Lu and Lundy visit the Fire Station

Our pre-school co-op group had a field trip today: The color we were learning about was Red and the letter was F. Ms. Jamee came up with the brilliant idea of visiting a Fire-station. So, off we went to tour the local firehouse with eight children under the age of 3. The Firemen looooved us.

Lily, please get your hand out of your mouth and smile.

Not exactly a home run, but we'll take it.

Two questions:
1. Are those four women really the source of that many children?

2. Is it really necessary to tilt one's head that diagonally for the camera? Is Rae trying to avoid catching a shot of some sort of neck fat?

Answers:

1. Yes.
2. No. But, you can never be too careful.


What a fun field trip. Thank you, Ms. Jamee.

Quality Television

Tyler entered our bedroom last night right as I was blowing my nose into a sock, sobbing over my Tivo'd Oprah show on obese teenagers.
Somehow, husbands don't understand the love of O. Will they ever?
It certainly doesn't help the situation that the context he arrives into involves me practically hyperventilating through my tears as a 500 pound teenage girl screams
"I 'd rather die than be fat!" over the television screen.

However, after my Oprah show was finished/fast-forwarded through, I can attest to the fact that there's nothing better than curling up with your man after the kids are asleep and shifting gears to the tantalizing wonder of reality t.v. bliss: The Bachelor.

I find it ironic that my husband will continually roll his eyes through an Oprah broadcast on hormonal replacement therapy and yet be perfectly willing to watch The Bachelor with me as an objective viewer. What could possibly be the bait in all of this chick-flickness that is keeping my man interested? I'm gonna take a wild guess and say it probably starts with a B and rhymes with schmoobs.
However, I encourage this interaction together, choosing to view quality programs portraying women attempting to sell themselves like cattle as a momentous teaching opportunity. As a wife, this is your only regular weekly chance to cozy up together and remind your man that there are at least twenty other beautiful women in the world that are twice as insanely pathetic as you.

After witnessing petty fighting, hateful gossip, malicious back-biting, and women who are ready to sacrifice everything - from their souls to their precious cat Coconut - in an effort to marry a man they barely know....my husband is once again refreshed in gratitude for his very normal, retainer-face, pigtail girl in sweats lying next to him. Except, as the previous post implied, when it comes to vacuuming or mopping.

Thanks Bachelor, what ever would I do without you?

Saturday morning Shenanigans

Saturday morning "let's get the whole house clean this morning so we can enjoy the rest of the weekend" scenario:

I said I'd vacuum!

I know that you said you would! But I need to mop, and you haven't finished vacuuming the tile in the back half of the house. You just stopped mid-beat, and now are folding laundry!?

You are rude and everything always has to be on "your terms". I said I'd vacuum. I said I'd vacuum. I said I'd vacuum. I would have gotten it done.

Well, I'm sorry if I assumed that if you were going to begin vacuuming you'd just finish it before beginning another task.

Fine, go on ahead and vacuum and pout like a crazy person.

Fine! Go on ahead and finish folding your laundry like a hopeless ADD victim.

Later

I'm sorry.

Me too, I just wish you'd talk nicer when you need something done.

Well, I sometimes wish I didn't have to ask three times before actually being heard.

But you just end up ruining everything by acting rude.

I know. But what am I supposed to do sometimes? If I don't start commanding I don't think it will get done.

Yes it will.

You're telling me, the floors would have been mopped today?

Maybe not today.

But there was sticky juice spilled on them.

Not the end of the world.

But there was sticky juice spilled on them!

Oh well.

You know, where my weaknesses are also lie my strengths. I'm a doer. I just do and I get done and go go go. I want to be appreciated for the nice atmosphere I try to keep.

And I want to be treated kindly. There also always room for improvement. Myself included.


Agreed.

I've really got to stop ruining Saturday mornings.

Where did you come from?

(*Just for you, Auntie Sarah)






This just in:

Crime Scene 1

9am, victim/mother heard a peaceful silence... immediately was sure 'something was up'. Entered the bathroom to find this:

Suspect

After release from temporary naughty chair confinement, a while later... water was found seeping from the bathroom door...

Crime Scene 2

Suspect/unarmed-but with heavy backup

Victim/mother was clearly outnumbered. For crimes of this magnitude, the law stipulates a sentencing of immediate strip down (except for the suspect - who is also a serial nudist and therefore required clothing) and prison confinement for an unspecified amount of time to be decided by the judge (coincidentally, judge is also victim/mother - this ensures real justice) while the proper authorities cleaned up the crime scene (crime scene authorities also happened to be the judge who also happened to be the victim/mother).


Let the punishment fit the crime. As you can see, the suspect was devastated. Boy, she really learned her lesson.

Later, when released, the baffled judge/crime scene authority/victim/mother posed a final question to this very complex little suspect:

"Where did you come from?!!"

Answer:

"Disneyland."

We miss you. Have fun in London, dawwling.



Speaking of London...

She had her FIRST "puny" tails the other day. Thought you'd want to see.

This sick little thing called blog

I'm taking a blogging hiatus for a while.

I'm tired of it. I have the same love/hate relationship with blogs similar to that with cell phones. Won't give it up, can't give it up, shouldn't give it up... but every now and then need to shove it in the glove box compartment and forget it exists. A hobby is starting to feel like an obligation.

So, I'm fighting back.

See ya later....

Check back next month.


Adios.

The BEST gift

Dear Birthday girl Lily,

It may seem strange that it was I who was the one to receive the best gift for your birthday: You!
But that's not all!!!...I received one other very special thing....

Amy (Mommy's good friend) sent this precious email to me the other day, and I hope you will someday enjoy the account as much as I did:

Rae,

Hi!! Okay so I was going through my journal which I started keeping a couple of years ago and I found this:

Wednesday, January 11th, 2006 8:42 p.m.

Today Rachel gave birth to Lily Tyler Haack at 4:51 p.m. She is 7 pounds, 1 ounce and looks like her dad. I haven't seen her yet but Shinae said she is beautiful and very alert. Rachel had a pretty hard labor. She was induced last night at 7:00 and had small contractions all night. This morning she had hard contractions before she could get an epidural for about an hour and after the drugs she felt better until she had to start pushing at about 4:00. This is the first birth that I have really thought about. No one that I know has given birth since I was little and so thinking about it as an adult is just weird. It is crazy to me that last night she wasn't here and now all of a sudden she is and this is the first day of the rest of her life. Hearing what Rae had to go through makes me not want to give birth. Shinae said she was crying and almost lost her mind at one point and there was blood on the floor etc. etc. I wonder if I will be able to do it. Shinae said she was so proud of Rae and how she thought she looked so strong and powerful and I don't think I'm like that. I would say dad get me out of this and I would probably feel claustrophobic.

Thursday, January 12th, 2006 10:46 p.m.

I went to visit Rae in the hospital today and held Lily in my arms. She is the tiniest thing I have ever seen. Tiny and fragile. Rae looked good but obviously tired. She breast fed and it was so weird. It just seemed so primitive and natural. She's been through so much but it's all worth it looking at little Lily.





Wow...you were the beginning of a new universe for me. A bundle of joy and surprises and endless possibilities. I get teary-eyed just thinking of the post-birthday celebratory outing you'll spend alone tomorrow with Gamma - I'll miss you even then, and it reminds me that my years with you constantly by my side are so very numbered. I'm excited about your future, but can't help mourning a little bit of my loss as you get older and older. You are a darling. My darling.







Happy Birthday, my big three year-old Missy.


Love,

Mommy

P.s...thank you, Amy. :)

Plumbing paradise

Bobcat

Sample Day #1

Phone rings at house this morning.

Cas (Hansen and Sons' Plumbing office staff):

"Goodmorning Rae...I was just wondering if we had another copy of John's (employee)drivers license and social security card around the office."

"Um, not sure. Why?"

"Well, the police are here because John (employee) flipped out and was threatening to kill Frank by stabbing him in the throat with his pen tucked behind his ear. And your Dad too, if he didn't fire Frank."

"Oh, ok. If we have an extra copy it would be filed on the personnel shelves in the shop."

"Thanks! Oh yeah, do you think we should still come in to the office by ourselves tomorrow? Should we be nervous John will come and do something?"

"Nah, we'll just bring a gun."

"Ok, sounds good. Bye!"

(Hang up.) ...

"Lily, do you want cereal or oatmeal for breakfast?"

Sample Day #2

Dad: "Rachel! Can you quickly help me send this E mail?"

Rae: "Well...first of all, email is just one word. And I don't think the subject line of your email should be ' E mail response to your E mail. '
Which, while we're on the subject of a subject line....let's try to type the subject in the actual subject line, and not the address line. That's why it wouldn't send."

Dad: "Oh, ok."

Sample Day #3

Cas: "... It was a little different, though, when I was giving the new plumber a tour of the office and had shown him the shop where Ira skins his Bobcats. He looked at me a little weird then.
(That would also be the room NEXT to the room where he broadcasted a live political talkshow...the plumber who was skinning bobcats before he went on air to discuss the North American Free Trade Agreement. Normal is such a subjective term.)
I've already accepted that I simply must get used to the Bobcats. Your Dad threw a big piece of fleshy bobcat fat at me the other day when I came back to the shop with a question. He thought it was pretty funny."

Rae: "AAAAA!? Did it hit you?!!!?

Cas: "No, the wall to the side of me. But it did splat and sink to the floor."

Rae: "Oh Cas, oops, um...I forgot to disclose that the working conditions here are appalling. We're talking nothing short of a bad remake of Silence of the Lambs. Please don't leave!! My dear Clarese...it's time for the next step to your training: you have to act like you're interested and not grossed out. That's the only way to be safe and survive. You must especially behave as if you like snakes. Otherwise he'll also hide that rattlesnake contraption inside of the toilet before you head into the bathroom."



Just a normal day at the office. We do get free lunch.

It must be recorded

Lily,

Yesterday London was playing with her toy wagon from Santa. She was trying to climb into it, but instead fell onto the tile and bonked her precious head.

As she was sobbing and receiving a hearty dose of comfort from Mama, you stomped in from around the corner - picked up the wagon and lifted it over your head (a mighty act of strength for an almost three year old), and threw it across the living room. As if that hadn't quite quenched your indignation, you picked up your favorite Radio-flyer tricycle (also from Santa, and an even mightier act of strength) and threw that across the room as well, all the while screaming:

"I HATE SANTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!"

If that dirty old man hadn't sent you those toys, London would never have gotten hurt. I get it.


Love,

Mom

National Geographic

Discovered in the Northern Region of Candyland.

Native of the
Mickey-Clubhouse-smuggling-pacifiers tribe.

An exceptional species.

He really said it...

If Tyler and I ever end up on the marital therapy sofa, I'm positive the source of conflict will be 99.999% attributable to driving in a vehicle together (barring he cheats on me...then there will be no marital sofa...just a knife).

We can be having a perfectly wonderful day - but combine him in the driver seat (men blasting Fall Out Boys to the point of deafness never make for good drivers) and me in the passenger seat (control freaks never make for good passengers) - and the effects of a previously pleasant meal and good conversation are quickly worn down, reduced to the type of shouting reality tv producers would be thrilled to discover.

On a particularly miraculous afternoon, we managed to have a completely calm conversation while driving, and the conversation was about driving no less (it didn't hurt that we were only in the car for a total of 5 minutes, on the way to my parents up the street). It went something like this:

Rae: "Ty, here is what drives me crazy about your driving: First, you're competitive. For the love, I have no idea why you always have to be ahead of everyone, like it is some kind of a sport? It is so male, and confuses me. Second, you're all about the rules, with no flexibility. For example: if someone cuts you off and runs through a stop sign when it really is your turn, you'll just continue driving through and allow the crash on principle of being right! All I'm trying to say (or scream), is that even if you are correct, isn't it better to avoid the crash all together?! Stupidity trumps rules, and you have to be willing to modify to the idiotic behavior of the other driver."


Ty: "But here's the thing, Rae.....it's like football. I'm really good at anticipating what the other guy is doing, it's like I can see the whole "play" unfolding and I do work around it. That's what I was always good at. I was never necessarily the fastest, but I was really good at assessing what was occurring around me, even sometimes before it started."


Rae: "Did you really just compare driving to the game of football?"


Heaven help me. But, for the record...he's never been in an accident. And let's just say, I've had some minor mishaps (they didn't count as full-fledged accidents, so I still qualify as a decent authority on the art of driving too).
Maybe he was, gulp, swallow, cough cough....right. Afterall, he was the most decorated football player on the team back in the day (is decorated even the right word?)...you know what I mean...the one the coach practically cried over during the post -season speeches. Me? I was the fluffy cheerleader who had NO IDEA he was as good as he was - all I remember about those special banquets was how hot he looked in a hat.
Those were the days. We understood our roles perfectly: I hung out giggling with my friends and obsessing over my thighs during football games (doing wonderfully dignified things like calling out defense cheers when we were most certainly NOT on defense), he focused on the game and forgot to wave or compliment my half-time homecoming nominee dress, and later we met up behind his car to make-out until my Dad's death threats rolled in on both cell phones.

It was love.

Now, if only we could figure out our roles within the vehicle.