(Sorry about the long absence of new blurts. I knew this would happen. I have the best of intentions, but somehow the weeks whip by and ideas only get half-written down. I think the trick will be to keep these shorter. Hah! Blurt 2.0 continues....)
So I have a love-hate relationship with Ikea. A visit to my house would suggest otherwise. My bedroom furniture is Ikea (Hemnes). Sam's bed is Ikea (also Hemnes). There are Ikea shelves and mirrors on the wall. Our bookcases in the living room are Ikea (Leksvik). Ikea chairs, shelves, spice jars, kids cutlery, glass jars, etc in the kitchen. And the basement area, office, and guest room look like Ikea stumbled downstairs and threw up. And I wish I could say with the preponderance of Ikea furniture throughout the house, visiting our humble abode would be like stepping into an Ikea catalogue -- with sun-filled rooms, hipster couples, ebulliant children -- but mostly it looks like, well, a mish-mash of particle board and melamine.
I have tried to shop elsewhere. Surly Husband and I once swore solemnly over brunch many years ago that from henceforth we would only purchase quality pieces of furniture. Furniture made of real wood, that we didn't have to assemble, that couldn't be found in countless homes. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that quality pieces of furniture only seemed to come in $1000 increments. So we lowered our expectations a little and began to explore big box stores, only to discovered that most of the furniture was, well, too old and suburban for our snobby, youthful taste, and seemed to be no better quality anyway. And all the people selling furniture on Craigslist were simply trying to offload old Ikea furniture and overstuffed couches.
And so, time and again, we would trudge back to Ikea, buy something everyone else had, and with our $1 frozen yoghurt in hand, would do what I called the Ikea walk of shame back to the car.
But I can't hate on Ikea forever. Since becoming a parent. I've grown to love the kids section. We bought a fancy maple, drop-down, Sleepyhollow crib second-hand. We never used the drop down function and ultimately switched it for the simple Gullivar crib I'd picked up for my mum's place, and now never have to worry about the drop-down death trap issue. We bought Sam a singing potty (yes, a singing potty) with several functions and pieces, but ultimately he prefered the plain, $3 Ikea potty.
And finally, the other day, I'd absolutely had it with cleaning the space-aged Peg Perego Prima Pappa high chair. A gazillion functions we never used (seriously, who tilts their high chair back to feed a baby anymore?) equals a gazillion crevices to clean three times a day or more. As Liv feels she is perfectly capable of feeding herself, thank you, the Peg becomes a slop encrusted horror after every meal. The Ikea Antilop high chair is a simply, molded piece of plastic that wipes clean easily and takes up so much less space. Much to my horror, it seems to be out of stock across Canada, so I had to take to Kijijji to find a used one. Life is instantly better in the kitchen.
So to you new parents out there trying to figure out what to stock your home with, I say get thee to Ikea. Don't be drawn in by all the additional gizmos and features. The baby industry preys on how overwhelmed your are feeling. Buy simple, buy plain, and buy washable. And pick up some Swedish meatballs on the way out of the store. Kids love 'em.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Academy Awards Smackdown -- A Recap
Those of you who know me well know that I love -- LOVE -- awards shows. I look forward to the Golden Globes and the Oscars all year. I know it's just a bunch of thin, rich people congratulating themselves. I know that in the grand scheme of things, self-adulation and display of wealth and vanity amount to nothing. But I love the drama, the dresses, reports of behind-the-scenes politicking. I love that I can - without any irony - wear pyjamas and gleefully screech insults at people who have subjected themselves to a week of starving themselves with my mouth full of cupcake. Most of all, I love to watch awards shows with others. Collective schadenfreude is the best kind of bonding activity.
So last night, I decided that we have to kick it 2010 style and live blog it. Thanks to those that joined it (and special thanks to Surly Husband for his technical prowess). The best comments of the night (as decided by me) follow in no particular order:
1. JK: To paraphrase from another blog I read re Avatar, did anyone else find it weird that the Sully character wanted to get it on with a giant blue cat?
G*: I dunno... those giant blue things were pretty hot. ;)
DS: Smurfette evolved
2. SS: James Taylor always looks like a serial killer
3. Reeshmeister: I have to admit, I liked to Blind Side. LOL
JK: Reesh, that's because you're a big softy. You are Leanne Touhy
Reeshmeister: Well, she did marry rich....my goal in life.
4. DS: maybe Penelope Cruz will take off her mask, reveal she is actually a praying mantis and eat a presenter
G*: THAT would be cool.
5. On the Brat Pack's tribute to John Hughes
DS: look what just washed up on stage!
6. On Elinor Burkett interupting co-producer Roger Ross William's acceptance speech for Best Documentary Short, "Music by Prudence". According to Enty at crazydaysandnights.net, despite working on the same film, the two producers hate each other and she is now claiming she was late to the stage because Williams' mother used her cane to prevent her from getting to the stage. Yowza. It really WAS as awkward as it looked!
MJ: who is this woman?
JK: What the hell?! Where did that lady come from? The guy is looking so pissed!!
DS: you're great and I'm a let you finish this speech...
SSs Man: Is that Kanye's mom?
JK: We officially have a most awkward moment of the night!
LH: well, that would be impressive if it was kanye's mom...seeing as she's dead and all....
DS: ZOMBIE KANYE'S MOM!
SSs Man: uh ummm awkward
7. On Jeffrey Fletcher's failure to thank Sapphire in his acceptance speech for Best Adapted Screenplay.
LH: maybe he should thank the author...you know, the person who did all the work
8. On Kristin Stewart clearing her throat over her shoulder before the random, unnecessary horror flick montage
JK: Why did she bark?
Sig: she just choked on her own career
9. Sig: James Cameron is the Nickelback of the Oscars
10. On Demi Moore entering
DS: i hope she gets punk'd
G*: I think she already has... *snicker*
11. DS: i think they should do a predictive death montage...all the actors that are going to die before the NEXT oscars
12. On Jennifer Lopez's dress
G*: I think she's wearing a giant squid. it just needs a big eye and tentacles
DS: the Kracken is speaking
So last night, I decided that we have to kick it 2010 style and live blog it. Thanks to those that joined it (and special thanks to Surly Husband for his technical prowess). The best comments of the night (as decided by me) follow in no particular order:
1. JK: To paraphrase from another blog I read re Avatar, did anyone else find it weird that the Sully character wanted to get it on with a giant blue cat?
G*: I dunno... those giant blue things were pretty hot. ;)
DS: Smurfette evolved
2. SS: James Taylor always looks like a serial killer
3. Reeshmeister: I have to admit, I liked to Blind Side. LOL
JK: Reesh, that's because you're a big softy. You are Leanne Touhy
Reeshmeister: Well, she did marry rich....my goal in life.
4. DS: maybe Penelope Cruz will take off her mask, reveal she is actually a praying mantis and eat a presenter
G*: THAT would be cool.
5. On the Brat Pack's tribute to John Hughes
DS: look what just washed up on stage!
6. On Elinor Burkett interupting co-producer Roger Ross William's acceptance speech for Best Documentary Short, "Music by Prudence". According to Enty at crazydaysandnights.net, despite working on the same film, the two producers hate each other and she is now claiming she was late to the stage because Williams' mother used her cane to prevent her from getting to the stage. Yowza. It really WAS as awkward as it looked!
MJ: who is this woman?
JK: What the hell?! Where did that lady come from? The guy is looking so pissed!!
DS: you're great and I'm a let you finish this speech...
SSs Man: Is that Kanye's mom?
JK: We officially have a most awkward moment of the night!
LH: well, that would be impressive if it was kanye's mom...seeing as she's dead and all....
DS: ZOMBIE KANYE'S MOM!
SSs Man: uh ummm awkward
7. On Jeffrey Fletcher's failure to thank Sapphire in his acceptance speech for Best Adapted Screenplay.
LH: maybe he should thank the author...you know, the person who did all the work
8. On Kristin Stewart clearing her throat over her shoulder before the random, unnecessary horror flick montage
JK: Why did she bark?
Sig: she just choked on her own career
9. Sig: James Cameron is the Nickelback of the Oscars
10. On Demi Moore entering
DS: i hope she gets punk'd
G*: I think she already has... *snicker*
11. DS: i think they should do a predictive death montage...all the actors that are going to die before the NEXT oscars
12. On Jennifer Lopez's dress
G*: I think she's wearing a giant squid. it just needs a big eye and tentacles
DS: the Kracken is speaking
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sam Goes to the Dentist
I admit, I was a little leery when my dentist's office suggested that I make a first appointment for Sam several months ago. "Just a first, preliminary visit to make sure his teeth are coming in alright and that he doesn't have any cavities. He's too young for a cleaning and the first visit is really just to get him used to the idea of going to see the dentist." And to bill your insurer for 15 minutes of your time, the receptionist's eyes said.
More concerning, was the scene playing out in my mind. Sam, uncooperative and squirming in the chair finally opening his mouth, followed by the dentist's sharp intake of breath behind her mask, the quick whirl of her swivel chair, eyes accusing: "What have you NOT been doing?"
Sigh. We were lax in making nightly brushing a consistent event in Sam's life. Too often, by the time the night time rituals (which, over the period of his short life, have included some combination of running a bath; coaxing our shrieking child through his hair getting shampooed; letting him streak naked from one end of the house to the other until air dry; dodging a tangle of arms and legs as we forced him into a diaper, pull-up, or pyjamas; negotiating books, drinks of water, top-ups on crackers; singing songs, and responding to sudden annoucements that pee was imminent) were over, it was only once we had one foot out the door that we would realize that we had once again forgotten tooth-brushing.
At this point, I would freeze, picturing all of my parenting peers, diligently attending to their child's oral health. Sam's head would pop up, sensing a reprieve. "Sam, do you want to brush your teeth?"
"Sure!" Sam would chirp, bounding into the bathroom. It's not like teeth-brushing would take that much longer, but on some evenings those extra five minutes seemed epic. And so, more often than not, we would pretend that missing just once wouldn't be that bad.
We tried a number of tricks to avoid making tooth-brushing the orphan of Sam's bedtime rituals. For awhile, we would give Sam his toothbrush while he was still in the bath, but this experiment ended after it became clear that Sam was only interested in licking off the toothpaste and dipping the brush into the bath to suck bathwater off the bristles. After he resisted having us brush his teeth for him, we decided to give him space to let him brush by himself. I walked into the bathroom to discover him fastidiously scrubbing the bathtub with his toothbrush. Lord knows what else he tried to clean in my absence.
Currently, we have a combo of independent and parent-led brushing.The latter is what I would imagine brushing a cat's teeth is like. And I can't possibly imagine any plaque or tartar is being removed while Sam is chewing on his brush.
Friends of mine -- who began tending to their son's oral health as early as possibly by carefully wiping down his toothless gums with a cloth -- told us once that their cousin, an orthodontist, had recommended that they begin flossing early as well. I instantly had a vision of me, floss wrapped around my fingers, reaching into Sam's mouth and Sam snapping down on my exposed finger like a baby pterodactyl. And then scrabbling up the wall, hissing, with my severed finger in his mouth.
I began prepping Sam for his first visit by informing him that we were going to visit a nice lady called a dentist named Dr. A who was going to look in his mouth at his teeth. Surly Husband yelled from the kitchen, "But she's not a real doctor, Sam! She probably failed out of medical school. Although she's step up from a PhD. Now THAT's a fake doctor!" Sam's interest was only piqued when I suggested that Dr. A. might give him a new toothbrush.
At the dentist's, Sam quickly became fixated on that staple of every medical office's kids' area, the...the...hell, I don't even know what it's called. The wooden toy with multi-coloured, twisty wires, where you push large beads from one end to another. No matter what age, little kids friggin' love them. Anyway, Sam was none too pleased to be pulled away from it and only submitted to be led to his chair when he was reminded he might get something for it. (Greed is a powerful parenting tool.)
Sam gamely sat through his introduction to the glasses, the bib, the dental tools, and was especially impressed with the hydraulic chair. However, Dr. A. only had enough time to count Sam's teeth and quickly check for any obvious spots before Sam decided he was no longer interested in participating and swung his feet over the edge of the chair, oblivious to the fact that he was about 4 ft off the ground. He quickly headed back to his toy, while I finished up with the dentist (who assured me that Sam had done pretty well for his age, which is probably what they say to all harried-looking mothers).
Upon my announcement that it was time to put on his coat, Sam looked up and matter-of-factly informed me that he did not want to leave. I took a step toward him with his coat. "Sorry buddy, time to go."
Sam responded in his best angry mom voice: "I. DON'T. WANT. TO. GO."
Anyone who is a parent knows this moment. You are in public. You are starting down the impending Public Tantrum. Other parents in the room look away sympathetically. The parentless smirk inwardly and think their kids will never do this.
I remembered all my Harvey Karp words of wisdom. I got down on his level, engage in eye contact. I put on an empathetic face, acknowledging his feelings, validating his frustration. "You don't want to go. You want to stay and play."
Sam looked up. His face said, "Fuck you, lady. Don't psychobabble me."
I made a move with the coat. The Tantrum reared its hideous countenance. It was on.
I carried Sam out using the tried-and-true football hold, my arms clasped around his waist, the weight of his body on my hip, his arms and legs waving furiously, his voice choked with rage. I wondered if this was what riot police felt like when they drag off G8 protesters.
At least they don't have to brush their teeth.
More concerning, was the scene playing out in my mind. Sam, uncooperative and squirming in the chair finally opening his mouth, followed by the dentist's sharp intake of breath behind her mask, the quick whirl of her swivel chair, eyes accusing: "What have you NOT been doing?"
Sigh. We were lax in making nightly brushing a consistent event in Sam's life. Too often, by the time the night time rituals (which, over the period of his short life, have included some combination of running a bath; coaxing our shrieking child through his hair getting shampooed; letting him streak naked from one end of the house to the other until air dry; dodging a tangle of arms and legs as we forced him into a diaper, pull-up, or pyjamas; negotiating books, drinks of water, top-ups on crackers; singing songs, and responding to sudden annoucements that pee was imminent) were over, it was only once we had one foot out the door that we would realize that we had once again forgotten tooth-brushing.
At this point, I would freeze, picturing all of my parenting peers, diligently attending to their child's oral health. Sam's head would pop up, sensing a reprieve. "Sam, do you want to brush your teeth?"
"Sure!" Sam would chirp, bounding into the bathroom. It's not like teeth-brushing would take that much longer, but on some evenings those extra five minutes seemed epic. And so, more often than not, we would pretend that missing just once wouldn't be that bad.
We tried a number of tricks to avoid making tooth-brushing the orphan of Sam's bedtime rituals. For awhile, we would give Sam his toothbrush while he was still in the bath, but this experiment ended after it became clear that Sam was only interested in licking off the toothpaste and dipping the brush into the bath to suck bathwater off the bristles. After he resisted having us brush his teeth for him, we decided to give him space to let him brush by himself. I walked into the bathroom to discover him fastidiously scrubbing the bathtub with his toothbrush. Lord knows what else he tried to clean in my absence.
Currently, we have a combo of independent and parent-led brushing.The latter is what I would imagine brushing a cat's teeth is like. And I can't possibly imagine any plaque or tartar is being removed while Sam is chewing on his brush.
Friends of mine -- who began tending to their son's oral health as early as possibly by carefully wiping down his toothless gums with a cloth -- told us once that their cousin, an orthodontist, had recommended that they begin flossing early as well. I instantly had a vision of me, floss wrapped around my fingers, reaching into Sam's mouth and Sam snapping down on my exposed finger like a baby pterodactyl. And then scrabbling up the wall, hissing, with my severed finger in his mouth.
I began prepping Sam for his first visit by informing him that we were going to visit a nice lady called a dentist named Dr. A who was going to look in his mouth at his teeth. Surly Husband yelled from the kitchen, "But she's not a real doctor, Sam! She probably failed out of medical school. Although she's step up from a PhD. Now THAT's a fake doctor!" Sam's interest was only piqued when I suggested that Dr. A. might give him a new toothbrush.
At the dentist's, Sam quickly became fixated on that staple of every medical office's kids' area, the...the...hell, I don't even know what it's called. The wooden toy with multi-coloured, twisty wires, where you push large beads from one end to another. No matter what age, little kids friggin' love them. Anyway, Sam was none too pleased to be pulled away from it and only submitted to be led to his chair when he was reminded he might get something for it. (Greed is a powerful parenting tool.)
Sam gamely sat through his introduction to the glasses, the bib, the dental tools, and was especially impressed with the hydraulic chair. However, Dr. A. only had enough time to count Sam's teeth and quickly check for any obvious spots before Sam decided he was no longer interested in participating and swung his feet over the edge of the chair, oblivious to the fact that he was about 4 ft off the ground. He quickly headed back to his toy, while I finished up with the dentist (who assured me that Sam had done pretty well for his age, which is probably what they say to all harried-looking mothers).
Upon my announcement that it was time to put on his coat, Sam looked up and matter-of-factly informed me that he did not want to leave. I took a step toward him with his coat. "Sorry buddy, time to go."
Sam responded in his best angry mom voice: "I. DON'T. WANT. TO. GO."
Anyone who is a parent knows this moment. You are in public. You are starting down the impending Public Tantrum. Other parents in the room look away sympathetically. The parentless smirk inwardly and think their kids will never do this.
I remembered all my Harvey Karp words of wisdom. I got down on his level, engage in eye contact. I put on an empathetic face, acknowledging his feelings, validating his frustration. "You don't want to go. You want to stay and play."
Sam looked up. His face said, "Fuck you, lady. Don't psychobabble me."
I made a move with the coat. The Tantrum reared its hideous countenance. It was on.
I carried Sam out using the tried-and-true football hold, my arms clasped around his waist, the weight of his body on my hip, his arms and legs waving furiously, his voice choked with rage. I wondered if this was what riot police felt like when they drag off G8 protesters.
At least they don't have to brush their teeth.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sam: The Friends
A quick post tonight. Hockey is too distracting.
As I type this, I can hear Sam lecturing the Friends upstairs.
The Friends are composed of Brown Puppy, Other Puppy, Train and Bus, all stuffed toys. Brown Puppy is the alpha male of the group. While Bus and Train are sometimes hurled from the bed every night, Brown Puppy always remains in the honoured spot next to Sam's pillow.
With leadership comes great responsibility. Brown Puppy is often admonished on behalf of the entire group. "I am NOT happy with you. NO SPITTING." Last week, Surly Husband listened over the monitor as Sam went into great detail explaining how his upcoming birthday. "There's going to be CAKE and then I'm gonna get PRESENTS."
Most mornings, the Friends are collected and brought to the top of the stairs, where they are launched into the air. Depending on Sam's mood, they may lie at the bottom of the stairs all day until bath time, at which point it is my job to try and throw them to the top of the stairs. This often results in several minutes of hilarity, mostly for Sam and Surly Husband, at my pathetic attempts to get each stuffed toy to clear the top stair.
Liv's newfound mobility has changed things. Liv's giant bug eyes follow Sam's every move. Anything beloved to Sam generates great interest. While Sam forgets the Friends at the bottom of the stairs, Liv quietly worms her way over to them. She is most attracted to Bus and Train, no doubt because of their bright colours. When she reaches them, she joyfully embraces them, rolls on her back, gums them with abandon.
Sam seems to have a sixth sense when Liv is touching one of his toys, and he'll come tearing around the corner like a Nazgul, snatch the Friend away with an ear-splitting "NO LIV", leaving his poor sister stunned and Friendless, her lower lip trembling.
Liv has a long way to go before she gets to join this exclusive club, but she'll get in a few slobbery kisses in the meantime.
As I type this, I can hear Sam lecturing the Friends upstairs.
The Friends are composed of Brown Puppy, Other Puppy, Train and Bus, all stuffed toys. Brown Puppy is the alpha male of the group. While Bus and Train are sometimes hurled from the bed every night, Brown Puppy always remains in the honoured spot next to Sam's pillow.
With leadership comes great responsibility. Brown Puppy is often admonished on behalf of the entire group. "I am NOT happy with you. NO SPITTING." Last week, Surly Husband listened over the monitor as Sam went into great detail explaining how his upcoming birthday. "There's going to be CAKE and then I'm gonna get PRESENTS."
Most mornings, the Friends are collected and brought to the top of the stairs, where they are launched into the air. Depending on Sam's mood, they may lie at the bottom of the stairs all day until bath time, at which point it is my job to try and throw them to the top of the stairs. This often results in several minutes of hilarity, mostly for Sam and Surly Husband, at my pathetic attempts to get each stuffed toy to clear the top stair.
Liv's newfound mobility has changed things. Liv's giant bug eyes follow Sam's every move. Anything beloved to Sam generates great interest. While Sam forgets the Friends at the bottom of the stairs, Liv quietly worms her way over to them. She is most attracted to Bus and Train, no doubt because of their bright colours. When she reaches them, she joyfully embraces them, rolls on her back, gums them with abandon.
Sam seems to have a sixth sense when Liv is touching one of his toys, and he'll come tearing around the corner like a Nazgul, snatch the Friend away with an ear-splitting "NO LIV", leaving his poor sister stunned and Friendless, her lower lip trembling.
Liv has a long way to go before she gets to join this exclusive club, but she'll get in a few slobbery kisses in the meantime.
Best of Intentions
After describing in detail one of Sam's more spectacular poops to my father a few years ago -- I believe I used the word cannonball -- my dad said, "You know, you should really write all this stuff down. You have such a great way of describing things." And so many moons and several hundred diapers later, and with the gentle encouragement of a few friends, here I am.
I've been feeling trepidatious about this new enterprise. Ever one to systemetize and classify, I had to make a list of all the reasons why it's taken me this long to start blogging.
For one, previous ventures to chronicle my life have whimpered out fairly early. I have a few diaries and travel journals in my collection, their spines barely cracked and only the first few pages taken up with furiously detailed musings. In stark contrast, I have a memory of my housemate S's many journals from over the years neatly lining a shelf in her room. This to me was an intimidating feat of discipline and consistency.
An easy one to get over. So I start off and wander away. Not a reason not to start.
Second, the whole exercise seems so self-indulgent. Who really wants to read what my kid did today or what childhood memory I've fixated on today? I'm probably a few quirks away from being diagnosed with a narcissistic complex as it is. Does writing a blog about my life look like I assume the world should be interested in my day-to-day activities?
Ultimately, a stupid concern. If I'm blogging, I clearly want to be read. Away with the false modesty. I've enjoyed reading my other friends blogs about training to be a chef, prepping for a marathon, music, movies, etc. I hope that what I write makes people smile. That's it, that's all.
But with false modesty aside, I have to admit I'm feeling a little vulnerable. So may of my friends are brilliant, clever writers. I lack brevity. I can't tell a story without inserting random details and digressions that I think add to the narrative, and then am always surprised when I look up to see the listener's eyes glazing over. (I'm the kind of person that competely understands why Tolkien had a whole history separately written for a thousand-page book.) I can't write a paragraph without some sort of interjection, I use dashes too many times, my sentences go on and on, and I use ellipses more than I should ....
So there. I've acknowledged that these posts may be inconsistent (for those of you who will naturally be waiting with bated breath for my every word), that I know that this is a self-indulgent, exhibitionist venture, and that I could stand to be more pithy. Now to the point of this blog.
Purpose: To serve as the go-to spot for people looking for updates on Sam & Liv, which I suspect will be the primary reason anyone checks in. This will also be the place for me to hammer out whatever thoughts have been buzzing around my head all day.
Privacy: I'm still sussing this out. For now, I'll stick with the kids' first names and everyone else will go by initials or whatever unfortunate nickname I decide to stick you with.
I've been feeling trepidatious about this new enterprise. Ever one to systemetize and classify, I had to make a list of all the reasons why it's taken me this long to start blogging.
For one, previous ventures to chronicle my life have whimpered out fairly early. I have a few diaries and travel journals in my collection, their spines barely cracked and only the first few pages taken up with furiously detailed musings. In stark contrast, I have a memory of my housemate S's many journals from over the years neatly lining a shelf in her room. This to me was an intimidating feat of discipline and consistency.
An easy one to get over. So I start off and wander away. Not a reason not to start.
Second, the whole exercise seems so self-indulgent. Who really wants to read what my kid did today or what childhood memory I've fixated on today? I'm probably a few quirks away from being diagnosed with a narcissistic complex as it is. Does writing a blog about my life look like I assume the world should be interested in my day-to-day activities?
Ultimately, a stupid concern. If I'm blogging, I clearly want to be read. Away with the false modesty. I've enjoyed reading my other friends blogs about training to be a chef, prepping for a marathon, music, movies, etc. I hope that what I write makes people smile. That's it, that's all.
But with false modesty aside, I have to admit I'm feeling a little vulnerable. So may of my friends are brilliant, clever writers. I lack brevity. I can't tell a story without inserting random details and digressions that I think add to the narrative, and then am always surprised when I look up to see the listener's eyes glazing over. (I'm the kind of person that competely understands why Tolkien had a whole history separately written for a thousand-page book.) I can't write a paragraph without some sort of interjection, I use dashes too many times, my sentences go on and on, and I use ellipses more than I should ....
So there. I've acknowledged that these posts may be inconsistent (for those of you who will naturally be waiting with bated breath for my every word), that I know that this is a self-indulgent, exhibitionist venture, and that I could stand to be more pithy. Now to the point of this blog.
Purpose: To serve as the go-to spot for people looking for updates on Sam & Liv, which I suspect will be the primary reason anyone checks in. This will also be the place for me to hammer out whatever thoughts have been buzzing around my head all day.
Privacy: I'm still sussing this out. For now, I'll stick with the kids' first names and everyone else will go by initials or whatever unfortunate nickname I decide to stick you with.
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