tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89445752556957019552024-03-20T14:48:20.071-07:00Early Bird & Night OwlJessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-66788165153085330232014-08-07T14:01:00.000-07:002014-08-07T14:01:37.818-07:00who am iWouldn't it be funny if I really tried to wax Socratic or Shakespearean or what-have-you in this inconsequential space of internet? "And today we shall be discussing the id vs. ego as it pertains to one, Jessie Pope..." No.<br />
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Who <em>am</em> I? That is the question, properly accentuated. The reason I ask is I feel like I'm going through some kind of midlife crisis at the tender age of 28. A few fundamental things are just...changing or leaving or evolving. Not anything serious! In fact, you'll probably eye-roll vehemently when I expound on what I mean.<br />
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Take...alcohol. Jess of yesteryear (Jessteryear, if you will. You totally will.) had the palate of a nine year old. My buzz was attained through purely sugarfied means e.g. Mike's Hard Lemonade, Smirnoff Ice (barf), Angry Orchard Hard Cider (stilllll a fave, mind you), or some concentratey juice blend that was ever so unobtrusively spiked with a quarter jigger of vodka or rum. Keep wine or beer or anything whose taste remotely resembles mature out of eye line, earshot or taste bud. But now? A glance at the happy hour menu of one of our favorite haunts stirs up a longing for a pretty pint of their microbrewed honey blonde. Wine tasting has become my <i>jam.</i> I like whiskey now. I just...what? I have to ask: who <em>am</em> I. <br />
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Or perhaps take the state of our apartment. I've never considered myself a slovenly person. My mom is not permitted to weigh in here. It's not as if I would have won any Mrs. Meyer's trophies or anything, but I've always erred on the side of tidyish<i>ish</i>. Ok but in the last few months I've become a little obsessive about a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place. I can't sit down to begin an evening with Sean post-Bedtimeageddon until <b>toys away dishes clean clothes folded</b>. And I'm kind of annoying myself. Sean will do this Tazmanian Devil type thing where the room is picked up in literally 17 seconds but I can't have it the way he does it. Because toys that have pieces? All the pieces need to be accounted for and put together (like those stackable cups and woodenblock towers.)<br />
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all the offenders pictured</div>
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The kids' DVD basket? Alphabetized. (Nope. I jest not.) Not to mention I've completely overhauled the kitchen such that there is <i>nothing on the counter</i> that doesn't absolutely need to be there (microwave, latte maker...yeah that's it actually.) Knives have been mounted on a magnetic strip. Paper towels hang from under a cabinet. Produce in wire baskets on the wall. Kitchen Aid found a new home atop the fridge. I've rearranged every room we have and when the kids nap during the day I use the time to reorganize or stare at the wall and wonder what and how to reorganize next. I feel like I'm on speed. That's what speed feels like right?<br />
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Here's what I'm thinking after ruminating on the cause of all this maturation. Necessity is the mother of invention. Wait, no. Survival of the fittest. There's an adage that I'm trying to apply here, but they're not panning out so I'ma make one. Mothering necessitates survival. Or something like that but I think what I'm trying to say is I'm evolving to suit this particular season of my life. A liberally spirited drink spurs a moment of unwinding. A clean room produces order in my mind and soul. As a mom I'm pulled in various directions throughout the day. Well, not too many because our apartment is pretty small but it's kind of like, "wait you guys need to eat <i>again?</i>" and "Mom, can you wipe me?" and "[something unintelligible which loosely translates to "Mom that blond girl who you call my sister hit me in the face again."]" There are emotions felt and tantrums had, and the surest thing about each day in unpredictability. Which means it's kind of nice to have that glass of wine to run to and a spotless floor to cling to and a <i>Good Wife</i> ep to zone out to. (Julianna Margulies - so zen. I crave her stability.)<br />
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Those are the constants in my ever changing environment. I like my ever changing environment - it's funny and full of life lessons and opportunity and there are two freaking adorable kids that live there. But you know those tops with the trippy patterns that spin and spin and spin? Eventually they have to come to rest. In this case rest just looks like a whiskey ginger and alphabetized DVDs.Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-92171373604391953552014-08-05T15:16:00.003-07:002014-08-05T15:17:05.956-07:00and just like that<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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She's three.</div>
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Today this very day my firstborn achieves the elite status that is <i>three</i>. Not a girl, not yet a woman. </div>
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I deeply doubt I'm the only mother ever that becomes a little introspective on the occasion of her child's birthday. I've been thinking a bit this week about what this year was to me, to us, to this family. How much much much Jordan changed; what/who we've added to our lives since <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/08/two-is-too-many.html" target="_blank">her last birthday;</a> how I've had to adapt as Jordan grows and tests and pushes and experiments with the circumambient boundaries of home life. </div>
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This year. Hm. This was a tough one. It was gratifying too, and frequently punctuated with the hilarity that is the sibling dynamic, and a two year old's increasing vocabulary. But the newness of juggling what were, at the time, two difficult children (Jordan = <i>terrible</i> two's, Weston = colicky + what is sleep?), in addition to acclimating to stay-at-home-momhood...it was a strange few months there for awhile. All the while Jordan was keeping me sharp. She alternated fitz n the tantrums for the world to hear/see/sense deep within its soul with the most comic genius since Mitch Hedburg. I wasn't sure how to combat meltdowns that saw her hurling her entire body against a closed door, when the next sentence out of her mouth could be, "Why is your fo'head sad Mom?" (She thought the sweat produced from a Jillian Michaels workout was tears. The tears of my forehead. You guys...) And what to do, when she pinches Weston (hard!) for some offense that was probably not offensive, when a few minutes later it's: "it's okay buddy, I'm right here. I not gonna leave you. I not goin' anywhere."?</div>
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Ok I feel like I'm deviating from the traditional sing-the-good-stuff birthday post here. And there is <i>so</i> much good stuff. Jordan is this person who encompasses so many antonyms. She is unpredictable and yet steady. She is generous and loving and selfish in the same breath. She is a friend and a mother to her little brother - but watch carefully because that plastic saucepan could come smacking down on his skull should he overstep. She is frank, sincere, and devious and deceptive. She cares fiercely and rejects harshly. She does these, all of these, whimsically and seamlessly and in a toddler fashion that is also beyond her years.</div>
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As I laid in her bed last night and sang her the nightly lineup in my broken, harpy voice (<i>Barney Song, Let It Go, "Mass One" (Glory to God), You're a Mean One Mr. Grinch, Winnie the Pooh</i> - IN THAT ORDER DON'T SKIP A SONG MOM) the thought crossed my mind: it's you're last night to be two, girl. Which I promptly voiced to her and received, "Yeah....I'ne ahmost three..." in a deflated little voice that undoubtedly was meant to mirror my own. Of course her concept of the passage of time is close to nonexistent ("We're going to have Christmas tomowwow?") but there is an old soul wisdom about her that could just know that these are good years. These young innocent years where fun is an overheated park slide, and a splash pad fountain that unexpectedly shoots water up your nose, and a session of methodically emptying all 68 stuffed animals and puzzles from the toy box, and snapping an empty Pez dispenser repeatedly to hear the belly laugh your brother gives you. I want her to know that these are the good years. And I want me to know that too.</div>
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So happy day, to my Jordan Girl. You keep doing you - it's just really fun to watch.</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-89601613565078043582014-06-09T14:15:00.000-07:002014-06-09T14:16:08.737-07:00it's his birthdayHey, it was Sean's birthday yesterday.<br />
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I told him to pose for a birthday picture. He did this. I told him I was posting it. I think he didn't think I meant it.</div>
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The big 2-8. Sean was being all drama about it too, how he feels so old and he doesn't like getting old and his life is over...I told you, drama. Then my uncle the mathematician (actually) told him 28 is a perfect number because the sum of its factors add up to it. I think it made him feel better? Sean is mathematically-minded. I'm literary-minded. Opposites [attract].</div>
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On Saturday evening we had a bit of a party for the old man. Sandwiches, mac & cheese, beer - a few of his favorite things.</div>
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Sean opened the fridge and he allllmost cried. (See: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIutgtzwhAc" target="_blank">this commercial.</a>)</div>
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It was super fun and pretty chill, much like the subject of the party himself. We dipped into the hot tub, talked on the patio, and busted out some beer pong. I know, I know, we're getting too old for that right? If there's one thing about Sean though, his interests don't expire with age. The guy has seen <i>Top Gun</i> upwards of 30 times.</div>
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Okay and I am honestly the worst documenter of anything ever of all time. I took zero pictures with the exception of the first one in this post (a winner though it may be) and stole the rest from <a href="http://www.heelsandrobots.com/" target="_blank">Kimmy</a> and Sean.</div>
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friends</div>
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sisters</div>
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brothers [-in-law]</div>
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PS we're all hunched over kinda weird in that first one because Kimmy (on the left) is taking a picture from her real, actual, big-girl camera that was set on the countertop...<i>with her phone</i>. <i>In her hand.</i> My mind was blown. </div>
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Yesterday - the actual birthdate - was slow and easy and beachified. Like a dutiful wife, I let Sean take a Coveted Beach Nap (theeee best kind that there is) while I took the kids shoreside. And because I left my phone plugged in at home (please refer to worst documenter of anything ever of all time) I have no pictures of the pleasant day and pleasant(ish) dinner in which Weston decided to put on his difficult pants. (Jordan was the most angelic she's been since...almost ever, so it was a wash.)</div>
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In the craziness of party prep and beach day, I did not wrap Sean's presents at all. I handed them to him unceremoniously. But I really loved one of the presents I gave to him, and it wasn't the Corona boardshorts from Target. <a href="http://www.personalcreations.com/" target="_blank">Personal Creations</a> was so kind as to send along the cutest little engraved cutting board:</div>
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which is actually quite perfect since Sean - resident BBQ-er - is constantly stealing the cutting board I use for veggie & side prep to season uncooked meat. Cross contamination!! Inconvenient sterilization!! And so now he has own ("you has ya own" as Jordan is wont to say when I snack off her plate) and it's cuter than mine. Maybe I'll switch him.</div>
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(You should <a href="http://www.personalcreations.com/" target="_blank">head on over there</a> and check them out because they have some super great ideas for gifts. Their <a href="http://www.personalcreations.com/personalized-grilling-gifts-PGRILLN" target="_blank">grilling section</a> is just the picture of an awesome summer and I was halfway tempted to order <a href="http://gifts.personalcreations.com/gifts/Tub-with-Stand-30021145?prid=&viewpos=2&trackingpgroup=PGRILLN" target="_blank">this</a> but to be honest, we don't host <i>that</i> many parties. The cutting board will get more use by leaps.)</div>
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A very very very happy birthday to my main man of almost 9 years. You're pretty old now, but like a fine wine (or maybe a Coors Light?) you better with age. I love you, boyfriend.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-36483469936350107182014-05-29T14:26:00.000-07:002014-05-29T14:26:59.076-07:00three daysFrom one end to the other, Memorial Day Weekend was a pretty righteous one. We did family things, we did friend things, we did some normal things, we did some unusual things.<br />
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<i>the normal things</i><br />
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// We started the weekend with an earlyish lunch at our fave Mexican spot, where Sean, Jordan, Weston and I scored some steak burrito/plethora of chips and little else/tureen of refrieds/chicken soft taco, respectively.<br />
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// Sean consumed many beers while building from scratch and installing a computer at my parents' place, to replace the one he previously made that lasted seven years (quite the life span). And the new computer works fabulously! How he can booze and build like that is pretty beyond my capacity to comprehend. I have a margarita and I start veering off pathways and into bushes.<br />
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// We went to the beach Sunday AND Monday. (Well, Monday's not the norm, but beach as much as possible is the norm.) Jordan played alternately with cousins and all by her lonesome. Sometimes we just look down to the shoreline and she's doing weird karate-esque moves on the waves and clearly sing/shouting some fabricated tune or another. Plays well with others (mostly), but decidedly an introvert, that one. Weston, he just ate sand and squinted into the sun a lot and was mainly content to study Mum Mum crackers before ingesting them whole.<br />
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<i>the unusual things</i><br />
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// Saturday night, Sean and I went on this epic date.<br />
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It was crazy, really. We left the kids with my parents around 4:30 and met a couple friends for drinks at this pub type place in the "old" part of town. Great vibes, friendly service (the bartender bought us a round!!) Our friends could only stay for a bit and took off to go pick up their babe. Sean and I headed in from the patio area and decided to play a game of pool.<br />
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the Paul Newman to my Minnesota Fats</div>
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I haven't played in, oh, ten years. Since I first met Sean, actually. Totes held my own though. The second game, there were only three of my balls left on the table, so basically I won.<br />
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Around 8, the bar started Karaoke Night. We are <i>so</i> not those people. But we got a round and grabbed a chair to watch people who <i>were</i> those people. A guy named Lester sang Jethro Tull and Margaritaville while his wife cheered him on, and eventually Sean got curious enough (...liquored enough...) to check out the song list. He rattled off an Eric Church song while I played supporting vocals from the sidelines, and we sat down to enjoy our drinks and applaud the string of valiant vocalists.<br />
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I couldn't help it though. On my way back from the bathroom, I detoured over to the DJ and asked if he had Idina Menzel's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moSFlvxnbgk" target="_blank">Let It Go</a>. He did and I was feeling diabolical I guess because I signed him up.<br />
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Sean dedicated the song "For my daughter Jordan," and off he went. IT WAS TERRIBLE. I thought Sean knew the song's cadence from hearing it so many times but he was like a stanza behind and there I was dying laughing. The crowd was completely cheering him on, much like Cameron Diaz in <i>My Best Friend's Wedding.</i> Eventually I did step in to get him on track, but I refused to sing into the mic. I think the moral of the story is I'm the meanest wife. But the other moral is we had an awesome time.</div>
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PS Sean signed me up for Boston's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSR6ZzjDZ94" target="_blank">More Than a Feeling</a> and I made him duck out with me before they called me. See: meanest wife. (But also - that is the HARDEST song to sing in all of history. My singing voice? Like the goat in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bSQc_A2ugR8" target="_blank">that Taylor Swift vid.</a>)</div>
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// The beach was strikingly glorious TWO days in a row. And there was zero - talking, zilch - traffic on either days, when Sean and I suspected Memorial Hell. Instead we enjoyed this</div>
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stop</div>
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it</div>
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now</div>
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cuteness</div>
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with no money spent (except gas because it's pretty much ouch these days) and no aggravation felt. Essentially the most celestial sequence of days one could ever ask for. And we all pretty much felt like</div>
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and</div>
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on Monday evening.</div>
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The End.</div>
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Oh you know what, Sean made an excellent point over the weekend. I had never fully appreciated the gravity of Memorial Day, really, until this year. I said something off-the-cuff about the Day as juxtaposed to the 4th of July. How it's always more celebrated, or something. And Sean said, "Yeah, but it shouldn't be. Memorial Day is a day to honor all veterans in all wars in American history." That's a lot of wars and a lot of lives. So, I'm three days late in saying this here, and it's supremely inadequate besides, but Thank You, American Soldiers. To those who have fought and to those still fighting for this country.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-42881342307603313602014-05-19T14:31:00.000-07:002014-05-19T14:31:48.322-07:00superheroI bodycheck the hand-me-down couch - recently acquired from my parents - with all the force and disorientation of a tornado touching down. The couch is slightly sagged in the center from years of use, which serves to make it more restful, if less aesthetically pleasing. The down feathers pull my cheekbones, rib cage, hips and knee caps down, down, down into their comfort as if with magnetic force. I feel heavy all over; eyelids, body, brain - not from a glut of knowledge or anything, because thoughts don't bear physical weight anyway. But wouldn't it be great if they did? Karen Smith would be walking around with her head practically flying off her shoulders with its weightlessness<br />
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<a href="http://rebloggy.com/post/mean-girls-regina-george-karen-smith-gretchen-weiners-legifs-the-plastics-anyway/29357598322" target="_blank">via</a></div>
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while Bill Gates and <a href="http://sciencewriters.ca/2013/07/25/creativity-and-iq-why-keha-may-be-even-more-of-a-genius-than-you-thought/" target="_blank">Ke$ha</a> walk around with their heads bowed down near their ankles.</div>
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No, my brain is heavy not with cognitive power but with grog. The poor Weston child contracted a "viral infection" last week, the diagnosis of which could not possibly be more vague and all-encompassing. With it, he has seemingly lost the ability to sleep within the proper time confines as most of the general populace. </div>
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Sean and I hit up urgent care a few nights ago after a battle to the death between Weston's vomit and the elephant print sheets (bile won), accompanied by a fairly high fever and complete listlessness. The poor little guy. He was so lethargic and lifeless, it hurt to see it. We stayed long enough for them to bring his fever down and were sent home with a prediction that the virus will stick around a few days.</div>
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The day after urgent care, I carefully planned our morning. I calculatedly timed meals and errands and cleaning around afternoon naps. At 12:30, both kids were freshly fed and diapered and pampered and loved, and firmly put in their respective prisons. I promptly proceeded with the formalities outlined in the first paragraph. But I had forgotten. I had forgotten Weston's superpower.</div>
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There is this fuzzy, nondescript place in my mind that directly follows consciousness but teeters on the precipice of full on sleep mode, wherein I know myself to still be connected to my time and place, yet things are a little nonsensical and bizarre. I think it's my brain trying to convince my body to let go and fall into total unconsciousness, but the two of them duke it out for a little while in the in-between. It is this Carroll-esque state that seems to eep from my cranium, traverse the 15 steps from living room to bedroom, wind up the legs of my baby's crib and set alarm bells off in Weston's head. Because - almost without exception - Wes has woken a-wailing at THE EXACT moment I pass into naphood. For ALL eight months of his life. Whether he has slept fifteen minutes or two and a half hours, he is acutely aware of any attempt on my part to take a day snooze. </div>
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Sean frequently asks why I don't try more often to nap when the kids do. The truth is, I think I've had three successful endeavors. Weston's Spidey senses are finely tuned, and so I busy myself with other things during naps, be they restful or choreful. So long as I am deadly silent, of course - and believe me, I've mastered this. I mean, it's a gift.</div>
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And then over there, there's Jordan with her superhuman ability to volley from cutesy flirt to screaming banshee to polite debutante to violent ax murderer to overprotective sister to sobbing depression master to studious crayon wielder to backtalking teenager. Annnnd repeat, with all the volatility of a superball on a trampoline. </div>
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Amusement park of emotions and all, this girl is a straight up character. Her comedic timing rivals Woody Allen's and she's about as introspective as a Wes Anderson flick. Her budding conversation skills quite often give me pause to wonder where in the H she picked <i>that</i> one up from. The other day, she and my brother were having a tea party and, as she poured herself a cupful, my brother requested one as well. She told him, "No, Unca Lukey, you can has your alkyhol." (oh, perfect.) The same brother asked Jordan's permission to pinch Weston's cheeks and, lioness of an older sister that she is, she reprimanded "NO! <i>ONLY</i> kisses." </div>
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These kids and their heroics, I tell ya. I'd really love to hear what your babes are doing these days. Are they quirked kids like mine?</div>
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PS - Wes is doing just fine. He spent the weekend at the beach and couldn't have been happier about it. He even felt well enough to eat some sand.</div>
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totes recovered</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-77065340973598344142014-05-06T16:41:00.002-07:002014-05-06T16:42:25.487-07:00a serving of brazen toddler with a side of emma stoneThe other day I followed a weird spike in my blog traffic that landed me at <a href="http://getoffmyinternets.net/" target="_blank">GOMI</a> on a forum where people were asked to link their favorite lesser known blogs. To my shock n' awe, someone had linked mine (*blush*). I followed the comment thread, and it garnered one response from someone who said something like, "I want to like this blog, but it's just another oversharing mom." (*blush again*)<br />
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It's SO TRUE though. My blog posts are rife with feelings caused by my children, stories featuring my children, pictures of my children. My sister Audrey of the Great State of Washington called me the other day to object to my blog desertion. And I know she mourns not the loss of content but of her niece/nephew photo fix. I simply told her, "I just don't really know what to write about right now." To which she advised, "Just write your thoughts."<br />
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My thoughts:<br />
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<i>Emma Stone is my spirit animal.</i><br />
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Circa 2001 a young girl named Jessie stared at her 400 pound computer monitor, patiently sitting through the 12 minutes of cacophonous dial up that would eventually land her on AZ Lyrics, that she could repeatedly read chorus and verse to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdz5kCaCRFM" target="_blank">Blues Traveler's Hook</a> until she could recite them without a hitch. I loved that song. And when Emma Stone got up there on the Jimmy Fallon stage I rapped transfixedly along with her. It just goes to show that sometimes following <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/lol" target="_blank">Buzz Feed LOL</a> (on which I found above gem) isn't totally worthless. Even though most of their stuff is like, what Anime character are you? Well, the only Anime reference I even know is Pokemon. And only because Pokemon and pogs are the love language of my generation.</div>
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<i>Jordan is simultaneously sage and sassy.</i></div>
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Case #1: I had a slight - read VERY SLIGHT - case of road rage the other day during which I berated my fellow driver to "come <i>onnnnnn</i> get <i>overrrrrr</i>." Backseat driver numero uno chimed her two year old cents in with a decided "Mom. Calm down. Don' be mad. Take a walk."</div>
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Um, ok.</div>
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Case #2: A few weeks ago, the totally old man car that I drive around suffered a slight case of vandalism. Overnight, the license plate was stripped from it's poor little old man bumper and the gas cap was mysteriously clipped off for some unfathomable reason. We had the car fully checked out to make sure nothing sinister was afoot, but I blame adolescence and the mostly empty bottle of pomegranate vodka I found under the car. Anyway, Sean replaced the gas cap with a locking one. It is super impossible to unlock it. Utterly. Post gas cap wrestle, I informed Sean as much. He explained the complicated and innumerable steps (...one step...) that must be utilized to prise away said cap, and I was indignant that he hadn't explained as much before. He said, rather quietly, "I guess I thought it was obvious." From the backseat (again) Jordan let the tension settle in before all too sarcastically claiming, "It's <i>ozzious,</i> Mom."</div>
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Go to your room Jordan.</div>
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<i>Weston is weaning</i>.</div>
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Which is nice because, freedom. But also not nice because breastfeeding has been my lone form of exercise. I've been eating just the same as I have the last 8 months but my muffin top reached Panera status in the last week. I guess it's time for that double jogger now. Because unlike <a href="http://www.camppatton.com/" target="_blank">Grace</a>, I like to nurse my recovery (yes, pun intended, what do you think?) for about 8 months longer than she. Weston is 8 months and 5 days so once you crunch the numbers I think you should give her like a hundred clappy emojis.</div>
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Ok the kids have been sleeping a suspiciously long time now. I'm not complaining but I think I should check on their welfare. </div>
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But to recap: I've had three whole blogthoughts in about a month's time. Oversharing mom FTW.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-84885532123687319402014-04-08T14:00:00.000-07:002014-04-08T14:01:00.906-07:00margaritas and scissorsIf pressed, and if I'm being honest, I'd have to say it was the fault the margaritas. 3 margaritas. 3 margaritas that I foolishly permitted Sean to make, rather than myself.<br />
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Alternately, I could blame the decision on my running into my hairdresser in a coffee shop the other day, who I hadn't been to see since <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/05/chopped.html" target="_blank">last May.</a> Which got me thinking about how much my hair is the pits. THE PITS.<br />
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Be it the Sean-made margaritas scenario, be it the fateful meeting of the hairdresser in the coffee shop scenario, something happened this weekend:<br />
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Let's start at the beginning. Once upon a time, Sean and Jessie wanted to be prudent with their spending and with their <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2014/01/restaurants-babies-gambles-probabilities.html" target="_blank">public exposure of their children to unsuspecting fellow restaurant go-ers.</a> Both were quite keen to hit the local Mexican restaurant for endless chips and salsa and, more importantly, salted & rocked margaritas. They decided to use their better judgement (ironic snort reserved for a few paragraphs down) and have a <a href="http://snapwidget.com/v/692298562218650692#.U0RbqvldWSo" target="_blank">patio</a> <a href="http://snapwidget.com/v/692298386368261184#.U0RbwfldWSo" target="_blank">date.</a> As fate - for better or more likely for worse - would have it, a CVS run yielded the discovery of Sean's favorite tequila on sale. It further produced Tostitos and that kind of gross queso dip that Sean's obsessed with; the one that I strangely can't stop eating despite being perturbed by every bite I take.</div>
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It's 75 degrees. The kids are being oddly simpatico - simultaneously. A couple hours of talking and beveraging go by. We hit the hot tub, and I'm pretty sure this is where it went wrong. I dunked my head, you see, thus making my hair wet and manageable. By the time the errant whiff of a not-great idea penetrated my foggy brainwaves, it was too late. Even Sean doubted my judgement - and that means something's really off.</div>
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I'll paint the scene here: still sopping from the pool and clad in my "bathing suit" (track shorts and sports tank) I sought out the scissors at the back of the medicine cabinet. I did my best to remain stationary as I held a struggling Weston in my right arm and Jordan stripped down to nakedness at my left (see pink tutu'd bathing suit splashed in split ends, above). And here, <i>here</i> is where I should have stopped the whole thing:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyxCznJsuJa1CJTahq_w5C3OQKOSLHqZNbuCzQ9_6_CxrhB7MssoycmsnT4rQLJtQW0vNyBrC0Q1YKL06NpHBrKYq4SesmskXueva9NvIZk3biVNne6vQxFqO9NOvG4uud2zmUEZ9gxBKb/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyxCznJsuJa1CJTahq_w5C3OQKOSLHqZNbuCzQ9_6_CxrhB7MssoycmsnT4rQLJtQW0vNyBrC0Q1YKL06NpHBrKYq4SesmskXueva9NvIZk3biVNne6vQxFqO9NOvG4uud2zmUEZ9gxBKb/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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when I realized that this was the face of my soon-to-be hair-shearer. As Sean brushed my hair out (leaving what I'm pretty sure are permanent track marks down my back from the brush because OW, it's not an Iron Man competition, Sean, it's my frail straggly hairs) I realized I could still stop this, but Tequila said "sh, it'll be fine."</div>
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Snip. </div>
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"Oh, Mom, why you doing? Why your hairs cutting?" </div>
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Snip. </div>
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"Don't worry about it, Jess, I think it's a straight line." (<----DIRECT QUOTE)</div>
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Snip.</div>
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"Maybe I shouldn't have let you do this."</div>
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Snip.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_A3NVw4d3GCufMCPZ0w3CqB43CF5l9A1lok-W9lT67cAhok1pFUglyLAUfowuFNe4KyqxKr-VTQr9rOCZx9mqptASKJ2OJeeBnB1yC6l9Vm6aX96GqrKXgorpXsHM_BncLXuckgZK7YfJ/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_A3NVw4d3GCufMCPZ0w3CqB43CF5l9A1lok-W9lT67cAhok1pFUglyLAUfowuFNe4KyqxKr-VTQr9rOCZx9mqptASKJ2OJeeBnB1yC6l9Vm6aX96GqrKXgorpXsHM_BncLXuckgZK7YfJ/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Snip.</div>
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So I saved about $60. I cheated on my hairdresser (with my husband). It's way way shorter than I instructed and it'll take roughly a year to recoup those losses (slowest growing hair in the land). But it's actually only approximately half-bad.</div>
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Oh and I just realized Weston makes that face in that last picture. I always wondered where he got it from.</div>
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There's a moral here somewhere. Don't make decisions - weighty or flighty or otherwise - when you're on tequila? Don't keep scissors lying around? Don't quaff & coif? Learn from me, friends.</div>
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I'll see you sometime next year, hair. I miss you.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-91650693452329209112014-04-02T13:24:00.000-07:002014-04-02T13:24:59.004-07:00productivity in the time of babyhoodo - m - <i>g</i> you guys, this last week. A crazy train, I tell you, and I'm all aboard.<br />
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Last Saturday night, Sean and I and a few members of my posse (...siblings) attended the annual dinner dance that benefits <a href="http://www.vclifecenters.com/" target="_blank">Life Centers of Ventura County.</a> It's always a grand time and I, being stellar blogger extraordinaire for the ages, took approximately zero pictures and therefore have no proof that I curled my hairs and shadowed my lids and coated my lashes and inserted contacts into my eyeballs for the first time in a century. No testimony showing I put on a nice dress and adorned my feet in not-Uggs/flip flops and practically re-pierced my ears trying to put a pair of danglies in because it had been <i>that long</i> since I did myself up enough to justify earrings. It did happen though. A few whiskey cokes happened too and holla at the husband who gave up drinking for Lent - as good a DD as a pregnant! (Ok fine he may have started his "Sunday" a little early but who am I to huck him under the bus?)<br />
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For about a decade or a little more, I've helped the Life Centers out with the dinner dance when and where needed, and have chiefly been in charge of working up bid sheets for the silent auction. Every year on the week leading up to the dance, there's a big push for last minute donations to the auction, which loosely translates to me staying up much too late working on bid sheets and emailing the other members of the committee frantically trying to get details on the items or starting bids or whatever. It's always been relatively stress free; it's as hard as inserting info into a template and coming up with a little tagline to make it sound enticing. I mean, there were 115 items, so it's time consuming, but it's not rocket science.<br />
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But this year: I have two kids. This year, one of these kids has some attitude, um,<i> quirks </i>that are in perpetual need of adjustment or consequence<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3k4Itg4a-dIB7kGvYQo5NxH3SazKdvKJ4TVK1z5UQzx-e2qDUuLUDlPib32MfXnRkEOUAo7Jcm4Qk7eq8CrOT0wIN-8NbVCZVPSi_F4iqpGA1II3cD3gOa3v70EeIcL0cjLzOHLH5uJaJ/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3k4Itg4a-dIB7kGvYQo5NxH3SazKdvKJ4TVK1z5UQzx-e2qDUuLUDlPib32MfXnRkEOUAo7Jcm4Qk7eq8CrOT0wIN-8NbVCZVPSi_F4iqpGA1II3cD3gOa3v70EeIcL0cjLzOHLH5uJaJ/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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"I'm funny Mom" (on repeat)</div>
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and the other of these kids would prefer his person to be Krazy glued to my person, please and thank you.<br />
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"Let's run away together Mom."</div>
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Friday, the day before the dance, I of course had 285 things to do - give or take - to make the deadline. The kids, in turn, had 285 tricks up their 2T'd sleeves (yeah..they pretty much wear the same size now) and took alternating micro naps that did not coincide in the slightest. Every time I cracked the laptop lid, a needster got it's wings and flew into one kind of demand-fest or another. Both kids were finished with their naps for the day at some ridiculous time like 2 o'clock (naps start at 1, so) and I was powering through bid sheets to a soundtrack of Super Why and Weston Cry.<br />
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At a certain point I could no longer stand the wailing and indignation of it all, and succumbed into a defeated heap on the floor, that Weston could crawl and gnaw and touch touch touch until his needy heart's content. As Weston attempted to clamber up the summit that is my bum, a concerned Jordan lay next to me on the ground as I enumerated the thousands of wispy soldiers that had abandoned my head during these months of post partum hair loss, in favor of entangling themselves in the sheisty company of the carpet. She alternated between ardent professions of "I luss you, Mom" (we'll purchase "proper pronunciation of V's" Vanna) and earnest pleas of "Mom, could you moose over?" so that she could slide between my hulking frame and the couch. I obliged and scooted a millimeter to the left, simultaneously turning my head to be greeted by Weston's uvula as he made his best effort to ingest eyebrow to cheekbone of my terrified face.<br />
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Jordan can be heartbreakingly intuitive about people's feelings, and she addressed my crumbled stature with repeated appeals to "don' be sad Mom" and lots of pats on my head and cheeks. It was there as I lay prostrate on the floor underneath the weight of my fat baby son and beside the worry of my sweet albeit crazy moody toddler daughter, that I pondered whether God had neglected to fully equip me for this stage of motherhood. By my estimation, I was lacking at least one of the following necessities:<br />
<b>more patience</b>: this is a character flaw on my part. I have patience up to a certain point and then I explode over the drop of a cracker or the spill of a milk drop.<br />
<b>more sleep</b>: Wes plays a cruel joke about once a month where he sleeps relatively well for two nights in a row, and I'm convinced my exhaustion sentence has been lifted. He's done this probably three times over three months, and follows up each of these periods with horrifying nights for the next week. Aside from this, an average night sees us up together twice or so, which isn't horrible but I'm over it.<br />
<b>more help</b>: the three of us stumble our way through the day until 5 when Sean comes home, and he's good for a pool date with the kids (Weston enjoys observing the splashy antics from his rocker) while I recuperate by compulsively cleaning the living room or making dinner. He'll often do the dishes and he always does the Jordan half of bedtime duty, but he is not the Weston Whisperer. Nor is anyone, really. I'm seriously considering some sainted mother's helper; I love that red headed angel-monster to the moon and back but I need to escape the cling. Just for a minute.<br />
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a slight variation of a recent 'gram of mine..but this is more or less any of Weston's waking moments</div>
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Naturally, all three of these would be ideal. But I feel that if I had even one! Sigh...the possibilities. I remember being grateful in that moment that, of all the blog skipping or skimming I've had to do recently (because of the dinner dance, I mean. I fell SO behind on my e-stories. There were like 55 in my feed at any one time), I hadn't missed <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2014/03/lets-be-done.html" target="_blank">this one of Jenny's</a> about how these everyday, grueling, tiring trials and tribulations can be acts of love.<br />
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.559999465942383px;">>>Our mortal toil here on earth is exactly that: work. A lot of it. No matter the circumstances or situation of one's life, nobody gets out without putting in some hard time. And children are a lot of work. In fact, they're kind of the perfect means by which those of us called to the married life can work out our salvation with fear and potty training. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.559999465942383px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.559999465942383px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.559999465942383px;"></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.559999465942383px;">But they're more than just work, however ardently popular culture - and tired mommy bloggers like me - might try to convince you otherwise. They're also immortal souls. Little images of the Word made flesh, Who dwelt among us. And they deserve to be seen as more than accessories or add-ons to an otherwise 'perfect' and ordered life.<<</span></i><br />
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So I remembered that post - thanks Jenny - smiled at Jordan reassuringly and picked up Weston for another round of "let's trick him into being distracted by some toy in Jordan's room and then sneak out real fast and stay hidden from view and see how long he forgets that he needs my presence." Don't get me wrong, I still led a harried and rather frustrating day, trying to meet the quickly approaching deadline while trying to keep children happy and healthy and out of the pantry wherein there is always some inevitably accessible something or other that makes a colossal mess while my back is turned. But it goes a long way to have a good shot of solidarity every so often.<br />
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The dinner dance was super fun. Sean and I dressed up and got a little break from the babes; my siblings and a few friends and I sat around an outside patio table in ridiculously pleasant weather with some delightful alcoholic beverages; I didn't win anything in the auction but it was great looking around at the work we had put into it and the huge success that it turned out to be; we raised a really good chunk of change for an important cause. Not to mention, my sweet cousin who babysat the youths for us insisted "everything went so great!" (I later had my youngest sister, who I had sent over to help with Jordan, give me the real skinny. She informed me that "...yeah, Weston cried almost the whole time.." but I was so grateful that my cousin brushed it off and put on a brave face so that I could feel better about the night.)<br />
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And what is all this to say? Aside from a narration of my every complaint and whine? I don't really know, except maybe that being a parent is kind of a mysterious and wonderful thing. Kids - or my kids, anyway - do their very damnedest to give you hell, but they honestly can't help but be our little glimpses of heaven.<br />
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-70723272357542592072014-03-18T15:05:00.000-07:002014-03-18T15:05:46.095-07:00case studyI was talking to one of my sisters recently, who is currently taking a child psychology class. I don't know why I never thought to take one back in my college hopping days. (I attended one..two..three colleges total. Not for extra degrees either. No doctorates here.) Psychology is fairly fascinating to me. Child psychology would be even more so, I think.<br />
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Anyway, my sister was telling me that personality formation generally takes place within the first three years of life. In other words, you can tell what kind of person a child will be - independent, generous, controlling, et cetera - by the time they're about three. Nurture notwithstanding, of course; traits can be attained through example and instruction and reinforcement, just as manners or reverence or whathaveyou can be learned and taught.<br />
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I had never heard of this three-year statistic, but danged if it doesn't make total sense. Jordan-girl, for instance: 100% who she is today as she was from hour one. She appeared physically fragile at birth<br />
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but it seemed as if she would never suffer an ounce of dependence in her life. She was alert, loud, willful and wonderful. Brown eyes that bored right to your soul, she had - and has.</div>
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Jordan of yesteryear has seemingly only changed physically. Oh I know, we've hit a lot of milestones since then. She converses, skips, hops, jumps and sleeps in a big girl bed. But she</div>
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is still she</div>
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And West-O. You want to know my first encounter with ex-utero Weston? They laid him atop me in Recovery after <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-birth-of-sir-weston-james-esq-part.html" target="_blank">my</a> <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-birth-of-sir-weston-james-esq-part_16.html" target="_blank">c-section</a>, and he LATCHED. Like, hard. He found what he wanted with no direction and just knew he was home.</div>
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6 months later, if he's not within a couple of feet of me, he's fretful. The boy is a sweet, good-natured, dependent lover of his mama.</div>
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But more fascinating to examine is the sibling dynamic. Would their relationship be so totally different if they were both boys or both girls? Or if Jordan had been a boy and Weston a girl? I look at Jordan, maternal and concerned, but SO in charge and sometimes controlling nearly to the point of bullying. Every morning Jordan asks if Weston can play with her in her room. She pulls out the kitchen set for him and sits next to him and flips through her books. But if he grabs something that "belongs" to her, watch out boyfriend. I've seen many a (minor) abuse delivered that Jordan has had to answer for. Meanwhile, Weston looks on adoringly and confusedly while Jordan plucks a hair from his head or pinches a fingerful of his fat. He loves unconditionally, as does she, but she is the Alpha in the relationship.</div>
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*Somehow Jordan has become hilariously honest. If I don't happen to see something mean that she's done, but I hear Wes whimper, I ask her pointblank and she answers with soulful browns: "I pinch him." or "I pull his hair." Even though she gets punished, she never fails to deliver the truth.*</div>
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Occasionally their relationship reminds me of one in my previous life....</div>
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Fortunately, my brother Luke is a happy exception to the "your personality at three is your personality forever" rule because he was a BEAST. And I was definitely a Weston. I just sat there smiling like a three month old idiot as he sat on me and watched my face turn red to purple in consternation. Ok Jordan's not quite like how Luke was, thankfully, but she does like to exercise power and authority, as he did. Mostly they're in love with each other and there's minimal refereeing involved but we'll see how it goes once Weston discovers how to use his significant weight to his advantage. Unless he just turns out to be a gentle giant, which is entirely likely considering his passive personality.</div>
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So tell me of your children's relationships with each other. Or your sibling relationships. I just think it's so funny the similarities and dissimilarities depending on age gap, sex, which sex came first, and all that. Am I the only one?</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-50077175479478774122014-03-05T15:02:00.000-08:002014-03-05T15:02:52.567-08:00relentless for lent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So, this happened. It happened in the ten minutes it took me to clean the kitchen after breakfast. The greater part of me thinks that this is hysterically funny. Jordan lines things up - it's her thing. Puzzle pieces, food pieces, shoes -<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSo2wN5SESZbeO-ax-r-QkV3quExb7poiihn0XDynpntL5zum64KKuuxxk8qX-JZ6mebJrgddqt-zx_QQ2gULWogsbR4DKko2JRdoLCc55doZLPUVza08ztfcD0qvC2W41oujyc2yeaIFW/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSo2wN5SESZbeO-ax-r-QkV3quExb7poiihn0XDynpntL5zum64KKuuxxk8qX-JZ6mebJrgddqt-zx_QQ2gULWogsbR4DKko2JRdoLCc55doZLPUVza08ztfcD0qvC2W41oujyc2yeaIFW/s1600/photo.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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- and every single solitary stuffed animal in her possession. Then there's the part of me that sees this...and gives up. Why bother? Does anyone care if I clean? Does it matter if anything looks tidy? It's just we three for most of the day, and do you think the two year old and the 6 month of old give two poops?<br />
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I give two poops Mom. I tucked them in my diaper for you.</div>
<br />
Nope, they don't. So should I?<br />
<br />
YES.<br />
<br />
I have been on this weird, incredibly productive clean/declutter bender for the last two weeks. In fact, Sean completely deadpanned to me the other day, "Jessie -(and he only calls me Jessie when it's serious. otherwise it's Jess)- are you pregnant?" And no, I'm not, but it's a valid question. It's been nesting on speed around here. What I've noticed is this: I feel better that I've done something tangible with my day. I'm happier, and I treat people (husband+kids) nicer. I'm more patient. It's glorifyingly freeing to be rid of so much junk that has smothered the atmosphere of this apartment for three years. My physical environment is cleaner, therefore my internal environment is at peace.<br />
<br />
After some contemplation, I landed on my Lenten resolution(s). It's usually something like no sugar, no candy, no junk. That's hard for me, but I haven't been buying that kind of thing of my own accord for quite some time now. My only indulgence is Hershey's chocolate milk on the regulah. So I don't think it'd be much of a sacrificial change to give that up this year. I have decided to DO more. Vague? Let me clarify. I need to stop laying around waiting for the day to defeat me, because it inevitably will if I let it. Instead, I will be making a concerted effort to accomplish even the menial, the trivial, the mundane. Homecooked meals every night. (Right now you all are like, yeah duh. But for me, not duh. I know, I'm awful.) A clean bathroom. Books read to my kids - with all the voices and all the enthusiasm. A made bed. A carpet that knows the glorious feel of a vacuum blowing through its hair.<br />
<br />
I'm not saying all at once and I'm not saying burn out or exhaust myself. I'm saying, do <i>something</i> everyday! I want this place to become a welcoming environment. I want my babies to have good memories of Mom when she was young and of their very first home. I want Sean to not come home to me watching <i>Finding Nemo</i> alongside my young while the kitchen produces nothing but a feast of squalor in its undone dishes and unwiped counters.<br />
<br />
I know, I know. Lent isn't about doing things for <i>you</i>, it's about giving things to God. That's what I'm hoping to do with this Lenten plan, though. I intend to DO in God's <i>name,</i> for my family's <i>sake</i>. Double whammy, see. So, in the words of this shirt that I absolutely must buy:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXp0QYQSQMSW50MBpESJuo7PQgc1WduGGlkPm0aR2V2plxCcN75oyexvRW7z9BUqv3MaRNIWcfjODzaPd69rQj3WFIBCSsOCWrROhghzFg95hW5zgR4Ti1OJ3pUus_3VKLMgvnFSYaS9mQ/s1600/carpe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXp0QYQSQMSW50MBpESJuo7PQgc1WduGGlkPm0aR2V2plxCcN75oyexvRW7z9BUqv3MaRNIWcfjODzaPd69rQj3WFIBCSsOCWrROhghzFg95hW5zgR4Ti1OJ3pUus_3VKLMgvnFSYaS9mQ/s1600/carpe.jpg" height="640" width="598" /></a></div>
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<i><a href="http://www.thuglifeshirts.com/products/consider-this-diem-carped" target="_blank">via</a></i></div>
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I wish you all a blessed Ash Wednesday and a successful Lent.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-19036209855708877522014-02-19T14:22:00.001-08:002014-02-19T14:23:19.869-08:00hitting homeGuys, there has been some <em>good</em> internet out there lately. So good that I haven't felt the need to taint the web with my nonsense, not a bit of it. That's what Instagram is for (yikes I've been overgramming).<br />
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oh look, a non-grammed photo. Weston is unabashedly wearing his sister's tracksuit.</div>
<br />
I have to say, it's pretty amazing going to these blogs for my stories on the daily or weekly, and reading something to which I can only nod and say yes. Yes. YES! I totally KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://therhodeslog.blogspot.com/2014/02/a-good-day.html" target="_blank">This one by Kate</a> nearly had me in tears with the solidarity of it all. She writes my feelings better than I could ever hope to express. In fact, next time a similar scenario occurs between Sean and I, I'm just going to shut up and open my browser to Blog de Rhodes.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.houseunseen.com/2014/02/not-so-great-expectations.html" target="_blank">This one by Dwija</a> from a couple weeks ago was SO PERFECT. It came right at a time that I was starting to change my nightly prayers from "please Lord, let Weston sleep well tonight" to "please Lord, give me the patience and energy to deal with the crap Weston is going to dish tonight." And do you know, that tweaking of intention has helped immensely. Who am I to expect this to be easy? <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.braynofchalayn.com/2014/02/snow-snow-we-wont-go.html" target="_blank">This one from Chalayn</a> about the recent snowstorm they had was so beautifully written:<br />
<br />
<em>I sat outside Saturday night and stared; soaking it all in and wanting to
remember it forever - the beauty, the light, the silence. The change of pace,
the traffic gone, the people inside keeping warm with their families, and - what
intrigues me most - the fact that God made each snowflake unique, intricate, and
fleeting. Much like us. All those delicate edges get lumped together on the
ground, so much detail that most people can't even see, and the intricacies that
gets completely lost in the night. He takes the time to create all that, how
much more are we to Him?</em><br />
<br />
Chalayn, you're making me feel guilty that approximately 100% of my content is vapid and/or grumbly.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.cedarsandtinyflowers.com/2014/02/am-i-only-one.html" target="_blank">This one by Katrina</a> had me totally lol-ing because guess what I did only <em>just</em> last night? Sat in the McDonald's parking lot with a fat M&M McFlurry. There's something about a vat of faux ice cream laden with 12,000 candy-coated chocolates that brings zen to my frazzled existence. It just works.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2014/01/the-wellness-project.html" target="_blank">Jenny's whole Wellness Project</a> and her posts therein have been completely inspiring. It's something I, as a woman, should already know right? If we put a smidge extra effort toward our physical appearance - hell, a coat of mascara that monopolizes all of four of our precious seconds - we generally feel that our lives are slightly more...together. External order produces internal order, and all that. Yet I rarely set aside fifteen minutes to hair and makeup myself because I can't justify it. Diapers, you know. And breakfasts and breastfeeding. The clothing of the children and the fetching of the groceries. But when I do it, when I just DO it, my outlook on my day is better for it. I put effort into the people around me, why shouldn't I give even a minimal amount for myself?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://timeflieswhenyourehavingbabies.blogspot.com/2014/02/for-love-of-blog.html" target="_blank">This one by Ana</a> was another one where I was like, yep. I do that; that happens to me:<br />
<br />
<em>The other night at the grocery store I was buying some trash bags and pushed aside a box that didn't look like the right kind to reach for the kind I wanted. When I pushed the unwanted box aside, I heard myself whisper an apology to it. I <b>apologized to the box of trash bags</b> for moving it aside and because it was not to be my trash bag of choice that night. Who am I?</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Ha, oh Ana, I get you. Or I'll apologize to someone for the stupidest things ever. Like some kind person comes up and says "you dropped your keys!" and I'm like "oh I'm sorry!!" What?? I think the proper return here is, "oh thank you!"<br />
<br />
I'm sure most of you have already read these, and if you haven't, get thee hence. So worth it. And I apologize for my lack of originality in just directing you elsewhere but I've been kind of SpongeBobby about blogging lately. The episode where the food critic stops into the Krusty Krab and SpongeBob* serves him the sacred Krabby Patty and the critic accuses him of forgetting the pickles, sending SpongeBob into a desperate spiral in which he questions his whole existence if he can't even make a Krabby Patty properly.**<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeAmBqUDwCv_AnaygyrteSghQMVKL4fsOUtqZqLjvXqwUhdA9GkRPveAlF73Pf8Ul4fesTvJLQqRi4LWVCBgUsFo0DYDwDsr8e8-n7qEKmpieyyYrS71XEZB0CWekzFC9kkDby520zdEEr/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeAmBqUDwCv_AnaygyrteSghQMVKL4fsOUtqZqLjvXqwUhdA9GkRPveAlF73Pf8Ul4fesTvJLQqRi4LWVCBgUsFo0DYDwDsr8e8-n7qEKmpieyyYrS71XEZB0CWekzFC9kkDby520zdEEr/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Ok I haven't with the underwear on the head but I <em>have</em> stepped into my bra straps before.</div>
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And come to think of it, this is vaguely reminiscent of my apartment lately:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYGpnqZ3Cf912a5WiLRKNu7YBF6TgJB9cbWaMV3k7FVl69uTUi6zpih4yXkWQKuXBZX5wpy1AszNh0xqg5us44iahxmvsXlBSpTXf0n_TdAELqbn6gVGa38m2EDRG-x4iOg3Ao3bln54do/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYGpnqZ3Cf912a5WiLRKNu7YBF6TgJB9cbWaMV3k7FVl69uTUi6zpih4yXkWQKuXBZX5wpy1AszNh0xqg5us44iahxmvsXlBSpTXf0n_TdAELqbn6gVGa38m2EDRG-x4iOg3Ao3bln54do/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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yeah</div>
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My analogy here should be translated thus: if I can't keep the living room toy-free for ten minutes straight, multiple sentences I construct on a webpage will likely be subpar <em>or</em> unintelligible.</div>
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*Blogger autocorrected my spelling of Sponge<strong>b</strong>ob to Sponge<strong>B</strong>ob. This is America.</div>
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**my extensive knowledge of SpongeBob comes not from allowing my kids to watch it (if they started doing that obnoxious machine gun laugh I'd surely perish) but from my younger brother watching every season he could get his hands on back to back a few years ago. He was <strong>fifteen</strong> at the time. Seemingly overnight his preferences changed from the above to <em>Breaking Bad</em> and <em>Dexter. </em>Ummmmm.</div>
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Have a good one, dear e-friends.</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-36695485693412693702014-02-03T13:42:00.001-08:002014-02-03T13:43:01.429-08:00"i got the black lung, pa" - a poetic narrative'Twas 3 o'clock last Monday morn<br />
when Jordan stumbled out,<br />
clutching a clean diaper<br />
with a face all full of doubt<br />
<br />
that the pain within her tummy<br />
had anything to do<br />
with the feelings that would normally<br />
accompany a poo.<br />
<br />
She shuffled toward the couch,<br />
where her wakeful mother lies<br />
these last few weeks in vain attempt<br />
to flippin' <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2014/01/ferberize-shmerberize.html" target="_blank">ferberize.</a><br />
<br />
And as she crossed the threshold<br />
to the living room - my perch -<br />
I heard that ghastly, loathsome sound<br />
that made me up and lurch<br />
<br />
toward Jordan, did I hurry.<br />
Alas it was too late;<br />
the tired gross beige carpet<br />
by now had met its fate<br />
<br />
by way of Jordan's insides<br />
spilling out upon it.<br />
Yes, it is of puke and wretched sick<br />
that I now pen this sonnet.<br />
<br />
Over hours four and twenty<br />
(that felt a month or more)<br />
Jordan and the toilet<br />
engaged like ne'er before.<br />
<br />
(And oh, that is your update<br />
of how potty training's faring.<br />
No big girl panties worn.<br />
No triumphant trumpets blaring.)<br />
<br />
It passed. It passed. It finally did -<br />
as stomach flus will do.<br />
But if you are not vigilant,<br />
it'll pass right on to you.<br />
<br />
So <em>Tuesday</em> night at half past ten:<br />
here I set my scene.<br />
Having settled nicely into couch,<br />
I felt myself go green.<br />
<br />
Most of you don't know me,<br />
so I'll tell you in this breath:<br />
puking tops my Fear List,<br />
beating public speech and death.<br />
<br />
I reassured myself<br />
"It's the nightcap that you had.<br />
Though I don't remember So-Co*<br />
ever settling this bad."<br />
<br />
*Southern Comfort & Ginger Ale. Never again.<br />
<br />
I stalled for fifteen minutes;<br />
'twas the longest I could hold.<br />
I braced for the inevitable<br />
and off the couch I rolled.<br />
<br />
I tip-toed to the bathroom<br />
(if Wes woke up, I'd die.)<br />
and back and forth I went<br />
as the gruesome night slipped by.<br />
<br />
A couple things I noticed<br />
from my stint on tiled floor:<br />
toilet hinges look like goal posts,<br />
so is throw up, like, a score?<br />
<br />
And I think I like my hair <br />
parted better on the left.<br />
Which I never would've known<br />
had hair-gathering not been deft.<br />
<br />
Third, I glom to lyrics<br />
that narrate my situation;<br />
just one line ran over as<br />
I manned my porcelain station.<br />
<br />
(It was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KehwyWmXr3U" target="_blank">The National</a><br />
that sang my plight, so dire<br />
as I "live[d] half awake<br />
in a Fake Empire.")<br />
<br />
The flu has since abandoned<br />
this apartment in the 'burbs.<br />
I cling to hope that no one else<br />
it seeks out to disturb.<br />
<br />
I've met my throw-up quotient<br />
for a decade at the least...<br />
This has been the story<br />
of Pansy and the Beast.<br />
<br />
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scot free</div>
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(therefore embarrassing photo publish sans permish.)</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-38269251617356479422014-01-26T08:32:00.000-08:002014-01-26T08:32:26.141-08:00apple of her eyeA few days ago I was all geared up to write this fantastically optimistic post entitled something totally lame like "How Jessie Got Her Groove Back." I've never seen that movie<em> How Stella Got Her Groove Back</em> and the context of the title is probably inappropriate in some way and not at all related to what I was planning on writing about. Stella was probably trying to "find" herself in some Eat Pray Lovey type of way after some breakup or trauma or something, and ends up stumbling in to some off-the-cuff relationship that gives new life to her life. I'd imagine.<br />
<br />
I, conversely, was <em>going</em> to tell you guys about how, yay! There's light somewhere down there at the end of that tunnel, and not the kind that they tell you not to go towards because it means you're dying. After an embarrassing number of months, I felt that I had finally groped and tripped and wobbled my way in to a routine of sorts with these two shifty-eyed fireballs. Not in small part because it seemed that Weston had somehow reconciled himself to the night and was only troubling me for one feeding, if you please mum, then returning right back to peaceful repose. 3:30 a.m. had never felt so exhilarating. <br />
<br />
After committing the Queen Mother of All Mistakes and <em>telling</em> one or two people that it's happened! it's happened! The prodigal sleep has returned!...alakazam. My blue-eyed angel by day re-tapped into his red-headed hellion by night alter ego and here we are. Hi Square One. We've met.<br />
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This morning,* after a humdinger of a night, I shuffled to our Nespresso latte maker (thank you Lord Jesus for finally allying my tastebuds with coffee and its powers and thank you Sean's parents for gifting us this amazing machine of wonderment) and, in what I can only assume was done under the duress and disorientation of 4 feedings in 7 hours, I threw the coffee pod to the bottom of my mug and stared at it. As if it was going to bippity boppity boil me some brew. I came to, and put the pod in its rightful home and nestled the mug under the sacred drip thingy, then went to the utensil drawer and grabbed a fork...with which to spoon sugar into my coffee. Thus does the morning of a winner begin.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*this post took a little longer to write than expected. by "this morning," I mean "Friday morning."</span><br />
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And SO, <em>instead</em> of post Bright + Shiny, I give you the above preface - for which I hope you had some wine to accompany all that whine - AND a delicious Apple Yogurt pancake recipe kicker. <a href="http://ohjoy.blogs.com/" target="_blank">Oh Joy</a> pinned <a href="http://www.foodrecipeshq.com/apple-and-greek-yogurt-pancakes/" target="_blank">this yum</a> a few days ago and Jordan and I have enjoyed it like four times in the last week. Funny little observation: this is what apple pancakes look in all their pinned glory<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZyP6IpWnTB8f2sA9ANgNiSi2aXsSpDRsumwN1AOOPMwjaCtlRFuZyjK4SntpPKM-qcuxYRg4o7pcLD3vXhX2v85W7q39n_WUnG2n4wJ6UBl5KWUtb5_gQYV8oWBn2b8T1MgHhYEE0coO/s1600/appleyogurtpancakes-0115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZyP6IpWnTB8f2sA9ANgNiSi2aXsSpDRsumwN1AOOPMwjaCtlRFuZyjK4SntpPKM-qcuxYRg4o7pcLD3vXhX2v85W7q39n_WUnG2n4wJ6UBl5KWUtb5_gQYV8oWBn2b8T1MgHhYEE0coO/s1600/appleyogurtpancakes-0115.jpg" height="640" width="425" /></a></div>
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fresh figs and pure maple and you know you'd see this in some hipster café</div>
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THIS is Apple Pancake via Jess</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwkYJUUn7ltrq9nfl1CDHadvLrpRLoV7_n52QPi80b0xzhfAUHXkZwFAgntP0D9ykpuk7thR7g5fIWWQud_oKhR8mlO2PFeNqDTZYKmbUn3Qv9MoJkdKWSihYtWwYLyNzT_H4SQ_gRkMxy/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwkYJUUn7ltrq9nfl1CDHadvLrpRLoV7_n52QPi80b0xzhfAUHXkZwFAgntP0D9ykpuk7thR7g5fIWWQud_oKhR8mlO2PFeNqDTZYKmbUn3Qv9MoJkdKWSihYtWwYLyNzT_H4SQ_gRkMxy/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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as they say on The Pinterest: nailed it</div>
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Anyway, their lack of pleasing aesthetic does not make them any less desirable to eat, shockingly enough, and they actually make for a relatively healthy breakfast. When they say Apple Pancake they <em>mean</em> Apple Pancake - there are four apples and it makes like six pancakes. Very appley. Perhaps I should write apple a few more times. Apples.</div>
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I changed a couple of things from the original maaaiiinnnly because I'm lazy and who has time to boil apples? Not this guy. Unboiled apples still perform to my standards, but those are lowish so you can decide for yourself. Also, in the original recipe it orders you to "whisk flour, baking powder, salt and honey together," but after quadruple checking, it seems they forgot to tell us how much salt in the ingredients. I put in about 1/4 teaspoon, and it works out fine for me. Alright then:</div>
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Ingreeds:</div>
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4 apples, peeled and grated (I use 3 Granny Smith and 1 Fuji for mostly tart with a leetle sweet)</div>
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1 cup flour (I use all-purpose but I bet you've got something healthier lying around?)</div>
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1 teaspoon baking powder</div>
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1 tablespoon honey</div>
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1/4 teaspoon salt (as randomly decided upon by moi)</div>
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3 tablespoons Greek Yogurt (but I've been using plain whole milk yogurt from Trader Joe's)</div>
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1 egg</div>
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oil for frying (use coconut! the flavor has been fantastic)</div>
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butter & pure maple syrup</div>
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1// First combine the flour, baking powder, salt and honey. The first time I made this, I grated the apples first and they turned a little brownish by the time I finished the other instructions. Didn't affect the taste, I don't think, but it just doesn't look that pretty.</div>
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2// Add yogurt and egg and stir it allll up. Grate your apples and throw them on in. It will take a while to incorporate the apples fully because there are a LOT. And that's a good thing. Just make sure all your apple shreds are coated in the batter.</div>
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3// Heat up some coconut oil on your pan. Since I make this for Jordan and I (we've talked about how Sean don't eat no fruit, right?) I just fry them one at a time. But I'm sure you'll be more efficient. Throw a heaping spoonful of batter down, then flatten it all out. You know, like a pancake. This insures that the middle gets nice and cooked and the edges get nice and crispy.</div>
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4// On medium heat, these take about 3 minutes a side, I'd say. You be the judge. Once done, lay a nice thick slab of butter atop and dowse with some delish syrup. There are about 6-8 pancakes total, and we throw our leftovers in the fridge for next morning's breakfast. They keep nicely.</div>
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see, it's good.</div>
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Enjoy your Sunday. May your Masses be tantrum-free.</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-89930285472686276492014-01-20T13:37:00.000-08:002014-01-20T13:38:01.911-08:00restaurants & babies & gambles & probabilitiesSean and I really like going on dates.<br />
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Sean and I have a two and half year old and a four month old.<br />
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Those statements seem fairly unrelated, and indeed, they certainly work against each other. It's usually pretty difficult for us to get a sitter because my eligible siblings are either working multiple jobs or have fled the state (AUDREY). An unsolvable conundrum, you say. Well. Sean and I are risk-takers. We're participators in parent roulette. We live on the edge and kill for the thrill. Ok, false again, but we realllly like our pale ales and buffalo wings and plush booths and dimly lit locales. Therefore, we take the kids.<br />
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We kind of stumbled into a weekly tradition over the last couple of months. There is an indoor/outdoor mall down the street from us that has a favorite restaurant of ours. The food is tip top, the price is right, and they microbrew an excellent blond. After a drink and an appetizer to split, we hit up the indoor mall park. This part serves the double purpose of fulfilling the bribe for Jordan's good(tolerable) behavior during our date, and also satisfies the quotient of crazy for the week. <br />
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So this whole routine either works out swimmingly or fails epically. This can be chalked up, I believe, to the mystifying nature of the still-developing brain. In Jordan's case, for example: one date is smiles and kids' menu artwork and sugar packet assembly line across the table while Sean and I sip leisurely and snack heartily.<br />
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The following week is straight out of one of those ubiquitous Pinterest posts "Reasons my kids are crying." She's crying because we gave her a straw. She's crying because there isn't a yellow crayon. She's crying because Sean tried to play tic-tac-toe with her. She's crying because I blew on her food to cool it off. She's crying because cheek tear tracks are the new black. I don't know.<br />
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And the other fool<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3o1XKdWN6tTScvxEbnM_CZ81ocJ2vhUKGmMLQ86I4A03EcRdG9FEdZPR0qWy2k1AARUlzD_oDy6JmiSqfJ88kI69UOXZTaYrtEEIc17WGU-89dTFRTpGw8_NEqOfyoJZKD8eN7aBYg2y-/s1600/IMAG0387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3o1XKdWN6tTScvxEbnM_CZ81ocJ2vhUKGmMLQ86I4A03EcRdG9FEdZPR0qWy2k1AARUlzD_oDy6JmiSqfJ88kI69UOXZTaYrtEEIc17WGU-89dTFRTpGw8_NEqOfyoJZKD8eN7aBYg2y-/s1600/IMAG0387.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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One week Weston's happy to play with the distinctly feminine mobile that hangs from his carseat handle. (It was originally Jordan's, and dangles carved pink hearts and little wooden dolls with flower-print dresses. Whatever, he's entertained.) Or I'll give him some gift card out of my wallet to hold and he'll like zone in and concentrate in such a manner that pulls his eyebrows together and narrows his lips into a tiny "o." But then! The next week I'm marathon nursing under my sweatshirt to prevent the agonized cries that can only be cause by parents trying to enjoy themselves. (Does any other nursing mother construct their day's outfit based on how easily their child can be concealed under their shirt? Oh good.) Or he'll require unbroken eye contact and saccharine, obnoxious smiles as I speak out of the side of my mouth to my husband.</div>
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Some dates, it's just Jordan acting out. Others, Weston is the date diva. Sometimes we hit gold and both are fantastic. Then there's that time where the house wins all: flailing toddler, whimpering infant, shamed parents with heads hung low, all slinking as inconspicuously as possible from the place. (Impossible to do with Jordan's signature back-arch, by the way. But we've perfected an exit strategy inasmuch as possible.)</div>
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I know, I know. We should "date" at home. Lots of people do it. Probably most people who have young kids. Sean and I are of the opinion, however, that kids shouldn't hinder the spousal relationship, they should enhance it. Ideally yes, we would be sneaking away for uninterrupted conversations in which we could give our full concentration to each other while the kids terrorized the paid help. On occasion, we do! But hey, you can't let life stop you from watering your marriage. If bringing the kids means fragmented sentences and carrot sticks dropped under the table and little hands grabbing bearded cheeks so that Dad can look ONLY AT JORDAN - but we still get a little piece of each other? so be it. </div>
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There's an inevitable eye-lock between Sean and I at some point during every one of these "dates" that translates clearly to "why do we do this?" We do it because it is, ultimately, a good time. It's something that takes us away from routine and it's something to look forward to in a humdrum week. It's little, but it's important. To me anyway. I did tell Sean that we are making a 2014 pact to get out for solo dates at least every other week, come hell or dual diaper bombs. Something of a new year's resolution, if you will. </div>
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That doesn't necessarily mean that we'll stop our little tradition - we probably won't. We don't learn our lesson very easily.</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-12864539312566743912014-01-15T14:01:00.000-08:002014-01-15T14:02:06.399-08:00ferberize shmerberizeReally and truly, I meant to state my noble intentions and resolutions for 2014. Since one of them was stop procrastinating, I'll let you judge how things are progressing. Another was to eat healthier and whole, which is my explanation for the speed-eating of Christmas treats as efficiently as possible the last couple of weeks. The sooner I eat all the junk, the sooner I can begin a cleanse. My logic is sound.<br />
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I did make rather a cliché list of 2014 to-do's, but it really kind of annoys me to think about them because they're almost exactly <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/01/should-auld-resolutions-be-forgot-and.html" target="_blank">last year's,</a> which remain mostly unaccomplished. I'll go ahead and blame it on pregnancy and newborn and what have you, but honestly I just need to be a big girl and get shiz done. I'm not going to bore you with my resolutions of body improvement, home improvement, and potty training. They're old news and they're not going anywhere. I am, however, smack dab in a new addition to the list: sleep training. It's not going well, friends. It's not going well. <br />
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Jordan was something of a professional sleeper at 4 1/2 months, which is Weston's current age. It took less than a week of crying it out before she was rocking 10 hours a night, and thus my back was sporting a bright shade of pink from all the prideful self-pats. I set out to do the same for Weston a couple of weeks ago because, well, boy just don't sleep.<br />
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nor does his tongue know where it's proper home is</div>
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Here's the deal: we live in a small 2-bedroom apartment whose master bedroom shares walls with two neighboring master bedrooms. I've had no problem letting Wes cry out during his naptimes - which he does in ten minutes or so - because, hey, who else is home at 1 in the afternoon? At night though, the ungodly hours that Wes deigns meal hours (read: all the hours, beginning with elevensies in p.m.-sies, fat hobbit that he is) amplify the ferberizing such that 10-15 minutes feels more like 10-15 heart attacks. I know I would be quite displeased to be awoken 5 times a night by Not-Skinnie the Pooh entreating his mother to satiate his rumbly tumbly, and I'm not here to piss anyone off. On the other hand, Weston is becoming increasingly demanding and I increasingly tired and the whole nightly ordeal is just not working out.</div>
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I know the problem; I know the difference between Jordan and Weston. Jordan loved, idolized, craved a pacifier nearly from minute one. With Weston, you might as well have offered him his diaper to snack on, the way he reacts to the binky. He spits and chokes and looks mortally offended. I know the reason here too. He recognizes the binky for what it really is: a boob imposter. This boy won't even take a bottle brimming with mother's milk; he buys only the real deal. My sister calls him Oedipus Wes, such is his glaringly obvious adoration for me and my feeding powers. It's flattering!, his ready, half moon smile and bright, admiring eyes that light as soon as I enter his peripheral. But it is exhausting too and this new year will WILL bring me at least four hour stretches of sleep, lest my foggy days continue to go to hell in a handbasket woven of tears and caffeine capsules.</div>
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Tips? Advice? Routines? Witchcraft? Leave me what you have and I'll desperately employ your tactics.</div>
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Meanwhile, on the Jordan front</div>
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We <em>are </em>actively potty training and she <em>is </em>actively progressing even if only to summon all her energy and circulation for the equivalent of a cocoa pebble, that she might put a sticker on her potty chart. </div>
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We enjoy full conversations now and she has taken to telling me to "be caresul!" multiple times per car ride (not sure why since we've never been in an accident?), and advising me to "doh worry" as she pats my face (usually a defense mechanism should she sense she may be in trouble). If she encounters a locked bathroom door, she stands outside shouting "you POOPIN? you NAKED?" until the door be opened unto her. </div>
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She is only the best big sister I could've imagined, and is confident that Weston already possesses conversational skills as she sits next to him and inquires "you want toys Wesson? Yeah? Ok!" (sprints to her room for an armload.)<em> </em>She is - not altogether misguidedly - concerned that Weston will reach into his or her own dirty diaper (I usually change them together and side by side) and holds his frantically roving hands while chiding "you can't touch poopy, Wesson. No touching poopy, Wesson."</div>
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So yeah, 2014, I expect some changes from you. Expect some from me, as well. But don't change everything. There's some stuff I'd like to stay the same. For like, ever.<br />
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-61754224033793057142014-01-04T10:13:00.000-08:002014-01-04T10:13:11.243-08:002013 in t-h-i-r-t-e-e-n2014 then, huh? Pretty epic. I've completely fallen out of the habit of putting dates on anything, so the '13-'14 transition has yet to resonate, however I remain faithful to <a href="http://www.houseunseen.com/2013/12/2013-in-13-photos-link-up.html" target="_blank">Dwija's link-up</a> of a year in photos. It's kind of a trip seeing what's happened from January to January. And so:<br />
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I'm just barely pregnant with Weston James here. We know, at this point, but nobody else does.</div>
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I look at this picture, and I just know. Jordan still wears those butterfly jams; she still loves the slide like a mother; she still doesn't have much hair to speak of. But she's a baby here, and she's not anymore. Much is the same, but more is different.</div>
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Ah. That disgusting patio pre-<a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/08/drumroll-3-months-in-making.html" target="_blank">revamp.</a> Still one of her favorite haunts though. And this face says - even if her vocabulary can't - "I know you asked me to get off of the filthy floor. But I'm just going to look at you like this instead." </div>
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Worth noting: I am looking at those EXACT socks at this EXACT moment on my EXACT fat son. Jordan is a year and a half here; Weston is four months. And they're still cutting off his cankles' circulation.</div>
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<a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/04/sparknotes.html" target="_blank">Hawaii</a> for our babymoon. A tiny rental car, a huge pregnant woman, and a hot pink inflatable. Paradise nonetheless.</div>
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Beach season with beached whale.</div>
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Pretty much the perfect metaphor. Sean is Jordan's constant shadow.</div>
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Here's me taking a huge risk that Jordan doesn't pee herself over firework excitement/terror. She's 100% nakey, which the funky lighting masks rather artfully. </div>
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<a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/08/how-life-is-like-zoo.html" target="_blank">Jordan turned two,</a> and I turned sad. Well not really, but you know. A mother's nostalgia. She certainly isn't 5 tiny pounds anymore, but she displays the same stubborn self sufficiency she did on Day One of Jordan.</div>
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Oh <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/09/labor-weekend.html" target="_blank">hey Bud.</a>. You're fat and tardy. Still love ya.</div>
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New dynamic. On the left: leery. On the right: creeper.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwin3Ptx7nGA8LOtf9N7o9BgPk5udVTOYeGHQnZ0sQDBYZWZOieh7H_rWhwCdwUQtWBI6I6q8ixLy7lmEqhvYSAKK6F2qB6DBiJX-dyaQigrT2j3SzksFpopO8j8QgBWf8pn1970u_n-BG/s1600/nov1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwin3Ptx7nGA8LOtf9N7o9BgPk5udVTOYeGHQnZ0sQDBYZWZOieh7H_rWhwCdwUQtWBI6I6q8ixLy7lmEqhvYSAKK6F2qB6DBiJX-dyaQigrT2j3SzksFpopO8j8QgBWf8pn1970u_n-BG/s1600/nov1.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Shamelessly employing 2013's <a href="http://blog.oxforddictionaries.com/press-releases/oxford-dictionaries-word-of-the-year-2013/" target="_blank">word of the year.</a></div>
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At my family's huge Christmas gathering - the time of her LIFE. Bouncy houses abounding.</div>
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Oh! Bonus shot for 2013 in THIRTEEN photos:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVBuWMCRfoQ1iA5Z4s_UgLi4e3MMZDdm9-QV_E5oIIZkyKWkpqFuyOKSpBp1nzmJiVIrMYW7mc9_KJ8MtbglMAmiBKEfzAJ_a0ihQOrprqFMthEOLO_k6KYDkAbLamR91YV4x-ko7gV7V_/s1600/bonus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVBuWMCRfoQ1iA5Z4s_UgLi4e3MMZDdm9-QV_E5oIIZkyKWkpqFuyOKSpBp1nzmJiVIrMYW7mc9_KJ8MtbglMAmiBKEfzAJ_a0ihQOrprqFMthEOLO_k6KYDkAbLamR91YV4x-ko7gV7V_/s1600/bonus.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Weston is blissfully unaware of the clenching and imminent threat on his life.</div>
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And that is a wrap, friends. Fare thee well 2013. </div>
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<a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/01/2012-in-12-photos.html" target="_blank">Here</a> is my 2012 in 12 photos - and go see <a href="http://www.houseunseen.com/2013/12/2013-in-13-photos-link-up.html" target="_blank">Dweej</a> for all the '13 in 13's. HAPPY 2014.</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-48454595413385953262013-12-24T12:44:00.003-08:002013-12-24T13:35:55.949-08:00may your days beCurrently, I am up to my savage, unplucked eyebrows in ham glaze, ginger cookie production, obsessive compulsive gift wrapping, and post partum hair loss. I place Weston on an unblanketed carpet for 28 seconds and he emerges with a fist full o'hair tightly locked in his hot dog fingers, and I can't go one feeding without finding strands stashed in his neck folds. A secure place for them, I might add. I'm fairly positive J. K. Rowling could safely hide a horcrux in his chins and no one would be the wiser.<br />
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I'm popping in to wish you all the very merriest of Christmases. For some reason, this year's Christmas season has been particularly flavored with good will toward men. I guess by that I mean good will towards me. I have had so many unexpected favors cast my way in the last couple of weeks, and I wanted to take the time to thank:<br />
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The lady in the Starbucks drive-thru the other day that paid for my drink and drove off. No reason, and no waiting around to be acknowledged for her kindness.<br />
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My sister, who popped in yesterday to let me run Christmas Eve Eve errands (like the irresponsible procrastinator that I am) sans Jordan, and cleaned my apartment sparkling in the hour that I was gone.<br />
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<a href="http://therhodeslog.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kate,</a> who knocked me off my tiny, unbalanced feet with a total surprise of a package. She handmade the sweetest stuffed animals I have ever, ever seen for both Weston and Jordan, and sent me the most amazing homemade chai blend I have tasted in life - a life replete with many a chai sampling, to be sure.<br />
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tell me you're not totally blown away</div>
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She casually mentioned she may post the recipe and it is up to us, her dedicated followers, to bother her everyday until this happens. It's for the good of mankind.</div>
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Then there's <a href="http://chalayn.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Chalayn</a>. We haven't even met, she and I. But we chat a lot about Breaking Bad and Friday Night Lights and Tim Riggins, and lo, she up and sends me this amazing package with hilarious handmade ornaments and ummmmmm coconut curry chocolate?? There is a chocolate genius that has made the world a better place, as Chalayn has made mine for introducing me to it. Consequently I see my jeans being a smaller place, as well.</div>
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A rhino and an elephant...wearing Santa hats and scarves. It's brilliant, you agree?</div>
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Oh and also, she is an amazingly talented sketch artist because I think she captured our likenesses perfectly:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuaNwDISIXA19EsEAy8HxZW7HuGmzjs2TdTlZczQB0kslcsmXjKGshbP08pv5MEB2QIvsvIhh0aiu9EUFclrrl9XJVc-yFiZU7INXhsfDamJ1Ol_u6_TGSEqWssdBipgFx6lY65QQI0_H/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuaNwDISIXA19EsEAy8HxZW7HuGmzjs2TdTlZczQB0kslcsmXjKGshbP08pv5MEB2QIvsvIhh0aiu9EUFclrrl9XJVc-yFiZU7INXhsfDamJ1Ol_u6_TGSEqWssdBipgFx6lY65QQI0_H/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" height="398" width="400" /></a></div>
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Sean's wearing his smiley face jams from my <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/p/about_29.html" target="_blank">About</a> page which I haven't updated since Weston has been born because, shameless. And Jordan is appropriately bowl-cutted because her mother got a hold of some scissors last week:</div>
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and someone had to suffer the consequences..</div>
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What I'm trying to say is I've been the recipient of some truly wonderful gestures and friendships. There's something about an unexpected kindness that gives me a good will high all day. Or at least until Jordan throws each individual book all across her room again. I hope you are so fortunate to have friends and family such as these. It makes life a little Christmasier (<----- which really should be a superlative. If I were a lexicographer...)</div>
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Guys, have a great one. A really warm, fuzzy, spicy Christmas all around.</div>
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See you soon</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-56499727415036290192013-12-09T14:22:00.001-08:002013-12-09T14:22:41.700-08:00tis the seasonAlright I'm not going to drop anything too heavy on you, because I'm sure your feeds are all overloaded with Christmas cheer. I just have to say though, <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-hap-happiest-season-of-all.html" target="_blank">as I've said before,</a> man, I just love this time of year. Every Christmas since having Jordan - and this will be our third - I've said to Sean or my mom or whoever has had the misfortune to be standing within earshot, "this year is going to be so much fun with Jordan." But really, THIS year. This is the Christmas that is going to be so much fun to share with Jordan.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqnSsJgiZihzLaszg-6opy4vZKHwkXTG-O4fhPRiD3MSW1YRgRwNj4ou6k0MbOvBwHQAa4cnWRLzNCQYXTEVdMfhZNDcHjuH54UlvNFNoOSZl9yj8t8j-JF_hJTtEIXteS8vDhYk6yVan/s1600/photo+1+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqnSsJgiZihzLaszg-6opy4vZKHwkXTG-O4fhPRiD3MSW1YRgRwNj4ou6k0MbOvBwHQAa4cnWRLzNCQYXTEVdMfhZNDcHjuH54UlvNFNoOSZl9yj8t8j-JF_hJTtEIXteS8vDhYk6yVan/s1600/photo+1+(2).JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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What you have to understand about this year is Jordan is going around saying things like "merry pissmas!!" and "pissmas lights mommmm! pitty!" and "I wah watch Grinch" - except, it doesn't sound like Grinch. It sounds like what maybe a female Grinch would be called. I made the mistake of asking "oh, are you feeling a little Grinchy this morning, Jordan?" to which I received, "yeah, I **tchy." Between these and "tit-or-teating" I think we're rounding out all of our holidays with a good healthy dose of curse words.<br />
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It has turned murderously cold (by my standards anyway), but for me, this adds to the enchantment of the season. I'm incredibly paranoid about my children freezing their little appendages off, so I've been bundling them in three layers apiece, topping off with a beanie and scarf and off we go in search of Christmas lights and cocoa.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqYOqyfC-d331YcDlRE55bpdZeoRsduEHx0BRBez9oKFMPkmyhO4gCpu9V55KQFaKLi0etUUp-p3WEMUyTtudR1V09jFwyQnjzbm3eqacP11I2Qc-uL5v_NGAZ4Km6gKUIbJnTt4GXgdC/s1600/photo+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqYOqyfC-d331YcDlRE55bpdZeoRsduEHx0BRBez9oKFMPkmyhO4gCpu9V55KQFaKLi0etUUp-p3WEMUyTtudR1V09jFwyQnjzbm3eqacP11I2Qc-uL5v_NGAZ4Km6gKUIbJnTt4GXgdC/s1600/photo+4.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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pre-sock double-up and fur-lined boots. poor kid probably roasts like a chestnut. on an open fire.<br />
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Seeing the Christmas season through these newer eyes takes me right on back. I absolutely buy into Christmas magic, as horribly hokey as that is. Christmas lights, carols, movies, books - give them to me. I am your haven, Christmas cheer. Seeing it happen anew in this quirky-wonderful two year old with a penchant for mispronunciation is my idea of good fun.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx07nx7YMI3IkTu7y8Z5lMwCTUcXQlkb-zic1X6DaShZ4-bpdlcBzuEA7Uzci0prjW22O77VCP-6MtZFr4JgOr7C1-Vxgzfjj9nM712IH3czX8tGqxzLq-0NdHjEHgX6s2_1SaNwfe5QEp/s1600/photo+5+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx07nx7YMI3IkTu7y8Z5lMwCTUcXQlkb-zic1X6DaShZ4-bpdlcBzuEA7Uzci0prjW22O77VCP-6MtZFr4JgOr7C1-Vxgzfjj9nM712IH3czX8tGqxzLq-0NdHjEHgX6s2_1SaNwfe5QEp/s1600/photo+5+(1).JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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watching the ice skaters</div>
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Weston, well, he can't do much this time around but look severely perturbed.<br />
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But we'll give him a year or so. He gets his taste of the season by way of hint-o'-mint breastmilk post-candy cane binge on the part of his mother. Should be sufficient for a fat three-monther.</div>
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And now because I'm feeling festively benevolent, I want to share this hot chocolate recipe which, incidentally, is straight off the Hershey's unsweetened cocoa box, but with just a couple extra goods:</div>
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4 cups of milk</div>
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1/3 cup of water</div>
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1/2 cup of sugar</div>
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1/4 cup of Hershey's unsweetened cocoa</div>
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3/4 tsp of vanilla</div>
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pinch of salt</div>
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Peppermint schnapps, for the willing adults</div>
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Candy canes, for the unfortunate underaged</div>
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Incorporate the dry ingredients in a medium saucepan. Add water and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until boiling. Boil and stir two minutes, then add milk. Heat to desired temp while stirring occasionally, but do not let boil. Add vanilla off heat and divide hot chocolate between four cups.</div>
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Do yourself a solid and punch up those babies with a shot...or two...of peppermint schnapps, or take it easy and stir it on up with a candy cane. Either way you get that irresistibly Christmas influence. </div>
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I must insist you use the powers of the cocoa for good, and imbibe while participating in a round of <i>I Spy Christmas</i> or taking in a classic like <i>A Christmas Story</i> (Scut Farkus! he had yellow eyes!) or <i>White Christmas</i> (because Danny Kaye) or bringing it along on a Christmas light hunt. Them's the rules.</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-25728838158191840082013-11-26T15:00:00.000-08:002013-11-26T15:00:45.264-08:00best weston^^ When I was pregnant with Weston, this is what my sister called my uterus. You know, as in, "Best Western" hotel (motel?) She's the witty type. Now that he's ex-utero we just call him, the boy himself, Best Weston. (We don't know any other Westons anyway.)<br />
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About 3 weeks ago I started pre-writing this post in my head. Do you [bloggers] do that? I wanted to commemorate Weston and all of the things I've learned of him thus far. I needn't have bothered with my brain rough drafting, since <i>so much</i>/<i>everything</i> has changed since then. That's how it goes with the infants. Every two hours you're updating your view of them.<br />
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Three weeks ago, perhaps even less, Weston was just the unhappiest little man. Nearly inconsolable really, unless he was in mother's arms. Then things started changing, as they are wont to do with fresh babies such as himself. He didn't scream when I put set him in the papasan whilst I made his sister breakfast. He stopped whimpering from his bouncy seat perch while I dressed myself and Jordan. He just started being content to <i>be</i>, even when Jordan was up in his grill squealing "aAAaaAAww! Buddy! Hi Wesson! Hi Wesson! Hi Wesson!"</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqovSGstJsjlicyG4ufPIvrcTRMfeXDuDa0aKJq2GAqu4KKI7Uycd7iwsDw-5chhMQbN653mbzLyoHWeGjCKyiq5Ik3YL8x4KewWOjWowaQnV9MQoWgxvGPmLZrozNBFjQyqCMtGE2L4w/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqovSGstJsjlicyG4ufPIvrcTRMfeXDuDa0aKJq2GAqu4KKI7Uycd7iwsDw-5chhMQbN653mbzLyoHWeGjCKyiq5Ik3YL8x4KewWOjWowaQnV9MQoWgxvGPmLZrozNBFjQyqCMtGE2L4w/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></div>
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his gummy grill being all kinds of invaded</div>
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I knew this day would come! It always does, but it never seems like it will when you're in the throes of newborn turmoil. My mom claims there wasn't a colicky one among us, her eight children, and we were sleeping angels from the get-go (she says as I wrangle the terrible two-ing toddler and the caterwauling newb and I can do nothing but grimace at her great fortune) but that is just not my lot in motherhood. I birth tiny difficult humans...who eventually morph into perfectly lovely loving lovebugs...and apparently continue to morph into beings that are thuh sweetest and most affectionate quickly followed by crazy and should-we-exorcise-her? and back again in fifteen minute intervals. (Ok so far this is just Jordan. The nature of the Jordan, or the nature of the toddler? That is the question.)<br />
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Anywho, a couple stats on the jolly not-lean giant: at 15 lbs, 1 oz, my good-natured monster is in the 90th percentile for weight;<br />
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believe it</div>
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at 24 1/4 inches he is in the 80th percentile for height;</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr25FrvPvz-qt_HhsuUjrmJO-8SM-7jJoJ9R9y6zEAhGCKcNs5KbrKkHqx9d3rIXjlIZY_O1VofFR-65tQZw9EI15oYUdjbZ1bmd021KC2madog4goBjPWa-A2GSCHuzJALkb95bMN3hDE/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr25FrvPvz-qt_HhsuUjrmJO-8SM-7jJoJ9R9y6zEAhGCKcNs5KbrKkHqx9d3rIXjlIZY_O1VofFR-65tQZw9EI15oYUdjbZ1bmd021KC2madog4goBjPWa-A2GSCHuzJALkb95bMN3hDE/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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pose like you're strong, they said</div>
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and at I can't remember how many inches, his head size is in the 40th percentile;</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJHVukUvpPhGEbrECiVsqFmw-jnf_-XJBUP2oWgkWMkBx9hprMB-5sCGt0Ivm62vyHioMOnj6U_POZN9SOqp_ZMvUoj-SkmZY_KID4LjYL6pNiaqoOK7kbBwthQbfpx1tX8C0CkQ55PWi/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJHVukUvpPhGEbrECiVsqFmw-jnf_-XJBUP2oWgkWMkBx9hprMB-5sCGt0Ivm62vyHioMOnj6U_POZN9SOqp_ZMvUoj-SkmZY_KID4LjYL6pNiaqoOK7kbBwthQbfpx1tX8C0CkQ55PWi/s1600/photo+5.JPG" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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fat guy with a little head</div>
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he hates, hates, from the bottom of his very soul, HATES the car. Suggestions here? I've tried music, mobiles and brightly colored blankets. He won't take a binky so we're out of luck there;<br />
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and finally, we have reason to believe that his happy-go-luckiness is inextricably linked to my presence. The other day I put him down for his nap - which he very nearly NEVER wakes up from for at least 2 1/2 hours - and ran out to grab lunch for the family while Sean watched the kids. Not five minutes after I left Weston woke up and screamed until I got home. As if his spirit sensed my spirit leaving the building. I mean, it's flattering and all, but it makes dates, or even solo errands, <i>real </i>hard. And I'm a sucker for solo errands. It's like when you've been on a treadmill for a long time (you know, like 12 minutes) and you step off and your walking feels as if you're gliding very quickly (outofthegym). Or when your backpack was incredibly overloaded in high school - as mine always was - and you take it off and you feel like you're flying. Such are errands sans children.</div>
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These last weeks have been a pleasure. I do love waking up to uncoordinated, over-compensating smiles. It's fun too, to watch Wes scare himself with his own gas since he hasn't pieced together that he's the one making the startlingly loud blurts. And the cooing. I'm 115% positive if we could but bottle infant cooing we'd have captured world peace concentrate. It's too precious to ignore.</div>
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One more for extra-indulgent measure:</div>
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Sean: "he looks like he's three."</div>
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**Sidebar: this post took me 2 days and 3 sessions to complete. Frequent mom bloggers - ??? I don't understand you. Or maybe I just have the neediest of children. How do you do it?**</div>
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Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-35107136184214100282013-11-13T15:14:00.000-08:002013-11-13T15:14:44.626-08:00fave fiveI'm joining <a href="http://moxiewife.com/2013/11/five-favorites-the-conferencegatheringparty-edition/.html" target="_blank">Hallie</a> today like I haven't done in oh-so-long. I managed to scrape up some favorites and thought I'd throw them at you, pop-fly style.<br />
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1// Pumpkin Spice Latte, I don't know you man. Starbucks, in signature Starbucksian fashion, rolled out their red holiday cups and flavors on <i>November 1.</i> After I rolled my eyes a few times whilst standing in line and had some internal uppity fit of conscience, I promptly ordered a Caramel Brulee latte because hi, I'm Jessie, and I'm with the Bandwagon.<br />
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FYI, this is the most wonderful concoction of coffee that has been beaten into caramely-sweet submission, that it may be thoroughly enjoyed by one, coffee-intolerant Jessie Pope, while simultaneously giving her the caffeine-sugar speedball she needs by 9 a.m.<br />
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2// <i>Pretty Little Liars</i><br />
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Ok first off, this show is pretty dang good. Equal parts intrigue, thrills and teen drama - you know, all the good stuff. So I like it. But Sean - Sean loves it. (How's that Greyhound's carburetor taste under there Sean?) Our internet has been vying between spotty and nonexistent for about a week now, so we haven't been able to watch it very frequently. Sean kind of shuffles around the apartment whimpering <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HzNFwxsSPwU" target="_blank">"two can keep a secret if one of them is dead."</a></div>
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Me, I'm only just getting started on this <i>Breaking Bad</i> business. What? I'm only 5 years late. I'm squirmy about violence and I've walked in on my siblings or Sean watching some rather horrifying scenes that have scared me off entirely. But after much peer pressure and a healthy dose of curiosity, I've begun the <i>Breaking</i> journey during afternoon breastfeeding sessions. Jordan's napping during those ones, and I don't think she'd be much interested in the intellectual properties of Jesse Pinkman and his ebonics, nor the complex (and disturbing) character development of Walter White at any rate. She's on a <i>Thomas the Tank Engine </i>jag anyhow, so it's all shunting trucks and hauling freight for this toddler. </div>
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It turns out, I managed to walk in on nearly all the most gruesome scenes clear through season two (um, ATM episode? Tortoise episode?) so I had already seen the worst of it already.</div>
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3// Hard Cider</div>
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I've been trying my hand at several different brands of cider. Target actually carries a few kinds, and the past several weeks has seen me inconspicuously slipping a 6-pack in our cart, only to have my 2 year old blurt to all nearby shoppers "Mommy beer? That your beer mommy?" <i>Any</i>way, the best one so far is</div>
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Angry Orchard's Cinnful Apple</div>
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which apparently is seasonal and I will be SO SAD when it's not around. It is delicious and has a mild spiciness that just rocks the casbah.</div>
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4// Persimmons</div>
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I eat these like candy. I'm so sad their season is such a short one. I've been stocking up at Trader Joe's and farmer's markets because they are just. too. good. Does anyone have any good recipes you do with persimmons? I feel that these bad boys could really be utilized in a bread or some delicious baked good.</div>
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5// Morning Weston</div>
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By far this boy's best time of day is in the 6 a.m. hour. He is at his most.. inquisitive? (read: clueless), and definitely at his smiliest in the bright and early. He just kind of coos something cute while I play with his bulldog jowls and we have a grand old time. I can't say this waking hour is ideal, since the boy is still down with bad self at any given hour of the night, but he makes it pleasant at the very least. Thanks buddy.</div>
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That's it for me! Swing by <a href="http://moxiewife.com/2013/11/five-favorites-the-conferencegatheringparty-edition/.html" target="_blank">Hallie and the gals'</a> for more.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-29959224748687224682013-11-04T14:21:00.001-08:002013-11-04T14:21:42.798-08:00milestones, or somethingMy inner monologue since my <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-next-chapter.html" target="_blank">last post</a> has been something along the lines of "the pillows lining my under-eyes have gotten so that if I smile they threaten to block out my pupils completely, but at least <i>some</i> pillows are being put to use around here." or "I recently discovered chocolate milk + Bailey's and it's changed my <strike>mornings</strike> delicate after-dinner drinking, but I need to be make sure I'm heavy-handed with the Bailey's rather than the milk because Weston doesn't like lactose."<br />
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And also, this morning I sported the baggiest sweatshirt I have with the comfiest sweats I own and my faux-fur lined slippers...to Target. For all intents and purposes, I was in my jam-jams. I supplemented this showstopping look with sopping shower hair run through with some gel that promised beachy waves, and nary a stroke of make-up on my face canvas. Public meltdowns (compliments of mainly the toddler but occasionally the infant) have accustomed me to stares from fellow shoppers, so it was actually a welcome change of pace to get side glances caused by my outfit rather than my young. Further, I answered the door in this getup and chatted up the magazine subscription solicitors for a good fifteen minutes. Social interaction much?<br />
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Anyway, I can't say that these, my recent happenings, have made for good blog fodder. But during my blogging sabbatical I missed a couple of milestones, so I'm here to impart them for posterity.<br />
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1// Blogaversary (blog<b>i</b>versary? blog<b>o</b>versary? not a real word so why do I care about correct spelling?)<br />
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October 26 marked my one year of blogging. <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2012/10/post-inaugural.html" target="_blank">Here's</a> my first post, replete with tiny thumbnail pics of my tiny thumbnail Jordan. What a difference a year makes:<br />
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2// I didn't do a Halloween post to show you the costuming and gallivanting! Because lazy. <a href="http://earlybirdandnightowl.blogspot.com/2012/10/happy-haunting.html" target="_blank">Here's</a> last year when Jo went as Little Red Riding Hood and Weston went as Not Even Conceived Yet. And below are this year when a theme is (hopefully) apparent:</div>
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"tit-a-teating" (yes, I'm aware. totally inappropriate.)</div>
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Toto is the basket's only occupant. Dorkthy already downed the first few houses' candies.</div>
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"this is so not Kansas"</div>
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"If I only had a brain" and his heartless mother Tin Man</div>
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I feel I should also mention, because it's part of "recent," that this guy</div>
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he slays me. He can (and often does) cry for interminable periods; he can be the neediest, pansiest little mama's boy; he can request to be nursed for what seems like it must be hours and hours. Then he slips me his James Franco-esque squint-eye smile, like so</div>
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and all is forgiven. He is my 15 pound bucket of colic, with a side of the sweetest personality this side of the no-sleep zone. Oh you read that right. The fat, fat, fat child is clear through his wardrobe up to 6 months. He only wears 6-9 monthers or above, and it's increasingly hard to feed him on the papasan chair because he stretches from one side to the next. Jordan was so dainty until she was at least a year (when her stomach discovered its ability to rival Charles Laughton's), so raising Sasquatch is a little unnerving. And I love it.</div>
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Jordan in all of this? Smack dab in the middle, being a shockingly excellent sister. She constantly wants to "pay Wesson" (play with Weston), or "song on, dancey Wesson" - a form of entertainment involving many many uncoordinated toddler dance moves performed before the very very perplexed infant while he sits in his bouncy musical chair. She is also very savvy regarding my wits-end levels, as evidenced by her encouraging Wes to "knock i'off" in the car, where he is at his screamingest worst.</div>
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There's the mishmosh that is my brain. I'd say you asked for it, but you did not. Thanks for stopping along the way anyway. Now go and marvel that it is November - NOVEMBER. I'm still stuck in summer so I'm a little in awe that I can get peppermint mochas at Starbucks right now. (ooooo... peppermint mochas.)</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-10046086256031238272013-10-22T14:44:00.001-07:002013-10-22T14:44:33.826-07:00the next chapterYesterday, I quit my job.<br />
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Well, quitting sounds like I was disgruntled or something awful happened. Really, I think I more "retired." I don't know if I've ever mentioned this here, but for the last seven years I've worked for my dad and uncles' insurance agency. My grandpa founded it in the '50s and my dad and all of his siblings run the business. It's been a blessing of a job. I have been able to work and learn with my amazing family, and a staff of really awesome ladies that I'm lucky to call friends. The management has always accommodated my quirked out schedule, has been more than understanding about last minute sick days for myself or Jordan, and has thrown me not one but TWO baby showers. I mean, good people here.<br />
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After much debate, number crunching, hemming and hawing, Sean and I concluded that, since he's landed this new job with a better salary, I am able to finally come home to the babies. Both sweet and bitter, this determination. I live but two minutes down the road from my work, so popping in for a visit will be no problem. It won't be the same, however, as ambling down the hallway and throwing a "hi Dad" at his office, or being able to walk four feet towards <a href="http://www.heelsandrobots.com/" target="_blank">Kimmy's</a> cubicle to give her the latest on my feelings.<br />
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In the spirit of honesty, I'm daunted. This new season of my life...it's thrilling and exciting and truly <i>exactly</i> what I want to do with it. I know that growing up with a mother that was able to stay home and raise me and my siblings has impacted my life greatly for the good. I want to give that to these fools<br />
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plus <i>someone</i> has to save Weston's life every hour on the hour</div>
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but I know, and am a bit afraid of, how much work is before me. Important <i>important</i> work! <a href="http://themattwalshblog.com/2013/10/09/youre-a-stay-at-home-mom-what-do-you-do-all-day/" target="_blank">This article</a> that <a href="http://timeflieswhenyourehavingbabies.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Ana</a> put me on to (THANK you Ana) says it all. I am these kids' anything and everything, for a few years anyway. Jordan has to learn potty skills, counting abilities, language comprehension, manners, reverence and prayers, and maybe some normalcy? from me:</div>
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ok, let's start with counting then</div>
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And Weston, well, pretty much <a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/1044635_143597199178618_980881061_n.jpg" target="_blank">this pin</a> sums up Wes' needs as of now:</div>
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yep</div>
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So yes, I am now unemployed. And thus begins what I think may be a more challenging career. That's not a shot at the working girl! or the working mom! Heck, that was my jam for seven years up until yesterday. All I mean is: I'm confident that I'll be hitting up God for a little/lotta extra patience, vast amounts of know-how, and some vigorous self-motivation. Up until this point, I was just on "maternity leave." Now, well, this is happening.</div>
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just you wait, Mom</div>
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Seasoned vets, leave your very best counsel below. Because here I go: carpe crazy.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-92001220891789372842013-10-17T16:51:00.005-07:002013-10-17T16:51:55.333-07:00at the lakeThis whole week I've been meaning to write of our splendid weekend. Here's what happens though, perhaps you can relate:<br />
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I head toward the couch where the laptop casually resides, with the best intentions to pen a post. I spot a water glass on the side table, so I bring it to the kitchen. Wouldn't you know it. There are dishes that need to be washed, might as well do that while I'm in here? The dishwasher is...clean. Of course it is, which means I need to empty it before I stack these dirties. Phew, I finished the kitchen and wiped the counters and this rag needs to go to the hamper in the bedroom. The bed's unmade! And my pj's are on the floor! Well, I'm in here, might as well take care of that. How did Jordan's shoes get under the bed? I'll put those away now... Oh yeah, I forgot about that pile of Weston's clothes I was going to put away but it's actually just sitting here in Jordan's room. So I'll do that and then finally head back to what I was originally going to do. Which was... ??? I don't know, but now it's time to feed Weston.<br />
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But a glimpse at my ADD. And the reason that even if I HAVE something I want to put down, I haven't been getting around to it.<br />
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First off, our weekend bears someone background explanation. Sean got a new job!<br />
!!!!!!!!!!<br />
He got it a couple weeks ago, but then had to put two weeks in at his old job, so it didn't feel very celebratory to say anything until he <i>actually</i> started. Which was yesterday. I'm <b>super</b> stoked. It pays better, and just from the looks of his first day, it sounds like he'll be learning a lot at this new place. All this to say, when Sean put in his two weeks at the old place, he made it so his last day was last Thursday, and his first day at the new place was yesterday. A mini vacation! Woop woop.<br />
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Therefore, we trekked to my parents' cabin in Lake Arrowhead. It's truly lovely and rustic and woodsy and wonderful. It's much more fall in the mountains than it is back at our place; it's <i>actually</i> crisp, in the temperature-y sense of the word, and in the leaves-y sense of the word. We took walks with hot cider, traversed about the lake, and dipped our toes in at the Village's Oktoberfest. I drank beer with hints of orange, I did.<br />
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This was just before Jordan and I took stage left and danced our buns off to the authentic German music. It's on video and everything.</div>
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We met up with my mom, sister and brother later in the weekend and did our due diligence at this "puckin" patch that had a huge blow-up bouncy "puckin" which was, y'know, super fun. We also window shopped a few of the high end stores in the Village.</div>
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Here we are at Coach. Sean, oh so adorably and ridiculously naively scoping out a "purse as a surprise for Jess" (I assume for our anniversary) and beelining away as if the purse was a hand grenade. That dinky one he's holding was $450 ("I thought it was gonna be like $50...") *smirks in a saccharine manner and rolls eyes condescendingly* Oh but they were having a 50% off event, so I picked up a beautiful, yet unassuming, emerald green wallet out of the $50 box. $25 for a Coach wallet? Yeah sure! As I was standing in line to pay, this very young couple in front of me was being rung up and their total was <b>over $4000</b>. You read that right. I just, can't. And turns out my gorgeous wallet was misfiled and was originally $150 and ain't no way I was paying $75 for that thing. We're talking I'm a committed Target enthusiast here.</div>
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<i>Anyway</i> one of the definite highlights of the weekend was this moment:</div>
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Oh I'm sorry, you can't tell that I'm standing <b>one foot away</b> from <b>Gwen Stefani?</b> Well, I did. Embarrassingly enough, I wouldn't have even noticed her appropriately incognito person had I not recognized her son Kingston, who she's watching race my daughter on the go-karts. I know. I'm that person that recognizes the offspring of celebrities... Anyway Sean Googled to confirm that yes, Gwen was weekending in Lake Arrowhead. I literally could have put my arm around her like we were best buds, but I'm sure she had security lurking about somewhere. Kudos for me for being the absolute worst paparazzi of all time? Yes. She turned toward me several times and I<i> </i>have <i>way</i> to much pride to just snap a shot right in her face. But here's Sean doing his best impression of a celebrity dad as he and Jordan exit the attraction:</div>
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the stud in the $8 shades</div>
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The point of all this murky recapping: it was a thoroughly successful vacation for Sean and I, rife with Kodak moments and margaritas at the local Mexican place and the discovery that Jordan's delicate constitution is completely intolerant of swervy car rides (the puke smell lingering about the family vehicle that infiltrates the nostrils nearly a week later testifies to that fact) and cuddles on the couch with our little minions sandwiched between us. It got us to thinking that weekends should always be four days, and the work week but three. </div>
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In a perfect world. But we'll take the perfect pieces where we can.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-86538560059224691542013-10-16T15:18:00.000-07:002013-10-16T15:19:00.479-07:00on the count of three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Three big ones today. Three years ago at this very moment, Sean and I were exiting the most gorgeous chapel as man and wife. And almost eight years today, we had our very first date. Dang! Almost a decade, boyfriend. I'm impressed. Continue to impress me, why don't you, and I'll try my best to do the same. </div>
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This boy,</div>
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Starsky and Hutch called...</div>
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turned into this guy,</div>
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wine tasting...I'm lit</div>
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Camarillo Air Show...he's lit</div>
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turned into this man</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOe0Gq6M-slcpZhZULt-RGx27PVr_Rqnhyphenhyphen9-T-anx6TAzv2brDe0oBhKRVk1gqb4ZzCXzc_a-RrQVoFOfFjsJjxYYR11fG23GbvfRxPlW0n5prkO3oKsjYu2-2PUqUK_v82ZEuiajMhI/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOe0Gq6M-slcpZhZULt-RGx27PVr_Rqnhyphenhyphen9-T-anx6TAzv2brDe0oBhKRVk1gqb4ZzCXzc_a-RrQVoFOfFjsJjxYYR11fG23GbvfRxPlW0n5prkO3oKsjYu2-2PUqUK_v82ZEuiajMhI/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="640" width="478" /></a></div>
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and I couldn't be prouder. </div>
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Anyway, that's my shout-out to my bff and the astounding father to my babes. I try to keep the sap at bay around here, but I gotta say I love this guy and the family we have. A happy anniversary to you, Sean Michael.</div>
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1 + 1 = 4</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8944575255695701955.post-82010555293835353292013-10-09T16:31:00.001-07:002013-10-09T16:31:30.760-07:00new best friendsNow for some things that are fast becoming staples around here, as I and my diminutive cohorts grasp about for a routine. I'll write them here then send them hence to <a href="http://moxiewife.com/2013/10/five-favorites-vol-32/.html" target="_blank">Hallie's.</a><br />
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1// Language Comprehension Skills<br />
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In truth, there are many things about having a toddler hanging about that make the care of a new infant pretty difficult. However, there are also some really great perks, particularly if said toddler has taken a shining to said infant. I can't tell you how many times a day I go to change one of Weston's diaper bombs, get sat and settled on the floor with a half nakie baby, and I've forgotten to grab the wipes. Not only does Jordan understand what I need, she gets unnaturally psyched to help out. She yells "Oh! Yeah!!" and scrams to the next room, bringing back the prize with a prideful smile. Same goes for diapers, onesies, binkies, and so forth. She's become quite the helper and the responsibility is going right to her head.</div>
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2// Drive Thru's</div>
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This bears some explanation. I'm actually quite staunchly and patronizingly disapproving of fast food - the glaring omissions here being an In n' Out cheeseburger with grilled onions and (cue chagrin) the occasional M&M McFlurry. If the day has been appropriately lousy, you understand. I mostly always keep food that is fast from my lumbering frame. What I actually mean here is: did you know there are things like drive-thru pharmacies? 20th century Jessie just found out. I went to fill a thrush prescription for a then-seriously-pissed-off Weston when what should I eye at Walgreen's, but a drive-thru. This saved me from withstanding a pharmacy queue sporting a flattering shade of flustered whilst trying to bounce poor Wes to complacency.</div>
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Also ummmm Starbucks drive-thru's. A couple of months ago one went up around the corner from us. Coffee stops are such a quick errand that I normally wouldn't justify the time to get two kids out of carseats and back in them just for the five minutes it takes to grab the addictive substance. But driving thru? A blessing and a wallet curse. Which brings me to...</div>
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3// Caffeine</div>
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I found this on Google Images, and am so amused people get <i>this</i> excited over a couple pumps of orange syrup</div>
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We might need to finally get me that Members Only jacket to the Mom's Club because I'm thiiiis close to <i>enjoying</i> coffee. Right now I'm mostly masking the flavor with, say, pumpkin spice or caramel or toffee nut, but this morning - after a real doozy of a night with Weston - I added an extra espresso shot by way of necessity and it...wasn't terrible. Step aside, chai-obsessed Jess of yesteryear. There's a new girl in town. And she's tired.</div>
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but why, Mom?</div>
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4// TRADER JOE's</div>
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You gotta give it to TJ's, they really delve into the season. Which, by the way, is my very favorite one. Today was deliciously chilly, windy, and heavenly, with a little drizzle to boot. Jordan pulled out her "khakit" (jacket) and "cuuuute boots, mom" and we had ourselves a TJ's excursion, where we encountered this</div>
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all the pumpkin</div>
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Pumpkin ale, pumpkin butter, pumpkin granola bars, pumpkin crackers. Oddly enough, I didn't make even one pumpkin purchase - opting instead for the autumn apple route that I might try my hand at some homemade sauce. Prepare to be pored over, Pinterest. I'm in the serious market for the perfect sauce.</div>
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I heart you, Joe's. I'll procure some of your pumpkin wares next time, promise.</div>
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5// Tell me this infant position is not your absolute fave</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgnTh9QFBMCq1Jw_jPH72UkzrrP1tTqgs0pT_UinkM4sfxOjXQEpJXpml0xGuAM6_AE3yuc9_KL3-o4F00F4kuxOt1GoZ8Kz2NnLlg-n_rBhY02illkI8b8-Tku2L7QKXmq2j6qCC924/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgnTh9QFBMCq1Jw_jPH72UkzrrP1tTqgs0pT_UinkM4sfxOjXQEpJXpml0xGuAM6_AE3yuc9_KL3-o4F00F4kuxOt1GoZ8Kz2NnLlg-n_rBhY02illkI8b8-Tku2L7QKXmq2j6qCC924/s1600/photo+3.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></div>
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Mostly I find it so entertaining because I try to imagine a fully grown human pushing his bum that far in the air to sleep. Why do they do this? I know not, but it cracks me straight up.</div>
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PS it looks like Wes' face is buried in the mattress - but I assure you it's not. When he sleeps on his tummy I'm right next to him. (At night he's in the bedside rocker.) He loves a tummy nap though - from the sounds of it because he's working out some issues going on in there. A lovely post-nap diaper always awaits me.</div>
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So! These are the days of our lives lately. You should go visit <a href="http://moxiewife.com/2013/10/five-favorites-vol-32/.html" target="_blank">Hallie's roundup</a> now.</div>
Jessie Popehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06488095131762581182noreply@blogger.com3