Fall Fun

Mike took Riley out for a fun Fall activity in the backyard. Here are the pics, plain and simple. :)

Arts and Crap

Before you're offended by my title, let me explain. Riley loves doing crafts. Her favorites, thus far, are making fingerprint pictures (under the close supervision of Mom, who doesn't need the whole house covered with ink) and play-dough. My favorite is everything because Riley cracks me up. She's a pretty darn good little speaker, but some words are still pretty unclear. When she wants to create, she looks up at me and says sweetly, "Mommy, please make crap?" She asks to do this nearly every day, and I still have to hold my laughter back. Does that make me immature? If it does, I don't care. If you could see her sweet little face, imploring me to make crap, you would laugh, too.

I don't have pictures of our fingerprint creatures, but here are some of our play-dough creations.

This alligator gets a kiss.

It's a good thing he got that loving send-off because, shortly after, he was consumed by our ravenous dog. Rest in peace, alligator.

Speaking of crafts, Riley turned painter during one of her naptimes last week. I won't go into detail (you're welcome), but here's, really, all you need to know.

In case that's not clear enough, let me just say that it's not chocolate, and the whole event was actually grosser than it looks. Think encrusted hands. Ew.

Alright, so there was double meaning to the title of this post. So sue me. :)

Potty Time Fail

There are going to be no surprises in this one. The title gives it to you straight. I decided, once again, to attempt potty training with Riley. Granted, I probably could have prepped a little more, but it was at least a somewhat measured attempt. Yesterday, we went to the library and picked out the Potty Time with Elmo DVD. She already had Elmo underwear, and we already had the Riley-sized potty.

(Sidenote: Elmo was and is entirely her choice. That red furball's voice grates on my nerves. Seriously, Sesame Street, why?!)

Last night, we watched the DVD, and I made sure to intersperse comments about how "awesome" and "neat" it was that Elmo was going on the big kids' potty. I mean, wow!

Today, I asked her if she wanted to wear her big-girl underwear. Initially, she refused, so I dropped it. I've heard, enough times, that it's not worth it to push your kid. A few minutes later, though, she told me she wanted to wear them. On they went.

After playing cars and modeling a little...




... here's where we ended up.

She sat there for OVER AN HOUR, watching VeggieTales, with no urine or excrement to show for it! For heaven's sake, I even let her eat her lunch, sitting on the potty! Sheesh. The kid's a model of self-control (or something?).

So I suppose I'll be waiting a while longer. Like my mom apparently used to say, "How many 21-year-olds do you know who can't do this?"

Bad Blogger (and the Allergy Saga)

Sorry, folks... It's not that we haven't had any news; it's that I haven't been blogging. Slap on the wrist for me.

Let's start with some of our most exciting news...

Two weeks ago, I took Riley in for her follow-up appointment at the allergist. She had gone in a year earlier, when we discovered that she was allergic to eggs. Because of that allergy, she also had to avoid nuts and shellfish. With my gluten-intolerance and her allergies, things were getting a little restrictive in the Green household. Needless to say, I was excited and hopeful for her follow-up, praying that Riley would FINALLY be able to eat "normal people" food.

We went, armed with stuffed animals, toy cars, and my iPhone, loaded with Pixar's Cars. The doctor ended up testing for a variety of nuts, some fish, sesame, and, of course, eggs. As Riley watched Cars, I watched her arms. It seemed, to my untrained eye, that she was NOT reacting. After all, the first go at this, the egg test site had puffed up and reddened almost instantly. Now, I wasn't seeing anything, at any of the sites. When the time was up, the doctor declared Riley ALLERGY-FREE!!!

Elated, I started trying to decide where we were going to go to get Riley a celebration cupcake. As we were driving home, I stopped at Culver's to pick lunch up for her, and when I looked back at her, one of the sites that had been negative was showing a late reaction. I wasn't entirely certain (though I was about 92% sure) that it was the egg site. I quickly called the doc, and she confirmed it. Late reaction to eggs. Gosh darn it! The nurse said she would get back to me with the doctor's updated course of action.

I was absolutely crushed. I can hardly explain how ecstatic I was that Riley could now eat eggs. The late blow was hard to take. I felt like I had gotten kicked in the gut. I put all thoughts of cupcakes out of my head.

Late that night, I finally heard from the nurse. I don't know how to build the suspense here, but I will say that my jaw hit the floor when she told me that Dr. Ozog still gave us the go-ahead to introduce eggs into Riley's diet. Two weeks later, she's reaction-free! See! :)

Daddy's Little Girl

So, I saw a dress like this the other day, and I thought I'd give it a shot. Riley's going to wear it to church tomorrow, so I'll snap a shot of her, sporting her new attire, then. I like the whole idea behind it. It's made from one of Mike's old button-downs. I mean, Riley adores Michael, and now she gets to dress like him (kinda)! How great is that?

8 months!

Noelle is 8-months-old! And cuter by the day.

Megan, you're not alone

This is a re-post from one of my earlier blogs, in honor of Megan. See, you are most definitely not alone. :)

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I'll just come on out and admit it; my sense of direction is about the same as a 4-year old girl in a school relay race who has just completed the portion of the relay in which she places her head on a bat and spins around about a dozen times. It's really that bad. If you need proof, call my mother. When I was in high school, and I was going someplace new, she would write out directions for me. This, in itself, was no big deal. The embarrassing part is that she would also have to write me directions BACK HOME from the place. I would get so anxious about getting lost that I couldn't think straight enough to backwards navigate. Clearly, my driving career was off to a shaky start.

I'd like to say I'm better now than I was in high school. Really, I think I am. For example, when we just moved, I was able to drive to school WITHOUT directions after only doing it twice before! And, I mean, there were something like six turns involved. Whoa. However, there is this one recurring incident that makes me feel like the same directionless fool I was in high school. It happens roughly once a month, but it's not limited to this number. I'll actually give you a specific story, complete with all the gory and humiliating details:

Over the summer, my friend, Sharon, had left her car at an auto shop, and she needed someone to drop her off, so she could pick it up. She asked when a group of us were together, and I knew I was free that day, so, with a twinge of foreboding, I volunteered. Two days later, I picked Sharon up at her house, and she directed me turn-by-turn to the shop. Really, I paid attention as closely as I could-- trying to memorize the street names, directions we turned and any key landmarks we passed. All this while making conversation.

Probably about 25 stressful minutes later, Sharon hopped out of the car, thanked me and started to jog into the shop. Quickly I asked, "Do you need me to stay?" while silently I willed her to say yes. Apparently, I don't possess The Secret. Thus, I rolled up my window as the shop door closed behind her, took a deep breath and prayed that I would find my way home.

As I drove, my eyes widened to the size of plates, searching frantically for roads that looked familiar. I flipped off my music--too distracting-- and gripped my steering wheel with a death hold. I progressed down the road, knowing that I had to turn right at some point. I passed one road that looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't be sure, and it didn't have a sign. I stayed the course. But as I kept driving, none of the street names were ringing a bell. This, I think, is when the hyperventilating began. I tried to drag in slow, laborious breaths. I tried to calm myself down, prodding myself on, You can always turn around, Green. You can always turn around. No Big DEAL. That didn't help at all. Once I had been going for roughly five minutes into the Arlington Heights wilderness, I did the inevitable: I called my husband. The conversation went roughly the same as all the other conversations that took place between us in times like this.
"Michael!" I sobbed (because, naturally, I was sobbing now-- huge gut-wrenching, eye-blinding, voice-stopping sobs). "I'm lost and I don't know where I am and I'm never going to get home and I just don't know WHERE I AM and I should never have volunteered to drive Sharon IknewsomethinglikethiswasgoingtohappenI'msuchanidiotI'mSOLOST!!"

It went on from there, but you get the picture.

After I ran out of breath, Mike broke in. "Okay, babe, it's okay," he said with irritating calmness. After all, it was very apparent that things were NOT okay, and I was going to die somewhere out in this foreign land. However, he continued, "Just tell me where you are."

"I DON'T KNOW! I'm driving and there aren't any signs...and I'm not coming up to any roads...I don't know where I am!" I gulped out the usual refrain.

Still, in that clear and measured voice, he directed me, "Okay, just keep driving, and let me know the next road you see. I have a map in front of me, and I'll help you get back."

This time I answered with silence. Which, I'm sure a nice brief respite for Michael, until it became too silent, and he asked, "Heather, you okay? Keep talking to me." But I was all out of words. I mumbled something inarticulate but mostly felt my head swimming with anxiety and disappointment. After all, what kind of a person gets lost in the town she's lived in for over 12 years!? Finally, I saw a street sign and mumbled it over the phone. Michael took it from there.
About 25 minutes later, I slung myself up my front steps and collapsed on the couch. Michael called a couple minutes after to see if I was alright. I sighed and softly said, "Yeah." Then, after a brief pause, I whispered, "Thank you."

"No problem, babe. I'm just glad you're okay. I'm glad you called me."

Gosh. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.