If You Are Jack

Jack got a cheapie, cheapie digital camera for Christmas, and we've just uploaded his pictures from Christmas to the computer. Pretty funny/blurry/and sometimes just odd, really. Anyway, this is what Christmas morning looks like... if you are Jack.

Jack, himself

The biscuits we had for breakfast

His sister and his Grammie

His Mom

His presents, of course

Himself, again

His Dad

His smoothie? Really, Jack?

Aaaand we're just not sure about this one, honestly.

We Wish You a Merry Christmas and a Happyyyy Birrrrthdaaaay!

Merry Christmas from us. As you can see, Santa did honor the number one item on Jack's list. The Santa suit was a big hit.

Happy Birthday today to Jack. A whopping six years! Oh my goodness. Some day he'll be a fourth grader, and that is just amazing. For his birthday, the poor little guy woke up with the flu. We'll have to postpone the cake eating, I believe.

Happy holidays to you all.

Those Crazy Hoodenpyles, Always Elfing Themselves!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

On Hitting a Deer

Here's the end of the story first: Everyone is okay. The car is damaged. The deer is dead. How very Tarantino of you, Whitney.

Last Thursday morning on the way to work, I hit a deer with the car.

Actually, if you get the story from Jack, he would say that the deer waited on the side of the road until our car came along and then decided to jump right in front of the car. Upon telling the story this way, he'll then ask you over and over WHY the deer did that. I have not encouraged the "deer suicide" theory, but he's apparently sticking by it rather than the "it was running through the field and didn't look both ways for road traffic" theory that I've gently suggested.

Anyway, deer come in twos (at least). And when you narrowly miss the first, you might as well squint your eyes and brace for the second.

How very, very sad. Leave it to the Hoodenpyle boys to take the edge off of the dreadful parts of this story though...

Jack immediately wondered aloud, "Will God give that deer's family another deer so that they won't be so sad?" And then cue Jim. He came along with his truck only a few minutes behind me, observing that someone had promptly picked up the deer from the middle of the road. "Maybe you just gave a hungry family their Christmas dinner. Let's think of it that way."

Thank you, boys.

Happy "Surprise Your Friends By Taking Their Picture At Random Moments" Day

9:48: "Surprise Your Friends By Taking Their Picture At Random Moments" Day is born in Whitney's mind. Ashley concurs... It's a good idea! Danavee agrees that it must become an annual tradition. So.... here we go.

11:57: "Surprise Your Friends By Taking.... " Day is dang harder than one might think. Mental note... next time I make up a holiday involving stealthiness at the expense of my colleagues, I will NOT shout it from the mountaintops.

12:07 I would not make a good spy.

1:24: I have quite a collection now. It's going well. I believe I am winning this game. Why am I whispering?

"Whitney, why did you just take my picture?!"

"Whitney! WHAT are you doing?!"

I'm cackling. Can you hear me cackling?! Let's show some additional pieces from my collection...

"Noooooo!"

This is Danavee's chair. This picture would've been more pertinent to the game if she had been sitting in it. I don't know where she is. She is not here.

Espionage is difficult work. Sometimes you must hide in the nearest poinsettia plant.

Hiding in a resource room is also good for surprise hallway popping out.

But I am no longer satisfied with surprise pictures. Let's do a movie!

Classicly Whitney-botched. I did not account for Ashley needing to go to the bathroom. Poor spying skills. Poor spying skills.

I Woke Up Annoyed

Last night, I was the passenger in my car. Jim was driving. It was slightly icy, and we came to an intersection. As we came to a rest at the red light, a car with a load of what I thought were college aged boys came sliding toward us from the lefthand, cross street. They were showboating and sliding... whooping and hollering the whole way. Even as their front end came sliding into our left side fender, they thought it was great fun!

I was MAD. It was me who then leaned out of the car and gave them a piece of my mind for being so irresponsible. I believe I was even shaking my fist in the air. And then I paused and looked more closely at the passenger seat. Brad Pitt flashed me his very Brad Pitt-like grin through the windshield. And he was smacking his gum while grinning... you know, the way that he does. Anyway, upon realizing that he was the Brad, I settled down and got back into my car.

As the two cars drove away from each other, the scenario suddenly turned into a paparazzi style Brad Pitt chase. Jim and I followed Brad and his irresponsible entourage at high speeds with our now damaged vehicle. We weaved and dodged. Jim would speed around Brad's vehicle, and I would lean out the window, holding out my camera, clicking away. When I later checked my images, Brad and his crew were making silly faces in every single, blasted shot.

Dangit, Dream-Brad! Grow up, would you?

"Santa Doesn't Have a Mailbox!"

Jack insists that Santa couldn't possibly have a mailbox. He wrote a list just because we wanted him to, but he thinks it's much more efficient to simply squint his eyes shut and announce to the air around him, "I wish I had a _____. I wish I had a ____."
He always does this aloud for his sister too when he feels that SHE must want something from Santa. And I think that's pretty cute.

On Jack's list:

1. a Santa suit with a fake beard (he's a strange child)
2. dominoes
3. checkers
4. roller skates (the kind with 4 wheels, NOT "all in a row" wheels)
5. a remote control Wall-E toy

On Emma's list:

1. books

What Would Thumper Say?

"Kinda wobbly, isn't [s]he?"

But wait! What's this?!

I recently received a decent slinging of 'anonymous' hate mail. Surprised? Yeah, me too.

A) I hadn't realized I was conducting an argument with anyone. And B) I was not at all aware that I was worth such major creativity. On the off chance that the author of the messages in question reads this blog, I guess I should reward them with at least a nod.

I try to imagine the author, brooding and worked up. I honestly think it might be disappointing to get absolutely no feedback if I were in their shoes. I feel for them, and so I wish to reward the effort. I'm not really sure what to say though.

I guess I'll go with, "Way to go! The messages were written with a voice that seemed vengeful, but only just approaching harrassment. Just the right mix."

Shrug.

A more significant side note is that my attention has been called to the totally nifty website(s) that these messages came from! I had NO IDEA you could send anonymous email! I'm super excited about this, and I highly recommend it for the use of spreading niceness in the following way:

Picture it. You're checking your email. You're filtering through some spam. You're unsuspecting. Yada, yada, yada.

But wait! What's this?! 'Anonymous' loves the blouse that you had on today!

I love it!

He sings!

I've always been into music. Mom tells me the story of how, as an infant sitting in my highchair, a song would come on the radio and I'd start swaying to the beat. My first grade teacher complained that I was disruptive at my desk as a constant hummer. In fifth grade, I took up playing the clarinet and experienced some success with it. And as a teenager, I'd shut myself in my bedroom and get lost in the lyrics of sad and pathetic lovesongs. It's no wonder I always swooned over the idea of playing the guitar or someone who put just the right words to the notes.

Some things never change. I still get lost in lyrics and often find myself singing along with an annoying television commercial. I sway to the beat of background music while Emma refuses to eat in her highchair. There is cause for celebration, if you ask me, when a song that is particularly narrative of one's own life comes over the car's radio. I find every excuse possible to sing my ordinary, everyday sentences to the tune of the A-Team themesong. And although I've dropped the clarinet as an instrument, I do play a darn good Yankee Doodle Dandy on the piano.

So, isn't it odd that such a music-loving person would choose the mate that I have? Jim doesn't sing. He doesn't dance. For the most part, he ignores the stories in the lyrics and chooses a tune based strictly on whether or not it has a decent beat for exercising. He says he thought high school band was completely stupid and only chose to stay in it because I was there. He often changes the station just when a song gets to the good part. So ughhh, right?

This morning, though, as I was lugging along with me a fairly down-in-the-dumps mood, it suddenly occurred to me that Jim sings! He does it in an unconventional way, and one who doesn't listen is likely to overlook the tune or the meaningful lyric. He's on vacation this week, and even so, he got up early just to iron my clothes for me. He took the kids to school so that I wouldn't be late. He encouraged me to eat a good breakfast. He removed the coke from my hand and put orange juice in it instead. He makes me laugh when I surely wouldn't otherwise. He helps me out of these stale moments of life when I'm wasting time feeling sorry for myself and makes me stop to listen.

You can't miss it - he's singing his heart out, folks.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl

I can remember a time before my children were born. Although I had not met them yet, I can remember twice dreaming of them in short, but very specific glimpses. I would wake with a feeling of achy familiarity, wanting so badly to go back to where I was in just that moment before.

With Jack, it was a dream where I stood looking in the mirror at myself as I held him against my chest, a blonde headed sleepy infant. I stood looking as I swayed back and forth from side to side, rocking the way mothers sometimes subconsciously do. His head was laying against my shoulder, and my left hand was on his hair. It was a strange sensation to wake up not knowing his name.

With Emma, some years later, I dreamt of her as well. She was not an infant, but an adult. And the only thing I saw of her was the hem of her wedding dress as I was kneeling down to straighten it. I woke up, having only one child at that time, but inexplicably aware of the feeling of her, a second.

And we would try for Emma for almost two years. We waited and waited, experiencing frustration and disappointment at so many months of failure. Where was this child?

But then a new morning came, and I can remember standing alone in the bathroom, quietly saying aloud to God, "I'm ready." It was the simplest of prayers.

And then she would come. It was just like that. God's kind, "Yes."

Happy birthday to my sweet girl. She is truly a blessing.

I Know, Emma

I know, Emma. It IS a sad thing that the Seminoles lost... again.

Gobble, Gobble!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I hope you had an enjoyable one.

Facebook

So recently (under friends' heavy urgings) I activated a facebook account for myself. I don't really know why as I was not particularly interested. I was just curious mostly... what's all this fuss about? Well, upon entry into the database, I took a look around.

Initially you plug in all kinds of information about yourself and are given the option to post pictures of you and your family, information about hobbies, work... even a little blurb about what you are currently doing at that exact moment. With the click of some buttons, you are added to the database and matched up with all kinds of "people you may know." And wow! It was unbelievable to see so MANY names and faces pop up that I hadn't seen in months or even years. Some you've actually spent some time wondering about, and some who just seem vaguely familiar, at this point.

Nevertheless, everyone seems to be looking shiny, happy, and all grown up, and it was fun to quietly spend some time with them again, occasionally whispering to myself...

"New York for you, really?! Still in Tallahassee? You're friends with her?! Ahhh, check out his cute kids. She never got married?! Huh. Yeah, he still looks like a jerk. Chuckle."

I checked the clock, and before I knew it, I'd spent an hour silently catching up on people. See, it's a time consuming job to see if your once upon a time mental template for so-and-so's adult life ended up matching with his/her current day reality. Kinda fun.

But as sure as this computer is thrusting names at me, I took a moment to consider the likelihood that I'm being offered up at the corner of their screen. Well, what if they don't want to see me? Hmm... the sensation was a little bit like walking into a full throttle party in some cool kid's apartment. But as you step through the door and smile, the music stops and everyone pauses their enthralling conversations to glance your way. And then someone says, "What are YOU doing here?"

99% of the friends who'd urged me to do this said the exact same phrase at the mention of Facebook. "It's addicting." One wise girl out there, however, coupled it with the words, "social drama." Hmm... my initial feeling is that I may agree with the latter. You have to ask to be friends with someone. What if they don't want to befriend you? What if they don't even remember you? Or what if you don't remember them? Hmmm.. what if someone even REJECTS you?

So here I am... I'm sticking to my safe little blog world. Facebook account - deactivated. It's just not for me. The party can resume, people. Laughing.

Idioms and Spiders

What do idioms and spiders have to do with each other? Are you buffaloed?

Actually they have very little to do with each other. But imagine that it's 9:25 a.m. on a Friday and you're teaching your students about idioms when the BIGGEST spider you've ever seen (that's not a tarantula) walks across your classroom tile. Idioms and spiders will forever be connected in your mind from then on, I bet. And if that were the case, you'd feel compelled to relay the story with lots and lots (and lots) of idioms to paint the perfect picture. Yeah, you'd pack them in like sardines.

On with the story... I hate spiders. The only way that I could hate them more is if they somehow were able to magically sprout wings, learn to fly, and buzz around my face. They are the bee in my bonnet. I DON'T think they're the cat's pajamas. And the fact that a huge and hairy spider is sitting and staring at me as I write this ... well, that kinda bugs me.

My students and I were about to check the answer to question number 9 on an idiom page when my little Haven calmly says, "Mrs. Hoodenpyle, there's a spider."

She pointed, and we looked. That's when the chaos ensued. The whole place went to the dogs. Gasping. Shrieking. Pushing. Shoving. Screaming. And it wasn't just the kids.

This was a situation in which, ordinarily, I might just squish a spider. But not this one. This particular situation does NOT call for a squish. One shudders to imagine the crunch or the feel of juicy crumpling beneath the shoe. The only choice was to catch the spider. And it would be me that would have to bell the cat.

All 24 of us made a beeline for the thing as it was bumbling across the tile. A large mass of squealing bodies formed a perimeter around the creature, and the spider reared up. This sent us further into our frenzied screaming.

"Quick! Get into the cabinet and get me a vase!" This was my brilliant plan. The obedient children did so, and we covered the spider with the tall cylindrical glass. Unfortunately, this was just shoeing the goose. The spider was too large and clumsy to climb up the sides.

Next, I was presented with an emptied tennis ball container. The advantage to this was that it featured a plastic lid.... a perfect container for containing. This was Justin's plan, and he clearly understood the basic flaw of the vase plan. He knew that a cat in gloves catches no mice. Good job, Justin. My little Josh cooperatively slid a paper under the lip as I tilted. Carefully. Carefullllllly.

And now it sits. The kids have watched it like a hawk for most of the day. The latest question is, "Can we keep it for a class pet?"

My reply: "When pigs fly!"

Thankful

Jack is feeling thankful, and 'tis the season! Here's his list of things that he's thankful for:

1. Mom

2. Dad
3. Emma
4. Gamol (Grandma)
5. Fod (Food)
6. God
7. Jezis (Jesus)
8. Sun
9. Rth (Earth)
10. Planis (Planets)

Great list, Jack! My thankful list would be similar, but I would most definitely have to add:

11. The way papers come out of the copier all nice and warm
12. You, my sweet boy

Wanted: Photo Thief

Have you seen this girl's photos?

Hey there, Photo Thief. What's up? Are you having a good time with my pictures? Do you wear gloves when you snatch them from my desk/shelves/staff mailbox? Would a fingerprint kit even be worthwhile? What's the purpose of this crazy prank? I hope this joke has a great punchline. Cause I gotta tell ya, you've got me wondering.

Emma's Fashion Column

Dear Emma,

Where do you get your cute, cute clothes? And what's your secret to wearing them so well?

Signed,

Some Other Baby Who's More Fashionably Challenged Than You

Dear Fashionably Challenged,

First, let me say that you're not alone in your wonderings, FC. I often hear questions such as these. What can I say? I have some great sources. Let's take a closer look:

This little ensemble came from Danavee.

Work that diaper. It's key.

This look comes from Ashley. Corduroy is so in.

And I always tell my readers that it's important to accessorize. The spilling-over-belly-roll completes the look.

Truly trendy,

Emma

Trik or Tret!

Jack writes the blog entry better than I can this time:

"Trik or Tret!"

Housecleaning Day

The Brown Wedding

This weekend we attended the beautiful October wedding of Curt and Ruth Brown. They are a great couple, and we wish them lots of happiness together in the coming years.

Jim made a handsome and well-spoken Best Man, and Jack made an equally handsome and entertaining little Ringbearer. (Here's a nod to Papa Hoodenpyle who now refers to Jack as "Frodo.") Jack noted that weddings are about dancing, carrying important pillows, giving flowers to Ruth, and taking "like a 100" pictures. Enjoy some of those 100 pictures below:

I'm Thinking of Taking Up Smoking

I don't like going to the doctor. I really don't like going to the doctor. As a child, I didn't like going because I hated throat cultures. And when you hate throat cultures, it seems that you constantly have to get them.

But even now, as an adult, I still don't like going to the doctor. And it has nothing at all to do with having to get the rather rare throat culture these days. The actual reason is that I can't stand the feeling of not being understood -- or not listened to -- which very often results in the "not being understood" outcome.

On Saturday I went to an urgent care clinic. And really, the frustrating experience began a little earlier than did my talks with the doctor. So I'll back up.

In the waiting room, things are bleak at urgent care. Everyone looks slumped, sloppy, pale, and pretty near death. I was no exception. There are some expectations at these facilities too. No one is to do a doubletake at your disheveled appearance or at your uneven gait. Everyone there knows you don't feel good, and they don't particularly care. People who sit in these drab and dreary waiting rooms leave each other alone with the unspoken understanding, "We all feel like crap, so let's not make direct eye contact, ok?"

The college kid who entered in his pajamas, sporting a rather large goofy grin, didn't get it though. He takes his number, says goodbye to the father who's dropped him off, and sits next to me, leaving only one open seat between us in a nearly empty waiting room. (Everyone knows that two open seats between sickly strangers in waiting rooms is the acceptable standard that we all live comfortably by.)

Anyway, I overlook his misstep and continue to hack, blow my nose, and suck on my Halls kiwi-apple flavored cough drops. After some time, he does the following:

Goofy pajama wearing college kid: "So uhhhhh.... are you eleven?"

Me: (turning my head to look at him... which hurts, by the way) "I'm sorry.... What?"

GPWCK: "Are you eleven?" (motions up to the "take a number sign" and smirks)

Me: "Yes." (I look away quickly.)

A few minutes pass.

GPWCK: "So uhhhh... do you come here often?"
Me: (glaring and stunned into a paralyzed silence) "You've GOT to be kidding."

I'm sorry GPWCK. I wasn't really nice, and Jim says that you were most likely just trying to pass the time and be friendly. Anyway, I apologize for my rudeness.

Let's fast forward to the triage room where the nurse takes your vitals and information.

This lady, who's only job is to record that I'm still breathing, makes fun of my last name as if she's the first clever one to do so. "Hoooooodenpyle? Oh my gosh! That's a mouthful. I think that will be so funny when you have a baby and people call it Baby Hoooooooodenpyle! Ohhhh! That's hysterical! And this is your married name? And you still chose to marry the guy?"

Stay with me. We're jumping forward about an hour when I'm speaking to the doctor.

I tell my story of the past few days - a very complete and thorough outline of the events that have transpired during this sickness. He asks me for the first time, "Do you smoke?" The other eight times that he asks me this same question are a little different. It has a little twist on it each time. "You said you smoke?" / "You don't smoke, really?" / "And you're a non-smoker?" / "And you say you don't smoke?"

NO, MAN. I DON'T SMOKE. I NEVER HAVE, YOU IDIOT.

Other highlights of his extraordinary listening ability:

Doc: "Ohhh... so this amoxicillin that you're currently on, it must've been something that your regular doctor called in for you without an examination."
Me: "Yes." (I said this to him five minutes earlier.)


Doc: "Have you had problems with asthma before?"
Me: "Yes. As a child. I do not have any problems with it now, though, unless I exercise heavily."
Doc: "Do you have an inhaler?"
Me: "Yes, but it's several years old. And I don't have reason to use it daily."
Doc: (looking at my online chart from my regular doctor, wrinkling his nose in confusion) "I don't see that you're using an inhaler on your chart."
Me: "That's because I DON'T use an inhaler now. I don't have asthma symptoms these days unless I exercise heavily. I have an inhaler at home, but it's old. I don't use it. I had severe asthma only as a child."
Doc: (listening to my deep breaths) "You're WHEEZING?! Did you know this? You're not a smoker?"

We'll fast forward through the chest xray and breathing treatment. Let's press on to the lab where they are drawing blood now.

Nurse: "Hooooodenpyle? Is that how you say it? Wow! Well, I changed names when I married, but, for me, my last name actually improved."

I did not respond.

See This Guy Right Here?

Yeah? Well, as bad as he looks, he looks like he feels ten times better than I do. It's mid October, and my most recent life screw up is that I didn't get a flu shot in time to really matter. And I didn't get one for my firstborn in time either. That's a double whammy, folks. I'm about to complain... a lot.

The flu has hit Jack and me, and it's been a hard impact. I'm laid out in my bed. Jack's on the couch. We exist very much like an oscillating fan: moving from a state of full body shivering one moment to what feels like being lit on fire the next. I am writing here at this moment only to try and take my mind off of my incredible state of misery. I don't believe I've felt this badly due to a sickness since I went round and round with pneumonia during my first pregnancy.

At several moments today, I've actually considered, "How bad could death be? I mean, really." And I can hear little Jack moan from time to time out in the livingroom. Jim has been our nurse, and Emma has been shipped out of this germ-laden house for her own safety.

I'm curious. Do the membranes of your sinuses ever rupture inside your face because they can't withstand pressure of snot? Has mucus actually ever come out someone's ears? How much phlegm can lungs hold before the crud:oxygen ratio becomes something close to drowning? Has anyone ever sprained a chest muscle from coughing? All good things to google in between my someone-please-feel-sorry-for-me moaning.

Kindergarten Picture

Jack just came home with his kindergarten school picture. My compliments to the photographer who obviously knows the value of a thoughtful head tilt.

Halloween's Almost Here... Again!

I've been writing on this blog for what feels like a long time now. This fact is reinforced when the year cycles around, and I find myself writing with a bit of deja vu. Could it be almost Halloween already? Wasn't I just posting an entry about Jack's costume not so long ago? Anyway, it's been another year, it seems. And the little boy who lives at our house is again excited to show you his duds.

And here's a little bit of Emma. She has no Halloween costume yet, but she'd also like to show off her duds. (She wants to do just about everything that her brother does.)

Dear Somebody

It was a hectic morning this morning. I rushed to get Jack and Emma up, completely forgetting that I had not set aside enough time to clean Jack's wound and change his bandages. This turns out to be a lengthy undertaking because it involves encouraging a squirmy five year old to be brave in the face of a hydrogen peroxide sting. (As a side note, if you are not aware, Jack had a fairly severe run-in with the treadmill upstairs recently. He was walking backwards on it (duh!) and lost his footing. Now he shows his back, where there is a whopping friction burn, to just about everyone who will look.)

(An additional side note, but a little further sideways, is that THAT is the most action that the treadmill has seen in a few months.)

Anyway, all this to say that I had a rushed morning. It was a rushed morning that left me no time to make a lunch for myself. I had to eat the school's cashew chicken lunch today, and with it I received a fortune cookie.

Getting the school's cashew chicken lunch has its pros and cons. On the one hand, it doesn't taste awful, but they do add waaaay too much salt to the sauce. On the plus side, you come away with a nice fortune that has been written so generically that there is no room for questioning in your mind. It absolutely, so completely, MUST HAVE been the fortune that was yours-by-design.

My fortune cookie told me, "Someone in your life needs a letter from you."

So okay... "Someone" is strategically elusive and vague. If I put any stock into the tiny message that this piece of paper conveys, it becomes a bit overwhelming. Someone could be him, her, or so-and-so over there. Someone could be you. To play it safe and cover all the bases, I'll address the following letter this way:


Dear Someone,

Yesterday was a horrible day, but today has been so much better, thankfully. Jim comes home soon, and for that I am happy. I've missed him.

The job is busy. I stayed up grading until 11:30 last night, and that is my least favorite part of my work. I could make it easier on myself by not letting such a stack build up in my bag, but we've already been over how I have this procrastinating tendency built into my personality. Will you come to my house and fold my laundry, by the way?

How are you these days? What is it that's exciting and new in your life? Do you have big weekend plans? Want to get a coke sometime and talk about the really important things... like how we both tried in earnest to watch the new show "Fringe" recently? I mean tried (really hard) to give it a chance but that we both decided it was completely stupid? We could then go on to say how we thought that it was trying awfully hard, too hard, to be the next "LOST". We could even point out that it uses the same strategy to create suspense - an urgent, loud, and uncomfortable dissonant chord (and then, cut to commercial).

Or maybe it would just be simpler to give me a call. Yeah, I think your overly salty, cashew chicken stained fortune would read this way, "Someone in your life needs a phone call from you."

Sincerely,

*Whit, Whiteny in the Hood, Whitnella, Nit-Whit, Parrot Fart, Knucklehead, Jones, Whitney, Mrs. H., Hoodenpyler, Mrs. Puddingpile (by a little boy with a speech problem), and all the other names I've been called by the Someones of my life.

Aunt Vicki? Did you already get this fortune yesterday? My phone rang before I could hit "publish". Love you!

The Laundry Monster

The worst of all of the heinous household chores, if you ask me, would be folding the clean laundry after it's been through the wash. I'd rather get up close and personal with a gross toilet to be honest. Here's why:

I have a habit of taking the warm bundle of clothing out of the dryer, walking into my bedroom, and putting it down in a pile beside my bed. Inevitably the pile grows and grows. This is a problem, and it would very simply be solved if I'd just take my grandmother's advice. "Whitney, just fold the clothes right when they come out of the dryer!" I recognize the wisdom in this advice. The loads are small when they come out of the dryer, and it would take two minutes to fold and put the stacks away neatly. I'd save myself tons of grief, and I'd probably even save myself a little ironing time too. Isn't it funny that I know this but still manage to repeat the error over and over?

I let the laundry monster grow and multiply. And then some Saturday (usually one with gorgeous weather) when I can stand it no longer, I spend an hour folding, apart from my family. This is a horrible habit. You end up with a mound of wadded up eyesores in the middle of your bedroom floor. You trip on the stupid stack when you get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Do as I say, not as I do. Fold your dad gum laundry.

Ummm... hold it. Wait just one second. It turns out that an unruly laundry pile delivers much happiness to silly little girls. Nevermind. Let's kill the laundry monster another day.

Off To The Park With Us

It was a crazy week, wasn't it? Whew! Midweek, it occurred to us that we were due for an evening of picnic and play. Off to the park with us. Sometimes paper grading and baths will wait, don't you think?

Two Steps Forward, Three Steps Back

Remember when Emma refused to eat? Yeah, well... back to square one, I guess.

I have been trying to push the table food idea with Emma. She fiddles with table food mostly. And if the baby food has lumps or larger particles in it, well, you might as well just forget it. She is so passionate about the rejection of these new textures that she has pretty much regressed back to total and complete mouth clamping.

Here is "Beating My Head Against a Wall" and "Beating My Head Against a Wall, The Sequel." She's a stubborn one, and I love her. Enjoy.

Fall Is Here!

Fall is here, and with it has come Hoodenpyle busy-ness! Here are some highlights:

Jim recently watched the Tour of Missouri cyclists come through the Springfield area for the second year in a row. He is really quite the pro at acquiring autographs, I have to say. Last year he got several sharpied scribble-scrabbles of the athletes, and this year was no different. Below, Jack and Jim get ready to go for a ride (yes, in their matching jerseys).

Emma has been learning new tricks left and right lately. Well, okay... not her right... just her left.

Although gyrating is not mentioned in any of the baby books' lists of developmental benchmarks, she can do a darn good impersonation of Elvis.

And she's saying new words all the time- new words that are impossible to capture on video, it seems. Her latest is, "Uh-oh," as in "Uh-oh, I'm getting ready to cause major trouble... maybe even break something... and laugh while I do it." It's amazing that she's nearly ten months old already. How is this possible?

Emilie, Kindergarten, and Mostly Just Emilie

So Jack is beginning to communicate about his days at kindergarten with a little more accuracy and detail each day. I'm glad for this. It's fun to listen to what happens at school from a five year old's point of view. He sings the music teacher's songs from the backseat. He counts by tens to a hundred and tells me how to make a "shaker" out of uncooked rice and a jug. He tells me that a boy named Frank gets peanut butter and jelly for lunch every single day. And he tells me about Emilie.

I believe we have a crush on Emilie. Chuckle. Here is my evidence:

1) At Grandparent's day, Jack was happy to invite Emilie along to walk around with his Grammie because she didn't have grandparents coming to the event.

2) One day last week, he shared his rest mat with Emilie because she forgot hers at home that day.

3) He is somewhat bitter now towards a little girl, Makaylee, who is also possessive over Emilie's playground time/position in line.

4) He knows what color Emilie wore today.

5) And as he looked out from the bathtub at me this evening, he said, "Mom, right now you look just like my friend, Emilie. I thought you were her!"

Case closed.

Hole In The Wall - Exclusive Preview

My feeling is that Jim and I would take the bank on the Japanese-turned-American gameshow, "Hole in the Wall." For lack of anything better to do, we watched the first episode. (Should I admit that?) Jack, Jim, and I could not help but notice that these initial contestants are going about it all wrong. In fact, watching these people was so very frustrating that we were prompted to get up off the couch and practice. Yes, we would be the champions. Just a thought.

Jump!

This weekend I am reminded of my first grade best friend, Cory, who used to sing Van Halen songs constantly, I remember. His serenading never did convert me into fanhood, and I think I may have even done my fair share of eyerolling toward him, honestly. But he sang with lots of enthusiastic air guitaring, and I listened, gaining early life lessons in "Boys Are Weird." Even so, we were best buds. I was six, I guess, and although that was a long time ago, here I am humming with a nostalgic little smile.

Might as well jump! Jump! Go ahead jump! Jump!

We took the kids to a new place here in town last night called JumpMania. The name fits the venue well. There is a great deal of jumping to be done, and well... mania just comes naturally when kids are exposed to a room full of large, inflatable bouncing opportunities. We had fun. Here are a few shots.