Big Piano Lesson Payoff

74 words

Speed test

My sister essentially threw down this challenge, so I gave it a whirl, too. (OK, technically, it wasn't exactly posed as a dare or anything, but I love tests...so bring it on.)

As a little experiment, I tried the test on a standard keyboard and an ergonomic one to see if it made a difference. I only got 66 words a minute on the standard keyboard. Hmmmm, interesting.

Feats of Strength

As we picked Bryn up from school the other day, Beau saw her through the door playing on the playground with a friend. I couldn't see her yet, so was unable to completely appreciate his observation.

"Why is someone always riding my daughter?" he posed.

Bryn loves to perform feats of strength. It may be because she's big for her age or because she generally has pixie-sized friends or some combination of the two. Suffice it to say, she's a strong girl. So, sometimes, it's a big bear hug in which she lifts her playmate off the floor. Other times, they'll ride her piggy-back. Not that day.....nope. Creativity hit a new high.

Bryn was on her hands and knees with a friend riding her like a horse. This child just had a birthday, so he's a good three and half months older than her. He was so excited that he'd gotten to ride a "horse," and was quite animated to tell us about the game they were playing. Bryn quickly corrected him: "no, I bucked you off. I was a bucking horse." For the record, she had in fact bucked him off. We often play bucking bulls in the living room, so she knows all about how that goes.

I think Bryn inherited the adrenaline gene from her father because as we left the building, she was on quite a high about the whole experience. She was just beaming and asked over and over, "Are you proud of me, Daddy? Aren't you proud of me? That was good, right?"

See what I mean about the power of his words... A million times, I could have said I was proud, but it doesn't officially count until Daddy agrees. But I don't mind.

Happy Father's Day!

As we were warned, our lives haven't been the same since we became parents. I loved our life before Bryn, but can't fathom not having her in our lives. Fairly regularly I wonder, "why did we wait so long again?"



From the moment she was born--technically before that--Beau was completely taken with her. And she is with him--by the way.



So, today, on Father's Day, I want to celebrate some of the many characteristics that make Beau a great dad.


1. He sang to her in utero so that she would know his voice.
2. He rubbed her feet when she learning to walk because he figured that her "dogs were probably barking."
3. He happily paints her fingernails and toenails, and doesn't mind his buddies knowing that he does it.
4. He's great at bath time. I've been told more than once that I don't do it right. He's made sure she's not afraid of water.
5. He dances with her—at bedtime especially. Bryn will even fore go a second book for the chance to dance with her Prince Charming.
6. He reads to her and gets a little jealous when I get requested too often.
7. He tells her that he’s proud of her.
8. He takes time to explain when she is making bad choices rather than just flying off the handle.
9. He realizes the power of his words to her, and is very careful as a result.
10. He loves her mother.



Thanks, Daddy. For all this and more.

Can you say "Mason Dixon"?

Until very recently, I fancied myself a well-traveled,--dare-I-say--nearly cosmopolitan individual. Growing up, my parents were great about taking us places and showing us things. (Although my sister and I got into more than a little trouble for having our noses in books rather than taking in the sights.)

As a geographer, I am fascinated by different places. I love the idea of travel; seeing new people, places, and things; experiencing a new place as though I lived there.

I found this map generator on a friend's website, and was actually surprised by the pattern it made of my life experiences. Particularly when compared to John's. See what you think.

Very nearly everything above the Mason Dixon line is the result of work travel. Thanks, Job, for exposing me to other "cultures!"

So what can I say? I guess I really am just a Southern girl after all.

If you're interested, create your own visited states map. They have a generator for countries visited, too, but even though I have had a few international experiences, I just couldn't bear the confirmation that there are so many parts of the world that I have no idea about.

**NOTE: We've reached my technological frontier. ("So soon?" you ask, politely.) I couldn't get the map to fit in my old template, so I changed it. This one is clearly less interesting, so I'll eventually change it back or to something else.

Happy Birthday, Mon Cher!

Today is my beloved's birthday.

And, sadly, he's sick. I'm already on notice that he's planning to be extra pitiful about the illness since it's interfering with his enjoyment of his birthday. Makes all kinds of sense to me because, in our family, your birthday is basically your day off. You get to pick what we eat, what we do, what you want to do or not do, etc. He's getting a little gypped on the tradition, so he gets to milk the day for other perks. Bring it on, Honey.

I have a gift in the back of the car that I'm not at all sure will scratch the itch of a man who really only wants cattle, land, and peace and quiet (namely, the demise of the neighbors' yippy dogs), but I hope he likes it. Bryn painted him a picture yesterday (in his presence) and then wanted to hide it until today since it was a surprise for him.

So, Beau, Happy Birthday! I'm so glad that you were born, and I thank God that He saw fit for our paths to cross 16 years ago. (Thanks for helping, Wendy). I love everything about you...even that you get extra pitiful when you're sick. Our lives are enriched daily because you're here.

I love you.

(A Happy Birthday shout-out to GG and Grandpa, too, for having Beau.)

Lessons of the Night

Bryn is prone to the dramatic. I'm not sure that phrase quite captures the extent of it, but the girl can work up some serious tears at will and just wail at the smallest, and sometimes, strangest things.

This characteristic shows up other times, but it is most striking at bedtime. Last weekend, for instance, she had the kind of meltdown that made me just look at her in amazement because a) I couldn't understand her words very well to decipher what she was sad about, b) the offense changed periodically during her attempts to explain what went wrong, c) there was absolutely no obvious trigger to the meltdown, and d) there was apparently nothing I could do to head it off. All I could muster was, "Wow, Bryn. I don't know what's going on here." The reason ranged from where I put the second bedtime book (which she only noticed after the first one was finished..."But I wanted to HOLD i-i-i-i-t!") to the fact that she wanted to turn the pages ("No, Mommy! Don't finish/start reading until I get my finger on the corner!") to her grave concern that she didn't know how to fall asleep. That was my favorite--and it was accompanied with a confession.

Bryn: "But I don't know HOW to fall asleep!"
Mom: "Honey, your body is very tired. I'm sure that if you lie very still and close your eyes, that your body will know how to fall asleep."
Bryn: "No, it won't. Because I always play too much. I make bad choices and pl-ay-ay-ay-ay."

In an effort to hammer home the point that she's in charge of her behavior, we've really talked to her a lot about choices that she makes. One of the most devastating realizations for her (again with a touch of drama) is to note that she's made a bad choice.

Well, the bad choice of playing when she was supposed to be sleeping came back to bite her tonight.

Because of daylight savings, bedtime may as well be at high noon because her room is still bright when we turn off the lights that we didn't need to read books. She laid in her bed (as far as I know) for about 30 minutes before I heard her call that she needed to use the restroom. By all means...

Here's where "bad choices" and parental assumptions collide in a serious way. I assumed that after I heard the toilet flush that she'd be heading back to bed. Alas...I had forgotten rule number one of Bryn's routine..."playing too much." After about 15 minutes, I hear Bryn calling me saying that her eyes hurt.

Eyes and feet--we take care of eyes and feet--oh, and teeth--in our family, so I ran up the stairs to see what went wrong. Her room smelled very strongly--a familiar and pleasant, but strong scent--but I couldn't identify the source when my baby's eyes were hurting without cause (she thought naively). She was rubbing her eyes, and when I felt her hands they were unbelievably greasy. "Bryn! What is on your hands?!" I ask. She didn't know or at least couldn't tell me through the tears.

I ran to the bathroom to get a rag to clean her hands and face, trying to get the whatever out of her eyes. At this point, Beau came up to help, so we got Bryn to SHOW us what is on her hands. And, who would have thought...

She had smeared ALL of an English Lavender jar candle all over her face and upper body. And it was an awesome candle, too....the kind with lots of essential oils to make it smell awesome (ah, yes, I remember that smell now!).

Bryn was profuse with her apologies. Poor thing, her eyes are burning and yet all she could muster was "sorry, Mommy. I made bad choices and played."

We were way more worried than angry. While Beau gave her a(nother) shower, he quizzed her about the lessons that she learned tonight. Here's her summary.

1) Don't put anything in my eyes.
2) Don't play with anything unless I ask Mom or Dad.
3) Go to sleep when it's bedtime.

We'll be quizzing her from now on.

PS: Her room still smells nice. I hope that the trauma hasn't been forever linked with the smell of lavender.

Adventures with Homophones*

"Mommy, do crowns bite?"

I was sitting in the backseat with Bryn one evening, when this question occurred to the Princess of Random Thoughts.

"What do you mean, honey? Like the sharp points pinch your finger or something?"

"No, crowns. Do they bite?"

"Ummmm. (glancing at Dad in the rear view mirror for some help that was not to come.) I don't understand your question."

"Crowns. Crowns. Can they bite your finger?"

"Are you saying crown like a princess wears?"

"No, Mom. CROWN," she says enunciating the word slowly and with slightly more force.

"Are you saying crayon?" (knowing full-well that, although her pronunciation of crayon sounds a LOT like crown, it made even less sense in this context.)

"I'm saying CROWN. You know, CROWNS?!", growing exasperated by my embarrassingly miserable attempt to communicate on a very simply topic.

---Dad to the rescue.--- "Honey, do you mean clown? Cl-Cl-Clown?"

Bryn throws her hands up and shouts, "YES!"

Me: "Oh, then, no. Clowns usually don't bite."


*I was trying to remember the term for the "they're/there/their" phenomena, and somehow miraculously I came up with homonym. Not wanting to embarrass myself, I googled that to be sure it was correct. The first entry was Alan Cooper's Homonym List. Quite an interesting find. I'll be forever thankful that I also clicked on "About the List" because I learned that what I was talking about wasn't actually a homonym, his title notwithstanding. Thanks, Alan, for illuminating the confusing subtlety of the English language.