tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89975324510787798252024-03-12T18:59:36.312-07:00BRENT and LOUand jane, lizzy and charlie too!Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.comBlogger420125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-88072355772493804392012-08-13T12:37:00.002-07:002012-08-13T12:37:46.178-07:00Hard WorkSo, this morning, I was in my bathroom, trying to get myself looking somewhat presentable before I prepared to leave my house, when Charlie walked in. He was making his usual morning demands...<br />
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"Mom! Can I watch a different kid show?"<br />
"Mom! Can I have some more cereal?"<br />
"Mom! Can I have a popsicle?"<br />
"Mom! Where's Dad?"<br />
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He's got about 10 different questions that he harasses me with most mornings and I try very hard to ignore as many of them as possible. I will sometimes try to give him little tasks to keep his mind busy so that I can have a little peace as I brush my teeth and apply mascara.<br />
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"Why don't you go downstairs and see if you can find your Star Wars guys."<br />
"Take the doggy's toys outside and see if he wants to play with you."<br />
"Check the kitty's food and water and fill her bowls for her."<br />
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I'm generally unsuccessful in my attempts to distract him, but I'm a stubborn girl, so I keep trying. This morning, I tried something a little different.<br />
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"Charlie? Is your room clean this morning?" <br />
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Ya right. Like any of my kids have just awakened one morning and spontaneously cleaned their rooms. But we started giving this kids allowance over the weekend, with the stipulation that kids with dirty rooms don't get their allowance, so I thought I'd give it a shot.<br />
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"Yes." he replied. (never ask charlie a direct question if you want an honest answer. he will always say 'yes.')<br />
"No Charlie, I mean have you pulled up your sheets and blankets all nice and smooth? And put your pillows on pretty? And put your clothes away in their drawers?"<br />
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.....blank stare.....<br />
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"Why don't you go work on that for a minute?"<br />
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And you know what? He scurried off down the hall and left me in silence. SUCCESS!<br />
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A few hours later, I finally got into the room to check it all out and much to my dismay, this is what I found...<br />
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?????????<br />
I almost laid into him, ready to tell him not to pretend like his room is clean when it isn't and not to try and trick me. Then I looked at his face. And his GINORMOUS brown eyes staring sincerely back at me and realized, right in the nick of time, that he really did try to make his bed. All by himself.<br />
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"See Mommy? I did it." He said.<br />
"It was a wot a work."<br />
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Bless his little Charlie heart.<br />
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<br />Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-68980835162173505962012-05-21T15:50:00.001-07:002012-05-21T15:50:17.553-07:00Waking up from my newborn coma...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
So, now that my baby is a full week old, it's probably time that I post some pictures of her.</div>
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Sorry it took so long. That baby birthin' stuff can knock one off their feet and it appears that I am just now pulling myself together. Sort of. </div>
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Eleanor Stringham</div>
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Coming into the world on May 14th at a whopping 5 lbs. 14 oz.</div>
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Cameron came over that day and took some photos of her with the family. They turned out so nice, I couldn't pick just one to show you. Thank you Cameron!</div>
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I think Brent was equal parts happy and terrified. At least I know I was, so I hope I wasn't the only one. It's been a while since we had a newborn hanging around the house.</div>
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The hat covers it up, but she does have a head full of dark hair (they always start with dark hair, don't they?) and if I were a betting woman, I'd bet that her eyes are going to turn blue.</div>
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All my blue eyed girls. Awe, aren't they cute?</div>
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I think that the kids were starting to doubt my claims that a new sister would be coming to live with us. When I told Charlie that I was going to the hospital and the next time he'd see me, I'd have a baby sister for him, all he said was "Ok. Thanks."</div>
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They've done really well with her, so far. It's nice to have kids that are a little older this time around. Less diaper changing and potty training and a little more help than my newborn experiences in the past.</div>
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I love this one with cousin Davie and all the kidlet hands pawing at the baby. It's going to be the life she knows for a while. She's been such a sweetheart this week, as a new mom (for the 4th time over), I'm feeling pretty lucky.</div>
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<br />Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-50957540862291334012012-04-09T16:37:00.003-07:002012-04-09T16:49:04.428-07:00Happy Easter!Just posting a few Easter Sunday photos real quick while my casserole is in the oven and the kids are transfixed by Olivia on Nick Jr...<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0KpXVKbvAWw/T4NzWrudCgI/AAAAAAAAEL0/Rzy9SuufgNs/s1600/P1060287.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0KpXVKbvAWw/T4NzWrudCgI/AAAAAAAAEL0/Rzy9SuufgNs/s400/P1060287.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729549984477284866" /></a><div><br /></div><div>Pregnant mama with the kids. We ended up unintentionally matching this year, although we might have to break out the same outfits over the 4th of July!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZpRtp7449XI/T4NzZVfzEXI/AAAAAAAAEMk/KZn950wYcxg/s1600/P1060289.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZpRtp7449XI/T4NzZVfzEXI/AAAAAAAAEMk/KZn950wYcxg/s400/P1060289.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729550030049841522" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>And Brent and his crew.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qRgRsllnKG4/T4NzW2DkRTI/AAAAAAAAEL8/KPw5DsEExL4/s1600/P1060284.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qRgRsllnKG4/T4NzW2DkRTI/AAAAAAAAEL8/KPw5DsEExL4/s400/P1060284.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729549987250193714" style="cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Little Miss Jane, minus her two front teeth.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wD5_HvIgRDw/T4NzY42FLvI/AAAAAAAAEMY/c7bjllSjIMg/s1600/P1060283.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wD5_HvIgRDw/T4NzY42FLvI/AAAAAAAAEMY/c7bjllSjIMg/s400/P1060283.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729550022358675186" style="cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Biz-Niz sporting the all important two french braids.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H6W7vc20Iro/T4NzXlYPquI/AAAAAAAAEMM/1NxC3tEp8cA/s1600/P1060277.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H6W7vc20Iro/T4NzXlYPquI/AAAAAAAAEMM/1NxC3tEp8cA/s400/P1060277.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729549999953390306" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>And Chas. Enough said.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MvVqqTIakmA/T4Nzje3ofzI/AAAAAAAAEM0/Umhsyij-jwg/s1600/P1060290.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MvVqqTIakmA/T4Nzje3ofzI/AAAAAAAAEM0/Umhsyij-jwg/s400/P1060290.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729550204364422962" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and Chas trying very hard to strangle the dog. Poor puppy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our day was lovely, hope your's was too!</div><div><br /><br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-33031408960139708092012-03-27T19:11:00.009-07:002012-04-01T20:53:02.167-07:00Nursery No. 4<div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">So, my nursery is totally finished. Ya, for reals. And a whole two months before I'm even due with this baby. I'm totally on top of it. It's about the only thing in the world that I've got under control at the moment, so I find that when everything else in my life seems to be spinning away, I'll go sit in my clean, finished nursery and just soak in the peace that it brings me.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>For some reason, with my first two girls, I felt compelled to try and have gender neutral-ish nurseries. I'm not really certain why or how I came to feel that way, but I did. This time around, I was in the mood for girly, so I decided to just commit to the idea. And commit I did. At my last appointment, the doctor did an US to check on the size of the baby and confirmed that I was STILL having a girl, which is good, because I'd be feeling pretty silly putting a boy to bed in this room.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G76NHHlkeSk/T3kdSa-hrqI/AAAAAAAAELc/54en69ZzNZk/s1600/P1060274.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G76NHHlkeSk/T3kdSa-hrqI/AAAAAAAAELc/54en69ZzNZk/s400/P1060274.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726640603494723234" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This nursery was a total 'renew and make do' kind of project. I bought <a href="http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/urban/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=20659470&color=080&color=080&itemdescription=true&navAction=jump&search=true&isProduct=true&parentid=SEARCH+RESULTS">THE RUG</a> new and the curtains and the fabrics, but (with the help of my mom on the bedskirt and darling gingham blanket) I made or re-used most everything else in the room. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xcm12Pkdb-4/T3J0OMWIZrI/AAAAAAAAEIw/xJ7QsGofV0Y/s1600/P1060261-1.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xcm12Pkdb-4/T3J0OMWIZrI/AAAAAAAAEIw/xJ7QsGofV0Y/s400/P1060261-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724765863522363058" style="cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Jane actually did most of the work on the cute little curtains to hide all my baby junk. I got the little frames from my neighbor, like, a year ago. She was going to give them to DI. I just replaced the ribbon and put some of my fabric scraps in them until I have some photos that will work.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IDQPexZqh60/T3J0N1uTBvI/AAAAAAAAEIo/iaosW694vng/s1600/P1060262-1.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IDQPexZqh60/T3J0N1uTBvI/AAAAAAAAEIo/iaosW694vng/s400/P1060262-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724765857449707250" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 303px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Brent helped me make the shelf. We just used some pine and bought the little corbels from Lowe's. I figured that the mason jars would be stylistically appropriate and they can hold all the small baby paraphernalia that I require.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q1fNP6I17Ak/T3J0O3CDgBI/AAAAAAAAEJM/4yWbCta0h7w/s1600/P1060269-1.JPG" style="font-size: 100%; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q1fNP6I17Ak/T3J0O3CDgBI/AAAAAAAAEJM/4yWbCta0h7w/s400/P1060269-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724765874980880402" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I DID opt to get some new hardware for the dresser, but in my own defense, it came from the dollar spot at Michael's, so that makes it ok, right? Plus, I really like it. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ndyLAT6kLc8/T3e8AM-IVNI/AAAAAAAAEJk/ZyPBcy8UaqM/s1600/photo%2B%252810%2529.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ndyLAT6kLc8/T3e8AM-IVNI/AAAAAAAAEJk/ZyPBcy8UaqM/s400/photo%2B%252810%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726252162892715218" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>If there are pictures to be taken, Lizzy and Charlie are sure to get in on them. When I look at how big they are, it makes me freak out that I'm having another one!</div><div><br /></div><div>I made all the bunting from scraps left over from the bedding and other projects. I love the color they add, if I do say so myself.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zh2RLVjEnsg/T3e8BTsHg2I/AAAAAAAAEKU/TEQVQpmhse0/s1600/photo%2B%25289%2529.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zh2RLVjEnsg/T3e8BTsHg2I/AAAAAAAAEKU/TEQVQpmhse0/s400/photo%2B%25289%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726252181876081506" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Like most of my best ideas, I stole the one for the pictures over the crib off of Pinterest. I was a little nervous about how they would turn out, but I've decided that I really like them. I bought the cards from <a href="http://www.etsy.com/transaction/71173441">THIS SHOP</a> off of etsy and bought a couple of the frames from D.I., but I actually had all the other ones and the mats. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eog6ve8yPa8/T3e8BId4oeI/AAAAAAAAEKI/fKNVd6Uz3m0/s1600/photo%2B%25286%2529-1.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eog6ve8yPa8/T3e8BId4oeI/AAAAAAAAEKI/fKNVd6Uz3m0/s400/photo%2B%25286%2529-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726252178863596002" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>I made this blanket, except for the hard part. Leslie made the binding for me and taught me how to make it in the first place. It was super nice of her. She's super nice like that. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u3KcpDj5iZA/T3e9Fo_copI/AAAAAAAAEKg/TWA0mLwdvGY/s1600/photo%2B%25283%2529.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u3KcpDj5iZA/T3e9Fo_copI/AAAAAAAAEKg/TWA0mLwdvGY/s400/photo%2B%25283%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726253355825406610" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't get a good photo of the red blanket that my mom made. She's made them for all her grandkids. I love the red in there. Red makes me happy.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0OlIAhUeO9w/T3keyE1i-jI/AAAAAAAAELo/q_ORuYZuaHc/s1600/photo%2B%25288%2529.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0OlIAhUeO9w/T3keyE1i-jI/AAAAAAAAELo/q_ORuYZuaHc/s400/photo%2B%25288%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726642246818921010" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Hello again, Miss Biz. She's standing on a chair that we already had and just moved into the nursery. That pink message board thinger has been about 5 different colors as I've moved it from room to room. I also repainted the red lamp and covered the shade in ruffles made from an old sheet-turned drop cloth. I had to wash the sheet rock dust out of it first, but the price was right, so I made it work.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3yXajFWUIFg/T3e8AkuM48I/AAAAAAAAEJ8/3q2YXSxNP-U/s1600/photo%2B%25282%2529.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3yXajFWUIFg/T3e8AkuM48I/AAAAAAAAEJ8/3q2YXSxNP-U/s400/photo%2B%25282%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726252169268356034" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>And there you have it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even if the rest of us aren't quite yet prepared to bring a new baby home, the nursery is ready and waiting.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-79393527765717841342012-03-20T18:01:00.010-07:002012-03-20T20:07:42.434-07:00Sing Ob-La-Di-La-Da.<div>And another month has passed me by since I posted last. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lately, I feel as though I am in the middle of a life where the months fly by almost unnoticed, but the days themselves are painfully slow. It seems like every new day holds a new surprise or a new challenge and usually, in the moment, it feels hard and miserable and unfair, but what can we do? We do what you have to do. We deal with it. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I have to admit that once each day and each challenge comes to an end, I look at things with a little perspective and realize that in the grand scheme of life and the universe, it probably wasn't actually all that big of deal, so we move past it. </div><div>So basically, you know. Life goes on.</div><div><br /></div><div>This past week, life was particularly full of surprises for us, and for once I took a couple of pictures to remember it by. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our Lizzy caught herself a little cough/cold thing, which really shouldn't have been that big of a deal, but when you are predisposed to have asthma, it seems like things that shouldn't be big deals work themselves into huge ordeals. She was struggling to breathe, so Brent took her to the quick care for (what I thought would be) a simple nebulizer treatment and oral steroid to push her through the worst of it, but it didn't turn out to be so simple. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kaDw43wpHZc/T2ko3n4hwkI/AAAAAAAAEHg/rXsiuYAMvfc/s1600/photo%2B%25282%2529.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kaDw43wpHZc/T2ko3n4hwkI/AAAAAAAAEHg/rXsiuYAMvfc/s400/photo%2B%25282%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722149737614918210" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>When they got there, her oxygen levels were alarmingly low, so they ended up coming home very late, after several unsuccessful nebulizer treatments, followed shortly by the HomeCare people who delivered her prescribed oxygen. It was a little crazy, I must admit. We had it for a few days and I was glad to see them come take it away. The only times I've ever been around people who needed to be on oxygen, they were older people who needed it to stay alive because of lung diseases. Since Lizzy generally seems like a normal, healthy little girl, it was difficult to mentally shove her into that category. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0_EKdrFPl48/T2ko3XyajBI/AAAAAAAAEHU/OUiKy366WY8/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529-1.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0_EKdrFPl48/T2ko3XyajBI/AAAAAAAAEHU/OUiKy366WY8/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722149733294312466" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>But push through it, she did. And as cheerfully as you could expect an almost 5 year old manage it. We spent a LOT of time in the doctor's office (ours was on vacation, so we had to go to a referring dr. across town who's waiting room was jammed full all the time and constantly playing The Emperor's New Grove. i think i watched it all the way through 3 times in 2days in that waiting room) and a lot of time inhaling albuterol, but she's doing so well now.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uasFetyy4Fc/T2ko369q5bI/AAAAAAAAEHs/I3AgXvPGkHs/s1600/photo%2B%25283%2529.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uasFetyy4Fc/T2ko369q5bI/AAAAAAAAEHs/I3AgXvPGkHs/s400/photo%2B%25283%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722149742736762290" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>And on the bright side... she never was actually admitted to the hospital, she never had to be sent to respiratory therapy, we now own our very own nebulizer for future emergencies, and her oral steroid has completely cleared up her eczema (for the moment). So we are left with a completely healthy, delightful little girl.</div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as we had Lizzy under control, my body decided to give out on me. Dumb bodies. I wish they would just do what we want them to do instead of making trouble for us all the time. I ended up in the hospital over the weekend with kidney "issues." I think the diagnoses still depends on who you are talking to, but there were DEFINITELY problems with my kidney and when you are already seven months pregnant with a low ridin' baby AND you have kidney issues, it makes for an.... uncomfortable weekend. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had been considering trying to have this baby naturally, but I have since changed my mind. Prenatal kidney "issues" can have that effect on a girl. Sigh.</div><div><br /></div><div>And on that note, here's what I look like at 7 months pregnant.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Afc_we_6mGo/T2kqBZ9OoVI/AAAAAAAAEIc/6RLoKO35cHY/s1600/photo%2B%25285%2529.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Afc_we_6mGo/T2kqBZ9OoVI/AAAAAAAAEIc/6RLoKO35cHY/s400/photo%2B%25285%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722151005186859346" style="cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px; " /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rIf182Z90bg/T2ko4WwbT4I/AAAAAAAAEIE/zwF4_IOPVic/s1600/photo%2B%25284%2529.JPG" style="font-size: 100%; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rIf182Z90bg/T2ko4WwbT4I/AAAAAAAAEIE/zwF4_IOPVic/s400/photo%2B%25284%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722149750197407618" style="cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Charlie is quite the iphone photographer, aint he? </div><div>I keep getting harassed for being "so tiny!' Seriously. Even random people at the supermarket will comment. But looking at these pictures, and considering that I've still got 2 whole months to expand, I feel like I'm plenty big. Take that, random people in the supermarket!</div><div><br /></div><div>Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go brace myself for another day. Let's hope its a good one. :)</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-80586983883073944992012-02-15T19:01:00.001-08:002012-02-15T19:49:16.546-08:00Once Upon A TimeOnce upon a time, I did things other than spend most of my days and all of my evenings snuggled under my University of Utah blanket in the corner of my couch. It's true. And tonight, I'm going to show you a bunch of photos to prove it.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6GqwLOasYNQ/Tzx0VOzKhPI/AAAAAAAAEDA/v4wBXEmvztg/s1600/IMG_1924.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6GqwLOasYNQ/Tzx0VOzKhPI/AAAAAAAAEDA/v4wBXEmvztg/s400/IMG_1924.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709566335697716466" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>This is the time that my brother in law's parents were super cool and invited us to stay at their cabin up in Bear Lake. The kids all loved the 4-wheelers, but I think that Lizzy liked them most.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Mf3q0iWtEQ/Tzx0VbOlRMI/AAAAAAAAEDQ/HNC9JCaXRbk/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529-1.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Mf3q0iWtEQ/Tzx0VbOlRMI/AAAAAAAAEDQ/HNC9JCaXRbk/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709566339033941186" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is a photo of how I felt the time that we drove to Kelseyville for my grandma's 90th birthday party and Charlie threw up fruit snacks all over his car seat. It grossed Jane out so much, that she, too proceeded to throw up in the car. We were in the middle of nowhere (aka northern Nevada) and only had wipees to clean up the mess, so we ended up leaving the carseat on the side of the road.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-stwqzVlbx_E/Tzx0WZEbDJI/AAAAAAAAEDY/9WHT-eUmdHw/s1600/photo%2B%25282%2529-1.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-stwqzVlbx_E/Tzx0WZEbDJI/AAAAAAAAEDY/9WHT-eUmdHw/s400/photo%2B%25282%2529-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709566355634326674" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is a photo of the shame I felt as we left our defiled carseat (aka, the black speck at the top of the photo) on the side of the road and drove away.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-72xZBAN0e1s/Tzx0WuoEThI/AAAAAAAAEDg/ilNteBBc7Uo/s1600/photo%2B%25285%2529.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-72xZBAN0e1s/Tzx0WuoEThI/AAAAAAAAEDg/ilNteBBc7Uo/s400/photo%2B%25285%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709566361420975634" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time that we ran into a snowstorm whilst trying to cross over Donner Pass in an effort to get to my grandma's 90th birthday party. What the photo doesn't show you is that it took us a good 4 or 5 hours to make it through the short stretch of freeway and how incompetent we found the California Department of Transportation to be.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XfdU-88D9Zc/Tzx3Dp76iNI/AAAAAAAAED8/7of04sb4O-o/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XfdU-88D9Zc/Tzx3Dp76iNI/AAAAAAAAED8/7of04sb4O-o/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709569332279412946" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is a photo of Lizzy that Brent took while we were on vacation that week. It reminds me of how much I love Lizzy.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nrxt0aZu_ag/Tzx3D4Q8NSI/AAAAAAAAEEI/4TkKKJXL8Lg/s1600/photo%2B%25282%2529.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nrxt0aZu_ag/Tzx3D4Q8NSI/AAAAAAAAEEI/4TkKKJXL8Lg/s400/photo%2B%25282%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709569336125699362" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time that Jane got her hair cut by our Aunt Mel. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UnvnhVkywfI/Tzx3E2GQL0I/AAAAAAAAEEw/xIACKF2fy1o/s1600/6390125377_09b68880ce_z.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UnvnhVkywfI/Tzx3E2GQL0I/AAAAAAAAEEw/xIACKF2fy1o/s400/6390125377_09b68880ce_z.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709569352723869506" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time we drove an extra 2 or 3 hours into Northern California to visit the Redwood forests.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-647qNEku8ZM/Tzx3EGrEDVI/AAAAAAAAEEU/Kbu2fKoo6ow/s1600/6381305297_03b89c5ab8_z.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-647qNEku8ZM/Tzx3EGrEDVI/AAAAAAAAEEU/Kbu2fKoo6ow/s400/6381305297_03b89c5ab8_z.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709569339993361746" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time that Davie wouldn't get out of our family photo into front of the drive-thru tree.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SvNeyANTcFw/Tzx3Es6j6lI/AAAAAAAAEEg/Upe5cVBf2NY/s1600/6390133503_83b379fffa_z.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SvNeyANTcFw/Tzx3Es6j6lI/AAAAAAAAEEg/Upe5cVBf2NY/s400/6390133503_83b379fffa_z.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709569350258911826" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time that Cameron wasn't in the group photo because he was too busy taking them with his nice camera.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YljQlvKSThY/Tzx4NozJ6wI/AAAAAAAAEE4/NTR5Us638lE/s1600/6381283669_abc227026e_z.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YljQlvKSThY/Tzx4NozJ6wI/AAAAAAAAEE4/NTR5Us638lE/s400/6381283669_abc227026e_z.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709570603284556546" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time I stole a bunch a photos from Cameron's flickr account because they are so cool.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3EDP-E6Ye8/Tzx0WkQUm3I/AAAAAAAAEDw/Cew1_i8cPKY/s1600/photo%2B%25284%2529.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3EDP-E6Ye8/Tzx0WkQUm3I/AAAAAAAAEDw/Cew1_i8cPKY/s400/photo%2B%25284%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709566358637026162" style="cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time Charlie crashed in the car while sitting in Jane's carseat (because we left his on the side of the road).</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dMW4P1s-0_M/Tzx4OhQrmwI/AAAAAAAAEFQ/V8FGJC4fZwM/s1600/P1060233.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dMW4P1s-0_M/Tzx4OhQrmwI/AAAAAAAAEFQ/V8FGJC4fZwM/s400/P1060233.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709570618440784642" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time I took a photo of Jane because she reminded us of Ellie.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z2qjbiFElHU/Tzx5Vuz_4QI/AAAAAAAAEFc/JEwnvr4iXhc/s1600/char_12278.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z2qjbiFElHU/Tzx5Vuz_4QI/AAAAAAAAEFc/JEwnvr4iXhc/s400/char_12278.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709571841849286914" style="cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 240px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>:) </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KMrBD3Dw3V8/Tzx6GknK-jI/AAAAAAAAEFo/P25k-YLQWZc/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KMrBD3Dw3V8/Tzx6GknK-jI/AAAAAAAAEFo/P25k-YLQWZc/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709572680924723762" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>This is the time that Jane drew a picture of the kitchen she hopes to own one day. I find it interesting/funny/a little sad that her shelves include rice flour and corn flour. The girl might never learn how to make a proper cookie.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GRk47CF7yT4/Tzx74X8SjWI/AAAAAAAAEF0/P66UePM60H8/s1600/201112291629270131OB.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GRk47CF7yT4/Tzx74X8SjWI/AAAAAAAAEF0/P66UePM60H8/s400/201112291629270131OB.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709574636028726626" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>And this is the time we found out that we were having yet another baby girl.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-10791912766673833132012-02-08T18:37:00.000-08:002012-02-08T20:00:47.726-08:00When its time to change, you've got to rearrangeI'm still here. Still here, and finding myself in a bit of a holding pattern. You know the pre-baby holding pattern? Like, you know that, eventually, your life will change so quickly and so dramatically that you'll never actually recover from it, but there's almost nothing that you can do to prepare for it in the meantime. This, my friends, is why we decorate. Call it nesting, if it makes you feel better. I call it keeping my hands busy because I feel like I should be doing SOMETHING other than sitting around and waiting for my life to never be the same again.<div><br /></div><div><div>Anyway, I'm still here. And I've been nesting. Which initially required uprooting and displacing my existing three children.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>We knew that we were going to have to move the childrens' rooms around to facilitate the addition of another child. And<b> I</b> knew that <b>I</b> was going to have to redecorate each room, because that's just the way <b>I</b> am. All of these realizations were made before Christmas, so we came up with the great idea to give the kids their new rooms as Christmas presents. I think that they all questioned my better judgement when they came running down on Christmas morning, only to find that "Santa" had brought them new bedding, picture frames, and lamps, but we didn't have the budget for a full blown Christmas AND new rooms, so it had to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>I took these pictures of Charlie's new room a few weeks ago, but they turned out so bad that I couldn't bring myself to post them. I've been sitting around, waiting for his room to become spotless on the same day that I happen upon either amazing lighting OR a DSLR that someone forgot on my doorstep, but the stars haven't aligned for me, so I'm just going to suck it up and show you my bad photos.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nyx6fvf_Efs/TzM0XwZFO8I/AAAAAAAAECU/CX78jZ7NCpE/s1600/P1060221.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nyx6fvf_Efs/TzM0XwZFO8I/AAAAAAAAECU/CX78jZ7NCpE/s400/P1060221.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706962735540288450" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Charlie now finds himself in Lizzy's old room/bed. The bed actually happened to be Jane's old bed. And before that it was my brother's bed that he used when he lived with us. My sister also slept in that bed when she lived with us. And before that, I believe Brent slept in it in college. And before THAT, it was a childhood bed. I'm thinking that no matter what his parents paid for that bed, it was worth it.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u3_Kn-_VOKU/TzM0XC0qjHI/AAAAAAAAEB4/xF3M66sY17A/s1600/P1060216.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u3_Kn-_VOKU/TzM0XC0qjHI/AAAAAAAAEB4/xF3M66sY17A/s400/P1060216.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706962723307949170" style="cursor: pointer; width: 314px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>He's also using Lizzy's old dresser. And her old shelves. I can't pass down clothes to him, but when you're the third kid in a family, there's always something that you'll have to inherit at some point.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3YQPrOQxwWk/TzM0ZNmi4JI/AAAAAAAAECo/XQ-Dg-zCibk/s1600/P1060230.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3YQPrOQxwWk/TzM0ZNmi4JI/AAAAAAAAECo/XQ-Dg-zCibk/s400/P1060230.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706962760561254546" style="cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>I know what you're thinking. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes. </div><div>Those stripes wrap around the entire room.</div><div><br /></div><div>No. </div><div>I didn't dare total the number of hours it took to paint them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes.</div><div>It was totally worth it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I bought the giraffe and hippo prints before we even had kids, and they have served us well. I love the pops of color they give in there.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wLT_UNkEh8s/TzM0XRE9UsI/AAAAAAAAECE/-SLF7Dah1wM/s1600/P1060218.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wLT_UNkEh8s/TzM0XRE9UsI/AAAAAAAAECE/-SLF7Dah1wM/s400/P1060218.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706962727134384834" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>I spray painted Lizzy's old pink shelves and then put them back, using the exact same holes we had used to hang them before. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right?</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fw_n8SBUpmU/TzM0Yt8CYtI/AAAAAAAAECc/MIRhq9QeiUU/s1600/P1060222.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fw_n8SBUpmU/TzM0Yt8CYtI/AAAAAAAAECc/MIRhq9QeiUU/s400/P1060222.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706962752061465298" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>I made the pillow cases. Even the chevron one. Making those chevron pillow cases is not for the faint of heart, but I just love them so very much, I couldn't help myself.</div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>All in all, I'm really happy with how it turned out...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ha_sEHGxwCE/TzM74DAOPBI/AAAAAAAAEC0/uZ-MPDNYf30/s1600/P1060229.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ha_sEHGxwCE/TzM74DAOPBI/AAAAAAAAEC0/uZ-MPDNYf30/s400/P1060229.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706970986873502738" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>... and Charlie seems to be pleased with it too.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-77108737816220749372012-01-17T16:52:00.001-08:002012-01-17T17:33:47.282-08:00A StorySo, today, my kids were upstairs, entertaining themselves with the usual shenanigans. You know the drill. Loud noises. Slamming doors. Running feet. The occasional cry. The basics. When, not so surprisingly, Jane let out a shriek. Oh how I hate when the shrieking starts, but given long enough, the shrieking will always start.<div><br /></div><div>Upon investigation, I found that Charlie had taken a toy power drill and pummelled Jane over the head with it. Typical. Charlie's been on a hitting streak lately, or a beating streak, if that's what you call it when one hits another person with a weapon. That drill has been his favorite weapon for too many days now and quite frankly, I was sick of it. So I did what every rational person would do.</div><div><br /></div><div>I opened up my second story window and sent the toy drill hurtling towards the unforgiving pavement below with all the strength that my surprisingly weak and underutilized right arm could manage. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cyG3YNKEo_4/TxYcrxpsvxI/AAAAAAAAEBs/s9a-HIBXYWw/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cyG3YNKEo_4/TxYcrxpsvxI/AAAAAAAAEBs/s9a-HIBXYWw/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698773916872130322" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>I know. It's not all that impressive a picture. I thought about running over the thing with my car before I took a picture to create a more dramatic scene, but that would be a little crazy. And since I think I've proven with the last couple posts that I am certainly NOT a crazy person, I couldn't do something like that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Basically, I threw the thing out the window. And it broke. And Charlie knew it. Point made. I put him in his room and turned to see Jane looking up at me with wide, surprised eyes. By the look of her, I believe she was actually touched by the lengths I went to to protect her.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Um, THANKS, Mom." She said.</div><div>"That was really nice of you."</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's fine, Jane. I'm sorry he hit you again." I replied.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You DO know, though, that that was Ben's drill, right?"</div><div><br /></div><div>No. I did NOT know that. </div><div>Oops.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-56655851180927829382011-12-15T17:38:00.001-08:002011-12-15T20:05:21.035-08:00Christmas Wish ListFact: Most days, I consider myself to be a pretty good mom. <div><br /></div><div>I know that there's a lot that I could for my kids that I don't, and I know that there are a lot of moms out there that could be considered "better" that I am, but there are also a ton of them that are a lot worse. Point is, I think that I'm the right mom for my kids and, for the most part, the days flow by with relative peace, love and understanding. </div><div><br /></div><div>But amid the great days, and good days, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ok</span> days, and bad days, there are also "those days." You know the kind? The kind where the chemistry in the house is just off and no one is getting along and by the time bedtime rolls around, you had needed the day to end hours ago? Those are the days when I have the potential to full on lose it. Those are the days when I genuinely believe that wolves could do a better job caring for my children than I can. <div><br /></div><div>Yesterday was one of those days. </div><div><br /></div><div>It might have been because my kids were all feeding off each other's bad attitudes, or it might have been because Brent's been needing to work late each night this week and I was getting sick of doing bedtime by myself. It might have been the half bottle of lotion Jane pumped onto the bathroom counter or the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">childrens</span>' refusal to unload the dishwasher. It might have been because of the severe sleep deprivation we're all suffering from or the stress of the holidays or the fact that I'm pregnant and moody. It might have been the lunar cycle, for all I know, but whatever the cause, war broke out upstairs last night as I was trying to get the kids in bed. War, I tell you. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>After I'd had more yelling and screaming and crying and verbal abuse (on all parts) than I could handle, I told my kids that I was done. They could tuck each other into bed and I'd see them in the morning. I went to my room to spend some quality time feeling horrible about myself. I was sitting there, riddled with guilt, but still too angry to summon up the strength of character to go apologize to my children, when Jane showed up at the door. She had a note for me. I was informed that it was a revised Christmas list and that I "really should read it." </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EZLHieGsO-k/TuqpmCWd9vI/AAAAAAAAEBU/6ww7usQGwtk/s1600/P1060165.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EZLHieGsO-k/TuqpmCWd9vI/AAAAAAAAEBU/6ww7usQGwtk/s400/P1060165.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686543950439905010" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>In case you can't make out her handwriting, allow me to translate.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Dear Mom, </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>I know that I said I want other things, but not anymore. All I want is for you to treat me better. And for Christmas, I want all love.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>To: Mom</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>From: Jane</b></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Uhg</span>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Who's the worst? Ya, that would be me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Where are a nice pack of wolves that would like to adopt your children when you need them? </div><div><br /></div><div>So at that point, I started to cry. Again. I cried for, what seemed like, a good long while. And then I sat. Just sat on my bed, half seething and half wanting to find a rock to crawl under, when Jane came to my door again... with another note. I braced myself, and read.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ll2iCH832AM/TuqpmeA-ejI/AAAAAAAAEBg/_qBYJOBHkK8/s1600/P1060166.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ll2iCH832AM/TuqpmeA-ejI/AAAAAAAAEBg/_qBYJOBHkK8/s400/P1060166.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686543957865953842" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Dear Mom, </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>I want other presents than love. A CD player and other things. I love you. I hope you have a good Christmas.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>To: Mom and Dad</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>From: Jane and Lizzy</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Someone teach her how to spell <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">backpedal</span>.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>And all of a sudden, I started to feel better. Better and HIGHLY amused. In fact, I still I laugh every time I think about it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't quite know how the retraction alleviated so much guilt. I mean, for all intents and purposes, the damage had been done. My kids aren't going to remember that I was pregnant and tired and pushed past my limit that night, they were just going to remember the way I had made them feel. Not to mention that my daughter is clearly more motivated by her selfish desires than altruistic ones, but I still felt better. Maybe it's that she obviously hadn't been damaged beyond her ability to connect with her inner materialist. Maybe it's that I obviously hadn't pushed her far enough up into her pyramid of human needs for her to forget the frivolities she's come to expect. </div><div><br /></div><div>At least I did know one thing for sure. I knew I had something on those wolves. I mean, how could they possibly provide her with a CD player for Christmas?</div><div><br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-28884111408619879202011-11-10T07:17:00.000-08:002011-11-10T07:26:28.214-08:00HalloweenSo, I might be a week and a half late getting around to posting a Halloween photo, but that seems to be the time zone that I'm working in lately.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v-RM7ZjoWu0/TrvrbIu4saI/AAAAAAAAEAw/SZLXKx9B6nw/s1600/6319549115_4afb1e7f48_b.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v-RM7ZjoWu0/TrvrbIu4saI/AAAAAAAAEAw/SZLXKx9B6nw/s400/6319549115_4afb1e7f48_b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673387007036404130" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to Leslie and Cam for hosting us. And to Cameron for actually taking pictures. And to the men (including my dad) for taking the kids out. And to Daybreak for providing the most efficient place to trick-or-treat that I've ever seen. They filled their little pumpkin buckets to the rim in no time. Not that any of that candy still exists now. </div><div>I think we're still coming down from the sugar rush.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-40421342810853255112011-11-05T07:45:00.000-07:002011-11-05T16:24:44.841-07:00Visual ConfirmationSo... ya. It's been a while.<div> <div>It's been so long that I've actually felt like I couldn't post anything. I mean, how lame would it be to NOT post for like, a month, and then come back and just post something my kids said, or a recipe that I liked, or something equally unimpressive. No, I got to the point that I felt like I had to have some big news in order to justify breaking the silence. Like, I needed to be able to announce that I was pregnant or something. But today, here I am, posting.</div><div><br /></div><div>As it turns out, I'm pregnant.</div><div>And, I've finally got visual confirmation. Wanna see?</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JMCoVX8UR1g/TrVPWQOm3wI/AAAAAAAAEAk/5NC8ZKmpcWc/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JMCoVX8UR1g/TrVPWQOm3wI/AAAAAAAAEAk/5NC8ZKmpcWc/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671526549474959106" style="cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Can you see it's little face? and little hand? and little legs? Aw, babies are cute.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is actually a really good thing for me, because if I weren't pregnant, I would have a really hard time explaining away the fatigue, moodiness, and expanding waist line that I've been suffering from for the past several weeks. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I went to see the OB this week, he declared my due date to be May 20th, which puts me at about 12 weeks. Ah, 12 weeks. The beautiful time when all your first trimester ailments are magically supposed to come to an end. (Let's just say that it's possible that my husband deserves a really cool award for putting up with me lately.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Four kids. Is four kids as many in real life as it seems in my head? Cuz it's starting to seem like a lot of kids. I promise this all sounded like a really good idea in theory.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-74652400137695799442011-08-31T20:10:00.001-07:002011-08-31T20:50:34.536-07:00But wait, there's more!
<br />I bet you thought I was finished with my documentation of our trip to Alaska, but I couldn't leave you hanging, wondering what exciting thing we did next. I would never do that to you. I haven't even shown you the whale!<div>
<br /></div><div>We saw a whale. </div><div>Actually, we saw several whales, none of them particularly close up, but I'D never seen a whale before, so I thought it was pretty cool. See?</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EtTCNtOFc3w/Tl74SF6kr1I/AAAAAAAAD-0/HK56xG6V0DY/s1600/P1050864-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EtTCNtOFc3w/Tl74SF6kr1I/AAAAAAAAD-0/HK56xG6V0DY/s400/P1050864-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647223972478365522" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Cool, huh? </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Anyway, the morning after Ketchikan, I woke up cold. Like, winter, I need another blanket, can someone please light a fire in here cold. I got up and looked out the window, which explained everything.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8GFYtJfuuuM/Tl74R_1taTI/AAAAAAAAD-s/meZ3MsOOmjs/s1600/P1050870-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8GFYtJfuuuM/Tl74R_1taTI/AAAAAAAAD-s/meZ3MsOOmjs/s400/P1050870-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647223970847353138" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>We were floating through icebergs. We were doing some "scenic sailing" up the Tracy Arm Fjord, which, I must admit, was probably my favorite part of the whole trip.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GFnNBaPyzV4/Tl74Sfezs-I/AAAAAAAAD-8/VbojxDnG6g8/s1600/P1050876-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GFnNBaPyzV4/Tl74Sfezs-I/AAAAAAAAD-8/VbojxDnG6g8/s400/P1050876-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647223979341231074" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>It was stunning. The water really was that blue green color. </div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-epVkpBdMkqw/Tl75-b0X_vI/AAAAAAAAD_c/-qJwkpY7Zac/s1600/P1050891-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-epVkpBdMkqw/Tl75-b0X_vI/AAAAAAAAD_c/-qJwkpY7Zac/s400/P1050891-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647225833783820018" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>And there really were icebergs. Not huge -sink the Titanic- icebergs, just lots of little ones. </div><div>Either way, it was cold.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bIZHr3JGQ-o/Tl74SUjjndI/AAAAAAAAD_E/3Vz6aTqWk3E/s1600/P1050881.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bIZHr3JGQ-o/Tl74SUjjndI/AAAAAAAAD_E/3Vz6aTqWk3E/s400/P1050881.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647223976408358354" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Painfully cold. </div><div>Or maybe I'm just a wuss. In this photo, I'm wearing a shirt, sweatshirt, down coat... and a blanket. </div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/---XL1jXvmY8/Tl77KAuqFwI/AAAAAAAAD_8/59Pqqfmn5Gc/s1600/P1050894.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/---XL1jXvmY8/Tl77KAuqFwI/AAAAAAAAD_8/59Pqqfmn5Gc/s400/P1050894.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647227132182140674" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>We were on our way to see this. The glacier. Apparently the ship broke a record that morning and got closer to it than they ever had before. </div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wNCTcGreW7o/Tl74S-4F9VI/AAAAAAAAD_M/Voa6vszktLQ/s1600/P1050886-2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wNCTcGreW7o/Tl74S-4F9VI/AAAAAAAAD_M/Voa6vszktLQ/s400/P1050886-2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647223987768784210" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Closer......</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8zZ_oLxXfaM/Tl77J2SKiEI/AAAAAAAAD_0/Ox6nHtp8ukc/s1600/P1050897.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8zZ_oLxXfaM/Tl77J2SKiEI/AAAAAAAAD_0/Ox6nHtp8ukc/s400/P1050897.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647227129378277442" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Closer...</div><div>
<br /></div><div>
<br /></div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A6EU8mVv10g/Tl75-mST37I/AAAAAAAAD_k/6gADahFnT6w/s1600/P1050893-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A6EU8mVv10g/Tl75-mST37I/AAAAAAAAD_k/6gADahFnT6w/s400/P1050893-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647225836593733554" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Closest! </div><div>
<br /></div><div>The crew seemed to get a little giddy about it and opened up the helicopter pad so that we could go out and have a little look-see.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wMQM_j4GhIQ/Tl75-DDL0wI/AAAAAAAAD_U/T8f88gtdYcg/s1600/P1050890-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wMQM_j4GhIQ/Tl75-DDL0wI/AAAAAAAAD_U/T8f88gtdYcg/s400/P1050890-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647225827135050498" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>It was pretty deluxe. A couple of Brent's sisters and their respective husbands came out with us (one of the is behind the camera)</div><div>
<br /></div><div>After that, we docked in Juneau, which was also quite amazing.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-87gXfEaSItI/Tl78Skq_Z4I/AAAAAAAAEAM/Ril02N0rWPU/s1600/P1050918.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-87gXfEaSItI/Tl78Skq_Z4I/AAAAAAAAEAM/Ril02N0rWPU/s400/P1050918.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647228378781017986" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>It rained ALL day, which gave me an opportunity to walk around with my cute, dainty umbrella. The locals didn't seem to mind the rain. They were ALL wearing big rubber boots. Our tour guide said they call them Juneau tennis shoes. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Just like Ketchikan, we got to see a lot of things...</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t9wfnlXogfQ/Tl78jqD7jpI/AAAAAAAAEAc/l7V4Dtp9nBk/s1600/P1050916.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t9wfnlXogfQ/Tl78jqD7jpI/AAAAAAAAEAc/l7V4Dtp9nBk/s400/P1050916.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647228672285576850" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>We got to see another glacier. It's back there, I promise. I didn't have any other pictures of it on my computer, Brent must have taken them with his phone.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0AMWTXhmoo0/Tl78SQML2FI/AAAAAAAAEAE/gw8VF6BgEaE/s1600/P1050910.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0AMWTXhmoo0/Tl78SQML2FI/AAAAAAAAEAE/gw8VF6BgEaE/s400/P1050910.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647228373283100754" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>We saw more salmon. Lots and lots and lots and lots of salmon.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Brent's sister saw a bear, but no one else did. :( </div><div>I wouldn't have been particularly interested in seeing a bear, except that everyone who lived there seemed to think that it was perfectly normal to run into bears, like it was no big deal or something. They actually recommended that we fight them, if we felt threatened. I'm kinda giggling just thinking about it. Like, they seriously said that you should punch a bear in it's face and charge at it and stuff. </div><div>Ya, I'm not going to do that. It's probably best that I didn't see one.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5i-9uKbfWzs/Tl78Sx69GuI/AAAAAAAAEAU/5nsjxS5W3UY/s1600/P1050922.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5i-9uKbfWzs/Tl78Sx69GuI/AAAAAAAAEAU/5nsjxS5W3UY/s400/P1050922.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647228382337637090" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 295px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>But we did see a Bald Eagle, sitting there all majestic in the tree tops.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>It was the icing on the cake before we hopped back in the tour bus and headed back to the ship. For the record, I loved Juneau.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-64203918153578779942011-08-26T14:11:00.000-07:002011-08-26T14:58:55.075-07:00I just want one roomToday, I was on the phone and in an effort to escape the mayhem that my children are constantly creating, I ducked out of the room they were in and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">sneaked</span> into my front room to finish my conversation. I haven't finished decorating the room yet, but it has a couch now, and some chairs, and it is clean an peaceful in comparison to the rest of the house. It's my little sanctuary.<div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VELQOzyEkPc/TlgMT84JJNI/AAAAAAAAD-k/yRv3uPfbwhc/s1600/P1050747-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VELQOzyEkPc/TlgMT84JJNI/AAAAAAAAD-k/yRv3uPfbwhc/s400/P1050747-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645275669807572178" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>See? No toys. No crayon on the walls. No scraped up furniture. Just a couch, but a nice, clean couch that is void of finger smudges and cat hair.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Anyway, it only took a minute before the kids were on to me. Of course they followed me in there and immediately started doing acrobatics from the couch. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Argh</span>! I kid you not, within in moments of their arrival there were little feet hitting the wall and the pictures on the wall and chairs crashing into windows. They were opening the doors of my antique cabinet and slamming them closed and every other destructive thing a kid can do.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I'll admit it. I started yelling....</div><div>
<br /></div><div>"Why! Why can't I just have one room? Can't I just have one room in the house that is pretty and clean? I just want a place that you don't destroy, that looks like a picture that you can see but can't touch! You have the ENTIRE house to tear apart and all I'm asking for is JUST ONE ROOM that belongs to <b>ME</b>!!!!!"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>At that moment, Lizzy looked at me. She was the only one of them who was brave enough to speak.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>"Not two?"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Apparently I aim low these days.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>
<br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-19745848037485306242011-08-25T08:39:00.000-07:002011-08-25T10:27:02.629-07:00Let's Cruise!Last week, Brent and I had the really cool opportunity to go on a cruise to Alaska with his family. I'm not gunna lie to ya. It was pretty freaking rad. If you were on the fence, wondering if maybe you should go on a cruise to Alaska, allow me to persuade you to do so.<div>
<br /></div><div>The cruise we took was of the inside passage, which is that little stretch of Alaska right down at to the south and next to Canada. Apparently Canada is only about a stone's throw away. One of our tour guides said "you could just walk over there really quick, except that it's on the other side of the ice fields, which are impassable, so you can't get there." </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Here, let me show you...</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-utZIwwPuU0s/TlZ0hm_xyMI/AAAAAAAAD-M/diZEx6bk4hY/s1600/alaska-map-1500.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-utZIwwPuU0s/TlZ0hm_xyMI/AAAAAAAAD-M/diZEx6bk4hY/s400/alaska-map-1500.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644827303708051650" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 294px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Our first stop was just barely in the state at Ketchikan, which kept making me think of Catch me if you Can, which reminded of the movie wherein Leonardo DiCaprio pretended to an airplane pilot. Back in the days when flying was glamorous. Not like today. Not. Like. Today.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>But I digress.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Here are some photos of our first day back on land. </div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q0tO-z2Kp8k/TlZvQhh-hiI/AAAAAAAAD88/7kZ0fbi4w4w/s1600/P1050824-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q0tO-z2Kp8k/TlZvQhh-hiI/AAAAAAAAD88/7kZ0fbi4w4w/s400/P1050824-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644821512624965154" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>This is a photo of me and my husband, the talented and handsome Brent, in front of their cool sign. Yes, I am wearing a coat. It was like 50 degrees. It only rained a little while we were there, which apparently is all it takes to make a lovely day in Ketchikan. I think they get something like 13 feet of rain a year, so only raining a little looks pretty good in comparison.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZYMIsYNqOWU/TlZxWp6iJPI/AAAAAAAAD90/ZrqdaJQBiWc/s1600/photo%2B%25283%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZYMIsYNqOWU/TlZxWp6iJPI/AAAAAAAAD90/ZrqdaJQBiWc/s400/photo%2B%25283%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644823816977917170" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>This is another view of the town. It reminded me a lot of Park City, only, you know, next to an ocean.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i4u2mwz7Tuc/TlaAlzXZ0TI/AAAAAAAAD-U/zFT0pe6u-Pc/s1600/P1050832-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i4u2mwz7Tuc/TlaAlzXZ0TI/AAAAAAAAD-U/zFT0pe6u-Pc/s400/P1050832-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644840569887379762" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 258px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>This is a view of Creek Street, which was built over this here creek.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jNVBqZWmwJc/TlZvQyln1aI/AAAAAAAAD9E/Nm6M2UrjM6Q/s1600/P1050828.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jNVBqZWmwJc/TlZvQyln1aI/AAAAAAAAD9E/Nm6M2UrjM6Q/s400/P1050828.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644821517203658146" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>I think there might be a significant gap between their idea of a creek and mine. </div><div>The buildings are so high up because when high tide comes in, the water rises like 2500 feet. Or something like that. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>All those bushes are berry bushes. They had wild raspberries and blackberries and blueberries and elderberries and probably a lot of other kinds that I don't know about. The bushes were pretty bare by the time we got there, but I did find one wild raspberry. And then I ate it.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UQVZfMXOOpE/TlZvRk3eh8I/AAAAAAAAD9U/CVU582KFa6U/s1600/P1050840-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UQVZfMXOOpE/TlZvRk3eh8I/AAAAAAAAD9U/CVU582KFa6U/s400/P1050840-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644821530700318658" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>This is a photo of a park. Brent loved the moss everywhere.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CBK7x_KfXoM/TlZvRYlDRyI/AAAAAAAAD9M/KjMkeedq838/s1600/P1050833.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CBK7x_KfXoM/TlZvRYlDRyI/AAAAAAAAD9M/KjMkeedq838/s400/P1050833.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644821527401809698" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>This is a photo of a freakishly large slug. We saw these more often than I was comfortable with. Snails are bad enough.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a7_hhBboRP4/TlaCFqcy-jI/AAAAAAAAD-c/VaUY1M7rgLk/s1600/P1050842-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a7_hhBboRP4/TlaCFqcy-jI/AAAAAAAAD-c/VaUY1M7rgLk/s400/P1050842-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644842216761522738" style="cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>This is a photo of all the boys, save one, in front of Married Man's Trail.</div><div>As the story goes, the married men would sneak out this back trail to a brothel at the end of Creek Street so that their wives wouldn't know where they were going. Methinks it probably worked about once before their wives figured out what was going on. </div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y-jXAISLgaQ/TlZxBehg6qI/AAAAAAAAD9k/aRzSxGdHoWc/s1600/P1050859-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y-jXAISLgaQ/TlZxBehg6qI/AAAAAAAAD9k/aRzSxGdHoWc/s400/P1050859-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644823453142936226" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 230px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>This is a photo of a cool lighthouse on a cool island in the ocean. Anyone else sing Candle on the Water in their head every time they see a lighthouse? No? Just me? </div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nAxjaNqI2kw/TlZxWwRv7EI/AAAAAAAAD98/R_7RDPonFgs/s1600/photo%2B%25282%2529-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nAxjaNqI2kw/TlZxWwRv7EI/AAAAAAAAD98/R_7RDPonFgs/s400/photo%2B%25282%2529-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644823818685901890" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 228px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>And last , but certainly not least, THIS is a photo of a dog that looked like he was driving a van.</div><div>
<br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-68249569078349564752011-08-24T20:22:00.000-07:002011-08-24T20:43:04.092-07:00... and another.
<br />Today was Lizzy's first day of her second year of preschool. <div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XUT5aSFz3tk/TlXCvzrMXaI/AAAAAAAAD70/jYd5mCsufQc/s1600/P1060102.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XUT5aSFz3tk/TlXCvzrMXaI/AAAAAAAAD70/jYd5mCsufQc/s400/P1060102.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644631834559798690" style="cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 400px; " /></a> <div>
<br /></div><div>She got up, got dressed, ate her Cocoa Puffs, strapped on her shoes, grabbed her tote and off she went.</div></div><div>
<br /></div><div>I'm not exactly sure what it is about preschoolers, but it always makes me a little teary-eyed to see them hop out of the car that first day. Maybe they are just a little too little or maybe it's just hard to let my babies grow up, but you will generally find a stray tear on my cheek as I drive away.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tCvq1qK8Aog/TlXC35muVtI/AAAAAAAAD8E/nlAJ7tYE_n4/s1600/P1060106.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tCvq1qK8Aog/TlXC35muVtI/AAAAAAAAD8E/nlAJ7tYE_n4/s400/P1060106.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644631973590619858" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>It doesn't seem to bother her at all. Let's just say that the day... went well.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-71993762549702736662011-08-23T07:35:00.001-07:002011-08-23T08:12:19.623-07:00Grade Dos
<br />Yesterday, it happened. <div>School started. </div><div>I'm only slightly panicked about it. I'm that mom who's always ready for her kids to get back into a routine as quickly as possible, which eases the pain of sending them off to school for the bulk of their day to be taught and influenced by a group of relative strangers. </div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fvRJQK9uomo/TlPB7imdyvI/AAAAAAAAD7k/TluvARlxEIM/s1600/P1060095.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fvRJQK9uomo/TlPB7imdyvI/AAAAAAAAD7k/TluvARlxEIM/s400/P1060095.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644067986669947634" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Towards the end of last year, Jane decided to transfer to a different school where she started a Spanish immersion program. As a result, she was a little more nervous about her first day than I thought she'd be, hence the nervous looking photo.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TdDzeD3S8nY/TlPB8IrCD9I/AAAAAAAAD7s/O-rdsGiiwuw/s1600/P1060099.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TdDzeD3S8nY/TlPB8IrCD9I/AAAAAAAAD7s/O-rdsGiiwuw/s400/P1060099.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644067996889649106" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>I should have broken out the camera this morning, she was much more cool and collected.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Lizzy doesn't start her first day of Pre-K until tomorrow, but I think we're all looking forward to it. Let the structure begin!</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-81483769469459655082011-07-30T15:32:00.000-07:002011-07-30T15:35:43.561-07:00There are two kinds of people in this world....There are pickle people and then there's... everyone else.<div><br /></div><div>As for me and my house, we're pickle people.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1-GoEGaDe9A/TjSG0bcmoiI/AAAAAAAAD7c/kao6b-PJj08/s1600/P1050819-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1-GoEGaDe9A/TjSG0bcmoiI/AAAAAAAAD7c/kao6b-PJj08/s400/P1050819-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635277269026382370" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And I just made my first jar out of cucumbers from my garden. I sure hope that in a few days, they taste as good as they smell.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mouth is currently watering.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-45433773293607907232011-07-26T19:53:00.000-07:002011-07-26T21:25:01.067-07:00Lucky Number 7<div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RGQEyupfP_I/Ti9_cgX0yEI/AAAAAAAAD68/0aWSbhoynrA/s1600/P1050809-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RGQEyupfP_I/Ti9_cgX0yEI/AAAAAAAAD68/0aWSbhoynrA/s400/P1050809-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633861786566707266" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Meet Jane.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jane used to be 6, but not anymore. Now, Jane is 7.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jane had a party for her birthday and it was filled with rainbows.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UNcCxZh4VF0/Ti-G0QMX3RI/AAAAAAAAD7M/xFOKtbti9oA/s1600/photo%2B%25284%2529-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UNcCxZh4VF0/Ti-G0QMX3RI/AAAAAAAAD7M/xFOKtbti9oA/s400/photo%2B%25284%2529-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633869891121962258" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>There were rainbow balloons and rainbow Twister in the grass.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OGBB5j1E1Z0/Ti-AHOsUztI/AAAAAAAAD7E/El5qy2iMWPo/s1600/P1050791-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OGBB5j1E1Z0/Ti-AHOsUztI/AAAAAAAAD7E/El5qy2iMWPo/s400/P1050791-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633862520555228882" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 301px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>There were rainbow drinks and rainbow jello. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U5LDSajM4LI/Ti9_SpoELTI/AAAAAAAAD6c/goTIXlfNXDQ/s1600/P1050799-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U5LDSajM4LI/Ti9_SpoELTI/AAAAAAAAD6c/goTIXlfNXDQ/s400/P1050799-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633861617252052274" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And a cake.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hV07qOVCJzM/Ti9_TH3sKII/AAAAAAAAD6s/bP4cXBjQMVY/s1600/P1050806-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hV07qOVCJzM/Ti9_TH3sKII/AAAAAAAAD6s/bP4cXBjQMVY/s400/P1050806-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633861625370650754" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 350px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>A rainbow cake.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RJGeTNIvfkg/Ti-HngUFzaI/AAAAAAAAD7U/JFmuki1ZQxY/s1600/P1050810-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RJGeTNIvfkg/Ti-HngUFzaI/AAAAAAAAD7U/JFmuki1ZQxY/s400/P1050810-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633870771622628770" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 306px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>This made Jane very happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>And it made her mom very tired.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, Jane had her party a few days before her birthday, and when her real birthday arrived, her mom was too tired to do much, so Jane got to invite one friend over for lunch. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v3nu3l9eDuA/Ti9_Tas8V0I/AAAAAAAAD60/dUWoahVhOPs/s1600/P1050813-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v3nu3l9eDuA/Ti9_Tas8V0I/AAAAAAAAD60/dUWoahVhOPs/s400/P1050813-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633861630425847618" style="cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Meet Henry.</div><div><br /></div><div>Henry is a very good friend to have come to spend Jane's birthday with her.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nh8o1rHD5Gk/Ti9_SEiEqvI/AAAAAAAAD6U/D6GpmB_AFgI/s1600/P1050817-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nh8o1rHD5Gk/Ti9_SEiEqvI/AAAAAAAAD6U/D6GpmB_AFgI/s400/P1050817-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633861607294806770" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>This also made Jane happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is good, because on Jane's actual birthday, Jane's mom kinda just sat around like a bum and reminded Jane of the aforementioned rainbow party that had taken place on the previous Friday.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Birthday, Jane. We sure do love you.</div><div><br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-29244517874201322572011-07-07T12:53:00.001-07:002011-07-07T14:10:35.052-07:00Creating Life... and then eating it. Part ThreeSooo, I just got back from a nice 5 days in Summit, where we celebrated the 4th of July and I DO have photos and appropriate documentation of our vacation, but I have to gather it all together, which takes energy. Since I'm suffering from the lack thereof this afternoon, I thought I'd share photos of what happened to my garden while I was gone.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oBAIFjVRszk/ThYQ-dC0bnI/AAAAAAAAD5U/a1Lpgy4lEBs/s1600/P1050762.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oBAIFjVRszk/ThYQ-dC0bnI/AAAAAAAAD5U/a1Lpgy4lEBs/s400/P1050762.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626703449580400242" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px; " /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>I was totally, completely certain that I'd come home to find the whole thing shriveled up into oblivion, I even called a friend late one night and begged her to go give them some extra water (and a great job she did) so you can imagine my astonishment when I actually came back to a jungle.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--ajVXPzrBfI/ThYRVNYiS9I/AAAAAAAAD50/5L3tVXqbbNA/s1600/P1050768.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--ajVXPzrBfI/ThYRVNYiS9I/AAAAAAAAD50/5L3tVXqbbNA/s400/P1050768.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626703840513510354" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I will now proceed to toot my own horn.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OM-mbuFSPkM/ThYQ-kAYjiI/AAAAAAAAD5c/YFFHq40bBZ0/s1600/P1050765.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OM-mbuFSPkM/ThYQ-kAYjiI/AAAAAAAAD5c/YFFHq40bBZ0/s400/P1050765.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626703451449232930" style="cursor: pointer; width: 336px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I've got all different kinds of peppers and tomatoes, squashes, tomatillos, herbs, carrots, peas, beans, cucumbers and corn and other stuff too, all shoved into my last minute decision garden beds. I'm feeling pretty good about my garden considering that I've never managed to produce a one that provided me with more than a weird looking tomato and a handful of green beans</div></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e_w8E2QvmeE/ThYRUbNXTAI/AAAAAAAAD5k/d5t2jvLSGTc/s1600/P1050766.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e_w8E2QvmeE/ThYRUbNXTAI/AAAAAAAAD5k/d5t2jvLSGTc/s400/P1050766.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626703827044879362" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I also ended up being able to start quite a few of my plants from seeds. You have my permission to be impressed.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eW5pdfza_EY/ThYRU-VIU1I/AAAAAAAAD5s/vFcVDlLK3T8/s1600/P1050767.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eW5pdfza_EY/ThYRU-VIU1I/AAAAAAAAD5s/vFcVDlLK3T8/s400/P1050767.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626703836472693586" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>This garden has been my sanity this summer. I'm not kidding. I might be a lunatic at this point if I didn't have my garden to keep me grounded. I spend/waste a lot of time just sitting out there and playing in the dirt, but I figure that God intended it to be that way, so I'm excused, right? </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>p.s. somehow, i thought it wise to buy three banana pepper plants which are actually producing banana peppers. problem is that i have no idea what one actually does with a banana pepper. anyone? anyone?</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-40811393702101206832011-06-24T12:02:00.000-07:002011-06-24T12:14:51.233-07:00Summertime, and the livin's easyHaving never had a little boy, it wasn't until just recently that it came to my attention that little boys choose to spend as much time as possible... in the nude. I did not know this. I should have picked up on it along the way, maybe I just didn't want to believe it was true. But it is and I have now accepted it as fact. <div><br /></div><div>Little boys, given even the slightest opportunity, will strip naked and run around that way until a responsible adult intervenes. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's causing a problem here and there for us. I think the people that live in my circle have seen more of Charlie already this summer than they ever wanted to. And when the cousins come to play, there's just a big, little boy nudest convention in our yard.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fhJWM84kmo/TgTgwY59Q-I/AAAAAAAAD5M/PFNZbuhr7Gk/s1600/P1050756.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fhJWM84kmo/TgTgwY59Q-I/AAAAAAAAD5M/PFNZbuhr7Gk/s400/P1050756.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621865356789105634" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I'll admit that it can make for some good photo opportunities, as long as you can keep them covered up a bit, which is, of course, the tricky part. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-847773136422074842011-06-20T19:04:00.000-07:002011-06-20T19:20:19.395-07:00Potty TalkToday, after right close to 7 years of changing diapers, we took our youngest child to buy his first pack of underpants. It's been a good, but long afternoon around here. Potty training is not for the faint of heart, but Charlie has done fairly well, all things considered. He's filled his tummy with soda and treats, he's filled his potty several times over and he's filled his sticker chart with gold stars.<div><br /></div><div>I love watching my children grow up. I love the excitement they feel as they realize that they are actually competent, capable human beings. Look at his new found confidence!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Yqspep6SCY/Tf_9eQANozI/AAAAAAAAD48/luPdF9wUxAA/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Yqspep6SCY/Tf_9eQANozI/AAAAAAAAD48/luPdF9wUxAA/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620489556115432242" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I believe I can literally say that I've never seen this boy so excited in all his glorious 2 years and 9 months of life.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nz292Ux4vEI/Tf_9ek-Md2I/AAAAAAAAD5E/L3uHMlAd_g8/s1600/photo%2B%25282%2529.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nz292Ux4vEI/Tf_9ek-Md2I/AAAAAAAAD5E/L3uHMlAd_g8/s400/photo%2B%25282%2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620489561744111458" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And the back, of course. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx4RtOifiYoiQ1wNUa6rqI5-kWbXTXNyQFGBofqy5Y3D1Le_km4JMPWPtFvz2NPLgLyA2QM5Bo-qqXZAWwXiw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div><br /></div><div>Let us all hope that his enthusiasm spills over into tomorrow because after 7 straight years, methinks we deserve a little break around here. </div><div><br /></div><div>And wish me luck. I get the feeling that as my time spent changing diapers decreases, my time spent doing laundry will only increase. Deep breath.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-5875581693838335962011-06-14T15:45:00.000-07:002011-06-14T16:34:10.934-07:00Arrrrrrrr Yarrrrrrrd!I must admit that after spending several weeks with my yard looking like this....<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HlvoHeyFGoU/TffsebBt5YI/AAAAAAAAD4c/lUSKPUl1ubc/s1600/P1050676.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HlvoHeyFGoU/TffsebBt5YI/AAAAAAAAD4c/lUSKPUl1ubc/s400/P1050676.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618219067563173250" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>I was sceptical that it would ever be any different. We had plenty of small children fall into those ditches. Lots of scraped knees. Lots of tears.</div><div><br /></div><div>But oh me of little faith. Our families came through like champs only hours after this photo was taken and by the end of the day, we had grass. And shortly thereafter, we had a garden.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XIwrNqo-rWI/TffsfHq5fUI/AAAAAAAAD40/DlGGCA3e538/s1600/P1050731.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XIwrNqo-rWI/TffsfHq5fUI/AAAAAAAAD40/DlGGCA3e538/s400/P1050731.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618219079547059522" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XIwrNqo-rWI/TffsfHq5fUI/AAAAAAAAD40/DlGGCA3e538/s1600/P1050731.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>It's still in the new growth stages, so I hope that it will all fill in and be beautiful and lush. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Our grass is also still recovering a little from the shock of not being watered for several days. We were a little short in the sprinkler department. I tried to do it myself, but it was hard.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jmi4XEQ7VhE/TffsenHI3fI/AAAAAAAAD4k/TL77-9sORVQ/s1600/P1050726.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jmi4XEQ7VhE/TffsenHI3fI/AAAAAAAAD4k/TL77-9sORVQ/s400/P1050726.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618219070807137778" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I've got all my veggies mixed in with my flowers, so we'll see how this goes. My mom gave me that nice tomato plant when it was just a wee lit'le thing and look how it is flourishing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I counted today that I somehow ended up with 9 tomato plants, which is probably about 5 more than I need, but hey, I likes tomatoes. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SNxbrcRjWsc/Tffse7bdeLI/AAAAAAAAD4s/lGnfP3RUig0/s1600/P1050728.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SNxbrcRjWsc/Tffse7bdeLI/AAAAAAAAD4s/lGnfP3RUig0/s400/P1050728.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618219076261083314" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Grow, green beans, grow! I have every intention of sauteing you in butter and garlic, but first, you must grow.</div><div><br /></div><div>We have been finally appreciating the cooler weather and spending most of our waking hours outside. The yard is still a work in progress, of course. It's simple and largely lacking in vegetation, but we are very grateful for it. </div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-86181794573864372842011-06-13T19:11:00.000-07:002011-06-13T19:21:57.261-07:00Soccer and Rainbows and TearsJane finished up her last soccer game of her first soccer season tonight. She really had fun this spring, but to be honest, I think we're all plenty ready to see the season come to an end. The girls have played in the rain and the wind and had games cancelled because of the snow. I didn't make it tonight because I'm at home nursing my poor, sick son, but Brent was so kind as to pass along this photo...<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QDDULPsdlRk/TfbECjuXDwI/AAAAAAAAD4U/xE_d57DywOw/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529-2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QDDULPsdlRk/TfbECjuXDwI/AAAAAAAAD4U/xE_d57DywOw/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529-2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617893133419745026" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>It seemed like such a bright, wonderful way to end the season.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then Jane came home and dropped her newly acquired trophy which busted into 3 separate pieces. I'm sitting here laughing quietly to myself as I listen to her cries from upstairs. Even in the face of disaster, I can always appreciate a little well placed irony.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-75681436262926481642011-05-23T07:13:00.001-07:002011-05-23T07:21:48.923-07:00PrincessesA few weeks back, Ben, Lizzy and Lizzy's friend Maddie were playing dress up at our house. They all came downstairs to show us their costumes.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s64H17EcTfc/TdpsFltsC5I/AAAAAAAAD3Y/zt1FJQ0vyKI/s1600/P1050547.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s64H17EcTfc/TdpsFltsC5I/AAAAAAAAD3Y/zt1FJQ0vyKI/s400/P1050547.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609915129122261906" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><br /> <div>The girls had apparently found Lizzy's play makeup and gotten all dolled up.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W1pKcsWOMB8/TdpsIH0IFnI/AAAAAAAAD3w/ChiajsZGfdE/s1600/P1050546.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W1pKcsWOMB8/TdpsIH0IFnI/AAAAAAAAD3w/ChiajsZGfdE/s400/P1050546.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609915172635809394" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The girls went back upstairs, but Ben stayed behind and my sister took the opportunity to say to me,"I can't believe that you let your kids play with make up."</div></div><div><br /></div><div>To which I replied something along the lines of "Ya, I know, but it keeps them entertained for SOOOOOOO long. It's like a five dollar investment and I get hours and hours of peace and quiet out of it."</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Rkf-kTmpi2g/TdpsGB-GHMI/AAAAAAAAD3g/D6uvnHHAMo8/s1600/P1050548.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Rkf-kTmpi2g/TdpsGB-GHMI/AAAAAAAAD3g/D6uvnHHAMo8/s400/P1050548.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609915136707271874" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>"Ya," she conceded "but now it looks like you've got a couple of toddler hookers walking around your house."</div><div><br /></div><div>At which point Ben spoke up...</div><div>"Princesses, mom. You mean they look like princesses."</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tu1SJ8OlXvA/TdpsGps3pYI/AAAAAAAAD3o/PpkplHYeSPU/s1600/photo%2B%25281%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tu1SJ8OlXvA/TdpsGps3pYI/AAAAAAAAD3o/PpkplHYeSPU/s400/photo%2B%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609915147372438914" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Of course that's what she meant.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8997532451078779825.post-26856918969365938542011-05-20T20:35:00.000-07:002011-05-20T21:02:22.846-07:00Orange Tie GuyIt's been at least the better part of a year since Brent and I were able to convince our small son to wear a tie to church. I've tried every week to get him to wear one. Ok, I've tried a lot of weeks. After a while, ones gets tired of getting hit and spat upon as various ties are flung at one's head. <div><br /></div><div>I don't know why it's a battle that I picked. </div><div>Maybe I just like ties. <div><br /></div><div>Anyway, for some reason unbeknownest to me, last Sunday, Charlie made up his mind that he was going to wear his orange tie to church. We hadn't really planned on it, so he wasn't really wearing a shirt that facilitated tie wearing, but that wasn't really going to stop him. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>I broke out my phone to snap a picture of him, but catching a picture of Charlie during what should be his nap time, isn't always easy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Observe...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xu1276tSUk8/Tdc0loK0CSI/AAAAAAAAD3A/orll2RmJ_e8/s1600/photo%2B%25284%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xu1276tSUk8/Tdc0loK0CSI/AAAAAAAAD3A/orll2RmJ_e8/s400/photo%2B%25284%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609009681955817762" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm a little tired and frustrated just looking at these pictures.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Md8UsDbYFiU/Tdc0lblXZkI/AAAAAAAAD24/qxfzo2MAVfo/s1600/photo%2B%25283%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Md8UsDbYFiU/Tdc0lblXZkI/AAAAAAAAD24/qxfzo2MAVfo/s400/photo%2B%25283%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609009678577526338" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I gotta be honest with ya, it's been a while since I sat through a full block of meetings on a Sunday.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UxEBvqcFvYA/Tdc0lqCkkDI/AAAAAAAAD3I/OYXBt_a50s8/s1600/photo%2B%25285%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UxEBvqcFvYA/Tdc0lqCkkDI/AAAAAAAAD3I/OYXBt_a50s8/s400/photo%2B%25285%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609009682458120242" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>"what? huh? me? you talking about me, mom?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, Chas. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x_qw3pzWLZs/Tdc0lC2--cI/AAAAAAAAD2w/fdJOarH2nmE/s1600/photo%2B%25282%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x_qw3pzWLZs/Tdc0lC2--cI/AAAAAAAAD2w/fdJOarH2nmE/s400/photo%2B%25282%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609009671940536770" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Come back. Please.</div><div><br /></div><div>We've been spending a LOT of time in the car, with Charlie strapped into his car seat for time out when we should be in the process of being spiritually uplifted. But if we can get him to wear ties, he might at least look dapper whilst strapped into that car seat. Sigh.</div>Laura Stringhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02395730573162311394noreply@blogger.com3