<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179</id><updated>2011-12-31T15:26:23.105-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Burnt Fudge</title><subtitle type='html'>Adrea's Blog</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default?start-index=101&amp;max-results=100'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>1027</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3409056224972860274</id><published>2011-12-31T15:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-31T15:09:43.843-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Wait No, One more</title><content type='html'>A glance back:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My first pictures posted here:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2006/07/on-my-own.html"&gt;http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2006/07/on-my-own.html&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I started this blog after Dave Cunningham (my kids will know him as Wesley &amp; Julia's Dad) started his blog... or at least after I FOUND his blog.  It was before I was involved in facebook or Myspace I think. It was before my mom had moved close.  It was a way to document daily life for the very SMALL community of friends I had at the time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No one cared for it at the beginning EXCEPT my mom, but slowly the rest of my family realized I was here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I do think Facebook has taken care of most of the reasons I was originally blogging for.  But, as I said before, Facebook has too broad and easy an audience  (no, I'm not calling all my Facebook friends "easy").  Of course blogs are public too, perhaps more dangerously so since you don't see most of the responses.  People rarely have much to say about a blog post in my world.  At least at Facebook they can press "like" without committing to starting a weird sort of dialogue they didn't really want to be part of.  So it's deceptive to think this is any less public than Facebook - but come on, people will seek this place out a whole lot less than they will stumble on my Facebook page.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I can whine more.  Ramble more.  Share more.  Supposedly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I'm so grateful for this five years of history here at burnt fudge.  I guess that's why I want to start anew... because despite the fact that I talked too much, seemed too depressed, posted too many pictures, sounded lame plenty... I think it's an accurate enough history.  And reading between the lines I think it's more me than I think it is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I hope to say the same for the next round.  And I hope my kids will care to know their family history now and then, especially in their lonely times.  Because no matter what happens these kids are mine and I want them to know how much I loved and agonized over them because you have to admit, no one could be talked about as much as they have been and not be loved beyond reason.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3409056224972860274?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3409056224972860274/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3409056224972860274' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3409056224972860274'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3409056224972860274'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/12/wait-no-one-more.html' title='Wait No, One more'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-151798046845666903</id><published>2011-12-31T14:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-31T14:52:39.650-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Bye Bye</title><content type='html'>Now, granted, I have like 4% left of space on this blog so if I want to gossip about how much I hate the NEW blog, I am sure text only posts could last a year or twelve at the rate I'm blogging.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT for the purposes of ending this one on a good final sort of note:  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Happy New Year's Eve 2011&lt;br /&gt;I love my family&lt;br /&gt;I love my photos&lt;br /&gt;I love my stories&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is us right now as I finish up here:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dVy8LEN8r1U/Tv-R6xADA4I/AAAAAAAAIxw/uQBE3uwkUNU/s1600/xmascard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dVy8LEN8r1U/Tv-R6xADA4I/AAAAAAAAIxw/uQBE3uwkUNU/s200/xmascard.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Find me in 2012 at &lt;a href="http://www.abbyjackfinn.blogspot.com"&gt;abbyjackfinn.blogspot.com&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-151798046845666903?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/151798046845666903/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=151798046845666903' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/151798046845666903'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/151798046845666903'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/12/bye-bye.html' title='Bye Bye'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dVy8LEN8r1U/Tv-R6xADA4I/AAAAAAAAIxw/uQBE3uwkUNU/s72-c/xmascard.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1262257668416491712</id><published>2011-12-28T15:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-28T15:31:07.647-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Notes at the End</title><content type='html'>Just for posterity's sake... some notes about RIGHT NOW.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Right now seems to be a lot about two steps forward and one step back.  Due to the fact that Jack MUST nap we have lost ground on staying in the room to put him to bed (a BIG no-no from the sleep solution information that helped so much) because Finn is now in a big boy bed and so, does not contentedly put himself right to sleep every night the moment I put him down.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Therefore, by the time it is time for Jack's bed, Finn is not asleep and yeah.  I bring it up because it was such a coup to have everyone fall asleep in their beds without any fuss whatsoever and we're back to square twelve just because of the night terrors. OH how I hate night terrors.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But lets see, maybe that's only true in sleep putting down - the whole two steps forward one back thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Both boys are flourishing in school. Cannot tell you how adorable that is to me.  Finn LOVES "Miss Miyee", Jack still does too, but he is having a GRAND OLE time with Miss Julie and his friends. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After accepting that the people there really were there to give him the very adventure he craves, Finn has embraced pre-school.  When I come to pick him up he is either dancing to music, rolling on the ground singing as he giggles, or playing happily.  He is SO stinkin' cute, it is hard to live with him.  He looks at you with these eyes!  He uses this VOICE.  He says "No!" then smiles at you like "wasn't that a good joke?"  then when you're serious he says "Otay" and thats that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Steve has started this thing with Finn, when Finn gets into a whiny mood, Steve touches his own nose and Finn mimics him and it gets Finn out of the whining cycle.  It's brilliant and BEYOND cute.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GkZmim18vsc/TvukZtuo5HI/AAAAAAAAIxk/8pNHn5J0vK8/s1600/IMG_5262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="134" width="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GkZmim18vsc/TvukZtuo5HI/AAAAAAAAIxk/8pNHn5J0vK8/s200/IMG_5262.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finn will totally instigate fights with Jack just to get Jack to interact.  Finn is much more like Abby in that he'd rather play with people than toys.  But he has plenty of that boy focus to enjoy a toy for quite a long time if he happens to be into it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jack is just totally full to the brim with personality and passion and hilarity.  He just has the strongest self that you ever did see.  Which has it's moments around here, but I find myself more impressed with him than frustrated.  I find myself seeing where IIII took us down a wrong road more than he did.  And if I'd only remembered who I was dealing with I could have gotten what we all needed a lot faster and without a lot of struggle.  This is a hard thing to explain without sounding like I am letting the tail wag the dog as Dr. Phil would say.  But I did a lot of talking with Miss Milly about this, and I think I instinctively know the line I'm walking even if I can't totally describe it.  Basically, I'm getting what I need to get in order to feel that I'm in charge, that I'm being respected etc, but I'm not trying to get Jack to be a different animal. He is who he is, this sailor man.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby is still besieged with fears, but even one visit with the therapist has shifted our direction.  At least we aren't floundering around aimlessly.  But beyond that she is an absolute sweet joy.  She plays with the boys, she cleans her room, she talks to us, she daydreams, she sings...  she doesn't care much for the scholarly portion of school, but she does what she's supposed to do.  Our conversations still crack me up.  She's a little me and a little Steve and just totally her own as well.  I love when I see the Steve parts in her.  Mostly because those parts of her give her such balance from the 150% of female everything I gave her.  And also because I see their relationship as something so unique and their own.  Because I really am an outsider in a way - I'm not controlling their father/daughter thing.  And it's going to bless her so much in the future that she has this understanding with him.  It may not bless the guys she dates - because I'm afraid Steve is going to be bitter against any guy who dares think they might have some sort of part in Abby's life.  But hey, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Steve and the boys - I've just realized you know, now that the boys are not taking bottles or pacifiers or nursing - now that they are more and more independently themselves that Abby and I are overrun with men.  Overrun you ask? 3:2?  Look, the strength of male maleness around here is very high.  We're overrun.  I'm going to start planning more girly outings with Abby so we don't resent the inevitable fights over the toilet seat in the years to come.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1262257668416491712?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1262257668416491712/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1262257668416491712' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1262257668416491712'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1262257668416491712'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/12/notes-at-end.html' title='Notes at the End'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GkZmim18vsc/TvukZtuo5HI/AAAAAAAAIxk/8pNHn5J0vK8/s72-c/IMG_5262.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5533884040197880405</id><published>2011-12-28T14:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-28T15:32:45.853-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Goodbye 2011 and Burnt Fudge Blog?</title><content type='html'>Poor Blog, you know very little about 2011 here in my household.  Facebook has taken over from you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course, I don't feel that great about that.  In finally getting the rest of this blog printed I realize how much I miss out on the history of the kids by just relying on status updates vs. rambling here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm thinking... not promising, and actually - by thinking I mean I just thought of it this minute...of starting new over at the blog I opened up but never used for Abby, Jack, &amp; Finn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's a thought.  The Abby &amp; Jack one never took off for me because I had so much history here and I was still using this one for my own whining.  SO now I feel a lot more like I can sort of close this door.  Especially because I'm printing it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT I'm not sure.  Maybe it's best to just keep the hodge podge, keep the history.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ugh.  See? I don't know.  Keep the history and evolve? This just feels like too much baggage! Or redesign, pretend I'm better and cooler starting fresh?  Or abandon all thoughts of good intentions of starting over and just rely on facebook to do more and be more?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What would the kids want?  I would totally have loved to have gone over my parents' histories like our kids are going to be able to.  Of course, knowing my parents, I've got a steel constitution on this matter so, I'd have been fine with it mostly.  And luckily for my kids, besides being VERY dramatic and a bit of a whiner, I don't think I have anything in my past that would disillusion or shock them... at least not that has landed online anywhere!  Oh, they will be very sure that I'm VERY bad at spelling.  But I don't think they'll need therapy for that one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;edited to add: OH wait, I remember though- the other problem.  My space here on the blog is running low from the six years of pictures I've posted on here.  So maybe the solution is just burnt fudge version 2 from my new email thereby killing several birds with one stone.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5533884040197880405?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5533884040197880405/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5533884040197880405' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5533884040197880405'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5533884040197880405'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/12/goodbye-2011-and-burnt-fudge-blog.html' title='Goodbye 2011 and Burnt Fudge Blog?'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2801733785025415678</id><published>2011-12-16T22:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-16T22:24:29.319-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Parently Exceptional Children</title><content type='html'>Would everyone buy a book by that title because we all think our kids are the most brilliant, advanced, fantastic beings on the planet?  Except of course when they won't sleep - then we don't think too highly of their rank around the world.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know how to explain it, I didn't do it.  But I really think our kids are exceptional.  The kind of exceptional that has another side of the sword.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I'm about to go down the same mistake road with Abby that caused oh so much trouble with Jack a few months ago.  But I just don't know what else to do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby has ALWAYS been emotionally out of the park.  Not out of this world, but out of the park.  She used to gaze out the window as a three year old and say "Momma, look at the beautiful world that God created."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She has always had a sixth sense of sorts when it comes to when people need support.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And she has always had a bit of drama and fear in her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Once upon a time she was terrified of the ocean.  Until Steve made a game out of chasing the waves and that was that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She's always preferred to sleep WITH a caregiver rather than alone - cuddling even in the hottest of CA summers.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When she's down, she's very down, but not necessarily consistently throughout the day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She had some dark talk in Kindergarten because of a friend drama happening - you might even call it emotional bullying.  AND as soon as her teacher got involved and stopped it - the dark talk was gone and the sun was shining. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well some sad talk again.  After weeks and weeks of struggling with fears with us (she's afraid of bees and it's causing disruption at school) and she's afraid of random things she might accidentally see (30 seconds of a disney channel show as we were waiting for the next show to come on - enter peanut gallery here about how scary and awful some of the disney shows are), that made her fear gardens or anything ancient. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SO... lots and lots of things we've tried.  Everything from letting her talk it all out constantly thru completely until everyone is exhausted talking about it.  We've tried NOT talking about it and just encouraging her to keep going, let it pass, fill her head with as many good things as possible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The parallels between this and the sensory questions are many.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just on the surface, I wonder if she and I and Jack are all a little sensory (and possibly my dad too who admitted to still being afraid of bees) and the bees buzzing just makes us climb walls.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;NOT on the surface, Jack was struggling.  He was probably going to grow out of it.  ALOT of the people I trust (his teacher at the time, his teacher he was going to have, a couple other people) TOTALLY disagreed with me taking him to a therapist and having him tested for sensory stuff etc. etc.  Of course the WEEK I started the whole process he seemed to make leaps and bounds (not as in it worked, but as in by the time I actually got him in, I was pretty confident that he was working through whatever it was naturally on his own in one big step forward).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby is struggling.  She will probably grow out of it.  I'm pretty sure the same people who disagreed about Jack would disagree about Abby.  She IS extra emotional and I don't need that to change.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I want to see if someone will help us.  So... I'm going to jump thru the hoops again and at the end of the day I will be much leaner in the bank account, feel a little foolish, but at least be quite sure she doesn't need anything different than what we're doing.  But you know, before I can be sure, I have to go down the wrong road and get turned around and come back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Blah.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2801733785025415678?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2801733785025415678/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2801733785025415678' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2801733785025415678'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2801733785025415678'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/12/parently-exceptional-children.html' title='Parently Exceptional Children'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-8974472712800659534</id><published>2011-09-05T22:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-09-05T22:54:57.821-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sleep Revisited</title><content type='html'>This sleep thing still fascinates me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;See, for example, how Jack's naps have changed over his little 3 1/2 year life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Originally he had spectacular naps.  Two.  At the exact right times.  It was glory.  One big nap while Abby was in pre-school and one big nap after we had lunch.  And at night he slept really well.  Not great - fitfully, but he slept.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Once my pregnancy with Finn was coming to a head (no pun intended) Jack started having night terrors.  I honestly can't remember how his naps were at this point.  But not too long into the journey I abandoned Jack's naps because it was taking him an hour or two to fall asleep at which point I would be at my wit's end frustrated and very very cranky.  Especially since he wasn't letting anyone sleep at night anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So after much suffering we finally re-instituted nap and did all those other things to change Jack's sleep patterns and sure enough it worked gloriously.  Oddly enough though, Jack's renewed nap was THREE HOURS LONG.  Which is great for a break, especially after so much difficulty, but it meant a planning nightmare.  I wasn't really complaining - I just had to back out of anything that happened during the day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, after months of this, Jack's nap has now shortened to an hour.  The presumption I'm making?  The poor guy was so sleep deprived after all those sleepless nights that he needed the huge naps.  And now we're down to normal ole' one hour naps.  AND we're sleeping at night.  AND life is livable. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then there is Abby.  Awesome Abby.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby has been plagued recently with fears from some teeny bopper show on Disney channel that came on after Phineas &amp; Ferb and before I got back to change it.  Some sort of episode where there was a statue of an evil princess who possessed another character and made them do bad things.  The statue was in a garden so Abby has been fearing gardens, statues, all sorts of things and just having a tough time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We've talked it thru a dozen times.  She once described it that she was walking along fine and this show dropped in her path and she couldn't figure out how to get it out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well tonight she comes downstairs an hour after bedtime and I am just barely containing my frustration when she says she wants to talk to me because she's made a huge decision.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay I think, fine.  And I walk upstairs with her and she says that it will affect her problem with the gardens and the movie (new fear).  Fine I say, with not a lot of faith, I'm afraid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby tells me she was thinking about these fears and then she thought suddenly, "but why should I be afraid of these things?"  And she decided she was ready to get them out of her path.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told her how proud I was of her and that that was exactly right and she said, "Yeah, this feeling just came into me and I knew that God was finally working."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This girl.  Reminds me not to give up.  Things do get better if you just keep trudging along.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-8974472712800659534?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/8974472712800659534/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=8974472712800659534' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8974472712800659534'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8974472712800659534'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/09/sleep-revisited.html' title='Sleep Revisited'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-735476251570623214</id><published>2011-08-22T23:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-22T23:24:21.260-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A Day or Two</title><content type='html'>It doesn't make me giddy to be away.  But when it's good it's good and I don't begrudge being away or travel half as much as it SEEMS I do.  Basically I'm fine with traveling as long as I am not worried about my kids.  So right, it's fine. More than fine when it's times like this last weekend. It's good even, but not what gets me going before hand, does that make sense? As in, I'm very happy to be there, but I'm not here pining for any"there".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, since I don't have that layer of "I'm just excited to be away" I think that I find myself with a much more focused restoration than the average joe on these little retreats we so luckily get.  The self that existed before I happily signed up for the life of my dreams (i.e. marriage and children) tends to show up around day 2.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't often realize that I'm not driving around in my Oprah coined "authentic self" all day everyday, but coming back from this weekend I realized one of the hints that should tell me I'm straying.  Getting so anxious as I order from McDonalds that I have to put my head down on the window ledge.  This is not the real me.  This is me trying to be a good mom.  And, if you don't realize this all on your own - "good moms" in today's society do not feed their kids McDonalds - no, not even the healthier options at McDonalds.  So even though I love my kids, even though I have a  mom-in-law providing me meals that just need to be thrown in the oven (it's dethawing them I tend to get stuck on) and a mom who's cooking influence should have soaked into my bones by now (even if it got lost in the DNA), I do depend on McDonalds- especially for Finn who doesn't seem to have gotten the memo that a hungry kid will eventually eat.  Ha.  Not if muffins aren't present he won't.  And since he no longer has the bottle (reference: things I dread), I now dread that he is starving unless I provide him fries or muffins.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;See how hard it is to stay focused on being just a person, not a person responsible for the care and feeding of other persons?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So for the briefest of periods - somewhere after day 1 and before scrounging around for a dinner for the kids the day I get back - I stop thinking about feeding and caring for other people.  Except of course for the wondering if gluten-intolerant Maggie will be served weird pound cake like gluten free bread sandwiches or have to pick mushrooms off pizza for her sustenance. When I came back and needed to feed Finn quickly - I drove thru McDonalds.  And do you know, I didn't worry about it... until I realized I wasn't worrying about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I thought about this whole cycle and I blogged about it.  The end.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-735476251570623214?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/735476251570623214/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=735476251570623214' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/735476251570623214'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/735476251570623214'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/08/day-or-two.html' title='A Day or Two'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2289731149302129315</id><published>2011-08-11T16:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-11T16:08:38.531-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Things I Dread List</title><content type='html'>So, I have a "things I dread" list.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On there is potty training, hidden mold in bottles or toys and homework projects that involve construction of any sort and such.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've knocked off a few in just a few days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finn's bottle is gone gone.  That takes care of several worries- like taking something away from him, remembering to have formula on hand, remembering to clean the bottles, wondering if the bottles are really clean, wondering if he'll choke on the milk if I leave him alone with the bottle, etc etc.  It took one or two 'no, bottle is closed' and then he said, "Ok."  And I rolled my eyes and said, 'Okay, you sweet boy."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jack is potty trained.  This took about a day and a half.  Of course it's not like I'd take him on a three hour car trip right now, but he's going on his own without reward. He is so proud of himself - and he is so funny.  Little toddler buns in undies are pretty much the cutest things ever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don't you worry I have plenty of other things on the "things I dread" list, but it is highly empowering to cross a few of them off in a nice neat bundle.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2289731149302129315?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2289731149302129315/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2289731149302129315' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2289731149302129315'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2289731149302129315'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/08/things-i-dread-list.html' title='Things I Dread List'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1777682342216761944</id><published>2011-07-18T21:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-18T21:54:28.362-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Right Me for the Right Now</title><content type='html'>So, along the lines of being nervous that Abby is not getting enough attention because of the boys or I'm taking advantage of how well Finn sleeps or that I'm not the perfect right there in the middle of it parent to Jack at all times...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've just sort of landed on the fact that, just as in all else I can surrender control and planning to God - then it follows that Abby needed me one on one when she had me one on one and right now, for whatever reason, to make Abby the person Abby can be, this is where we are.  It's not so bad obviously especially considering the mega4 (that's my new name for the grandparents - like the mega lottery) give her time away, adventure, and spoiling weekly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finn will be a survivor / explorer no matter what.  He is obviously, at 1 and a half, in deep training.  Seriously - considering the sometimes dangerous love lavished on him from his sister (she likes to carry him and doesn't tend to notice if he's about to be rammed into the doorjamb as she parades around with him)and the surprise attacks from his brother, Finn is going to be THE coolest cat around in crisis.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jack will lead someone into battle of some sort.  And fighting with me for authority will surely give him some sort of fantastic balance as he rises up thru the ranks of whatever he's going to be doing - respecting authority, but not really letting it get in his way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I always knew it would all be fine, but there are moments of doubt and then, luckily, moments of surrender to a God that is actually omnipotent... unlike me... in case you haven't noticed.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1777682342216761944?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1777682342216761944/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1777682342216761944' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1777682342216761944'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1777682342216761944'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/07/right-me-for-right-now.html' title='The Right Me for the Right Now'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-6283318792808386739</id><published>2011-07-02T14:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-02T14:16:29.968-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Happy fourth!</title><content type='html'>&lt;p class="mobile-photo"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QjKfD9m5vXs/Tg-KrjhnU8I/AAAAAAAAIxc/siYH2G0wAnA/s1600/photo-789969.JPG"&gt;&lt;img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QjKfD9m5vXs/Tg-KrjhnU8I/AAAAAAAAIxc/siYH2G0wAnA/s320/photo-789969.JPG"  border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624866940484277186" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-6283318792808386739?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/6283318792808386739/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=6283318792808386739' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6283318792808386739'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6283318792808386739'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/07/happy-fourth.html' title='Happy fourth!'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QjKfD9m5vXs/Tg-KrjhnU8I/AAAAAAAAIxc/siYH2G0wAnA/s72-c/photo-789969.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2851035722123225974</id><published>2011-06-22T20:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-22T20:49:22.228-07:00</updated><title type='text'>With Great Love Comes Great Responsibility</title><content type='html'>Of course I know Poppa already knows that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it's important for me to remember just how much everything we say matters to the little ones that love us so much matters;  Reverberates in their little brilliant minds. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Poppa helped Abby get back into swim class for the first time yesterday in a while.  And he must have said something to the effect "Abby! You swim like a fish!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I walked in the door it was the first thing Abby told me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As she's dancing around the room and sits on Steve's lap - Abby asked him if she'd already told him what Poppa had said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When she saw Gramma the next day it was the first thing Abby related.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Each time with piping voice, pride and a touch of shyness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;According to the psychologists just repeating "I LOVE YOU" becomes a desensitized intangible sort of thing.  We're supposed to be specific, relevant, individual to the child and situation and it feeds their confidence like sunlight.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, I think you struck a chord Poppa.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2851035722123225974?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2851035722123225974/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2851035722123225974' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2851035722123225974'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2851035722123225974'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/with-great-love-comes-great.html' title='With Great Love Comes Great Responsibility'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-954318632877151554</id><published>2011-06-22T20:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-22T20:41:37.012-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Abby means Brave &amp; Faithful</title><content type='html'>Sweet Abby got her first douse of some sort of food poisoning last night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She started feeling "weird" and slightly panicking that she might have to throw up.  I honestly wasn't sure if it was going in that direction or if she just needed to burp or something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sure enough a few hours of squirming and feeling weird and laments such as:&lt;br /&gt;Why does such a thing as throw up even have to be alive?!&lt;br /&gt;Why does sick even have to exist?!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and she let loose with two huge throw ups... then one for the road - each with perfect aim and ease into the toilet basin.  Expecting a sad sad Abby I rush in with a wet towel.  Instead she is beaming even as I help her wipe her face (we'd put her hair up just in case a few hours prior).  I want her to sit in case there is another bout of throwing up but she insists that she's done and she's so thrilled that it finally happened after dreading it and knowing it was coming.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I finally agree she must indeed be done and help her back to bed she is all smiles, "Mommy, I think I finally threw up because I prayed to God that I would quickly and I did!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am suitably impressed, "Well then, we should thank God!" (I do a little prayer) and then ask her if she wants to add anything, "No, I already did thank Him, so that's TWICE!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Such a brave wonderful soul.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-954318632877151554?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/954318632877151554/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=954318632877151554' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/954318632877151554'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/954318632877151554'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/abby-means-brave-faithful.html' title='Abby means Brave &amp; Faithful'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2014135465712386928</id><published>2011-06-22T20:34:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-22T20:34:50.655-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Jack's First Phone Conversation</title><content type='html'>Up until this last Coronado trip Jack has been totally uninterested in the phone - especially talking into it toward a real person.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Randomly while on the phone with Noni I suggested Jack wanted to talk because he had been complaining that she wasn't there to meet us as the house. "WHERE'S Noni?!" so I put the phone up to his ear expecting his usual scowl and silence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Instead this was what I heard from his end:&lt;br /&gt;"Hi. Noni."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh.. no.  Just a few of my best friends."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Ok."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Ok."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No... Ok byebye"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I think there was a part about Thomas the train in there too but I've lost it.  I knew I should have wrote it down)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2014135465712386928?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2014135465712386928/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2014135465712386928' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2014135465712386928'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2014135465712386928'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/jacks-first-phone-conversation.html' title='Jack&apos;s First Phone Conversation'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-426899933499830390</id><published>2011-06-13T14:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-13T14:22:05.916-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Jack telling the ducks what for</title><content type='html'>&lt;p class="mobile-photo"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QcZWMMD-t6Y/TfZ_fqxuoOI/AAAAAAAAIxU/vl2AqYFOzag/s1600/photo-725917.JPG"&gt;&lt;img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QcZWMMD-t6Y/TfZ_fqxuoOI/AAAAAAAAIxU/vl2AqYFOzag/s320/photo-725917.JPG"  border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617817767226810594" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-426899933499830390?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/426899933499830390/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=426899933499830390' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/426899933499830390'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/426899933499830390'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/jack-telling-ducks-what-for.html' title='Jack telling the ducks what for'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QcZWMMD-t6Y/TfZ_fqxuoOI/AAAAAAAAIxU/vl2AqYFOzag/s72-c/photo-725917.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2824048671576736859</id><published>2011-06-13T14:15:00.003-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-13T14:15:56.004-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Duck!!!!</title><content type='html'>&lt;p class="mobile-photo"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ktV3G4yvO2Y/TfZ-DHBy4KI/AAAAAAAAIxM/S6N5exEJgjc/s1600/photo-756005.JPG"&gt;&lt;img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ktV3G4yvO2Y/TfZ-DHBy4KI/AAAAAAAAIxM/S6N5exEJgjc/s320/photo-756005.JPG"  border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617816177082556578" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2824048671576736859?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2824048671576736859/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2824048671576736859' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2824048671576736859'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2824048671576736859'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/duck.html' title='Duck!!!!'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ktV3G4yvO2Y/TfZ-DHBy4KI/AAAAAAAAIxM/S6N5exEJgjc/s72-c/photo-756005.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-6861382297152698629</id><published>2011-06-13T14:15:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-13T14:15:10.753-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A.B.B.Y</title><content type='html'>&lt;p class="mobile-photo"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uNqZnxVN8Ac/TfZ936oLoQI/AAAAAAAAIxE/EFjFszDzVSE/s1600/photo-710754.JPG"&gt;&lt;img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uNqZnxVN8Ac/TfZ936oLoQI/AAAAAAAAIxE/EFjFszDzVSE/s320/photo-710754.JPG"  border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617815984775340290" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-6861382297152698629?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/6861382297152698629/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=6861382297152698629' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6861382297152698629'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6861382297152698629'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/abby.html' title='A.B.B.Y'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uNqZnxVN8Ac/TfZ936oLoQI/AAAAAAAAIxE/EFjFszDzVSE/s72-c/photo-710754.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2585145988433877664</id><published>2011-06-13T14:14:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-13T14:14:19.774-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Finn's duck call</title><content type='html'>&lt;p class="mobile-photo"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MioAlHZmFMw/TfZ9rCPMw5I/AAAAAAAAIw8/xKnRqMm6lP0/s1600/photo-759775.JPG"&gt;&lt;img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MioAlHZmFMw/TfZ9rCPMw5I/AAAAAAAAIw8/xKnRqMm6lP0/s320/photo-759775.JPG"  border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617815763479741330" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2585145988433877664?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2585145988433877664/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2585145988433877664' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2585145988433877664'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2585145988433877664'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/finns-duck-call.html' title='Finn&apos;s duck call'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MioAlHZmFMw/TfZ9rCPMw5I/AAAAAAAAIw8/xKnRqMm6lP0/s72-c/photo-759775.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2364602912838947832</id><published>2011-06-11T12:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-11T12:22:48.909-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Cute boys</title><content type='html'>&lt;p class="mobile-photo"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImO7D7YYHOU/TfPAiZKOcVI/AAAAAAAAIw0/JVTiotwNGWc/s1600/photo-768909.JPG"&gt;&lt;img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImO7D7YYHOU/TfPAiZKOcVI/AAAAAAAAIw0/JVTiotwNGWc/s320/photo-768909.JPG"  border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617044857363001682" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2364602912838947832?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2364602912838947832/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2364602912838947832' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2364602912838947832'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2364602912838947832'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/cute-boys.html' title='Cute boys'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImO7D7YYHOU/TfPAiZKOcVI/AAAAAAAAIw0/JVTiotwNGWc/s72-c/photo-768909.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-134364286901838825</id><published>2011-06-11T12:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-11T12:20:40.568-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Finn's indignant face</title><content type='html'>&lt;p class="mobile-photo"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vZoANbrLc20/TfPACY8jrbI/AAAAAAAAIws/SUlfp5A_JPI/s1600/My%2BHipstaPrint%2B0-740569.jpg"&gt;&lt;img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vZoANbrLc20/TfPACY8jrbI/AAAAAAAAIws/SUlfp5A_JPI/s320/My%2BHipstaPrint%2B0-740569.jpg"  border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617044307549859250" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;As in &amp;#39;I believe I should have the right to throw trains off balconies&amp;#39;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br&gt;Shot with my Hipstamatic for iPhone&lt;br&gt;Lens: Kaimal Mark II&lt;br&gt;Flash: Off&lt;br&gt;Film: Pistil&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-134364286901838825?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/134364286901838825/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=134364286901838825' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/134364286901838825'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/134364286901838825'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/finns-indignant-face.html' title='Finn&apos;s indignant face'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vZoANbrLc20/TfPACY8jrbI/AAAAAAAAIws/SUlfp5A_JPI/s72-c/My%2BHipstaPrint%2B0-740569.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7899707055945324645</id><published>2011-06-11T09:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-11T09:14:14.169-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Test</title><content type='html'>Adrea Scheidler&lt;br&gt;Sent from my iPhone&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7899707055945324645?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7899707055945324645/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7899707055945324645' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7899707055945324645'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7899707055945324645'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/test.html' title='Test'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2311403449100702018</id><published>2011-06-10T21:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-10T21:37:10.468-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Observation room: JACK</title><content type='html'>OHHHHHH Jack.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So after the initial consultation next up for project "help Jack be the best Jack he can be" was an observation of Jack in the office.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, I use the word office loosely.  Though the first room looks like a typical therapist's office, the connecting room is FULL of huge awesome cool toys.  HUGE giraffe and elephant, bean bags, trampoline, slide, etc. etc. etc. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We knew Jack would be slow to warm - or, I assumed he would be.  So I wasn't surprised that he kept quiet on the floor at first, albeit a little feistily flirty.  He couldn't quite figure out if he should be mad to be there at first and Mona is way too approachable and happy and nice looking for him to resist being a LITTLE flirty.  But, of course he didn't talk - duh, why would he?  At least he wasn't crawling in my lap saying he wanted to go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we didn't entice him to talk there so off we go in the adjoining room.  At first I sat back to see if the sheer fun of the place cracked his shell.  BUT no.  So Mona told me to go play with him.  That is when it got very... striking.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I.E. I wasn't surprised he wasn't talking TO Mona.  But at this point - all alone in that room with the sole purpose of observing Jack's demeanor where my son who has always been a chatterbox at home absolutely refused to speak and yet in every other way was playing and happy.  He wouldn't say "NOOO Momma" in his joking voice when I suggested the banana went on my head and so on and so forth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mona asked if this was normal for Jack and I'd say yes, but honestly - I'd just never let it go this far.  As in if we were somewhere he was uncomfortable I'd just hold him til he was warmed up or until we left or follow him around until we got the same result and so on and so forth.  I considered a moment then shrugged and said, of course if Steve is present he wouldn't let it go this far in that he would take Jack and wrestle him until Jack's screams of protest became screams of joyful tickling pain.  And then that would be the thing that basically "broke" Jack.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I sit there.  As our appointment time is nearing an end... and I think... oh CRAP stinking Steve is yet AGAIN going to be right even when it seems like he wasn't.  SO I put on my Steve cap and instead of normal Mommy type play - I take Jack and throw him into the bean bags and tickle him mercilessly.  When done he stands up and asks me where the trains are.  I explain it's not my house, you have to ask Mona.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SO off Jack marches and clear as a bell asks Mona to please let him see the trains.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;WHY OH WHY is Steve ALWAYS right?  It is enough to drive someone batty.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all that, I sat well away from Mona &amp; Jack letting Mona do the voodoo that she does and marveling at how odd it all is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway so Mona, sharp as she is, takes full advantage of the 7 minutes that she has Jack speaking to her and is fully happy to say she's ready to sit down with us for an evaluation.  She went ahead and reassured me that all the markers for you know basic normalcy and development are there he just happens to have you know... very little flexibility and all that.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to assume too much from what she said, so I'll give you all the full story next time we see her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just found the whole thing much more disconcerting than I expected to.  It was so much eerier than it sounds when he just plain wouldn't talk.  He would just point.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ANYWAY all the while along with this process Jack seems to have hit his stride somewhere/somehow and he's just been blossoming into super cuteness.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2311403449100702018?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2311403449100702018/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2311403449100702018' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2311403449100702018'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2311403449100702018'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/observation-room-jack.html' title='Observation room: JACK'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2779555693322612670</id><published>2011-06-02T17:25:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-06-02T17:25:02.222-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sub Conscious Over Drive</title><content type='html'>Now that I'm sleeping for full nights at a time my subconscious thinks it's time to catch up.  I'm inundated with dreams all night long - most of them having to do with trying to do things, failing and trying again with no hope of success.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like trying to park in the Cole's kitchen.  I kept knocking pieces off their kitchen counter and they were so nice about it but I really just wanted to stop trying.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2779555693322612670?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2779555693322612670/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2779555693322612670' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2779555693322612670'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2779555693322612670'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/06/sub-conscious-over-drive.html' title='Sub Conscious Over Drive'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3190530214999856571</id><published>2011-05-28T21:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-28T21:40:52.442-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Perspective...</title><content type='html'>Oh, what I wouldn't give for a bird's eye view of my life right about now.  Okay, I wouldn't really give anything because I'm still in survival mode and I can't spare anything - take that future me - you get nothing from now me!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jen wrote about what she's &lt;a href="http://www.houseofwaffles.com/?p=4227&amp;cpage=1#comment-914"&gt;been thinking today&lt;/a&gt; which feels like the exact same thing that I've been thinking of - but the mirror image... sort of.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Only in that I am doing what I planned out for my life all along my life - yet letting work get in the way instead of the other way around.  I love photography - it makes me feel super egotistically cool that some people like my way enough to want me to take their picture... but shouldn't I be enjoying these years?  The 3s are my favorite age and I'm about to have TWO kids in that general area.  What luck!  I'm not being sarcastic - I mean, believe me, I know the drawbacks.  But there are also the hilarious conversations and unabashed cuddling and all that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Example: I'm on the couch today reading.  I hear small footsteps heading up the stairs and hear Jack narrate his way to me via dramatic whispering as he goes into each room to find me "Uh! Oh! Who's here- what's in here-" When I call out to let him know where I am he says, "Oh! I hear Momma, is she over here? Where's she going to be?"  And as he turns the corner shirtless I realize he's not narrating to himself but to Finn who, also shirtless, is dutifully following him around on this mock adventure. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At a school meeting Friday one of the moms was talking about how fairness is evenly distributed over a family's lifetime.  So where moms pack in a lion's share of butt wiping and the like at the beginning of the family stage there is a balance to the work, to the responsibility, to the difficulty of any family that comes with time.  So, hold on thru the years and you get to see your spouse suffer too? No, no, that's not the point at all!  Silly! But it is sort of what has gotten me thru days before - the idea that I'm putting in my extra hard years in order to glory in the days when all the kids are in full time school and I get to do whatever I want from 9-3 because Steve, being the responsible sort of guy he is, will still be working and I will still be house-wifing and dang it if that's not going to someday be a cushier job than it is now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But am I sabotaging myself by inching ever closer to a career in photography?  Do I want a career? No... but I don't really want to give up the possibility of one in photography.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does it matter? Is now NOT the time to be fighting myself about it because the kids are OBVIOUSLY still very much in need of me?  I mean, why not just chill out a couple years til I'm in sort of the place that Jen is where she is about to jump off a newer more free cliff of ... cliff diving? No - don't do that - that's *so* New Moon. I mean I believe 110% in God's plan being fulfilled - so if I'm meant to be a great photographer - then taking a break won't stop that.  It's not like I'm on the verge of something awesome.  I'm just plugging away, doing what I do... and hopefully getting better every year in both art and family.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I just balancing it just perfectly right now and am only *worrying* about me not balancing like I didn't balance so well last year or the year before? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am a very potent worrier you know.  I could indeed sabotage myself by worry alone...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3190530214999856571?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3190530214999856571/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3190530214999856571' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3190530214999856571'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3190530214999856571'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/perspective.html' title='Perspective...'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7563822812548719826</id><published>2011-05-25T21:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-25T21:01:53.626-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Google's Worst Enemy</title><content type='html'>So my blog is attached to my old hotmail account.  My email is connected to - surprise surprise- my new gmail account.  This makes posting to this blog annoying because I'm always logged into my gmail and want to check my gmail whilst blogging.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the olden days if I just logged in on two tabs I could trick the google account police into letting me be logged in to both at the same time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They somehow shored up that hole.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, I am not easily dissuaded.  Now if I log in/out in/out/in on two separate tabs I can still trick it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The folks at Google don't even know what they are up against.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7563822812548719826?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7563822812548719826/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7563822812548719826' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7563822812548719826'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7563822812548719826'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/googles-worst-enemy.html' title='Google&apos;s Worst Enemy'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5175583434507861301</id><published>2011-05-25T20:25:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-25T20:25:17.051-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A glimpse...</title><content type='html'>This was taken at our last brownie meeting of the season.  How much does this remind you of a college party in which there has already been much alcohol consumed?  &lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1xDGQ0ia16A/Td3H8Lo-yeI/AAAAAAAAIwg/HmzERvdyQRs/s1600/IMG_5406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="143" width="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1xDGQ0ia16A/Td3H8Lo-yeI/AAAAAAAAIwg/HmzERvdyQRs/s200/IMG_5406.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*no alcohol was served at this event or to these girls...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5175583434507861301?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5175583434507861301/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5175583434507861301' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5175583434507861301'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5175583434507861301'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/glimpse.html' title='A glimpse...'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1xDGQ0ia16A/Td3H8Lo-yeI/AAAAAAAAIwg/HmzERvdyQRs/s72-c/IMG_5406.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3616421037996830573</id><published>2011-05-22T21:49:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-22T21:49:34.912-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Apologies</title><content type='html'>Of course after being all nostalgic about how I'll be nostalgic in the future about not remembering the present I started looking back at the blogs... and it's painfully obvious I used to be A LOT funnier.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2007/01/its-warm.html&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2007/02/it-was-worst-of-times.html&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3616421037996830573?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3616421037996830573/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3616421037996830573' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3616421037996830573'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3616421037996830573'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/apologies.html' title='Apologies'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-371312270450613420</id><published>2011-05-22T21:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-22T21:19:25.354-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Can't Catch Hold</title><content type='html'>I couldn't imagine not remembering the cutest most wonderful little moments when Abby was our only baby.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was shocked to only barely remember things that had been constant everyday trials or joys as I watched others get to the same point with their babies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then came Jack and this time I knew it would be hard to remember everything - but still... certainly I thought, I'd never forget THIS.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Only to go back on the blog and be shocked what I'd forgotten just weeks later, months later.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I look at Finn with my usual spirit of "accepting what you can't change" and I'm just - trying to catch these moments and hold on so I'll remember but I know that won't work.  I know that I'll only barely remember how incredibly cute he is as he toddles quickly around as if he owns the place.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I mean, I'm impatient to get to the point where I can talk life out with the kids rather than go moment to moment from head crash to hysterical over something or other.  But I want still want to remember everything as I hopefully move passed it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was reading him a story and he knows a lot of his letter sounds and he's just so cute as he says them and he giggles at the silliest simplest things.  And he brings people the remote if we have forgotten to fast forward thru the commercials or heaven forfend if we're NOT watching 'wipeout'.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, while reading the story I grabbed his little face and kissed him and hugged him so much he was TRYING to get into his crib.  But he's just so dang cute and I can't believe I won't even be able to imagine this stage as I look back at it in video and pictures.  I'll cry out "I can't believe how little Finn was! I remember that look!" but really, I'll really only be able to really truly see Finn as whatever age Finn is at that moment.  This all will be like a movie memory - flat and not quite tangible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's the tangible I long to keep.  The softness of the skin, the feel of the cuddle and the pats on the back as he expresses his happiness that I have retrieved him from the crib in the morning or after nap. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;sigh... I still feel wrapped up in a time whirlwind.  I am scattered in the wind.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-371312270450613420?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/371312270450613420/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=371312270450613420' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/371312270450613420'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/371312270450613420'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/cant-catch-hold.html' title='Can&apos;t Catch Hold'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-8368941505228058125</id><published>2011-05-17T13:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-17T14:19:15.528-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Catch-22</title><content type='html'>Jack was drowsy in the car on the way home from pre-school.  He nodded off as we pulled into the garge.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I put sleeping Finn in his crib then walked Jack up to sleep in our bed.  Everything seemed perfect.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jack could not fall asleep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jack did not fall asleep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I could not cheat and drive him back to sleep because Finn was asleep in the crib.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now he will fall asleep on the way to pick up Abby.  This would be best if I could leave early so he got more sleep before 4pm which would then push back his bedtime.  However I can't put Finn in a car seat an hour early because he will have already slept and will eventually get pissed off and then will scream and there I will be stuck with a screaming Finn and a woken up Jack who not only will tantrum due to lack of sleep will also keep EVERYONE else up tonight with night terrors because his nap wasn't perfect.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;GOOD&lt;br /&gt;nIGHT&lt;br /&gt;NURSE&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;update: okay, so Steve has been telling me for YEARS... YEARS not to be defeated so easily so... Finn woke up cranky - instead of putting him back down I put them both in the car at 2 (abby's pick up is 3).  Jack went to sleep.  Finn is talking.  I debated and debated and decided to come back home - put Jack to bed in bed (it worked - in fact the only reason it didn't work the first time is that I believe if he knows he's going to poop he doesn't go to sleep - great something I once again have no control over) and Finn is watching Barney not stuck in a car seat.  What about sweet Abby you ask?  She's off to after school day care... another sacrifice in the war on sleepless nights.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One more note.  The thing that makes this all the more urgent is that EVERYONE sleeps ALL NIGHT long as long as Jack gets his nap.  It's a tad more complicated than that perhaps, but not much.  We're not giving up this progress without a fight.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-8368941505228058125?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/8368941505228058125/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=8368941505228058125' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8368941505228058125'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8368941505228058125'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/catch-22.html' title='Catch-22'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2630340931306353466</id><published>2011-05-15T16:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-15T16:00:18.029-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Survival Mode</title><content type='html'>I was at Abby's Daisy Troop sleepover (which was super fun but not long enough says me - perhaps not says Steve) and the other moms there (who's girls were all the younger of their children - excepting for Maggie with Gus who doesn't count cuz he's so cute and easy).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And they were talking about what they were most looking forward to in Summer.  And they came around to me and I just looked at them all like they were crazy. Summer? I'm not looking forward to SUMMER! Are you all crazy?  I have a hubby that doesn't take vacations and even if he did, vacations are not relaxing, they are just times when I have no childcare for my children!  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's a time in the future - somewhere where I think vacation will be awesome - or summers or what ever... but not this day...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2630340931306353466?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2630340931306353466/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2630340931306353466' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2630340931306353466'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2630340931306353466'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/survival-mode.html' title='Survival Mode'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3722899706852196108</id><published>2011-05-14T22:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-14T22:21:32.528-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Abby LOVES the laundry</title><content type='html'>So due to recent events our laundry has gotten out of control. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's clean, but it's in baskets piled to the moon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I resolved to make a dent in that today and I did. The boys clothes are all put away - mine is set up at least in the right area, the towels are together etc.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I brought Abby's consolidated laundry up to her room and took everything OUT of her closet and re-organized with her at bedtime.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She had a BLAST.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't remember the last time she was so totally content for such a long time - just thrilled.  Thanking me every two minutes for passing her more clothes or for letting her help.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She actually wanted to do it alone she told me, but at the same time was glad I was there for my help.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sheesh, she's just looking for some sort of sweetness medal.  She EVEN... I almost forgot about this.  So, my sentimental girl, when faced with a skirt that was for 6 year olds argued for it's life here in her closet by saying, "but mom, I like to keep this for the memories."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT three minutes later I gathered three things up that need to be donated and she was FINE with it.  That girl is dying for more responsibility.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3722899706852196108?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3722899706852196108/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3722899706852196108' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3722899706852196108'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3722899706852196108'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/abby-loves-laundry.html' title='Abby LOVES the laundry'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7246501310928371265</id><published>2011-05-14T22:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-14T22:15:23.159-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fix Me</title><content type='html'>Jack was hyper before bed or rather, DURING bedtime routine tonight.  So it took a lot of non-interactingly putting him back to bed:&lt;br /&gt;his blankets "aren't working"&lt;br /&gt;he wants crackers next to him on the bed&lt;br /&gt;he wants his water refilled&lt;br /&gt;he wants a kiss where he bumped his head&lt;br /&gt;he wants crackers to eat&lt;br /&gt;he wants his crackers waiting for him on the railing of the bed&lt;br /&gt;he wants quick kisses&lt;br /&gt;he wants to send kisses to me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally I tag team to Steve who, oddly enough, has less patience for all this but 7000x more patience than he did a few months ago.  Sleep does do wonders.  Anyway, somehow this sets up an anxiety response in Jack and that's my cue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BECAUSE, unfortunately for Steve, as soon as he gets Jack to that point I know all I have to do is go in, do my normal routine or hug and kiss and "nigh nigh" and it will be done.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This time I went back in after Steve was showing signs of cracking under the insanity and Jack said, "Momma, can you fix me?"  He wanted me to kiss his head again where he bumped it and I did and he said "Nigh Nigh" and then "I love you Momma"  This is brand new.  As in the last night or two and if its designed to melt my heart into a pile of mush, it achieves it's purpose very well.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And... that was it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7246501310928371265?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7246501310928371265/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7246501310928371265' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7246501310928371265'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7246501310928371265'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/fix-me.html' title='Fix Me'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-45575795651859124</id><published>2011-05-13T16:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-13T16:37:27.752-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Vaguely Self Aware</title><content type='html'>There's also something up with me.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I believe that unless it's my KIDS or FICTION, I'm a bit emotionally detached.  And I've been blaming that on a lot of people that have come in and around me and I just am starting to wonder... what about before person x?  Was I like that before person x and oh my gosh, just as I was writing this I know who being a part of my life changed everything in the direction of the detached.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That is weird.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was 15? And it was a boy.  And most of you will know who I mean right away.  Ha.  Okay, well, knowing that, that's got to help, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You are so lucky.  I was just going to waffle on and on about this, and now I don't have to.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-45575795651859124?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/45575795651859124/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=45575795651859124' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/45575795651859124'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/45575795651859124'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/vaguely-self-aware.html' title='Vaguely Self Aware'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3686002006516879990</id><published>2011-05-13T16:27:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-13T16:27:39.549-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Something up with Jack</title><content type='html'>If I was a really real cool blogger I would insert a link to the Nightmare Before Christmas song with the lyric of my title.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The problem with being a parent for me is that I am so very often in survival mode that it is very difficult for me to detach myself and see from a distance patterns that might mean something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I mean, hey I'm on the look out for patterns moment to moment constantly "when Finn says this he means this and if I don't help him get that he'll do this and cause that and that is really really bad"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But really being able to pick up on developmental cues etc, I'm not so good on that. I mean, I get that there is a spectrum and I haven't had huge cause for alarm so screw it.  We'll figure it out.  As my mom always says, "they'll sleep through the night when they're in college" so you know, it had to start before that, you just don't know the exact time in between now and then.  And it's partly because I'm not an ambitious parent anymore than I am an ambitious career person (meaning I do not try to push their learning milestones, I don't care when they walk or how they write their 'r's until the teachers tell me I'm supposed to get them to write their r's right).  I love them to a ridiculous degree.  Try very hard to show it in my face how thrilled I am that they are HERE and MINE (a bit more of a challenge with my Abby since she comes in so very often with just... such 7 year old things to say even if she knows if she comes in one more time three hours passed bedtime it means Mommy is going to be CRANKY).  But if they are in the honors group or the at the right level group?  Don't care.  Not yet anyway.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ugh, tangent - I did love always being in honors - honors classes seemed a whole lot easier than regular, a lot funner... but thats beside the current point.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The current point is that we are going to seek evaluation and magic course of action for Jack.  Because he is thriving so well at school right now because he happens to be at a school in which they care SO much they do better with him than I do.  No matter how good and loving the teachers may be in grade school, they can't take the sort of time it took Milly to bond with Jack. I mean, I KNOW, he'll be older, he'll be awesome. I have no doubt.  But he is a passionate guy and with that passion comes... uh, passion.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not labeling him - I'm not SERIOUSLY worried, I'm just looking for some insights into what makes Jack different and what he needs from us to help him transition and gain more control emotionally.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I really have not been particularly anything about this until yesterday.  I'd already had the first consultation with a child psychologist lady and she had woke up some parts of my brain realizing a big issue (main issue?) is Jack has a hard time regulating his passions.  He can't help being scared, anxious, panicked, etc and he doesn't know how to bring himself back from the cliff very easily.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So yesterday, with that in my head, Jack wakes up from a nap IN a fuss.  It gets no better as we drive off to pick up Abby.  Instead of trying to get him to stop with sharp simple words, I hold onto his calf/leg and tell him simply that he's fine (internally fyi I want to scream my head off back at him).  He kicks  my hand away so okay, I'm not going to put him in a position where now he's in trouble because he's kicking me, so I take my hand away.  The tantrum turns into full on panic, crazy total panic.  He's saying words that I don't understand (initial tantrum brought on because he wanted to be back with Caiah and Max who'd spent the morning with him), but FINALLY I understand he's saying "put your hand back on my leg momma" but of course the words are coming out in the wrong order.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I put my hand back on his leg and he struggles but he gets himself under control, but it's as if he's just had the more harrowing experience of his life.  I.E. even while calm, he was REALLY upset.  Not "i'm a bratty spoiled kid upset" but, upset.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it came together.  I mean, not to take any power away from him, because obviously he CAN get control, but the realization was that this is a very very hard thing for him to do and it shouldn't be this hard at his age.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SO my love Jack, we're going to help, you're going to be fine.  And I can't wait to see you grow up.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3686002006516879990?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3686002006516879990/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3686002006516879990' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3686002006516879990'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3686002006516879990'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/05/something-up-with-jack.html' title='Something up with Jack'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5312493880285201228</id><published>2011-04-21T13:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-21T13:23:19.625-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Words to Live By</title><content type='html'>"Never do anything you don't want to explain to the paramedics." ---unknown  This was a friend of mine's facebook status today.  I thought of Aaron &amp; Megan and I thought.. hmmm, this is wise council.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5312493880285201228?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5312493880285201228/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5312493880285201228' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5312493880285201228'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5312493880285201228'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/words-to-live-by.html' title='Words to Live By'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-8555288179693079141</id><published>2011-04-21T13:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-21T13:19:00.205-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Taxi Climate</title><content type='html'>So I was checking Abby's homework last night and she had spelled "TAXI" "TaxC" and I didn't catch on right away why she'd tried to spell it that way until she explained (complete with rolling eyes) "Because that's how it sounds! tax"C"!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told Steve and he said that he remembers working out that climate must mean someone you climb with - a mate that you climb with.  Awwh.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-8555288179693079141?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/8555288179693079141/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=8555288179693079141' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8555288179693079141'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8555288179693079141'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/taxi-climate.html' title='Taxi Climate'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2369065372795401188</id><published>2011-04-21T13:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-21T13:19:28.060-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Gmail Chat</title><content type='html'>I think I know that chats are saved in gmail, but I didn't really know how to access them until today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Found this between Samantha and I in January and I thought it was really funny:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Samantha: omg&lt;br /&gt;me: What?!!&lt;br /&gt;Samantha: i am legitimately sick&lt;br /&gt;me: okay&lt;br /&gt;I'm sorry...&lt;br /&gt;that is NOT omg&lt;br /&gt;Samantha: it is in my head&lt;br /&gt;10:44 AM me: :(&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2369065372795401188?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2369065372795401188/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2369065372795401188' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2369065372795401188'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2369065372795401188'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/gmail-chat.html' title='Gmail Chat'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-4282158209169184462</id><published>2011-04-21T10:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-21T10:38:40.664-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Credit</title><content type='html'>Where credit is due.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SO here's why I was so distraught last night.  One of the things Ferber wants you to do is learn all about sleep cycles and rhythms before you try to go to the problem/solution part of the book.  And one of the "duh" things I learned was that there are two deep sleep sections of the night.  The first part and the 4am-ish-on.  It always drove me crazy that we would be up every 10, 15 minutes or every hour depending on the severity of the problem and then finally at 4 the child would fall deep asleep as if something had finally clicked.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;SO here I was at 1 thinking - oh crap, I'm going to be up til 4 for sure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT nope.  Jack and Finn and Abby slept the rest of the night. Glory to God. No joke.  Also to Ferber, who's help I believe helped me to break the previous patterns.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have no idea how I kept calm, I was so sure it was going to be a horrible disaster and I just didn't see any hope and after all the hope of the last two weeks it was like I emotionally could not accept going backwards.  Sleep is important folks.  Sometimes not as important as the emotional needs of a child, but I think I proved that too.  I spent time with Jack in between walkaways.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OH funniest thing of the night.  One of the things that distresses him is when he cries or his nose runs and he needs a "tissue" (which is code for me blotting his face lovingly).  Well, he's obviously been trying to conjugate this and told me, as he was crying, "Oh no, I'm tissing."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And funny poor Finn.  We relocated him to the playpen so he didn't have to be distressed by Jack's blood curdling screaming and I checked on him when Jack was back to sleep and Finn was just staring at the netting of the play pen, I put him back in his own crib and he also slept soundly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby, sweet Abby had been rolled up in a ball in her bed with her arms to her ears because of the crying.  I think she is also traumatized by how the night used to escalate in this situation.  She relocated to our floor for the tantrum and decided to stay there, "I just want to stay with you, if that's okay" she says nicely at 1am.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-4282158209169184462?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/4282158209169184462/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=4282158209169184462' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4282158209169184462'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4282158209169184462'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/credit.html' title='Credit'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-4984969342759923883</id><published>2011-04-21T01:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-21T01:00:18.756-07:00</updated><title type='text'>At this Point</title><content type='html'>I'm just embarrassed to pray at this point about sleep anymore.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I felt (still feel) pretty thankful for the insights I've gained and the huge strides we've all made as a family this last couple of weeks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But now we're established, things are happening that just don't fit as easily in the boxes that have solutions as at first.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like some sort of idiot with cotton in my ears and blinders at my eyes and no map.  Not because the sleep is disintegrating but because I know that God is responsive and I'm just not getting any signal. Retune the rabbit ears I guess.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My kids are not sick.  Not even a little.  They haven't been for at least two months - that's like a marathon of non-sickness for kids.  But still, the pain or enduring that they are going thru cuts me as if they were.  I'd love to cave to Jack's tearful request to come into Mommy &amp; Daddy's bed - especially after the other two kids got moved in there to escape the tantrum going on.  But it would establish a pattern and to be perfectly honest, Jack my boy, I can't sleep anymore with you in the bed.  He is too fitful, I am too fearful of disturbing him and tickling that insane "up in a flash" part of your brain.  So NO babydoll, I have to say.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it worked because, the ironic thing about parenting is that if you say it like you mean it and follow thru kid's think you're made of iron.  In truth, I'm always SHOCKED when I assert my authority and it works.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Props to God for getting us here-for knowing more than us- for wherever he'll take us in the now and the future -but please, Oh please, Dear God, bless us again- make everyone sleep safely and soundly.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-4984969342759923883?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/4984969342759923883/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=4984969342759923883' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4984969342759923883'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4984969342759923883'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/at-this-point.html' title='At this Point'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1042902197391610376</id><published>2011-04-19T21:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-19T21:10:01.346-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Two Worlds</title><content type='html'>I assume those of you who spaced your children out in the standard sort of way face living in different school age worlds all the time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am currently, technically speaking, juggling three.  Abby's full on PTA sort of world of being a elementary aged student's parent.  Jack's co-op parent pre-school world in which I am well aware (and quite appreciative) that I am like a trainee.  And Finn's world which is basically my world with tickling added.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Next year Jack &amp; Finn's world collide and mash into one.  I am probably going to be on the board for their school.  And where I guess I am wondering, and Abby as well, does that leave my participation for ABBY'S world?  I've done some photography for them - I go to the standard things.  But I can't even imagine getting more involved there.  Working at her school means either getting babysitting for Finn or doing it on one of Finn's few days at pre school... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's not easy being the oldest I'm seeing more and more.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1042902197391610376?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1042902197391610376/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1042902197391610376' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1042902197391610376'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1042902197391610376'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/two-worlds.html' title='Two Worlds'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7525201590258680923</id><published>2011-04-13T11:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-13T11:01:12.514-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Skinned Knees</title><content type='html'>The child psychologist who comes to ANS is always always referring to a book called 'the blessing of a skinned knee' which is a parenting book based on Jewish principles.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I'm generally okay with skinned knees I haven't run out and bought it until recently.  One reason I did was because I am not so okay with skinned feelings/egos.  And basically I know in my HEAD that too much emphasis on wanting the kids to be happy and unhurt emotionally ALL the time is just as bad as physically. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Another parent in the group last time she recommended it felt too distracted by the Jewish teaching portion to get much out of it - but she admitted to basically feeling over sensitive to it because she was a lapsed Jew.  Too funny.  AND after finally getting the book, I can totally understand what she meant.  BUT I think if you skip chapter 1 (which explains how she came to start combining her psychology and the Jewish teachings) it wouldn't be so jolting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, so far so good.  I do not need my kids to be outstanding at everything.  I've always known they have their own very different personalities and needs and have even protected those temperaments by choosing NOT to put them in positions where they would 100% fail just because they are who they are and are not old enough to fake it appropriately in certain situations.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I get a good amount of teasing about this because it does mean/border on keeping them back overly much.  But a lot of the time, even after a successful adventure, I agree with myself more than before.  YES getting out there - proving that they (and I) can do it is valuable.  But constant testing of that fence is not a peaceful way to live.  Sometimes it's really okay to miss out on the funnest thing ever because nothing is going on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'd say so far the things that have rang true in the book for me to work on/pay extra close attention on are -&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. over-emphasizing the kids' specialness.  I personally have a firm grasp of the old dichotomy that in one side pocket you should have a piece of paper that reminds you 'i am a speck of dust' and in the other you should have a piece of paper that reminds you 'the universe was made for me.'  I am not sure that I am passing that on.  I may only be passing on the latter.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. appreciate my own temperament.  (disclaimer, this is not a request for confirmation - I am totally happy with what I'm about to say)  Even though my dreams for myself as a child basically included falling love, getting married and having kids... and maybe a little international espionage here and there... that does not mean that I am automatically particularly talented at being a stay at home mom.  YES I am a fabulous mom.  I love my kids past all reason.  I am not totally crazy.  I create a good environment to live.  I'm not a failure.  I do... some chores... sometimes... maybe.  BUT I'm not talking about the basics.  Yes, I think my kids will grow up just fine and happy and all that.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm just saying that as I get deeper into this world of parenting where I see how more women do what they do, I can tell you that I SEE the talented ones.  I SEE the ones who were BUILT for being a stay at home mom.  They love putting together crafts and lunches and being involved in the school and the kids.  I think my mom-in-law is a great example of a Mom who was just MEANT to manage kids.  And sure enough - that talent must have been apparent since she ended up running the daycare at PCS - revolutionizing it even?  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, one of the concepts in the book is the insanity that during adolescence we expect our kids to excel at everything in a way we don't ever expect in any other time of their lives.  She uses the example that we don't choose a doctor based on if he's better at us in basketball and we don't give our accountants a test on geology before asking him to do our taxes.  I don't think I do this to my kids, but I do this to myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am SCRAPING by at this stay at home mom business.  If I was my own boss I would lovingly suggest pursuing something that better suits my skill sets, because sweetheart, you just don't have your heart in lunches and dinners and school activities.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have known this was due since we got married.  Because ridiculous as it may seem to those who have lived with me - I honestly thought I would enjoy homemaking.  And I do - if you define homemaking as... uh... being with my husband and family... and... uh... well, that's about it.  Don't get me wrong - I love when the house is beautifully designed and organized and put together - LOVE it.  But I don't love doing it - it's like a huge math word problem that- sure I'm immensely proud of doing once it's done- but its NOT me.  It's not my talent.  It's not my heart's passion.  It's just not. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is it anyone's? YES.  It really is.  I've got some amazing super moms in my midst.  Incredible cooks (Jen!), Incredible school moms (Shannon!), Incredible activity coordinators (Maggie!), Incredible designers (Kirsten!), Incredible craft people (Sarah!).  Oh a lot of you are pretty amazing.  I'm just amazing in my own way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT it felt like too much of a cop out - I mean - heck, so what - I don't want to give it over to someone else (the parenting part anyway - the cooking and cleaning is anyone's game), so I just have to do my work with integrity and joy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;AND I've decided to add to that.  To also do my work with grace for myself that I am scraping by until we get to a place in life where the kids are older, I have a little more time, I've figured out the carpooling/sports sharing stuff a little better... I know, I know, I know every point in child raising can be more crazy than the next.  It's the principle of the thing.  It's the hope that I can, without holding back my kid's talents, also continue to resist the temptation to destroy us all trying to be something I'm not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because that sort of thing just ends up frustrating a person, and when the person is the mom, basically that means frustrating everyone.  I have to walk the line between accepting myself/ being who I am and stretching to make sure I give all I can to my kids.  It's a tightrope walk, but luckily, one of my honest to goodness talents? Flexibility ;)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7525201590258680923?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7525201590258680923/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7525201590258680923' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7525201590258680923'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7525201590258680923'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/skinned-knees.html' title='Skinned Knees'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2713479157562093701</id><published>2011-04-12T09:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-12T09:49:50.043-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Follow me!</title><content type='html'>All three kids do this, did this.  And it was funny with all of them.  But boy am I thinking it looks cute on Finn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He walks up to me, then turns around directly and walks away.  He looks back (often to the detriment of his walking aim) and if I am not following him, scolds me in his baby talk and turns around again. Repeat until I follow (with more insistent scolding the longer this goes on).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I swear, he is so funny when he is cantankerous.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2713479157562093701?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2713479157562093701/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2713479157562093701' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2713479157562093701'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2713479157562093701'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/follow-me.html' title='Follow me!'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1071030403587336708</id><published>2011-04-11T23:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-12T12:08:04.977-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Confusional Awakenings Diary</title><content type='html'>So - since we started sleep progression with Jack his night terrors (or confusional awakenings) have all but disappeared.  It's been a week and a half and there have only been one or two unconscious awakenings.  Fabulous.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now the problem is, we were operating on three known "dysfunctions".  1 for sleep and 1 for night terrors and 1 for waking in the middle of the night ready to play.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Solution for night terrors is that you reintroduce the nap as it's often a sign of over-exhaustion.  If it's not due to the nap then you basically just have to power thru until age 4 when MOST kids grow out of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Solution for sleepless nights was to make a Sleep association change (from me in the room to me out of the room).  This has been fantastic and even works with the night terrors as when he does wake up from them he doesn't need me to be there to put himself back to sleep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Solution for waking in the middle of the night was to keep naps but push back bedtime.  Done and done and done.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, the sleep association thing made so much sense and such a difference and didn't seem to depend too much on the nap thing that I've been focusing on that.  Look, I have two other kids and a lot of other things going on - maybe my brain can only handle so much.  Whatever the reason, I have been telling myself *not* to move heaven and earth so that Jack will definitely nap.  Of course, since we started the sleep association thing he has naturally seemed to nap a whole lot easier, so I just haven't been worrying about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today though, today I specifically didn't worry about the nap and tonight, oh tonight, I am paying dearly for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;CA (confusional awakening) #1 9:30-9:50. It has something to do with James (from Thomas the train) dumping where he's not supposed to. It lasts long enough to wake Finn so I take Jack out of his room so he can freak out in private.  He never actually awakens, just falls on his face dead asleep.  I put him back to bed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;CA #2: 10-10:10.  This one has something to do with candy. He wakes up after ten minutes thoroughly confused and annoyed he's not in his bed. Me: Do you want to go back in your bed? Jack: YES! (tone is: of course i want to be in bed! why the hell did you get me OUT of bed you crazy woman?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;CA #3: 10:15- 10:20. Quicker but still unconscious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;CA #4: 10:25- 10:30 I take Finn out of the room, poor kid and put him back in the pack n play.  Unconscious Jack isn't comforted by anything anyway, so he just stays screaming in his bed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10:30 - 11:07 (present) - Jack awake and upset by his throat - which probably gets raw from all the screaming.  Sleep association still working wonders because he doesn't actually need me to stay with him to fall asleep he just gets uber annoyed at the pain? phlegm? Who knows.  But after I assure him it's okay to cough, he gets back into bed and says "Goodnight Momma" and off I go.  Of course when I come IN he tells me tragically "it's not working" (sleep or coughing, I'm not sure).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's textbook night terror pattern and unfortunately, I don't think I'll have definite sleep until 2-4.  All because I skipped the nap. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I assume.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is what drives us mothers crazy.  This is why I don't want to participate in life outside the house.  Because other kids can handle a disruption to their schedule, my kids can't... not often anyway.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The sleep association change seems to mean that its no longer important that the nap be PERFECT (time/place/length) but it still apparently needs to happen.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay, it's been ten minutes.  Dare I get my hopes up and go to bed?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;update: Finn woke up at 12:30am so I moved him back to his crib.  Jack woke up at 3:30 thinking it was morning, but had no fuss with being walked back to bed and left.  Jack woke up at 6:15am and Finn at 7.  So I'm not totally discouraged by all this.  Believe it or not, before last week's big sleep change this would have been considered a good night!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1071030403587336708?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1071030403587336708/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1071030403587336708' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1071030403587336708'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1071030403587336708'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/confusional-awakenings-diary.html' title='Confusional Awakenings Diary'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2782577613387272047</id><published>2011-04-11T17:21:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-11T17:21:53.251-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Too Many Cooks...</title><content type='html'>Abby wanted to clean her room.  Jack wanted to play with Abby.  So Jack was bothering Abby while Abby wanted to clean her room.  I hear some motherly tone from Abby but I continue cooking dinner.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby comes in to tell me Jack deserves a new train because he helped her clean her room instead of bothering her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I say, 'Oh, well that is great, but I want Jack to help you just because it's good not because he gets a train."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She says, "Well, but I already promised him a train."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Enter Jack.  Grinning and proud.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Luckily, I have a stockpile.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2782577613387272047?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2782577613387272047/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2782577613387272047' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2782577613387272047'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2782577613387272047'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/too-many-cooks.html' title='Too Many Cooks...'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7801025229523570246</id><published>2011-04-11T11:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-11T11:48:52.978-07:00</updated><title type='text'>At Arm's Length</title><content type='html'>I am basically a big believer in instincts.  I'm a bit more wary on valuing emotions too high (my emotions have been VERY sure about some VERY dumb things) - but instinct; that I find trustworthy (even when I REALLY wanted to be sure of those aforementioned things, I had a mountain of instinctual doubt about it)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think that Abby and I are just as we should be.  This is not my favorite age of kids - well - it is and it isn't. It's my favorite age of Abby's because it's her right now and she's my favorite person and always will be (the same goes for all the kids - definition of the word favorite be damned).  There is such a sweetness still and youth and all that.  But there is a lot of doing innocent things that disrupt; disrupt only because the rest of the house is in 2/3 year old mode.  I would say that is the biggest disadvantage to having kids farther apart.  You have to swing so far dealing with one child vs. the other.  She has such different needs naturally of course from the boys, and that is magnified by the age difference.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we worry that she might feel overlooked, overshadowed - that she'll resent having to be quiet for naps and having to be independent at bedtime because we're doing something radically different for the boys bedtimes.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also worry that I treat the boys like the littles that they are.  They get hugged and cuddled constantly.  Abby appreciates affection as well, but it's different and I think it should be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT because of the other worries, I worry.  Ha. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You know, if it was just her, and this is how our relationship and affection progressed then I wouldn't be worried about it.  It makes sense how independent she is and I have always been proud of her crazy extravertiness.  I would look over at her and give her a hug, but just know that she's all about learning and new friends and social EVERYTHING and crafts and the next fun thing.  I wouldn't worry that we don't have the same intensely codependent relationship we once had when she was a little.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But, because I do have the other two little monkeys who's whole existence is anchored by the expression on my face and who I manage as if the wrong misstep could make our house crumble to it's foundation...  The contrast is simply worrisome sometimes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I try to look in her eyes instead of constantly be moving when she's talking and take time out with her even if we're not talking and so on and so forth.  My instinct says we're in the right place but I can't shake the instinct on the other side of the spectrum that says she's getting a raw deal.  That all three of them, at different parts of the day, are.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7801025229523570246?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7801025229523570246/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7801025229523570246' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7801025229523570246'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7801025229523570246'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/at-arms-length.html' title='At Arm&apos;s Length'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7526530212906615497</id><published>2011-04-06T15:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-06T15:32:41.876-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Unexpected Consequence</title><content type='html'>Before sleep intervention Jack could BARELY sleep in until 4am.  I FORCED him to stay at least semi-prone until 4:45am.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, he sleeps until 5:45 (glory!) and would probably sleep later if not for...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;FINN!  Who, I'm guessing, used to sleep until 7am because he was so tired from his and his brother's night wakings.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;FINN now gets up at 5am.  5:20 if I'm lucky.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh well.  It was well well well worth it.&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OM-j-n6lH7A/TZzp_0_ew_I/AAAAAAAAIwY/ZQG1_JuimeY/s1600/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-04-06%2Bat%2B15.30%2B%25237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OM-j-n6lH7A/TZzp_0_ew_I/AAAAAAAAIwY/ZQG1_JuimeY/s400/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-04-06%2Bat%2B15.30%2B%25237.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7526530212906615497?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7526530212906615497/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7526530212906615497' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7526530212906615497'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7526530212906615497'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/unexpected-consequence.html' title='Unexpected Consequence'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OM-j-n6lH7A/TZzp_0_ew_I/AAAAAAAAIwY/ZQG1_JuimeY/s72-c/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-04-06%2Bat%2B15.30%2B%25237.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-4748088270037654359</id><published>2011-04-05T14:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-05T14:22:47.380-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Boys!</title><content type='html'>I was a parent for four years, but before I had boys, I had never been hit in the eyeball by a bat.   Now, it's par for the course.  I check to make sure my contact hasn't shattered and I move on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7FfbnaYloyU?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""&gt;&lt;/iframe&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-4748088270037654359?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/4748088270037654359/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=4748088270037654359' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4748088270037654359'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4748088270037654359'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/boys.html' title='Boys!'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://img.youtube.com/vi/7FfbnaYloyU/default.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5205930875164284629</id><published>2011-04-05T12:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-05T12:38:03.276-07:00</updated><title type='text'>In the Hall</title><content type='html'>So, to continue on the topic of failure.  I don't know how many nights since 2003 I have prayed for sleep - for my children... but there have been many.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The other silver lining about failure is that it is often a good litmus test for your current plan.  Not to go all Dr. Phil on you, but the whole "how's that workin' for you?" is not nearly as flippant as it seems. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, sleep.  I have never been a fan of the 'cry-it-out' method or many of the variations therein.  I have also never thought it causes unimaginable trauma either.  Parents that are okay with it have kids that are okay with it - not via genetics, but just cuz - if Mom and Dad are okay with something it shows, it permeates and the kids, even while not happy, are probably going to adapt just fine to it.  Still, even hand-holder me, have gotten to points with all the kids where I look into their sweet faces and I smile lovingly but confidently because I *know* that they are okay moving to the next level.  They are going to benefit from a good thirty second cry rather than suffer for it.  And then I've moved to another level of putting them to sleep - in the room or outside the room, whatever the stage.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is when I moved out of Abby's room by explaining I would "read/be in the hall so you can go to sleep"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ZBLSZbSP4rs?fs=1" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" width="425"&gt;&lt;/iframe&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Recently though, the boys have been tag-teaming and more.  Jack has been having night terrors or - the official term is Confusional Events (because night terrors are that you are literally running around screaming and freaking out where as Jack sits screaming and freaking out).  They are fascinating, especially now that we know for sure he is totally unconscious and there is nothing to do but wait them out (and take him out of the room so that he doesn't wake Finn). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Beyond the night terrors - the boys would just wake and be... awake.  We tried moving around naps and getting rid of them and eating less, more, sideways.  But it wasn't until Miss Milly suggested actually reading Ferber's book rather than googling it that the light came on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;First off, he revised it to, for example, make a bigger point that he is NOT the cry it out guy at all and he does not advocate kids crying for hours alone in their beds (though, like me, he doesn't suggest it will hurt them forever).  His method to re-learn sleep associations is going to mean some crying - but actually reading what he wants parents to know and do gave it all a very different spin.  For example, he specifies that this progressive cry method that a lot of people use is ONLY to re-learn sleep associations, it's not going to work for every sleep problem.  Also he said there is NOTHING about crying that is going to help the child sleep - the only point in going in to comfort the child for a minute or two and then leaving is that the hope is that EVENTUALLY the child will accidentally fall asleep without me in the room.  Which is, for us, the sleep association that we're trying to break.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I also think is great about him is that he used the "how's it working for you" in the sense that - if you don't mind rocking your child to sleep every night, and he sleeps just fine consistently, then he has NO problem with you continuing whatever the heck you want to do.  If it's not working, but you are getting a payoff from it - i.e. "i am on the verge of being insane anyway - a night trying something knew that i don't know if its going to work or be the most awful thing I've ever experienced just might push me over the edge so no, this isn't working for me, but it's working enough for me right now"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;See, this all seems so common sense now but... the key for me was when he said that the problem is not that the child wakes at night - all children (all people) wake in the middle of the night multiple times.  He describes it that the brain only half wakens and sort of does a double-check to see that everything is okay, everything is "normal".  But that the brain defines normal by what it remembers the last time it was conscious.  So, "normal" is that I'm in the chair working on the computer or just sitting there napping.  So the brain looks over expecting to see me, doesn't and further wakens.  And voila - screaming from Finn or Jack coming to get me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had always thought of whether or not they slept as this magic formula of what I did during the day.  What they watched, how much activity they had, how much they ate/what they ate, how did the nap go etc. etc. etc.  And I'm sure all those things can be factors.  But none of them explained as simply and as completely as the sleep association thing (in combination with the deep sleep patterns AND the first person ever to me that Jack's internal clock might be telling me that he simply cannot sleep as long as I am trying to get him to sleep so put him to bed a little later)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So after I got NO sleep on Friday because BOTH boys woke up every ten minutes and (after realizing I had snuck off to bed) reawakened (as Ferber said, wouldn't you? if someone kept sneaking off with your pillow?).  Off we went on Saturday to start this whole progressive sleep thing.  Oh, and my favorite thing Ferber recommends? Cheating.  He said-the first night - start him off WELL later than his normal bedtime, just to get a headstart.  (Finn, who does NOT usually wake up as if he's being asked to sleep too much per his internal clock went down without a fuss at his usual time)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we did.  And... Steve just walked away.  No fuss, no problems.  Jack went to sleep with no one in the room and.... dum&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;dum&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;DUM... did he have night terrors? no.  Did he wake at 10? no.  Did he wake at midnight? no.  Did he wake at 2am?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes.  And it was awful.  It was horrible awful horrible.  Not because Jack was in such distress (that was fascinating, he totally swung between trying to figure out what would work to get us to change what we were doing.  When crying didn't work, he pleaded.  When pleading didn't work he became authoritative, "Momma. You get in here right now." It was very cute.)  but because Finn also has the same sleep association problem and he DID go to sleep within ten minutes of us going in the room and leaving back and forth, but then he'd have to do it over and over again because Jack's distress woke him up again.  That was just plain not fair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We fired up the ole' pack n play, put Finn (and Abby who also couldn't sleep in the ruckus) to sleep in our room and at 4am I cheated and oh I cheated good.  Instead of having him stay in his bed which is what he does for Daddy and scream.  I took over and for me he comes out and has to be walked back in.  So I walked him back in five times maybe right in a row to sort of establish the routine and that was it - he was out.  BUT it was 4am.  We were not feeling victorious by any means.  We figured now we were going to have Finn &amp;amp; Abby in our room for a week while we figured this out and then we were going to have to do the whole thing over again with Finn and blah blah blah blah.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT next night.  I put Finn to bed first (left the room, no trouble).  Then I put Abby to bed.  Then Jack came up to say he was ready to bed.  I put him to bed, promised him a cookie if he stayed in his bed all night and...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;LEFT&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THE&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ROOM.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And... holy cow he went to sleep.  He stayed asleep until 3:45 which is pretty dang good, then slept til 6.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Next night.  Last night.  Now we have a routine.  Jack wanted to go to bed even earlier.  And the same song and dance.  And he slept til 5:45 which, gosh darn it, is FANTASTIC.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And we just never would have been motivated to make a big change if the sleep was just a little inconsistent.  Because most of the time that's all it was.  Three good weeks, one bad, etc. then the other boy would act up and so on.  We would have just waited until they grew out of needing us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The other thing I respected Ferber for?  Being upfront that this might need to be relearned after every sickness, every big change (moving/sibling/etc), every trip.  But that if you get a routine that you are comfortable with, it will not be an emotional upheaval for you.  THAT is what drove me crazy about other cry-it-out sorts... They asked me to do something I was completely and totally NOT okay with in exchange for the promise of good sleep... BUT no apologies for having to do the whole thing over again when the uncommon happens.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In conclusion.  I am writing this because I know I will forget.  And some person like me who was not ready for a change at 1 year is ready for a change at 3 years  and this will be a distant memory.  And I will say something like 'oh, it took a few days - they all do, but I was happy with my method... why? Because if just felt better but I don't remember why".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;AND a cautionary tale to myself and everyone else.  We moms can often NOT make a change until we are READY to make a change.  A lot of you men don't get this.  I know.  But I don't get why it took you all so long to be ready to settle down so there.  We need to be ready for the change to really make it happen.  And so often, it is horrible and consistent failure that readies us for that change, so ... like I keep saying, failure - it's a good thing.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5205930875164284629?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5205930875164284629/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5205930875164284629' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5205930875164284629'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5205930875164284629'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/in-hall.html' title='In the Hall'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://img.youtube.com/vi/ZBLSZbSP4rs/default.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7768601751747810918</id><published>2011-04-03T23:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-05T11:42:29.221-07:00</updated><title type='text'>No Where to Go but UP</title><content type='html'>So I've been preaching a lot about failure since December.&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; Because I have noticed that I am resistant to make a big change (not simply because I'm stubborn, not simply because I'm tired or overwhelmed, but because I'm trying to show a stick-to-it-iveness that often is really a martyrdom) unless I've failed completely doing whatever I am currently doing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have realized that I am incredibly grateful for the negative answered prayers and the horrible failures recently.&amp;nbsp; Because without really truly failing, I don't really truly make a big change.&amp;nbsp; It's like I'm trying so hard to keep going along the path I'm on that when finally there is a big enough wall in my path that I *know* for sure that I am right to move to another path, it is such a relief.&amp;nbsp; Even if it's been a horrible failure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We had a big time failure with the kids' teeth in December and it, no joke, caused us to question ourselves in pretty much every conceivable way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like we have been coasting thru parenthood as if we are young parents and this whole baby/kid thing hasn't quite set in that we are actually the adults here - in charge and responsible.&amp;nbsp; I mean, that sounds awful.&amp;nbsp; We have *never* allowed disrespect from the kids, we have always been quick to adjust hitting, screaming, kicking behaviors.&amp;nbsp; So it's not like we've been laying back with our feet up letting the kids run rampant.&amp;nbsp; BUT it's as if we sort of thought laying back with our feet up *should* have a place in our day to day routine and, quite frankly, it's not really a right right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think the closest thing I can relate it to would be as if our kids were guests and while we love being with them - we figured they should be able to entertain themselves a good amount of the day.&amp;nbsp; Instead of sitting on the ground as a default, setting up the games to play, the routines (Beyond nap, lunch, etc) and such, it was like 'okay we'll play this game for five minutes, then I'll get back to what *I* planned to be doing right now'.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It might not even be that we're playing any more than we were before, but our mindset is different.&amp;nbsp; Instead of the chore, it is the rule and if we happen to have luxury time later - then that's the rub.&amp;nbsp; Because we have to make a lot more difficult decisions when we have less time set aside to try to do EVERYTHING.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Point being, without the crappy situation with the kids' teeth we may never have gotten low enough into a pit to make a positive change and I love the change we made.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7768601751747810918?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7768601751747810918/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7768601751747810918' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7768601751747810918'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7768601751747810918'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/no-where-to-go-but-up.html' title='No Where to Go but UP'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2265932840339897759</id><published>2011-04-03T21:52:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-03T21:52:20.362-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Test for Email</title><content type='html'>Aaron &amp;amp; Poppa, you should now be emailed whenever I update this blog!&amp;nbsp;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2265932840339897759?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2265932840339897759/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2265932840339897759' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2265932840339897759'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2265932840339897759'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/04/test-for-email.html' title='Test for Email'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-8063860156883118806</id><published>2011-03-28T19:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-28T19:23:46.868-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Unusually Concrete</title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lw91tCAyquk/TZE-BhLuYpI/AAAAAAAAIwU/QuVLOT_ZI24/s1600/photo%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lw91tCAyquk/TZE-BhLuYpI/AAAAAAAAIwU/QuVLOT_ZI24/s320/photo%252813%2529.jpg" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To preface my little post here - I do not totally know what Miss Milly means half the time when she talks about how remarkably aware and what a concrete thinker Jack is.&amp;nbsp; I tried to google it, but only got the little babycenter explanation of the 7-10 year old phase.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I think I have a very telling example.&amp;nbsp; Every day of pre-school, from the very first day, I park toward the back of the parking lot so Jack can run down a little hill and down a ramp sort of area that leads into the pre-school grounds.&amp;nbsp; Two weeks ago Jack was on his way down the hill as usual when he stopped short in the middle of the road.&amp;nbsp; He had just noticed the driving directional arrows. &amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At first he followed the one pointing to the left as that is where the pre-school is, that made sense to me.&amp;nbsp; But he stopped, went back to the no mans land in between the two arrows, obviously troubled by the arrow going straight.&amp;nbsp; He tried to follow both by going straight a few feet then rounding to the other arrow, but he knew that wasn't quite right either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course this day I had snack balanced in one hand and Finn on my hip and really did not know how to quickly verbally get Jack out of this dilemma.&amp;nbsp; I finally sort of muscled him to his ramp and that was that.&amp;nbsp; Until it was time to go home.&amp;nbsp; Now, NONE of the arrows were going in the direction I wanted to go and I absolutely understood that this was a CONCEPT that Jack was wrestling with, his face was intently concentrating on the conundrum at hand...&amp;nbsp; but still... could we be in a less exposed place to work on these things please? Maybe?&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm going to have to bring my own arrows around with me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-8063860156883118806?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/8063860156883118806/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=8063860156883118806' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8063860156883118806'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8063860156883118806'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/unusually-concrete.html' title='Unusually Concrete'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lw91tCAyquk/TZE-BhLuYpI/AAAAAAAAIwU/QuVLOT_ZI24/s72-c/photo%252813%2529.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-4918478400054764307</id><published>2011-03-28T18:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-28T18:24:19.137-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sign of the Times</title><content type='html'>I have just realized that Steve and I have both, independently of one another, started using the phrase "So help me..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In context it is Jack or Abby wanting to do something "fun" which most adults would consider "dangerous" but not dangerous enough at their age to actually stop them.&amp;nbsp; Usually it involves copying something "Wipeout" related.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Steve just said, "Fine. But so help me, if one of you gets hurt you can go cry to your Momma."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I usually say, "FINE. But so help me, you can call Uncle Aaron to tell him we're on the way to have him stitch you up."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-4918478400054764307?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/4918478400054764307/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=4918478400054764307' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4918478400054764307'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4918478400054764307'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/sign-of-times.html' title='Sign of the Times'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-161218728761422218</id><published>2011-03-27T23:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-27T23:09:35.148-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Unfair</title><content type='html'>I spent an hour upstairs watching tv all by myself today. It's not like I can't take time like this, but especially on weekends that Steve is home, I'd just as well sit here and watch him wrestle all kids at once so that I can see their faces all flushed rather than just hearing the joyful battle yells (yes even Finn has a battle cry) from afar.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I'm upstairs in our bedroom.&amp;nbsp; I feel good, refreshed to have had a little silence, a little mindless reflection.&amp;nbsp; I'm on my way downstairs and Jack is upstairs in the living room - spots me and runs to me as if he hasn't seen me in ages.&amp;nbsp; I notice right away he needs a change, so I bring him downstairs to take care of him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I lie him down and he looks sad.&amp;nbsp; And he says, with no whine in his voice - just a sad, quiet tone: "Momma, I lost you."&lt;br /&gt;"You lost me?"&lt;br /&gt;"I sad, Jack sad.&amp;nbsp; I sitting in the chair ...[couldn't] found you."&lt;br /&gt;I repeated it back to him so he knew I understood and assured him I wasn't hiding from him on purpose, told him where I was and gave him a hug.&lt;br /&gt;So he'd been up there a while I guess, just sitting, assuming me gone.&lt;br /&gt;It was SO. SAD.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not as if he was traumatized, I did have to ASK for the hug before he ran off to play.&amp;nbsp; But it was the TONE OF VOICE.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Completely unfair. Parenting... once again, not for wimps.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-161218728761422218?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/161218728761422218/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=161218728761422218' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/161218728761422218'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/161218728761422218'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/unfair.html' title='Unfair'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3887932399191060772</id><published>2011-03-27T15:35:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-27T15:43:30.389-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Jack's Video Message to Zoozy</title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-f84071162f41a9ce" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/get_player"&gt;&lt;param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"&gt;&lt;param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;param name="flashvars" value="flvurl=http://v21.nonxt7.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Df84071162f41a9ce%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1329967024%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D74A95F8597F38E6AC71901000B79A68AE1A932A6.201E6C5545ED61B82F72213A936EDE3C7C88A33E%26key%3Dck1&amp;amp;iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Df84071162f41a9ce%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DES2vtYf07_y6KoDvYsAaWSBBBQE&amp;amp;autoplay=0&amp;amp;ps=blogger"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/get_player" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"width="320" height="266" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"flashvars="flvurl=http://v21.nonxt7.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Df84071162f41a9ce%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1329967024%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D74A95F8597F38E6AC71901000B79A68AE1A932A6.201E6C5545ED61B82F72213A936EDE3C7C88A33E%26key%3Dck1&amp;iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Df84071162f41a9ce%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DES2vtYf07_y6KoDvYsAaWSBBBQE&amp;autoplay=0&amp;ps=blogger"allowFullScreen="true" /&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3887932399191060772?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3887932399191060772/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3887932399191060772' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3887932399191060772'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3887932399191060772'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/jacks-video-message-to-zoozy.html' title='Jack&apos;s Video Message to Zoozy'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1436120741990822071</id><published>2011-03-24T11:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-24T11:11:00.132-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Cliche Stupid</title><content type='html'>I consider myself an intelligent person.&amp;nbsp; I did very well at school without really ever trying - I did try now and then when I really cared - say at memorizing the entire Art History book to prepare for the AP test.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm generally pretty smart socially too.&amp;nbsp; I mean, hey - I stick my foot in my mouth often, but I see it usually pretty quick.&amp;nbsp; I didn't waste my life on damaging relationships.&amp;nbsp; My most dysfunctional male/female relationship was a friend who didn't like me like I liked him.&amp;nbsp; But we never ran around as friends with benefits or anything like that.&amp;nbsp; My most dysfunctional friend relationship - well, I think I handled that one eventually pretty well too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have talents.&amp;nbsp; I can draw, I can paint, I can bake (just because I don't want to bake anything DIFFERENT doesn't mean I can't bake).&amp;nbsp; I am a decent writer.&amp;nbsp; I can figure out very basic household problems.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT I seem to be uber-slow picking up on the most simple cliched common sense.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like today I made goals for the morning while Jack was at school.&amp;nbsp; Not a list.&amp;nbsp; Goals.&amp;nbsp; And lo and behold, I got them done.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;HmmMMm so THIS is what people mean that its important to set goals.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stay tuned next week see me have an epiphany about not putting metal in the microwave (which by the way, mom, you never taught me - I learned from a sitcom in college and thought... geez, I'm glad I've never done that)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1436120741990822071?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1436120741990822071/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1436120741990822071' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1436120741990822071'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1436120741990822071'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/cliche-stupid.html' title='Cliche Stupid'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7656735452794658015</id><published>2011-03-22T13:56:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-22T13:56:30.177-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Routine, someone give me a ROUTINE!</title><content type='html'>Who are the crazy people that complain that their lives are routine?&amp;nbsp; I long for routine, a routine I can count on.&amp;nbsp;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To some extent I have a very clear, strict routine.&amp;nbsp; School, bedtime - same everyday.&amp;nbsp; That pretty much takes up my whole day to keep that routine running. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm sure it's possible to also incorporate the things I feel are horribly deficient, but I seem to hit a brick wall every time I try to restore balance to the world.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7656735452794658015?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7656735452794658015/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7656735452794658015' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7656735452794658015'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7656735452794658015'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/routine-someone-give-me-routine.html' title='Routine, someone give me a ROUTINE!'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-8027979985938772011</id><published>2011-03-20T13:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-20T13:42:36.811-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Jack in Imagination land</title><content type='html'>You won't be surprised to hear that Jack's forray into the world of imagination is directly centered around Thomas the Train. He intently watches a show over and over again and then abandons the tv and recreates, scene for scene, the story, paying particular attention to dramatic notes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This in itself is really really cute - and he's been doing it for a while (recreating CARS was first - "mac! mac! don't leave! mac!").&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But what I think is really really cute is when he's in between storylines, just staring at his trains and just starts making them interact like everyday life "Hi, I'm Happy Thomas." "Hi, I'm James." "I'm sad." "Oh no, why you sad?" "Oh *gobbligook*"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sigh, so in love with this stage where he can play by himself for quite a while.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-8027979985938772011?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/8027979985938772011/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=8027979985938772011' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8027979985938772011'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8027979985938772011'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/jack-in-imagination-land.html' title='Jack in Imagination land'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-8671993673431501523</id><published>2011-03-19T20:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-19T20:31:36.966-07:00</updated><title type='text'>More on Vampires and Such</title><content type='html'>A very nice someone who was not rude at all about it was recently shaking her head at me for liking another Vampire thing and I didn't want to sound defensive, but I am NOT one of those people that just loves everything goth and vampire. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have actually avoided most Vampire type things.  I read Dracula as a Jr. in High School and loved it - but more for the vamp hunters.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I read one Barbara Hambly where the vampire is a good guy and that was compelling.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Twilight I totally got madly into even whilst hating it.  So I certainly understand the comment, but considering how much I really do hate Twilight as much as I liked the journey, it's so totally not true.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course my two Being Human rants again make me look like a liar, but I think the attraction is that I love a character to NOT be slave to their circumstances or bad choices.  I do not do well with characters who make stupid mistakes - who believe the wrong person other than the person they were supposed to be loyal to.  And in general, if the vampire is a "good" character they are also fairly wise because they have fought against themselves, their nature, their community if you will, and are just trying to figure out how to live out the rest of their days - they are trying to be redeeming without truly assuming they can be redeemed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh crud, I forgot about True Blood.  Okay, in MY DEFENSE the WORLD is vampire crazy right now so it's hard to get away from in the non-reality realm!  But you may (or may not) be surprised to know that there are people who care only that the character IS a vampire in order to like them, love them, follow them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm basically a character driven follower.  Not a type driven follower.  Unless you count character traits as types.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-8671993673431501523?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/8671993673431501523/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=8671993673431501523' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8671993673431501523'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8671993673431501523'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/more-on-vampires-and-such.html' title='More on Vampires and Such'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5133452622703704039</id><published>2011-03-19T20:02:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-19T20:23:05.430-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Better then Gutted but Better</title><content type='html'>So.  I finally got to see the final episode of series 3 of Being Human.  I already knew what happened as you may have guessed from my last entry because the creators themselves showed the end along with a statement as soon as it was aired in the UK.  So I knew, I even saw the death and the leading up to, but I hadn't actually seen how it all came about as in the rest of the episode. I was just recently able to let it cross my mind without feeling my stomach drop out in grief, so I thought about not watching it right now, but I didn't know how long it would last up illegally on youtube, so I had to make it through or wait three or four more weeks for it to air here in America with twenty minutes cut out of it!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was pleasantly surprised at the humanity of the writers/creators.  At this point in the series it's been quite a while since we've seen the Mitchell I loved anyway, so that lessens the regret slightly - the point is the vampire part of him seems to be winning and unlike a lot of other vampire type things, the vampire part of him is never a good thing. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And even though he's not quite the character I loved, they let all the characters say everything we'd want them to say to each other.  The death was basically heroic, still shocking... a lot less like the two friends standing around crying and sort of wimpily doing it (Mitchell doesn't want to kill anyone anymore and knows that he can't be good forever [not sure what message they are sending to addicts around the world since that is definitely how they portrayed the whole bloodlust thing], so he asks his friend to stake him and even that had an appropriate edge to it).  I'm going to break out of parenthesis here.  But basically rather than kill himself, Mitchell wants George (the werewolf friend) to do it in order to sort of wipe the slate of guilt George has since George knew best what might be going on which indeed had been going on.  I know, vague, but it doesn't matter and if you knew the show you'd know what I was talking about.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My point is, I read a lot of stories, I watch a lot of stories.  There are a LOT of storytellers out there that have no empathy for the readers that fall into their worlds.  Or, worse, prey on the reader's feelings just to eek out more drama, more of a cliffhanger or what have you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No, these guys have consistently given the audience the whole enchilada.  I don't know how to describe it.  Rather than having goodbyes almost said, heartfelt confessions only on the tips of the lips - they have the deathbed conversations at the deathbed and then... BOOM there is a knock on the door that inadvertently or dramatically staves off the deathbed after all. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well in this case, the death still happens but in a different way than assumed, a slightly more satisfying way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course, as is always the case with a storyline - whether because the author is trying to write a path to point G in the future so they have to manipulate you onto that path the best they can or because, in this case, an actor was leaving and they wouldn't recast, there was some messiness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I.E. a new war is starting with the vampires and yes, it'd suck to have Mitchell forced to do bad things because his friends are in trouble.  But there are still three friends &amp;amp; a baby on the way - are they NOT going to be manipulated by this supposedly hugely powerful vampire sect to save each other?  And he was the only one with any sort of perspective or strength in the vampire world, but hey - no - go ahead and kill him instead, that makes sense.  Honestly, it was a valid choice.  I would ALMOST say a Harry Potter type of choice.  A brave one.  No, it doesn't fix everything - but it fixed THAT problem - no questioning and running around in circles about it, but done and done, now what?  So, I dunno, I'm talking myself into it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is why I blog I suppose.  I feel a knot loosened in my stomach.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Goodbye awesome character.  See you in the Hobbit.  Is Peter Jackson planning on having attractive dwarves?  Certainly would make sense for making the Hobbit a little more Hollywood, and damned if it doesn't even work on me who KNOWS I'm being pandered to.  Huh.  So.  When does that movie come out?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5133452622703704039?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5133452622703704039/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5133452622703704039' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5133452622703704039'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5133452622703704039'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/better-then-gutted-but-better.html' title='Better then Gutted but Better'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-6525326723970245356</id><published>2011-03-19T19:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-19T20:01:56.965-07:00</updated><title type='text'>You've got to...</title><content type='html'>You know the whole "you've got to spend money in order to make money"? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my house it's "you've got to make a mess in order to clean one up"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The only way to distract Finn from re-destroying something I'm cleaning up is to give him a basket full of plastic dishes and let him fling them every which way everywhere. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is it a wash? Is it worse? I don't really know, but I know nothing else works.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-6525326723970245356?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/6525326723970245356/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=6525326723970245356' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6525326723970245356'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6525326723970245356'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/youve-got-to.html' title='You&apos;ve got to...'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5974108437152136436</id><published>2011-03-13T15:00:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2011-03-13T16:08:59.398-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Problem With my Heart</title><content type='html'>There just doesn't seem to be any way around it.   Unless the series, whether it be movie, book, or television, I should not start, I should not FIND it before it ends. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Though I hate that Firefly got canceled prematurely, I was happy that I hadn't had to live thru the whole ordeal caring about it.  I knew what I was in for before I started.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Harry Potter, I really came in more than half way thru - and even that was practically unbearable.  I cannot tell you how relieved I was when it was DONE and done so well, I might add.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This bbc show Being Human - honestly I'm not even sure if it will hold up with my other favorites, true favorites.  I fast forward thru a lot of it anyway because it's too intense or bloody.  But I love parts of it intensely x twelve.  Time will tell, I suppose.  But tonight it was over in the UK.  They may continue, but one of the main characters has left to do 'The Hobbit.'  And that's the end of the possibility of a fairy tale ending.  Though, honestly it did end up a bit fairy tale in the end.   Oh long story, but I appreciate that they made the decision to HAVE an end and not just have it floating out there in uncertainty cliffhanger land.  Oh I'm &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;SO&lt;/span&gt; thankful for that.  Really, really truly thankful.  The only thing that would have made it better was if they had been willing to write off the whole show instead of just the character, because just the way they ended it shows to me that they would have been willing to do a death/supernatural sort of happily ever after. You know? I don't need flowers and valentines - some version of a happy ever after would have sufficed and honestly, they did give me that mostly.   As long as I stop watching.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is the American version to see what they do with that, but it's not the same.   I mean, it has part of the charm, but there was just something about this little original cast that was just plain magic.  Crazy intense funny magic... (the parts I didn't fast forward ;)).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The creator even summed it up half hilarious and half heartbreaking (I didn't copy the heart stuff):&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;"...I guess it really hit me back when we were doing series 2, and  perhaps unconsciously I shifted the stories in a way that paved  Mitchell's exit. I thought it'd be better to have him go out in a  scripted satisfying way, rather than lose him between series and open up  with the rest of our heroes standing over a grave, with one of them  saying "Wow, who'd have guessed Mitchell was SO allergic to bee  stings..."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Snort.  I totally appreciate that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I'm gutted, really sad even while pondering what it means about me that I care quite so much about the imaginary.  Nothing negative, thanks, but I do find it interesting to look out around me and see people being perfectly emotionally fine in the real world focusing on real world stuff and I think.  Huh.  I'm different than that.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5974108437152136436?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5974108437152136436/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5974108437152136436' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5974108437152136436'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5974108437152136436'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/problem-with-my-heart.html' title='The Problem With my Heart'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2357884096173595250</id><published>2011-03-10T21:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-03-10T21:34:30.709-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Feet</title><content type='html'>I've never been big on shoes.  In fact... I can't remember what I used to wear in school mostly.  Primary I mean - or geez anytime until college.  In college I wore the little white sneakers that were the style at the time...  Was I into flip flops yet?  I don't know, but I DO know when Jen (Johnson at the time) introduced me to...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;the MIA wedge.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I STILL fantasize about that shoe.  She had them in black I think?  I got them in black... then brown... because they were the best shoes ever.  Ever.  EVER.  They were SUPER comfortable, high but not crazy high.  They had this sort of ragged tread so that they could be dressed down as easily as they could be dressed up.  I remember when the black pair died.  I remember knowing I would never be that cool again.  It was the shoes.  The shoes made me feel so cool.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Off topic alert.  As I'm thinking how cool I was that first year at Westmont with my short hair and cool shoes,  I just realized a guy that was beyond super cool (on the social hierarchy anyway) probably liked me a little my first year at Westmont.  Shared an English class.  As I was fairly mid to low level amongst the social spheres I openly "flirted" (was friendly without leading) because I knew it was safe since no one was actually going to LIKE me like me.    I mention this not to ring my own bell, but because I think it's funny how incredibly obtuse we can choose to be.  There was another boy I thought was too cool for school that asked me out too late (I had already started dating Steve and Steve is cool in a way that is beyond all spheres obviously)... and I nearly blocked it out.  Actually to this day I'm not even sure that really happened?  Did it?  I could swear...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway all this to say I've started wearing shoes for the first time since I had Abby.   I just got tired of how cracked and dirty and generally gross my feet were by the end of the day.  And as we already know how I get along with shower time, you can imagine it was worse than you think.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2357884096173595250?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2357884096173595250/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2357884096173595250' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2357884096173595250'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2357884096173595250'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/feet.html' title='Feet'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3493602399056627763</id><published>2011-03-09T20:09:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-03-09T20:13:54.170-08:00</updated><title type='text'>It's Good to be the Dad</title><content type='html'>Oh.  My. Gosh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay, look, I get that there are a lot of things that are hard about being dad.  I get that it's not great to always have the baby crying out for Momma when you are right there being the funnest thing since the circus and Momma is just leaving the room for two seconds.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it takes Steve five minutes... or LESS to get both boys to sleep.  Not just quiet in their beds but ASLEEP.  Today, it took closer to six.  Finn was crying sincerely and deeply for me.  Steve said, "Finn.  Knock it off."  and he did.  And was asleep in another three minutes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yeah boys (who it takes me an HOUR to get settled), thanks a lot for making mom feel like a sucker&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3493602399056627763?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3493602399056627763/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3493602399056627763' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3493602399056627763'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3493602399056627763'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/its-good-to-be-dad.html' title='It&apos;s Good to be the Dad'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5785586235527515739</id><published>2011-03-09T19:32:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-03-09T19:48:54.516-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Evolution of a Shower</title><content type='html'>I remember... vaguely... extremely vaguely the days when taking a shower was an everyday occurrence and somewhat of a non- thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Those were the days.  I remember in college racing to the shower when I lived in the fishbowl with Jen Wilkes.  She was much cooler than me and got up to walk with MaryElise.  She was also a LOT more into her showers than me, so whilst it was extremely UNselfless of me, I had basically trained myself to wake up to their chitchat outside, tumble from my bed (with or without my sheets at times), and throw myself into the shower.  To be fair to my selfishness, I did take a five minute shower and Jen a twenty so... you know... come on... okay yes I know I'm a jerk.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then there was work morning showers - I didn't appreciate those either. I didn't want to wake up, I didn't want to be cold when I got OUT of the shower.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then came Abby.  Ahhh, baby showers.  The paramount stress was WHEN could you trust the baby to be asleep long enough to take a shower.  How awful it was to sort of relax in the shower and get out to realize baby has been screaming for you.  It all just seemed not worth it.  I had to start inviting friends over to sit in the quiet house while I showered JUST IN CASE Abby woke up.  I remember even running out in the middle of a shower hoping to calm her so I could finish my hair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then theres the crawling stage, where I would bring a basket of toys into the bathroom and try to get Abby to stay and happily play with toys while I showered.  That always ended up with the shower door open and me trying to rinse any part of me even a little between playing with toys.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, then baby #2 arrived and it was combined stress of baby staying asleep and keeping older child focused on something else so if baby did wake up older child would not take it upon themself to pick up baby and most likely drop baby. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Inevitably then came TWO kids in the bathroom, door open, mommy not enjoying shower at all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, we've got #3.  Now, I forget to shut the shower door if I don't have kids around because I just assume I'll have to have an open air shower.  Now Jack does things like lock both of us in the bathroom and turn off the lights and freak out.  Now Finn crawls in the shower while Jack runs all the hot water in the sink washing the soap and Abby tries to tell me things that I have no idea are vital or not.  I.E. It could as easily be her telling me she realizes now why she gets so thirsty in the morning or that she accidentally turned on the dishwasher with the laptop inside.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So as I stood there, showering in complete darkness with Jack knocking on the door trying to get someone to rescue us, I wasn't even phased.  And I thought... hmmm... showers...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5785586235527515739?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5785586235527515739/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5785586235527515739' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5785586235527515739'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5785586235527515739'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/evolution-of-shower.html' title='The Evolution of a Shower'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7400680755980688867</id><published>2011-03-09T19:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-03-09T19:32:40.853-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Could it be..</title><content type='html'>Could I be... maybe sort of ... posting HERE? again?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh I don't know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My reasons for leaving are still all around.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But this is where I feel most myself, with my little blogging history.  Even if it is a pain to sign in because it's my old email.  Even if it is a pain to... well... mostly it's just a pain to sign in.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7400680755980688867?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7400680755980688867/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7400680755980688867' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7400680755980688867'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7400680755980688867'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2011/03/could-it-be.html' title='Could it be..'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3658215955992260666</id><published>2010-09-18T21:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-18T21:23:28.811-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Hiatus</title><content type='html'>adatakes.wordpress.com&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;toying around somewhere else...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3658215955992260666?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3658215955992260666/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3658215955992260666' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3658215955992260666'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3658215955992260666'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/09/hiatus.html' title='Hiatus'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-4154720629099023367</id><published>2010-09-04T20:27:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-04T22:26:48.822-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I AM an Oxymoron</title><content type='html'>One of my favorite ever moments from high school was sitting in Mr. Pardee's Chem class with... Jen? Was it you Jen? Weren't you in honors everything so it couldn't have been you in there with me?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, Mr. Pardee was one of my three or four most memorable teachers ever.  He was funny for one thing.  He would routinely go off on tangents every so often that would take the entire class period on purpose for another.  I just tried to give examples of what those tangents would be and both of them couldn't be explained with any sort of justice.  It was just awesome to be in his class.  He would also routinely break into giggles.  One of those occurred when he was doing some sort of experiment using rocks and light and described one of the rocks as blackish/whitish.  Jen, I swear it was you, I can so hear you laughing not quite out loud saying isn't that an oxymoron?  And he laughed so hard in the same manner.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I am an oxymoron.  I OFTEN feel that way and often feel misunderstood because of it.  As in, YES labor hurt like a you know what and I didn't enjoy the pain at all, not even a little.  But that doesn't mean that having the babies, and yes including labor, wasn't the most awesome adventure, the coolest challenge, most proud experiences of my life.  And YES I can be crazy totally proud that I "pushed" a total, a combined TOTAL of 6 times amidst all my labors for a combined time of probably under five minutes?  Does that mean I judge or look down on anyone who pushed for days (JenG you're Superwoman) - NOOOOOOO.  But IIII can be proud of my own crazy body can't I? Even if its just genes? It was MY race to run and I'm not comparing with everyone else's race run on a totally different course and terrain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, yes I can see why people can think they know one thing about me only to have me tell the story completely different on a different day.  Does this make me duplicitous?  NOOO, actually it doesn't.  A high school friend of mine had this vision of authenticity that the best sort of person was someone who's loved ones would gather at their funeral and everyone would have had the same experience as to who she was.  Even then I blanched at that.  I'm so different based on who I'm with.  I always have been.  Am I lying and faking and being inauthentic? No.  Different people bring out different things in me.  Different people need different things from me.  Different situations make me feel different ways.  I'm flexible - in every way as it turns out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I'm confident. And I'm not.  I'm social.  And I'm not.  I enjoy my cave dwelling.  And I enjoy nature.  I hate bugs.  And I still hate bugs.  BUT I find them cool if they aren't going to get near me.  I'm not adventurous at all.  And yet, if I'm not being pushed, I'll do a lot of what you think I wouldn't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I am almost always, is prepared to fight someone pushing me.  Which is pretty fascinating considering I don't think I was pushed much as a child.  My mom tried VERY hard to push only in the most important areas, not smush me (as in my personality) into the ground.  My dad, well hey - he believes VERY strongly in his kids being exactly who they want to be.  So apparently what that all did for me was make me pretty possessive of who I am.  Strong and proud and a bit suspicious of all you out there poking at me. ;)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the same time? I'm waiting for the people that love me the very most to be willing to push me - just a bit.  When I'm looking over the edge of somewhere I don't want to go.  I want the people that love me most to trust me the most to know that actually I do very much want to be able to go *there* (wherever there is) and all I need is a little shove.  What does that shove look like?  Well, it's not sarcasm (unless it's really good sarcasm).  It's not belittling.  It's not guilt.  It's not doubtful.  It's not weak.  It's casual, but insistent - they're not even looking at me, but staring off at something else - "Go ahead - you'll do great" and then shove.  It's something to do with faith and trust in me.  Not me in them.  A stranger is much more likely to successfully convince me to do something I don't want to do than a friend.  Because the stranger isn't giving me attitude about how I *should* do it but I probably can't because I am crippled in some way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We used to have family friends who lived in the Pasadena area.  We were visiting as a family during a huge rain storm all those years ago.  I was still elementary aged and by FAR the youngest of the group.  Everyone decided we'd all take a run in the rain.  Everyone else had someone their size or near to borrow clothes from I think.  Maybe the rest of my family will remember why I was the only one in a bathing suit.  A borrowed teenager's bathing suit.  Maybe I had had a tizzy about getting my clothes wet - I don't know.  But I remember them trying to coax me into doing it and ALL I wanted to do was jump off the stairs and join them, and for the life of me I couldn't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was choked with insecurity or SOMETHING.  And my mom had to push me.  It wasn't the sort I described because hey - I'm sure I just LOOKED like I was having a snit.  But inside I remember knowing I was coming off the exact opposite of how I felt and I just couldn't figure out how to express it!  In fact, I think I can even now trace it to a very specific misunderstanding.  I think I was looking for some sort of reassurance about the bathing suit - and whatever someone said - it wasn't the key I was looking for.  I just kept waiting for someone to say what I wanted them to say.  I finally did go with them, and it was a lot of fun.  But I'll always remember how I had gotten myself in this huge predicament completely "innocently" because I'm sure that happens to kids all the time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(There is such ATTITUDE in the way they can say something and half the time they don't MEAN to be horribly rude... and they do have to be taught obviously how to express themselves politely, but I hope the times that happens to Abby on a big scale are SLIGHTLY diminished because I remember and maybe I can save her from herself now and again.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I was thinking of all this because of the photography season coming up - but I suppose I'll save that for the next time I blog... which might be next year...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-4154720629099023367?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/4154720629099023367/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=4154720629099023367' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4154720629099023367'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4154720629099023367'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/09/i-am-oxymoron.html' title='I AM an Oxymoron'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1780416865745655311</id><published>2010-09-04T10:14:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-09-04T10:33:41.613-07:00</updated><title type='text'>What Finn Doesn't Want me to Say</title><content type='html'>He's a cupcake, I don't know what to say.  A tough, boyish cupcake, it's true - he's interested in cars and how they go - he's interested in exploration and doing ANYthing that Jack is doing.  He is uninterested in toys that aren't loud or don't have wheels  He walks around - already a veteran walker at 11 months old, with this total confidence - when he looks at you it's with this expression, "I know, I'm the frosting on the cake, you love me, here, I love you too."  Then he either runs over to cuddle or makes a quarter turn to follow some path invisible to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don't worry Finn - cupcake doesn't mean you are a pushover.  Jack pushes you down casually two times or more a day and you sort of shrug, get back up and plow back in - you might totally adore your big brother but intimidated by him, you are NOT.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He wanders more than either of my other two.  As my mom clarifies, he's totally fine to wander off from his caretaker, but he is really offended if his caretaker tries to wander off without him.  It's pretty funny - once he's assured that you're sat somewhere and not trying to go anywhere THEN he'll go off searching all the other rooms of the house.  He'll check in now and then, looking at you as he passes the hall, give you that "I know, I know, I'm just a blessing to your world."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This extends to being absolutely shocked that someone might say "no" to him, in fact, he thinks you're probably joking.  Gives you a sweet tolerant smile and continues about his business.  IF in fact you decide to insist that you are actually in charge, Finn gives you a look of frustrated indignation - furrowed brow and all.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1780416865745655311?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1780416865745655311/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1780416865745655311' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1780416865745655311'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1780416865745655311'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/09/what-finn-doesnt-want-me-to-say.html' title='What Finn Doesn&apos;t Want me to Say'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-4817783066087398382</id><published>2010-08-03T23:05:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-08-03T23:07:19.839-07:00</updated><title type='text'>standoffish much?</title><content type='html'>so I can't sleep once again.  granted its not very late yet.  so i feel the need to focus my mind on something... can't put my finger on what.  want to share with anyone? no, not really.  write out a journal? no... blog... eh... no, what came to mind on how to feel some sort of closeness with the world was to want to shop.  that's just weird.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-4817783066087398382?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/4817783066087398382/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=4817783066087398382' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4817783066087398382'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/4817783066087398382'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/08/standoffish-much.html' title='standoffish much?'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5732859835200225399</id><published>2010-07-28T14:58:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-07-28T21:03:43.036-07:00</updated><title type='text'>House of Waffles</title><content type='html'>Today I was reading yet another post from Jen in which she made me laugh out loud and yet also managed to make me choke up at the thought of her comfy pjs being cut up into the rag pile.  And I thought how funny Jen can be, and how goofy.  And a part of me who was feeling rather drab in comparison said, 'I can be goofy' which I'm sure a lot of you know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it's more than her being funny - what makes her so funny to read is because she is SO open.  But not 'demean my husband and kid's sort of open, just very 'this is a real slice of me' sort of open.  It's not everything, which I'm lucky enough to be certain of since we are more than internet friends, though seriously, that hardly matters since I can be a lot more friendshippy online than I can at home while changing my children's diapers for the sixth time in two hours.  Okay, fine, fine, I admit that there is SOME value of actual face to face friendship time, as I have seen when I am lucky enough to hang out with some of my friends... in reality... without typing... like in actual physical space.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway how I felt ... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sigh, I suppose this is why.  The cutee boys are awake.  Which means, wel its all about them, which is fine for now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Read between the lines this post made sense, i swear.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;edited to add: No I know.  I don't want to be anyone else or in anyone else's shoes.  What I was thinking was how I used to be open and now have a really really hard time with it... and nothing in particular has changed in life that has burned me to the point that that should be the case.  And Jen's post made me see the difference in myself very clearly.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I was going to ponder what changed... but...there were little baby butts to take care of.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5732859835200225399?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5732859835200225399/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5732859835200225399' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5732859835200225399'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5732859835200225399'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/07/house-of-waffles.html' title='House of Waffles'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3140108161043927819</id><published>2010-07-04T14:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-07-05T10:00:40.694-07:00</updated><title type='text'>9 months &amp; counting</title><content type='html'>Ha.  Made you look.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No, nine months of having a family of FIVE and no picture.  I do have the ONE Sarah helped me wrangle out of the kids at Easter which I don't like of ME except when I'm looking away from the camera:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TDIPeRuNwMI/AAAAAAAAIpM/5X44_5QyPP8/s1600/IMG_1636b.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TDIPeRuNwMI/AAAAAAAAIpM/5X44_5QyPP8/s400/IMG_1636b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490467908545790146" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The plan? Try family picture today.  Don't tell Steve.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TDIPdvxtKPI/AAAAAAAAIpE/IqayelHk3nA/s1600/family2010ruby.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TDIPdvxtKPI/AAAAAAAAIpE/IqayelHk3nA/s400/family2010ruby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490467899433625842" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks David!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3140108161043927819?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3140108161043927819/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3140108161043927819' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3140108161043927819'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3140108161043927819'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/07/9-months-counting.html' title='9 months &amp; counting'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TDIPeRuNwMI/AAAAAAAAIpM/5X44_5QyPP8/s72-c/IMG_1636b.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3530919617760885316</id><published>2010-07-01T17:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-07-01T17:19:27.772-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ode to Finn</title><content type='html'>This kid is a charmer.  A sweet deliscious little charmer.  He's sitting out on Gramma's balcony right now, making eyes at me while he innocently chews on a leaf.  When I yell, "No -ew  -ick!" he gets wide-eyed and startled (I couldn't possibly be talking about him), then he laughs, (if I'm talking to him in such a manner, I must be joking) and smiles coyly, and puts another leaf in his mouth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's a total adventurer.  He wanders around his space like neither of the other two ever did put together.  He goes for everything that can't be for him, he vaccuums up everything he finds on the ground - thats NOT food of course - where would be the adventure in eating food?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I put him to bed without nursing he looks at me with this look.  This skeptical, "uh- what do you think you're doing- sigh, really? I don't think you want to do this.  Let's think this through together, Mom, huh? Be reasonable, I know you'll see it my way."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's big on eye contact, big on crawling right on through whatever might be in his path - whether it be person or object or door or step.  DOesn't seem to matter how annoyed Jack is that Finn is climbing or shadowing him, Finn just keeps right on.  It doesn't seem to be his problem if someone is upset, that's for sure.  It can't be that he's slapping Jack in the eye while I'm changing the elder's diaper.  No, that can't be it, maybe if he pats harder, that will help.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's patient and hilarious and a big ole' chunk of lovely awesome baby.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3530919617760885316?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3530919617760885316/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3530919617760885316' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3530919617760885316'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3530919617760885316'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/07/ode-to-finn.html' title='Ode to Finn'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7410557218619198207</id><published>2010-07-01T16:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-07-01T17:09:35.888-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ode to Abby</title><content type='html'>The thing that still most amazes me about Abby June is her emotional connection with... everything.  From herself, to her family, to her friends, to the characters in her stories.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's easy to miss her while she's gone.  Despite the fact that she tends to have a problem figuring out how to STOP TALKING FOR ONE MOMENT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL.... she is also constantly in tune with Jack and Finn.  She loves them despite the fact that their love for her is a tad... well a whollop overwhelming.  She doesn't even complain when Finn is literally just grabbing fistfulls of her hair just for the fun of it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I see where the dangers are going to come in, I do.  She's so good with them it's hard not to rely on her.  And boy, though they think the sun rises and sets by her, they also expect her to concentrate all her attention on them.  They are jealous of her distractions and impatient for her reaction.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of each of the kids she has the most self-doubt.  She cares so deeply about people that it acts as a double edged sword.  Obviously the negative is that what people do, how they react to her, matters a lot.  But on the other side, she is such a people person she attracts people like crazy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Before she left for DC to visit Auntie Samantha she said she was worried.  She said, "I know you want me to meet new friends in DC and have a fun time, but I think I won't be able to.  I think people will see this sad face and not see any happiness." (this all because she was going to miss me).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No matter how much she desperately wants to be anywhere than home with anyone but me, it's not personal ;).  And she still needs me to come home to.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7410557218619198207?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7410557218619198207/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7410557218619198207' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7410557218619198207'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7410557218619198207'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/07/ode-to-abby.html' title='Ode to Abby'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5082524802129691209</id><published>2010-07-01T16:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-07-01T17:12:13.996-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ode to Jack</title><content type='html'>Jack is currently re-dramatizing the entire plot of "Hero of the Rails" much to the thanks of Gramma being a sucker for Thomas the Train as a set and now to me for rushing to get the play along 'patchwork hiro' train.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am a new sucker to toys. The thing that I think I realize is - though Abby of course loves presents - she loves and has ALWAYS loved people first. A toy, a game, a set of anything was fine, but soon discarded in favor of a person. Therefore, toys to me - always have felt sort of like a shrug - sure she gets a high at first but there are so few presents that have endured for Abby.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well Jack, my guy, he's a different kettle of fish all together. He sees a story whether it be book or movie and he wants to live it. In fact, anyone trying to play along just rattles him. Well, he still needs us for the books, but I'm sure we'll be discarded in favor of the book as soon as he can read.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have video of him recreating scenes from CARS in which Mac drives along and McQueen squeels along a dirt track yelling, "Mac! Mac!" and comes along side to say with a lot of gibberish, "Hey, is me, Queen, Mac, oh no!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He is just so *serious* about it, these are living breathing stories to him.  Even the things that aren't even stories.  We watch WipeOut and Jack finds the whole thing very contagious.  Not only does he jump around on the floor egging on the contestents, "Run, run, run, run OOOOH!" but he creates his own wipeout zone, one that he is determined NOT to go thru unscathed.  He jumps and falls but thats not enough - he jumps and he ricochets off the ottoman then back to the couch then, with a dramatic 'oof' to the floor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You'd think I'd get used to it, but right now as he makes Gordon and Percy help to hide Hiro and distract Spencer - I just think Jack is amazingly wonderfully fantastic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then there's the naps. I think I've probably been too embarrassed to say exactly how incredible Jack's naps have been his ENTIRE life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When Abby was in pre-school from 9-12 Jack would sleep from 9:45-11:30 then more often than not, fall asleep again on our way home from getting Abby. Giving me total free time while Abby was at school.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then, when she went to Kindergarten he would sleep from 11-2, once again giving me the chance for peace, or the chance to have time with Finn alone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He transfers mostly from the car. He has a routine that he accepts, nay, even likes. He is reliable mostly. It's really kept me sane these last two and a half years.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5082524802129691209?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5082524802129691209/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5082524802129691209' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5082524802129691209'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5082524802129691209'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/07/ode-to-jack.html' title='Ode to Jack'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5145680151410981111</id><published>2010-06-30T08:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-30T08:40:42.902-07:00</updated><title type='text'>What Am I Ever To Do?</title><content type='html'>Now that the two things I've been worrying about for the five years we've lived in this house are taken care of?  Well, I've worried about a lot of things, but these have been those guilty worries - the plumbing and the roof.  Things we weren't excited about doing, things we avoided doing, things that could ultimately hurt us most in the end. And *bing* done.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5145680151410981111?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5145680151410981111/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5145680151410981111' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5145680151410981111'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5145680151410981111'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/06/what-am-i-ever-to-do.html' title='What Am I Ever To Do?'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7449909367602116179</id><published>2010-06-22T10:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-22T10:53:40.906-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Who's Mom is on First part 2</title><content type='html'>are we on Hell?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(sent via chat amongst other things.  there was context but barely)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7449909367602116179?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7449909367602116179/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7449909367602116179' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7449909367602116179'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7449909367602116179'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/06/whos-mom-is-on-first-part-2.html' title='Who&apos;s Mom is on First part 2'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-19598080684424791</id><published>2010-06-05T20:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-05T21:06:06.892-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Who's Mom is on First or...</title><content type='html'>Okay - I need suggestions.  I am going to try to start documenting the ever-often-forever mis-communications (um why is spell check tellig me that is wrong?) I have with my mom.  And I need a title for them.  Who's on first seems a little long - but maybe not.  Ideas?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They happen whether we are talking on the phone, on instant messenger or in person.  There seems to be no way to stop it.  I've instituted a 'simple declarative sentences' plan which I'm sure has helped some - but... sadly not enough.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;First, a simple one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ask my mom is there anything she needs at the store?  She tells me hot dogs for sure then continues to list things, but as shes doing this Jack is trying to get her to go upstairs, Finn is upset in the car seat and she's holding Max, it was Max or Bronx anyway... not causing trouble ... but there was another body.  As she spoke I kept repeating the list verbally (including the stuff I needed)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I heard gold fish and go-gurt.  So, me being the awesome over-achiever that I am, got every thing I heard.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I come back with a HUGE thing of rainbow goldfish.  Do I expect delight and praise? I do.  Do I expect a look of weary disgust when I present it to her? No, I do not.  And yet that is what I get.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;WHAT?! I ask, you SAID goldfish.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She said she DIDN'T need goldfish.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh for crying out loud... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it's a good illustration.  We both do this (Steve can attest to this as it drives him utterly bonkers).  We give too much information.  Or not enough of the pertinent information.  Or too much peripheral information. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;AND we both desperately want to be helpful, to give that extra mile, to make you all love us ;).  Okay maybe not that.  But we really stress about being "good" *insert relationship here*.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-19598080684424791?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/19598080684424791/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=19598080684424791' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/19598080684424791'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/19598080684424791'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/06/whos-mom-is-on-first-or.html' title='Who&apos;s Mom is on First or...'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1241984892103781891</id><published>2010-06-02T12:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-02T12:22:06.868-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mansion</title><content type='html'>In an interesting update from my house note before - I just came home after Gladys cleaned and the boys are asleep and Abby is at school.  Not to mention I'm slowly slowly getting things that are so often left out put in a place so the house gets cleaner and cleaner as time goes.  In these moments, THEN my house feels like a mansion that I adore. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Can I keep it this clean? Nope.  I really can't.  But I can keep getting better and better and eventually... it'll be ... well, better.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1241984892103781891?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1241984892103781891/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1241984892103781891' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1241984892103781891'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1241984892103781891'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/06/mansion.html' title='Mansion'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2006564792212569461</id><published>2010-06-01T12:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-01T12:24:39.829-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Lucky Gal</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TAVd9udnC0I/AAAAAAAAIiE/fEiJjnELKJ4/s1600/IMG_3154.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TAVd9udnC0I/AAAAAAAAIiE/fEiJjnELKJ4/s400/IMG_3154.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477887836791704386" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby had a fabulous time at "The Frog and Toad" with Zoozy &amp;amp; Gramma.  Apparently it was outside and awesome in that the kids that were there got to play and play and play before the show.  Abby (shock!) made some new friends.  It is these advantages to being oldest that make me slightly less guilty about all the disadvantages - (the baby is sleeping, so no we cannot do x y z).&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2006564792212569461?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2006564792212569461/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2006564792212569461' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2006564792212569461'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2006564792212569461'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/06/lucky-gal.html' title='Lucky Gal'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TAVd9udnC0I/AAAAAAAAIiE/fEiJjnELKJ4/s72-c/IMG_3154.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1184166089932985312</id><published>2010-05-29T12:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-29T14:00:11.903-07:00</updated><title type='text'>This Old House</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TAGAAjOieJI/AAAAAAAAIhs/J2q-eC1_rIQ/s1600/IMG_2268.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TAGAAjOieJI/AAAAAAAAIhs/J2q-eC1_rIQ/s400/IMG_2268.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476799368803809426" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;fyi this is an incredibly boring blog post so I gave you a cute picture of Jack to look at&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You know, we originally bought this house because it was (as Christi  described it) a cosmetic fixer to begin with - i.e. we just needed to do a lot of surfacy stuff before we could be established and flourishing in the new house.  We knew we couldn't handle a real fixer  upper which would imply changing or adding to the floorplan and such.   No, with our house it was just plain butt ugly inside.  And it's true -  the worst of what we could SEE was gone and done within the three week  clense and purge before we moved in (which included painting like insane  people, getting rid of the carpets and refinishing the floors and most  of all just getting all the CRAP left behind OUT - and I should point  out that we couldn't have done this without our village of family and  friends helping out).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Impressive though that was we knew we needed (or had an inkling) to  replace the electrical system, the plumbing (eventually), the heat/air,  the asbestos under the kitchen tiles, the possible mold in the  garage, updating the bathrooms, replacing the windows, redoing the backyard, the sunroom, the stairs...probably the roof... AND we knew that that there was still a  LOT of cosmetic work to do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every couple of years we save up enough to do a big project.  On the off  years we save up energy to do some of the cosmetic work.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I look at this house and I'm so proud of how cool looking it  is.  Sometimes I'm overwhelmed with the cosmetics much less the other  stuff.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Certainly one issue with a fixer of any kind is that as soon as  something is checked off the list, there is no time to revel in it  before the next thing on the list pops up to the top of the priorities  and then THAT is all we concentrate on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We have gotten a LOT done recently.  The biggest is the plumbing.  That  has been a specter over our shoulder for a LONG time.  And it felt so  validating that the plumbers agreed that we were moments away from a  break.  Like for once we got something taken care of before it caused  extra damage.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Next is the roof.  These are the two things that have most plagued my mind because these are the things that aren't just cosmetic.  These are the things that mean peace of mind or not.  Not that I'm saying camping in the living room anytime it rains hasn't been fun.  I've enjoyed it. But I am so very happy to be on the verge of being out from under the need for a new roof.  *ha, get it, get it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Still to do? fix our ceiling after roof done. Hang pictures in most rooms.  Windows? I might let the new owners (* and my timeline for this house having new owners is in the double digit years) worry about those.  Update the bathrooms? Still not sure we're going to do that either (counting on the original stuff making someone say - oh good, they didn't mess up the original stuff). Some minimal painting? Shower curtain or door for downstairs shower.  Cleaning and organizing. Some electrical touchup...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not much really... not comparitively... this is exciting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just felt the need to recap.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1184166089932985312?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1184166089932985312/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1184166089932985312' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1184166089932985312'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1184166089932985312'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/05/this-old-house.html' title='This Old House'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/TAGAAjOieJI/AAAAAAAAIhs/J2q-eC1_rIQ/s72-c/IMG_2268.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1203518361738285258</id><published>2010-05-24T23:22:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-24T23:41:53.151-07:00</updated><title type='text'>NEW NEW NEW</title><content type='html'>I have a new laptop computer people.  It is awesome.  Actually, to be honest, to me it's just very very pretty - I'm very aware that the degree to which is is truly awesome will probably never been known to me as it is known to Steve.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which is sort of similar to the way I saw the LOST finale.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, this beautiful laptop has ALL the keys of it's keyboard intact.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have realized over the last ten years or so just how awful I am to buy a present for.  I never knew I was awful before I saw Steve trying to be wonderful.  And the problem was, once our finances were OUR finances, Steve didn't just have to be a mind reader and get just what I wanted.  No, he's probably always got ten or so gifts in his thoughts that I would love and he knows very well that I would love... but... would also just not ever feel good receiving because they are expensive.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, I won't say EVER.  It's just one of those things.  No matter how much Steve is making or I am making for that matter "expensive" to me means $75 and higher.  And I'm going to sweat that 75 bucks, believe me.  I'm comfortable around 50... for a gift from the love of my life - yup, about 50 bucks feels extravagant but not stressful.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;NOW the list of gifts that I'll really really love and really really get a kick out of (besides a words and time... oh how I love them) starts dwindling.  After all, if I really really want that dvd when it comes out, we have an entertainment budget to get it.  So why wait til my birthday? Yes, I know, I'm awful.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway so what Steve has had to do is listen to me tap my fingers in frustration as I wait and wait and wait for pictures to load on my old laptop, watch me punch angrily at the "d" key and constantly wave off all suggestions of replacing the laptop because I was pretty sure the price tag was above the magic $75.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the only way he was going to be able to give this to me without it ultimately feeling like I had in some way been to blame (we discuss purchases quite a lot - so if he'd said he was GOING to get me a new computer then I would have discussed us out of it, or if I'd agreed - felt like I had had a hand in it), was to completely go behind my back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So voila.  Here it is, and I'm so thrilled.  But I'm MOST thrilled about the WAY he did all that.  Because all that matters in the scheme of things.  Not always, I don't expect him to have to mindread passed me all the time.  But this time, being as it is such a totally selfish gift for me (i.e. it's mine mine mine, no you may not borrow it, no Abby cannot practice her ABCs on it, no Jack cannot watch a movie on it, it's MINE, all MINE)... it was just plain priceless to have the weight of the decision out of my hands.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, you may have guessed this is my first blog post on the new computer.  This is also (and forgive me parents if I'm being an ungrateful forgetful jerk) but I think that this is also my first NEW computer ever that is mine (sensing a theme?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In other news:&lt;br /&gt;Samantha moved to Washington D.C. today.  This sucks for us but is great for her.  Bah humbug.&lt;br /&gt;Finn is really really trying to follow the kids now- gates have to be at the ready.  He is so ridiculously cute still.  I'd show you pictures but I am behind on pictures.  I'm very busy which is awesome, but it feels like a whirlwind. And finally we are finally finally finally going to have all the behind the scenes stuff done with this house. Plumbing &amp; Roof are in the cards this year.  From then, any home improvement in the budget will basically be cosmetic. Now that is freaking awesome.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to move anytime soon, despite Abby's impatience, but there is something about knowing that we really can't, with positive heart, put this house on the market as is.  There is just something that screams "not going to get top dollar" about a non-cosmetically complete house which ALSO needs a new roof and new plumbing. But really, seriously, we're here to stay for quite a while.  We are going to enjoy the lack of stress when it rains, my friends.  Yes indeedy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Need dessert.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1203518361738285258?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1203518361738285258/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1203518361738285258' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1203518361738285258'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1203518361738285258'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/05/new-new-new.html' title='NEW NEW NEW'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3626052380245555579</id><published>2010-05-13T14:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-13T14:35:45.688-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I have no choice.</title><content type='html'>Abby has, for a while now... wanted a new house, a fancy house with stairs (go ahead try to argue with her that her CURRENT house has stairs and see how far it gets you).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night on the way home from Gramma's birthday dinner our conversation went something like this (prompted by our talk about Samantha moving across country)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Momma, when is our house going to get old enough to be too old so we can move into a new one?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's going to be a long long time baby, moving is a seriously big big big deal." (this goes back and forth a bit as I go on and on about money and escrow and packing up houses)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"But I'm not happy in our house, I'm sad all the time in it and I don't sleep too good in it either!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*insert Mommy taking a deep breath and trying to do active listening since RESPONDING isn't doing any good "You're sad in this house and you don't sleep good?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, and I want something new."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You want something new?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*pause as I think, hey this active listening thing does make the responses easier... then Abby cuts in&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So, what's your decision?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"My decision?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Are we moving or not?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No, we are not moving."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Then I guess you have no choice"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I have no choice?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I have no choice... I'm just going to be sad."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Aww."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Momma" (big sigh here), "Do you WANT me to be sad all the days of my life in this house?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"NO I DON"T WANT YOU TO BE SAD ALL THE DAYS of your LIFE" (insert Momma blowing a gasket here) "You know some people work really really really hard to stay in one house their whole lives because they love it so much."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, but Momma, we are NOT those people.  I am not one of those people.  I want something new, that's why I look out a different window every morning.  I want a new view, I want new paint, SOMETHING, I want it so bad."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Momma has a new angle, "Do you ever miss our old house?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No, but sometimes I miss Gramma's old house."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"There, see, what if we moved and you missed this house - it would be too late, we couldn't go back."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, I might,  but then I'd remember how SAD I was in it and I wouldn't care."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3626052380245555579?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3626052380245555579/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3626052380245555579' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3626052380245555579'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3626052380245555579'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/05/i-have-no-choice.html' title='I have no choice.'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2820988278755911836</id><published>2010-05-01T22:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-01T23:07:41.796-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Perfect Day</title><content type='html'>(without Steve anyway... )&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Being a stay at home mom means that in a lot of ways my days are on an endless loop.  The same basic things happen every day.  Change does happen, usually in such slow motion that by the time a behavior or problem is resolved I've forgotten it needed resolving.  It often seems as if a child has just woken up that morning with a whole new behavior, as if someone just magically flipped a switch; when actually its like we're in a constant state of "under construction".  Before the switch could be flipped the wall had to be framed, the wires run, the wall boarded, the electricity hooked up, the switch connected, the little plastic plate screwed in...  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This is why it's so frustrating when trying to explain to someone how excited I am that some subtle but vital change has been embraced.  Like for instance, let's say rather than holding my hand after a nightmare, I insist that the child lets ME hold THEiR hand.  Silly sounding huh?  But those of you who know KNOW that its an important difference. It's the difference between having to pry your own hand out from the tenuously sleeping death grip of your child and simply gently letting your own grip loosen, then letting go entirely.  Just trust me. It's a big and important milestone.  Yet the person inevitably asks, well, why didn't you do that in the first place?  Because, I explain, trying not to sound crazy or defensive: it wouldn't have worked before.  It wouldn't have worked the night before or even a few hours before.  Of course I could have insisted from the beginning but it would have been a battle against each other rather than a victory for both.  Because I waited we were both ready.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Anyway, while "under construction" so many little interactions during those very similar days feel like the luck of the draw.  I can have the exact same rules, enforce them in the same exact way and have drastic differences in the reaction of my kids.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Today, it just seemed like 7 out of 10 of those rolls of the dice were lucky.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Extracting Jack from beloved Gramma's presence was sad, and there was some screaming.  But I threw out my arms to welcome in for some condolence and where 100% of the times previous he would have thrown himself on the ground, wanting nothing of my comfort, he hesitated, then walked right into my arms.  From there he allowed distraction in the form of Phineas &amp;amp; Ferb.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Abby &amp;amp; Jack wrestled and played for a long time. Several times Jack was a bit too rough with Abby, but she handled it and so I could concentrate on nursing Finn, cleaning a little, making lunch.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Everyone ate, including Finn.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Jack and Abby were having too much fun, so I postponed Jack's nap by a few minutes; just enough time to get Finn sound asleep and down so that when I was putting Jack down, I didn't have to worry about what Finn was up to or if he was going to panic without parental presence.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Finn STAYED asleep after Jack was asleep (Finn's diaper rash has meant more fitful sleep - will probably have to call doc on Monday to see if we need prescription). &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Abby and I cuddled on the couch while watching tv - SUCH a long time since she's gotten that sort of relaxed presence from us at a time that shes happened to be in the mood to veg as well.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I fell ASLEEP for at least two episodes.  Amazingly necessary.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Jack stayed asleep for long enough that Finn was established in his oatmeal bath before Jack woke up.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Jack and Abby played happily while I let Finn air out and played "words with friends"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I got everyone dressed for church including myself (my hair was a mess, but I knew I'd be stuck in the nursery anyway).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Jack played in the nursery (with me there) with an older boy and a younger boy - there was very little screaming.  After a while Jack realized the older boy could teach him some subtleties of one of the car racing toys, so he started paying attention.  Granted there were stints in there where Jack was dragging me to the door to go to the car, but distraction worked where it hadn't worked last week.  Finn fell fast asleep in one of the nursery worker's arms.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I didn't overeat or over spend at dinner.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The kids went to bed (Finn in my arms)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I got some time to think.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;and now..&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am off to bed.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Just a day, but the kind I'm always striving toward - the kind where some small seams were sewn.  (and some alliteration used ;)).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2820988278755911836?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2820988278755911836/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2820988278755911836' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2820988278755911836'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2820988278755911836'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/05/perfect-day.html' title='The Perfect Day'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1410881291212362690</id><published>2010-05-01T12:08:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-05-01T22:19:13.110-07:00</updated><title type='text'>How Much of a Culprit</title><content type='html'>I am sitting here using Steve's laptop for no particular reason and I'm noticing just how I'm not terribly annoyed and stifled and generally cranky.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I wonder how much my recent lack of interest in online life has to do with real life being too crowded and how much it has to do with missing several keys on my keyboard making it singularly horribly annoying to type anything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;hmmmm.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1410881291212362690?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1410881291212362690/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1410881291212362690' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1410881291212362690'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1410881291212362690'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/05/how-much-of-culprit.html' title='How Much of a Culprit'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1444220779243925917</id><published>2010-04-27T08:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-04-27T09:00:21.680-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Jack is NOT a monkey</title><content type='html'>&lt;object width="480" height="385"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cDjTrv2IPCw&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1&amp;amp;rel=0"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cDjTrv2IPCw&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1&amp;amp;rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1444220779243925917?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1444220779243925917/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1444220779243925917' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1444220779243925917'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1444220779243925917'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/04/jack-is-not-monkey.html' title='Jack is NOT a monkey'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5304024505986241501</id><published>2010-04-26T21:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-04-26T22:36:14.236-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Now Don't Take this Wrong</title><content type='html'>But I don't like people.&lt;br /&gt;And no I don't have a philosophical distinction about a person one on one and people.&lt;br /&gt;Do I like YOU personally? YES of course I do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what am I talking about?&lt;br /&gt;I think it's this feeling I get when I am feeling like an observer, unable to actually connect... and not particularly wanting to.  This 'on the bleachers' sort of feeling.  Where at first I'm enjoying just watching - I don't want to play whatever game is being played, I don't want to be the cheerleader either.  I honestly truly like what I am, who I am, where I am - all  that.  I'm probably even loving the commraderie (hmmm, spelling?) in the bleachers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But at some point, unintentionally, I let the cold seep in.  Instead of feeling connected because the audience really does play a part, because we really aren't separate little islands in the stands amongst each other... something changes.  I go from being completely happy to feeling alienated, alone, and...all of a sudden a very distinct and far away island.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The game that I loved a minute ago suddenly seems stupid and pointless.  I'm cold and I just want to be home sitting with a blanket.  The interactions around me turn from fun and silly to lame and inauthentic and way way way too loud.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it's not just people - it's me too.  When I think of trying to talk to someone, I'm uninterested&lt;br /&gt;in my own talk - and besides I don't buy what I'm going to say anyway.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which brings me to here.  Where I'm going to have to find something to post real quick after this to let this one go further down the page.  Luckily I have some ideas.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5304024505986241501?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5304024505986241501/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5304024505986241501' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5304024505986241501'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5304024505986241501'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/04/now-dont-take-this-wrong.html' title='Now Don&apos;t Take this Wrong'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3177946773796971479</id><published>2010-04-19T18:07:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-04-19T18:15:46.337-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"Save"</title><content type='html'>I'd like to save a little moment forever please.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I think Jack is fighting a cold because he took a four hour nap today.  I went up to check on him (because that's what I do) and saw that he was already awake, staring up at the top bunk.  I come to the side of the bed and smile and offer to pick him up.  He sits up and stares at me, then reaches forward (sort of sleep heavy) and touches my nose.  I laugh and offer to pick him up again.  He does the nose thing again.  So I climb in next to him and he wants to cuddle, but just for a second.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I ask if he wants to go downstairs and he does that little pure voiced, "Yeaaah!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Again, I guess written out it seems not nearly as sweet as it was.  But it just was. I love sleep-heavy moments.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3177946773796971479?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3177946773796971479/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3177946773796971479' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3177946773796971479'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3177946773796971479'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/04/save.html' title='&quot;Save&quot;'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5384781121737104942</id><published>2010-04-17T19:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-04-17T22:54:30.035-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ugh</title><content type='html'>How many posts have I started over the last few weeks?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Alot.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What have they been on?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mostly frustrations and impatience and cute things the kids have done and said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One thing I absolutely love that Abby has said : &lt;br /&gt;We were driving home from somewhere and Abby kind of gave a startled sound in the back of the car.  I asked what was up and she said something about inside her eyelids and ideas, then got frustrated when she knew it wasn't making sense.  I said I really want to know, so she finally got it out like this:&lt;br /&gt;"My eyes were closed and I had a beautiful thing in my mind and I thought maybe, I hoped that when I opened my eyes, it would still be in front of me, that it would be actually true, but it wasn't and I was disappointed."&lt;br /&gt;Now, that in itself made a beautiful impression in MY mind, but of course I wanted to know what this thing was. This was her answer, "I was imagining that I was the most beautifulest girl in the whole school."&lt;br /&gt;Insert mom's heart breaking here.&lt;br /&gt;I pause... not sure if I can insert my momish opinion here, but what the hey, "Abby, IIII think you already are the most beautifulest girl in school to me."  (yeah, I wasn't striving for grammar perfection).&lt;br /&gt;I can HEAR her roll her eyes, "No Momma, like with make up and everything... in a beautiful red dress... it was the Mom's Luncheon..."  I think what she means here is like on tv when suddenly they get made over for a dance? Who knows.  Just a beautiful but poignant sort of moment. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are a lot of those around here.  Like Jack gently tracing my face with his hands as he tries to go to sleep.  Or when Steve got home tonight, Jack didn't say anything to him (usually he exclaims "Dayya!" and tries to lead him into the toy room.  Tonight Jack ran into the toy room and ran back out with a ball outstretched, looking for his main play pal who had already been led away by Abby. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jack is less impressed with Finn as time goes on, but every now and then as Jack passes, he'll pat Finn on the head absently.  Sometimes he'll rush a binky over to him.  Most of the time though, as Finn heads toward wherever Jack is playing, Jack's response is to give urgent "Uh oh" time cries as if a shark was stalking him in the water.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finn absolutely adores me.  Which is bittersweet of course because I don't know why... because I know I constantly fail him? I don't know why, but it's so sweet it hurts.  But that little face searching me out in a room, locking on me, and not losing sight, with a hopeful eyebrows lifted sort of gaze... it's so purely loving.  Of course he sort of adores everyone right now.  He just loves someone to pay some attention to him.  He's also a total faker which is hilarious.  He likes to nurse to sleep - and he likes to nurse for pretty much any reason, so a couple times a day I'll be convinced he's starving and look at him in five seconds and realize he's asleep.  He'll also go to sleep in the car and to music.  He's a sucker for a good ballad.  Last night my mom, while babysitting was sure Finn's stomach lining was cramping with hunger, but then he went to sleep on the way home to our house without nursing and slept for four hours.  Ha!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Otherwise I'm operating on a lot of different but intense moods/emotions.  I have a short fuse for me.  I'm proud of what I can accomplish when not pregnant.  I'm happy with everything basically.  I'm also feeling like the biggest failure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Speaking of, a few important, reliable people have "accused" (they wouldn't put it in that tone) me of being a perfectionist "recently" (time doesn't mean a lot to me right now).  Now the first reason I scoff at this at first glance is because of the non-perfectionist nature of my home.  I CAN live just fine with life in disarray.  I will not sacrifice my favorite tv show or a chance to get chips and salsa in order to get that laundry done.  I just want to do good, to do my best. But I'm not going to break mysellf to make things perfect.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For example, this is only the beginning of what I wanted to say and not really how I want to say it, but I'm tired so I'm going to bed.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5384781121737104942?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5384781121737104942/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5384781121737104942' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5384781121737104942'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5384781121737104942'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/04/ugh.html' title='Ugh'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-3764300802266979576</id><published>2010-04-05T23:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-04-06T23:04:35.046-07:00</updated><title type='text'>It's Not As If</title><content type='html'>See it used to happen with Abby as well (I'm still on the Jack/too many people or strange places topic if you hadn't guessed).  I'm not even sure how different this is.  Abby used to drag her people into a more isolated space so she could have focused time.  She used to melt down and we'd have to get going stacking things on our arms as we left in a flurry like some sort of cartoon.  I just think she was more apt to explore and destroy by accident and Jack seems more likely to explore (and within his process is destruction).  Was I just better at isolating?  I know I went to the office a lot, that was a fantastic outlet because it could be for an hour or two minutes - if I left with her kicking and screaming over my shoulder, no one minded much as it was a frequent enough occurrence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jack did a pretty good job at Easter (but then again, Zoozy made everything super kid friendly where all those crowded people were).  And, this is also what I remember from Abby - as soon as I recognized, OH! here's an issue, a pattern, let's fix it - the child has just decided to end that phase on their own.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Words are helping quite a bit.  Mommy's hormones settling down to normal is helping.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were at Aaron &amp;amp; Megan's today and the same thing happened - he wanted to be in the 'car' to go home even though he was having a great time.  And the thing that drives me BONKERS is that he desperately wants to LEAVE home in the morning and afternoon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;WHY WHY WHY must my children tempt my insanity?!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-3764300802266979576?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/3764300802266979576/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=3764300802266979576' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3764300802266979576'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/3764300802266979576'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/04/its-not-as-if.html' title='It&apos;s Not As If'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-7627614562677592009</id><published>2010-03-28T22:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-28T23:02:46.685-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Real Quick - Jack Pattern</title><content type='html'>It drives me crazy when I don't see a pattern that has been obvious for ages.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jack has an issue with people.. or crowds... or SOMETHING.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Whenever we have guests, no matter how much he loves them, he doesn't want to be in the main room where everyone is.  He insists on being in the toy room here, in Gramma's toy room when there are guests at her house, the living room when there are guests at Zoozy's house.  He desperately tries to escape family events like Thanksgiving and other holidays - particularly if they are not in one of his "Safe" houses.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not sure if he's shy or anxious or just plain anti-social.  I've known all this but haven't.  But recognizing it should help me prepare and change and... oh I don't know.  Just... not sure... have noticed the pattern, have not gotten to the labeling the problem yet.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-7627614562677592009?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/7627614562677592009/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=7627614562677592009' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7627614562677592009'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/7627614562677592009'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/03/real-quick-jack-pattern.html' title='Real Quick - Jack Pattern'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1295322907048139571</id><published>2010-03-28T21:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-28T22:59:22.394-07:00</updated><title type='text'>old haggard and nonexistent</title><content type='html'>Some days anyway. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Other days I feel energized by my weight loss, the pregnancy is over and I have this incredible little Finn (like a present from Santa I didn't expect) we're all on an upswing.  On the good days I'm proud of the house looking better, I have the energy and happy mind to be on the wii - Jack lets me dance.  On the good days, much as I joke, I don't need cupcakes to get me thru.  I have pre-made meals coming in from both mom and mom-in-law helping me thru lunch to save money and eat non- obsessively and help everyone for dinner to be eating healthier, more widely varied, and also saving money. I have a routine for this new family of FIVE setting up nicely.  There are still things completely falling by the wayside, but on these days I - well I was going to say on these good days I am optimistic they'll get back on track but actually its more likely that on the good days I just don't remember the things I'm missing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then there are the "I'm old, haggard and nonexistent" days.  These are the days I'm either stuck on the couch nursing ALL the time so that I can actually feel my bones getting brittle as all the nutrients are transferred over to baby or the days that Steve has been slammed at work.  Sometimes I can keep up, and there is a little feeling of empowerment of doing it all on my own (my family members that do all they do daily to help me 'do it on my own' are all laughing right now).  But most of the time, this machine does not work without Steve.  On these days the only bright spots are those little moments where I actually lock eyes with one of my kids and have a moment of real interaction.  Turning tension into humor, turning nuthin' into a moment of tenderness. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate my little patch of gray roots, not because they make me feel old (I've had gray hair since college), but because its the one beauty thing that takes maintenance, that is very obvious and noticed that I can't make "cutely grunge" or "i look like this cuz I just worked out" chic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are so many things that I am so proud of - moments and achievements yet... it all seems so insignificant.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like we are the opposite of the surface people that you think of as surface people.  I feel surface people are going around with a smile on their face, pretending everything is perfect because they are ashamed that its not or because they want to be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am the opposite because I'm likely to go around as if the sky is falling because I don't want to look like a surface person or I don't want to alienate someone in pain by being so gidget that I'm from another planet... a surface frilly pink planet.  But in fact I AM a surface person because underneath my worry and stress and general feelng of... whatever I'm feeling... I am exactly perfectly happy with absolutely everything in my world right at this moment.   It's just that there is a lot of imperfection with right here and right now, and I'm not sure how exactly to get out of it.  But I wouldn't change anything.  The kids have to get thru now to get to later.   And even though they sure do poop alot, they are incredible incredible kids.... and if they didn't poop - that would mean something was horribly wrong so... whatever.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1295322907048139571?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1295322907048139571/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1295322907048139571' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1295322907048139571'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1295322907048139571'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/03/old-haggard-and-nonexistent.html' title='old haggard and nonexistent'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-6257374614822519254</id><published>2010-03-24T13:33:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-24T13:42:21.438-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Dishwasher</title><content type='html'>One of those parenting things I never expect to work but that does:  Jack used to love to get in the dishwasher - clean or dirty, glass dish, steak knife, he was messing with it all and all I could do (besides yell and scream and create a huge tug of war) was close it half way and encourage him to "close it."  As the months progressed you can imagine how my half hearted attempts started to feel ineffectual and like I was losing and losing my mind to boot.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But lo and behold, the funny thing now is that I can't keep the dishwasher OPEN for more than 45 seconds as Jack hears the faint rustle of dishes and runs from miles around to come and proudly and securely "Close it!" often with the accompaniment of crashing and clanging as he doesn't put the shelves in before he closes the door.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-6257374614822519254?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/6257374614822519254/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=6257374614822519254' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6257374614822519254'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6257374614822519254'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/03/dishwasher.html' title='The Dishwasher'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1933699289217231567</id><published>2010-03-17T12:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-17T13:02:00.203-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Excuse me, that's MY lunch</title><content type='html'>Okay, you all should be able to feel the irony here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So Jack is basically a real eater.  He will try things... and like them... and not just because Yo Gabba Gabba tells him to.  This is awesome. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Only problem now is that he just ate my lunch.  I'm so thrilled with him being "an eater" I don't have the heart to stop him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1933699289217231567?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1933699289217231567/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1933699289217231567' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1933699289217231567'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1933699289217231567'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/03/excuse-me-thats-my-lunch.html' title='Excuse me, that&apos;s MY lunch'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-989749650868697724</id><published>2010-03-17T00:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-17T01:07:25.904-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Gloomy</title><content type='html'>Abby.  My girl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Let's talk about your world.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;MY world. Let's see, what's in my world.&lt;br /&gt;I have a couple problems in my life (she actually said these words)&lt;br /&gt;Using the old psychospeak (that's the repeating what she's saying rather than judging/advising etc what she's saying) I get out of her these things:&lt;br /&gt;I'm gloomy ALL the time, and I just don't know how to stop.&lt;br /&gt;What I do when I'm gloomy is I sing this song (she sings me a song), but sometimes, when I meet new people I don't sing them the song, I don't know why.&lt;br /&gt;It's when I'm alone I can't help being gloomy, or when I'm with mean people.  It's the people that carry me by my arm.  I don't like that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A friend at her school apparently pulls her around by her arm, but Abby doesn't want to tell this girl that she doesn't like being pulled around by her arm because Abby really likes being friends with this girl and she doesn't want her to be mad at her.  And apparently everytime Abby tells her something to this effect, this little girl gets very angry, walks away and says "very mean things."  She also buttons Abby's shirt up all the way up which Abby doesn't like either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I could go the direction of getting all fired up and telling Abby that she doesn't need this sort of friend (the girl is actually sweet, but I don't doubt any of what Abby is describing), and Abby needs to stand up for what she wants and not get stepped on and blah blah blah.  But I don't think thats how life works now.  I did try to give her as much encouragement as I could without going so far down the advice road that I cut off the communication.  It was a lovely sweet and sad time because it was all about how gloomy she is and how she wishes she could stop.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I did refrain from pulling a "my mom" and telling her that that never goes away and we all struggle with feelings of gloom now and then no matter how old we are. ;)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think part of the gloom is actually a restlessness.  I can see her gear up to ask me what "something fun" is on the agenda or "more snack" or "what is for dinner"  : all these are hot buttons.  I don't blow up, but they never go well.  She's never satisfied really and really, are any of us ;).  Yes, there are times, but if you really wanted to know there are quite a lot of "treats" out there that I wish I had, I just happen to have learned in my 33 years that it's inappropriate to go around whining out loud about it.  It's kind of like when Wesley first started to walk (actually I think he started running first), Shannon would show me that he'd actually begin to wince several feet before he impacted into a wall or couch, but he couldn't seem to get his body to avoid the collision.  That is Abby with these hot button questions.  She knows neither of us are going to feel good about the exchange, she just can't seem to stop her mind from desperately seeking the answers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Trying to teach contentment to a six year old... well, she's given me the road in obviously - as in this will help you be able to not feel gloomy all the time.   She loves to look at the calender and see all her plans.  That isn't a bad thing, in fact I think it should be one of my tools in helping her.  But it takes time and time focusing on one child at a time is few and precious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Her second problem in her life, by the way (there were three) was how when she tells me she wants to go to Hawaii I say we can't.  (Yeah, I know, bring on the poor under-privilaged child face, I'm just not going to feel guilty we're not going to Hawaii every week).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Her third is between she and I, but its guilt again.  She is so sweet and tries so hard to be just how she thinks she should be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After talking a while on that one she said it was my turn to tell her any problems in my life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told her I was nervous about getting Jack to be as polite as her.  She said, "What you have to do, momma, is just wait for his birthday... and then for another one, and another one... and then you'll get it" (which is probably totally true).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What else?  I say, well, I have to do a lot of laundry tomorrow.  And she seems to be happy with that one, it has a simple solution, "Well, we'll just write it down on a list, okay? how about that?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And when I say there are no more problems in my life, she's happy for me. "So you only have TWO problems in your life?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pretty much, those are them! ;)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-989749650868697724?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/989749650868697724/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=989749650868697724' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/989749650868697724'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/989749650868697724'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/03/gloomy.html' title='Gloomy'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-1910234134763469714</id><published>2010-03-17T00:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-17T00:49:19.653-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Should be "Burnt Out"</title><content type='html'>Despite currently being energized that I got all my laundry done in two days (contributing success mostly to finally getting close to a system of WHERE the laundry goes after its done and not being pregnant), I'm feeling burned out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My biggest pet peeve at th emoment? freaking getting all the way to the point of saving an image in .jpg format (which in itself is a hassle because my computer is slow... okay its a laptop... okay it may have something to do with how much I have open... and how little space I keep open... but... hey - the blame game isn't going to help anyone people)... and realizing ... shoot, I need to do one more thing.  Shoot.  that shadow needs to get deeper and it ain't going to do it on its own.  So I have to WAIT for the screen to come up before I can cancel and then it takes a second to cancel and (speak of the devil, apparently my startup disk is almost full)... and then I perform whatever duty I need for the picture and then have to save it again and then.. WORST case scenario I see something ELSE.  dabnabit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can actually feel the knot in my shoulders right now.  Oh well.  Picture is worth it.  Slight improvement is worth it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Second biggest pet peeve? clicking on an application I don't mean to open.  DearNESS the painful slowdown that causes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;An on't get me starte on my "D" key.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-1910234134763469714?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/1910234134763469714/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=1910234134763469714' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1910234134763469714'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/1910234134763469714'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/03/should-be-burnt-out.html' title='Should be &quot;Burnt Out&quot;'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5931110235133241108</id><published>2010-03-15T09:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-15T10:06:48.796-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Poor Unfotunate Souls...</title><content type='html'>Okay, multiple kid shoots are always a challenge when the kids are under the age of ... say... 8.  But I am realizing once again just how much we ask of kids when we try these things.  Portraits of each kid? NO PROBLEM.  It's the getting them all in one shot... and smiling or looking good in that one shot that is the issue. My client wasn't asking too much at all - she wasn't expecting the "smile and say cheese" - it's just for ME I want at least for the boys to be looking cool.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a shoot on Friday with the nicest but VERY boyish boys.  And I wasn't sure if I got any magical three together shots so here I am searching thru the hundreds of photos I took hoping for a magic moment and I see that every single one of those boys aged 7-3 was trying SO hard, it's just they weren't synchronized.  So I'd be concentrating on #3 and #2 would be sitting quietly and smiling while #1 is looking off.  I just have this little guilt now that I didn't affirm the other two enough while I working with whichever one I was working with.  Oh well.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hoping to see magic in the gallery by the end.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5931110235133241108?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5931110235133241108/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5931110235133241108' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5931110235133241108'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5931110235133241108'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/03/poor-unfotunate-souls.html' title='Poor Unfotunate Souls...'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-8697817746530338238</id><published>2010-03-07T22:49:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-08T00:05:08.877-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Where does my help come from...</title><content type='html'>I'm in this weird space.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which in itself sounds very 70s and unlike me.  I would identify this space as the recovery period. It's that space right after a big scare or trial or something.  It's where God has done His thing and brought us through some valley or another... showed us once again that this time anyway, the way He is going to work is to deliver us rather than teach us to figure out happiness and faith amidst the destruction.  I'd identify this time as a sort of "buzzing with" time - where whatever was wrong is still buzzing in the air.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was very very angry or ready to be anyway a few times recently and each time things were diffused, but not just set aside to be dealt with another day, RESOLVED.  So the anger isn't repressed just waiting for the next time to be unleashed, it's just sort of dissipating slowly into the atmosphere, from the back of mind and out into the world.  And until it's all gone, theres this buzzing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it's a buzzing of purpose - whatever has been keeping me back from organizing or getting a leg to stand on with the housekeeping is not holding me back as much - as things are getting done, it no longer feels like I turn around and they are back to a shambles again.  I'm going into rooms feeling relief that they look great rather than going in and wishing I could slink away because every room is just a reminder of how nothing is working.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Similarly, it's a buzzing, coming down from the high of mindlessly eating my anxiety.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think that had to do with Steve's new work situation in that his time is not really his own again.  He's been operating on an incredibly strict but totally his own work ethic for years now, so to suddenly not have him to call when I'm in a quick fix need is weird.  Have I really NEEDED to call on him with the two Grandmas around and aunts etc?  Not more than a couple times, but it's just enough for my anxiety that he couldn't even if he wanted to... sort of... they don't actually chain him to the floor, they seem really nice actually and probably wish they weren't seeing him every waking working moment of their  lives ;)...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's also a buzzing of being put in my place.  There was a brief period a few years ago that Steve didn't have the work coming in that he does now that he still went to the office every single day and wasn't late getting there and wasn't early coming home.  He would fiddle a lot and he did have a lot going on, but point being, IIIII knew it was a temporary situation, IIII was confident he was brilliant and amazing and people would come to need his vision.  So IIIII wanted him to take the time building up stockpiles of time with us.  Well years later, the fiddling he was doing, the uncompromising way that he got up and went into the office even if he didn't have anyone breathing down his neck to do something specific that day, is bearing fruit.  He's realizing he knows a lot more about his product than he thought.  I think that God blessing him and confirming him.  And it's also God saying to ME 'trust him. don't be such a know-it-all'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Also in photography... there is always this buzz.  This buzz of excitement and frustration and wondering.  And in this I just want to remember, always remember that anything with art is never mastered.  No point being frustrated that I'm not better than I am because I have to be where I am in order to get better.  A student... always learning... so I want to stop rushing toward a finish line that doesn't exist.  Just keep swimming says Dory... just keep swimming says me...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And theres a buzzing of things that have been put on the backburner due to much much more pressing matters that are going to be calling out to be heard here soon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm just at this place where ... I'm not quite on the balls of my feet - gearing up to sprint into action, and I'm not rocking back on my heels in satisfaction of a job well done... I'm just sort of...standing... watching to see which way the wind takes us.  Grateful to God for getting us out of that last one.  Grateful that progress is being made for the first time in a year. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sure I could use more patience and a brain that focused on one thing for more than a few seconds.  Or rather... I can't think through anything right now unless I'm writing it down and I don't have the downtime to be writing stuff down.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which is why I wanted to write this down.  This lyric, this praise song...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;     I lift my eyes up, unto the moutains &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Where does my help come from? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;My help comes from You, maker of heaven &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Creator of the earth &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Oh how I need you Lord &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;You are my only hope &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;You're my only prayer &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;So I will wait for You &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;To come and rescue me &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;To come and give me life   &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;keeps going around and around in my head, and I knew it meant something specific, something special to me RIGHT now but not exactly what, and if there was a lesson to be learned, whelp, I'd just have to write it down in order to learn it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and... what I think I'm learning right at this moment is that yes, we are in a recovery stage, a recovery that God has delivered us into and that we got here by God, for God, to God. &lt;br /&gt;By God: He created the ladder out for us to climb out&lt;br /&gt;For God: we're here for Him, to serve Him and to be witnesses of His glory - whether that means actually saying such things or just by being who He created us to be, by having more of a shine to us because He lives in us.&lt;br /&gt;To God: finally our lives are a love letter or a thank you letter to God who I appreciate and love and serve not just because He's given me an overwhelming breadth of blessings and support and family and annoyingly right all the time husband, and breathtakingly sweet and wonderful kids... even without those things, my life is TO God.  But wow, how much more so when I have so much to live up to, so much to be thankful for, so much to be in awe of God for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;anyway... my help comes from you... maker of Heaven, creator of the Earth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks God for being my friend when I'm lonely.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks everyone else for walking alongside me even when my tunnel vision brain can't connect with you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-8697817746530338238?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/8697817746530338238/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=8697817746530338238' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8697817746530338238'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/8697817746530338238'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/03/where-does-my-help-come-from.html' title='Where does my help come from...'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5059706601879738236</id><published>2010-02-22T12:12:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-22T13:00:07.209-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Where Am I at 2am?</title><content type='html'>Okay - thats not a Les Mis lyric. But I figure maybe I'll do "how am i" "what am i" "why am i" to round out a series.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So to continue onto the idea that it is difficult to grasp oneSELF when one is in such a crowded time of life, I'm now at the point of trying to get my bearings.  Slowly, slowly routines are being established, things are being re-organized...  (Have I mentioned how the SunnyOaks house was just finally totally and completely upkeepable by me RIGHT before we started getting ready to sell it - one of God's (or Steve's) little ironies in my life as it will be years before we're there here).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, so now that things are sort of finding their place, and I mean that in all the fascinatingly deep and totally surfacey ways it could be meant, now I'm trying to get my bearings.  Right, I know. I said that already.  But see theres a lot of that right now.  Going in circles. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Before I was so overwhelmed that I may have had time to do the dishes, but I didn't have the mental capacities.  Now, I may not always choose the organization route, but at least now I'm starting to notice when I step OVER something instead of grabbing it as I pass and dumping it where it belongs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Would you believe part of what has thrown me for a tailspin was the fear that Finn was allergic to Cheerios somehow thru my milk?  Probably not possible, but I've been avoiding them for a couple months and they were my staple "inexpensive - not horribly fattening - but totally fulfilling" lunch.  Food that was once available becoming not available always throws me for loops.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By the way - though everyone is sleeping better - last night was the exception because Abby hurt her wrist (jumping off the bed onto a stack of pillows) and woke up everytime she accidentally bumped it (we think).  Jack woke up once and Finn was wanting comfort and distraction from teething.  Anyway, I checked the time once while leading Jack back to bed, presuming it was about 5 am and that the night was over.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was 2am.  And was I relieved because there was still so much time for sleep? No.  I was appalled.  Because I knew the night was NOT going to get better and I just wanted it to be over.  I do NOT mean that in any deep philosophical way ;).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abby woke up with, "That was the worst night of rest ever."  Sadly, little does she know - it doesn't hold a candle to some of the nights we've had as parents.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5059706601879738236?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5059706601879738236/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5059706601879738236' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5059706601879738236'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5059706601879738236'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/02/where-am-i-at-2am.html' title='Where Am I at 2am?'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-5544873784971875037</id><published>2010-02-14T09:27:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-14T16:38:46.277-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Sucks to be You</title><content type='html'>I have the cutest videos of Jack to share except I don't have time to look and figure out which one to post.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;object width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Abnv9ss4o8k&amp;amp;hl=en&amp;amp;fs=1"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Abnv9ss4o8k&amp;amp;hl=en&amp;amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;object width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6lP5KfyAfnk&amp;amp;hl=en&amp;amp;fs=1"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6lP5KfyAfnk&amp;amp;hl=en&amp;amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-5544873784971875037?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/5544873784971875037/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=5544873784971875037' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5544873784971875037'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/5544873784971875037'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/02/sucks-to-be-you.html' title='Sucks to be You'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-2499485505017086115</id><published>2010-02-11T08:54:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-11T09:15:55.069-08:00</updated><title type='text'>24601!!!!</title><content type='html'>Who am I...&lt;br /&gt;Once upon a time I knew every single lyric to any number of musicals... like EVERY lyric and spoken part.  I don't think most people know that of me now a days.  Six years ago I had a small dinner party in which I realized one of my friends was a huge Michael Crawford fan and for the first time in a long time I got out my prized "Phantom of the Opera" book in which my friend Juliana had had HER friend get an autograph from the original phantom for me back in high school.  I was suitably quite the rock star at that dinner.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I dunno.  I'm not really one for having a big identity crisis.  I am very myself and don't usually get too bent out of shape about trying to prove who that is to myself or anyone else.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But right now, with every moment seemingly brimming with &lt;span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"&gt;depressing thoughts like roof leaks &lt;/span&gt;and &lt;span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"&gt;total sweetness like the way Finn smiles EVERYtime someone looks at him&lt;/span&gt; and &lt;span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"&gt;feats of amazing progress like Jack walking out of his room this morning with his CARS books going straight for a Daddy  snuggle (this is what it used to be like) &lt;/span&gt;and &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 51, 51);"&gt;annoying realizations that I'm not doing the best I could (with weight, with organization etc)&lt;/span&gt;... &lt;span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"&gt;and domestic successes like keeping up with the laundry and dishes&lt;/span&gt; and &lt;span style="color: rgb(102, 51, 102);"&gt;mothering wows like how I need to facilitate Abby's ability to go for her joy in swimming &amp;amp; gymnastics, Jack's musicality and sporty needs&lt;/span&gt; it is becoming increasingly difficult to feel like I'm anyone in particular.  There are moments of identity - like with photography and art (yes we've already started next year's Christmas book) but in general life is just very crowded.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because of the helpful family around me I do get bursts of clear and free thought.  But those bursts have to clear so much smog in my brain they are short.  Appreciated and bright... but short lived.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And... well... thats about as far as I can go at the moment ;).&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-2499485505017086115?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/2499485505017086115/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=2499485505017086115' title='8 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2499485505017086115'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/2499485505017086115'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/02/24601.html' title='24601!!!!'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>8</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31704179.post-6940451934561707950</id><published>2010-01-30T22:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-30T22:31:35.821-08:00</updated><title type='text'>SopooooooOOO</title><content type='html'>tired.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31704179-6940451934561707950?l=burntfudge.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/feeds/6940451934561707950/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31704179&amp;postID=6940451934561707950' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6940451934561707950'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31704179/posts/default/6940451934561707950'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://burntfudge.blogspot.com/2010/01/sopooooooooo.html' title='SopooooooOOO'/><author><name>Ada</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/16723070834271018599</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3zcSVUydsyA/SQNsZGIhS5I/AAAAAAAAEWA/cgLDIRFqsO8/S220/IMG_0496.JPG'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
