940 Saturdays

The custodian at my j-o-b is a sweet, sweet man.  I enjoy our 15 minutes together every day when he comes around to our office and collects the trash.  We've become pretty good buddies over the past few years.

When he found out I was leaving the j-o-b he became pretty depressed for a time.  Now that he's moved through the several stages of grief, he's finally landed upon acceptance.

Today he came into the office and handed me a torn out page from his Reader's Digest.  On page 76 is Phrase of the Month:  

"940 Saturdays."

The number of Saturdays between the day your child is born and the time he or she turns 18.  The phrase might serve as a reminder to cherish the time you have with your child and to use it wisely.

David was very somber and stared at me as I read it.  When I finished, I looked up at him and gave him a sincere thank you.  

"I realize that every day will be a Saturday for you now, but you still don't have many of them left with your little guy.  Make them count."  He instructed me.  

So I will now try to keep this in the back of my mind, that I have less than 940 Saturdays left with Kenyon (approximately 906 or so).  I will make the most of my Saturdays, even if now every day is a Saturday for us.

Rough Life

Apparently someone feels like it is a rather rough ride in the feed pickup this morning.

Weekend in Review

Kenyon's great Aunt Chelle was kind enough to give him his first haircut.  After this experience I have decided that I would rather try to shave a wet, mad cat than try to hold an 8 month old boy still for an extended period of time. 

How do you celebrate 8 months of life?  With a cup of joe and your grandad, of course. 

We ended our weekend at my folks' house by coming home and tilling in our raised bed garden.  I'm beyond excited to have a garden this year.  It's going to help out my super-duper Susy homemaker persona. 

This is why grandparents should be illegal.  This is how I found Kenyon when I went to pull him out of the backseat of the pickup.  He was too tired to let go of his toys.  Funny, for all the hours that he and his Grandma Kate played together, I never managed to get a picture of the two of them. 

Here goes nothing

Let it be known, adulthood sucks....for the most part.

Growing up it always looked like most adults had it together.  You could trust what an adult said to be a fact and know that you would be safe and things would be alright because an adult said so.  Adults made good choices; they made the right choices. 

Since having baby K I have questioned everything in life more than ever.  Parenting looks very different from this perspective.  (And please, save me the condescending mmmmmm-hhhhhhmmmmm, told-you-so-attitude.)

Wesley and I talked about it, and we decided that I could be a super-duper stay at home mom.  Actually, we decided that I could be a stay-at-home mom, I added the super-duper part.  We're shooting for the moon here, right?

Here's the catch.  I have no idea if this is the right choice or not.  I think it is, obviously.  That's why we're giving it a try.  But I wish I knew, ya know?

Stay tuned, folks.  In one month I'll be a full time mommy and full time rancher's wife again.  I had a professor that was an old bronc rider who used to tell me to get a deep seat and a far away look in my eye.

We're fixing to get a realllllllly deep seat, folks.  Things could get a little western in this adventure.