tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88163329102317719792024-02-19T14:56:21.658-08:00Another Gray HairJuliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.comBlogger393125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-40202323790887842092011-03-08T19:13:00.000-08:002011-03-08T19:14:35.113-08:00Privacy Door<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQmQI7hNCCTzxF1vZJAzg_wmVgHoqb0aRSpFwYDqGjFR3HZmxiCr5tiOt3NexSeIiLjmzHK5SGvCMLtiD4-zW0Vs3nxBXrlzzLWLv5d1Ys1XYh_N3BV8zduuaazCeHLZBzqrBIu5xCnQ/s1600/istockphoto_6938297-diaper-changing-table-sign.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQmQI7hNCCTzxF1vZJAzg_wmVgHoqb0aRSpFwYDqGjFR3HZmxiCr5tiOt3NexSeIiLjmzHK5SGvCMLtiD4-zW0Vs3nxBXrlzzLWLv5d1Ys1XYh_N3BV8zduuaazCeHLZBzqrBIu5xCnQ/s320/istockphoto_6938297-diaper-changing-table-sign.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581913266487395330" /></a><br />Today I took my ginormous wad of Girl Scout cookie cash (nearly $2000 in primarily one’s and five’s) to an older bank on the square of my small town. My companion, as usual, was the newly 2-year-old Hazard County (#3). We ran into the bank in the pouring rain and took advantage of the old school booths available for customers to use to count money, make out, etc… I closed the door of the booth, sat down in a chair and commenced counting my wad-o-cash. Hazard County felt right at home in the confined space. She climbed onto the chair, pulled herself up on the desk and lay down on her back, spread eagle and waited. I was distracted by all of the green but I said, “What are you doing?”<br /> <br />She pointed at her crotch and said, “Poo poo” with a smile. She expected me to change her diaper. I looked around: small room, empty table attached to the wall. Yep, it resembled a changing area in any public restroom. I had to laugh. Hazard County and her happy-go-lucky assumptions about the things of this world always make me smile. I had to squelch the urge to actually change her diaper in that small room with the all-too-convenient privacy door. It was comfortable, clean and there were chairs. CHAIRS! Maybe Hazard County is onto something. <br /><br />Memo to America: Attach your public restroom changing tables about 2 feet down on the wall and stick a chair in front of them. What mom, enduring the torture of changing a diaper in a public restroom, would not appreciate the opportunity for a short rest of her legs in a chair?Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-84746444259423646882011-03-03T19:18:00.000-08:002011-03-03T19:22:12.941-08:00Latrine Lunacy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSy7wtYmq74tVtcGaJrIUP_ymEFO7Zi8xO1d-pROl0Uc8WhDCLqq0APgO4Tetfl-QroaaXP9HIjuSpPs9jg0o0vJ0yfXabuXvbgUc0ENgrgOYjUT6KP8rx1qZniOGYfEGusZiEjL07_sI/s1600/Baby+Potty.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 113px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSy7wtYmq74tVtcGaJrIUP_ymEFO7Zi8xO1d-pROl0Uc8WhDCLqq0APgO4Tetfl-QroaaXP9HIjuSpPs9jg0o0vJ0yfXabuXvbgUc0ENgrgOYjUT6KP8rx1qZniOGYfEGusZiEjL07_sI/s320/Baby+Potty.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580059059576265122" /></a><br /><br />Yesterday my youngest peed in the potty for the first time. She went twice. The first time she showed me immediately. The whole family commenced to acting like circus freaks: dancing, clapping, smiling and screaming. It was a scene straight out of Mardi Gras, minus the boobs and the cocktails. Cocktails would have been nice though and I’m certain they would have improved my dancing skills but, alas, that is neither here nor there. She peed, we behaved like lunatics. We flushed, clapped, washed our hands, distributed a lone skittle to the potty trainee and waited for round two. <br /><br />Not one to sit and twiddle my thumbs, I decided to multi-task. I put the potty in front of the bathroom door, sat Hazard County (that’s #3’s nickname) on it and filled the bathtub with suds and warm water. Hazard Country remained a fixture on the pot while the older two got their baths. We played a short game of volley-diaper, a genius activity that involves volleying a balled up, dry-on-the-outside-and-taped-securely-shut wet diaper back and forth until said diaper hits the floor. The kids think it is the Best. Game. Ever. Judge away. Given the choice between a ball and a waded up diaper, my kids will always go with the latter. Much like a fart joke, there is something hilariously taboo about it. <br /><br />Diaper Volley must have gotten pretty intense because we all forgot about Hazard County and round two. Snapped back to reality by the scene out of the corner of my eye and my daughter’s scream, “Look at Hazard County!”, I turned to see #3 crouched over the potty, both hands immersed in a good size puddle of pee. Right next to her was a small plastic container full of rubber hair bands, which she was adding, one by one, to the potty basin and pushing them around in her puddle. She was smiling, clearly proud. <br /><br />There was a time in my life when this scene would have sent me running for the hills and vomiting in my mouth. Those days are a distant memory. Hazard County has taught me a lot about sweating the small stuff and, believe it or not, pushing mini rubber bands around in a puddle of pee qualifies as small stuff. A simple hand washing and flush of the toilet is all it takes to clean up that mess and, even though she may have some misgivings about what to do after she pees, #3 <span style="font-style:italic;">did</span> pee and that, my friends, is something to celebrate.Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-80695361323860806182011-03-02T18:49:00.001-08:002011-03-02T18:52:56.405-08:00Unfantastic Voyage<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MFHJB0RdfZJ2QeAeMTWPnmUHXawWgybqR8u6ZLYccVMhYkEVRXNDlWuqrxhtr_6KojRPVqbEVkb7HLC1orse3FfOX2k3UjYlXHnNNbouVKeqibFRq3SPUjlsmHCfuzwqlqHGw9bkygw/s1600/2003_honda_odyssey_ex_l-7766046450717954839_2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MFHJB0RdfZJ2QeAeMTWPnmUHXawWgybqR8u6ZLYccVMhYkEVRXNDlWuqrxhtr_6KojRPVqbEVkb7HLC1orse3FfOX2k3UjYlXHnNNbouVKeqibFRq3SPUjlsmHCfuzwqlqHGw9bkygw/s320/2003_honda_odyssey_ex_l-7766046450717954839_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579680587663074562" /></a><br />Inspired by a <a href="http://rachelheldevans.com/controversial-blog-post-tips">recent blog by Rachel Held Evans</a>, I have decided to write about a controversial subject that I am passionate about. Prepare yourself. It might just start another Mommy war. <br /><br />Here is an ode to my recently acquired, not-so-gently used Honda Odyssey. I hate it with a passion that defies measurement and can only be expressed in a poorly written, pseudo Old English “poem”. Enjoy:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Oh Odyssey, Odyssey. How I deplore thee, Odyssey</span><br /><br />How I loathe thy doors that cannot be forced open or shut and therefore require a performance worthy of Ringling Brothers on cold mornings when frost renders ye doors un-openable and I still must get three younglings in their seats.<br /><br />How I deplore thy interior lighting system which has rendered thine battery dead on many a morning.<br /><br />How I abhor thy lackluster seats, which require bi-weekly visits to my chiropractor.<br /><br />How I detest thy transmission, which must be replaced every 150,000 miles to the tune of $3500.<br /><br />How I wish thy were a Town and Country, a far, far superior vehicle in every way.Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-60868443962262832622010-09-15T08:38:00.000-07:002010-09-15T08:40:40.072-07:00Death of a SalesMom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEjDrPDcRB3Fm3SkqsxYxnH8O2k8itn8tdMlcDBKspJax74Nmvjg3dJJ91Vs7b_-Y07HmhaEMPdA1VfDjbrp4tyzqj6jjXzbF-6ccmbW-RuNIqmJLq3JkS7vyKWz-lwvp5bci-MxxaFo/s1600/ChocLover.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEjDrPDcRB3Fm3SkqsxYxnH8O2k8itn8tdMlcDBKspJax74Nmvjg3dJJ91Vs7b_-Y07HmhaEMPdA1VfDjbrp4tyzqj6jjXzbF-6ccmbW-RuNIqmJLq3JkS7vyKWz-lwvp5bci-MxxaFo/s320/ChocLover.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517165356193741874" /></a><br />Tis the season for sales galore. My daughter might be selling nuts and candy for the Daisy scouts (this is doubtful as I am the troop leader and sales are not my strong suit), my son is selling popcorn for Cub Scouts and both of them are selling discount cards for their school. While I understand that these types of sales must be done and that they benefit my children in tangible ways, I loathe them. Selling a card that can actually save local folks money throughout the year is one thing but hawking overpriced popcorn, nuts and candy to the fine folks of East Tennessee who are struggling not only to make ends meet but also to find belts that fit is not something I enjoy. According to a recent study, Tennessee is the second fattest state in the nation. Seriously scouts? Can’t we sell gym memberships or nutritional supplements? How about hand weights or discounted weight watchers memberships?<br /><br />Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I will participate. My love for scouting organizations runs deep. Both boy and girl scouting are a legacy in my family going back to my beloved Grandma who was passionate about cultivating a love and appreciation of the outdoors within her children. Granted, my Grandma also managed to take both of her daughters’ Girl Scout troops to Europe while serving as their leader and I can guarantee she would never stand outside of a Wal-Mart hawking caramel corn and Thin Mints. But alas, I am not my Grandma, this is not 1950 and it is doubtful my kids will make it to Europe thanks to scouting. They will, however, get to go camping with their friends, gain an appreciation for the outdoors and learn some valuable lessons about life. That’s worth a few popcorn and nut sales, right?<br /><br />So, in the spirit of participation, anyone want some popcorn? Nuts? Discount card? See me. I’ll hook you up.Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-61863546983237572482010-09-12T18:21:00.000-07:002010-09-12T18:28:29.932-07:00Shred<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3OMWCcppU18xtRwbBrisJF_GMIfti7aNpWrdMcluTyscDznBHLt7TcLzFTZ5ubOwZIFmpLF2gvsu50poJ8ujF_Sk8a-yUutUM6R-OfMbD35BBb-h9iV9VJbsXYSjSsWtsleRJPdydVM/s1600/30-day-shred-dvd.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3OMWCcppU18xtRwbBrisJF_GMIfti7aNpWrdMcluTyscDznBHLt7TcLzFTZ5ubOwZIFmpLF2gvsu50poJ8ujF_Sk8a-yUutUM6R-OfMbD35BBb-h9iV9VJbsXYSjSsWtsleRJPdydVM/s320/30-day-shred-dvd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516203789753653282" /></a><br />Inspired by <a href="http://commonsensewithmoney.com">Common Sense with Money</a>, a favorite blog of mine and the fact that I've had the DVD since May, I'm starting the 30 Day Shred tomorrow. The plan? Do the twenty minute workout every single day for 30 days, starting on level one for the first ten days then moving to level two on the 20th and ending at level three for the last ten days. Jillian Michaels is not my favorite person but I've read enough positive reviews of this 20 minute workout that I'm convinced I'll see results. <br /><br />I know this is not exactly riveting blog material but my chances for success greatly increase when I share my plan with others. How can I let you, my thousands of screaming fans, down? <br /><br />So, here goes. Wish me luck...Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-74470250391087014282010-09-09T09:05:00.000-07:002010-09-09T09:07:07.957-07:00Lessons from the Unemployment Line: Part 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_uXwSBBolmXoWHVtqWU1JzpEHV-z_j4vbpR-uegICNdKBJ0f3dvmCSNGlBDnEJ_F8HRuG31v-wlZfTd6lcI4wDqT4U86xiFzJYZoxOsJBCuYkc7MILC9JsaItyCnIAFawNe2gNqnlqs/s1600/Job+wanted.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_uXwSBBolmXoWHVtqWU1JzpEHV-z_j4vbpR-uegICNdKBJ0f3dvmCSNGlBDnEJ_F8HRuG31v-wlZfTd6lcI4wDqT4U86xiFzJYZoxOsJBCuYkc7MILC9JsaItyCnIAFawNe2gNqnlqs/s320/Job+wanted.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514945955973938258" /></a><br />66 days ago my family became a statistic when my husband lost his job of 11 years. The company he worked for was not turning a profit in that particular business model so they shut it down completely and let go a couple thousand employees. Always one to take comfort in his supposed job stability, this was a devastating blow for me. I never dreamed we would face the loss of our primary source of income. Such a prospect simply wasn’t a possibility in my world. I’ve learned a lot in the past few months and have decided to do my best to put a positive spin on this, my most difficult life lesson to date.<br /><br />Lesson #1: The fact that this is my most difficult life lesson to date speaks volumes about my life. I have observed many tragedies as an adult: 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, a devastating Tsunami and the earthquakes in Haiti. I have witnessed families struggle with cancer, the loss of a spouse or the unimaginable loss of a child. But I have experienced all of these things as a sympathetic third party observer with a safe distance between myself and grief, loss and devastation. Through my experience with living in financial limbo, I have learned to stay mindful of those less fortunate then myself and try to sustain, cliché as it might be, an attitude of gratitude. My number one priorities these days are finding ways to save money and sock it away, doing what I can to help my husband obtain a new job, and coming up with an innovative way to rid my neighborhood of the aesthetic eyesore that is Ninny the goat. These are not grave worries. They pale in comparison to the plights of so many scattered throughout this country and the world. Sure, I may have to put the kibosh on vacation planning for the time being and get used to the idea of living in this house longer than I’d like to but, deep down, I know things will change. I know we will emerge from this financial storm a little dazed and windblown but we’ll be dry, comfortable and ready to restart our lives. I’m hoping that my renewed perspective will stay with me long after this financial limbo comes to an end.Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-52334602732767576172010-09-08T09:42:00.001-07:002010-09-08T09:47:17.251-07:00Goat Kabobs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdxecofLgoUcUPBDVuInyPUxT7LGj8tEIRuFpeYIqtqxzVrFZjsIoWkd5V2xuQiZASQcGAM4pud9lDH7158wQj4fLuVCrsijWBNnRv11c89-E0Wpp6tEA5njHGRkPNVBCIxC0z0ukEjjA/s1600/Goat.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdxecofLgoUcUPBDVuInyPUxT7LGj8tEIRuFpeYIqtqxzVrFZjsIoWkd5V2xuQiZASQcGAM4pud9lDH7158wQj4fLuVCrsijWBNnRv11c89-E0Wpp6tEA5njHGRkPNVBCIxC0z0ukEjjA/s320/Goat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514584013735267266" /></a><br />As many of you know, I’ve got a goat problem. When I emerge from the shelter of the giant hedges that line my front yard, I gaze into the empty blankness of a goat’s eyes. A former resident of the house two doors down, these days he makes his home within the confines of the fence directly in front of my house. I’ve concluded that my neighbors must be starting some sort of pilot goat cooperative on our street. It should be a real boon for home sales in this area. He spends his days eating grass, kudzu, weeds, magnolia leaves and azaleas. I often catch him standing on his back legs like a giraffe, gnawing on a branch 5 feet in the air. Seeing a dead-behind-the-eyes goat in this position five feet from your front yard is a more disconcerting sight than one might think. <br /><br />I live in the city limits and, as such, have always assumed that when the time comes to put my house on the market, I could call animal control or some other organization and get him removed. Surely there is some sort of rule against having a farm animal within the city limits, right? Wrong! The municipal codes of our fair city dictate that all farm animals, with the exception of swine, are permitted within the city limits but must be contained. Other than that, it’s a free for all where farm animals are concerned. I’ve got three options here:<br /><br />1. Accept the presence of the goat and use him somehow as a marketing tool when I put the house on the market. Here’s what I have in mind: “No need to worry about your neighbor’s neglecting their lawn on this street, the goat takes care of that for you! As a part of the neighborhood's innovative pilot goat cooperative, twice a month he will visit your house and trim your grass and eat all of your bushes at no charge to you!” Any takers?<br /><br />2. Embrace the new petting zoo vibe of my neighborhood and get a goat or two, a sheep, some chickens, a pony and an Alpaca and open up a small petting zoo. I can then market the house as a residence/small business. <br /><br />3. Enlist the help of some of my hunter friends and conduct a covert op under the cover of night. Invite all of the neighbors over for a barbeque that weekend and serve some delicious mystery kabobs. <br /><br />What would you do?Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-6455049204472167582010-09-07T11:06:00.000-07:002010-09-07T11:07:50.288-07:00Time's a Wastin'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0wQB_tdHbKj4yLkmf2zphkJYooFpOZp3XxxguJg9fWWkOs9SAiMfZfymxRwP6f6oxEY5thdx57O27JnD6en01D0xMXX2oNPSQQrMMPDMgtiAgQPBGXtXKMvfXcvCCfSMqfJ9DendLjP4/s1600/real-housewives-of-nj3-500x406.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0wQB_tdHbKj4yLkmf2zphkJYooFpOZp3XxxguJg9fWWkOs9SAiMfZfymxRwP6f6oxEY5thdx57O27JnD6en01D0xMXX2oNPSQQrMMPDMgtiAgQPBGXtXKMvfXcvCCfSMqfJ9DendLjP4/s320/real-housewives-of-nj3-500x406.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514234875198939250" /></a><br /><br />My free preview of Bravo ended just in time to prohibit my viewing of Part 2 of The Real Housewives of New Jersey Reunion Special. I was devastated. DEVASTATED. Ask Sean. A self-declared hater of most trashy reality shows, even he would get sucked in to the drama care of these hothead Italian women. Commercial breaks always snapped him back into reality and he removes himself from the viewing area but he just proves that, while there is no denying these shows bring your IQ down a few points with each episode, they do have a certain trashy appeal. The extent of my devastation, however, confirmed my suspicion that I need to cancel my cable completely. The DVR is the antidote to productivity and the shows that I enjoy most are not coming from PBS or The History Channel. They are on Bravo, A&E and VH1 and I can watch them at my convenience, commercial free thanks to the miracle that is DVR. I’m getting rid of it, turning off my Dish Network and adding a digital antennae that will allow us to keep the basic channels free of charge. Not having the option of sitting on my cozy sofa and zoning out to another episode of Hoarders will, in theory, cut down significantly on my time-wasting. <br /><br />Has anyone out there in cyberspace cut their cable out? If so, what was it like? Any regrets? Are you glad you did it?<br /><br />Of course all of my productivity resolve will have to wait until September 26 when my free preview of HBO ends. Now, off to post this so I can watch last night’s Housewives reunion online…Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-15499710459761684752010-05-27T13:09:00.000-07:002010-05-27T13:17:40.806-07:00High Glitz and Summer Education<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNOUkK-dXpgScHS0C9yAbGrhg5e8rmVFPKX61HUAgja7wehp-kmVdilpWeRnFHw0gicMhfmYfed8RLzoRo7sqbgjUhBDYItrcaWm3anYwCiobIeKFlWlaJqsIt49JKjzogZEx_mCh4sI/s1600/beautypageeee.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNOUkK-dXpgScHS0C9yAbGrhg5e8rmVFPKX61HUAgja7wehp-kmVdilpWeRnFHw0gicMhfmYfed8RLzoRo7sqbgjUhBDYItrcaWm3anYwCiobIeKFlWlaJqsIt49JKjzogZEx_mCh4sI/s320/beautypageeee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476044756025230258" /></a><br />“High Glitz” and “Spray Tans” are terms that most 5-year-olds are not familiar with, unless said 5-year-olds are involved in the world of beauty pageants. My rising kindergartner is familiar with these terms but she’s never competed for a crown. She has, however, sat on the couch with me on a rainy afternoon, captivated by the high drama of TLC’s Toddlers and Tiaras. She enjoys that show so much that, given the choice between it and Sponge Bob, she’d choose Toddlers and Tiaras. I’ve always been very clear about the fact that beauty pageants are not something that I plan on being involved in and she’s OK with that, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the antics of those crazy pageant moms. <br /><br />Yesterday, after several requests, I caved and sat down with her to watch an episode. Her brother, home from his last day of first grade, decided to watch it with us. He was drawing and watching it intermittently until the pageant started and he noticed the baby division. I could almost see the light bulb go off in his head as he put two and two together, “Mommy. We should put Harper in beauty pageants. She would definitely win. We could use the money she wins to go to Disney World.” I told him that pageants were a racket and that no one really makes money after dropping $800 on a dress and then a couple more on the entry fee. He was disappointed but it didn’t last long because he began a new art project, a book. He frequently makes 3-4 page “books” out of illustrated stories he puts together sheet by sheet. Tatum and I finished watching the show, cheering on our favorite 4-year-old stepford hussies while Truman colored and drew and asked me how to spell words like, “Pageant” and “trophy.” I could see where this was going.<br /><br />After the show was over, Truman handed me his creation. It was entitled “Beauty Pageant” and told the story of baby Harper’s rise to pageant domination. It depicted Harper with olive skin (spray tan) in a poofy pink dress (high glitz) with big hair and an even bigger trophy. See? Our summer learning has already begun!Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-33122700816848355862010-05-25T06:13:00.000-07:002010-05-25T06:16:08.580-07:00Body Art<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnfoBLu8iR8HRwTuaxW5brulexG3aFJM2GJTIqS4co32GeqImL4uY6hiC6QBWD0vA-2s_oywnTZP7hGKYPSW8SOYDuM9gxIkbIglXN1rc6aSM79X1PdksCUSDs3OGVwhKZcaK22oIhlkM/s1600/DSCF5299.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnfoBLu8iR8HRwTuaxW5brulexG3aFJM2GJTIqS4co32GeqImL4uY6hiC6QBWD0vA-2s_oywnTZP7hGKYPSW8SOYDuM9gxIkbIglXN1rc6aSM79X1PdksCUSDs3OGVwhKZcaK22oIhlkM/s320/DSCF5299.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475195513076708482" /></a><br />Our youngest was our happy accident. We didn’t expect her but now we cannot imagine life without her. She’s nearing 15 months old now, walking everywhere and systematically testing every single parenting philosophy I’ve ever held. She has yet to sleep through the night on any consistent basis. She refuses to let me feed her without a fight. She is clinging to nursing like some kids cling to a pacifier (I had the other two weaned by 12 months). She won’t take a pacifier. She eats at least one piece of non-human food per day and she is into everything, EVERYTHING. <br /><br />Her latest exploit involves markers. She’s obsessed with them. Despite our best efforts to keep them out of her reach, she finds them, opens them and begins her magnum opus. This budding artist’s masterpieces all start out the same way. The medium is her body and the starting point is her inner ear. She immediately sticks the marker tip as far as it will go in each ear, colors as much area as possible and moves on to the rest of her face.<br /> <br />So far all markers have been washable. Here’s hoping it stays that way!Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-4647121434773841072010-05-04T20:22:00.001-07:002010-05-04T20:24:11.664-07:00Five Years to the Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoMbLdJnuoWyEpn6rH8HiM-vW19W0hguRNU5IWnYZ4i9EWZS6zCMdLnazHSUuGMeyPlVkZzRpv83hkCJQ2nTVnrjvfTZCp4eKjVW0lfv8ggyB4tlzX16xuE3Epls7Dg3o98jwD3TXqASs/s1600/Tatum.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoMbLdJnuoWyEpn6rH8HiM-vW19W0hguRNU5IWnYZ4i9EWZS6zCMdLnazHSUuGMeyPlVkZzRpv83hkCJQ2nTVnrjvfTZCp4eKjVW0lfv8ggyB4tlzX16xuE3Epls7Dg3o98jwD3TXqASs/s320/Tatum.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467621440029392722" /></a><br /><br />Today, I am thankful for Tatum. Born five years ago today, she is an unpredictable, bubbly, lively ball of energy that speaks her mind and refuses to take no for an answer. She delights ever-so-slightly in her brother’s misery and in being older than her four-year-old friends and she feels right at home in the red tiara she strutted around in tonight. More than any child I have encountered, she relishes every second of her birthday celebration, savoring each gift, each birthday wish, each snapshot taken, each wish made and every drop of attention showered on her. To every person she encountered today who gave her an <br />“in” to speak to them she said, “Today’s my birthday” and waited for the well-wishes to pour down on her. I love her. Today is her day and, as such, it is a day of thanks for me. Tatum: you rock my world. Happy birthday!Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-24165865767193198242010-02-26T10:47:00.000-08:002010-02-26T10:54:43.660-08:00Safe Words<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohCV7sS7nJ3-P5KQDztQ4uiYLgUei5WI7vB0tUx2XaMnt5j0JB-3TZoNTacPVzuJ-qDTShrcjsUjKnpqELD5boYpnSTsUL0l3ISzbL9wL1eE_KLaeRmwIEzUHH4VeuiOf0BVyjc7r3u0/s1600-h/Dominatrix.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohCV7sS7nJ3-P5KQDztQ4uiYLgUei5WI7vB0tUx2XaMnt5j0JB-3TZoNTacPVzuJ-qDTShrcjsUjKnpqELD5boYpnSTsUL0l3ISzbL9wL1eE_KLaeRmwIEzUHH4VeuiOf0BVyjc7r3u0/s320/Dominatrix.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442627269599087618" /></a><br />So the week of living Duggarly went very well. We learned a great lesson: yelling is counterproductive; and we plan to stick with our anti-yelling family plan. It's pretty entertaining because the Hale family has a new safe word. Yes, I know safe words are typically only used when one party is wearing leather and holding a whip but in this case, it just serves as a reminder that yelling is not allowed in our house. Our safe word is: Jim Bob. Awesome!<br /><br />My next experiment: A T.V. diet. I've just got to muster up the strength to do it. One week, people, one week. Surely I can survive without Dr. Drew and Jim Halpert for that long!Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-45126524968770655362010-02-16T10:52:00.000-08:002010-02-16T11:07:09.247-08:00Duggarly Day 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nGRVOXaJQFr2lbfarjLlXCaU2ExauEWbi8w3o9q-96ejWUFBvVTlD0LCcR5fGidf5AuCHSeqr4Uebd0NlfH1Ow5AQT0D6d1bVOljDyENeZf4ekDGycyWNke1uUERMBE7OvEFdVdELoU/s1600-h/jim_bob__michelle_duggar.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nGRVOXaJQFr2lbfarjLlXCaU2ExauEWbi8w3o9q-96ejWUFBvVTlD0LCcR5fGidf5AuCHSeqr4Uebd0NlfH1Ow5AQT0D6d1bVOljDyENeZf4ekDGycyWNke1uUERMBE7OvEFdVdELoU/s320/jim_bob__michelle_duggar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438919882071858418" /></a><br />I'm at the midpoint of day two in my Week of Living Duggarly. School was unexpectedly canceled today because someone saw a snowflake within a 10 mile radius of the city. I was dreading it because today was supposed to be my work day at home. I might as well kiss any work-related productivity good-bye, right? To make things worse, I didn't sleep well last night. I had a hard time falling asleep and finally got my first taste of REM at about 4am. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to fit the Michelle Duggar Zen master of calm mask on my sleep-deprived head today. <br /><br />Boy was I wrong. My kids unexpectedly let the baby and I sleep in until about 9am, giving me enough of a sleep foundation to get the mask on my head. Since I got up and came downstairs with the baby, my son and daughter have been playing actively and creatively and (here's the true miracle) harmoniously together. They've created these "snow" balls out of white tissue paper, put them in a gift bag and have been taking turns hiding them from each other. This has gone on for hours. I can't help but wonder, does this creative harmonious play have anything to do with my attitude yesterday? <br /><br />A little update on yesterday's events: I stuck with the experiment veering only once from my no-yelling plan. It was an honest mistake. I was jogging on the treadmill when my son came upstairs and was trying to step on the moving belt. I feel fairly justified in yelling in that particular instant. Other than that, it went smoothly. I didn't rush the kids, didn't raise my voice, and remained calm the entire day (which even included a trip with all three kids to Wal-Mart!). There were no melt-downs yesterday, no serious behavioral issues. All in all, I have had a harmonious house for the past 36 hours.<br /><br />More to come...Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-12000127527189744272010-02-15T19:39:00.000-08:002010-02-15T20:21:00.669-08:00The Milking Purse<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWPq_HCsRZ9Rtfj-Q5q99b-8svlWQ9vBDUBURiD4f0ugUwuTuNmn43Byz9G4yI24LugoRl02D57PwaLORqYGne0HZYpYStGJmd6VHg03D273eiAZ6S1WA4vQaOYgJDB6i9jo7B6bCtxo/s1600-h/Pump.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 80px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWPq_HCsRZ9Rtfj-Q5q99b-8svlWQ9vBDUBURiD4f0ugUwuTuNmn43Byz9G4yI24LugoRl02D57PwaLORqYGne0HZYpYStGJmd6VHg03D273eiAZ6S1WA4vQaOYgJDB6i9jo7B6bCtxo/s320/Pump.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438691511300882802" /></a><br />Yesterday evening my stress level was through the roof. I was working on a deadline on a new writing project and I wasn't exactly sure how to proceed with it. My entire family was home and the kids had a major case of cabin fever. They were running like banshees (what's a banshee?) through the house, jumping on furniture, screaming, laughing, and having a ball. I did not share their enthusiasm and was sitting at my computer, hands shaking on the keys, right on the cusp of a nervous breakdown (this was before I put on my Michelle Duggar Zen master mask). <br /><br />My daughter ran towards the couch and warp speed, jumped on it, scaled it and landed on the bay window ledge behind. The then catapulted her body over the edge of the couch and landed on the cushions where she claimed to be stuck. I heard this in the kitchen:<br /><br />Daughter: "Mommy! Help me!"<br /><br />Me: "I'm working. What do you need?"<br /><br />Daughter: "I'm stuck."<br /><br />Me: silence. I didn't believe her.<br /><br />Daughter: "Mommy! I'm stuck! My foot is stuck in the milking purse."<br /><br />This baffled me so I looked to the huz for guidance. His shoulders were shaking with laughter. I said, "What the heck is she talking about?" <br /><br />He explained that she was referring to the breast pump. <br /><br />I had to laugh. It was one of those cliche "Kids say the darndest things" kind of moments. The breast pump is encased in a black fabric bag with a large handle. Of course my daughter would understand it as a "milking purse." Maybe Medela and some of the other pump manufacturers should take a hint from my daughter and market their own hip version of a milking purse.Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-84999065479017559072010-02-15T13:39:00.000-08:002010-02-15T13:41:33.129-08:00A Week of Living Duggarly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfn9ghnfPKeOY7aAUH_drwrdSxHcoK3ugmQyONfh_oi5g6hCn82ngyU1NfCNf86PPWPo7dQRE-Vp7hFOxgOgGaMTLrxGgjAXWr4opfYO7CfUg_I4rHb6JeNHg6nwfpA6vA6gLVmV-MyZc/s1600-h/duggars.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfn9ghnfPKeOY7aAUH_drwrdSxHcoK3ugmQyONfh_oi5g6hCn82ngyU1NfCNf86PPWPo7dQRE-Vp7hFOxgOgGaMTLrxGgjAXWr4opfYO7CfUg_I4rHb6JeNHg6nwfpA6vA6gLVmV-MyZc/s320/duggars.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438588329314629586" border="0" /></a>
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priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:1; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-priority:1; mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">In the spirit of guaranteed blog material and the possibility of becoming a better parent, I have decided to give up yelling for the next seven days. That’s right folks. No yelling. No raising my voice. Nothing. Nada. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Before you judge me, I must clarify. I am no Olympian yeller. I’m not breaking any records or involved in any type of domestic dispute worthy of Judge Judy, I just have a tendency to raise my voice when I get frustrated or when I have to ask my kids to do things over and over again. Inspired by the cool and collected zen master of calm, Michelle Duggar, I’ve decided to give not yelling a go. In case you don’t watch <i style="">18 Kids and Counting</i> on TLC or you’ve been living under a rock somewhere, Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar are the parents of 19 children. They live in Arkansas in a ginormous house, custom made for their family and they have the most well-behaved children on earth. I’ve been studying them (watching the show) for some time to try and figure out what their secret is. All along I’ve been certain that they must administer some type of behavior altering drugs to their kids or beat them into submission but that is simply not the case. Michelle and Jim Bob made an agreement with each other that they wouldn’t yell at their kids at the beginning of their parenting journey. This includes the times when they are running late and trying to get 19 pairs of shoes on, coats zipped, seat belts buckled, and faces wiped before they can leave for their destination. If they are late, so be it. They’ve even coined the phrase, “Duggar time” to represent their reliable tardiness. Sure, they could stress out, lose their cool, do a little yelling and arrive on time but I guess they figure promptness is simply not worth the psychological damage that this kind of behavior does to their kids. They’d rather just be late. As a result of their remarkable ability to stay calm at all times, the Duggars have produced 19 children with the same ability. Go figure.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After watching my son freak out and yell out of frustration and recognizing that this is a learned behavior, I’ve decided to try to change. I’m wearing a Michelle Duggar mask all week and adopting her Zen master of calm parenting style. Who knows, you might even catch me in a floor length denim shirt and a modest shirt, rockin’ some mac-daddy bangs this week just to emphasize how serious I really am. The huz is in on it too. I’m hoping he’ll start talking with his hands and use massive amounts of hairspray to get in the character of Jim Bob. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And thus begins the week of living Duggarly. I’ll let you know how it goes. </p> Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-77085208615085024652010-02-02T07:42:00.001-08:002010-02-02T07:46:55.419-08:00On to Greener Pastures<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPOVNg3dxWdDXfXInpLwXtweMt9DFX-IIyPeelNfsxAXptTQ2aX5wxt0CrebVTfCKmNcbDcaaFEpN4Wpz9AJXYSpJrcbLE8ZsPn8L3J4y64FZWYELZ3PWU6cPtl-hnysdpKF9085OYpA/s1600-h/moving.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 84px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPOVNg3dxWdDXfXInpLwXtweMt9DFX-IIyPeelNfsxAXptTQ2aX5wxt0CrebVTfCKmNcbDcaaFEpN4Wpz9AJXYSpJrcbLE8ZsPn8L3J4y64FZWYELZ3PWU6cPtl-hnysdpKF9085OYpA/s320/moving.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433673108267130850" border="0" /></a><br />Well, it's official. AnotherGrayHair has moved. I switched servers from Typepad (not free) to Blogger (free) for obvious reasons. I imported all posts so nothing was lost. I'll continue to update this blog sporadically so please subscribe if you have a minute.<br /><br />Thanks for the memories Typepad and the many dollars that have needlessly been tossed your way in the past three years.Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-87057155878514186932009-12-23T03:08:00.000-08:002010-02-02T07:32:35.826-08:00The Brutally Honest Hale Family Christmas Letter 2009<p><img alt="" src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e20120a7760e71970b-pi" /><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br/></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">If you want a typical Christmas letter, open up your cousin Betty's card and read about her daughter, the violin prodigy, and her five year-old son who's golf game rivals that of his father's. It's a shame about the Tiger Woods comparison now, isn't it?<br/></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Here at the Hale household we like to give it to you straight. There's no need for fanfare when your life is as good as ours. We're happily married after 12 years, have three healthy kids who keep us simultaneously entertained and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. There's Dudley the wonder mutt, without whom we might actually have two matching pairs of shoes for Harper, and a healthy supply of family and friends to enrich our lives with love and laughter. It doesn't get much better, does it? Money is a little tighter than usual and we still haven't upgraded to that four-bedroom house yet but the seams of our meager 1600 square footer have yet to burst and there's always Ugly Dawg, the pop-up camper, to escape to if we need some distance from each other. Here's what the Hales have been up to in 2009:<br/></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Harper Emerson was born on March 5, weighing in at 6 pounds, 10 ounces. At the ripe old age of 9 months, we're certain she's a prodigy. While she hasn't quite mastered the whole standing on two feet thing, she's become quite adept at waving and smiling. We're sure reading and writing are not far behind. Harper is the icing on the Hale family cake. We don't know what we'd do without her.<br/></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Tatum is enjoying preschool five days a week and, unlike last year, she's not the only girl, an environment in which she thrives. She's got mad dancing skills and will be taking ballet in 2010. She can often be seen dancing around the kitchen with her Mom to "Party in the USA" or "Single Ladies," our theme songs for 2009. There is nothing her mom loves more than rockin' out in the kitchen with Tatum.<br/></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Truman is into two things: Star Wars and Legos. Thankfully, Nintendo had the foresight to combine these two passions into a Wii game, Lego Star Wars, custom made for Truman and his father. They have solved it from beginning to end at least three times. We're all about productivity in the Hale house. Truman loves to draw and seems to really excel at it. He's scheduled for art lessons in 2010 to encourage him to choose a profession that all but guarantees he will live in poverty for the rest of his life.<br/></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sean is a rock star father and husband and fixer of all things. We haven't called a professional for one ailment in our 70-year-old house since we moved in 7 years ago. Sean's work at Wells Fargo is pretty intense these days as they try to find their way through the murky waters of this new economy. We are thankful, though, for his continued employment. Many folks in Sean's line of work were not so lucky this year.<br/></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Julianne is doing her best to balance three kids, a house, and a writing career that continues to grow despite her intentions to slow down after Harper's birth. She has discovered that doing it all is, in fact, impossible and her home is proof of this discovery. She is very grateful for Dudley, her live in vacuum cleaner, without whom she might end up on an episode of <em>Clean House</em>.<br/></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Merry Christmas to you and yours and blessings abound in the New Year!<br/></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Bradley Hand ITC; font-size: 12pt;"><strong>Love,<br/></strong></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Bradley Hand ITC; font-size: 12pt;"><strong>The Hales<br/></strong></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Bradley Hand ITC; font-size: 12pt;"><strong>Sean, Julianne, Truman, Tatum, and Harper<br/></strong></span></p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-40965143331256630292009-12-04T14:11:00.000-08:002010-02-02T07:32:35.817-08:00Earth Fare Winner<p><img src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e2012876189e02970c-pi" alt=""/><br/></p><p>Congratulations are in order for Amy Scott. She is the winner of the Earth Fare gift card. Special thanks to my Mom for being the guest judge. I knew many of the entrants and thought I might be a little biased. Mom loves Earth Fare and she thought Amy's entry was the best one. Congratulations Amy! Send me your address and I'll get your gift card in the mail.<br/></p><p><br/> </p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-36698121149530679512009-11-17T15:01:00.000-08:002010-02-02T07:32:35.808-08:00CONTEST!<p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e2012875afe73b970c-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="EarthFare" border="0" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d83452439069e2012875afe73b970c " src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e2012875afe73b970c-800wi" title="EarthFare" /></a> <br /> <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12pt;">I'm not sure if you have heard yet but Chattanooga is getting an Earth Fare grocery store. I've been to the Earth Fare in Knoxville and love it. I'm so excited to be getting one close by. In honor of their grand opening, the fine folks at Earth Fare are offering the readers of Another Gray Hair the chance to win a $50 gift certificate. Go ahead! Give it a try:<br/></span></p><p><br/> </p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12pt;">Budgets always get really tight around the holidays.  We all know that.  And, Earth Fare, the healthy supermarket, seems to know that too.  Have you been to their stores?  If so, you would know that they are  always trying to make healthy eating affordable, easy and delicious!  Seriously - have you tried their homemade, all-natural chocolate chip cookies - if not, it is .99 cents of deliciousness!  Well, in celebration of the opening of their new Chattanooga store on December 9th, Earth Fare gave me a $50.00 gift card to give away!  Yeah, very cool.  They just said, hey Julianne,give this away for us. <br/></span></p><p> <br/> </p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12pt;">So, now, we want you to tell us why you deserve or just plain want this gift card.  We've all got stories.  You may be hosting your family's holiday dinner on an extremely tight budget.  You may have lost your job recently and just need some extra help to make it through this already tough season.  You may be a cookie lover or organic food nut!  Or, perhaps for whatever reason, you've never tried a healthy food store and just want to see what it's like!  Give us your best reason, and we'll consider it for the prize.<br/></span></p><p> <br/> </p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 12pt;">The best story gets the card.  So, ready, set, and get writing.  Post your reason in the comments below today!  You only have until Friday, December 4 to get your entry in.  And, we're waiting..<br/></span></p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-61938901234733321142009-10-25T14:33:00.000-07:002010-02-02T07:32:35.801-08:00Dum Dum Dilemma<p><img src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e20120a61eea3a970b-pi" alt=""/><br/></p><p>At a recent Bunco game I listened to a Mom talk about her only daughter. She spoke of her struggles with her daughter's drive-thru confusion. Because she got a lollipop every time she went through the bank, she assumed she would get one when she went through the pharmacy drive-thru and any other drive-thru window. This Mom, a funny and relatable woman, came up with a solution: she'd keep a stash of suckers in her glove box so whenever they went through the drive-thru her daughter wouldn't be plagued with disappointment. She started it a couple months ago and now is frustrated because she doesn't feel like she can stop. I smiled. I couldn't help myself. This is something I would never do, at least not now: 7 years into parenting and on child number 3.<br/></p><p>I'm not sure if it's because I'm a hard ass or that I'm simply out of energy but disappointment is a lesson my kids learn at least once a day. I pride myself on it. I'm so pro-disappointment, in fact, that my kids don't get suckers at the bank unless the teller offers them. I refuse to ask for them and my van has tinted back windows so whether or not they get a Dum Dum after I complete a transaction is a crap shoot.<br/></p><p>The whole conversation made me appreciate the benefit of hindsight and multiple children. Sure, we contribute to the population problem but we only have one guinea pig: the first child. The lessons we learn through trial and error with that child shape our entire parenting experience. I'm sure Truman would be delighted to learn that he taught me a most important lesson: Disappointment is a dish best served hot. And often.<br/></p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-39347574266423985492009-10-23T12:49:00.000-07:002010-02-02T07:32:35.793-08:00Cagey<p><br/> </p><p><img src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e20120a670eafd970c-pi" alt=""/><br/></p><p>Today is a very sad day indeed. My husband is back from his business trip, my kids are healthy at the moment, and my baby girl is exploding with adorableness but I'm still in mourning. Last night, after the kids went to bed, I asked the huz to bring the "cage" into the living room. The cage is a six paneled gate that I've had since Truman became mobile. It's much larger than a Pack N Play so it holds lots of toys and the kids can move around in it but it keeps them contained safely so I can get a few things done. My living room has been cage-free for nearly three years now and I have enjoyed it a great deal. There's nothing quite like having a living room free of eye-sores. You see, our house is quite small. There's no playroom or den. As far as living space goes, we just have a living room and a kitchen. All told, the cage takes up about 8 square feet of precious living room space. Where once you could see our bare hardwood floor, now you see baby toys through the holes of a plastic fence. Rich.<br/></p><p>I have no choice in the matter. Harper is on the move. I put her down in a seated position yesterday on the living room floor, went into the kitchen to wash my hands, and came back a minute or two later and she had rolled to the TV cabinet (about 5 feet away) where she sat chewing on the chord for the Wii remote. Not good. Now my living room looks like a poorly run home day care center and my daughter's time spent unattached to my hip will be in a homemade prison. I'm not ready for the upcoming phase of babydom. It just might do me in.</p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-35652821797904588462009-10-21T10:04:00.000-07:002010-02-02T07:32:35.783-08:00Freak Flags<p><img alt="" src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e20120a666a50a970c-pi" /><br/></p><p><br/> </p><p>We just hopped off the Disney World express on Saturday and are slowly getting adjusted to life in the non-magical world. Our trip was great. It was hotter than any week in October should ever be but we managed to enjoy ourselves in spite of it. On the Monday evening of our week long adventure, we partook in Mickey's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party, an overpriced spooky celebration at the Magic Kingdom. Thanks to a certain Disney connection, we were able to get discounted tickets and it turned out to be money well-spent because the kids had a great time.<br/></p><p>Dressed in Star Wars garments from head to toe, we strolled through the park hitting all of the Trick or Treat spots to rake in the candy and tried to take advantage of the minimal crowd. My cousin, her husband, and their two kids (also Star Wars junkies) were along for the ride. We split -up along gender lines and the boys hit the thrill rides while the girls went in search of Princesses, candy, and some Fantasyland entertainment. We scored with a trip to the Princess and Tinkerbelle tents. If you've ever been to Disney World you know that the lines for these rides tend to get out of control. It's not uncommon to find little girls with defeated looking parents standing at the tail-end of an hour-and-a-half line just for a handshake and a photo-op with a princess. We waited for ten minutes for Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and fifteen for Tinkerbelle and her Fairy Friends. Don't get me wrong, watching my little girl interact with Tinkerbelle was a thrill, especially at age four when the magic is about as real as it gets, but the real entertainment took place in line to meet Tink and her pals.<br/></p><p>Harper, decked out in her Yoda hat, got some intense reactions from two dads in the crowd. They were great sports, waiting patiently so that their little girls could shake hands with a fairy. As soon as we got in line, one of the dads caught a glimpse of Harper and his eyes sparkled. He elbowed his buddy and whispered something to the effect of, "Look at that baby Yoda. Awesome!" They both giggled and gave me props for my sheer awesomeness for dressing my baby girl up as Yoda. Then the dialogue started. I'm going to print it here but you must read it to yourself in Yoda's voice. Otherwise it just doesn't work.<br/></p><p>Here goes:<br/></p><p><em>Dirty, my diaper is.<br/></em></p><p><em>Drink out of a bottle, I do.<br/></em></p><p><em>Ready for my diaper change, I am.<br/></em></p><p><em>Judge me by my size, do you?<br/></em></p><p><em>Wear a onesie, I do.<br/></em></p><p><em>Enjoy baby food, I do.<br/></em></p><p>In between each of these genius snippets of comedy were uncontrollable giggles. This little back and forth went on for the duration of our wait to see Tinkerbelle. After the first five minutes, the two of them got so lost in their own hilarity that they forgot about us altogether. I have a deep affinity for Star Wars nerds so I enjoyed watching the two dads revert back to adolescence. I'm so glad I was able to provide them with a few moments when they could fly their freak flags with reckless abandon.<br/></p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-63508716606037291282009-09-30T14:22:00.000-07:002010-02-02T07:32:35.775-08:00Tamiflu-Induced Ramblings<p><img src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e20120a5af61c0970b-pi" alt=""/><br/></p><p>Nothing like a little late night Tamiflu-induced insomnia to motivate a mama to get her blog on! That's me. I'm coated from head to toe in Lysol, I periodically wear a face mask (no, I'm not kidding), and I live in the upstairs portion of my house only, a plentiful space that I share with my nearly 7-month-old daughter. We're in voluntary confinement while the other three family members suffer in the lower regions of our house from H1N1. With all of the coughing, the fever, the vomiting, the constant refusal to take the medicine down there, it's <em>not</em> the happiest place on earth for my poor sick husband. I feel sorry for him having to miss work and spend his days convalescing while simultaneously caring for and attempting to entertain two sick children but our number one priority is keeping Harper (the baby) well and we will do anything in our power to do that, even if it means severing all ties with each other until this thing is over. Plus, I seem to recall multiple incidences in which I was sick and forced to entertain well children while I semi-convalesced. That's just the way it is for the stay-at-home-mom: when she gets sick there are no days off.<br/></p><p>Moving on, my point, and I assure you I have one, is simple: Right now my life sucks. I'm forced to cover my house in chemicals that I usually avoid completely (yes, I'm one of those annoying mamas who uses green cleaners), I'm plagued with worry about my sweet baby girl catching this nasty bug, and I obsessively run to the bedsides of my two sleeping children downstairs to feel their head as if this will provide me some type of epiphany about their condition. I do this with my mask on in my nightgown, rockin' my glasses which fog up with every breath. I'm right out of a horror film. If these poor kids have the misfortune of waking up during one of these head-feeling incidents, they may never be the same again. Must. Gain. Control. Of my compulsive need to feel their foreheads. Besides, it tells me nothing. If I think they feel excessively hot, I make my husband take their temperature so that I can obsess about the number. I'm pretty sure Pink was thinking of me when she wrote these lyrics:<br/></p><p>"This used to be a fun house. But now it's full of evil clowns"<br/></p><p>Kinda sucks that I'm the evil clown.<br/></p><p><br/> </p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-42760624068308294552009-09-14T04:10:00.000-07:002010-02-02T07:32:35.767-08:00Buffy the Overscheduled Stay-At-Home Mom<p><img src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e20120a5c34f78970c-pi" alt=""/><br/></p><p>You know that stereotypical stay-at-home-mom, the one we all love to hate? Her name is Buffy and she's got her paws in the PTO, the Junior League, and every bake sale known to man. Her presence is felt at her children's school on a weekly basis and she's constantly driving someone somewhere. Yeah, that's me, except for the Junior League part. I get points for that, right?<br/></p><p>Right now I'm in the bitten-off-more-than-I-can-chew phase of my rock star stay-at-home-mom stint. I'm in charge of food at my son's school's Fall Festival and 1<sup>st</sup> grade parents just don't seem to want to volunteer, I've got assignments coming out of my ears, I've got a 6-month-old-baby, my minivan (could I be more of a cliché?) is in the shop, and the departure time for my long-awaited Disney World trip just happens to fall on the same date as my son's Fall Festival. I could list all of the other things I'm up to my knees in but I think I've played my martyr card enough today and, let's face it, nobody likes a martyr, especially the stay-at-home-mom variety. Right now I'm contemplating coping mechanisms. I'm torn between a 45 minute stint on the treadmill and some aggressive phone calls or a large glass of cabernet and a nap. Right now the latter is winning. Help!</p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8816332910231771979.post-23406128611474927592009-08-17T09:34:00.000-07:002010-02-02T07:32:35.759-08:00Baby Food Part 1<p><span style="font-size: 1pt;">F<br/><a href="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e20120a4fee41d970b-pi" style="display: inline;"><img alt="Baby food" border="0" class="at-xid-6a00d83452439069e20120a4fee41d970b " src="http://anothergrayhair.typepad.com/.a/6a00d83452439069e20120a4fee41d970b-800wi" title="Baby food" /></a> </span></p><p>I'm not a fan of feeding babies, my own or otherwise. Don't get me wrong, I treasure every second that I nurse my baby. She's my last and I know this time is fleeting so I gaze at her, enjoying the bonding and relishing every moment. But baby food? That is another story. My relationship with baby food is similar to my relationship with my gynecologist. It's a necessary evil. I don't like the smell of it, the consistency of it, or the sound the jar makes when you open it. And the actual feeding part, well that's just painful. She can't wait for the spoon to reach her mouth but, the second it does, she spits 80% of it right back out. When each microscopic, plastic-lined spoonful takes five tries to reach her belly, the process of finishing off a baby food jar is slow, messy, and frustrating. Not exactly my idea of a good time.<br/></p><p>My older two kids react the way I am supposed to. They want to be notified when I feed the baby so that they can have a front row seat. They laugh when she spits out every bite and giggle uncontrollably when she tries to grab the spoon and feed herself. They each request a turn to spoon some in her mouth, wanting desperately to participate in this process. I let them, cringing when they miss her mouth and graze her cheek with the spoon or when they tilt it ever-so-slightly and a big chunk of vegetable medley plops on the baby's lap. They think this is hilarious. I smile through clinched teeth, doing my best to look like I am enjoying the madness. I know I'm supposed to but I simply don't. My husband enjoys it too. I'm convinced it's not real joy but his way of making up for the fact that he hasn't been able to participate in her feeding at all up until this point. He always jumps in when he sees me struggling and I'm OK with that. I try to feed her in the evenings when he's around.<br/></p><p>I plan on making the baby food phase as short as possible. As soon as she gets a tooth or two, I'll start chopping up our meals into teeny, tiny pieces and giving her that so she can pick it up herself. I figure I've got three months tops of baby-food-o-rama to go. I can handle that, right? Until then, I'll feed her through clinched teeth, feigning enjoyment for the sake of my kids and the rest of the moms out there who can't wait to crack open that first jar of mashed peas.</p><br/><br/>Juliannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142847731212742672noreply@blogger.com5