Monday, December 28, 2009
Coming soon. . . Christmas '09
I don't normally like to blow-by-blow blog. "Today, we blahblahblahed. Then Daniel said blahblahblah. Tomorrow, we're going to blahblahblah." However (pause for effect), my Christmas post will be just that. Maybe it won't make you laugh, but I want to be sure to get a verbal snapshot so that Doug and I can laugh hysterically about this Christmas for years to come. Wonderfully, I got an email this morning for some contract work (receiveing files - unknown; files due - Thursday). It's likely that this blog will have to wait until I have a New Year's blog to write, but that's ok. I don't think these memories are going any where in the next 4 days.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Waste not, want. . . a lot
Throwing things away is cathartic for me. I don't mean just going through life, grabbing half-empty bottles of the shelf, and chunking. I really enjoy squeezing the last teensy-weensy bit of toothpaste out of the tube and pitching it in the trash. Most of the time, Doug decides the tube is empty (long before it's really empty) and he "gets" to throw it away. Unfair. Recently (sometime in October), I went on a cleaning/organizing spree of our cabinets and discovered 7 bottles of lotion, 4 bottles of body wash, and 2 bars of fancy soap I bought at an outdoor market in New Mexico in 2006. I decided that we would not be purchasing any more lotions or soaps until we depleted our supply. That's fantastic for my budget - we won't have to buy lotion again until the next presidential inauguration. It seems to be working out ok for my skin (I was moderately worried about bouncing back and forth between Irish Spring shower gel and Bath & Body Works Fresh Pineapple), but I'm about SICK of shower gel!
This is how I wound up in this spot to begin with. Enter endless cycle. BBW has a sale. I raid sale and buy many bottles of fun-smelling lotions, potions, and Lord knows what else. I use said shower gel for 2-3 days. I decide I'm not a shower-gel-and-loofah kind of girl. I put the mostly full bottle back in the cabinet and forget about it for years (see above regarding the NM outdoor market). Friends give me bubble bath, shower gel, and body lotions for shower gifts, thus adding to the stash of bottles in my cabinet.
I would LOVE nothing more than to take a shower with a good old gold bar of Dial. At this point of the process, however, it has nothing to do with money. If someone bought, wrapped, and placed a 12-pack of gold Dial bars under my Christmas tree, I wouldn't use them until all of the gel was gone. I'm not sure where this obsessiveness is coming from, but I fully understand that Doug will not be using the Exotic Coconut shower gel. I fully intend to buy him a 12-pack of gold Dial bars that I will not touch until all of this gel is gone. I fully do not understand this obsession! What is wrong with me and why must I rid the Carey home of all bottles of (worthless) gel?? Who knows? All I know is that I'm about sick of smelling like fruit. If anyone happens to notice my tropical scent, please forgive my obsessive-compulsive nature and know that I, too, am suffering.
This is how I wound up in this spot to begin with. Enter endless cycle. BBW has a sale. I raid sale and buy many bottles of fun-smelling lotions, potions, and Lord knows what else. I use said shower gel for 2-3 days. I decide I'm not a shower-gel-and-loofah kind of girl. I put the mostly full bottle back in the cabinet and forget about it for years (see above regarding the NM outdoor market). Friends give me bubble bath, shower gel, and body lotions for shower gifts, thus adding to the stash of bottles in my cabinet.
I would LOVE nothing more than to take a shower with a good old gold bar of Dial. At this point of the process, however, it has nothing to do with money. If someone bought, wrapped, and placed a 12-pack of gold Dial bars under my Christmas tree, I wouldn't use them until all of the gel was gone. I'm not sure where this obsessiveness is coming from, but I fully understand that Doug will not be using the Exotic Coconut shower gel. I fully intend to buy him a 12-pack of gold Dial bars that I will not touch until all of this gel is gone. I fully do not understand this obsession! What is wrong with me and why must I rid the Carey home of all bottles of (worthless) gel??
Thursday, December 10, 2009
30 somethings
I've had a few experiences lately that have reminded me that 30 pounds overweight is a place I never care to (re)visit. Lugging Daniel around the airport - through the ticketing line, through security, through the terminal, down the jet way, up and down the aisle of the plane, through the terminal, through baggage claim, wash, rinse, repeat - is one of those experiences. Seeing a gaggle of 60+ women emerge from their water aerobics class and converge upon the showers at the YMCA was another one of these experiences. I won't heebie-jeebie you to death with the details, but sheesh. I don't care to arrive at 60 in that condition. Arriving home from Phoenix four pounds heavier was a wake-up call (and a slap in the face). It reminded me just how quickly those 30 pounds sneak up on you.
People who have known me for 20+ years know this, but many people don't - I was the fat kid. I wore elastic-waist jeans. I shopped plus size little girls clothes. I went home crying many times because I'd heard someone call me fat. I did everything I could to wriggle my way out of running the mile in elementary school. It was embarrassing to have to walk most of it because I was too fat to run a full mile. God only knows how I wound up that way. Well, maybe that's a stretch. HoneyBuns and Coke for breakfast will do that to a nine-year-old, even when she plays softball and dances on the drill team. When I was 12, I fought my first fight and won. I stepped on the scale in the sixth grade and cried all the way home from the doctor's office when I weighed 153 pounds. Thank God I had more guts than to just cry about it. I went on a rampage, cutting most fats and sugars out of my diet, running several days a week, and doing 100 crunches 3 times a day. On the first day of seventh grade, I wore Gap jeans and an Esprit shirt to school. I'd lost 30 pounds over the summer and was damned proud of it.
I managed to keep most of it off through high school. I had some ups and downs, but I still got to shop at Old Navy, American Eagle, and the Gap. When my dad had triple bypass surgery in 1995, our whole family changed its way of life (by life, I mean eating). Red meat was rarely served (no pun intended). Fried foods became a distant memory. Low fat margarine became a part of our every day life. My dad started walking and I continued eating healthy. It wasn't until the fall of '99 that I started packing on the pounds (again).
It was my sophomore year of college. I'd managed to avoid the freshman 15 through 3-a-day workouts on the softball team. The summer after my freshman year, I regularly ran 5 miles at a time, lifted weights 3-4 days a week, and ate like a horse. I didn't have to avoid fried foods with my dad safe back at home with his grilled chicken and steamed veggies. I drank like a fish and partied like only a 19-year-old college student can. Then I had knee surgery. Those softball workouts were over. I couldn't run for several months. I continued eating like a horse, drinking like a fish, and partying like an idiot. In less than 3 months, I was 30 pounds up, several GPA points down, and well on my way to losing control. I'm not sure what happened (exactly), but I started running again. I scaled back my calories. I still drank and partied like there was no tomorrow, but somehow, I managed to fight my way back through those 30 pounds and into my Abercrombie jeans.
I can't put my finger on the beginning of this last 30 pounds, but I weighed 167 when I went to my first OB appointment with Daniel. I'm 5'8", so that isn't obese, but it's certainly not thin. The day Daniel was born, I clocked in at 199. By the skin of my teeth, I missed that 200 mark. Today, 17 months and 52 pounds later, I feel good. I *think* I look good, which I've learned is much more important than actually looking good. I've never had what I would call a "positive body image." Until now. Now, I'm proud of myself and of my body. I made a baby, people. Many of you have, too, but I made a baby. I carried him for 39.857 weeks. I gave birth to him and brought him into my life, my family, and my world. I nursed him for 13 months. I have rocked, held, cuddled, carried, and otherwise lugged around that kiddo (all 28 pounds of him) for almost a year and a half. This body? It's amazing. It did all of that, shed 52 pounds, and is mine. For the first time in 30 years, I am truly happy with my body. Oh sure. I've been happy with myself for a good 29.5 of those years. But being happy with my body is another thing altogether.
So when it's 35 degrees out and going to the Y sounds like pure torture, it might be. But I'll do it. I'll be happy to do it to avoid fighting that fight again. They say the third time is a charm. I sure hope so, because right now, I'm charmed silly.
People who have known me for 20+ years know this, but many people don't - I was the fat kid. I wore elastic-waist jeans. I shopped plus size little girls clothes. I went home crying many times because I'd heard someone call me fat. I did everything I could to wriggle my way out of running the mile in elementary school. It was embarrassing to have to walk most of it because I was too fat to run a full mile. God only knows how I wound up that way. Well, maybe that's a stretch. HoneyBuns and Coke for breakfast will do that to a nine-year-old, even when she plays softball and dances on the drill team. When I was 12, I fought my first fight and won. I stepped on the scale in the sixth grade and cried all the way home from the doctor's office when I weighed 153 pounds. Thank God I had more guts than to just cry about it. I went on a rampage, cutting most fats and sugars out of my diet, running several days a week, and doing 100 crunches 3 times a day. On the first day of seventh grade, I wore Gap jeans and an Esprit shirt to school. I'd lost 30 pounds over the summer and was damned proud of it.
I managed to keep most of it off through high school. I had some ups and downs, but I still got to shop at Old Navy, American Eagle, and the Gap. When my dad had triple bypass surgery in 1995, our whole family changed its way of life (by life, I mean eating). Red meat was rarely served (no pun intended). Fried foods became a distant memory. Low fat margarine became a part of our every day life. My dad started walking and I continued eating healthy. It wasn't until the fall of '99 that I started packing on the pounds (again).
It was my sophomore year of college. I'd managed to avoid the freshman 15 through 3-a-day workouts on the softball team. The summer after my freshman year, I regularly ran 5 miles at a time, lifted weights 3-4 days a week, and ate like a horse. I didn't have to avoid fried foods with my dad safe back at home with his grilled chicken and steamed veggies. I drank like a fish and partied like only a 19-year-old college student can. Then I had knee surgery. Those softball workouts were over. I couldn't run for several months. I continued eating like a horse, drinking like a fish, and partying like an idiot. In less than 3 months, I was 30 pounds up, several GPA points down, and well on my way to losing control. I'm not sure what happened (exactly), but I started running again. I scaled back my calories. I still drank and partied like there was no tomorrow, but somehow, I managed to fight my way back through those 30 pounds and into my Abercrombie jeans.
I can't put my finger on the beginning of this last 30 pounds, but I weighed 167 when I went to my first OB appointment with Daniel. I'm 5'8", so that isn't obese, but it's certainly not thin. The day Daniel was born, I clocked in at 199. By the skin of my teeth, I missed that 200 mark. Today, 17 months and 52 pounds later, I feel good. I *think* I look good, which I've learned is much more important than actually looking good. I've never had what I would call a "positive body image." Until now. Now, I'm proud of myself and of my body. I made a baby, people. Many of you have, too, but I made a baby. I carried him for 39.857 weeks. I gave birth to him and brought him into my life, my family, and my world. I nursed him for 13 months. I have rocked, held, cuddled, carried, and otherwise lugged around that kiddo (all 28 pounds of him) for almost a year and a half. This body? It's amazing. It did all of that, shed 52 pounds, and is mine. For the first time in 30 years, I am truly happy with my body. Oh sure. I've been happy with myself for a good 29.5 of those years. But being happy with my body is another thing altogether.
So when it's 35 degrees out and going to the Y sounds like pure torture, it might be. But I'll do it. I'll be happy to do it to avoid fighting that fight again. They say the third time is a charm. I sure hope so, because right now, I'm charmed silly.
Monday, December 7, 2009
May, 2004
I used to work for a really amazing group of people. Crazy. But amazing. In May of 2004, I went to the SPBT conference, lovingly known as SPBT. For those of you who care, it's the Society of Pharmaceutical and Biotech Trainers. It was hosted in Orlando at the Dolphin/Swan hotel. At Disney. On the Boardwalk. I stayed ON the Boardwalk. Maybe that doesn't mean much (especially if you've never been there), but I think our room was $300+ a night. Youch.
I was 24, engaged to be married in 6 months, and pretty clueless as far as fancy-schmancy-ness went. This was my induction to the world of fancy-schmancy. Before SPBT started, we had massages in our hotel. Sweet. We ate at Don Schula's restaurant. It's one of those places that doesn't have prices on the menu and the menu happens to be scrawled on a football. Not that it really matters; they have to bring you a flashlight to read the "menu" anyway. One of those places where the saying goes something like, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." Well thank God those amazing people were paying, because I'd have stuck with a glass of water and a straw if I had been paying.
After we dined with Mr. Schula, the big show started. We. Worked. Our. Asses. Off. That year, we gave away pedometers as chachkis. I wore one pretty much the whole time we were there. I recall taking over 10,000 steps one day. IN our booth. IN heals. That's about 5 miles inside of a 20 foot square booth. Again, youch.
After the show was over, we had massages. This time, we went to Saratoga Springs for a day at the spa. This was my first (and last, incidentally) "day at the spa." I've been back for pedis, massages, etc., but this was different. Not that I think I ever care to relive it quite like that, but W-O-W. An hour and a half massage followed by unlimited time in the whirlpool, sauna, shower. I don't think I've ever been that relaxed at any other time in my life. Maybe I would care to relive it, come to think of it.
That night, we ate dinner at the Contemporary. It's on the top floor of a hotel, overlooking the lake where they do the nightly Disney fireworks. I don't remember the main course, but this is where I was introduced to Green Goddess salad dressing. Don't ask me how I remember all of this - I just do. I also remember the boss's daughter ooing and ahhing over the fireworks and making the statement, "There's nothing like Disney!" She was all breathy and mesmerized and maybe she was right.
I guess my point - if I have one - is that memories are just weird. Of all the days for me to commit to memory, a day at Disney with a bunch of co-workers has just somehow "stuck." Of course there are other days like this, but this one is just weird. It's nothing to do with my family, a milestone, or any other breathtaking experience. It's just one of those random experiences that's "stuck" with me for 5+ years now. If you can recall what you ate, where you ate, and exact lines of dialogue from a single day of your life, why?? Why is my gray matter wasted on this random, seemingly meaningless day? Maybe it's not all that meaningless. Maybe it has greater meaning that I'll never discover. Maybe it's just with me to remind me how frivolous life can be or to remind me that before May, 2004, I'd never heard of Green Goddess dressing, never eaten in a 5-star restaurant, and never set foot in a spa (I guess just to remind me that somewhere along the way, in May of 2004, I kind of grew up). Who knows? Maybe it's just stuck in my head and won't come out because there's a glitch in the matrix. Whatever, I think it's weird.
I was 24, engaged to be married in 6 months, and pretty clueless as far as fancy-schmancy-ness went. This was my induction to the world of fancy-schmancy. Before SPBT started, we had massages in our hotel. Sweet. We ate at Don Schula's restaurant. It's one of those places that doesn't have prices on the menu and the menu happens to be scrawled on a football. Not that it really matters; they have to bring you a flashlight to read the "menu" anyway. One of those places where the saying goes something like, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." Well thank God those amazing people were paying, because I'd have stuck with a glass of water and a straw if I had been paying.
After we dined with Mr. Schula, the big show started. We. Worked. Our. Asses. Off. That year, we gave away pedometers as chachkis. I wore one pretty much the whole time we were there. I recall taking over 10,000 steps one day. IN our booth. IN heals. That's about 5 miles inside of a 20 foot square booth. Again, youch.
After the show was over, we had massages. This time, we went to Saratoga Springs for a day at the spa. This was my first (and last, incidentally) "day at the spa." I've been back for pedis, massages, etc., but this was different. Not that I think I ever care to relive it quite like that, but W-O-W. An hour and a half massage followed by unlimited time in the whirlpool, sauna, shower. I don't think I've ever been that relaxed at any other time in my life. Maybe I would care to relive it, come to think of it.
That night, we ate dinner at the Contemporary. It's on the top floor of a hotel, overlooking the lake where they do the nightly Disney fireworks. I don't remember the main course, but this is where I was introduced to Green Goddess salad dressing. Don't ask me how I remember all of this - I just do. I also remember the boss's daughter ooing and ahhing over the fireworks and making the statement, "There's nothing like Disney!" She was all breathy and mesmerized and maybe she was right.
I guess my point - if I have one - is that memories are just weird. Of all the days for me to commit to memory, a day at Disney with a bunch of co-workers has just somehow "stuck." Of course there are other days like this, but this one is just weird. It's nothing to do with my family, a milestone, or any other breathtaking experience. It's just one of those random experiences that's "stuck" with me for 5+ years now. If you can recall what you ate, where you ate, and exact lines of dialogue from a single day of your life, why?? Why is my gray matter wasted on this random, seemingly meaningless day? Maybe it's not all that meaningless. Maybe it has greater meaning that I'll never discover. Maybe it's just with me to remind me how frivolous life can be or to remind me that before May, 2004, I'd never heard of Green Goddess dressing, never eaten in a 5-star restaurant, and never set foot in a spa (I guess just to remind me that somewhere along the way, in May of 2004, I kind of grew up). Who knows? Maybe it's just stuck in my head and won't come out because there's a glitch in the matrix. Whatever, I think it's weird.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Thank you note
Dear God,
Thanks! For a lot of things, but most recently, for December 4, 2009. The earliest snow EVER in Houston? What'd we do to deserve that? I know that You tend to bless Doug and I with snow when we make HUGE, scary decisions. Our first married Christmas Eve we had snow. The first year with Daniel we had snow. And now, our first year in our new house - SNOW! I guess maybe that's what we did to deserve snow so early. We trusted You, clung to our faith, and made big decisions about our home and our life together. Maybe that was it; maybe not. I'd like to believe that's the case.
December 4, 2009, was an AWESOME day, one I'll likely not soon (if ever) forget. Daniel and I had a great time hanging out in the window sill, playing with trucks, and watching the snow. Despite the painfully short nap of that day, Daniel was in the best mood, especially when Doug got to come home from work early. THANKS!
THANKS for homemade chocolate chip cookies and hot chocolate. Or more appropriately, thanks for the opportunity to live in a place where we can run to the grocery on a whim to pick up necessary ingredients for a warm, cozy night in during a winter storm. Thanks for making our toughest decision of the day "Nestle or Kroger brand?" Thanks for giving us the gift of freedom, or more appropriately, the gift of choice that allows us to maintain our freedom.
I know I spend a lot of time asking for things - for sleep, for forgiveness, for an empty seat on a plane. I spend a lot of time begging for things - healing for others, strength to get through a rough day, Your blessing on a decision I was stupid enough to make without consulting You first. I don't spend nearly enough time saying thank You. I don't spend nearly enough time reflecting on the hundreds of thousands of blessings that You pour out each and every day. I don't spend nearly enough time in prayer period. So while it's on my mind, while I'm moved to humility, and while I have a minute to stop and focus on the things I ought to be thankful for, thanks.
I love you and I can't wait to see what's next,
sheri
Thanks! For a lot of things, but most recently, for December 4, 2009. The earliest snow EVER in Houston? What'd we do to deserve that? I know that You tend to bless Doug and I with snow when we make HUGE, scary decisions. Our first married Christmas Eve we had snow. The first year with Daniel we had snow. And now, our first year in our new house - SNOW! I guess maybe that's what we did to deserve snow so early. We trusted You, clung to our faith, and made big decisions about our home and our life together. Maybe that was it; maybe not. I'd like to believe that's the case.
December 4, 2009, was an AWESOME day, one I'll likely not soon (if ever) forget. Daniel and I had a great time hanging out in the window sill, playing with trucks, and watching the snow. Despite the painfully short nap of that day, Daniel was in the best mood, especially when Doug got to come home from work early. THANKS!
THANKS for homemade chocolate chip cookies and hot chocolate. Or more appropriately, thanks for the opportunity to live in a place where we can run to the grocery on a whim to pick up necessary ingredients for a warm, cozy night in during a winter storm. Thanks for making our toughest decision of the day "Nestle or Kroger brand?" Thanks for giving us the gift of freedom, or more appropriately, the gift of choice that allows us to maintain our freedom.
I know I spend a lot of time asking for things - for sleep, for forgiveness, for an empty seat on a plane. I spend a lot of time begging for things - healing for others, strength to get through a rough day, Your blessing on a decision I was stupid enough to make without consulting You first. I don't spend nearly enough time saying thank You. I don't spend nearly enough time reflecting on the hundreds of thousands of blessings that You pour out each and every day. I don't spend nearly enough time in prayer period. So while it's on my mind, while I'm moved to humility, and while I have a minute to stop and focus on the things I ought to be thankful for, thanks.
I love you and I can't wait to see what's next,
sheri
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Pollyanna
Do you ever have days where you feel like you just can't do anything right? You get out of bed, expecting a normal day and WHAM! You get smacked in the face, full on, with a day full of bleck. Today was one of those days. I won't dwell on the details, just the way the day made me feel.
All day long, I tried to have a positive attitude. Despite the hour of hysterical screaming that Daniel put up while resisting his nap, I never cried. I prayed, I thought I might cry, and I held my head in my hands a lot. But I just keeping thinking to myself - this isn't THAT bad. I could be at work and Daniel could be in the hands of a much less caring person while in this frenzied state. He could be screaming for a ton of other reasons, none of which I really care to think about. I decided to thank God for the opportunity to be at home with Daniel. I thanked Him for Daniel's health (and for the fact that this has never happened before). I asked Him to wash over me with serenity, to ease Daniel's discomfort (or hysteria, as the case may be). He answered some prayers, ignored others, and said "You're welcome" for a few in between. I'll take what I can get.
At 3:00, I realized that a nap wasn't happening and I should just make the best of it. I did. We went to the park. We played with a truck. I even let Daniel read the notice we got from FEMA. I'm not sure what it said - and now I'll probably never know - because Daniel crumpled it beyond recognition. At 3:00, I also decided that wine was in order; as soon as little man was down for bed, of course. But alas. Daniel is in bed, my stomach is in knots (from fighting the urge to join in the hysteria and do a little screaming myself, I'm afraid), and wine doesn't even sound like a solution anymore.
Perhaps after a long, scalding shower, things will seem a little less hazy. I'm already feeling better as I purge the day through my fingertips and listen to the whir-whir-whir of the dishwasher. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Perhaps it won't. At least I know that whatever tomorrow brings, I can be thankful for many, many things, even if I could do without the hysteria.
All day long, I tried to have a positive attitude. Despite the hour of hysterical screaming that Daniel put up while resisting his nap, I never cried. I prayed, I thought I might cry, and I held my head in my hands a lot. But I just keeping thinking to myself - this isn't THAT bad. I could be at work and Daniel could be in the hands of a much less caring person while in this frenzied state. He could be screaming for a ton of other reasons, none of which I really care to think about. I decided to thank God for the opportunity to be at home with Daniel. I thanked Him for Daniel's health (and for the fact that this has never happened before). I asked Him to wash over me with serenity, to ease Daniel's discomfort (or hysteria, as the case may be). He answered some prayers, ignored others, and said "You're welcome" for a few in between. I'll take what I can get.
At 3:00, I realized that a nap wasn't happening and I should just make the best of it. I did. We went to the park. We played with a truck. I even let Daniel read the notice we got from FEMA. I'm not sure what it said - and now I'll probably never know - because Daniel crumpled it beyond recognition. At 3:00, I also decided that wine was in order; as soon as little man was down for bed, of course. But alas. Daniel is in bed, my stomach is in knots (from fighting the urge to join in the hysteria and do a little screaming myself, I'm afraid), and wine doesn't even sound like a solution anymore.
Perhaps after a long, scalding shower, things will seem a little less hazy. I'm already feeling better as I purge the day through my fingertips and listen to the whir-whir-whir of the dishwasher. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Perhaps it won't. At least I know that whatever tomorrow brings, I can be thankful for many, many things, even if I could do without the hysteria.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Words, words, words
Watching Daniel learn new things is a truly rewarding and hilarious experience. It's hard to remember the look of recognition from his very early days. I remember distinctly a few major milestones. The first time he said Mama, the first time he said Dada, the first time he rolled over, and of course, his first step. There are other intermediate things that just sort of morphed into being. Like crawling. He scooted and scrambled and slid all around until it all just sort of happened for him.
But now. . . wow. Now it's like "Eureka!! I GET IT!" Last night at dinner, we were having fettuccine alfredo. Daniel was sitting in his chair, eating and being quiet, and suddenly he shouted, "I got noodles!" Doug and I laughed. A lot. What a goofy kid. He got noodles, alright. Last weekend, my parents brought Dasha and Maddie home after their stay at Gram and Gramps' house. Dasha was SO excited to be home. She was jumping and twirling and acting like a maniac. Doug and I both shouted, "Dasha Leigh!!!" to get her attention. Daniel, up until this point, had only referred to her as Dash. Now he runs around behind her shouting, "Lasha Dee! Lasha Dee!" So incredibly cute.
Other things aren't as concrete as noodles and Dasha Leigh. Concepts, for example. Like sharing. He knows that when two people want the same thing, they have to share. How they go about doing it is still pretty lost on him. A few weeks back, Daniel had a fire truck that Will wanted. Will was trying to take the fire truck. Daniel didn't want him to. "Share! Share! SHARE!" he shouted at Will until Will gave up and decided to play with an ambulance. Last weekend, we had the whole Rem family over for dinner. Will had Daniel's mower. Daniel wanted his mower. This time, Daniel was much more forceful about it. He ran up to Will, tackled him, took the mower, and said very resolutely, "Share." Holy cow. He gets it, but not really.
One that I'm waiting - waiting oh-so patiently - for, is I love you. I tell Daniel I love him at least four thousand times a day. I know he could say it if he wanted to. I just don't think he quite gets what it means. He hugs me, kisses me, pats my back, and snuggles with me. I know he loves me. But to hear him say it. . . oh what a day that will be. I have to wonder if his little mind needs to wrap around the whole concept of love before he'll say it. Whatever it takes, I'm ready. I'm ready for him to tackle me, knock me over, beat me over the head, and say, "I love you!" with as much enthusiasm as he does when he got noodles, or a fire truck for that matter.
But now. . . wow. Now it's like "Eureka!! I GET IT!" Last night at dinner, we were having fettuccine alfredo. Daniel was sitting in his chair, eating and being quiet, and suddenly he shouted, "I got noodles!" Doug and I laughed. A lot. What a goofy kid. He got noodles, alright. Last weekend, my parents brought Dasha and Maddie home after their stay at Gram and Gramps' house. Dasha was SO excited to be home. She was jumping and twirling and acting like a maniac. Doug and I both shouted, "Dasha Leigh!!!" to get her attention. Daniel, up until this point, had only referred to her as Dash. Now he runs around behind her shouting, "Lasha Dee! Lasha Dee!" So incredibly cute.
Other things aren't as concrete as noodles and Dasha Leigh. Concepts, for example. Like sharing. He knows that when two people want the same thing, they have to share. How they go about doing it is still pretty lost on him. A few weeks back, Daniel had a fire truck that Will wanted. Will was trying to take the fire truck. Daniel didn't want him to. "Share! Share! SHARE!" he shouted at Will until Will gave up and decided to play with an ambulance. Last weekend, we had the whole Rem family over for dinner. Will had Daniel's mower. Daniel wanted his mower. This time, Daniel was much more forceful about it. He ran up to Will, tackled him, took the mower, and said very resolutely, "Share." Holy cow. He gets it, but not really.
One that I'm waiting - waiting oh-so patiently - for, is I love you. I tell Daniel I love him at least four thousand times a day. I know he could say it if he wanted to. I just don't think he quite gets what it means. He hugs me, kisses me, pats my back, and snuggles with me. I know he loves me. But to hear him say it. . . oh what a day that will be. I have to wonder if his little mind needs to wrap around the whole concept of love before he'll say it. Whatever it takes, I'm ready. I'm ready for him to tackle me, knock me over, beat me over the head, and say, "I love you!" with as much enthusiasm as he does when he got noodles, or a fire truck for that matter.
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