While receiving dilating eye drops at the eye doctor this week, the nurse asked Jack if needed a tissue. "Yes, I need a tennis shoe," he whimpered.
We told Jack and Garrett they could move to booster seats when they turned 4. Let me tell you, they think they have arrived. They think they're somethin'. But it is nice to be done with 5-point harnesses!
Updated to add: Clearly, the above photo was not taken today. If my boys were wearing long sleeves and pants on this day, you would need to call CPS on me. It is 88 degrees today in this lovely place I have to call home.
On Sunday, a friend, Jennifer, said, "They don't look too bad." It took me a minute to figure out she was referring to my bangs. And I have to be honest and say, they're growing on me, literally and figuratively.
I said I wouldn't talk about hair every day, so enough about that.
Since I haven't seen Jennifer in a couple weeks, I knew she had seen my blog.
I find it very odd that people beyond my family read my blog. My initial intent for my blog has always been, always will be, to journal and scrapbook for my boys.
(The actual art of real scrapbooking escapes me. I have tried it, but mercy me, if it doesn't overwhelm me, then I don't know what does. But that's another post altogether.)
If I don't blog, then these hundreds of photos I take of my boys every month simply reside on my Mac. And that's a shame, because my boys are simply too cute to stay hidden, if I do say so myself.
My secondary intent for this blog is to keep our family and close friends up-to-date on the goings on around the CupRunnethOver household.
And my tertiary reason for my ramblings is to encourage families in the adoption journey. I feel called by God to share our adoption experiences with many people, because he did not take us through those trials for our own good, but for His glory.
(Are you impressed I used the word "tertiary"?)
So, when I realized Jennifer is reading my blog, I got all clammy and nervous. And then Rick informed me the other day that he ran into someone at his office that mentioned she reads my blog regularly. Again, I my hands were sweaty and butterflies formed in my stomach, because I don't even know the person he's referring to.
Obviously, if I write on the world wide web, anyone in the world can read it. And, yes, I read strangers' blogs every day. But it is still such an awkward feeling to know that strangers are reading my words!
Rick and I talked about it briefly, and I think it all boils down to this: I don't think most of you realize how shy I am. Put me in a room full of strangers, and I feel like crawling into a cave. Tell me I have to attend a large event (anything over 20 people), and I'd rather go to the ER. My stomach is churning while even writing the last two sentences!
Rick said that most writers are shy. Really?
After I've pondered this topic over the last few days, I have a question. How many bloggers out there are actually shy?
When Rick got home from work last night, he hopped out of his truck and looked at my bangs with disappointment. He had hoped they would have grown an inch or six during the eight hours he was gone.
And then he called me "Amelie". He would be referring to this chick:
I told him to hush or I would go dye my hair black just like hers. Better yet, I could really get his goat if I chopped all of my hair to look like her. And added white paint to my face.
In case you're wondering, we have seen "Amelie". I couldn't tell you a thing about it, being that I sleep through most movies. I imagine Rick will be leaving a comment on this post, so I'll let him comment on the movie, too.
Anyway, I am growing accustomed to my short bangs. Especially when I look at Amelie, I realize my bangs are not all that short.
I've had many people ask why I don't pull them to the side. I have tried it, but try as I might, they will not do it. It is as if they are on strike. And a couple of people have told me to just pull my bangs back in a headband, but I look all of 12 when I do that.
I'm just sucking it up and wearing them proudly. At least until they grow to my eyebrows.
There are far greater worries in the world. And much happier things to focus on, like my niece. She's a little slice of heaven.
I don't write about my hair very often, because I would only sound like a complainer. I'm pretty much never happy with my mop. It's always too wavy and frizzy, in spite of the embarrassing amount of time I spend on it every day. I've tried countless combinations of products and numerous brushes and flat irons. All to no avail.
I've come to terms with the fact that I am not gifted in hair styling. And good styling does indeed require a gift from God. Those of you who can whip up a mean hairstyle...I covet you. I know the Bible tells me to not envy, but I just can't help myself.
I usually enjoy getting a fresh haircut, even if it's simply a trim. I like someone else being responsible for my hair for one day. I typically walk out of the salon with a bounce in my step, feeling so pretty.
But not today. I went in for a trim. A trim. (Do you see where this is going?)
I explained that I wanted one-half inch off my long layers and the framing around my face. I also explained that I wanted my bangs to sit right at mid-eyebrow, and I even pointed to the exact spot. I also explained that my bangs curl quite a bit.
Jo, a new hair stylist that will never again touch my hair for as long as I breathe, apparently understood the whole 1/2" off the layers bit. She even understood the framing around the face business. But she did NOT understand the bangs at mid-eyebrow level. Because this is what I was left with:
Does that look like mid-eyebrow to you?
I didn't think so. And how do you like that blank stare in my eyes? That blank stare means, "What. did. she. do. to. me?!"
And let me clarify that photo was taken after I flat-ironed my bangs TWICE! And I have not stepped foot outside, where it's 96% humidity in this lovely climate where I live. So, let's all pause for a moment to breathe deeply while thinking about the fact that I have to leave the house tomorrow and face the world with those bangs.
Lord, help me!
And this is me trying to fake a smile:
(Hate that lazy eye, by the way.)
Did you buy that smile? No? I'm gonna have to work on that before leaving the house tomorrow.
Please say a prayer for me at 8am CST on Wednesday, as I face the world with the shortest bangs I've ever had in all of my life. I will be saying that prayer every day for the next three months.
Also note that these photos were taken after Rick came home and said, "Well, maybe you can pull some of your longer hair over to cover the bangs." That would be a comb-over, and no thank you. And then he said, "It will grow."
Wrong answer, dear. That did not make me stop thinking about the fact that I feel like an 8 year-old girl with these bangs.
Anyway, enough about me. What do you think about this beauty?
That's my niece, Edie, born this morning to my brother and sister-in-law. She's gorgeous!
Thank goodness she hasn't faced a hair crisis yet. Your time will come, baby girl, but I will be here to help you breathe through it.
Liam wrote me a sweet note on a piece of scrap paper the other day.
It reads: I love you, Mommy. You are invited. We are making Mommy a celebration.
We had just been making our heart-shaped bird feeder and talking about Valentine's day when he wrote that.
He's such a loving boy. He will make a sweet Valentine for some lucky girl someday, but he's mine for now.
With Valentine's day coming up, I thought it would be fun to use this heart-shaped bird feeder idea.
I won't take credit for this idea. You can find the easy recipe here.
I can't tell you if the birds appreciated it. But my dog sure did!
Here's a helpful tip: put the hole for your ribbon further down than I did. The first gust of wind knocked ours off the tree, but I think it would have been fine if the heart had been more stable with the ribbon closer to the center of the heart.
Oh well, Winston, the Boston Terrier, appreciated our heartfelt activity.
I begin each boys' birthday with, "Happy birthday, four year old!" (I do manage to change the age appropriately, so when Liam turns 6 in April, I won't call him a four year old. He might be insulted.)
Garrett's birthday yesterday was no different. I opened his bedroom door and greeted him with our usual birthday fashion, to which he jumped out of bed with a squeal of delight. "I'm FOUR! YIPPEE!" As if he had finally arrived.
He asked for brownies for breakfast, but I reminded him that brownies were for dessert, so he was satisfied with waffles covered in peanut butter and syrup. (Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. It's good!)
When it came time to get ready for the day, Garrett wanted to wear an Aggie jersey. Naturally. There are no other preferences for him. But his two jerseys were dirty, so he chose a sweatshirt that he's clearly outgrown the sleeves.
But I wasn't sure that he could face another shirt crisis for the day, so I let it go.
I always hated having to go to school on my birthday, didn't you? Since I'm the principal, teacher, coach, nurse, counselor, cafeteria lady, I can call it a school holiday any time I feel like it.
But Garrett's birthday wasn't cause enough for a holiday. (Enter the laugh of a wicked witch.) I decided to torture the little birthday darling with a grueling school session.
Actually, it was a light lesson, and then we went to eat lunch with Daddy. I had hoped to also hit the park, but a flat tire took us to the tire store. Good times.
The day ended with pizza and brownies for the grandparents. It's a non-party year, so it was low-key.
And I couldn't get the toot to smile at the camera before blowing out his candle.
How do you like that styrofoam plate? We're classy like that.
Rick's mom gave Garrett an Aggie blanket. (Notice Jack's face peeking around the edge.)
My parents gave him four walkie talkies to share with his brothers. It is hilarious to watch the boys scream at the devices without pushing the talk button.
We gave him a baseball pitching net thingy. How do you like that well-informed, official title? Well, let the picture explain it.
He throws a ball at the target and it bounces back, so he's practicing his pitching and fielding. He better get a lot of practice in, because we have high hopes of an Aggie scholarship in 14 years.
Fourteen years?!?! Only 14? That means he's four. He's growing up in spite of me, darn it.
Where were you February 2, 2005? I know exactly where I was and what I was doing.
I was at Deaconess Hospital in Oklahoma City, where Garrett was born. Caring for my minutes-old baby in the nursery was the most special experience of my life.
I was able to give him his first bath and bottle.
And we were attached to one another instantly.
It seems like just yesterday.
I cannot believe it was actually four years ago! My baby is no longer a baby. Excuse me while I go cry.
(Garrett's adoption story can be found on the right sidebar.)