tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75268507410597024452024-03-07T05:55:17.989-08:00The Webster WebThe Adventures of Sophie and Her Sidekick, JamesonStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.comBlogger291125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-61362073261464047882012-10-27T08:21:00.001-07:002012-10-27T08:21:23.721-07:00Time Flies When You're Loading the DishwasherHoly smokes. It's been eight months since I updated this blog. Life right now is....a bit of a blur. I feel like we're living on fast forward. Every morning is this well-rehearsed dance of teeth-brushing, snack-packing, shoe-hunting, and rush, rush, rush out the door to get one kid to one school and the other to the other. From the moment I arrive at school, it's game on. I want things to be high energy, there...so my mornings start with some spotify music blaring, kids coming in asking a jillion different questions (Got a bandaid? Can I keep my guitar in your room all day? Where's the rubric to that project? Yep, the one that was due yesterday! Can I get a writing conference during lunch? -- I can't come to the three other tutorial times you're offering this week.) Hang on, kids. I gotta check my email. Oh, look. I have 27 emails that arrived between 9 o'clock last night and 9 o'clock this morning. Can you hold that thought while I email your mom and tell her that I will, indeed, meet with you during my lunch? And then teach, teach, teach...meet during lunch, meet during off periods, stay for tutoring, then glance at the clock and realize that I've got to leave soon. My kids and husband are at home by now, and I am not. So then it's back home, hug the kids, check the backpacks, finish the homework, (thank GOD Frank usually takes care of dinner), then sometimes I do the dishes and sometimes I ignore them and have twice as much to do in the morning, and bath time and lunch-making and laying out clothes for the next day and then collapse on the couch and then think about grading but not really do it and then....sleep.<br />
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Sidenote: As I write this, Jameson is saying, "Mom. Mom. I found this ball, mom. Under the chair. Mom. Mom. Mom." And I am sort of acknowledging him, and sort of not.<br />
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I long for the summer months. I wish we were in Colorado again, standing all four in a row, fishing. And quiet. I wish all my family members longed to do what I want to do this weekend: pile into one bed and snuggle and SLEEP. But we will be going to a pumpkin patch (as promised) and finishing costumes and cleaning the house and hanging more spiders in our yard and making hot chocolate (as promised) and going to listen to Frank play music in a field, and folding laundry...ALWAYS folding laundry. And I have to grade a box full of journals, 143 quizzes, and a homework assignment. That's probably not happening. I'll look forward to more emails on Monday morning.<br />
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And now I am going to play with a little dog hair-covered ball with Jameson. And life is really grand. I know it will not be long before these kids are grown and gone and I can sleep every weekend and then I will miss them like crazy. And if, when they're older, they ask why I didn't update the blog about them more often, I will point them to this entry. Know that you are very loved, kids. And you do amazing things and say hilarious things all the time. And sometimes you draw on the carpet and yell at each other. And sometimes our house is a disaster area. And sometimes we don't do all the things I promised you that we'd do. And sometimes I lose my cool. But I'm trying, kiddos. I'm trying.Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-41924144493134070762012-02-17T19:28:00.000-08:002012-02-17T19:30:59.721-08:00It starts<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I was watching our neighbor, Jaxon, tonight, and ended up taking him over to Kate and Jason's house for popcorn and pizza and video games and all that hoopla. In a "team of friends" that features 3 big girls and 3 little boys, an older boy was a huge hit. Maybe too huge. Here was our conversation on the way home:<br /><br />Sophie: Laney really, really liked Jaxon! She said she was going to marry him!</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jaxon: I'm not going to marry anyone!</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: She was trying to kiss him!</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Really? Did Laney kiss Jaxon?</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jaxon: NO!</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: She just kissed his jacket.</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jaxon: I think that Lucy liked me, too.</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Why do you think that? Did Lucy try to kiss you, too?</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jaxon: No, but she was acting like she liked me.</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: How was she acting?</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jaxon: She was giggling. Giggling at everything I said. Like, I could have said "pudding" and she would have giggled.</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jameson: I say pudding and then somebody POOTS and then my eyeballs pop out.</div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">In closing, 3-year-old boys are awesome. Nine-year-old boys are trouble. And our girls are getting boy crazy. Lord help us.</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-73354837416078157092011-09-27T19:18:00.000-07:002011-09-27T19:31:13.644-07:00Sibling Discourse<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Some of the most bizarre and hilarious moments of my life are spent driving my car, listening to the genius larvae in the backseat. Today's episode of "Sibling Discourse" has to do with our kids' very limited exposure to Harry Potter. <br /><br />Don't get me wrong -- we really dig Harry. It's totally Christian to be fighting evil and all. I'm even the sponsor of the Harry Potter Club at Austin High! But it's just a little bit "sca-wy" for the wee one, and I refuse to let Sophie see the movie until we've had a chance to read the book together. This is all much to Sophie's chagrin -- other kids seem to know all about Harry Potter and friends, and she's falling behind on her pop culture allusions. Embarrassing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">So here's how the conversation went down today...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jameson: In Harry Potter, the bad guys show up in a car, and it's weally FUNNY...</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie (annoyed and suspicious that maybe he has seen the movie): How do YOU know about </span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Harry Potter!?!</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jameson: A boy in my class told me...</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Oh. Well, (pause) Harry Potter is a lizard, you know.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Um. Harry Potter is actually a WIZard.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Oh.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jameson: Yeah, he have a head.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie (indignant, as usual, and a little screechy): We ALL have a head!!!!</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Long pause.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jameson (muttered below his breath): He don't have no lizard head.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And THAT's the stuff that keeps me laughing all day long, folks.</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-86330510745187532512011-09-18T14:51:00.000-07:002011-09-18T15:21:25.225-07:00If Anything Ever Happens to Me...<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Driving to a birthday party the other day, just me and the kiddos, I was faced with the possibility of a future without me. As you may suspect, the world will keep on spinning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Mom, I dropped that thingie! Can I take off my seat belt to get it?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Nope. That's not safe.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: But you do it sometimes!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">(She's right. I have, at times, been known to take off my seat belt in order to contort my body such that I can retrieve a sippy cup or remove a peanut from someone's nose with my tweezers. But ONLY on really long road trips when pulling over is seen as failure, and ONLY -- well, USUALLY -- when Frank is driving.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Yes. I have taken off my seat belt before, but only when I'm trying to help you guys. I'll sacrifice myself, but not you guys. (Jewish guilt? We're not even Jewish...)</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: What's sacrifice?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Well, it means that sometimes I might do dangerous stuff, but I'm a mom. I don't want you guys to do that dangerous stuff yet because you might get hurt. Really, really hurt.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Like, we could die?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: (debating the seriousness of seat belt safety v. freaking out my kids...) Yes. Sometimes when people don't wear their seat belts and then they have an accident, they could die.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Five seconds of silence.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: And then, if you died, Dad would marry someone else, right?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: (Why didn't I take off MY seat belt and just hand her back that thingie?!?!) Um, I guess. Do you think Dad should get married to someone else if I die?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: That's what your dad did, right? When Nana Jane died?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">(Another aside: my dad divorced my mom when I was two. Nana Jane died when I was 36. Many amazing women have mothered me in addition to my mom, but that branch of the family tree is complicated to explain to a six-year-old.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Sort of. (This is often my answer to complicated issues. That, or "I'm not sure how that works.")</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Well, I think Dad should get married to someone else if you die.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Okay...why?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Because then I could be the FLOWER GIRL!!!!!!!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">One last aside: I hope she barfs all over the new bride. (See previous status updates about Sophie's flower girl performance at my brother's wedding.)</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-12503652070048333092011-06-16T07:47:00.000-07:002011-06-16T08:16:52.319-07:00I'm With Frank Webster<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As I'm sure you know, J. Frank Webster is a badass. So much so, that we (the Ditchdirt gang) have taken to teasing him just to make ourselves feel a little bit cool. As if.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Frank is sort of famous for getting in places (backstage, a sold-out concert, etc.). He's not a sweet-talker; he's genuinely a good guy. And people respond to that these days. (Have I told you about the time he called to tell me he'd be late, because he was taking a group of protest marchers to the Capitol? When he offered them a ride and then realized that none of them spoke English, he yelled, "Vamos a Capitol!" and then drove them, honking his horn as they waved their Mexican flag in the back of his truck. And the best part...he said, "I'll be a few minutes late. I'm going to go back and see if I can find more Mexicans who need a ride.") I can tell you dozens of stories like that. Frank is awesome. And everyone with a brain should want to be near him. (I'm super smart, and I married him.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Last summer, Frank was regaling us all with a story about he had gotten into a concert the night before. I didn't go with him, because it started really late and we couldn't find a sitter. When he showed up at Antone's, the line was wrapped around the block. So Frank went back to the car, grabbed his guitar, and strolled into the alley and knocked on the musician's entrance. When someone opened the door, he just turned his shoulder, sidled in, and said, "Thanks, man." Then he caught a musician's eye across the room and yelled, "Hey! How's it going?" He had spoken to him before, because Frank talks to everyone, so the guy (Charlie Sexton) smiled and waved. Frank strolled over to talk to him, and the door guy thought Frank was in the band. (Had I been with him, we never would have made it in the door. I have "rule follower" stamped on my forehead.) So Frank chats it up with Charlie Sexton and Billy Gibbons and then someone approaches him and says, "Hey, do you have a VIP badge?" Again, this is when I would have hemmed and hawed and apologized, and we would have been escorted out. Frank's answer: Not yet. What are we gonna do about that? So the guy scurries off and gets him a VIP badge.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So that's the story. Frank not only got IN to the sold out concert, he got backstage and hung out with the band. It's like the time we went to ACL and he jumped up on stage to play with Robert Randolph. I'm telling you. He's a BADASS.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So our friend, Maggie, came up with this idea that we should just all brand ourselves as being "with Frank Webster," and we'd start getting in to shows, too. We would be welcome at song circles. We would be offered free food and beer at Kerrville! She even made a coozie that said "I'm with Frank Webster." A few months later, there was a little impromptu pickin' party at the Stephens house. Adam Stephens opened the door to a complete stranger, who said, "Yeah, um, I'm here to play music with Frank Webster." Adam said, "Of course you are."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And now that leads us up to our recent project: "I'm With Frank Webster" t-shirts. We made a bundle of them before Kerrville (without Frank's knowledge) and all wore them to the music fest. He first spotted them when some friends of Maggie were walking down the road towards him, wearing shirts with his name on them. A Kerrville staff person said, "Who the hell is Frank Webster?!" And he looked up and laughed and said, "That'd be me."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">We think they should go viral. Go make yourself one right now. All the cool kids are wearing one. And all the cool kids are with Frank Webster.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOatAogwgGVzRKZhBs9Drm_7JkBBc8_bnh74_79HWyNmjxzR1ZMgBSc7XqcOh8YH0FKfq5WXIwusulndBmE5xRGL1YrUkGvGFAvhBqc308lzscnIvQ_BTiQxlbEvUr43decEfOMmuQK9o/s1600/IMG_5443.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOatAogwgGVzRKZhBs9Drm_7JkBBc8_bnh74_79HWyNmjxzR1ZMgBSc7XqcOh8YH0FKfq5WXIwusulndBmE5xRGL1YrUkGvGFAvhBqc308lzscnIvQ_BTiQxlbEvUr43decEfOMmuQK9o/s320/IMG_5443.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618835324542756258" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbX0TyUs4ZhAvieE3zW-udV3_vMKuZ50YLRpPr9dNUlDzShzVMqpzV2IVLk6dPpDFCgBfKIcsWOXqKl4IlxAQxog6zUMibOTR0aK-klw_-mXjj8hiKL8XaGV3Qg17f411VSxfWDzQgo4c/s1600/IMG_5412.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbX0TyUs4ZhAvieE3zW-udV3_vMKuZ50YLRpPr9dNUlDzShzVMqpzV2IVLk6dPpDFCgBfKIcsWOXqKl4IlxAQxog6zUMibOTR0aK-klw_-mXjj8hiKL8XaGV3Qg17f411VSxfWDzQgo4c/s320/IMG_5412.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618835328209258546" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1352CZeQHfzF6sWe__8JmwDGWVnwRTj-YewagkC5Wz5NuYGq_GrFEI4dOAfyodhLVEiTX2Tw9HAxKjs-Hu2iT27l94iuHwnaPR2lkI4KLVv9z9Td1Ya44veV-OTYf-n2iDbUNDDdgtKU/s1600/IMG_5410.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1352CZeQHfzF6sWe__8JmwDGWVnwRTj-YewagkC5Wz5NuYGq_GrFEI4dOAfyodhLVEiTX2Tw9HAxKjs-Hu2iT27l94iuHwnaPR2lkI4KLVv9z9Td1Ya44veV-OTYf-n2iDbUNDDdgtKU/s320/IMG_5410.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618835338948344978" border="0" /></a>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-63097589431648874672011-05-08T18:15:00.001-07:002011-05-08T18:16:52.138-07:00Happy Mother's Day!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxw310n_kH6tEE7eyZWoNMY-YTJL-WlQJ_0kAbcY3ck4C-hMgiRAaaY8Um2nTT4CyVF_KW8kapzKU4RjeLGdR07RVWw-Gk6E4NJHCP8VkSwqq1He6V08L0SMWcYG_shtbvK9n_603Ta0/s1600/mom+day+card+1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 152px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxw310n_kH6tEE7eyZWoNMY-YTJL-WlQJ_0kAbcY3ck4C-hMgiRAaaY8Um2nTT4CyVF_KW8kapzKU4RjeLGdR07RVWw-Gk6E4NJHCP8VkSwqq1He6V08L0SMWcYG_shtbvK9n_603Ta0/s320/mom+day+card+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604519030288509746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoixSG3QNpLRJvnRdPKFK6oQJ6NKxVqnY8rAstMB9HwsFQqH60ONkXICPo90fHcSilqxAyRoVGRph1Ggt2Ez6fJQMr2z52DW_mZZp18oznzYff-YyGTIfwU4J7bbmldQMOPm1rVGhQGJY/s1600/mom+day+card+2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoixSG3QNpLRJvnRdPKFK6oQJ6NKxVqnY8rAstMB9HwsFQqH60ONkXICPo90fHcSilqxAyRoVGRph1Ggt2Ez6fJQMr2z52DW_mZZp18oznzYff-YyGTIfwU4J7bbmldQMOPm1rVGhQGJY/s320/mom+day+card+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604519035031051138" border="0" /></a>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-76160390161577240652011-05-01T20:40:00.000-07:002011-05-01T21:05:26.988-07:00Sharks and Fish and Such<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Just a little memory to tuck away...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">At 2:30 p.m. today, we were at a birthday party in the park, making tie-dye t-shirts and eating ice cream cake. It was WARM...humid and sticky warm. The way it should be on a Mayday. The pool opened today, and I spent a fair amount of time talking to some of the other neighborhood parents, tallying up the number of Sophie's friends who will be on the swim team this summer, listening to the laughter at the nearby pool and wishing we'd brought suits.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Tomorrow is the trial: the day that 5 and 6-year-old's have to prove that they can swim across the length of the pool, unaided. I wasn't sure, earlier today, if Sophie could do it. I promised her that we would come to the pool after J's nap, to give it a try. (Why, oh why, did it not occur to me then that I have NEVER witnessed her swimming the length of the pool?)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">So fast forward to 5:30 p.m., when we all wake up from a lovely nap. That's another memory I will document, because it doesn't happen all that often, but today, on May 1st, all of the Websters napped. Lovely. So we hem and haw about whether or not we should all go to the pool or not, and we finally split into two teams: the dinner gatherers and the swim-team-test pre-testers. I am on Team 2, so I don my suit. As soon as we opened up the front door, I realized that we had been snookered by the Texas weather. The temp had dropped at least 10 degrees, maybe 15, and a cool wind was blowing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">But a promise is a promise. Sophie and I braved the wind and drove down to the pool, where all the lifeguards had thrown on sweatshirts, and were busily stacking the pool furniture. "Are you closed?" I asked. "No," one of them responded, "it's just really, really cold." And then he looked at me with that what-kind-of-craptastic-parent-are-you look on his face. Oh, I'm a wily one, kid.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">So we threw off our cover-ups, Sophie and I. And I triple, quadruple checked if she really wanted to go through with this. She did. I made her step into the water first, because, if she chickened out, I was NOT going in. She did not chicken out. She squealed when the water hit her belly button, but she did not chicken out. So I jumped in with her, because that is what a mom who makes a promise sometimes has to do.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And she sank. I mean, she TOTALLY sank. She spittered and spattered and swam vertically and clung onto my neck and shivered and giggled and SANK. She will not be trying out tomorrow. She will not be on the Sharks swim team this year. But we tried, baby. And then we raced home for hot showers and some pad thai take-out that the boys procured.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">In other news: Jameson killed our fish. And Frank. (I mean, Frank helped kill the fish.) Only a month after putting my class pet in mortal danger by dumping in a whole jar of food (Snooki was saved, thanks be to God), and only two days after dumping in a whole jar of food into Laney's fish's tank, thus revealing to the Stephenses that George had been dead for a couple of days (there was some talk of decomposition levels, but it's possible he killed George, too), Jameson dumped a whole jar of food (what kind of IDIOTS are we, that we still had a jar of fish food within reach?) into Lillian's tank. We have had Lillian a long, long time, but Frank has never had to clean her tank. He dumped out the water and put Lillian into nice, fresh, shockingly-cold water (not unlike the pool today). And Lillian freaked out and died. Sophie handled it well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">We will get another fish. We will become a shark another day. Life goes on.</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-88672846427621057692011-05-01T19:41:00.000-07:002011-05-01T20:27:32.680-07:00Happy Easter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23fyhYqSvCccQqyM4gWle9eHeF3qqOlFZncShekrBRd_7YflYoGjk5B1XXRl3GAsZgtKPJ5b2E-8jSGg3B4uQSwAlbQdhgBWP8QHN-oAqX74tuxsMmGLE_ADGJK91P3EinRuAkmUGEpM/s1600/IMG_4552+crop.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23fyhYqSvCccQqyM4gWle9eHeF3qqOlFZncShekrBRd_7YflYoGjk5B1XXRl3GAsZgtKPJ5b2E-8jSGg3B4uQSwAlbQdhgBWP8QHN-oAqX74tuxsMmGLE_ADGJK91P3EinRuAkmUGEpM/s320/IMG_4552+crop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601951850611339794" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsk3KVXXQjNE62Eb-A27buaOyL8FEJdX8asmAGwN4aP3HGKlZXn_hXwbflDzohBUdewRJhEkxl3lIG5-fSvpPNtmuTSIxVL001eibXoP8oAteTbry-aFkA8dJyzK9RAsmTT1_GK-Zebg/s1600/IMG_4542.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPsk3KVXXQjNE62Eb-A27buaOyL8FEJdX8asmAGwN4aP3HGKlZXn_hXwbflDzohBUdewRJhEkxl3lIG5-fSvpPNtmuTSIxVL001eibXoP8oAteTbry-aFkA8dJyzK9RAsmTT1_GK-Zebg/s320/IMG_4542.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601951847754207106" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMm60AjB6fUH9LNHzItMHi7JvYuU63YeaLIm2-iqoE3mghjPAxR4I1y3_uLMX48DjkhEwNGwxAK1pcaJPl08lZZ8jCYKEUbIdUFsImOTM5vi-kSnLbjl5AkWxgsDuMJHiD9IZlylqwufw/s1600/IMG_4264.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMm60AjB6fUH9LNHzItMHi7JvYuU63YeaLIm2-iqoE3mghjPAxR4I1y3_uLMX48DjkhEwNGwxAK1pcaJPl08lZZ8jCYKEUbIdUFsImOTM5vi-kSnLbjl5AkWxgsDuMJHiD9IZlylqwufw/s320/IMG_4264.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601951844557799746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizs9SUIJGAAEmnSdveTCh8UTOjNW3Gd1GI6B-I7B9OcNnSN6LUfKs8W2m4-30rtXr18kvV0kwMwrRaVsVkQRMWe7vLHPbMzarwN7tdBn7jLUfYHnO4u_KZLDfdK-3n99x83t9hpkRrVTs/s1600/IMG_4228.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizs9SUIJGAAEmnSdveTCh8UTOjNW3Gd1GI6B-I7B9OcNnSN6LUfKs8W2m4-30rtXr18kvV0kwMwrRaVsVkQRMWe7vLHPbMzarwN7tdBn7jLUfYHnO4u_KZLDfdK-3n99x83t9hpkRrVTs/s320/IMG_4228.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601951834901700626" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAWpZuhyphenhyphen8CeMbE1pyt4YQ_rytLpvfEh0yxls-qlWHD821WZQB_GWyvIZfnQhVd9L1BXEH9XvU0UdbvdTJqAPM70SySuVB96Op5epF4s5mOBvIeN1Qoi-eClef5qTvniJZgszJeU1C_wZw/s1600/IMG_4241.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAWpZuhyphenhyphen8CeMbE1pyt4YQ_rytLpvfEh0yxls-qlWHD821WZQB_GWyvIZfnQhVd9L1BXEH9XvU0UdbvdTJqAPM70SySuVB96Op5epF4s5mOBvIeN1Qoi-eClef5qTvniJZgszJeU1C_wZw/s320/IMG_4241.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601951838302869378" border="0" /></a>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-83523540274485550172011-02-05T13:15:00.000-08:002011-02-05T14:02:40.006-08:00SNOW DAY!!!<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There are few things more precious than that phrase. Kids dream about it (Frank says he used to wear his pajamas inside out the night before a predicted storm...a little West Virginian folklore for bringing on the snow), and I have so many memories associated with a snow week that we had in San Antonio, Texas (no, really!) when I was in middle school. It only snows in SATX every seven years or so, but this one year we had 17 inches and the entire city shut down and we played for hours...days!.. in the snow, only going inside to drink cocoa and play Donkey Kong with my friend Becky from up the street.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Even today, my thoughts of snow days have an electronic video soundtrack running in the background. Bloink. Bloink. Bloink.<br /><br />As a teacher, I still love a snow day. There is the logical side of me that knows we will have to make up the day later in the year, and likely on a pretty day, like Good Friday or Memorial Day. And, really, late start or early release would be better because we would get the state attendance thing done and get credit for the day. But forget that logical side.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There is NOTHING more wonderful than sitting up at 5:00 a.m. watching the scrolling text underneath my local newscasters who spend more time playing intros about their cutting edge snow disaster coverage than actually talking about the news.<br /><br />And even though we have received our robo-call from the district, and even though Frank has double-checked the AISD website, I cannot go back to bed until I see the "Austin ISD -- classes canceled" message go by. Twice. Not because I don't believe it, but because I am SO EXCITED.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />This particular snow day was awesome. We bundled up and went for a walk, throwing snowballs and making angels and contemplating a snowman (but it was the kind of snow that doesn't pack so well). Then Frank decided it was time for sledding in the slushy street. I know my Kansas City and D.C. relatives will get a laugh out of our ghetto craft-bin-as-sled, but it worked! (Until it didn't.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Jameson in the street sled</span>:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4oxDxJZWn0K3mNI9EPMEAyYjfNW7P9bkV8_wfuEjdl4iNd6Cl0N7tv50as73rwpU3H_7cSmMBYS5wJpHQhmmUnUxza8y8nRr82cwk4Ddd-MfN78oQfaRqCfVeXsy3MYB26FGmUQLPi2s/s1600/IMG_1100+sled+j.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4oxDxJZWn0K3mNI9EPMEAyYjfNW7P9bkV8_wfuEjdl4iNd6Cl0N7tv50as73rwpU3H_7cSmMBYS5wJpHQhmmUnUxza8y8nRr82cwk4Ddd-MfN78oQfaRqCfVeXsy3MYB26FGmUQLPi2s/s320/IMG_1100+sled+j.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570322511259523362" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sophie flying by:</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7eMIjIUlevBbFzLa0-19nPvzfoYmObQaXIkoo-qt5MjluGaYRa31P1bhgkFvlq5DEaHms9F4lVRIp7c3TtrCMopKUJcL-RsMn9q1LR1EIr36sVnXPS3kD13MKbskR0LIgSY9uMOqwUU/s1600/IMG_1092+sled+soph.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7eMIjIUlevBbFzLa0-19nPvzfoYmObQaXIkoo-qt5MjluGaYRa31P1bhgkFvlq5DEaHms9F4lVRIp7c3TtrCMopKUJcL-RsMn9q1LR1EIr36sVnXPS3kD13MKbskR0LIgSY9uMOqwUU/s320/IMG_1092+sled+soph.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570322508018409266" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Since we don't live on a hill, this was all Dad-powered!</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlUf_hHwUlcWGCrs-ZGEbtQ7MZhJkrcZrupNGBFdqKDXt2bSRIo4UQ7-v0NC8byz5BuIbBjXnauLB7u7SlJ7SPhONoUSysq305ZMhb-JoeGerV32HSFya58ptYWQyQVCnso7EEH9J6kQ/s1600/IMG_0003+sled.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlUf_hHwUlcWGCrs-ZGEbtQ7MZhJkrcZrupNGBFdqKDXt2bSRIo4UQ7-v0NC8byz5BuIbBjXnauLB7u7SlJ7SPhONoUSysq305ZMhb-JoeGerV32HSFya58ptYWQyQVCnso7EEH9J6kQ/s320/IMG_0003+sled.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570322498982664002" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After J tumbled out onto the street a few times,</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> we<br />ventured out to a bigger hill, with summer pool toys!<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-FpWUAdvkv06Gczqaw5Kxz_XgJAMnpdMFZLjg2MsJxluLIcPuNlFbDe0DNBpyePPSfJ57HQiH8JLTVSIDcP87ZUPeZo0uM55V1Q2L16Ub5qeDRFa7NKLAyFXRJEB_qGIp3cPq9M0EDrM/s1600/snow+tubin.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-FpWUAdvkv06Gczqaw5Kxz_XgJAMnpdMFZLjg2MsJxluLIcPuNlFbDe0DNBpyePPSfJ57HQiH8JLTVSIDcP87ZUPeZo0uM55V1Q2L16Ub5qeDRFa7NKLAyFXRJEB_qGIp3cPq9M0EDrM/s320/snow+tubin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570322491769068674" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Jameson LOVES sledding!</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZ6ruxYAnlw_mbMpMq0RqwQWS-IMgXxSXZifaZIp-rFW4XKnMJsKggA_SDPEIaSOaj2NptbuEWh5KykUh6mvbq1-rubmng_tmzeBMd7NG2BvmnuwDpqBmCTV8z0OyB29uTSEJke-6ro4/s1600/snow+grin.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZ6ruxYAnlw_mbMpMq0RqwQWS-IMgXxSXZifaZIp-rFW4XKnMJsKggA_SDPEIaSOaj2NptbuEWh5KykUh6mvbq1-rubmng_tmzeBMd7NG2BvmnuwDpqBmCTV8z0OyB29uTSEJke-6ro4/s320/snow+grin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570322489365074994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Hmmm. Blogger will not let me post another pic. Tune in to the next post for a great shot of Austin on a snow day.</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-67164991277109484492011-01-04T20:34:00.000-08:002011-01-04T20:42:38.261-08:00Happy New Year!<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Our friends Chris and Sally hosted a Polar Bear Swim at their pool on New Year's Day. Sophie was the only Webster brave enough to jump in the cold pool.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDGiY3zmMYZUc5-N6g-jcAPGPU7gkWeNuAG7iu-6EwcUCcdp9Zh5RqrF8d-Y8xyqNmW3anLfQBEWiyhX_pVxVy3ZoBhxdbypIEfphCpGJeQG_Fyy0NcOWQiqcSJNKfRuI2VePvLqqoPw/s1600/Polar+Bear+Dunk.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 221px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDGiY3zmMYZUc5-N6g-jcAPGPU7gkWeNuAG7iu-6EwcUCcdp9Zh5RqrF8d-Y8xyqNmW3anLfQBEWiyhX_pVxVy3ZoBhxdbypIEfphCpGJeQG_Fyy0NcOWQiqcSJNKfRuI2VePvLqqoPw/s320/Polar+Bear+Dunk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558556599283941682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">But she mostly wanted to put on her suit so she could hot-tub with some older boys. Sigh. What happens when she's a teenager?</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7Eg3zwOqj4SVYqlqP03rLbMaGB7KgXvZTLSME-VRTzk32rvAit9eYQF9Fq5VYuCtnUfQWEXt2mtXMGuqtSOnCj2i-zjNpKJ8Wsfy5O9NX69u_AWBayd7ApMOSWpQoffOltNc2P2AR_4/s1600/hot+tubbin.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7Eg3zwOqj4SVYqlqP03rLbMaGB7KgXvZTLSME-VRTzk32rvAit9eYQF9Fq5VYuCtnUfQWEXt2mtXMGuqtSOnCj2i-zjNpKJ8Wsfy5O9NX69u_AWBayd7ApMOSWpQoffOltNc2P2AR_4/s320/hot+tubbin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558556594988099378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Heart-breaker...</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eG7QlJVUYiZcQvhMLdHOI1awMrQaTiEqxqsCJ8TovEaRfLEIRRxeIO3MpCqgpb0nEvKP4c3yYQ4tNDwlLioX1w74FYjkiHpcncH4xUaihflh76r98gBLB9hVW7IAWdOGIlQwiVz2JMQ/s1600/hot+tub+girl.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eG7QlJVUYiZcQvhMLdHOI1awMrQaTiEqxqsCJ8TovEaRfLEIRRxeIO3MpCqgpb0nEvKP4c3yYQ4tNDwlLioX1w74FYjkiHpcncH4xUaihflh76r98gBLB9hVW7IAWdOGIlQwiVz2JMQ/s320/hot+tub+girl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558556590612279986" border="0" /></a>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-55318688006338945252011-01-04T19:52:00.001-08:002011-01-04T20:15:12.974-08:00Snoozer-cuts<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-weight: bold;">Forget super-cuts, cool-cuts, sport-cuts, scantily-clad-girls-cuts, too-cool-for-school cuts. Consider the benefits of NAPPING during your next haircut.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Jameson's hair was getting a leeeetle too long.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgibL0PnCgZz_x9KEyAWvQ-ACItDSCZwsFo61tOXo5_B9j2oISqjpan0xXiquiobDwwJIfRi0iHYVQ-4P-qAfEr1hr4VlRnZh8LgdoM9Evm8KZQY_zF_ELiCs35glDIJdHgxyCekeN-9sQ/s1600/long+hair.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgibL0PnCgZz_x9KEyAWvQ-ACItDSCZwsFo61tOXo5_B9j2oISqjpan0xXiquiobDwwJIfRi0iHYVQ-4P-qAfEr1hr4VlRnZh8LgdoM9Evm8KZQY_zF_ELiCs35glDIJdHgxyCekeN-9sQ/s320/long+hair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558546277521331426" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Okay. It was getting out of hand.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW07J5zcQM-julkpIW7YZVJMvqHl_d792_0MFx1UTO0xaB7CcB_1GrZ8rUidUId0VL2OkOkGMnQgNSbU5hVGIlBhrjR8zFsicpfnypTueOsuMNwAMZo3vNMBua_lVX9JVvTW_Lw8DIv9s/s1600/really+long+hair.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW07J5zcQM-julkpIW7YZVJMvqHl_d792_0MFx1UTO0xaB7CcB_1GrZ8rUidUId0VL2OkOkGMnQgNSbU5hVGIlBhrjR8zFsicpfnypTueOsuMNwAMZo3vNMBua_lVX9JVvTW_Lw8DIv9s/s320/really+long+hair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558546281878392594" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />Luckily, Aunt Claudia brought her scissors when she came down for the Allen family Christmas. J had stayed up way past his nap, and his eyes started drooooping during the relaxing haircut.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYduFpeswl0lCgDQyhDY6gxkyz2NGRUu6TQY_fmQLT106-Xm8RlY6LAY4uVPEnRNHNh5IiR407S48wB6ykwM0jbVJZ66FFDBkv5YXESt35bWB8WC64h8AuPA4YSypPwQdL1JW3bABa8gM/s1600/haircut1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYduFpeswl0lCgDQyhDY6gxkyz2NGRUu6TQY_fmQLT106-Xm8RlY6LAY4uVPEnRNHNh5IiR407S48wB6ykwM0jbVJZ66FFDBkv5YXESt35bWB8WC64h8AuPA4YSypPwQdL1JW3bABa8gM/s320/haircut1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558549348593730402" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And he got sleepier. And sleepiest.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">(And Claudia didn't have to say "sit still" or "look down" -- it was awesome!)</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqEGSzT6944uo8LrVeCvIhdMFZBujXTA2803ZUakGbKQVXQkyj9d1RKRuxgPkNwWux9kwLkJP9PyYZsYyUY8NTSf1lSNTiz_Z0D1ZghRdRauhjXl1eraF5u1abxzUXI5QC9EYOTip7cnw/s1600/really+sleepy.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqEGSzT6944uo8LrVeCvIhdMFZBujXTA2803ZUakGbKQVXQkyj9d1RKRuxgPkNwWux9kwLkJP9PyYZsYyUY8NTSf1lSNTiz_Z0D1ZghRdRauhjXl1eraF5u1abxzUXI5QC9EYOTip7cnw/s320/really+sleepy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558546286579397138" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And then our favorite hair-dresser carried our favorite boy to bed.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhHoIIbxK4aGyMGLh1dZZlPFyLkcnrYccV__d4TyGa451q-n-F1Xj6MTrxnBaYNmvOB-kapVAu1x-YdMXJ7782_wKJDJLNZakrlvwEFv8ZusApdwiVwNW8nan7yu_TL_pn1y-HxDsCMs/s1600/zonked.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhHoIIbxK4aGyMGLh1dZZlPFyLkcnrYccV__d4TyGa451q-n-F1Xj6MTrxnBaYNmvOB-kapVAu1x-YdMXJ7782_wKJDJLNZakrlvwEFv8ZusApdwiVwNW8nan7yu_TL_pn1y-HxDsCMs/s320/zonked.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558546291642226450" border="0" /></a>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-47567557014751628892011-01-04T19:11:00.000-08:002011-01-04T19:27:17.893-08:00Three Conversations from Tonight<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">1) First, a little who's-on-first scene with the boy<br /><br />Jameson smacked me really hard with this dumb toy that an overconfident Santa brought (a pointer stick with a plastic hand on the end of it...wtf?). I avoided cussing, but I did yelp and then sent him to time out. When I went to talk to him during the "debrief," this was our discussion.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Jameson, I put you in time-out because you hurt my body. That toy is going into time-out, too. I don't think you're ready to play with it.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">J: Why?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Because you hurt my body with it. Can you come take care of me?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">(He runs over to kiss my hurt shoulder.)</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">J: Why?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Because you hurt me. You need to say sorry and see if I'm okay.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">J: Why?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: I don't know why. Why did you hurt me?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">J: Because I hit you with that stick.</span><br /><br />-----------------------------------------------<br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">2) Signs of Effective Teaching</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Things started to look up when Sophie offered me a surprise treat after dinner. But I had to earn it.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Were you a good teacher today?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: Sure.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Did all your kids finish their work?</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Me: (thinking... "not exactly, but I want that treat") Uh-huh. They did.</span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">And then...right before she handed me the treat, she thought of one more requirement. She pointed her finger at me, raised her eyebrows, and asked, "Recess?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Oh, if only I could send them all out to recess, Sophie-girl!</span><br />-----------------------------------------------<br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">3) Finally...the pangs of neglect</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I ignored Jameson's crying for a few minutes while I goofed around on the computer. Finally, it had gone on too long, so I got him a little cup of milk and took it to him. Normally he smiles and takes it from me -- sometimes even says "tank oo" and settles down. Tonight he told me in the most pathetic, heartbreaking voice: "Dat made me weally weally saaaaad."</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-77492794381701658492010-12-21T11:58:00.001-08:002010-12-21T11:58:29.339-08:00Christmas Card<div class="sflyProductPreviewWidget" style="width:425px; height:494px;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetTop" style="height:6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/top.gif);"></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetCenter" style="height:482px; padding: 0 6px 0 6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/bg.gif); background-repeat:repeat-y;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewLogo" style="width: 105px; height: 34px; padding: 14px 0 0 14px;"><img src="http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/logo.gif"></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewContainer" style="height:350px; text-align:center; padding: 0;"><a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery"><img src="http://images-community.shutterfly.com/prs/v1/0AbN2Tdi5aNGOA/0AbN2Tdi5aNGOOLA/p/67b0de21b3127d902548/JPEG/1292961479000/0/"></a></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewMessageContainer" style="height:55px; background-color:#f4f4e9; text-align:center; padding: 15px 0 15px 0; line-height: 19px;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewTitle" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 15px; color: #333333; font-weight: bold;"><span>Colorful Joy 2010 Christmas</span></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewSEOText" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 13px; color: #333333;"><span>Create <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery/christmas-cards" style="color: #6666cc;">unique Christmas cards</a> with Shutterfly.</span></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewViewCollection" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 13px; color: #333333;"><span>View the entire <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery" style="color: #6666cc;">collection</a> of cards.</span></div><img width="1" height="1" border="0" src="https://os.shutterfly.com/b/ss/sflyshareprod/1/H.15/111?pageName=sharekey&c1=msc&c2=blogger" /></div></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetBottom" style="height:6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/bottom.gif);"></div></div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-65440203513008481332010-12-20T21:38:00.000-08:002010-12-20T21:54:07.136-08:00Retro-Post: Jameson's Birthday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewMxC7TLpLkCmKrRGXm0sCUjOrQ_gdAJ9lsFeGnxq55Vxm8yvi2HQnMfqAICW7SgA_BCRI1dsB3DqvifPsRbLkCeePSrkz_uW2iXtZKMa1uUIOBV4TiN_0IGaRoAGS5sTUzqGqo-tM_U/s1600/Jbirthday.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiewMxC7TLpLkCmKrRGXm0sCUjOrQ_gdAJ9lsFeGnxq55Vxm8yvi2HQnMfqAICW7SgA_BCRI1dsB3DqvifPsRbLkCeePSrkz_uW2iXtZKMa1uUIOBV4TiN_0IGaRoAGS5sTUzqGqo-tM_U/s320/Jbirthday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553009752152080818" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So...I like to use this little blog as a substitute for creating actual photo albums, and I like to tell the "Adventures of Sophie and Jameson" in some semblance of order, so when I got behind this summer (around about Jameson's birthday), I just stopped blogging. Almost completely. I also blame Facebook. So, to break me out of this OCD reverie, I present to you: JUNE.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Right around J's birthday, we traveled to Port A with the Ditchdirt Crew. Instead of trying to plan a party around the vacation, we decided to celebrate his 2nd birthday at the beach! The kids made peach ice cream, decorated beach buckets, and dug for buried treasure.<br /><br />Click here to see more pics: <a href="http://www.frankandstacy.net/photos/JamesonBeachParty"><span style="font-weight: bold;">BEACH_BIRTHDAY</span></a><br /></span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-91443633453246161312010-12-05T11:34:00.000-08:002010-12-05T11:41:29.855-08:00Self Esteem<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie doesn't want to sing in the Christmas Choir Concert today -- she told me that she's feeling "a little shy." She hates going to her after school gymnastics program on Tuesday/Thursday, in part because her friend has a new friend, and three can be a difficult number (when it's not busy being magic). Anytime we arrive at a birthday party or evening event, she sticks right by my side for a while, observing everyone before she jumps into the fun. So I worry a bit about her confidence. About her assertiveness. But I think she has a pretty good self-identity. <br /><br />Proof:<br />When I walked by the bathroom for the fourth time today and asked Sophie why she wasn't brushing her teeth, she told me: "Oh, I'm just looking in the mirror at how beautiful I am.</span>"Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-22876195212615079382010-10-05T19:05:00.000-07:002010-10-05T19:18:26.456-07:00Too Smart For Her Own Good<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie has been really jazzed about buying her lunch in the cafeteria at school, but after her self-reports of only eating the "yogurt plate" and desserts, we've had lots of talks about how she needs to choose healthy food -- or maybe she's not ready to buy her own lunch yet. Apparently the cafeteria ladies don't automatically put veggies on a tray, and as soon as you touch a tray, that's your lunch. No backsies. So we practiced at home. She was supposed to</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: trebuchet ms;"> ask</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> for veggies if none were on her tray. Here's our conversation tonight:<br /><br />Sophie: Mom, I asked for veggies today! I said, "I need some vegetables, please!"<br />Me: Good job!<br />Sophie: Then they gave me beans and they said, "Beans are your vegetable."<br />(Then she scrunched up her face.) <span style="font-style: italic;">Are</span> beans a vegetable?!<br />Me: Yeah. Beans can be vegetables.<br />Sophie: That's weird. Because I thought beans were a <span style="font-style: italic;">protein</span>.<br /><br />And, on a totally different note, she barfed at school today. Thank goodness we had already read the Ramona book where Ramona upchucks in class and everything turns out fine. Maybe it was the beans...<br /></span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-17020885453380210232010-09-28T20:21:00.000-07:002010-09-28T21:00:18.263-07:00R.I.P. Sally MenkeI'm not the blogger in my family; Stacy is. But tonight I feel compelled to share with the universe my admiration for Sally Menke. Sally was a movie editor, and one of the best. She earned her reputation and a couple of Oscar nominations for her collaborations with Quentin Tarantino.<br /><br />I've been teaching a film course for over a decade now, and for nine years I've tried to guide youngsters in creating their own short films. What surprises my students the most about filmmaking is the power of the editor. It is the editor who controls the pace of a film, the editor who pieces together numerous takes to make an actor appear to do a better job than they could ever do in real life, the editor who crafts the order and duration of every shot in the film, and the editor who repairs the numerous mistakes the director commits in shooting. In short, it is the editor who makes the film.<br /><br />The damnable thing about editing is that most people don't even notice it. Usually, that's the idea. Editing is often so seamless that our minds, absorbed in narrative, fail to recognize it all. And in the rules of classical editing and the Hollywood style, one should hide the edits as carefully as possible.<br /><br />But then, there's <span style="font-style: italic;">Pulp Fiction</span>. The structure of the movie is quite possibly its most compelling element, and that it makes any sense at all is due to the labors of Ms. Menke. The film calls attention to the fact that it is assembled, not just filmed, and that there's a genius behind the assemblage. Most people assumed that genius was Tarantino, but Tarantino has always been quick to credit Menke's role.<br /><br />Film editing is grueling, lonely work. The editors miss out on all the glory (what little there really is) of filmmaking; no hobnobbing with the actors, no private trailer. You get a dim room, a computer, and a deadline.<br /><br />If you've ever seen Tarantino in an interview or in person, you know that he can be delightfully intense. He seems almost maniacal in his enthusiasm for film shots and sequences. I wouldn't want to be the one to say, "Quentin, it's just too long. We need to cut this." But Sally Menke was a woman of unending patience and persuasion, and the perfect foil for Tarantino's glorious mania. She, more than any other person on the film crew, spends the most time one-on-one with the director. Tarantino considered her a close collaborator, and in many ways a co-writer.<br /><br />What made Menke a great editor was not just the mind-bending piecing together of initially convoluted plots, but her clear understanding of how to get the most out of a scene without losing the big picture. Consider any scene from <span style="font-style: italic;">Pulp Fiction</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Kill Bill</span> and you'll see how it works both as a complete piece (often with a complete mini-plot) and how it fits into the larger whole. <br /><br />What saddens me about Sally's death is not just that we've lost one of film's greatest editors, but that we've lost a beautiful relationship between two coworkers and dear friends. Sally and Tarantino seemed to have such admiration for each other and the other's craft, and I'm sure Tarantino's grief is profound.<br /><br />So condolences to Ms. Menke's husband and two children, and to Quentin Tarantino.<br /><br />If you'd like to learn more about film editing and hear both Menke and Tarantino discuss their crazy collaboration, check out the documentary <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cutting Edge: The Magic of Movie Editing</span>. It will forever change the way you look at film.<br /><br />And here's an interview with her: http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2009/dec/06/sally-menke-quentin-tarantino-editing<br /><br />-FrankFrankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15166419650936358856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-88146647155052803692010-08-23T19:20:00.000-07:002010-08-23T19:22:01.945-07:00The Kindergarten Kid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOEC2twurg-1_v3iI8FGMUh0XJq0x7w51sf-pVYqDRcycXPp_fwMI8zUdlpqz1BKzZMcxLre3G8AlfHKLptDtJC50et6GXZJQ1FF9ciP8otP6xSxMetXMxAblLgc8rveOhuObx4zF-5aE/s1600/kindergarten.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOEC2twurg-1_v3iI8FGMUh0XJq0x7w51sf-pVYqDRcycXPp_fwMI8zUdlpqz1BKzZMcxLre3G8AlfHKLptDtJC50et6GXZJQ1FF9ciP8otP6xSxMetXMxAblLgc8rveOhuObx4zF-5aE/s320/kindergarten.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508795811776782130" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sophie went to kindergarten today. Big school -- "real" school, where your mom drops you off and then you're in someone else's care and they don't meet your mom or dad on the playground at the end of the day to recount funny stories and talk about what you learned. It's all a mystery. <span style="font-style: italic;">That </span>school.<br /><br />She was fantastic at drop off. At one point, she leaned over to me and said, "I'm a little shy." Some of you who know her well might scoff and guffaw, because she can be quite the character. But I know what she means. She needs a few minutes to observe. To check things out. I told her not to worry, and to just start talking whenever she felt like it. "Look!" I said, "there's Riley from Abbey's birthday party. And there's Jack...he went to your Montessori school. And remember Katie? From meet-the-teacher day?"<br /><br />And that's when Katie turned to look at me. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she almost shouted at me: "I am feeling SAD!" Oh. Oh, crap. My voice got high and I started talking really fast about how kindergarten was going to be so great but it's okay to be sad and please don't cry and you're going to have so much fun! She wanted her bear. I told her that he was probably waiting for her at home to hear all about how great kindergarten is.<br /><br />And then we left in a hurry.<br />Because little Katie was going to push me over the edge.<br /><br />Sophie, though, was stoic. And brave. And when she got home today, she announced: "Kindergarten was...was...it was AWESOME. Dat what it was!"<br /><br />It's still all a mystery to me. She told us that she went to a man's house, and he's in a band. (Figured out that she met the music teacher...maybe he's in a portable?) And she wants to buy her lunch tomorrow, because all those kids got a "sweet fing" and I did not pack a sweet fing in her lunch box. Just an avocado. (That is not ALL I packed, friends! But she was not impressed.) And there's a lady named Pinky who helps you open your lunch box. And she met a friend. She does not know her name yet, but told me, "She's good at drawing monsters. And she thought my jokes were funny." What more could I want for her?</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-2908158845169932882010-08-14T20:20:00.000-07:002010-08-14T20:39:09.855-07:00What We Did During Summer Vacation, Part 1<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">You would think that since Frank and I were both "off" this summer, there would have been a steady stream of witty, thought-provoking, zany blog tales of parenting the littles. Sorry...we were at the pool. Or on vacation. Or cruisin' in the new swagger wagon. Or cowering inside our house, right next to the air conditioning vents. But here's a recap of some of our summer fun.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In June, we went to the BEACH!</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkN4hl2UqWSZG5AIN7P9uJiqLRc5Z1YdKR3sex6Yl-qrTkpDT8bka1sjun5aQmV9PExZ7eRuE35BHr0QrXh8hVhBkqd8lcFWyml4skwDB0CSEkiPQXE_PKUz1E0IWaZPy80DxUyM7bQy0/s1600/beach1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkN4hl2UqWSZG5AIN7P9uJiqLRc5Z1YdKR3sex6Yl-qrTkpDT8bka1sjun5aQmV9PExZ7eRuE35BHr0QrXh8hVhBkqd8lcFWyml4skwDB0CSEkiPQXE_PKUz1E0IWaZPy80DxUyM7bQy0/s320/beach1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505472902113078978" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">We shared a big beach house with great friends:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-kvVhwtfSHHuQ8skdb0NdA40T7CUsCCwan9VoOSiXbt0faifnLXPTcytIrpBl67Zz0Ttpmlt-zo3VhrtWnDzEWTPN6PWQzlsYEW3wDm9QcvCJt9ox3t_d9AmiDcKF6x_7twQN4Jxjkk/s1600/beachfriends.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-kvVhwtfSHHuQ8skdb0NdA40T7CUsCCwan9VoOSiXbt0faifnLXPTcytIrpBl67Zz0Ttpmlt-zo3VhrtWnDzEWTPN6PWQzlsYEW3wDm9QcvCJt9ox3t_d9AmiDcKF6x_7twQN4Jxjkk/s320/beachfriends.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505472908255412834" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Sophie was a little fish, as usual. She would swim across the gulf, if we didn't stop her:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi36VZ9jfUT3NxM-wVRptnQ59thZ6fEWwroZnlCpMZZZHcwsJG-yyjlcml0JoJX9C4fjzMjySQanaLDhGOecrBTCCRpaYDXpA7PdI_GvJzSZLtnijLgl7t6XDXW_yuVH7ummZFbx0jmfGQ/s1600/beachsophie.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi36VZ9jfUT3NxM-wVRptnQ59thZ6fEWwroZnlCpMZZZHcwsJG-yyjlcml0JoJX9C4fjzMjySQanaLDhGOecrBTCCRpaYDXpA7PdI_GvJzSZLtnijLgl7t6XDXW_yuVH7ummZFbx0jmfGQ/s320/beachsophie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505472909948232210" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Jameson loved the beach, too. What a heartbreaker!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOY6DUe-bGnW_iuX54xn8hCbvG0BGbXqpzwRnHuXtna5VeLQ1EAn9wNwvPzHclZbpD5tsrn5YSSz3WJDFWndU88zFtA85et3QWqM2K6N7eNeozQ2-HgqIKENz-EoD03MwnzaQMfRL_SB8/s1600/beachjames.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOY6DUe-bGnW_iuX54xn8hCbvG0BGbXqpzwRnHuXtna5VeLQ1EAn9wNwvPzHclZbpD5tsrn5YSSz3WJDFWndU88zFtA85et3QWqM2K6N7eNeozQ2-HgqIKENz-EoD03MwnzaQMfRL_SB8/s320/beachjames.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505472913511893202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">To see more pics from the beach (including really cute shots of Lucy, Milo, Laney, Solly, and Josie!), click on the link below:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms; color: rgb(51, 51, 255); font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.frankandstacy.net/photos/ditchbeach2010/index.html">BEACH TRIP PHOTO GALLERY</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Or copy this into a new window: http://www.frankandstacy.net/photos/ditchbeach2010/index.html</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-80565117843388498362010-07-14T19:50:00.000-07:002010-07-14T20:02:47.602-07:00Remembering Mom<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sophie and Jameson's great grandmother passed away on July 8th. She was 96 years old. It would take me about that long to tell you all that she meant to me and share all the stories of her life. I was honored to deliver the eulogy at her funeral, and share the memories of my cousins, as well. This is an incredibly long post to a blog, but I want to keep these words, and share them with family. So now it's out there in cyberspace (a word that my grandmother would not have known. In fact, when I said I was going to post the eulogy on a website, my father told me that Mom Allen would have thought that had something to do with a spider!) I love you, Mom.<br /><br />My "Mom" and me:<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvN3-swhTZSTxxeqNRLZMm4r5w1HBf2YZJsfaw18wWjJ0VCu0j0HqWE380W6B6vjTlpqOGmRqq-ET1hNyi403AAZQCEq6XBvB3eQxRmWXm1qfaadFIQQZXJJtEh5d695BbY0vZlklUU8/s1600/Mom+and+Stacy.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvN3-swhTZSTxxeqNRLZMm4r5w1HBf2YZJsfaw18wWjJ0VCu0j0HqWE380W6B6vjTlpqOGmRqq-ET1hNyi403AAZQCEq6XBvB3eQxRmWXm1qfaadFIQQZXJJtEh5d695BbY0vZlklUU8/s320/Mom+and+Stacy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493961684349842850" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">She probably sewed those red bell-bottoms for me!<br /><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Eulogy for Ruth Murial Gryder Allen</span><br />Read on July 12, 2010<br /><br />My name is Stacy, and I am Ruth’s sixth grandchild – the baby of the family for a long, long time. And then there were more kids and babies. More grandchildren and all their spouses, fourteen great grandchildren and even three great great grandkids. That’s what happens when you live 96 years with a gentle and loving heart – you get to do a lot of mothering. And that’s what we all called her: Mom.<br /><br />My cousin Lisa set that trend for us, because that’s what she heard her mom, Joy, and Aunt Cloye and Uncle Jerry calling their parents. It might have been a little confusing to those outside the family, since we also had parents that we called Mom and Dad, but there was something in the intonation or maybe context – we always knew who we were talking about: Let’s drive out to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Kerrville</st1:place></st1:City> and go camping with Mom and Dad. See you Christmas Day at Mom and Dad’s! Mom made the red velvet cake. How’s Mom doing? Give my love to Mom.<br /><br />She was an amazing mother figure to all of us. She was tiny, but she was huge to me – this little red-headed lady with a grin on her face and a twinkle in her eye. When I picture her in my mind, she is walking out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel, saying “Well, hello, Stacy” and opening up her arms to hug me. Her children will tell you, she sacrificed for them (and they have sacrificed for her), and she taught them by example. She needed a lot of patience to raise three children – two girls, Joy and Cloye, so close to each other in age, and then that Jerry Dean, who once burned down a field trying to cook the neighbor’s chicken in a pot. My grandmother didn’t smile in many photographs we have of her, but I have memories of her laughing out loud, cackling even, telling stories about my father, Jerry, when he was a little boy.<br /><br />I pestered her to tell me stories about the past. Every single time that I visited her, we would pull out the photo albums and I would leaf through the pages, delighting in all of the pictures of our family: Lisa and Lori wearing matching Easter dresses that Mom had made, Scott and Jeff running around in spaceman helmets, Bradley wearing a little bow tie, family trips to Colorado, Lisa’s awesome jumpsuits from the late ‘70’s, and all the pictures of our family units – the Berry’s, the Largent’s, the Allen’s – in front of this one segment of fence. In all of the school pictures she has of me, I am wearing an outfit that she sewed for me – she was a wonderful seamstress – she made all of her daughters’ clothes until they were married. I wish I had learned more from her. I liked to rearrange the straight pins in her tomato-shaped pin cushion while she sewed, but now that I have a four-year-old, I wish I could sew jumpers with little schoolhouses on them. In one of those old albums, there are pink-tinted photos of my aunts wearing ballgowns and tiaras, for homecoming, I suppose. I used to stare at those photos and try to jump into them -- they looked like princesses to me. But my favorite photos are the black and white group photos from the late ‘20’s and ‘30’s. There are pictures of my grandfather’s first students when he was a teacher – all the children barefoot and wearing overalls. And the best picture of all, my grandmother’s basketball team. She’s wearing a uniform that goes all the way down to the ankles, and she has a short bob haircut and steely-eyed determination – they called her “Little Red,” because there was a taller redhead on the team. Mom loved basketball. Her team went on to play in a state championship one year. She loved watching basketball on t.v., even into her nineties, but she was diplomatic about it. She would cheer for the Mavericks when one side of the family was visiting, and root for the Spurs if my Dad was there watching the game with her. Football was not so nebulous – it was <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> the Dallas Cowboys.<br /><br />There are many “always” moments when I think about Mom. She had the same hairstyle for the entire 39 years that I knew her – done each week at the beauty parlor and sealed into place with Aquanet, and we weren’t supposed to touch it. (I don’t know why – it would have just bounced back into place, I think.) Mom always made red hot salad when she knew kids were coming for a visit – for those of you who have never heard of this southern delicacy, it’s not a salad, and it’s not really hot. But it’s definitely red. And there were other dishes that she always served: creamed corn, homemade cakes and pies, green beans that had been frozen after they were freshly picked from her garden, hot cornbread, mustang grape jellies that she had put up…even her cream of wheat had the just the right amount of lumps. Always. And when Dad was alive, he always stopped at the Golden Chick after church for our Sunday dinner.<br /><br />Everything changes in life, but not Mom. And not her little house in Belton. Mom and Dad believed in clean living, and their house reflected that. Everything was always just so – everything in its place. For my entire life, I have known that the plastic alligator lives in the small drawer of the dresser in the middle bedroom, right next to the matchbox filled with wooden checkers. Mr. Bim, the stuffed monkey that every grandchild and great grandchild dragged around, lived in the bottom of the closet. There is a rattlesnake tail in Mom’s jewelry box. And there is a drawer filled to the brim with bread ties. I don’t know what anyone could possibly do with all of those breadties, but my grandmother was not a waster. She had memories of the Depression, and we have all seen her rinse off tin foil and flatten it out to re-use. If there were three bites left of a casserole, it went back into the icebox and reappeared, alongside 14 other small dishes of leftovers, at the next meal. She rinsed out milk cartons so she could fill them with water and freeze them into blocks of ice. Appliances were taken to repair shops before they were replaced. And she was more likely to buy new buttons than a brand new dress. We can still learn so much from Mom.<br /><br />I learned a lot from my grandmother on our drives together. After Dad passed away, I often had the job – the blessing – of driving Mom to family events like weddings or Thanksgiving at James and Sarah’s house in Stephenville. Again, I would pester her to tell me stories of the past. She would point down one road where her family’s farm had been, and down another to where C.D. Allen – she always called him “Doc” – had lived. She told me she had had a beau before him, but he won her heart. She told me about growing up with her brothers and sisters, <st1:city st="on">Austin</st1:City> and Spivy, James, Lucille, and <st1:place st="on">Doris</st1:place>, fishing with cane poles and hoeing cotton in the fields. She rode a horse to school each day and always wore a bonnet because she thought freckles were ugly. When she was a young girl, she wanted to grow up and be an English teacher. And while she did not become a classroom teacher, she and Dad led so many of us to that calling. I remember her telling me, “Get your education – once you have a degree, no one can take that away from you.”<br /><br />Each one of the grandkids has memories like this – and they’ve been sending them to me this week:<br /><br />My brother, Jeff, wrote to me about a summer when he spent a couple of weeks in Belton. He said, “I remember waking up very early every morning to the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen. I spent my time helping Mom and Dad in the garden, building a bird house with Dad (this is where I got my love of wood working), playing basketball in the driveway, and going fishing at the lake. I remember that Mom would change clothes before going in to town, even if she was just running to the grocery store. One day we were fishing at the Bell County Sportsman’s club and I was bored because the fish were not biting so I went outside and was throwing some rocks or something when I heard Mom start laughing. I went back in the fishing dock and Mom had both her rod and reel and mine with fish with two fish on each line. My favorite memories of Mom are the way I would feel when she would sit next to me and hold my hand and say “I love you Jerry”. It never upset me when she would get me mixed up with my Dad.”<br /><br />Lisa spent a lot of time with our grandparents each summer, too. She wrote, “Mom woke up early every morning and put on a full face of makeup before breakfast. At night I liked to lie on her bed and watch her slather her face and neck in cold cream. She always smelled so good. She moved like a house afire from the time her feet hit the floor – three full meals every day with her garden produce; we only bought necessities at the store. Our social life was church – church every Sunday and Wednesday, church socials and picnics, reading the Bible daily. One special vacation was to where else --- Glorieta Baptist Encampment where we stayed in the college's cabin! More church! Every night ! Huge services. My most vivid memory is singing in the car: "When We All Get to Heaven" was memorized by the time I was 6 years old.” They took Lisa on several outings: to the department store to buy sewing notions, to the Picadilly in Austin – even to the caverns and the Capital, with Dad telling stories of Sam Bass and the outlaws, and to the Belton library, where Lisa loved the smell of the books. She remembers Mom working around the house and singing and said, “She, and my mother, were the two more important female influences in my life.”<br /><br />Brad and Scott both remembered the holidays and meals at Mom’s house, and how she always made everyone feel special. Brad said, “Mom was ALWAYS happy to see us walk into the house. Whenever we arrived she really seemed to beam. She loved to cook for her family. She never wanted to “go and get” anything. She preferred that we all sit down to a home cooked meal and enjoyed her time in the kitchen cooking for us.” And both Brad and Scott spoke of her patience. Brad reminded me, that in all her years with all these kids underfoot, we never heard her raise her voice.<br /><br />And Scott wrote: Words are hard to describe about a bond/love that you have for someone. I feel very fortunate to have had Mom as a grandmother. Her patience has always been exemplified with her grandkids. Nothing can describe love like patience can, and she loved us all. I truly appreciate the Christian example that she set for us. My best memories were the holidays, particularly Christmas and Easter. The smile that she had as she looked at us and the great many meals that she cooked will always be a part of my heart. I feel very blessed to have her as a grandmother. She was the perfect grandmother.<br /><br />Mom fed our hearts, and our souls. And she definitely fed our bellies.<br /><br />Lori said, “One of my favorite memories of Mom is the way she instilled a love of cooking and bringing the family together. She was an excellent cook and always put so much love into every dish. She also instilled a love of cooking in all her children which has been passed down to her grandchildren and great grand children. I’m sure the Red Velvet cake, which always made each Christmas celebration so special, will be passed down to all future generations and we will always think of Mom each time we make it. We watched her cook tirelessly each holiday and every time we visited and we always felt so special and loved. I have so many special memories of our family coming together and just enjoying each others company and spending time together.”<br /><br />We felt special, because Mom knew us – she knew what we loved and encouraged our gifts.<br /><br />Vanessa said, “Every time we would visit, she and I would talk about our favorite sport, basketball! I can still remember the photographs she shared with me of her playing. Talking about the same basketball position we both played. Not only did we share stories about basketball, but she showed how much she cared when she would call to the house to see how my games went. Most importantly, the one thing that meant the most to me was, she always accepted us in the family like we were one of her own. She was always kind and good hearted. She always was asking about our accomplishments with school, work, and life.<br /><br />And this is what Taz wrote: Mom Allen was always the sweetest most kind lady. She always saw the best in everybody and was optimistic in every way. I love how she accepted me, a random little brown boy, into her family and treated me with the utmost hospitality. She treated me like a real grandson. She cooked the best meals in the world; like most grandma's she was famous for her dishes! She never failed to ask me how my life was and always wished me the best in everything. She genuinely cared about me and in return I loved her and will always love her.<br /><br />We all have so many memories of Mom that we’ll treasure in our hearts. But what she most treasured in her heart was a love for God and the teachings of Jesus Christ. And by example, she taught us. The real meaning of family is holding hands in prayer before a meal. In our family, the greatest honor was being old enough to read, because the youngest literate child was asked to read the story of Christ’s birth each year at Christmas. Often, a grandchild or great grandchild would sing a song or play an instrument they were learning. We all filled her den at Christmas, even when the grandkids were grown and married. And before we dug into the goodies under the tree, we always sang Jingle Bells and Silent Night. We always sang about this heavenly peace she’s living now.<br /><br />There was only one theological question that I think she got wrong. When I was four or five years old, we came to visit Mom and Dad at the end of October. October 31st fell on a Sunday that year, and she was absolutely sure that a good Christian town like Belton would not celebrate Halloween on a Sunday evening. So I was crammed into my Tinkerbell costume and went door-to-door on a Saturday evening, before anyone had done their candy shopping. One kind soul gave me some change, but another lady scolded me for being on her doorstep on the night before Halloween. We gave up and went home, where I’m sure I was fed with Mom’s cakes and pies until I could bust.<br /><br />I don’t presume to know any more about theology than she did. I don’t know what Heaven is really like. I can imagine asking Mom, and her saying, “I don’t reckon I know. What do you think it’s like?” and grinning at me. For now, as we are all saying goodbye, I’d like to imagine her tying a scarf over her hair, then walking along a path and down some steps, across stones in a river and over a long wooden plank bridge, until she reaches a fishing dock where a cane pole is waiting. And right at the edge of the fishing hole, there is a group of people sitting in lawn chairs. There is Doc, and Joy, and all of her brothers and sisters and other family members. There is the fisher of men. And they all turn to look at her and say, “Here she comes. She’s finally here.”</p> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-20699292351801158582010-06-29T21:20:00.000-07:002010-06-29T21:43:36.386-07:00Holiday Ro-oh-oh-oad!<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Our memory "book" is a little out of order (I still have pics of Jameson's birthday and the beach trip to post), but I thought it would be easier to blog a bit from the road on this 13-day minivan adventure to the Potomac and back! So...</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />Day 1: We drove for about 8 hours. Only had to pull over to "run the wiggles out" one time at a rest stop near Texarkana (but we also stopped for lunch and two bathroom breaks). So far, we haven't even pulled the dvd player out! We saw a great semi-truck hauling playground equipment, and I took a picture through my window. Hours later, after driving into Arkansas and into Hot Springs and around and around Hot Springs getting our bearings and finding a hotel, we pulled into the parking lot of the hotel we'd decided upon, and there was the playground truck! A good sign. On Night 1 in Hot Springs, we ate Latin cuisine (et tu, burrito?) at Ronaldo's, checked out the spiral staircase at the Arlington Hotel, went to a city park to dip our fingers into the hot springs, and walked Bathhouse Row at night. The hot springs are NOT lukewarm...they are scalding hot. Who knew?<br /><br />Day 2: We headed back to Bathhouse Row and got caught in a quick but heavy thunderstorm. While it rained, we toured the National Park Visitor Center at the Fordyce Bathhouse -- it included four stories of exhibits and artifacts from the heyday of the bathing craze. Very interesting! We drove through the park, hiked a trail (Sophie does best if she's the trailblazer), talked to people filling up jugs of water at the springs, filled up our own water bottle, ate at the Brickhouse, drove around looking at fancy schmancy houses, bought Lucas candy at a Mexican grocery store (for margaritas at the river!), then went back to the hotel to rest. For dinner, we headed back downtown to eat at the German Brau Haus -- great brats * and beer! (* and by "brats," I mean sausages. The kids are fine, too.)<br /><br />Here are some hdr photos that Frank took on Bathhouse Row:<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">An exterior shot of the Quapaw Bathhouse Dome:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl7_eUYp2iDhoE2I0YDpQA8s8OMdNourta1YWGVudGDcrcKizttjwXgJ9id_tQnt2EvcySbTA58VvLqYnUk7MKn49x_nh8WPCKLuC_rFw0N3nBs2EAMEslC8FPJxwsV4qA36y9zkE8TQ/s1600/dome_web.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl7_eUYp2iDhoE2I0YDpQA8s8OMdNourta1YWGVudGDcrcKizttjwXgJ9id_tQnt2EvcySbTA58VvLqYnUk7MKn49x_nh8WPCKLuC_rFw0N3nBs2EAMEslC8FPJxwsV4qA36y9zkE8TQ/s320/dome_web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488421091118138146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The gym at the Fordyce Bathhouse.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNwrdkEkibNFMXuax8U5IjTcRMt_6uW-8fIGwGu3DW7eZk6LjBwT6Uo0-eGBdkN15TVKhQ4txYxlXS0NyNI6noG5LKDJ2yEicnNtgWVxghQlxCr3S4tfJ9w2TVHDZzbAic5QsBSICJtc/s1600/Gym_Web.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNwrdkEkibNFMXuax8U5IjTcRMt_6uW-8fIGwGu3DW7eZk6LjBwT6Uo0-eGBdkN15TVKhQ4txYxlXS0NyNI6noG5LKDJ2yEicnNtgWVxghQlxCr3S4tfJ9w2TVHDZzbAic5QsBSICJtc/s320/Gym_Web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488421088628057794" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Interior shot of the men's bathing room:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqCwPCI3B5_s8F10Tz2n8bXbeaItHWbOfJuw0Xj8USh8dDXqjIevYZwzs0fFhRTXFy1c7T1pxZkUfsrAWQQ3NP1vPhbxcCjBNQiwN3WT3oZrFXosknkm_TIKrZF12Ta4GklKtTIXPKkc/s1600/Bathhouse1_web.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqCwPCI3B5_s8F10Tz2n8bXbeaItHWbOfJuw0Xj8USh8dDXqjIevYZwzs0fFhRTXFy1c7T1pxZkUfsrAWQQ3NP1vPhbxcCjBNQiwN3WT3oZrFXosknkm_TIKrZF12Ta4GklKtTIXPKkc/s320/Bathhouse1_web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488421079994619810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-25981548166783597832010-06-26T19:25:00.000-07:002010-06-26T20:07:46.589-07:00Kickin' Things Off With Kerrville<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9pDUKQfL86rQvDH4PczJE7xKc9niUc1kF_oXJw5AqyTirXyvPPtBZSkPk8m5iwMR1yT06JeSRpN6RTLjCkLV7eymGRdqgr_K9I3X653KKw8yySC75BPWsvIPQU1P73R5l7i1Ct1Mack/s1600/IMG_2740.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9pDUKQfL86rQvDH4PczJE7xKc9niUc1kF_oXJw5AqyTirXyvPPtBZSkPk8m5iwMR1yT06JeSRpN6RTLjCkLV7eymGRdqgr_K9I3X653KKw8yySC75BPWsvIPQU1P73R5l7i1Ct1Mack/s320/IMG_2740.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487282775244610434" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />The Kerrville Folk Festival is sort of the herald of summer. Frank and I have tons of pre-kids memories of staying up all night playing music, sleeping as long as we could inside a tent during a heat wave, eating hot bagels (with friends in the posher camper section!), then escaping to Third Crossing to float in tubes and drink cold beer. (And Frank has pre-Stacy Kerrville memories, too...he's a lifetime ticket holder, you know. I mean, he doesn't have a Kerr-name or go without showering for the full 18 days, but he's close to that level of fanaticism.)<br /><br />Kerrville with kids is a little different. Don't get me wrong -- it's a totally AWESOME place to take kids. They kind of run around in packs (when they're older elementary age), they gain independence and confidence, they entertain themselves for hours and hours with NO video games or television. It's nice. But changing a diaper in a tent is challenging. And these days we pack more sunscreen and healthy snacks (versus our previous meal plans of Frank "playing for food" with beef jerky as a back up plan).<br /><br />So here are some highlights from this year's Kerr-perience:<br />1) I had to text our camping location to Maggie so she could meet up with us the next day. She laughed and laughed because we were camped between the two school buses, near the teepees. It was a great spot, really. No shade left by the time we got there, but we still had a little "real estate" in front of the tent. If you're ever visiting Kerrville, we set up shop near Camp Cuisine and, well, I guess it was Camp RRRrrrr (they dressed like pirates and sang sailor songs all night). Right in front of us was "Camp Crack," a van full of 18 and 19-year-old hippie kids. They were there for the full 18 days of festival -- 'nough said. Frank played some music over at Camp Bayou Love -- best camp name ever. Maggie recommended "Camp Kerr-mudgeon" for us for next year.<br /><br />2) Jameson's birthday was three days AFTER Kerrville, so we spoiled him a bit and gave him his birthday present early: a blue guitar! He was sooo happy when he opened it, and he's been walking around strumming it and trying to tune it (good boy) ever since.<br /><br />3) The Stephenses joined us the second day, and Solly brought his guitar, too. Solomon is a guitar prodigy -- no joke. He sat in the big guitar circles and strummed with perfect rhythm. So many people commented on his skills and his passion -- he already has calluses from strumming! Sophie was thrilled to have her Laney-friend join her, and they somehow talked their way into borrowing dress-up clothes from some tiny-waisted (wasted?) hippies.<br /><br />4) Sophie snoozed through the loud music, the campfire chatter, the "Camp Crackwhores" whooping and hollering on the top of their van while they flashed lasers in the trees. Jameson woke up grumping several times. Frank wandered around and played music. I stayed with the kids and read a trashy vampire novel by flashlight, late into the night. The next day, EVERYONE was exhausted. Except Sophie. She woke up at 7:15 ready to take on the world. The teenagers across from us were still awake, and Sophie wanted to take all her books and Barbies over to them so "Jaffy" and "Clementine" could read to her. I told her to go ahead. Serves 'em right for being so obnoxious at 4 a.m. The Camp Crack Kids LOVED Sophie. They let her decorate their van with chalk. Frank and I were in our tent listening to her chatter away, and Clementine told Sophie, "You are so fucking cute!!" Great. So far, we haven't heard her repeat the word, but it's probably going to slip out on Day 1 of kindergarten: "I f'ing LOVE kindergarten! Pass me the f'ing crayons!"<br /><br />5) The best thing about Kerrville was watching Sophie lead Laney through the tents and campsites. She really did show amazing independence that weekend. Or maybe the best thing was watching the boys strum their guitars in their matching guitar shirts. Or maybe the best thing was watching our friends, Stuart and Hilary, play on the mainstage. No, definitely the best thing was when Bob Saget (feral kitten, claimed and named by the crack-kids) ran into our tent and landed on the highly allergic Frank. And they all started calling out, "Saget! Saget!" You can't dream that stuff up.<br /><br />Click on <a href="http://www.frankandstacy.net/photos/kerrville2010/index.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;">KERRVILLE</span></a> to see the best parts of our campin' and pickin' weekend!<br /></span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-16506847654803119302010-06-26T11:00:00.000-07:002010-06-26T11:22:41.104-07:00All Pomp for this Circumstance<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, we've had a dearth of posts for the past month and a half due to 1) crazy, hectic schedules and 2) a computer virus that makes exporting and uploading pics a real pain in the arse. But I'm determined to post a few momentous occasions before we head off on our mini-van adventure and take hundreds of pics.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">BIG THINGS</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> are afoot at the Webster household. First, Sophie graduated from pre-school. Quick story: When I went to register her for kindergarten, she was missing a Hep B booster</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">sh</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ot, so they stamped her file with a big red stamp that said "DELINQUENT." That's the way to start a permanent record, kiddo!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, this first album shows you some sweet pics from Sophie's graduation from </span></span><a href="http://www.primavera-montessori.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Primavera Montessori School</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. I cannot say enough schmoopy things about this magical, hippie-dippie (cloth napkins only, tie-dye shirts for graduation) place. It really is a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">community</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, and we w</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ill miss it next year. But Jameson will be there when he is three! Lookout, Rachel and Marianne, there's another Webster headed your way!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Click on </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><a href="http://www.frankandstacy.net/photos/graduation/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">GRADUATION</span></a></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> or the picture below to see a few shots from Sophie's last day at Primavera:</span></span></div></span></div><a href="http://www.frankandstacy.net/photos/graduation/"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_NqUfypAqMoQZuL4uCHXVQr-ZEMwvRtydAhT2gfkvEr89acSL0EHlDNZBApsZoGMQWfJH2-0UjAhLLPOzAZWIoqTXMUigYYkVNc7q-ik6TrLqmqFU3wWhLhkTiMZT0lcnWKRRMuY6Zw/s320/IMG_2655.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487144368714569618" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-80944641536002448862010-05-09T19:45:00.000-07:002010-05-09T19:55:09.138-07:00What a GENIUS Says<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So, the truth is, Sophie still wears pull-ups to bed. We went through months of waking her up at varying times of night, limiting liquid-intake past dinner time, sticker charts, promises of sleepovers when she could go a whole week without wetting the bed...and then it occurred to me (loading the washing machine AGAIN) that maybe her body is just not ready to make it through the night. So we bought some night-time pull-ups and put off the issue for a while. A long while. Tonight, Sophie said she wanted to wear panties to bed. Hooray! Twenty minutes later, she climbed out of bed and came to tell me:</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sophie: Mom, I think should wear a pull-up tonight, because I don't really like to wake up at night.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Me: Well, I could wake you up and help you get to the bathroom.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Sophie: But I don't want you to have to wake up. I'll just wear a pull-up.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Me: You know...I get up every night to go to the bathroom. I don't mind getting you up, too. A lot of people wake up every night to go to the bathroom.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Sophie: Not if they're a genius.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I got nuthin. No comeback. She IS a genius.</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7526850741059702445.post-61811668463024156952010-05-04T05:38:00.001-07:002010-05-04T05:39:49.971-07:00OZ<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzD8viUHzwShaEWQrtCtG3Y6f-S2ZgPaFlLKAZZprG40cP2ZpgZiilS4QwbOYyVaCsOv21X-wfK1dDHeVENGAHaYUx1dFoJNHofFYriyY-VyQHXj60LFrcTTHZPTkW3Tm_zWHeOwZPr8/s1600/Oz.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzD8viUHzwShaEWQrtCtG3Y6f-S2ZgPaFlLKAZZprG40cP2ZpgZiilS4QwbOYyVaCsOv21X-wfK1dDHeVENGAHaYUx1dFoJNHofFYriyY-VyQHXj60LFrcTTHZPTkW3Tm_zWHeOwZPr8/s320/Oz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467393433794866498" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">From flying monkey to the dog. Is that an upgrade?</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06796344166316041445noreply@blogger.com1