Every once in a while, I have an episode of Binge Blog Writing. True story, and a weird one, seeing as how I've been all Blog Silent lately.
But a couple of weeks ago, I wrote a whole slew of entries; one right after another.
The truth is, I was nervous. Wracked with nervous jittery energy, and it seemed to be the best outlet to my craziness. It was that, or throw myself off the hotel balcony to the pool below - and when I suggested that option to Chip, he seemed pretty unsupportive of a four-story dive. So I wrote. I posted pictures and arranged badly-written missives.
Nothing spectacular, as you can attest, since you read the results of that late-night mess a while back.
This entry, this one you're reading right now, is the last of that group. And it serves as a sort of gravy catch-all for the stuff that won't fit anywhere else.
Like this: I forgot to add a few pictures on the Monday post when I talked about my escapades with Bean in our very own Harry Potter closet:
(Yes, we fit food storage in where we can, which happens to be in the lower reaches of our hallway coat closet. And yes, we love applesauce.)
The truth is, all that catch-all blog writing was in direct relation to nervousness. Our beloved Winston had major back surgery the very day after I finished writing the slew of posts--- and I just couldn't focus on anything except feeling nervous and worried about Winston. This is one of those times that remind me again, just how far we live from my parents. Like when Bean tells me that her Grammy and Grampy live far, so far away. So far that we drive for days and days (her words). Without the luxury of being able to drive for days and days to be there with them, I rely on the phone - on calls with my sister and the Little Brother who both live within evening trip distance, for apple pie and cinnamon rolls. We're headed down there this summer for a long visit. Lucky for me (and Winston), the surgery went well and he is fully on the mend.
I've got to tell you, too, that there is something I want to say about how awful it is to see your parents grow old, and older--- but the truth is, I can't say much because my lovely mother and the equally fantastic Winston both read The Creamery and I wouldn't want to make them blush, or feel like they're soon to be giving up the ghost (which, surely they are NOT). So let's just say: I am officially voting against the notion of parents growing old. Who is with me?
The whole big girl bed thing is going well. Bean has yet to discover that she can actually get out of the thing without us coming to release her in the morning. I am not rushing to dispel her of that notion anytime soon. The next big hurdle is THE LAST PACIFIER, which sounds like some kind of frontier movie with horses and cowboys and a long dusty ghost town road--- instead it's my complicated multi-prong weaning off of Bean to her very much loved pacifier. She's down to the very last one, used only when her head is actually in contact with her pillow. It took a serious amount of decision-making energy and strategy for Chip and I to come up with a plan for getting rid of the final paci. After rejecting the Paci Fairy and deciding thoroughly against having Alice give the paci to her doctor, we have decided that the best way is to have Alice give her paci to a sales clerk in exchange for... FISH. A fish tank. And fish. And for some inexplicable reason that only Alice herself knows: a bag of colorful rocks to put in the fish tank. The reason for the strange paci exchange item is this: she wants fish. She has wanted them for a long while. And I've told her that the fish are very expensive, and the only thing the store will take for them is pacifiers. We'll see how it goes. We've been talking about it for a few weeks now. I think we'll be taking the leap sometime very soon. Wish us luck.
I'm going to jump back on the blog writing wagon this week, cross-my-heart, so you can return here tomorrow for Real! Live! New! Content! I guarantee!
And with that, Whimsy is signing off. What do you have going on right now? Any helpful tips for The Last Pacifier?