Captain Pork Chops

20 Weeks - UNEDITED

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 14:23:00 +0000

hi pregnant self,

The heartburn has been great this week. Frantically ransacking your makeup drawer at 3:30 am for "GOOD GOD!" that one travel pack of Zantac 75 that you KNOW you had the last time you were pregnant was a particular highlight. You were certain it was there. You remember shoving it aside every damn time you reached for your mascara for the last four years (FOUR YEARS?!? GAH!). It was covered with broken $1 e.l.f. eyeshadow crumbs, thanks to your sister. You desperately scoured the bathroom for that one Zantac 75 travel pack and made promises you knew you wouldn't keep and "HOLY HELL" you would have licked Zantac dust off of the bottom of a cowboy's boot to make the burning stop. You finally surrendered and stomped downstairs with your worthless piece of shit (SMOOTH DISSOLVE!) Tums. You realize in some twisted way this could be Mother Nature's jacked up way of preparing you for sleepness nights with the baby (?!)... even though you sort of want to kick Mom Nature in her homeo-organic shins.

20 Weeks

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 14:19:00 +0000

Photo by: Stevie T Photography

hi baby,

Daddy and I named you this week. It's perfect. The world can wait to be introduced to you. Your brothers like to tell secrets so, for now, it's just between the three of us. I was worried because name after name, no matter how much we liked it, didn't feel "right". But... your name. We said it once and knew. I have been whispering it to you at night, when you are most active. It's almost as if you are so excited we are learning who you are. You seem to be a night owl, just like me.

love you, Mommy

Open Letter to My Boobs

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 02:14:00 +0000

Dear Boobs,

Really?

Really?

We have to talk.

I love being pregnant. I just don't love having to ask my ultrasound technician to ensure that fetuses aren't growing under my pectoral muscles.

What is with this growth surge?

We survived two pregnancies just fine. You expanded. Slightly. And then you got yourself back under control. No stretch marks. No sagging. I deemed you the "most favorite part of my body" even after having two kids. At 30 years old (and never having seen the inside of a plastic surgeon's office) I could have passed a pencil test any day of the month.

Now?

Now you've simply gone ballistic. You are out of your mind. No one is enjoying this.

You hurt constantly. My husband can't look below my chin without seeing me grimace.

You look like something reserved for National Geographic magazines or magazines that should not be named here. It's not pretty.

My skin is in revolt and is showing signs of stretch mark distress. When I lay down, you cozily nestle yourself all the way up to my neck.

At nearly 20 weeks pregnant, I can wear pre-pregnancy pants with little concern. Shirts though? Decollete? Forget it. I leave one button undone and become R-rated.

At 5'2" tall, I have no business seeing double letters on my newest bra size. Sizes like this are reserved for super models who are 6' tall and surgically enhanced. The combined mass of my breasts is now bigger than my entire head.

My lungs hurt like hell and I have to stop believing that it's because (woe is me) I was so so sick three weeks ago. I get winded (already!) climbing up stairs. It's not because I'm desperately out of shape.

It's because my body is being crushed by boobs from hell.

I'm seriously pissed off.

I'm considering researching breast surgeons that will reduce while pregnant. Surely someone will do that right? There just aren't enough ace bandages in the world to get you under control.

And we still have to survive 20 more weeks of growth and a hellish engorgement period together?

I'm not your friend, Boobs. Not at all.

If you don't get your act together - quickly - you will see the sharp side of a scalpel by next year. Mark my words.

19 Weeks

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 01:23:00 +0000

Photo by Stevie T Photography

18 Weeks

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 21:20:00 +0000

by Stevie T Photography

16 weeks

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 01:58:00 +0000

Recovering

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 19:48:00 +0000

We got robbed this week.

I've been sick. Horribly, dramatically, fever, sinus infection, can't move, come-home-now-or-I'm-calling-911, can't eat, lost weight, dramatically sick.

I was lucid enough this morning to take a clear look at my children. And my house.

We were robbed.

They ransacked the place.

They were starved thieves because they ate all of our food and left every dish in the sink.

They wore all of our clothes and left them, piled in the laundry room. Unsorted.

It's awful.

My boys have been going to school dressed like they are being raised by a single father.

Homework has barely been done.... by 9pm. Bedtimes? What bedtimes?

Excema has flared up on Cannon's face, due to Eucerin neglect. I don't even want to know why Cannon couldn't find his toothbrush this morning.

It's a mess.

This place is a mess. And I can barely drink water, so, it's staying a mess.

It may seem that I'm frustrated with my husband for his lack of keeping it all together. But, actually.....

He was "hanging out" with them. Keeping them quiet because my head was splitting in pieces.

He was sending them upstairs quietly to bring me Pedialyte in a straw cup and gently kiss my forehead.

He wasn't doing dishes. Or ignoring Cannon while helping Grant with homework. Or keeping up with laundry.

He had them both nestled in his lap and watched movies with them so that the house stayed quiet.

My house was robbed. My boys were raised by a single father this week.

And I think I'm fine with that.

I think.

Baby 4.0 and FB Recap

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 16:08:00 +0000

Despite all of my best intentions, I’ve pretty much ditched blogging for Facebooking.

I know. I can’t believe it either.

Baby 4.0 is expected in June 2010.

In a moment of temporary insanity, my previously “We’re Done!” husband has confessed to wanting yet another one after this baby….

[insert slackjaw]

I know. I can’t believe it either.

I’m cautiously optimistic. I would LOVE for that to happen, but… he changes his mind. A lot.

Baby 4.0 is a thumbsucker. That’s all we know for now. We’ll hopefully see parts and know boy/girl in early February. Yay!

To all of you that are not FB friends with me, here is a FB Post Recap. It’s the best I’ve got for now. When I get to my other computer, I’ll post up some recent pics.

Happy New Year!

Recent Facebook blurbs:

If you want to know what you are getting for Christmas, just ask Cannon. He tells. :)

Saw Santa last night. He said only really, really special people were allowed to visit the North Pole. So, Cannon turned around and started licking the window... I wish I made this stuff up.

I have an intern in the office today. He's 5 years old, loves geography, spelling and math. Anyone need help with contracts? Algorithms? Coloring?

I will never ever ever ever ever, in a million years never understand boy hygiene. Ever.

Cannon's Version: "Ho Ho Ho, the missing toe..."

Hard Life Lesson #0093: When you are blissfully enjoying a quite house, and Mommy Instinct alerts, and you yell out "Are you boys doing anything that is going to make me frustrated?!", well, you sort of deserve "Grant DID IT!" as your answer....

I love when all I have to do for lunch is send my kids outside... so they can eat their weight in snow.

"Cannon, do you want one big marshmallow, or a lot of little ones?" "Ummm... a lot of big ones!"

Determined to get this recipe right. My once agreeable oven has become the place where oatmeal cookies go to die...

I don't know who "Wileum" is, but the bastard tagged my carpet with blue marker. Glad my graffiti artists don't write on carpet. (Or know how to spell their own name...)

Hard Life Lesson #91: If you throw a temper tantrum, and refuse to wear your new winter coat, your mom will run a.lot. of errands. And park far way. And you will freeze your arse off. And your tears will freeze to your face...

Just infiltrated the advent calendars and replaced all the chocolate with sugar-free vitamins. I don't know what the #*%& is in German chocolate, but we are DONE, I tell you. DONE. (The beatings with the deprivation hippie stick will continue until behavior around here improves.)

Grant's response upon discovering the tampered with advent calendar: “IT'S A VITAMIN! Cool. Wait.” {Shake Shake Shake} “It's ALL VITAMINS. Oh, shit.”

Had our first child-cutting-their-own-hair experience. Thank god he's a boy. With long hair. That should be that short anyway...

Disgusting life experience #492: Watching a five year old eat spaghetti. *shiver*

The newest entry in Cannon's "I Love Having My Mouth Washed Out With Soap" vernacular: "You wanna piece 'a me?" variation: "You ready for a piece 'a me?"

Wow! Peapod just called to say they were running late! I'm so impressed! My husband doesn't even do that!!

Boy 2 Flu (almost over). Boy 1 Croup (just beginning). Mom (Dirty Martini). Dad (Oreo Blizzard).

Peapod- where have you been all my life? Amazing! I think we should get married and have many grocery babies.

Just ordered groceries online for the first time. My "To Freaking Do" list (and my stress level) was just lowered astronomically. Thank you, Peapod.

Welcome to our lovely home, Influenza. Please leave soon.

Cannon: {sad voice} "I have a ditch (itch) in my throat. An I didn't even eat a ditch. It's djust dare."

Unfortunate incident with feathers and a hot glue gun

When was the last time you ate Top Ramen? Willingly.

Quote. From my five year old. While driving down hills in the Jeep. "My penis is crying." What does that meeeeeeeeeaaaan?!?!

Are all three year olds bipolar?

Lost: Hermit Crab. Where: Outside of House. When: Today. Answers to: Hermie. Description: Resembles a shell. Well, it is a shell... (sigh)

My throat is hurty. My yelling voice is broken.

Things I Never Thought I'd Say #2,893: No Cannon. I will not iron your underwear. (ever again)

Cannon - my THREE year old - just said "Mom. I HATE your hair that way. I like it squirrel-y (curly)." Now, he's singing "I hate your hair that way, your hair that way, your hair that way. I HATE your hair that way...." Anyone interested in adopting him. He's on the market....

Quirk you should know about me #1,037: I don't listen to voicemails. Ever. Just email me. Or text. (Current "new" voice mails on my phone = 16)

Things That Annoy Me #582: The phrase "Hit me up". What does that meeeaaaannnn?

We leave for OBX tonight and I haven't even begun to think about packing. The Type A in me is kicking the Type B in me's ass....

Teaching boys Paper, Scissors, Rock. After multiple losses, Cannon made a finger gun, said I'm "Shoot", shot our hands, jumped up and said "I won."

So much work to do and I can't stop downloading fonts. Is there a 12-step program for that?

I try to be calorically "good" but Diet Coke is SO not worth it....

Chauvinistic Chivalry

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 15:56:00 +0000

The first time I found out I was having a boy, a good friend said something that stuck.

"You have the opportunity to raise a MAN. To teach him how to treat a woman. How to be a good man."

I loved that.

Yes.

I was going to raise a wonderful man. (And later, wonderful men.)

I started locking them in a figurative closet early.

Grant: Can I have a snack, Mom?

"Sure, sweetie. Tell me I'm beautiful."

After a while:

Grant: Mom, you sure look beautiful today! I LOVE your dress!

"Thanks, Baby! You're so handsome too!"

Grant: Can I have a snack?

ABSOLUTELY!

Cannon is a rebel. He's learned at a young age to escape from that closet.

Cannon: Can I have a snack, Mom?

"Sure."

Cannon: Thanks, Mom. I hate your hair that way.

"Really. Well, sassy, how do you like my hair?"

Cannon: I like is squirrel-y (curly).

[breaks into song] I HATE your hair that way, your hair that way, your hair that way. I HATE your hair that way.....

At least I've brainwashed one good man.

To the lucky lady that gets that other one some day.... I'm so, very. very. sorry.

Amusement Park Days

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 15:55:00 +0000

Happy Summer!

Kindergarten

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 02:02:00 +0000

Every morning during preschool dropoff, I would kiss him and whisper, "Be a good guy today".

Turns out to be an overall good piece of advice we could all use, but it stemmed from the boys playing good guys and bad guys on the playground. The first time he told me he was the bad guy, I asked him if he would please be the good guy from then on.

I reminded him every day.

*****

We are so proud of this guy.

He was excited.

He did great.

He was ready.

He wanted hard boiled eggs, a banana and oatmeal for his special breakfast.

He didn't object when I served cinnamon rolls, too.

He wanted a "work" shirt with a t-shirt underneath so that his teacher would think he was so handsome.

He knew there were no hats allowed in school, but was convinced sunglasses would be okay.

He wanted to carry the big bag full of tissue and paper towels and dry erase markers all by himself.

He wants to ride the bus. No more car drop offs.

He wants to buy lunch. We're going to give that a few weeks and talk again.

*****

I have been trying to find my feelings all day. I know it's big, but I didn't cry. (I.know. She-who-cries-at-commercials!)

But Rachel said it right on. I read her post and said YES! That's it!

I couldn't cry because I was too busy being so proud of him and excited for him.

"Here you go, World. He's ready for you."

He's ready to learn. Ready to experience all of the experiences that will shape him into the man he will become.

He's curious and thirsty.

So curious.

He is dripping with questions and craves the answers.

He contemplates the answers. Absorbs them. Comes back to them later to expand on what we talked about earlier.

He's a thinker.

He's sensitive.

*****

Maybe before I put him on the bus next Monday, I can whisper "Change the world".

Just to remind him.

(Or don't eat glue. That's also very good advice. It follows you for years!)

What I Wanted to Buy on Etsy Today

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 03:01:00 +0000

{Vintage Dress, Bowl, Clutch, Peach Cobbler Bag, Scrabble Pillows, Train Case}

Honest Scrap

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 02:52:00 +0000

I'm not entirely sure what the statute of limitations is on being tagged, but Jennifer tagged me a while ago. What is a little weird is that the same weekend she tagged me, I was actually at my in-laws... ~2 miles from her house! (One day I'll get up the nerve to ask her out for coffee or something when I'm her hometown!!)

The Explanation: The Honest Scrap award is given by other bloggers who consider a blog’s content or design to be brilliant. The awardee must then post ten honest things about themselves and pass the award on to other bloggers who fit the bill – in other words, whose blog is brilliant.

Wake up in my makeup. I don't wash my face before I go to bed. Ever. I'm way too lazy. When I'm ready to go bed, I just want to go to bed. The end.
Alaska. I lived in Alaska when I was eight, and have a vivid memory of swimming in the Bering Sea in the winter, and walking home with no shoes (because I couldn't put them back on) and blue feet.
Burps. I'm a pretty great burper, and my husband may have recently bet someone a case of beer that I could take them in a burp off.
Babies. I desperately want another baby. My husband? Does not. And it sort of sucks. I look at my guys and don't feel like our family is complete. Someone is missing. He (admittedly) worries about the financial aspects of another child. I think it will just work itself out.
That should have been its own post.
Night owl. I would rather stay up all night and sleep in than wake up early and go to bed early.
Re focused. I have been much more attentive to my other blog than this one. Love me over there a little if you'd like!
Retail Therapy. I feel great when I spend money. It's hard for me to save. Or plan. I like to buy. It's much better for our account when I'm really busy...
Maybe if I stopped buying crap, my husband would agree to another baby...
Ellipses. I overuse ellipses... when I write and when I talk. I talk in ellipses... is that even possible?

Smile

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:25:00 +0000

One of the beautiful things I ordered from Etsy last week.

I'm in L.O.V.E!

You can find it here, at Roll & Tumble Press on Etsy.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 17:40:00 +0000

I’ve been talking to people lately and they know all about the post that was up for 2.5 seconds before I took and down, and I’m all like “What the hell? People even still come here?!” I don’t post anything, like ever, and unless you are a (ahem) professional Blogger and subscribed (Or have been involuntarily subjected to receiving an email with my post in it because I signed you up (hi girls!)) then that means my friends actually type in this blog address on a regular daily basis to read about what I wrote. And how disappointing when I don’t really write anything anymore.

I have some dedicated friends, that’s for sure. I am feeling guilty(ish), but I am also just a little behind on life and other things have taken priority over my boring the internet masses with my stuff.

Yawn. I know. We’ve all heard that blog mantra before and we are all over it.

So, this morning I was snoozing in with Cannon tucked in my armpit. (That kid is a magnet. His little three year old too-old-to-be-sleeping-in-my-bed body sneaks in every effing night and becomes suctioned to my skin like a sucker fish to the side of an aquarium tank. I secretly love it.)

Josh was in the shower and I could hear Grant downstairs eating oatmeal, occasionally screaming my name (which I ignored because Good God son I’m sleeping!) or talking to himself.

I heard Grant get up from the table and begin to walk his bowl to the sink. I heard him say, “Hi” a little timidly. That’s when I became really awake and stopped breathing so I could really analyze every sound that was occurring in my house.

Then I heard Grant running, I mean fast, no-shit hauling ass upstairs, I think he probably took two steps at a time sprint. He tore into my room and soared right onto my bed. I bolted upright!

“What’s wrong?”

“There is something downstairs!”

His voice was shaky and scared.

“Like a bug?”

“No. A gray thing. It was moving really really fast. I said hi.”

“Was it an animal?”

“No, it was a gray thing. Like my age.”

“What are you talking about? What’s downstairs?”

“I don’t know. It was moving really really fast.”

“Do you want me to go look [please fucking God say no I do not want to go down there what the hell is in my house]?”

“No, it’s too scary. Don’t go downstairs.”

“Grant, was it your shadow? Did you see your shadow down there?”

“No mom. It was a gray thing and it was moving really fast.”

‘”Did you see your reflection in the window Grant? Was it you?”

“No, it was in the dining room. I was putting my bowl away and it was really fast in the dining room and it was big like me.”

Because I like to take the flamingo approach with scary things, I stuck my head ~~back under my pillow~~ in the sand and completely ignored the issue. It didn’t come up again this morning.

Until now.

Should I be calling a priest? What the hell was in my house? What did he see?

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 17:29:00 +0000

Peonies

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 18:26:00 +0000

One of my favorite summer flowers.

They make me happy.

My First Pomp and Circumstance

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 03:50:00 +0000

(Wow. I'm surprised I just remembered my login password.)

I'm going through pictures tonight (what else is new) and looked at Grant's graduation pictures for the first time.

He starts kindergarten in the fall, and graduated from preschool a week (or two-ish?) ago.

We went to dinner before the ceremony, and Grant knew that there was a nicer change of clothes in the van waiting for him; that his shorts and t-shirt would not be acceptable.

He looked Cannon up and down and asked, "Is he going to wear that Wolverine shirt to my graduation? He IS NOT going to look very handsome. I want him to change."

Right.

Anyway, I was very excited for him and happy and "maybe I'll cry maybe I won't". Everyone was dressed a little nicer than usual and we fought to get Cannon to stay in a metal folding chair and not embarrass us too badly with his ~~horrendous~~ two/three year old behavior. Josh and I had determined who would man the video camera (him) and who would man the camera (me) and who would man-handle Cannon (him).

I could hear shuffling behind the big white screen that separated the parents from the kids.

And then someone hit play on (what I can imagine was) a boom box and THE processional march echoed throughout the room via a microphone. Cameras were aimed high and I could hear the buzzing start of nine thousand over-priced video cameras above the music.

I stayed in my seat.

I didn't squirm up and raise my camera.

I froze for a second. I watched the teacher motion a signal for about 40 four year olds to start the walk they all practiced.

It hit me so unexpectedly.

My throat tightened up, my lip quivered, my eyes welled, and I could feel the silent cry coming hard.

It was so unexpected.

It was the first time in my life that I sat in a room for a graduation ceremony that played Pomp and Circumstance.

It was the first time I had ever HEARD that song.

Of course I am familiar with the song. From movies and, hell, I don't know. General knowledge I guess.

But as I sat there listening to the crappy recorded rendition of that piece and anxiously watching a white curtain for my first born son to round it (complete with a blue Made in China felt "mortarboard"), I couldn't hold back tears.

I was embarrassed. That it appeared I was crying over a preschool graduation. But it was more than that to me. It was monumental.

We didn't have graduation ceremonies when I was in preschool and kindergarten. I graduated high school when I was 17, joined the Army, and was at my second training school by the time my high school class took the stage.

I chipped away at college courses and professional development courses over the last twelve years but I will probably never participate in an actual ceremony-ish graduation ceremony, even after I finish what I started.

I'm not sad about what I haven't experienced. I was just, in that moment, shocked at what I haven't experienced.

And overwhelmed that my first time sitting in a metal folding chair and hearing the march was for Grant.

My son.

Who worked so hard at school and is so proud of himself for completing something.

And now, I can't hear that damn song without being immediately brought to tears.

Grant- I am really so very proud of you.

{paragraph deleted because I can't publish it through my mushy gushy tears}

And YOU so are amazing. I just love you.

PS: Pictures with me not included because A) I was manning the camera, remember and B) I didn't realize then exactly how busted up my face looked with stitches and green bruising. Cannon actually took a pretty well-composed picture of Josh, Grant and I, but I seriously look scary. So I won't post it.

PPS: The stitches were from me slipping in the shower at my mom's house, falling sideways OUT of the shower and cracking my head on the toilet. Glamorous, no? Our first Colorado vacation in three years resulted in another trip to the ER.

...Because I Have the Stitches on Mah Head

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 27 May 2009 01:59:00 +0000

"Can we stop for Starbucks when we leave the ER? It sounds good because I have stitches in my head."

"Oh! Pink Princess band-aids! I need those because I have stitches in my head."

"Can you please just wash my hair in the sink because I have stitches in my head."

"Can you please bring me another cookie? I'm laying down because I have stitches in my head."

"I can't take care of the boys right now because I have stitches in my head."

"Can you just cuddle with me tonight because I have stitches in my head."

"I need to sit by myself on the plane because I have stitches in my head."

"I'm not really going to finish unpacking or start the laundry because I have stitches in my head."

"I deserve to sleep in a little because I have stitches in my head. Eight stitches, if you're counting."

"I can't play softball on Wednesday because I have stitches in my head."

It's turning out to be a pretty air tight excuse...

Now, if you'll excuse me, I can't blog right now. Because I'm tired. Because of the stitches in my head.

Well Crap

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Thu, 07 May 2009 02:34:00 +0000

Sunday I started getting a muscle spasm in my neck that had me begging for mercy.
Monday morning I went to Club Doctor for muscle relaxers.
Monday afternoon I passed out in a drugged up stupor while magical goodness worked its voodoo on my neck.
Tuesday the spasms were gone, but I was still pretty sore.
Wednesday morning, things were looking up.
Wednesday night I stumbled upon a clogged toilet in my Master Bathroom. Again. Because this always happens when your husband has a high protein diet.
Wednesday night I attempted to flush clogged toilet. When it didn't work, I angrily slammed the lid and used the boy bathroom, leaving the de-clogging efforts for the offender.
Wednesday night I entered my Master Bathroom again, for who the hell knows what, and stumbled upon a FULLY FLOODED bathroom.
Wednesday night I screeched through every room in the house and then outside for Husband to immediately fix the situation.
Wednesday night, after I found Husband in the garage, I mentioned he may want to bring a Wet-Vac, and that something sounded awfully "funny" in the living room ceiling.
Wednesday night he brushed me off.
Wednesday night he sucked the water up off the floor and then proceeded to argue with me over whose responsibility it was to "scrub" the shit water off the floor. (Guess who won after dropping many f-bombs.)
Wednesday night I lay in bed perusing trashy gossip websites when Husband casually saunters upstairs and declares "Guess I'll be staying home tomorrow." "You were right about the ceiling."
Wednesday night I rush downstairs to help with buckets, and my ENTIRE ceiling is wet. And drippy.
Wednesday night, Husband call 24-hour I'm Fucked Hotline, and is awaiting the arrival of guys in white suits.
The spasms in my neck? They are so fucking back.

Love Hate

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 01:10:00 +0000

I love sitting here in the air conditioning after sitting in a puddle of my own sweaty filth on Saturday because we missed the "turn the air on" window.
I hate that we missed Spring (WTF climate?)

I love the Spohr's and the amazing show of community and love that has enveloped them.
I hate the reason why.

I love writing.
I hate this blog. The one you are looking at right now.

I love pictures.
I hate that teeny tiny picture up there that I can't make big because of "the fold".

I love community.
I hate that I was once addicted to page visits and comments.

I love coming up with fun things to do and write about.
I hate when it gets "borrowed" by people. who shall remain nameless.

I love having something to say and a voice to say it with.
I hate the word blog.

I love volunteering.
I hate that I suck at volunteering.

I love signing up for shit.
I hate these ads all over the place.

I love buying stuff.
I hate that I can't buy what I really want right this second that starts with "New" and ends with "Bad ASS Website".

Changes are on the horizon.

As soon as I can scrape up some dough.

Chicken Dinnah

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 02:30:00 +0000

I interrupt your regularly scheduled silence for an update....

Congratulations Sarah! You won an autographed copy of Rick Springfield's new CD.

Thanks to everyone who helped Mike reach his goal!!

Madeline Alice Spohr

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 21:03:00 +0000

GIVEAWAY - Autographed CD

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 23:43:00 +0000

Remember Jessie's Girl?

Grammy Award-winner and long-time fan favorite Rick Springfield introduces his music to a new generation with the birth of his latest album, My Precious Little One, a brand-new collection of beautiful, original lullabies that will bring sweet dreams to children nationwide.

“I wrote these original lullabies for my two sons during the heady days of brand new fatherhood,” said Mr. Springfield. “As a songwriter, I wanted to do something to commemorate the birth of our children and since neither of them were good sleepers, it seemed like a good idea to write lullabies.”

His children are now in their early twenties and Mr. Springfield rediscovered the magical songs last year, tucked away in a drawer in his music room. Inspired by the cherished memories of his sons as infants, he decided to record and share these timeless melodies. My Precious Little One features ten gentle tunes including “Catch a Kiss,” “Dreamtime Faeries” and “Don’t Keep the Sandman Waiting,” that will charm both children and adults alike.

Rick Springfield has offered to give away an autographed CD of this new release to a Captain Pork Chop Reader (I KNOW!)

I've been thinking a lot about what kind of comment readers should make in order to enter the giveaway.

It just so happens that Mike Spohr needs to raise a little money for his March of Dimes goal. His wife Heather, well, let's just say she's a little ahead.

So in order to be eligible to win AN AUTOGRAPHED CD OF RICK SPRINGFIELD'S NEW LULLABYE CD, leave a comment letting me know that you donated for Mike.

Or, let me know that you donated to Mike and Heather's Paypal account to help cover the expenses for Mike's Girl, MADDIE!.

Or, you know what, I'm easy. (I know. It was a little problem in my Army days. HA! I'M SO KIDDING MOM!) Leave a comment letting me know that you changed your Twitter picture PURPLE for MADDIE!, or released balloons for MADDIE!, or just that you think MADDIE! has the most amazing eyes you have ever seen on a baby ever, and you're in.

Contest ends April 26th at 10pm EST. I'll randomly choose a number for the winner.

Let all your friends know.

The Eyes of an Old Soul

noreply@blogger.com (Danielle) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 20:21:00 +0000

Before blogging, I never would have understood that I could love someone I never met. I never would have believed that a smile, curls and the killer eyes of an old soul could melt my heart.

I *met* the Spohr’s about a year ago (I guess) through blogging, and met a family that was just loveable. Funny. Genuine. I always looked forward to seeing a new post in my feed reader.

Heather and Mike shared Maddie with all of us. She shared their happys, worrys, bads, scarys, laughs.

She shared Maddie’s first taste of colored frosting on a cupcake.

Swing rides and bikini modeling sessions.

She shared the feisty ‘tude of a toddler that moms all know.

She shared breathtaking photos of a baby whose abs could rival any bodybuilder’s- a result of a constant fight to breathe.

Maddie passed away unexpectedly last night and the grief is overwhelming.

The outpouring of love from everyone that Maddie touched is overwhelming.

The amount of times that I have thought there is no way this happened is overwhelming.

I am sad in a way that those outside my computer may not understand, yet it has nothing to do with me.

I can’t comprehend the grief that Heather, Mike and their families are feeling, and I just want to send more love, support, prayers, and strength their way. From everyone who possibly can- send it.

Send strength for these beautiful, wonderful people. They should not be facing this. No one should.

You can get information here on donating to the March of Dimes in Maddie’s name, or to a PayPal fund to help with costs. The Spohr’s friend, Meghan, is keeping us updated here (since Heather’s site has buckled under the weight of everyone who loved Maddie).