Day at the Duck Park
We'd promised the kids that the first truly sunny and beautiful day we had this week, we were going to the "duck park." Thursday proved to be that day and it was just about perfect.
Wife is absent in many of these pics as she was busy being a shutterbug extraordinaire and not at all because she got an allergic reaction that made her cheeks swell up and her extremely camera shy.
Nope, not AT ALL.
(it went away not long after... poor thing)
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Damon graciously offers the "safety swing" to his little sister. |
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Like a great many things, she plows on in without asking for, or even admit requiring, any help. |
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...and gets a bit stuck under the belt that gives the "safety" swing it's name. |
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Wonderful Big Brother helps her out. |
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...and gives her a big 'ol push. |
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He stays to give her more pushes... |
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...until he notices mom and dad lounging and snacking in the sun. |
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I swear, if she could be guaranteed that the kid's attention would be diverted elsewhere, she'd fling herself from the swing at the apex of her trajectory and challenge me to a game of "Who can fly the farthest without breaking any bones." |
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She'd probably win, of course, because I'm twice her body weight and retardedly clumsy sometimes, but it'd be awesome fun. |
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She manages to catch me in one of my rare moments. Because we all know that I don't walk around scratching my ass all the time. Nope. |
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Teaching my little monkey to be a better monkey. |
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Also teaching her how to be a complete jackass. A skill, Nay, an ART, at which I excel. |
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You can't quite see it in front of my right leg, but I'm about to watch my footy bounce into the pond. I'd prefer to explain my lack of control of a simple inflated object on the children and not because it's oblong and bounces unpredictably when I dribble it on the sidewalk. |
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It's bigger than his entire torso, but he already plays like a champ. He also runs like a champ, and without being told that there are "out of bounds" areas in Footy, he'll run around the entire freakin' park. *Pant Pant* "Dammit boy! Come back! Daddy's out of shape and you're out of bounds!" *Pant Pant* |
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It's bloody awesome being "the grownup" because I'm so much bigger that I always get the ball when I want it. |
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However, by teaming up, they have their ways of getting it back. |
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Snuck a shot of my beatifully amazing wife on the phone with Best Friend Ebbie. |
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Our independent little Pie helps herself to lemonade for the 438th time that day. Seriously, could she GET any cuter? I'm thinking I probably gush over these kids so much I may make even myself sick, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop, so deal. |
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*Sigh* So damn cute... |
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"No Dames, you're supposed to peel it off before you throw it... ducks don't like frosting on their cake... honest." |
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"Daddy! Not ALL of it!" "Mmmfgfmm... screw the ducks, this is BUTTERSCOTCH!" |
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Ever take two normal-grinning-totally-happy-not-psychotic kids and tell 'em to smile big for the camera? Yeah? Good times. |
Apologies for the download times on this whole buttload of images, but I got me a digital camera, no film to develop, and a gorgeous family to photograph.
You can't really blame me that I don't want to miss a moment.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.My Little Girls 3rd
We were a week late, mostly because her "official" birthday, the 3rd, was while she and her brother were at their other grandparents last weekend, but we finally got to li'l Pie's birthday happenings.
I worked and slaved and almost completely screwed up the cake mix, but I actually made my first "Day of Birthing" cake and frosting (from almost scratch). Wife helped me, of course, and by "helped" I mean "did cooler and better stuff than me until I felt challenged for awesomeness and chased her away." We're quite a team, I tell ya.
Pie got a largish stuffed Malamute from Toys R Us, and I'll refrain from the story of how I molested the other stuffed creatures during our shopping adventure, but it's name is "Toohey*" and very cuddly and cute. I'll have pictures of that later when I stop with all this non-photo-taking laziness.
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I hid the fact that I was terribly pleased with myself rather well. Almost as well as I hid the fact that the guard on the clippers slipped as I was cutting my own hair, thus a 1" cut turned into a 1/2" cut. Jo reassures me that it's the sexiest thing she's ever seen and I signed a piece of paper a while ago that said I'd believe her no matter what. |
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Patiently waiting until the song is over so that she can blow little-kiddie-spit all over her cake. |
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Less spit hit the cake than was expected, so we all had a piece later with minimal sogginess. Her brother aids in her candle-extinguishing by mouthing the appropriate technique. |
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Sparklers were supplied by Nanny (CrazyCatLady Mother-in-law next door) and this picture definitely goes in the Hall of Fame for how astonishingly happy both those kids look ('specially my boy). |
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I did my best to explain that pictures of sparklers and kiddies work better if said sparkler isn't directly in front of said kiddie's face. After that failed, I just held 'em still, but that took so long Damon's went out. |
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A wonderful tradition in my new family, the birthday creature gets first cut at the cake. I'd sort of assumed that we'd leave it in front of her until she dug both her grubby little hands into it, so I was a bit relieved that my masterpiece would survive to be leftovers. |
Visa business is coming together folks, and we're starting to get a rock-solid plan together for the holidays.
Those of you that have been hassling me (and you know who you are) for dates and such will soon be placated, I SWEAR.
Smooches.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.My Own Cheering Section and My Biggest Supporter
He leans over and casually checks his boots for splatterings as he types away on his laptop.
\"That third Vodka drink, before even leaving their house for the bar,\" he thinks to himself, \"probably wasn't the best idea.\" Chuckling quietly, he figures that the Orange Juice must have accounted for the color and viscosity of the previous night's oral eruptions.
Friday evening, he and his beautiful wife had gotten cleaned up, or put The Hotness On in her case, and headed over to ThirdSister and Bear's place in Fremantle for an evening of drunken catching up. ThirdSister had greeted them with extremely strong Screwdrivers and a fist-sized ball of puppy that provided much entertainment.
Live music and much alcohol at Clancy's were followed by our hero's forgetfulness at the increased alcohol content of certain local brews such as \"Smoky Bishop,\" the lack of a meal in his belly, and the volume of Vodka that WAS already in it.
At the evening's end, the fact that he got so emotional should've been a sure sign that he and his wife had entirely too much to drink, but it was as they lovingly braced each other onto the train for home that he first came to that realization. His head lolled onto his wife's shoulder and he pleasantly dozed after assuring her that he was \"jezz feen.\"
He was incorrect, of course, and was awakened unpleasantly by the loudest, most obnoxious, teeny-boppin' idiot on the train, who was apparently telling a story involving her phone, a boy, or both. He felt his wife's tender hands covering his ears as she braced his unstable head on her shoulder and he KNEW that he wasn't alright, and his drool only compounded this notion.
It wasn't quite panic that jolted him from his seat, but the simple fact that it would be far more prudent to be Not Alright somewhere other than on the train. He informed his wife of his need to exit and made for the quickly closing door. Too late, as it turned out, and he gritted his teeth in frustration as the train pulled away from the station.
\"How far is the next station? Can I make it? Is that empty Doritos bag on the floor watertight, and how much can it hold?\" were all questions swimming murkily around in his addled brain.
As he stood against the train's door in defeat, the windows felt cool and comforting on his forehead as much as his wife's loving hands rubbing his back. Then, the train jolted, and the former comfort was quickly substituted with serious discomfort as he groaned and his stomach gurgled.
\"Don't worry mate,\" he heard a young Aussie voice say laughingly, \"you can spew soon!\"
He turned with a drunkenly wry smile and was greeted with 4 excited-looking faces of other youngish folks making their way home on the last train from the bar. He would've laughed, as he genuinely found the statement quite funny, but similar to picking up the Doritos bag in preparation, it wouldn't have been a good idea for his poor soured innards.
More words of encouragement, or of mocking even, may have been uttered in his direction, but he wasn't able to hear anything over the constant battle with his digestive system and it's reguratory needs.
Salvation came in the form of the train's brakes squealing, but his stomach only jolted further as the doors opened and he was greeted with a windowed booth full of Police Officers across the platform. He spotted a suitable vomit receptacle in the form of a rubbish bin, and began making his way towards it with serious intent, when the constrictive powers of his throat finally lost their battle with his explosively upset belly.
How he missed not only his chest and legs, but his boots as well, is still a mystery to him as he currently sits and types away on this rainy morning. His wife, who is normally someone that feels moderately uncomfortable around a puker, was undeterred as his night's worth of poor judgment erupted onto the tile of the empty train platform. She lovingly rubbed his shoulders as he finished off his Technicolor Yawn into the large metal cylinder and he couldn't have been more appreciative of her.
Any hope that he went relatively unnoticed on the train, or at least didn't make a complete spectacle of himself, was totally shattered as he heard the Youngish Ones cheering loudly as the train doors closed and pulled away. Once again he was tempted to either laugh, or at least raise his fist in mock triumph, but his body was fighting yet another battle involving his internal workings and their associated openings.
\"I need a toilet honey,\" he slurred while wiping his mouth off. She nodded affectionately, assuming he wished to wash his mouth out, and started aim him towards the most likely place. There were none nearby however, and the thought that the Cops behind the glass were now working their way around to arrest his PubliclyDrunkenSelf was enough to hasten their exit just as much as his G.I. tract's incessant urgings.
His wife, who was almost as drunk as he was, still held his arm and compassionately led him towards a set of stairs as he repeated his request, only with a much deeper sense of urgency so that it there would hopefully be no misinterpretations, \"I need a toilet honey.\"
Her eyes widened comprehendingly and they frantically hurried to the elevator, eventually ending up outside the station after a fruitless search for the facilities.
Relief was gained, though the \"wheres\" and \"hows\" are not suitable to be shared publicly, and the better part of his consciousness left him for the evening as soon as his head hit his wife's lap in the back seat of the taxi.
As he stirs chocolate powder into his milk the next morning and begins breakfast preparations, he vehemently denies his wife's urgings to take something medicinal for his tympanic head.
\"Honey,\" he says self-punishingly, \"if I take pills to make it go away, how will I ever learn not to do it again?\"
She smiles lovingly through her own hazy, bleary-eyed, thundering headache and says, \"Baby, you're 31... do you really think you're ever going to learn? Now shut up and let me look after you.\"
He grudgingly and internally admits that she's right, of course, and accepts that the only true hangover cure that he can think of is a big greasy breakfast, his children being unusually quiet, junk food, a good movie playing, and cuddling with the love of his life.
And he's right.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.She Thurmans My Travolta
My personality tends to be that of a problem solver. I see something that isn't working quite correctly, and I apply enough of a solution to it to provide my desired ends. The fridge door, for example, wasn't shutting properly. The frost from the inner freezer had grown so thick that it's door couldn't shut, thereby preventing the fridge door from closing.
Having a simple mind means that I need to focus on one thing at a time. Preparing dinner means that I'm limited in my \"fixing\" to simply slamming the door harder and harder in an effort to get it to shut. I'm not completely stupid *cough* and can realize that the frost isn't budging, so I grabbed the nearest solid object, a can opener, and began chipping away at the minor obstruction, hoping to clear just enough to close the door despite the obvious need for a more strenuous effort.
Wife is a fixer as well. The almost supernatural similarities between the two of us sometimes startle me. When chip-chip-chipping away at an amoebic-looking chunk of ice with a smallish can opener, a large meat cleaver suddenly appearing and hacking off said chunk of ice startles me almost as much.
I saw a problem, she saw the same problem. I affected a minor solution, she decided to ratchet that solution up a bit. After watching her delightedly hacking away and blanketing the floor in a spray of ice chips, dinner was forgotten for a bit for repeated horror-movie swings of the oversized cutting tool and the ensuing clean-up consisting of the two of us standing on large towels, and twisting and dancing a la Pulp Fiction.
We may pretend we're all adultish, paying bills and being responsible and all that shit, but when an opportunity arises to seize an \"adult responsibility moment\" (like defrosting a fridge or cleaning it up) and make it as childishly enjoyable as possible (like screaming, \"Die-Frost!\" or being John to her Uma), Wife subtly reminds me that we need to grab on to that opportunity with both hands.
My 2-year old little girl has recently turned into my 3-year old little girl, and we borrowed father-in-law's OldClunkerCar and babysitting abilities to do some toy-shopping sans small children. I'm a firm believer that Toys 'R Us shouldn't be experienced any other way, and stand by this even if it IS for entirely selfish reasons.
Wife and I spent a decent amount of time oohing and aahing our way up and down the aisles (at the toys as much as at each other... we ARE still newlyweds) and wound up at the Stuffed Toy Corral. LittleOne destroys or coats in filth almost everything she comes in contact with, so we'd decided on an over-sized stuffed animal for her to abuse.
While Wife checked out the cubbyholes of little doggies and ponies, I strutted my way over to a table with a 5-foot long, 20-pound, stuffed hound dog. The thought, that I may chide my brothers-in-law on being quite childish and puerile but am nothing if not a complete hypocrite, crossed my mind as I pulled the stuffed dog towards me, hind legs first, moved his tail to the side, \"pssst\"ed at Wife, and casually and defiantly began to PrisonBitch him.
She appropriately stifled her giggle as I looked around sheepishly and appeared to go back to shopping. I was checking out the price on a stuffed Malamute when I saw her walk quietly over to the victimized dog, tenderly lift it's ear aside and say quietly, \"Did he touch you in bad places? Can you show me where on the dol... um... on you?\"
Tears of laughter blurred my vision enough to where I almost knocked over a DVD display and further incurred the wrath of the ToyPeople.
Oh, I've got another diary going, a boring one, full of pictures and stupid life-in-oz-is-so-cute business. It sucks far worse than this one, if that's possible, but if you're interested email me and I'll send you the link.
It's for family and friends, and I'm only issuing this offer for those of which that read this whose email addy's I am without (or have but forgot that I have), so don't be offended bitchasses if I don't give up the link, for that just means that I don't like you.
Seriously though, it's full of personal pictures and personal information, so if I'm not down with giving that out to total strangers, please understand.