1. The way that Baby E calls himself a ‘messy moose’ whenever he makes a mess when eating.
2. The way C uses the phrase “Come how” instead of “How come.”
3. The way Big E randomly stops whatever he is doing just to tell me he loves me.
4. The fact that Big E is still talking about the beetle he met at the beach at if it were a bosom buddy.
5. That Baby E has one specific unintelligible sentence he uses when he is excited. It’s always the same made up words spoken in the same order every time.
6. The way the kids run to tackle me when they see me after work.
7. The way Big E thinks his grippy socks make him more like Spiderman.
I was sitting on a chair outside of a coffeeshop with Big E yesterday morning. He was sitting on my lap, the sunlight dancing off of his blond hair. He smiled at me as he nibbled on the piece of brownie that I was sharing with him. “Hey buddy, what color shirt am I wearing today?” I asked casually as he chewed. He stared at my shirt for a moment as he moved the brownie around in my mouth. “Tan,” he said.
My shirt was green.
Now that I am paying attention, I am noticing more and more moments like this one. What I used to mistake as mixing up words, really seems to be solidifying into a colorblind diagnosis. This evening I ran a few tests on him that I found online and he had trouble with quite a few of them. The phrase “Protanopia” kept coming up. Curious about my newfound word, I did some research and learned that it is the most common form of color blindness. Out of curiosity I googled to see if there was a way to turn a photo from the typical color spectrum to one that would represent what a colorblind person might see. And of course, the internet didn’t disappoint! I found a site that would do just that.
So I decided to upload a few pics and take a glimpse into the world of my little man. The website had strict limitations on file size, so I had to scale them down quite a bit. They are pixilated, but you get the point. I made sure to upload photos that I had previously added saturation to so that the colors would be very vibrant. Here are the results…
I do wonder if what he sees is as drastic as the pictures show or not. I am looking forward to learning more the next time I meet with his pediatrician or an eye doctor.
*Disclaimer* I’m not a doctor, I have no previous knowledge about any of this. I’m taking the word of this website that they understand what they are talking about!
When I was growing up, we practically lived at my parents’ wood finishing shop on the weekends and during the summers. It was during that time that I learned how to scuff, check colors, and (on very, very rare occasions) use a spray gun. But when I turned seventeen and got my first job in a production company, I was at the shop less and less until one day I rarely went at all. I moved away to college and when I moved back a few years later, my parents moved to a different state. I’d go and visit them, I’d see their new shop, but I didn’t work there. In fact, it’s probably been over fifteen years since I’ve used those skills.
Tim works there now, which I love, by the way!
Since this was a long weekend, we decided to take a trip to my parents’ house and when I found out they would be spending most of the weekend at the shop I thought it would be a great chance to go in and lend a hand. Over the course of three days I think I ended up working about 18 hours, but it certainly didn’t feel like it! The time just flew. The kids had a blast spending time with their grandmother as the rest of us scuffed, sanded, finished, and moved panels. By the end of each day, I was so incredibly tired, but in a good, body aching from hard work kind of way. We’re back now and will resume our normal lives in the morning. I’m so thankful for the long weekend, for the chance to spend time with my family, and for the men and women that have served, and sacrificed for the incredible freedom we experience in this country.
Be still my heart! ❤️❤️❤️
I’d appreciate some prayers for C. She started running a fever this morning. ☹️
Sure, most people go to the beach for Memorial Day weekend, but us? No, we headed out to my parent’s house and to their finishing shop for a visit and to lend a hand. 😁 (I’m going to be so sore tomorrow!) We were there way past the kids’ bedtime so I convinced them we were ‘shop camping’ and laid out some furniture pads on the office floor! Guess what, it worked!!
We survived Field Day! C has been talking about it for weeks, and was very excited when she learned that I was able to take some time off from work for it. I got there a little late after dealing with the boys this morning, but I got to see her participate in quite a few games. Then the first graders had a pizza party, so we sat outside for lunch. I took her out of school early so that we could get a little more time together.
This evening we picked up the boys and headed to the beach and the farmers market. They played for a long time. C saw a bunch of friends from school, and Big E made an unlikely friend with a beetle. Yes, you read that right. He spent 45 minutes with his little beetle friend and even begged to bring him home. (I politely declined.)
Last week they were disappointed that we didn’t get Rita’s for dessert while at the market, but I didn’t realize that that stand only took cash. I was prepared this evening, and I made sure I had some money on me when we got there. But here’s the deal, I lost it. After I had promised them Rita’s. Oops. I was pretty upset about it, but we went to the van and I was able to scrounge up enough to get one small Rita’s that we could share. As I was paying, the young man at the table did something incredibly kind. He looked at my band of savages, asked me again if I only wanted one small Italian ice, and when I said that was all I could afford this evening because I had lost my money, he picked up a large sized cup and filled it as high as he could before handing it to me. What a sweet young man. I thanked him for his kindness and the kids were thrilled to get their Rita’s this evening! 🙂
Blue was my grandmother’s favorite color. It was the color of her nicest blouse, the one she only wore to church. The same one she was buried in. No one noticed the small pair of scissors in my hand as I timidly walked up to her casket. I glanced around and spied my mother in an intensely deep discussion with the minister about the propensity of youth to follow ideology instead of sound doctrine. My father sat in a large armchair with a full glass of water in his hand, the ice long melted, as he stared at a peculiarly drab painting of a rose on the wall across from him. My youngest sister had wedged herself beneath the coffee table and was fast asleep, her thumb in her mouth and her finger crooked over her nose. Three or four small clusters of women stood about the room, my grandmother’s friends from her sewing circle. She told me once she would outlive them all.
I glanced back at her coffin, a grayish box with dark blue satin fabric that offset her light blue blouse with small, white flowers. Her tiny lips were painted a soft pink, and she still wore her glasses, though little did she need them now. I stared at her chest, waiting to see it rise and fall, as if by some miracle the stale air in the room would somehow revive her, but she was still. I reached out and touched her hand, the same hand that had not a week ago pulled a wasp stinger from my arm. But what had once been soft and comforting, was now cold and stiff. I wish I hadn’t touched her.
The sounds in the room seemed distant as I reached over and pulled a slight bit of her blouse from her arm, and with an almost imperceptible snip a sliver fell into the casket. I picked up the scrap and rearranged her sleeve to make the hole of the fabric unnoticeable. Then surveying my own plain, gray dress, I bunched up the fabric around my elbow and cut off a small, triangular patch. I took the piece from my garment and gently tucked it in the small pocket on the front of her blouse, being careful not to leave anything in disarray. I glanced up and my eyes met my father’s, and with a slight nod of his head, he turned his attention back to the rose. Heart pounding, I tucked the scissors and the small blue square with white flowers into my pocket. I looked at my grandmother one last time, reached for her hand, but thinking better of it, squeezed her arm, and said goodbye.
If you aren’t a stranger to this blog, you know that I am pretty much obsessed with classic literature and movie/tv adaptations of them. I’m pretty sure it is because I find this form of entertainment to be safe… The events and customs are different enough to be distanced from my reality, and dependable enough to not assault my senses with graphic violence or bedroom scenes. At times I walk a tightrope with war movies, but when I do, I spend a great deal of time covering my eyes. The world is messy, bloody, and evil enough and I have no desire to fill my mind with pretend versions of those things as well.
So I am always on the lookout for new shows or movies that fit into my very specific category. I was excited to see that Netflix had released their own take of Anne of Green Gables called “Anne with an E.” I’ll admit I’ve never read the books, though I did start the first one long ago. I enjoyed the old miniseries immensely, and so I was hoping this new iteration would be a show that I could introduce C to, after all it’s Anne of Green Gables!
And then I watched the first episode. It isn’t bad. It’s very beautiful to look at and the girl that plays Anne does a very good job. But they definitely took artistic liberty and there were some very dark flashback scenes that I’m pretty confident weren’t in the book. In one episode there were extensive conversations about ‘intimate relations’ as well that took me by surprise. It made me sad because after watching three episodes, I don’t think I want C watching it for a long, long time.
I’ve noticed this happen quite often when adaptations are made of classic novels. There are certain movies where you can absolutely tell where the author left off and the screenwriter took over. I’m always let down when this happens, because it’s possible to keep with the spirit of a novel and not impose modern agendas into the story. The classic novels are classics because the writers knew how to tell a story.
Sorry, that was my soapbox for the evening. I’ll probably continue watching the show, but I definitely won’t be introducing it to the kids!