud my girl is...she worked hard for that re-take certificate!
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Impromptu Soccer Match
Emerson opted to hang with the Clark's instead of watching her sister's soccer game. While here, Kev challenged her to a friendly game of 1-on-1.
This old man got SCHOOLED.
...and now I have this photo of his sweaty man-o-lantern-polo-self as proof that he actually TRIED to beat a 10-yr-old girl and failed.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Airplane Tour
Madison's Uncle Ken took us to the Olathe airport and showed us the inside of his plane, then we watched him take off in it!
It was the COOLEST!
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Nana's Visit
birthday party
dance recital
end of school picnic
preschool graduation
gymnastics
shopping with adrienne
shopping with adrienne
soccer game
t-ball game
all in 7 days!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Max Turns 6
In honor of Max's 6th birthday, we visited the funnest mouse on earth...Chuck E. Cheese!
...and we had the most FUN!
Besides all the fun, Max begged for the Chuck E. party because he wanted a shot at the
TICKET BLASTER and 1000 TICKETS
Birthday wish come true!!!
That 30 seconds made everything that went into the party well worth it-- this one will be hard to top.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAX!
You are the most well-behaved, brightest, and most charming 6-yr-old boy we know (we're not just saying that because you're our kid). Your words, actions, and thoughts amaze us every single day. We are SUPER proud of you. Hope you enjoyed your birthday...you deserve 1 million of those 1000 tickets!
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Kendall's First Dance Recital
This was a highly anticipated event for this girl. The day had finally arrived. Mom, Dad, Adrienne, Max, Nana, Grandma, Grandpa, Kiley, Gavin, Owen, and Dex were all in attendance. Adrienne did Kendall's make-up and made her look SO beautiful. OF COURSE, Kendall was feeling worse and worse the closer we were to showtime. She toughed it out and rocked the stage. Once we were home we learned she had 102 temp... BUT the show must go on!
Thursday, May 17, 2012
LAST Day of School
Max & Mrs. Valenti
So long preschool...it's been a FUN 3 years!
Now it's time to get down to business in Kindergarten.
Kendall is leaving Little Scholars and movin' up to preschool.
Time to get her learn on.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
I Can't Believe I Survived...
...Kev picking a stain to have our floors re-finished.
Forget having no furniture, few appliances, no downstairs living space at all for 2 weeks.
Forget having the SLOOOOOWEST hardwood floor guy in the city.
Forget about breakfast on the patio every morning and dinner in our bedrooms or at the neighbors' every night.
Forget that the floor guy carried a pistol in his van and sent me pictures of horses telling me they were in on a conspiracy that was making him 2 hours late everyday.
They ALL pale in comparison to dealing with my husband trying to pick a color for the floors. EVERY night...we spent hours mixing, staining, sanding, repeating, and repeating, and repeating!!!
When he was FINALLY convinced he had chosen just the right color....the crazy ass floor guy mixed it with some other color and put it on our floor! I can't make this stuff up people...true story. I seriously had visions of me being interviewed on 20/20 and Dateline, telling the story about how my husband grabbed the floor guys pistol out of his van and shot him with it.
SO, feast your eyes on the floors that will never-ever be refinished again! (as long as we own them, anyway)
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Friday, May 4, 2012
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