Naptime: A Comedy of Errors

Naptime at our house is a bit of a sacred thing.  Have you ever been around a sleep deprived baby?  I bet you didn't make that same mistake twice.  If I do nothing else right as a mother, I will guarantee that my child is as well rested as possible, baring some sort of major catastrophe.

Last week was nothing out of the ordinary for us.  Lunchtime came and went and I proceeded to make the house dark for Kenyon's afternoon nap.  I turned off the lights, let the blinds down on the windows, turned the television down to absolutely nothing.  Kenyon and I had just sat down in the rocking chair with a fresh bottle.  His eyes rolled back in his head with those first few big gulps of refreshing milk replacer.  (Sorry, formula for all you non-farm type folks.)

Just then, I heard it.  A four wheeler came up our drive, parked and shut off.  My father-in-law, Gregg, walked up to the back door and pressed his face to the glass, looking for signs of life in our house.  I tried to shake my head furiously to let him know that now was NOT the time to visit.

So he missed the violent head shaking and came in anyway.

"IS IT NAPTIME? he asked.  By the way, he whispers like a four year old in church many times.  Which, in fact, is not a whisper at all.

I shook my head yes, and kind of shrug my shoulders.  I could see that this bit of slumber was going downhill very quickly.

"I JUST NEED TO PICK UP THAT PAPERWORK FROM WES.  WHERE IS IT?" he continued.  I motioned that it was in the stack of papers on the kitchen table.

"DON'T WORRY, I'LL JUST GET THESE PAPERS AND THEN I'LL LEAVE."  It sounded like packrats had invaded my kitchen as he dug through the pile.  (Total aside, but why is it that men have a total inability to do anything quietly, yet they all think they slink around like 007?  Seriously.)

He finally found the papers and proceeded to sit at the kitchen table and review them.  This would have been fine; however, 30 seconds later his cell phone proceeded to ring.  He, of course, answered it.  But he covered his mouth and walked three steps over to the kitchen sink, which was a totally legit way of masking any sort of noise.

"HELLO?  HEY, WES - CAN I CALL YOU BACK?  YEAH, ANNA AND KENYON ARE IN HERE IN YOUR HOUSE WITH ME AND I THINK SHE MAY BE TRYING TO PUT HIM DOWN FOR A NAP SO I REALLY CAN'T TALK MUCH.  I WILL HANG UP AND CALL YOU BACK IN A LITTLE BIT WHEN I'VE HAD A CHANCE TO LOOK OVER ALL THIS PAPERWORK."

Two things happened that afternoon.

1. Kenyon did not, in fact, go to sleep after that episode.  Surprise, surprise.

2. I could not have written anything more perfect for a sitcom.

Mother's Day Flowers

Last year during Mother's Day, some would say that I was technically not yet a mother.  (Please, tell that to the nearest gestating female.  I dare you.)  I was waddling, I was fat, I was hormonal, but I was not yet a mother.

This year for Mother's Day, I was a mother and Wesley made sure to be nice to me.

He came home late that evening from feeding cattle.  He came inside, grabbed up Kenyon and the two of them raced back outside.  I heard the pickup door open and shut and the two of them headed back into the house carrying a lovely bouquet of handpicked flowers.  If I have told Wesley once, I've told him a million times to never pay for flowers, just pick me something pretty from the pasture.

I saw the bouquet and cried.  Hard.  Perhaps like snot-from-the-nose hard.  Perhaps.

(Fast forward a few days.)

I was in the bank cashing a check and talking to my friend Rachel.  She asked if I like my flowers.  This peaked my interest and I thought it was odd that Wesley would brag to his friends about picking flowers.  I mean, seriously.

I told her that I was thrilled with them; I thought they were beautiful.  Rachel agreed that hers were beautiful too.

SAY WHAT?!  BACK THE TRUCK UP!

Then, Rachel mentioned that Jolene like her flowers too.

EXCUSE ME?

So, long story short (or, really long story just made semi-long) Wesley and his friends picked the most beautiful flowers in the world from a friend's garden and three ladies of Greenwood County all got the most lovely, beautiful, 'unique' bouquets ever.  And someone realized on a Sunday at noon that they had been hit by flower burglars in their garden.

Next year, my present had better be freakin' big.

A List of Sorts

I couldn't quite think of one thing to write about today, and I couldn't get any photos to upload in a timely manner, so you'll have to settle for fleeting thoughts.  (Fleeting Thought Friday, if you will.  I think I may make a habit out of this.)

• Kenyon likes to stand for increasing periods of time, and likes to attempt to stand without support.  No walls, chairs, dogs, Mom's legs, etc.  The kid is growing too quickly.  
• My garden looks nice.  We got 3+ inches of rain last weekend so the weeds are growing as fast as I can pull them, but it is a nice problem to have.  I picked one strawberry so far.  Two more ripened and the bugs got to them before I found them down in the mulch.  (This is really riveting stuff, right?  I'm sure you're on the edge of your seat.)  
• Yesterday I painted all the corner posts in the fence that goes around our house.  That was the most sun my legs have seen in years and now I have a lovely sunburn on them.  
• I have been attempting to do quite a bit of landscaping around our place and now folks say things like, "Oh, now I get it."  Previously I heard much more "What the hell are you doing with piles of manure all over your yard?"  Baby steps, folks.  Every year this yard looks a little bit better.  In 20 years this place will look ka-lassy, believe you me.  

Enough about us.  Time to go weed in the garden a bit more before nap time ends.  Until next time....

Apologies

I must apologize.  Sort of. 

I am most certainly NOT sorry that I haven't been on the computer for hours each day.  I'm NOT sorry that I can't write blog posts during the last five minutes of my lunch hour any more.  I'm NOT sorry that I feel like I've almost fallen off the face of the earth.  I'm NOT sorry that you don't know my each and every move of each day.  (Kind of.  We've done some pretty cool stuff, let me tell you.) 

We've been a bit busy lately, just livin'.  Our life has become far from perfect, but our life has also become freakin' AWESOME.  I LOVE being home with Kenyon.  And, yes, I do feel the need to use SO MANY CAPITOL LETTERS BECAUSE IT IS JUST THAT GREAT. 

We get to do so many cool things.  We take lunch out to the pasture and eat with Dad and the other men and then watch them work calves.  We run to town sometimes for parts and supplies. We garden, and garden, and garden some more.  We play with the dogs.  We play with Grandma Curry, and the other Grandma Curry, and Grandma Murphy, and Grandma Poovey and Grandma Suhler.  And his granddad, and his grandpa, and his great grandpa.  And the crazy aunties.  Oh, the crazies. 

We have been busy being blessed.  Please excuse the lack of posts lately. 

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.