Happy Blogiversary!

In honor of my second year of blogging here at the Rose Garden, we have a new look! Unfortunately for some of you that new look came with a new template which deleted some of my HTML code that provided you with expandable posts. (WHAT? Blogger for Dummies: Remember when you just saw the first couple of lines, followed by a "Read More!" link? Well, at the moment, the entire post will show followed by a "Read More" link that doesn't do anything.) As soon as it's not midnight, I'll figure out how to fix the code.

By request (and I won't say by whom...) our font is just slightly bigger. We also have some new colors (evidently, I'm anticipating autumn), and, of course, the new header, compliments of scrapblog.com and Colleen, who introduced the two of us. Scrapblog and I had a very close relationship today.

Thanks for indulging me...us...and for being such loyal readers. As always, feel free (but not obligated!) to comment. Don't worry: I'll still nag you from time to time to make sure you're still there! (Oh! That reminds me...I need to add my analytics code to the new template so I can keep track of you all. Sorry. More mumbo jumbo.)

Happy Reading!


Edit: Fixed! Sorry, Jess. It's easier for people to see how many new posts they have to read when they're expandable.

Under Construction...

Hey, thanks for your support, readers! We're under construction. Back up soon!

Helloooo (echo echo echo)

So my super nerdy Google Analytics page tells me that I average about 15 readers per day on this here blog. This isn't bad, considering I average much higher on days when I have new posts, and only slightly lower on days where there aren't new posts. BUT. What I wanna to know now, without being super whiny, is....WHERE are my PEEPS? How come y'all stopped commenting, with a few notable exceptions? 50 lashes to you all.

Whaddoeye hafta do? Giveaways? Bomb threats? More eloquent writing? New banner and/or layout?

So. Dudes. Get thee a log in name! Make haste! Believe it or not, I actually do care what you think. And I want to know who's listening. (And I promise to never ever turn off the comments again so help me god and to help people at all times and live by the Girl Scout law.)

Sometimes...

Sometimes he raises a single eyebrow at me. The left one--which is the same one I can raise. It only lasts a split second, but it's just such an adult thing to do, you know? Sometimes he does it before he smiles, as if his outside edge of his brow and the corner of his mouth are attached. Sometimes he does it when he's about to do something he knows he's been advised against. Sometimes he does it when I show him a new skill, like tapping two plastic balls together to make an annoying invigorating noise.

Sometimes he tries to stand alone. This is a new acrobatic endeavor. Sometimes it ends with a crash, occasionally on his head. It's miraculous that he a) hasn't had a concussion or b) (probably) won't end up with permanent brain damage. It does make me curious to know if their little toddler heads are just tougher than our giant melons.

Sometimes he throws 11 month sized hissy fits, otherwise known as temper tantrums. Sometimes he lashes out by hurling the nearest object. Sometimes the tantrums result in him whacking me on the face. Punk.

Sometimes he smiles at me with such charm that nothing else seems to matter. Sometimes.

Sympathy Pains

It's still that time in my life when half of everyone I know, and their mother, is pregnant.I constantly have friends ask me when I felt the first kick, did I know it was a boy, how long was I in labor...and most of the time I have to look up the answers. Every now and then, though, I get little flashbacks of pregnancy that are as clear as if it were yesterday. Today I was remembering sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn (what else?) on my belly, watching it balance precariously while The Munch rolled around inside. He spent so much time kicking (or was it punching? spinning? bicycling? somersaulting?) my right side that it felt like I had internal bruises. Life in utero imitating life, um, out utero--I'm just sayin'.

We are ominously nearing the one year mark. It's so very difficult for me to grasp that it will have been a YEAR since I was last pregnant. I wasn't one of those pregnant women that luuuuved being pregnant--but, man, I loved cooking that baby.

Friend Request

The Munch and I (well, okay, just "I") are exploring the idea of finally joining a play group. I have been reticent to find one because we are "actively trying to move" (a phrase that exhausts and depresses me), but since it appears that we'll be in this house until 2084, I guess I should find the poor kid some friends.

So, to all the Potential Play Group Friends out there, here are some things you should know about my child--in the interest of full disclosure:


He has PLANS. And woe to you if you try to screw them up. He has doors to CLOSE, drawers to OPEN, dog crates to MOVE, stools to PUSH (um, STEPstools, that is), things to take OUT of the box, things to put IN the box. And please don't help me, mommy!

Like his dad, he jumps up from a dead sleep. Not like his mom, who rolls around in a fog and tries to ignore consciousness for as long as possible.

He doesn't like food goop on his hands. He would much rather spread it in his hair. We frequently refer to this as "banana gel," for reasons I'm sure you can infer.

I'm certain he will be a linguist of some kind, and his primary language will include words containing many "L" and "K" sounds.

HE CAN DO IT HIS OWN SELF. (Did I mention that already?)

Anytime anyone anywhere is clapping, he must also clap. If he cannot clap (because he's laying butt-up on the floor and clapping would cause him to face-plant), he must pound the nearest surface. This may prove problematic in public places such as sporting events when the one person in the entire stadium who is rooting for the other team happens to be sitting in front of him. ("Yay! The White Sox scored!" [insert: clap clap clap] [insert: echo clap clap clap from The Munch] [insert: a panic induced, "STOP THAT," from any of the Munch's living relatives on his dad's side.] )

He is the ultimate multitasker. He can play with toys that mechanically roll, make sound, spew ribbons, clean the floors, and rock--ALL AT THE SAME TIME. He refuses to sit anywhere (car seat, high chair, crib, countertop (just kidding) ) without something occupying his little multitasking hands. Again, like his dad. Hey! I should get him a Crackberry!

He takes no issue with snot running down his face. He prefers it to Kleenex and CERTAINLY to the dreaded Booger Sucker. (Speaking of which, when/how do I teach him how to "blow?" What a totally odd concept for a human to learn.)

He best expresses his love and affection by ducking his head and playing a coy game of peek-a-boo...either that, or he swats you on the face. Depends on the day.


Who wants to play?!

...for the next ten minutes...

I'm having a "Ten Minute Morning."You know, one of those mornings that starts out in a hideous fashion, so you allow yourself "ten minutes" of the thing you NEED immediately. Maybe it's a ten minute coffee break, or ten minutes of watching the news, or ten minutes on Facebook (ahem), or a ten minute walk. Today's ten minutes were spent with electricboogaloo, who makes me giggle and--I swear--also makes me a better writer (no judgement from the peanut gallery, please).

Now, my ten minutes are up. I need to face the world by finishing today's cleaning list, wade through the new list of possible properties, care for the child, deal with the dog, etc. Then again, I'm also waiting for the window-repair guys to call me and tell me they're on their way here, and I can't afford to possibly miss that call because I'm--say--in the shower. I guess my only course of action is...ten minutes more.


What do you do with your ten minutes?