<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589</id><updated>2012-01-23T18:02:11.267-08:00</updated><category term='silly'/><category term='animals'/><category term='shawn'/><category term='memories'/><category term='daily life'/><category term='God'/><category term='conversations with dolly'/><category term='Love'/><category term='my moms innocence makes me laugh'/><category term='the dog next door'/><category term='Demeral AND beer?'/><category term='Mack'/><category term='award'/><category term='photo hunt'/><category term='kids'/><category term='wildlife'/><title type='text'>Life from the Back Porch</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>56</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-3653508179991542150</id><published>2012-01-23T18:02:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2012-01-23T18:02:11.281-08:00</updated><title type='text'>stick glue vs. bottle glue</title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q3do_oS3IJ0/Tx4P1T6reuI/AAAAAAAAAKY/Wt_efFoL1EI/s1600/oops%2521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q3do_oS3IJ0/Tx4P1T6reuI/AAAAAAAAAKY/Wt_efFoL1EI/s320/oops%2521.JPG" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nanny can I please have a bottle of elmer's glue, this glue stick really doesn't work. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fast forward to many weeks. It's homework time and I reach in the back pack to get the pencil box only to find it covered in goo........ What is this? I open the box and it is also covered in goo.......... &lt;br /&gt;Mack! You didn't close the lid on the glue bottle. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Were going back to the glue stick right after I wash the markers and crayons and erasers and scissors.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-3653508179991542150?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/3653508179991542150/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=3653508179991542150' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3653508179991542150'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3653508179991542150'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2012/01/stick-glue-vs-bottle-glue.html' title='stick glue vs. bottle glue'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q3do_oS3IJ0/Tx4P1T6reuI/AAAAAAAAAKY/Wt_efFoL1EI/s72-c/oops%2521.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-1535181281910422335</id><published>2012-01-21T18:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2012-01-21T18:20:22.935-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Conversations with Madison</title><content type='html'>Yeah!! Now it's my turn to read the dairrhea of a whimpy kid book !!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K0QASWGv6ts/TxtyOqWhsMI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/maKogtFGvHI/s1600/_book+reading.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K0QASWGv6ts/TxtyOqWhsMI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/maKogtFGvHI/s320/_book+reading.JPG" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now that was a priceless moment &lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-1535181281910422335?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/1535181281910422335/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=1535181281910422335' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1535181281910422335'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1535181281910422335'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2012/01/conversations-with-madison.html' title='Conversations with Madison'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K0QASWGv6ts/TxtyOqWhsMI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/maKogtFGvHI/s72-c/_book+reading.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-4036145555717077244</id><published>2012-01-21T18:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2012-01-21T18:14:36.827-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Dolly's wedding plans</title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vvEiyMEIlyg/TxtwUSTeXdI/AAAAAAAAAKI/hqKgBgFrHPY/s1600/princess+dolls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vvEiyMEIlyg/TxtwUSTeXdI/AAAAAAAAAKI/hqKgBgFrHPY/s320/princess+dolls.JPG" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nanny when I grow up I am going to marry with Lucas. Then I am going to fall in love with him. I am going to wear a so, so, SO, beautiful long dress then I am going to sing to Lucas and Madi will faint!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She is already a hopeless romantic at the age of 4. Thank you Cinderella, Snow White and princess Aeriel.............................&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-4036145555717077244?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/4036145555717077244/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=4036145555717077244' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4036145555717077244'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4036145555717077244'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2012/01/dollys-wedding-plans.html' title='Dolly&apos;s wedding plans'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vvEiyMEIlyg/TxtwUSTeXdI/AAAAAAAAAKI/hqKgBgFrHPY/s72-c/princess+dolls.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-7844257232381405068</id><published>2011-12-20T05:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-20T05:20:35.426-08:00</updated><title type='text'>conversations with Mack</title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0aP0ANnGzI0/TvCLk5bVxUI/AAAAAAAAAKA/8to-Cyd7FYU/s1600/thumbs+up+mack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0aP0ANnGzI0/TvCLk5bVxUI/AAAAAAAAAKA/8to-Cyd7FYU/s320/thumbs+up+mack.JPG" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;Mack was playing with some of Dolly's "little" toys, which she has many of. Jeremy asked Mack is that a mighty bean? Mack says yes it's a mighty bean....... Then he says no..IT'S A MIGHTY BEAN!!!&amp;nbsp; Waving his arm high in the air like it was some grand toy that needed praise. Poppy asked is it an alien mighty bean? Mack says yes. Jeremy says Mack...... what planet are YOU from? and without a missing a beat Mack says Uranus...........&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-7844257232381405068?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/7844257232381405068/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=7844257232381405068' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7844257232381405068'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7844257232381405068'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/12/conversations-with-mack.html' title='conversations with Mack'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0aP0ANnGzI0/TvCLk5bVxUI/AAAAAAAAAKA/8to-Cyd7FYU/s72-c/thumbs+up+mack.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-8531836954564923191</id><published>2011-12-20T05:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-20T05:21:43.447-08:00</updated><title type='text'>conversation with Jeremy n Jinny</title><content type='html'>It was the end of the evening on Dolly's birthday. It was a very crazy and NOISY day. Half the family left and half was still there. Jeremy and Jinny, Mack and Dolly and I were sitting in the front room. Mack and Dolly were being their usual crazy and &lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;strange&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt; selves. Sometimes you just have to shake your head and wonder why they are the way they are? Seriously, they are not all together there.&lt;br /&gt;Jeremy says: You know mom, Dolly has lived with you all of her life and Mack has lived with you at least half of his life....maybe your the common denominator here.&lt;br /&gt;I just looked at him with my mouth open and was at a lost for words.&lt;br /&gt;Then Jinny pipes up and says: And you know Timmy isn't much better and he has lived with you most of his life too. (hes 29 going on 18)&lt;br /&gt;I then began wacking her with a stuffed teddy bear.&lt;br /&gt;Then I said unfortunately you could be right.&lt;br /&gt;Imagine the uproar of laughter that broke out at that point :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-8531836954564923191?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/8531836954564923191/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=8531836954564923191' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8531836954564923191'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8531836954564923191'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/12/conversation-with-jeremy-n-jinny.html' title='conversation with Jeremy n Jinny'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-885444371887323252</id><published>2011-12-08T05:15:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-08T07:49:24.551-08:00</updated><title type='text'>you can't put a horse in a present</title><content type='html'>Spent the afternoon at the ranch with Shawn. There are two puppies still looking for homes and naturally the one who is not so shy, found Dolly. It followed her every where she went much to her total happiness. She said Shawnie I want this puppy for a&amp;nbsp;Christmas present. &lt;br /&gt;When we got home she showed poppy the video of the puppy. She told poppy I want this puppy for a Christmas present. Poppy said I'm surprised you didn't say you wanted a horse for Christmas. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-a09c183d2ad95470" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/get_player"&gt;&lt;param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"&gt;&lt;param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;param name="flashvars" value="flvurl=http://v7.nonxt2.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Da09c183d2ad95470%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1331462073%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D4C4B934E2000955C2E759AFFE417BF8497CA7AAC.601AC5FCB87C75D0ED379F11AF83043AB8317791%26key%3Dck1&amp;amp;iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Da09c183d2ad95470%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DDqwS6xWDsYPL-R203xkv8ezLTxc&amp;amp;autoplay=0&amp;amp;ps=blogger"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/get_player" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"width="320" height="266" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"flashvars="flvurl=http://v7.nonxt2.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Da09c183d2ad95470%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1331462073%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D4C4B934E2000955C2E759AFFE417BF8497CA7AAC.601AC5FCB87C75D0ED379F11AF83043AB8317791%26key%3Dck1&amp;iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Da09c183d2ad95470%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DDqwS6xWDsYPL-R203xkv8ezLTxc&amp;autoplay=0&amp;ps=blogger"allowFullScreen="true" /&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;/div&gt;She told him, with her arms stretched out, sassy and very dignified, you can't put a horse in a present poppy..................&lt;span id="goog_1827261581"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span id="goog_1827261582"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-885444371887323252?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/885444371887323252/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=885444371887323252' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/885444371887323252'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/885444371887323252'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/12/i-found-puppy.html' title='you can&apos;t put a horse in a present'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-2353127394494110497</id><published>2011-12-07T04:05:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-07T04:05:58.827-08:00</updated><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"&gt;Nanny come here and hold my eye.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana;"&gt;What?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana;"&gt;Come here and hold my eye for me, I can't do this.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana;"&gt;I go to see what in the world she is talking about and she is sitting in her little chair with a kalediscope. She is holding it up to her eye with one hand and turning it with the other and has both eyes open.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana;"&gt;She hasn't mastered the art of closing just one eye yet.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana;"&gt;Tell you what, how about if I turn it for you and you can hold your eye.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana;"&gt;Okay nanny.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana;"&gt;So she puts one hand over her eye, holds the tube with her other hand and I turn the end of it around.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TtW03F2Aa_Q/Tt9Werhrg5I/AAAAAAAAAJ4/rC60p12lphc/s1600/miss+priss.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TtW03F2Aa_Q/Tt9Werhrg5I/AAAAAAAAAJ4/rC60p12lphc/s320/miss+priss.JPG" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: Verdana;"&gt;Wow..... that's really pretty nanny...........cool!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-2353127394494110497?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/2353127394494110497/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=2353127394494110497' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2353127394494110497'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2353127394494110497'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/12/conversations-with-dolly.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TtW03F2Aa_Q/Tt9Werhrg5I/AAAAAAAAAJ4/rC60p12lphc/s72-c/miss+priss.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-5353972464483135223</id><published>2011-10-07T09:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-10-07T10:00:39.628-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Pie baking mishap</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-adb088jsnSA/To8vc2d0NJI/AAAAAAAAAJU/FzkEtpyOlls/s1600/pie%2B%25281%2529.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-adb088jsnSA/To8vc2d0NJI/AAAAAAAAAJU/FzkEtpyOlls/s200/pie%2B%25281%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660795429331416210" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-efEh15nShYg/To8vHunsTSI/AAAAAAAAAJM/Bz17J2gRsiM/s1600/pie%2B%25282%2529.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-efEh15nShYg/To8vHunsTSI/AAAAAAAAAJM/Bz17J2gRsiM/s200/pie%2B%25282%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660795066448104738" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q_VQia5TdqA/To8uo2KRryI/AAAAAAAAAJE/FXbQHCC2Q18/s1600/pie%2B%25283%2529.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q_VQia5TdqA/To8uo2KRryI/AAAAAAAAAJE/FXbQHCC2Q18/s200/pie%2B%25283%2529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660794535896264482" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Making lemon meringue pies for grandpa's birthday....yummy! Dolly decides to climb up at the bar to see what is going on and to maybe get a "lick" of something yummy. She slips and her WHOLE are lands in the pie. Oh I am so so sorry Nanny, I am so so sorry. How sweet. It's okay, no worries. I can smooth it out I just can't fix the part where the crust slid down to well but it will be okay. I put the second pie in the over to get brown and started cleaning up and then I realized one very important thing. I FORGOT TO BAKE THE CRUST FIRST!!!  Oh well, we will just have to eat the pies and leave the crust, dang it! And they look so prett too. Big sigh.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-5353972464483135223?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/5353972464483135223/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=5353972464483135223' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/5353972464483135223'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/5353972464483135223'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/10/pie-baking-mishap.html' title='Pie baking mishap'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-adb088jsnSA/To8vc2d0NJI/AAAAAAAAAJU/FzkEtpyOlls/s72-c/pie%2B%25281%2529.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-4366253505652290059</id><published>2011-08-28T18:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-28T18:57:25.767-07:00</updated><title type='text'>church songs dolly style</title><content type='html'>Dolly loves to sing and she loves loves loves music. This means she always stayes for praise and worship at church before she goes to the nursery. Now you might not think that a 3 year old is really paying attention to the songs but Dolly is. I catch her all through the week singing songs from church. I hear the melody and I know exactly what she is singing, however the words get a little confusing for her. So I want to share *Dolly's version* with you.&lt;br /&gt;    The chorus goes ...... I will trust in You --- I will trust in You --- I will turst in You, with all my heart.&lt;br /&gt;    Dolly's version --- I will just say boo --- I will just say boo --- I will just say boo, it theres a fight. We have been working on that one and poppy convinced her it was I will trust in You, so she says Ima trust in You --- close enough.&lt;br /&gt;     The chorus goes ..... My saviour lives &lt;br /&gt;    Dolly's version --- My sailor lives. Working on that one too.&lt;br /&gt;    The chorus goes..... I am free to run, I am free to dance, I am free to live for you.&lt;br /&gt;    Dolly's version --- I am free to run, I am free to dance, I am free just for you. Letting that one alone, it's to cute.&lt;br /&gt;    The one she NEVER EVER gets wrong is ..... Glory to God, Glory to God, Glory to God forever. Take my life and let it be all for you and for Your glory take my life and let it be yours. Every word of that one she gets correct and she really belts that one out loud. And she tells me, Nanny that songs sometimes makes me cry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;         Jesus was traveling through a village and all the little children were flocking around Him. His diciples were trying to shoo them away saying don't bother the Master. And Jesus told them, No, let the little children come unto me..........&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-4366253505652290059?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/4366253505652290059/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=4366253505652290059' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4366253505652290059'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4366253505652290059'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/08/church-songs-dolly-style.html' title='church songs dolly style'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-6737714986595987341</id><published>2011-08-11T04:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-11T04:37:33.619-07:00</updated><title type='text'>4 things to make you smile</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1. While shopping at Walmart Dolly found a little baby doll she wanted, while we were checking out the man at the register scanned the doll and put it in a bag all by itself and handed it to &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly with a smile. She said "I think I'm starting to like this guy".&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;2. Dolly was taking a bubble bath the other night. She was gassy and tooted (a very long toot) and a trail of bubbles left the rear end of her and floated along the top of the water. She turned around and saw them, took her finger and popped them, smelled her finger and said "it doesn't stink".&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;3. Dolly woke up from a nap in a grouchy mood. Ugh! Hate when that happens. I tried to counter act it, and using my saddest face, by telling her one of my chickens had died. She wanted to see it but I told her she couldn't. She got madder. I said "but I really need a hug because I am sad that my chicken died". She said, " why nanny, you still got a whole bunch of them out there!".&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;4. Mack gave Dolly a wrestling figure. For whatever reason his mouth is open wide like he is yelling. After studying if for a long time she looked at me and said " looks like he is ready to see the dentist". &lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-6737714986595987341?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/6737714986595987341/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=6737714986595987341' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6737714986595987341'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6737714986595987341'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/08/4-things-to-make-you-smile.html' title='4 things to make you smile'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-636740773384166945</id><published>2011-08-01T18:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-08-01T19:09:01.936-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Biggest Egg Ever</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-A-ZBILQrY/TjdcCjk-QUI/AAAAAAAAAIs/HX2Gi0gKWxg/s1600/biggest%2Begg%2Bever_2.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-A-ZBILQrY/TjdcCjk-QUI/AAAAAAAAAIs/HX2Gi0gKWxg/s200/biggest%2Begg%2Bever_2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636074657657274690" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Went to collect eggs this evening after dinner. Scot and Dolly decided to go outside for a little while too and brave the heat. As they were playing with the remote control truck I had my little wicker basket in hand. I collected a few eggs earlier and figured I wouldn't get many eggs anyways. It's way too hot !!! So I go in the chicken house and I see one lonely egg lying there all by itself. I got closer and my mouth dropped open and I scooped up, ever so carefully, the biggest egg I have ever seen. It filled my whole hand. I put it in the basket and hurried to get the feed in the tray so I could show it to Scot. It's like some super mega chicken egg that looks impossible for a chicken to deposit. I held it up high and said look at this. He said holy smokes! I hurried up to where he was so he could get a better look at it. He started laughing and asked if I checked the chickens butt that it came out of, I said I wonder which one layed this? I hurried and collected a few eggs out of the other chicken yard. My mind is still in astonishment over this mega egg! I hurried in the house to show Timmy. I said look at this egg!! He looked at it and said man that's a big egg. I said no one can eat this egg for a few days because I have to show this to everyone I know! They won't believe it, I can't believe it! I am going to post pictures on my Facebook so everyone can see this. I hurried (notice I am hurring alot, that's the excitement) to the phone and called my neighbor. Hey Jesse, I got a dozen eggs for you if you will come to the fence and I have to show you this giant egg one of my chickens laid. You won't believe it. I grabbed a dozen of eggs and took my little wicker basket and waited at the fence for him. I loved the expression on his face when he looked at it. That's a big egg! Big as a turkey egg! I went back to Scot and Dolly who was now getting ready to go swimming in her little pool. I have to go show this to Katrina (my other neighbor). She has chickens and she won't believe this when she sees it. By then Timmy comes out of the house and him and Scot look at each other with big grins on their faces. Timmy looks at me with the oh yeah, I am so guilty smirk look on his face. I ask.... did you put that egg in there? He bust out laughing and I said where did you get that egg from? It's a goose egg from down town. Oh Timmy !!! By then we are all laughing. Scot said I am glad he finally told you before you hit the entire neighborhood. I had nothing to do with this but I have to admit it was a pretty good joke. What am I going to do with this egg now I ask? Timmy says, put it back and let one of your chickens hatch it. That would be perfect but none of them are sitting right now. But Katrina has an incubator and I could ask her what she thinks. So I headed off to her house and again, if you could have seen her face when I showed it too her. She wanted to know if I had an ostrich I was hiding at my house. I told her the story and she laughed. She suggested to candle it and if something is growing in there it's probably hot enough to hatch on it's own. So I stuck it back in the nest box and I think when Mack comes to visit me tomorrow I will send him out to see if there are any eggs ...... I haven't seen Timmy smile and be so happy with himself in a long time. Two thumbs up for you Timmy, this IS the best one ever.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-636740773384166945?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/636740773384166945/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=636740773384166945' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/636740773384166945'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/636740773384166945'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/08/went-to-collect-eggs-this-evening-after.html' title='The Biggest Egg Ever'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-A-ZBILQrY/TjdcCjk-QUI/AAAAAAAAAIs/HX2Gi0gKWxg/s72-c/biggest%2Begg%2Bever_2.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-4859847912235247489</id><published>2011-07-27T05:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-27T05:25:38.694-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;what will she think of next?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: nanny why do I always have to swallow this spit?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: a moment of duh? how to answer this one... because that's the way our bodies are made&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: oh, do you have to always swallow your spit?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: yes&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: oh, and does poppy have to always swallow his spit?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: yes&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: oh, well I'm just gettin tired of always swallowin this spit!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I can't wait until she ask me where babies come from and how did they get there..........&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-4859847912235247489?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/4859847912235247489/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=4859847912235247489' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4859847912235247489'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4859847912235247489'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/07/conversations-with-dolly_27.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-1447742533146035051</id><published>2011-07-13T05:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-27T05:25:38.695-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;Dolly and Madison were swimming in her little pool yesterday. Dolly somehow discovered to hold her breathe and put her whole face under the water and move around on her belly "swimming". Madison started doing it too. Their hair was splayed all around their heads as they were doing this, and I praised them for their bravery.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: Oh Dolly I have to get my camera to video this wonderful new trick! Be good for one minute while I go in the house and get the camera.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I couldn't find the camera anywhere, it must be in the truck which Scot took today.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: Dolly I can't find the camera, I am sorry I can't video you guys.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: (with attitude) Nanny, well just use your phone camera!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;How does a three year old get so smart about technology?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-1447742533146035051?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/1447742533146035051/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=1447742533146035051' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1447742533146035051'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1447742533146035051'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/07/conversations-with-dolly.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-4284153114845868890</id><published>2011-07-05T16:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-05T16:31:01.637-07:00</updated><title type='text'>sometimes it just happens</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;You know sometimes stuff just happens. Like just the other day I went to mom's house to help her out. They had their house insulated and it was super dusty and furniture was pushed every where and it was a little bit like moving day inside the house. So Dolly and I went to help rescue them. And there they were looking tired, dusty, and sweaty. Grandpa had his wet rag in hand and grandma had the vacumn ready to suck up more dust. So after I figure out where I needed to start and where they had ended I was ready to get busy. I happen to start at the dinning room window which is where they left off at. I grabbed the vacumn cleaner and was ready to start sucking dust with the attachment when 'IT' happened. It just escaped and I couldn't stop it! Mom is saying let me come help you and I said no no just stay there I got it. But she didn't head my warning and she walked right into the cloud of it. As she wrinkled up her nose and looked at me I smiled sheepishly and said I tried to warn you. What did you eat, oh my gosh Sheila ! Hey sometimes it just happens. I am still laughing about it to this day. It was a funny inncodent and yes, I am human just like all of you reading this. You know that it has happened to you before. Maybe you just got away with it. Well, that time I didn't. And it was the peppers and oninos I had the day before. :)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-4284153114845868890?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/4284153114845868890/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=4284153114845868890' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4284153114845868890'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4284153114845868890'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/07/sometimes-it-just-happens.html' title='sometimes it just happens'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-745251522734156585</id><published>2011-05-24T18:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-27T05:25:38.696-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;We were at Wednesday night bible study and Dolly was sitting close to me rubbing my knee&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: Nanny can you get me some little tweezers so I can take these thorns out of your knee&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I leaned close to her and said , those are not thorns I need to shave my legs ....................&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-745251522734156585?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/745251522734156585/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=745251522734156585' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/745251522734156585'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/745251522734156585'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/05/conversations-with-dolly_24.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-1003364576615569349</id><published>2011-05-16T19:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-27T05:25:38.696-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;I was giving Dolly a bath and poppy came to the door and started turning the light on and off and on and off.........&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: poppy are you doing the strobe light?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy: the strobe light?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I tell him that daddy does that all the time and taught her that word&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy left chuckling&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: daddy always does that too&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: I know he does&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: Nanny do you do the strobe light?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: No I don't do things like that&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: Only boys do stuff like that&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: that's right they do&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: and boys have yucky germs too&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: yes they do !!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: except poppy......... he just has poppy germs&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-1003364576615569349?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/1003364576615569349/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=1003364576615569349' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1003364576615569349'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1003364576615569349'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/05/conversations-with-dolly_16.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-3059656204205642782</id><published>2011-05-03T05:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-03T05:35:54.853-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k4z45qtAsfs/Tb_1ot4dzwI/AAAAAAAAAHg/hurhROoHsvs/s1600/100_2660.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 150px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602466541332188930" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k4z45qtAsfs/Tb_1ot4dzwI/AAAAAAAAAHg/hurhROoHsvs/s200/100_2660.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m6t0L99WvGg/Tb_03DKy0QI/AAAAAAAAAHY/zTnP3k-nMA4/s1600/100_0016.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 200px; height: 112px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602465688052748546" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m6t0L99WvGg/Tb_03DKy0QI/AAAAAAAAAHY/zTnP3k-nMA4/s200/100_0016.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Se had a yard sale on Saturday and Dolly and Grandma were sitting in the drive-way chatting. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: grandma can Sampson come out of the yard and play with me?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Grandma: Oh no, he would run out in the road and get hurt and then I would be so sad if I didn't have my Sampson&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: Well, we have three dogs you can have one of them&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Grandma: I can? well who would you give grandma?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: but well, you can have stinky old Noah grandma................. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-3059656204205642782?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/3059656204205642782/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=3059656204205642782' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3059656204205642782'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3059656204205642782'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/05/conversations-with-dolly.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k4z45qtAsfs/Tb_1ot4dzwI/AAAAAAAAAHg/hurhROoHsvs/s72-c/100_2660.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-8304849630523958512</id><published>2011-04-27T07:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-27T05:25:38.697-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='kids'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LQdx_e6SZO8/TbglRvUDV-I/AAAAAAAAAHQ/eAPUcQyY3nI/s1600/100_2705.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 150px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600267123323787234" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LQdx_e6SZO8/TbglRvUDV-I/AAAAAAAAAHQ/eAPUcQyY3nI/s200/100_2705.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Last evening I went outside to clean up my truck and get the car seat, Scot and I are switching vehicles today. When I came back in the house they (Scot and Dolly) were in the bathroom. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: what's going on in here?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: I did a big poop and poppy is wiping my butt&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: that's a good girl dolly!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Just a few minutes later she comes running to me&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: nanny I think I have a little bit of poop in my underwear, just a little bit, are you still happy with me?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: well let's go see, maybe poppy didn't wipe it good enough&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He didn't&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: that poppy needs a little more practice&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: maybe when poppy grows up to be an old lady like you he can do it better.................&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-8304849630523958512?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/8304849630523958512/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=8304849630523958512' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8304849630523958512'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8304849630523958512'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/04/conversations-with-dolly.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LQdx_e6SZO8/TbglRvUDV-I/AAAAAAAAAHQ/eAPUcQyY3nI/s72-c/100_2705.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-7422708249174166092</id><published>2011-04-06T04:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-04-06T04:44:32.488-07:00</updated><title type='text'>that is why she is so precious to me</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qg_Cn77RsLU/TZxQjvfTmSI/AAAAAAAAAHI/4ABMqchR4yc/s1600/100_2752.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; height: 150px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592433412260731170" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qg_Cn77RsLU/TZxQjvfTmSI/AAAAAAAAAHI/4ABMqchR4yc/s200/100_2752.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;One evening we were getting ready to go out to eat dinner. Dolly LOVES to go to restaurants! She didn't have a nap that day and I knew she was tired so I only hoped that she wouldn't get cranky, or worse, fall asleep when it was time to go. She was lying on my bed watching me get ready. I was fixing my hair and putting on some make up. I turned to look at her and asked, are you getting sleepy? She nodded her head yes and I said, no, you can't get sleepy now we have to leave soon. She grinned a big sweet grin at me and said I love you Nanny. I smiled and said I love you too Dolly. I turned to finish and then 2 minutes later I turned again and she was curled up fast asleep. And that is why she is so precious to me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-7422708249174166092?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/7422708249174166092/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=7422708249174166092' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7422708249174166092'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7422708249174166092'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/04/that-is-why-she-is-so-precious-to-me_06.html' title='that is why she is so precious to me'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qg_Cn77RsLU/TZxQjvfTmSI/AAAAAAAAAHI/4ABMqchR4yc/s72-c/100_2752.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-2812930096325750469</id><published>2011-03-30T12:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-03T05:33:58.578-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with Dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;This morning we were on our way (very early) to deliver brownies to the church for a lunch at the college. As we were driving in town we had this conversation&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: where are we going Nanny?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: to the church to take these brownies&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: can I go in the big church with you?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: we are not going in the big church, we are going to the church office&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: Oh, will God and Jesus be there?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: No they won't be&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: where are they?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: they are way up in the sky, in heaven&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: do they have a little tiny church up there?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: Oh no! they have a big,big,big beautiful church in heaven&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: Oh, can we go there too?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: yes we can, some day &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-2812930096325750469?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/2812930096325750469/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=2812930096325750469' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2812930096325750469'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2812930096325750469'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/03/conversations-with-dolly_30.html' title='conversations with Dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-7073996003320857635</id><published>2011-03-23T04:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-03T05:33:58.579-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;We were eating dinner and Dolly had her fill, so she starts "fooling around" which is what she always does. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy: you need to get down if you are done or sit down if you are going to eat&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly continues to "fool around"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy: do I need to spank you Dolly?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: yeah!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy: you want me to spank you?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: yes I do&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy: I am going to spank you if you don't stop&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: ok, come let's go&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;she is getting out of the chair now&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: come on Poppy, lets go&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She is off running to her room&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy is slowly in persuit&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy: where is that little girl?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dolly: I am under the bed --- look in the closet&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-7073996003320857635?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/7073996003320857635/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=7073996003320857635' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7073996003320857635'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7073996003320857635'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/03/conversations-with-dolly.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-2520715564894424785</id><published>2011-02-28T16:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-05-03T05:33:58.580-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>Dolly has an addiction to tic-tacs. It's what she always ask for as soon as we get into any vehicle, she &lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;has&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt; to have a tic-tac.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dolly: can I have another tic tac nanny?&lt;br /&gt;Me: no you have had enough already&lt;br /&gt;Dolly: I better not eat to many or I might get a tummy ache and shoot bubbles out of my little hiney butt in the bath tub, and we don't want that to happen do we nanny?&lt;br /&gt;Me:laughing, laughing, laughing, you are really something else Dolly&lt;br /&gt;Dolly: yes I am nanny&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-2520715564894424785?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/2520715564894424785/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=2520715564894424785' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2520715564894424785'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2520715564894424785'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/02/conversations-with-dolly.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-510074407995696337</id><published>2011-02-11T16:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-11T16:28:08.939-08:00</updated><title type='text'>shaving in the pick up line at school</title><content type='html'>Most days I pick Mack up after school. Normally I park and walk to the school and hang around with all the other parents waiting for the bell to ring. However, since winter has come (and boy has it come this year) I just get in the pick up line. If Dolly is with me we have "interesting" conversations. If she is home napping with Daddy in charge I sit and people watch. It's fun and interesting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are women who walk up the road with a cell phone attached to their ear and on the way back down the road the cell phone is still attached to their ear. The child is patiently waiting and looking up at her waiting to tell her all about her day at school, but she keeps on talking. Parents come with their coats zipped up to their chins, hats and gloves, hunching their shoulders because they are cold. On the way back down the road with their child the parent is still hunched from the cold and the childs coat is unzipped flapping in the breeze as they are smiling and chatting away. One man periodically "drags" a little boy because he gets limp as a noodle as soon as he has to hold hands. The kid just hangs there, knees dragging on the ground face looking at the street. The man stands there for quite some time not sure what to do. Guess he doesn't want to really drag him and guess he doesn't really want to spank him in public. Eventually the kid stands errect and not very willingly trods off all downcast and sad because he has to hold hands. Other parents are smiling and holding hands with their children, chatting happily about the days events. Same parents and kids, same scenerio nearly every day. It's funny.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today while I was in line, alone, passing the time, people watching, the guy in front of me was sitting in his truck SHAVING. No kidding! I actually saw him dip his razor in what I presume was a glass of water. He was talking on his cell phone with one hand and shaving with the other. Maybe he has a hot date after school? But that tops the most interesting thing I have ever seen while sitting in the pick up line at school..............&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-510074407995696337?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/510074407995696337/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=510074407995696337' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/510074407995696337'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/510074407995696337'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/02/shaving-in-pick-up-line-at-school.html' title='shaving in the pick up line at school'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-140997046428514026</id><published>2011-02-03T06:17:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-02-03T07:16:32.122-08:00</updated><title type='text'>angels wings and hurdles</title><content type='html'>Life can, and will throw you all kinds of stuff. Good stuff, fun stuff, sad stuff, bad stuff. Stuff, consumes our life every minute of every day. What happens to all that stuff? Sometimes it piles up. It becomes a big mountain of stuff! What can we do with all that stuff? We can get a shovel and start digging our way out. But where to begin? If we start at the bottom of the mountain all the "stuff" comes crashing down on us. If we start at the top we see no way to the bottom.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I rather picture a field of green beautiful grass, and trees gently blowing in the breeze. Colorful fragrant flowers dotting the landscape. Butterflies fluttering about and even honey bees gathering pollen to make honey. Birds singing there songs from the trees. Before me I see hurdles. They are not hurdles that are to high to get over, reasonable height, reasonable lengths apart from each other. The course awaits me and there is no one with a starters pistol pointing at the air saying, on your mark, get set, go! It's not a race to compete with others. It's my own personal race in life. I can go at my own speed. Faster on this stretch, slower on this one. I can't see the end of the race. I have no idea what lies over that hill, or that turn. I just know that I have to get on my best running shoes and begin. I need to get down on one knee (or maybe both) and say a prayer to my almighty saviour to guide me, lift me up, and help me along the way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With a sigh and a deep breathe I can begin now. As I approach the hurdle the adrenaline starts, my heart pounds, my brows sweat. I can't close my eyes for I might fall over the hurdle and be flat on my face. So I look UP for strength and help. And then it happens! By the grace of God I sprout angels wings and before I know it my feet aren't touching the ground and over the hurdle I go. Landing safely on the other side of the hurdle my feet are firmly planted on the ground, I am over the obsticle that was "stuck" in my way. Fully intact, and no worse for the worry. My heart is relieved and I throw my fist up in the air and leap with a resounding YES! I can do this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are losts of hurdles before me, lots to get over. I can't even glimse where the finish line is, but while I am running this race, at least I can take time to see beauty around me. I can stop to smell the flowers along the way and see the butterflies fluttering about in their care free way. I can dodge those honey bees while they gather pollen but still enjoy there busy work. I can listen to the birds singing their songs if I am quiet enough. I can smile and be glad, because I know when that next hurdles comes I can, and will get over it. And I will give thanks to the One who helps me, and enables &lt;strong&gt;me&lt;/strong&gt; to sprout angel wings.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-140997046428514026?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/140997046428514026/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=140997046428514026' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/140997046428514026'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/140997046428514026'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/02/angels-wings-and-hurdles.html' title='angels wings and hurdles'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-576492884364321271</id><published>2011-01-27T06:37:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-01-27T06:45:16.462-08:00</updated><title type='text'>an everyday occurance at my house</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGE4oZ0y5I/AAAAAAAAAG8/ETTRJGLXpQY/s1600/100_2710.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566876722859920274" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGE4oZ0y5I/AAAAAAAAAG8/ETTRJGLXpQY/s200/100_2710.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGEH22IZJI/AAAAAAAAAG0/Gq6-2iq6KOk/s1600/100_2709.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566875884923151506" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGEH22IZJI/AAAAAAAAAG0/Gq6-2iq6KOk/s200/100_2709.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGD1j6WWgI/AAAAAAAAAGs/F1UTpxQHu7Y/s1600/100_2708.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566875570602924546" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGD1j6WWgI/AAAAAAAAAGs/F1UTpxQHu7Y/s200/100_2708.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGDmpjzppI/AAAAAAAAAGk/adIz87Nwpqg/s1600/100_2707.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566875314420950674" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGDmpjzppI/AAAAAAAAAGk/adIz87Nwpqg/s200/100_2707.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-576492884364321271?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/576492884364321271/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=576492884364321271' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/576492884364321271'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/576492884364321271'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/01/everyday-occurance-at-my-house.html' title='an everyday occurance at my house'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TUGE4oZ0y5I/AAAAAAAAAG8/ETTRJGLXpQY/s72-c/100_2710.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-8336673366110149660</id><published>2011-01-26T12:12:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-01-26T12:29:30.278-08:00</updated><title type='text'>the potty incident</title><content type='html'>Off we go shopping and the first thing I have to do when we get there is go to the bathroom. To much coffee of course. Unfortunately the big stall is occupied so Dolly and I have to squeeze into the little one. Move back so I can close the door Dolly. Now move over so I can get in here. Let me go first because I really have to go. Are you doing the pee pee dance Nanny? Yes I am. This is the day she decided &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; to take off her gloves and coat in the store, so after I am done it's her turn. First put your monkey on top of the toilet paper holder so he won't get on the dirty floor. Take off your gloves. "I can do it by myself". Patiently waiting in this tiny cramped space for her. Now stick them in your pockets. "I can do it by myself". Waiting some more.... Now lets take off your coat. "I can do it by myself". Finally I yank her pants down and I sit her on the toilet. "I can do it by myself" and she gets off the toilet only to put herself back on it. Thankfully she didn't pull her pants up just to take them down again. I tell her to squat down (you know those open spaces on the public toilet seats, shes afraid of falling in them) so she won't pee ...................... on the back of her pants. Sigh........... Oh well, now you will have to wear them with the wet spot because we don't have anything to change into. Dat's ok Nanny, it will be awright. I am "allowed" to get her some toilet paper and she thanks me for it, tank you tor getting me the toilet paper Nanny. She is grinning at me. Then she gets off and we are squeezing our way around to get her pants up and I emplore her to wait until we get out of this tiny space to get on her coat. Back up so I can open the door Dolly. Naturally the door goes in instead of out. Now move over Dolly so we can get out of here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have lost count of how many times the automatic flusher has flushed the toilet.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-8336673366110149660?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/8336673366110149660/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=8336673366110149660' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8336673366110149660'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8336673366110149660'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/01/potty-incident.html' title='the potty incident'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-4088140082293031036</id><published>2011-01-26T07:00:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-01-26T07:16:15.352-08:00</updated><title type='text'>ruby's new friend</title><content type='html'>Our neighbors... as I shake my head, have a very different opinion of animal safety living out here in the country. They recently aquired yet another dog. Gracie is a big black labrador retreiver. She is a very friendly dog just dying for someone to pet her. Our neighbor got her from a co-worker. Gracie belonged to his 94 year old grandmother who isn't able to take care of Gracie any longer. Shes alot of dog! Gracie is left outside (not in the fence that they recently put up) to just wonder all day while they are at work. She greets us as we come and go, trying to get &lt;strong&gt;in&lt;/strong&gt; the yard when we open the gate. Our dogs are barking like crazy trying to get &lt;strong&gt;out&lt;/strong&gt; of the yard when we open the gate to see Gracie. A three ring circus is what it always turns out to be. She has been an inside dog most of her life according to our neighbors and so I wonder why they leave her outside to wonder while they are at work? Oh, they put her in the fenced yard but she digs right under it and they know she does it. Then they leave for work probably saying by Gracie, be a good girl. And they probably pat her head as they get in the car to leave. Surely Ruby would like someone to hang out with all day while she is in the house?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Will Gracie wonder to far and get hit by a car? Will she fall prey to a mean dog who is also left to wonder around all day? Will she poop in our carport right outside the car door so we get to step in it? Only time will tell............. I am sure I will have news for you soon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dolly and I are going grocery shopping this morning and will have to carry numerous bags in the house. The gate will be open and I am soooo anticipating what excitement this will bring for Gracie and our dogs as well. Close your eyes and envision the chaos. I already am!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-4088140082293031036?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/4088140082293031036/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=4088140082293031036' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4088140082293031036'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4088140082293031036'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/01/rubys-new-friend.html' title='ruby&apos;s new friend'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-4198844338223822767</id><published>2011-01-20T05:37:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-01-20T05:59:35.086-08:00</updated><title type='text'>the yellow soap</title><content type='html'>I was rummaging through my closet looking for something when I heard Dolly squealing with laughter. Then I heard the sound of little feet shuffling around in the kitchen. What is going on out there I yell? I headed out of the closet to check on the situation, and there was Ruby (the dog next door) running in circles around my bedroom floor with Dolly laughing and running in circles with her. Ruby's here, Ruby's here! Naturally our dogs are running in circles with the two of them trying to catch up to Ruby's behind for a sniff and so the three ring circus starts, AGAIN! Ruby has visited us more times than I care to talk about.&lt;br /&gt;It's worthless to call Ruby to come to you, she won't. I have watched her owners chase her all over the front yard and our driveway trying to catch Ruby. So I sigh heavily, and proceed to work on trapping Ruby in the laundry room so I can get a hold of her collar. I close the doggie door and call everyone else to follow me, the rest of them listen and so Ruby follows too. She is still running in circles the whole way there, nails slidding over the kitchen floor, Dolly squealing Ruby, Ruby, let me catch you. We are in the laundry room and our dogs know what is going on so they quickly dart out while I close the door. I got you Ruby! Hold still so I don't drop you and return an injured dog next door. Dolly, I need to take Ruby home please be good for just a minute, your not dressed and it's cold outside. I will hurry. Not waiting for any response I just go and close the door. She sticks her head out the doggie door calling me. I keep hurrying so I can get back quickly.&lt;br /&gt;I notice that the leash with the clip that you clip onto the collar is stuck inside the storm door and the inside door is closed. Hmmmm, wonder how hard it is to bend over and clip that thing on Ruby's collar before you let her outside! I knock and she opens the door smiling, hair still wet and getting ready to go to work. I wondered where she got to. She was in my house again. She smiles and says I'm sorry. I smile politely, say nothing, and hurry back home. Two minutes is even to long to leave Dolly home alone.&lt;br /&gt;Is Ruby home now nanny? Yes she is. I return to the closet to finish looking for what it was I was looking for and I hear Dolly yelling, the yellow soap, the yellow soap nanny. The yellow soap is the hand soap in the bathroom that she is not allowed to use. She has her own soap that washes off much easier. She likes to slop in the sink as any little kid does. Dolly what did I tell you about using the yellow soap, as I am hurrying to get to her to see what kind of a mess she is making. She is standing in the kitchen saying no nanny, the yellow soap in on the kitchen floor, see. I look to where her little finger is pointing to and sure enough there is a yellow puddle on the floor. Ruby is not as house trained as her owner says. That's not soap Dolly, Ruby peed on the floor. Oh no! For shame on that Ruby she says. Yes, Ruby is a bad girl I say.&lt;br /&gt;They put a fence up for Ruby this past weekend. Hopefully Ruby won't be coming to visit us anymore.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-4198844338223822767?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/4198844338223822767/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=4198844338223822767' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4198844338223822767'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4198844338223822767'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/01/yellow-soap_20.html' title='the yellow soap'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-9164771106038206290</id><published>2011-01-20T05:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-05-03T05:33:58.580-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='conversations with dolly'/><title type='text'>conversations with dolly</title><content type='html'>Were in the car going to get groceries&lt;br /&gt;Dolly: Nanny I'm picking my nose&lt;br /&gt;Me: Well don't do that it's nasty&lt;br /&gt;Dolly: I'm still picking my nose nanny&lt;br /&gt;Me: What does Jeremy say?&lt;br /&gt;Dolly: STOP picking your nose&lt;br /&gt;Me: What does Grandma say?&lt;br /&gt;Dolly: Don't pick your nose&lt;br /&gt;Me: Well then, don't do it&lt;br /&gt;     Silence&lt;br /&gt;Dolly: Hey, hey, but I still pick my nose when Grandma is sleeping on the couch cause she don't say nothin then.... nobody says nothin when there sleeping&lt;br /&gt;    Silence&lt;br /&gt;Glad she can't see me trying not to laugh in the front seat&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-9164771106038206290?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/9164771106038206290/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=9164771106038206290' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/9164771106038206290'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/9164771106038206290'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/01/conversations-with-dolly.html' title='conversations with dolly'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-1121708869816937536</id><published>2011-01-12T05:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-01-12T05:33:02.769-08:00</updated><title type='text'>born to be a drummer</title><content type='html'>The other day we were hanging out in the living room, me and Dolly, I was sewing and she was chatting and singing like she always is. Shes been spending a lot of time lately talking to herself and her dolls. Which is a good thing, since it leaves me off the hook for awhile.&lt;br /&gt;    Then she suddenly gets up and says I am gonna drum Nanny, and she runs to the kitchen. What are you getting I ask? I need some drum sticks. I figure she is getting some wooden spoons and I am dreading how loud this is going to be. What are you going to drum on I ask? The can she says. We have an old milk can that I am using for a plant stand. Oh my this is going to be really loud. She comes running back in the room with two colored pencils from her pencil box, gets down on her knees and says, you sing twinkle twinkle little star. She raises her hands in the air and bangs the pencil sticks together and counts one, two, three, four, five and then starts banging on the can and says, sing Nanny. So we sat there, her drumming and banging the sticks together five times each in between each song and me singing whatever she instructs me to sing. I really think she is born to be a drummer! Did I mention that she knows most of the pieces of a drum set by name? Did I mention that she is only 3 years old? Better get one of those electronic sets that has a volume control..................................&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-1121708869816937536?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/1121708869816937536/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=1121708869816937536' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1121708869816937536'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1121708869816937536'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2011/01/born-to-be-drummer.html' title='born to be a drummer'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-6103820331905152140</id><published>2010-12-04T12:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-12-04T12:42:34.917-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Yes! I have lost my mind</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TPqnklww4oI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/joNVSsf4RbY/s1600/summer%2B2010%2B039.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546930138113958530" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TPqnklww4oI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/joNVSsf4RbY/s200/summer%2B2010%2B039.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Mack,(my grandson) who is now 8 has a habit of saying "Nanny, are you loosing your mind?" I picked him up from school on Friday and there happen to be one of those moments where he had the opportunity to ask that very question. I looked at him and said Mack, I am going to share something with you that, at this point I haven't told anyone yet. He smiled that boyish smile that told me he was waiting for something juicy to hold over my head for awhile.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told him that one day I was dusting the living room and cleaning the smudges off of the monitor on the computer and there was this one spot that I kept rubbing (carefully) and it wouldn't come off. So I put on my glasses (duh) to get a better look at what I was rubbing (carefully) that wouldn't come off. Upon closer inspection I realized that it was the little arrow cursor !!! So I mumbled to myself oh yes Nanny you have lost your mind !&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Naturally Mack smiled that big smile of his and laughed at me and he agreed that I have totally lost my mind............&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-6103820331905152140?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/6103820331905152140/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=6103820331905152140' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6103820331905152140'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6103820331905152140'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/12/yes-i-have-lost-my-mind.html' title='Yes! I have lost my mind'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TPqnklww4oI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/joNVSsf4RbY/s72-c/summer%2B2010%2B039.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-753887234522737903</id><published>2010-11-22T04:27:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-11-22T05:09:51.965-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I love it when......</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOpremuS_uI/AAAAAAAAAGI/NXXvrHwjckU/s1600/fall%2B2010%2B017.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542360464967794402" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOpremuS_uI/AAAAAAAAAGI/NXXvrHwjckU/s200/fall%2B2010%2B017.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOprEjGSWTI/AAAAAAAAAGA/FXVvtvPSyQs/s1600/fall%2B2010%2B002.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542360017318074674" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOprEjGSWTI/AAAAAAAAAGA/FXVvtvPSyQs/s200/fall%2B2010%2B002.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOpqkt6ElII/AAAAAAAAAF4/tAK-GtTkDLM/s1600/100_2108.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542359470463816834" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOpqkt6ElII/AAAAAAAAAF4/tAK-GtTkDLM/s200/100_2108.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOpqLDIkZPI/AAAAAAAAAFw/QHqcoDQjLjs/s1600/100_2136.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542359029485167858" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOpqLDIkZPI/AAAAAAAAAFw/QHqcoDQjLjs/s200/100_2136.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she squeezes my neck so hard I choke and my eyes pop out&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she drops playdoh crumbs on the floor on purpose so she can use the electric broom to clean up her mess&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she puts her dirty dishes in the dishwasher on top of the clean ones...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she says her F words which are T sounds like tunny and tind and tell and tantastic&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when her face is beaming with happiness because the dog sat in front of her and offered his paw&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when were in the car and she has to sing so loud you have to roll down the windows to let the sound out&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she says I am ally ally done now&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she puts her underwear on backwards and then picks it out of her crack all day&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when you give her something that makes her so happy and she says tank you very much nanny&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she is watching her favorite shows with a grin from ear to ear and never hears you talking to her&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she watches the same movie 100 times before she switches to a new one&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she tells poppy over the phone I tell and got bwood, look do you see it poppy?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she tells me you are &lt;strong&gt;NOT &lt;/strong&gt;going to run away from home nanny&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she is talking to grandma on the phone and ask to talk to sampson the dog&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when I ask her, what am I going to do with you? and she says love me and squeeze me and kiss me&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when after church on Sunday she asks are we going to lunch at the westaurant now?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she sees a bug and has to get up close and personal with it&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she pets the goat and says you wanna smell my hand it smells like stinky gus&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she sees a neighbor and frantically waves and yells hi until they notice her&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when were in a store and she spots a baby and insists she has to see it and touch it and says oh what a cute little baby&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she wants to look at pictures of herself when she was a baby &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she unrolls the whole roll of toilet paper and says nanny look what happened!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when company comes and have to use that roll of toilet paper&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she is scared or hurt or sick and she always comes to me for comfort&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she goes for a nap and 5 minutes later says I woke up now&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love it when she chases &lt;strong&gt;me&lt;/strong&gt; and says I gonna get your little hiney butt&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love that she is happy and beautiful inside and outside and is so innocent and curious and loving and mischevious all wrapped into one little ball of princess&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love that God has blessed me with this little girl&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-753887234522737903?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/753887234522737903/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=753887234522737903' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/753887234522737903'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/753887234522737903'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-love-it-when.html' title='I love it when......'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOpremuS_uI/AAAAAAAAAGI/NXXvrHwjckU/s72-c/fall%2B2010%2B017.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-6790122478906068920</id><published>2010-11-19T04:32:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-11-19T04:56:57.303-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Ramen Noodles</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOZ0AYaUndI/AAAAAAAAAFo/2JrYCPx6mK0/s1600/100_1643.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541243941427650002" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOZ0AYaUndI/AAAAAAAAAFo/2JrYCPx6mK0/s320/100_1643.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I fell asleep on the couch when Dolly went for a nap. I dreamed that Timmy was there when I woke up and that someone had brought him home a day earlier. I was so surprised that I fainted. It was the moment I woke up and then I dozed back to sleep again and was just coming to from the fainting spell. He was standing there in tan pants with a blue military shirt on, obviously the clothes they gave him to come home in since he went there in orange jail bird clothes. He said "hey woman why is the refrigerator empty"? I instantly noticed how slim and trim he was and I got up and said come here and hug me. Then I woke up. It was so funny because he has gained a lot of weight in the last year. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I went outside to tell Scot about my dream and he laughed and said did you read that letter we got from him today? I said no I didn't see it. He laughed again and said that Timmy is talking about getting diet pills to loose some of the weight he gained. I hurried inside to read the letter and I quote "I am excited about coming home everything is going to be a little bit different. I can't wait to eat pizza and fajitas and lasagna and steak. Oh man it's going to be so nice to eat a pork steak or even a pork chop...... Hell yeah!!! That will be the nicest thing ever. It sucks going 10 months without eating real meat. They say we get turkey but it think it's soybeans cause it don't taste nothing like turkey. I think I'm gonna get some diet pills when I get out to lose some of this weight that I've gained for 10 months of eating nothing but raman noodles, God those things are fattening. So, I did laugh....................!!!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-6790122478906068920?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/6790122478906068920/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=6790122478906068920' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6790122478906068920'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6790122478906068920'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/11/ramen-noodles.html' title='Ramen Noodles'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOZ0AYaUndI/AAAAAAAAAFo/2JrYCPx6mK0/s72-c/100_1643.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-2750899752454552117</id><published>2010-11-18T05:02:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-11-18T05:15:07.674-08:00</updated><title type='text'>shes running away from home</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOUmzNBwBYI/AAAAAAAAAFg/iW361Y6KoSk/s1600/shoes%2B001.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540877577661449602" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOUmzNBwBYI/AAAAAAAAAFg/iW361Y6KoSk/s200/shoes%2B001.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOUmg6KSQsI/AAAAAAAAAFY/bq1X6g2eW8s/s1600/shoes%2B002.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540877263359328962" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOUmg6KSQsI/AAAAAAAAAFY/bq1X6g2eW8s/s320/shoes%2B002.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;One evening after dinner while Dolly was occupied I motioned to Scot that I was going to the store. He nodded ok and I snuck out the back door. It's so much easier to zip to the store alone and not have to buckle unbuckle and buckle again. While I was gone she noticed I was missing and asked poppy, where is nanny? He told her I ran away. She marched to her room and said I am going to run away and find her. As I was coming in the back door and she was lugging this bag that looked pretty heavy. She says this is heavy nanny. I said what are you doing? She says I am running away from home to find you. You are? What do you have in that bag, lets see. I bend down and sure enough it's full. Full of about 5 pair of shoes........... she's got her priorities.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-2750899752454552117?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/2750899752454552117/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=2750899752454552117' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2750899752454552117'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2750899752454552117'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/11/shes-running-away-from-home.html' title='shes running away from home'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOUmzNBwBYI/AAAAAAAAAFg/iW361Y6KoSk/s72-c/shoes%2B001.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-391551848657124545</id><published>2010-11-18T04:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-11-18T05:01:18.897-08:00</updated><title type='text'>hair dye and new pajamas</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOUjXiu1MLI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/vq92ciXCwPY/s1600/fall%2B2010%2B001.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540873803916456114" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOUjXiu1MLI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/vq92ciXCwPY/s320/fall%2B2010%2B001.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;The morning is cool and crisp and it promises to be a beautiful day. Shawn is coming over to "help" with some chicken chores. Sometimes chicken chores involve being in the goat yard and that means Gus to contend with. He's mostly good, but not always good. Big mama (the chicken) was injured, again. Shes big and slow and Sunny steps on her when she gets running around like a crazy goat in the evening. Gus isn't fond of anyone who moves any of his furniture (the spool) or picks big mama up. He adores her. So Shawn gets her out and we put her in the main chicken yard and while we are at it lets shoo a few of these other chickens in the goat yard. Got a 16 to 5 ratio going and I am sure Domino would like a few more hens to boss around. There is a small spot in the chain link fence that was cut out before we got another rooster for the hens to travel from yard to yard. It's patched now with chicken wire. So let me loosen it up and we can shove a few hens through the hole as we coax them with some chicken food. Sure that would work if Gus hadn't come over and managed to squeeze himself under the fence. I carted Dolly out of there fast and watched as he got rowdy with Shawn. Shawn broke the rake handle over his back and Gus rammed his knee pretty hard. Sunny got under the fence too and chickens were scattering every where. I got some corn on the cob to coax him out of the yard but he was torn between eating and giving Shawn a hard time. He got half way home but was "fooling" around to much and then the words came. That's it buster.... your going down! That means Shawn has had enough and he gets on his hands and knees and yanks Gus' front legs and brings him down then sits on him so he can't get up. Meanwhile Sunny willfully heads home to the right yard and I open the gate and let her in. After the take down Gus cooperates and goes home too. I saw Shawn go in the yard with him and hug him, baby him, and I think kiss him too. Brave guy, Gus STINKS! We managed to get 3 hens over to the other yard and aquire goat smell on us. Heres the truth, if Shawn would have left the yard and got on the deck I would have been able to lore Gus out of the chicken yard straight to the goat yard with no problems. Gus just likes to mess with Shawn.&lt;br /&gt;The day progresses with more chores and some play. By evening only one hen is left in the goat yard that we moved over. Sigh...... they always fly over the fence. That particular chicken is sort of small so I guess she couldn't make it over. Later when I was making dinner I looked out the window and the chicken was riding on Gus' back! I think she was trying to get a lift over the fence but Gus was walking the other way. I yelled for Scot to come look because it may never happen again and I got a picture of it.&lt;br /&gt;We captured my neighbors bunny in the front yard that has been loose for weeks. It took me her and her son to catch her but she is safe now and that makes me feel better.&lt;br /&gt;After dinner I went to take a shower and when I took off my sneakers I dumped a ton, well maybe half a ton of dirt and grass all over the bathroom floor..... I grazed my finger with a rotary cutter that day and scratched my arm on chicken wire fencing and there is a chunk of flesh missing on the palm of my hand that I have no idea how I did that. But never fear, I have a new pair of pajamas and a box of hair dye. Funny how that makes you feel better at the end of a long day&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-391551848657124545?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/391551848657124545/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=391551848657124545' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/391551848657124545'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/391551848657124545'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/11/hair-dye-and-new-pajamas.html' title='hair dye and new pajamas'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/TOUjXiu1MLI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/vq92ciXCwPY/s72-c/fall%2B2010%2B001.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-1038823218220716885</id><published>2010-11-15T04:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-11-15T05:18:35.129-08:00</updated><title type='text'>the jar of worries and fear</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;this is dedicated to my family, because it is about my family&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;The jar of worries and fear. We all have one. But how we handle them is another thing. I have a jar. It's a really big jar. Everything I worry about and fear about it is that jar. It has become so heavy and cumbersome. There is something in there from all of you. Some of you have more stuff in there than others. I keep cramming stuff in there and quickly screwing on the cap so it all stays inside. It is on the verge of bursting and the weight of it has become more than I can bear. My shoulders are slumped from dragging it around with me and my eyes are down cast from the shear weight of it. I have neglected to look up and see the beauty and joy that surrounds my very exhistance. The blessings bestowed upon my life from my heavenly father. I want to stay in bed with the covers over my head and not have to deal with that stupid jar. But the answer is right in front of me. Why have I neglected to seek it? Look at this jar, do you see all the darkness that dwells inside of it? Why, I believe I see a few bitter roots growing in there. Those roots are really starting to take hold and wrap themselves around me. They are smothering me. They are holding me down and keeping from me, peace and joy and happiness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now that you all are here I want you to gather around. Watch me as I unscrew the lid, stand back while I scoop all the stuff out. I apoligize if any of it falls down upon your head, that may be some of the stuff that belongs to you anyway. I can't keep it any longer. I am throwing it to heaven to lay at the feet of Jesus. Whatever made me think that I could fix all that stuff? Whatever made me think I could change all that stuff anyway? Who am I to assume I could do it? Impossible! Jesus, take it, take all of it and make something beautiful out of it. Make it count for something positive, use your might and power. I release it to you so that your will be done. Remove the scales from my eyes and allow me to see, and appreciate the promises you have for me. Bring me the peace and joy and happiness that are to be mine. Allow me to walk upright again and not slumped over. Help me to be ever grateful for all that I am blessed with. I thank you  now for what you have done for me yesterday and I thank you for what you are doing in my heart today and I thank you for what you will bless me with tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now that my jar is empty I am going to crush it because I won't need it any longer. I don't claim to be perfect, I am far from it. But I can go on from here now that I am free. Now that my heart is free from burdens I can love you all more, and enjoy you all more, and the smile on my face will be genuine. I will always be here for you if you need me for anything, but the worries and the fear won't go into that darn old jar any longer. That's because I broke it, remember? However, I can, and will pray for you. There is only one who can fix it, and with a little team work from you nothing is impossible.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-1038823218220716885?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/1038823218220716885/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=1038823218220716885' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1038823218220716885'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/1038823218220716885'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/11/jar-of-worries-and-fear.html' title='the jar of worries and fear'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-8723509034978617268</id><published>2010-11-12T04:41:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-11-12T05:04:55.245-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='the dog next door'/><title type='text'>The dog next door</title><content type='html'>We recently got new neighbors and they have a little weeny dog named Ruby. She is very young and squirms and wiggles like a noodle. She doesn't willingly come to you because she is to busy wiggling. We have a ranch fence around the back yard and naturally a little dog like Ruby can fit right through the squares on the fence. So when we are outside and Ruby is outside and not tied to her front porch she comes to visit. This makes Dolly so excited and our dogs are "dog friendly" with other dogs. Dolly squeals with delight as she says Ruby Ruby come here, Ruby keeps going in circles and Dolly might get a quick pet in if she is lucky. Getting Ruby to go home is not an easy task. It's like trying to catch a cricket that keeps hopping.&lt;br /&gt;One Saturday morning as I was finishing in the shower and getting dressed I heard a comotion in the living room then the back door closing and then Dolly crying, Poppy I want to come outside. Then Dolly is trying to tell me something between her tears and excitement and I wasn't understanding any of it! She left the bathroom as Scot appeared to tell me that he was sitting on the couch watching TV and a dog jumped on his lap, not uncommon in our house. He said he went to pet it and then realized it was the dog next door. So Ruby has discovered the doggie door! It was only a matter of time. He said he chased her outside and into the driveway. Then the giggling starts and Dolly is yelling Ruby Ruby come here Ruby is here again Poppy. I am laughing inside and trying not to laugh outside because Scot rolled his eyes and growled and marched out of the bathroom. His patience is minimal mine is maximum. Then I hear march march with stomping feet and the back door opening again. Then Dolly is yelling Poppy I want to come outside. I am smiling at all this, can't help it. It was quite a few minutes before he came back in the house so I guessed he marched to their front door this time. He did and she said she guessed she would have to keep Ruby penned up all day. Duh.... you can't just let your dog visit in peoples doggie doors all day. I am sure Scot's blood pressure was up.&lt;br /&gt;Not done yet folks. It's Sunday morning and I am getting ready for church and what do I hear? Dolly laughing with delight and the sound of nails sliding over the kitchen floor and Dolly yelling  Ruby Ruby ... Ruby is here! I am laughing inside again. Then marching feet and a door slamming. This time Ruby shows up with a piece of rope tied to her collar. Scot said he just took her back and tied her up to the other end of the rope. He didn't knock on the door or tell anyone. Wonder if Ruby will come visit us again? My bet is she will whenever she gets the chance, I just hope we are home when it happens. I am imagining what I would find if Ruby spent a few hours in our house alone when no one was there. YIKES!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-8723509034978617268?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/8723509034978617268/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=8723509034978617268' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8723509034978617268'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8723509034978617268'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/11/dog-next-door.html' title='The dog next door'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-3611680176454614299</id><published>2010-10-27T05:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-10-27T05:32:25.439-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my moms innocence makes me laugh'/><title type='text'>my moms innocence makes me laugh</title><content type='html'>I wanted to make some chocolate chip cookies the other day and realized that I didn't have any baking soda, so I called my mom and asked her if she had any and could she put just a little bit in a ziploc bag for me and bring it along to church. When we got to church I asked her if she remembered the baking soda and as she reached into her purse she told me I didn't have a ziploc bag so I put it in this tin foil. And she hands me a piece of tin foil all wrapped up neatly with the baking soda in it. I chuckled inside and all I could think of was what if, for whatever reason. I got pulled over and the cops found this tinfoil package and unwrapped it and here I got some white powder in it? Unfortunately the story ends here and I won't be giving you any drama and excitement but still.................. my mom's innocence makes me laugh. Of course white powder in a ziploc bag wouldn't be any better but the tin foil takes the cake. I love my mom. She always makes me laugh and the two of us together are bound to be a comedy.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-3611680176454614299?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/3611680176454614299/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=3611680176454614299' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3611680176454614299'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3611680176454614299'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/10/my-moms-innocence-makes-me-laugh.html' title='my moms innocence makes me laugh'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-5310652348219002170</id><published>2010-10-25T05:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-10-25T06:27:08.591-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Demeral AND beer?'/><title type='text'>Demeral AND beer?</title><content type='html'>It was a Saturday night and I had just fallen asleep. What is that noise? It's my cell phone, something must be wrong. Groggily I wake up and search for the phone which is right next to the bed. Hello, it's my mom and she is nearly crying, Sheila can you take me to the emergency room I have so much pain, something is not right. Let me get some clothes on and I will be right there. Thankfully she is only 5 minutes down the road ( 8 in the dark). She had back surgery 8 days ago and is in the recovery stages. There is no one else in the waiting room so we never have to sit down and in only minutes we are in a room. Then she sits down, very gently. 5 minutes later a doctor comes in and listens to her situation. He rubs his chin and hesitates a few minutes and says let me get the nurse and I will need to have a look back there. That means lying down and that is when the intense pain happens. We look at each other with that knowing look that doom is about to happen. Here they come and carefully and slowly she lies down on her side with minimal amount of moaning. After checking he says I don't see anything out of place and it looks like it is healing well. I think what you are experiencing is the nerve endings coming back to life. Now it's time to sit up. With two of them helping her the pain is excruciating and the moaning is so loud and she almost passes out from the pain and another doctor comes in. Two doctors and a nurse are glaring at her with worried expressions. She is standing because that is the position they got her in. Oh my gosh it's terrible to see her hurt so badly. And there is nothing I can do! One of the doctors suggests a shot for the pain and she puts her hand up and shakes her head no and says I already took my pain pill. I said mom I think you should take the shot it will help you. She hesitates then agrees. So they all went out and one of the doctors comes back with the shot. She is sitting on the bed again and right in the hiney she gets it. Now we have to wait 10 minutes or so for it to take effect. We are chatting quietly and then she really starts chatting and occasionally her words are sloppy. Then she says I think this is starting to take effect because I am feeling a little --she was at a lost for words so I filled in--drunk? Yeah and we laughed and yack yack yack yack. She would change the subject before we finished the first conversation. She was funny. The doctor came in and told her to go home, rest and to call her surgery doctor monday if it continued. We'll get you a chair and wheel you out of here in just a minute. So I helped her to get dress and got our purses and went to get the car. SheIS funny when she is loopy. She had some trouble getting out of the chair and into the car and situated but she is such a trooper. I know she is still hurting and what can I do? We are driving slowly through downtown and the lights are blinking yellow and red since there is little to no traffic every night. She is sort of mumbling and says what is that place? Oh, it's a bar, a nice cold beer would be good once in awhile. I laughed and said sure let's stop for one that would be good with your demeral. We chuckled and she continues about how a cold beer once in awhile is so good and it's been so long since I had a nice cold beer and once in awhile I would love to have one and I probably drank enough beer to last me a life time already. As were going down the highway Scot is calling to see if she is okay and I told him she wants to go for a nice cold beer and he is laughing and says we can stop at Archie's on the way home. Its a little country bar down the road from her. And she says yeah we can go in their and do Kareokee. Boy wouldn't that be something. I can't sing and she can 't hardly walk and she is dopey as all get out. She is going to sleep good tonight. I get her home and I help her change and I tuck her into bed and prop a pillow behind her back to support her if she rolls cause that's when the pain hits. I kiss her goodnight on the cheek and say I don't know if I have ever tucked you in bed before mom? I love you, I love you to honey and thank you. I tell pops good night and wait in the car to make sure he gets the lights off okay. As they slowly go off from room to room I know they are securly safe for the night and I go home to crawl into my own bed. Pops tells me she was sound asleep before he got back to the bedroom.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-5310652348219002170?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/5310652348219002170/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=5310652348219002170' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/5310652348219002170'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/5310652348219002170'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/10/demeral-and-beer.html' title='Demeral AND beer?'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-7365814993573327571</id><published>2010-10-23T18:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-10-23T19:10:07.610-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The windows to small or my hips are to big</title><content type='html'>After dinner I grab my bucket and a few carrots and I am off to gather eggs and feed the animals. I have learned to do the goat yard first because they (Gus) has no patience in waiting to be second. First you fill the food tub with goat grower (cause I am growing some big goats)) then you add a scoop of corn because that's what makes them happy and distracted while I gather eggs in that part of the yard. There is a lock on the inside and outside of the door to the hen house so that when I go in to get eggs I can lock the door so no goats will follow me in there. It's narrow and forcing a large goat out backwards might not be to easy, especially a male with big horns. So I go in and lock the door and get the eggs, I unlatch the lock and push and nothing happens, the door must be stuck, so I push again and it ain't budgin. Many pushes and I discover that the latch on the outside fell down and I am stuck! This wouldn't be such a problem except that Gus doesn't like Scot and he has had a few "incidents" with him while being in the goat yard. The goat yard is now off limits for Scot. It's a male thing you know, don't mess with Gus's girls or he comes after you. Well, even if you don't mess with his girls you can't come in if your a male unless you want to wrestle with him. Soooo, what to do? I never go in there without my cell phone, just incase, and this is one of those just in case times. I call Shawn, he is the one who wrestles Gus to the ground if necessary. Shawn is on his way in town to pick up his daughter and so when I tell him I am locked inside the hen house in the goat yard he starts laughing his butt off. What are you going to do he asks? Well, there is a little window in the hen house and I think I can climb out that way, call you back and let you know. By this time Dolly is wondering where I am and she is calling for me. She is playing in the yard with poppy. I have no choice but to inform Scot that I am stuck. He laughs, then says let me come open the door for you. I yell no no you can't come in here. He opens the gate and Gus hears him and I yell Gus is coming get out! Very quickly he turns around and latches the gate. Well what are you going to do he asks? I am going to climb out this window here. Can you fit? I think I can. The window is up high so I stand on the nesting boxes and put one leg out. It's a good drop to the ground and I am not sure I can get the leverage to do this gracefully. Nope, this isn't going to work. Let me try to go head first I yell. He says you can't do that your going to fall. Looking at the drop he is probably right. And on second thought I don't think my hips will fit and then I will be hanging out the window with my hips stuck and who knows what would happen if that stinky goat came over to see me? He has been rather horny lately with his girls and I didn't want to be stuck there. So I yell I don't think I can fit through this window. Why mention that my butt would be what caused me to be stuck, that's like opening a can of worms with a man! I look up and Scot is getting ready to come in the gate again. I yell no, you can't come in here someone has to take care of Dolly. I envision him plastered to the ground with a huge goat looming over him, stomping on him and worse, and I am stuck and Dolly is all alone in the other yard. Oh the horror of it. He puts his finger to his lips and says shhhhh, he points to Gus who is on his knees busy eating with his back to the gate. Very silently he lifts the latch and opens the gate ever so slowly and latches it again very gently. He actually tip toes across the yard and unlatches the door to the hen house and rapidly tip toes back out the gate and I wait back with the carrot. He closes the gate latch with a clang and Gus pops his head up and swings around and looks at Scot, I yell Gus come get your carrot and he quickly lumbers over to me, eats the carrot and goes back to his tub of food. With a big sigh I leave the yard, latch the gate and put the chain around it. Then we laugh. And if you would have seen Scot tip toeing across that yard you would have laughed too. I called Shawn to share the story with him and again he is laughing his butt off.......Better cut a hole in that door so it won't happen again. Believe me, I totally secure the latch before I go in there so it won't happen ever again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-7365814993573327571?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/7365814993573327571/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=7365814993573327571' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7365814993573327571'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7365814993573327571'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2010/10/windows-to-small-or-my-hips-are-to-big.html' title='The windows to small or my hips are to big'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-880817086207526568</id><published>2008-04-22T14:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T16:21:03.577-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='kids'/><title type='text'>Little Angels</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/SA6Lvj3y6MI/AAAAAAAAADk/dvYb106UlTk/s1600-h/IMG_0236.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192241069604137154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/SA6Lvj3y6MI/AAAAAAAAADk/dvYb106UlTk/s320/IMG_0236.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/SA6Lvz3y6NI/AAAAAAAAADs/ZfdBD93_Vng/s1600-h/IMG_0235.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192241073899104466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/SA6Lvz3y6NI/AAAAAAAAADs/ZfdBD93_Vng/s320/IMG_0235.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Recently our baby grand daughter has come to stay with us. She was just over two months old at the time. This means middle of the night feedings. Good thing I am not a heavy sleeper. As she is sleeping, I look at her chubby little face and feel how smooth her cheeks are. She has fat little turkey legs and dimples on her chubby little hands. She has dimples on her cheeks when she smiles and the biggest blue eyes ever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One night, after a late night bottle, as I burped her and rubbed her back she went right back to sleep. I put her down in her bed and rubbed her back a little more and whispered very quietly what a precious little angel she was. Then she stuck her little hiney up in the air and just let one rip. She went on sleeping but I had to cover my mouth to keep the laugh from escaping or she probably would have woken up. She is still a precious little angel even if she is a bit gassey.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-880817086207526568?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/880817086207526568/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=880817086207526568' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/880817086207526568'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/880817086207526568'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/04/little-angels.html' title='Little Angels'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/SA6Lvj3y6MI/AAAAAAAAADk/dvYb106UlTk/s72-c/IMG_0236.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-19689789881155099</id><published>2008-04-08T14:38:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T16:21:04.026-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='daily life'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='shawn'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='wildlife'/><title type='text'>Spring time in West Texas</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R_vmAlSBoaI/AAAAAAAAADY/863nzXo57ok/s1600-h/!cid_86328D98056A11DD993EBEF7CFF086BC%40snj-us-pcwp-707_us_kodak.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186992293529362850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R_vmAlSBoaI/AAAAAAAAADY/863nzXo57ok/s320/!cid_86328D98056A11DD993EBEF7CFF086BC%40snj-us-pcwp-707_us_kodak.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R_vl8lSBoZI/AAAAAAAAADQ/NODH1ubCpyc/s1600-h/!cid_8631B6FC056A11DD993EBEF7CFF086BC%40snj-us-pcwp-707_us_kodak.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186992224809886098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R_vl8lSBoZI/AAAAAAAAADQ/NODH1ubCpyc/s320/!cid_8631B6FC056A11DD993EBEF7CFF086BC%40snj-us-pcwp-707_us_kodak.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-19689789881155099?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/19689789881155099/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=19689789881155099' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/19689789881155099'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/19689789881155099'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/04/spring-time-in-west-texas.html' title='Spring time in West Texas'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R_vmAlSBoaI/AAAAAAAAADY/863nzXo57ok/s72-c/!cid_86328D98056A11DD993EBEF7CFF086BC%40snj-us-pcwp-707_us_kodak.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-4617215674561459042</id><published>2008-04-04T11:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T16:21:04.325-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='daily life'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='animals'/><title type='text'>Introducing The Beast</title><content type='html'>&lt;div&gt;Shawn is coming back from Phoenix. And, that means Mack is coming back too. Oh how I have missed that little boy. He has been gone for 9 months and it feels like forever. Every night I prayed to God to protect them and keep them safe. I prayed that God would help Shawn make good decisions with his life and Mack’s. Then I would ask, God if it is your will please send them back to us. And here they come. God is so good!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They arrived late, around midnight. Shawn and I kept in touch with text messages all evening so I would know how close they were. And before you knew it the u-haul was coming down the drive way. As the door opened there was a sleepy Mack with his arms out stretched calling Nanny. I grabbed him and held him, and he held me. Oh my sweet boy I have missed you so much! It was so good to feel him in my arms again. And he was holding me so tight. He has grown a bit since I last saw him and he was a lot heavier too. Poppy came outside and I said, "Poppy wants to hug you, Mack". And we made the switch over. My arms were about to give in. Little boys sure do grow fast. Shawn looked great as I hugged him and then out of the truck comes Tyson. He was a puppy when I last saw him and Scot warned me how big he was. I can tell you that puppies definitely grow a lot faster then little boys do.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;There are 6 words to describe Tyson.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Big&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Brown&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Buff&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Beautiful&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Baby&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;and bad!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Tyson is a pit-bull and a bull mastiff mix. He was just a tiny thing when Shawn got a hold of him. He had parvo and all his siblings died. Shawn got medicine from the local tractor supply store and Timmy injected him with the medication. He lived in a laundry basket for about a month until he was strong enough to walk. Shawn fed him pedialite and baby food in the beginning and when he got stronger he bought chicken, boiled it, and put it into a blender to make mush. That is how he got the name Tyson. He consumed a lot of Tyson chicken. Much TLC was invested in this dog. Shawn loves animals and it isn’t surprising that his dog would be a big baby.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everyone went inside and Tyson met the other dogs. We have three of them. Noah is a mutt and ever so gentle and friendly. BJ is a Boston terrier and looks like a baby hippo. He likes to eat. And Bailey is a pug. She is bossy and thinks she runs the show around here. Everyone got along just fine and we showed Tyson where the doggie door was. Thankfully he could fit through it. We visited for a bit and then we went to bed. Scot had to work the next day and I am sure Shawn was tired from the drive. They were here safely and tomorrow I could get to spend time with Mack.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Getting to know Tyson was easy enough. He is a very friendly dog. Too friendly at times. He doesn’t understand how big and strong he is. He is very lovable and he thinks he is a lap dog. It’s good Shawn was home a few days before he got a job, just to supervise the getting to know us stage. Tyson barked a few mornings when Scot got up to go to work. It was still dark and when Scot came into the kitchen Tyson growled and barked at him. Scot asked him, "Who do you thing you are? This is my house buddy". Tyson would lay his head down and give you those big brown eyes.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;The only bad thing that I find with Tyson, is that you can’t play with him to well. Well, if you are me that is. He is too strong for me. And he is a clutz. That thing where he thinks he is a lap dog doesn’t help either. He just kind of barrels into you. He is really playful and still in the puppy stage. I am waiting for him to be old and lazy like Noah. I think I have a long wait. Things are going okay and Shawn is working and Mack is here with me and the 4 dogs. There is nothing boring about our days here. The dogs had a few scuffles but peace and tranquility is now established.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Timmy came to stay with us temporarily, and on this particular week Jeremy and Jinny took a vacation and I am dog sitting. So now we have 6 dogs here. Oh yes, you read that right! Good thing we have a big house and a doggie door and ¾ of an acre of fenced in yard for them. But still, it’s a little crazy here. I needed to go for groceries and Timmy was going with me. I knew that I needed to separate the dogs since Tyson was not really use to the other two dogs. Didn’t want any fights to happen while I was out. I put little Lola in her kennel and I didn’t want to traumatize Duke by shutting him in a bedroom. Duke is the three legged border collie my son and daughter in law adopted from the pound. He’s a bit scared of loud noises and such, but a very good dog. So I decided to put Tyson in Shawn’s bedroom and close the door. I figured he could hold any potty business while we were gone and take a nap. Boy was I wrong!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We got home from the store and went to release the captives. When I got to Shawn’s room I was afraid to open the door. I could already see the carpet was shredded under the door. I could hear Tyson whining to have the door opened. I opened the door and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Besides the bed covers being every where and the mattress slightly cockeyed on the bed, the carpet was chewed down to the padding at the door. The molding around the door was missing half way up the wall. There was a hole in the wall down low by the door. And Shawn’s bible by his bed was chewed up. Guess he was getting the Word put into him. I called for Timmy and he came and looked in the room. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;"I knew that wasn’t a good idea. Dad is gonna be mad. Tyson what did you do!! Bad dog!!"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I felt like I couldn’t yell at him. After all, it was my stupid idea to put him in there and close the door. I should have known the puppy in him would have come out. I should have put Duke in the bedroom and closed the door. He wouldn’t have done this!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I called Shawn at work and told him. He said, "Oh no, Dad is going to be so mad". I think I just heard that statement a minute ago? I told him I was going to call dad right now and tell him so that it could sink into his head before he got home from work and he could cool off a bit. I called Scot at work and told him. I told him it was my fault that I should have know better then to close the beast up like that. He said well, we will just have to get a throw rug for now to put over the chewed up spot. I will pick one up after work. ????????? Was that really the conversation we just had? He didn’t say he was going to kill the dog, or take his butt to the pound, or that Shawn had to find another place for him to stay? I called Shawn and he couldn’t believe that dad was so calm either. But we sighed with relief.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Later as I was petting Tyson and he was looking at me with those big brown eyes I noticed blue carpet threads stuck in between his teeth. I pulled them out and thought 'you are going to be in so much trouble when your daddy gets home tonight'. It hasn’t taken me very long to fall in love with the beast. He works me over like a grand child would. He follows me every where I go just waiting for me to talk to him and pat his head. He is so big that I don’t even need to bend over to reach his head to pat it. He rests his big head on my lap when I sit down. And again with those big brown eyes looks at me so gentle. Ahhhh, what a sucker I am!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;The molding is replaced, the hole patched and painted. There is a throw rug over the threshold at the door and Shawn got a new bible. Tyson never gets shut in a bedroom any longer and Duke and Lola had a nice visit with Nanny. Oh yes, I can see it is going to be one adventure after another with Tyson in our lives…………………… You’ll see.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185491743625290114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R_aRRFSBoYI/AAAAAAAAADI/-k6E3fa7-_8/s320/IMG_0016.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-4617215674561459042?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/4617215674561459042/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=4617215674561459042' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4617215674561459042'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4617215674561459042'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/04/introducing-beast.html' title='Introducing The Beast'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R_aRRFSBoYI/AAAAAAAAADI/-k6E3fa7-_8/s72-c/IMG_0016.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-8310976092863196228</id><published>2008-04-04T09:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-04T09:22:53.488-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='daily life'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='God'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Love'/><title type='text'>With Joy There Is Sorrow, With Sorrow There Is Hope</title><content type='html'>I fancy myself a writer. I write out incidents and happy moments in my life and the life of my family. I email them to other family members and share them with my friends. They tell me they love my stories and to keep them coming. I print them out and save them in plastic sleeves in a notebook. One day I hope to really write a book and maybe have it published. My daughter in law has even picked out a name for the book. It will be called “ From the back porch”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To give you a glimpse of my personality I love to write, sew, garden, and be around people. I am a hugger and a kisser. I am one of those people that are very physical and it’s common for me to touch people when I am just talking to them. It’s just how I am. I am not shy about telling my friends and family that I love them. Even if some of them are shy about telling me they love me, it’s okay. I want them to know that I love them. Sunshine is one of my favorite things, but cloudy days make me down. Especially too many of them in a row. There are to many wonderful things in life to experience and 'today is the first day of the rest of your life' means a lot to me. I am generally pin pointed as a really happy person to be around. I care about other people. I care if they are happy or not. If they are not, what can I do to make a happy moment in there day? A hug always helps along with a big smile!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;However, there has been sorrow in our family. Everyone has sorrow that shows up in there lives. But this was a sorrow that was not expected. This was a series of events that happened and it tore apart many hearts. These events seemed to never stop and it was an on going saga that seemed to have no ending.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The writing stopped. The sewing stopped and the garden and yard seemed to take on a dreary quality. The wonderful things in life that I felt I experienced every day seemed to slowly dwindle away. I didn’t care if the sun was shining or if it was cloudy and rainy. A dreary day suited my mood just fine. Where was the joy in my life? Where was the love that I saw when I looked into my loved ones faces. I lost it some where along the way. I was afraid I would never find it again.&lt;br /&gt;My friends at work skirted around me. Anything we talked about led me to my sorrow and the happenings in my life, and I cried. I cried everyday and I cried at every episode I could find to cry about. The sorrow consumed me and every aspect of my life. I didn’t want to be around myself and there were thoughts of just exiting from this world and leaving it all behind. Then I would not have to deal with it, think about it, or live it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It so happens that I have a friend (who is an angel in disguise) that thought differently. She has sorrow in her life also. Our combined sorrow brought us together, as strange as it would seem. She was bold about dealing with her sorrow. She functioned everyday in a way that I could not comprehend. And one day she says to me, "You should try going to church. It will really help you. I know, I have been there and I feel your pain." She was right about feeling my pain. Our sorrow was quite similar. The incidents were almost parallel with each other. She did come to work every day and not erupt in tears all the time. She still smiled and was happy about things in life. And she befriended ME and comforted ME when she lived with sorrow too. How could she have the energy and capacity to comfort ME? I was consumed with my sorrow and caring about other people was very difficult for me at this time. Making someone smile or offering them a hug when they needed it was avoided. It would make me cry to have to offer any happiness to someone else. Life had turned into a day to day drudgery. The sun stopped shining and life was full of storms. I accepted her advice and said I would think about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why is it that we let sorrow drag on for so long? For days, even weeks, and in my case, I let it drag on for months. Mistakes at work could not go over looked forever. Any happiness between my husband and I was slipping away. His sorrow and my sorrow combined was making us drift apart. We pretty much stopped talking, and closeness was slipping away. Conversations were only about dealing with these incidents, and what was the latest happenings and the sorrowful saga goes on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When another friend at work yelled at me to just turn my back on the situation and leave it behind because every one was sick of seeing me crying all the time I realized I had to do something. I would not want to be my friend either. I would avoid being around me if I could. What a miserable person I had become. I took up calling my mother on a frequent bases. She worried about me a lot. She worried about the situation a lot too. She said you need to get to church. You need this in your life. You should try it and see if it makes a difference in your life. It will help you get through what you are going through.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I took up the offer from my friend who is the angel in disguise. I decided that I could not do this any longer. And especially, that I could not do this on my own. I knew exactly Whom I needed to get me through this. My husband and I were having a bit of a spat and the conversation ended by me telling him that I was going to start going to church and that he was going with me. He agreed right away. That was easy enough. Seems we were on the same sorrow page all along.&lt;br /&gt;One of his friends at work suggested a church but I told him that I had already agreed to attend church with my angel friend. Sunday rolls around and we meet my angel out front and take a seat in the church. The music begins and I am wowed by this alone. This was not the kind of music I remember in church when I was a kid. The songs were modern, electric guitars, drums, singers. It was like a band instead of a choir. No robes, just everyone in what ever they wore to church that day. Jeans, t-shirts, dresses, slacks. They were who they were, and it was all good. We were standing and I noticed people clapping while they were singing. I noticed older people, younger people, and teenagers. They were all enjoying the music. They were dressed to be who they were and it was okay. As I listened to the words of the songs I started crying. Not tears of sorrow but tears of comfort. How did they know what I needed to hear? How did they just speak to my heart like that? Why isn’t everyone else crying from the joy of this beautiful sound with words of real life coming from these singers mouths?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The sermon begins and the pastor again is speaking to me and me alone. Well, maybe he is speaking to my husband too, since we share the same sorrow. Okay, so I enjoyed it totally! On the way home we talk about it and decide there is no reason to try out another church. This one was everything we were looking for long ago when we tried to search out a church that fit our needs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For months I cried in church. The music made me cry. It touched my heart. I wondered when I would be able to attend church without tears flowing down my cheeks? The pastor’s personality is funny, full of life, full of fire when he spoke about Jesus and how much he loved each and every one of us. How sorrow just shows up and that as Christians we had the means to handle it through God’s Word. He said when you are going through Hell, don’t stop and sit down. Keep going as fast as you can to get to the other side.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At work one day the sorrow slipped attacked me again in an over whelming incident. The tears came and I could not stop. A supervisor took me into another room and closed the door. He looked me straight in the eye and told me, you can’t go to church with one foot in the door and one foot out. He stood there with an imaginary line on the floor representing a threshhold. One foot was on one side of it and one foot was on the other side of it. He picked up the foot on the other side of the door and firmly planted it beside the other foot. If you don’t get both feet firmly planted on this side of the door it isn’t going to work. I nodded and he hugged me and said now wipe your eyes and put a smile on your face. I decided to take his advice. I thanked him many times for those words of wisdom as the days, weeks, and even months passed by.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Slowly we began to get to know the other church members. They welcomed us with open arms. They really cared about us and about one another. I began to see changes in my heart. I began to see changes in my life. Sunday became my favorite day of the week. I couldn’t wait to get to church and sing and clap my hands. I couldn’t wait to hear what God had in store for me that day. It became MY church. My co-workers saw a change in me. My friends saw a change in me. My family saw a change in me. My smile returned, the hugs and kisses went out in more abundance that before! I was able to comfort others when they were having a bad day.&lt;br /&gt;Our children could see the difference in our lives. Our oldest son and daughter in law started going to church. Our other two sons hesitated. They were part of the great sorrow that consumed our life for so long. But there was hope. There is always hope. For sorrow breeds hope.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As time moves on our example reflects upon our faith. Our other sons sit up and take notice. Our second son is now going to church and is making it possible for our grandson to know God. God is working in there lives as well. Prayers are answered. And God is good……. All the time!&lt;br /&gt;I am writing again. I am sewing again, I am working in the yard again, and it is thriving. I am able to comfort others and offer words of love and hope to them. I can tell them how God sent great sorrow into my life only for me to seek Him out and turn all that emptiness into joy. Sunday is not the only day of the week I look forward to now. Every day is a day that the Lord gives me, and I do all I can to take great pleasure in it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hardly cry in church now. Just occasionally when I get consumed with the thought of how much God loves ME. That He forgives me for not being perfect and that His love for me will never change. And that He will get me through anything that sits itself in front of me as a stumbling block. Sometimes I cry when they are singing a particular song that touches my heart. But it is never tears of sorrow. Only tears of joy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They say that God is contagious. He is! I wish he was more contagious and that I could spread it around a lot faster and a lot more plentiful, but there are others who will have their sorrow to go through. God knows what he is doing. He will bring them to it and he will bring them through it. As long as they don’t sit in Hell while they are passing through it!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am thankful to all of God’s shepherds who are tending his flock. I was once a lost sheep, but now I am found. I was once blind to the goodness of God, but know I see. I was once deaf to hear his love for me, but now my ears hear the beautiful song of his never ending love. God’s amazing Grace still amazes me. The storms of life are always there. No one is exempt from them. They might make your skies dark but God’s love is bright. I hope to be a worthy shepherd for God. I wish to share my happiness at finding a love so powerful that it outshines any darkness.&lt;br /&gt;For with joy comes sorrow, and with sorrow comes hope, and hope will bring you joy!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-8310976092863196228?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/8310976092863196228/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=8310976092863196228' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8310976092863196228'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/8310976092863196228'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/04/with-joy-there-is-sorrow-with-sorrow.html' title='With Joy There Is Sorrow, With Sorrow There Is Hope'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-2329700497398293095</id><published>2008-04-04T09:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-04T09:07:25.002-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Mack'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='silly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='daily life'/><title type='text'>Five Year Old Trickster</title><content type='html'>I was vacuuming in the bedroom one morning, well about mid morning, and Mack (the 5 year old trickster) came in and started asking me something.  I put up my index finger and shook my head in the NO fashion to let him know that I could not hear him and that he needed to wait just a minute until I was done.  He politely turned around and walked away.  It was just about two minutes until I was finished.  I turned off the vacuum cleaner and unplugged it and walked into the kitchen. There was Mack in the middle of opening a piece of candy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What are you doing?", I asked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Getting a piece of candy," he says nonchalantly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Who said you could have a piece of candy?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You did."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don’t remember you asking me if you could have a piece of candy."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes I did, you were vacuuming and I asked you if it was to early to have a piece of candy and you shook your head no."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What could I say?  I did shake my head no.  I opened my mouth to say something but I quickly closed it because there was nothing I could say.  I looked at my son Timmy and he looked at me and we both grinned.  Actually Timmy laughed and said, "you got busted on that one, Nanny".  Then I turned around and laughed.   Darn that 5 year old trickster!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; This one is for you Lisa………………………………..!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-2329700497398293095?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/2329700497398293095/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=2329700497398293095' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2329700497398293095'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/2329700497398293095'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/04/five-year-old-trickster.html' title='Five Year Old Trickster'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-5047335712570141830</id><published>2008-02-23T08:35:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-23T08:45:15.783-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='silly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='memories'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='animals'/><title type='text'>Goodbye to Boots and Socks</title><content type='html'>Boots and Socks have continued to grow and grow.  I guess I never expected rats to get so big and fat.  I am known only to them as the food lady.  They see me and they immediately start to jump at the lid to the aquaruim.  What does she have for us today?  They even make squeeky noises at me.  They have lived off of cookies, muffins, cereal, boring dog food, miniture marshmallows, and there most favorite, biscuits.  Of course there is always that extra something or other that I might try and throw in there cage, like pizza crust.  I have even made them toast.  They have not disappointed me in liking almost anything.  But (there is always a but to any situation), I have discovered that I am allergic to them.  If I hold them I brake out in welps and itch terribly.  If I breathe of them too much I start to wheeze and cough.  And I can feel my throat tighten up very quickly.  A situation indeed.  So I exist only as the food lady, no petting, no holding, just dump the food in and go.  No problem cleaning the cage though.  As long as I don't hold them I am okay.  How sad of an existance for Boots and Socks.  Eat, sleep, run on the wheel, and get a drink.  I need to do something and the only thing to do is to find a new home for them.  How hard is this going to be? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I start in my own back yard. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Jeremy, do you want some pet rats?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jinny says, "No Jeremy. Don't even think of it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Shawn, how about you?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No", from both him and Chrissie.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Timmy?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So much for my own back yard.  I was chatting one night with my friend Debbie.  I asked her to ask her son if he knew of anyone who wanted pet rats.  She said, "No! He isn't having any @#^%(  *&amp;amp;%^%#@)( pet rats".  That response didn't surprise me.  I expected it.  But tell him to ask around.  I guess I will try at work.  I tried to single out people I knew that had kids.  You would not believe the responses I got. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You have what?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Rats," I say.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You mean you have them as pets?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You mean you hold them and stuff like that?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, you see that is the problem, I am allergic to them so I can't hold them and pet them.  I need someone to take them who will give them some attention."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They aren't listening to me.  They are still stuck on the idea that I have pet rats! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Your kidding me right?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No, I am serious."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I have a whole new impression of you, Sheila.  I never thought of you as having RATS for a pet."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I became rat fink, and rat girl.  And no one wanted any pet rats.  They just shook their heads and laughed at me.  I got a lot of interesting suggestions.  Set them loose, give them to your cats, let the dogs play with them.  Take them back to the pet store.  Come on, I saved them from being snake food, how could I do that?  A snake owner would take one look at how fat and healthy they were and they would be history in the belly of a hungry snake.  Besides, no matter what anyone says they are fat cute guys.  Scot told me I would be stuck with them forever and I was beginning to believe him.  But I would not give up my quest. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Along came Tara.  A new girl at work.  She has four kids.  And it never occured to me to ask her.  Four kids is enough to feed.  One morning we somehow got on the subject of pets.  I mentioned that I was still trying to find a new home for my pet rats.  Tara said, "Friday is my sons birthday and I would love to take them".  Then Yolanda said, "I didn't know you were trying to get rid of your rats.  I would have taken them for my son".  Where was she the whole time I was interviewing people?  There we sat, three women discussing how neat rats were for pets.  Can you believe this?  I knew that they would be taken care of now.  But I was also worried that four young children might be dangerous for Boots and Socks.  But I think I have no other choice then to do this.  I couldn't wait to tell Scot that my situation has been solved. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Friday morning was a little hard for me.  I got the aquarium and sat it on the bar.  It was a heavy load (especially since Boots is so chunky).  I drank some coffee as I watched them looking around at what was happening to them.  I gave them each a marshmallow bunny and they happily munched them.  I loaded up the remaining cedar chips and cheerios I had for them and filled a zip lock with some boring dog food.  At least they would be good to go for awhile.  The cats snooped around the aquaruim at them and they looked at each other.  Sniffing each other through the glass as best they could.  I got the camera out and snapped some pictures (I know, I know, I am nuts!).   I told them they were in for a new adventure.  I hoped they were ready for it.  Scot got up and he too said his goodbye's and he loaded them in behind the seats of the truck.  They were scared and huddled together in the corner.  Poor little guys.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I was driving down the highway I started to cough.  I couldn't breathe very well and couldn't get much air.  The rats, I thought.  They are going to kill me yet.  I rolled down the windows and turned the heat on full blast.  I was still coughing and wheezing and was feeling light headed from all the air I was not getting.  I couldn't get to work soon enough to get out of that truck.  When Tara showed up (I was still wheezing) and I asked, "Are you still going to take the rats?"  She said, "Oh yes".  Whew, good thing too.  I didn't think I could drive back home with them in the truck.  I told her about my trip to town and she said, "Let's take them out of your truck now so it can air out before you have to get in it again".  Good idea!  So we transfered the fat boys to her car.  She said, "Oh my goodness, Ihave never seen rats so fat in all my life!"  I tried to tell her.  It's one of those things you have to see to believe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told her they were almost two years old, and again she was surprised.  "How long do rats live?",  she asked.  I told her I had no idea and I guess we would find out soon enough.  I explained all the things they liked to eat, I hoped she was listening.  She took them home on her lunch break and said the two youngest ones who aren't in school were excited about them.  The other two would see them later that day.  I felt sad to give them away.  But it was necessary.  The kids won't be able to go into my sewing room to see how fat they have gotten since the last time they seen them.  It was always a family joke around here.  "Geez mom, what are you feeding them?"  I would tell them to save two biscuits at supper time for the rats.  I guess now they can all fight over those two biscuits that won't be left over.  There is a big empty space in my sewing room now.  I guess a nice plant would be better for the air in there then poor Boots and Socks.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-5047335712570141830?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/5047335712570141830/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=5047335712570141830' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/5047335712570141830'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/5047335712570141830'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/goodbye-to-boots-and-socks.html' title='Goodbye to Boots and Socks'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-771247704504221412</id><published>2008-02-19T15:54:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-19T16:01:00.504-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='silly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='memories'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='animals'/><title type='text'>Introducing Socks</title><content type='html'>You all know about sad little Twitchy.  What a saga that was!  I called Shawn on Thursday to tell him about the poor little thing.  He agreed that the dogs caused him great stress, which ended his little life.  I asked him to please bring another mouse/rat for Timmy's snake. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"And what ever you do please don't let me see it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He laughs.  He arrives on Sunday with a huge bucket.  I always wonder what is next when he comes in with a bucket.  It is always alive. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I said, "Hey, did you bring a rat for Timmy?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He says, "Yes I did, and I brought one for you too."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My heart fell.  Oh no, not again.  Why?  He comes to me with his hands cupped and opens them up.  And all I could say was awllllllll.  I immediately took the little thing from him.  He is a special kind of rat.  A curly haired rat, Shawn tells me.  He has all kinds of waves in his hair.  He is a dark charcoal color and has 4 tiny white feet.  I immediately named him Socks.   But I did not want to keep him.  A rat!  He was the center of attention most of the day.  Jeremy held him for a long time and he is so cute.  Never nibbles on you and his little nose twitches all the time. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A rat! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't believe this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had to go to work on Monday and tell the ladies.  They laughed at me again.  On the way home I was thinking I would call Jeremy and see if he would like to take him.  He has an empty aquarium and he sure liked the little guy.  We stopped at the pet store to pick up Timmy that day and Scot asked Shawn if they had any rat cage's he could look at.  Ooh no, I know what that means.  If I don't say anything now the rat will be mine forever.  I kept quiet.  The cages on the pet store are really too expensive so I decided we could get one at Wal-Mart for less.  We leave and are on our way to Wal-Mart.  The whole time I am thinking that I can say never mind.  I will call Jeremy and see if he wants it.  But the words never came out.  I kept thinking about how cute his little fuzzy fur is and about how sweet he is. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A rat! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am loosing my mind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We get to Wal-Mart and it is a big family decision to get the right cage.  Timmy is going for the biggest and fanciest cage there is.  Notice he is not paying.  I make the decision and we get the smaller one.  It is really a hamster cage with a wheel and a water bottle and a little house.  He will out grow it one day but for now it will do.  Off we go.  When we get home I unload it and put it together.  I don't have any cedar chips at this time so I shred up some newspaper and fix him all up.  He looked so happy in there and got busy shuffling stuff around. I put him back in my sewing room so the dogs would not have another fight and frighten him.  I fell asleep on the couch that night and when Scot woke me up for bed I decided to peek at my new little buddy before I went to bed.  My heart literally jumped when I looked in there.  There were two of them!  Then I remembered Timmy's rat.  Guess that stupid snake is still not hungry.  His rat is not nearly as cute as mine is though.  But he will have to be Boots to match Socks.  There they were scurrying around together.  I sighed and closed the door again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every morning I go and see them before work.  Then I visit them after work and say good night to them before bed.  They really are cute the way they snuggle together and run around and play.  You know the old saying that someone's hair looks like a rat's nest?  I know just how that saying came about.  When I clean the cage out I take newspaper and tear it in long strips so they can do what they like to do.  They build a nest.  It is mounded high to the top of the cage and all pushed to one end.  It is truly amazing!  It must be a lot of work too.  Then they live right in the center of it and poke there little heads out when I go to see them.  Socks likes me already.  If I stick my hand in the cage he just crawls right into it.  I think Jeremy really tamed him on Sunday with all the holding he did.  Okay, so he is cute.  And I know I am crazy when I hold him and pet him.  And I know I am crazy when I brush him close to my cheek and let him smell my face.  He is so cute and so sweet.  What can I say?  My mom thinks I have lost it, she may be right but there are two rats in this world that will not be snake food after all.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-771247704504221412?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/771247704504221412/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=771247704504221412' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/771247704504221412'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/771247704504221412'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/introducing-socks.html' title='Introducing Socks'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-6005555591306585757</id><published>2008-02-17T15:09:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-17T15:18:30.501-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='silly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='memories'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='animals'/><title type='text'>Bad Twitchy!</title><content type='html'>This is the smartest mouse I have ever seen.  Where did we leave off at on this story?  It is not over yet!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sunday morning (the next day) when Timmy woke up the first thing he said when he came out of his room was not good morning but, 'Did you take Twitchy out of my room?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No," I said and noticed that he has a permanent name now. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, that's it! He had his chance, and he is snake food for sure now!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Again we searched all over the house for Twitchy.  He was no where to be found.  Naturally it was my fault.  I was the one who so lovingly put the empty toilet paper roll in the bowl for him to sleep in.  It seems he is using it for a ladder instead of a bed. The kids all showed up for Sunday dinner and I warned the girls that Twitchy was loose.  Jinny looked a little worried and Chrissie just started laughing.  She is use to critters, she lives with Shawn.  Shawn raises his eyebrows and asks who Twitchy is.  And then he tells me as he shakes is head, "You are not suppose to bond with the snakes food." Well, no one told me this in the first place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everyone left and it was just about 11 o'clock and we were soon ready for bed.  Then there was a small flash of white scurrying across the floor.  It's Twitchy!  Under the couch he goes.  I think BJ (the dog) was the one who spied him first.  With BJ at one end of the couch, me at the other, and Timmy in the middle with a yardstick we were going to get Twitchy somehow.  I laughed at BJ from the other end of the couch.  It was so funny seeing his little bug eyes looking under there as though he was truly going to help us get this mouse.  He was probably looking for a midnight snack. Twitchy is the most scurrying little thing I have ever seen.  What with all the dust under the couch and Timmy swishing the yardstick back and forth I couldn't breathe.  Surely it was killing Twitchy too.  We were closing in on him.  Timmy finally got him by the tail but could not pull him out.  I got him on the other side and cupped him in my hands. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I got him!", I yelled.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then he squirmed out of my hands again.  Of course Timmy yelled at me.  Not fair.  I didn't yell at him when he let go of his tail.  To the other end of the couch he went.  Scot just kept his feet up and tried to finish watching his TV show while we looked like idiots scuffling around chasing a mouse. He ran to where BJ was, and Timmy yelled, "He's coming B. Get ready to catch him".  By this time it was getting really funny, but Timmy was not laughing as much as I was.  He failed to see the humor in all of it.  That's because he was not looking at how funny BJ was.  He was starting to snort and slobber with all the excitement.  Twitchy was still heading in the direction of the dog, I think he saw his beady eyes focused on him and froze.  With the yardstick in hand, Timmy was now able to steer him in the direction we needed him to go.  Out from under the couch he came and he ran right behind the dogs toy box. With me on one side and BJ on the other side, licking his lips and glaring at him with those little beady eyes, he was trapped.  BJ was just waiting for his next move.  Timmy got him.  There was much triumph in his smile too. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I got you know you stupid mouse!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He put him in back in his bowl with the usual comment. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"That's it buddy, your snake food now!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He went to the kitchen, with a strut in his walk, and put saran wrap over the top and secured it.  He punched a few holes in it and said, "There! Now try to get out". Do you think, if we had a covering over the top of it in the first place this would not have happened? Twitchy was safe for now, until tomorrow comes.  But please note he did not get placed in the cage with the snake.  The excitement was over and now we could go to bed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Monday morning comes and the excitement continues.  After my shower I was wondering about the bedroom to get dressed.  I noticed Noah (the other dog) and Poopers (the cat) staring under the desk in there. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh no," I said, "is it twitchy?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got on my hands and knees (butt naked) and looked to see what it was. It was only a rubber dog toy.  I got it out and said, "Here Noah".  He was not interested in it and kept his watchful eyes under the desk.  The cat continued to stare also. She started twitching her tail up and down and back and forth.  You know, the way they do it when they see prey. I had this feeling, so I decided to check again.  I gently slid my hand under the desk from one end to the next.  And guess what?  I had Twitchy in my hand.  Darn little bugger!  I put him in the bathtub until I could get some clothes on to take him back to Timmy's room.  I must hurry before the cat discovers where I put him.  I placed him in his bowl again and noticed the saran wrap was still in tack.  How in the world did he do it?  I took out the empty toilet paper roll, which I so lovingly put in there to keep the bugger warm.  Maybe Timmy is right?  But notice he did not take it out either.  I hope he stays in there for now.  Timmy has not put him in with the snake yet.  I think he feels sorry for me because I have gotten attached to little Twitchy.  How did this happen?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Again, I remember what Shawn told me, "Mom, you are not supposed to bond with the food".  How could I have known? I wonder if there will be another chapter to Twitchy's life?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-6005555591306585757?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/6005555591306585757/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=6005555591306585757' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6005555591306585757'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6005555591306585757'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/bad-twitchy.html' title='Bad Twitchy!'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-3035206521508269540</id><published>2008-02-16T09:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-16T09:32:15.513-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='silly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='memories'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='animals'/><title type='text'>The Arrival of Twitchy</title><content type='html'>In just one day of my life a lot can happen.  And today was a very eventful day.  It started early this morning after Scot and I got up and showered.  We went to get groceries and then just one more stop before we were on our way home.   Scot's supervisor is leaving for another job, and the people at work got together and decided on a going away gift for him.  I don't know if Scot was elected or volunteered, but we were on our way to a place called ---------EX-treme videos.  It is an old trailer house that was gutted out and is now a place where you can rent "those" kinds of movies. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our mission: a blow up sheep. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Interesting gag gift don't you think? I was a little nervous but curious at the same time.  I was surprised to see a very neat and tidy store.  But I was uncertain about venturing around.  What we needed was right at the front counter.  Thank goodness Scot had called the day before.  The lady that was working there was an older lady and very nice.  That surprised me too.  I don't know what I was expecting but it wasn't her.  Her Kitty cat named snowball was there with her too.  I guess he kept her company all day in between customers.  We were waiting for a guy to check out his movies and had a few minutes to look at what was under the glass at the front counter.  I hope I was not blushing.  Hmmmmm, interesting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As we were getting ready for our turn to check out. Scot, with a serious look in his eyes (he's good at that) announces &lt;em&gt;loudly&lt;/em&gt;, "Is there anything else you need here?"  I had about 10 seconds of terrible anger at him.  Then he grinned at me and I could not help but to smile back.  Yes, I was embarrassed, but only for a minute.  He is so bad!  As we got to the jeep I told him he was not as funny as he thought he was, and he laughed again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; We went home and put the groceries away and I went to check on Twitchy.  Who is Twitchy you ask?  Let me back up a few days.  Timmy brought home a snake from the pet store last weekend.  He had it a few days before I even noticed it.  Next thing I know there is this adorable little white mouse with a pink nose and twitchy whiskers.  Unfortunately he was the snakes dinner.  The snake has not been very interested in Twitchy.  So we have spent a lot of time holding Twitchy and feeding him.  He's pretty cute, and I can't imagine that he is snake food.  I am tired of hearing Timmy tell him he is on death row!  He was keeping Twitchy in his bathroom sink until the snake decides he's hungry.  Poor Twitchy spends every so often in the snake cage but always makes it out safely.  Timmy was not prepared with a cage for the mouse.  That bothered me, and I wasn't crazy about him living in the bathroom sink.  Who would have guessed he would have such a finicky snake?  So I found a deep, large bowl and put Twitchy in it.&lt;br /&gt;I shredded up some paper towels and put an empty toilet paper roll in there for him.  I added some cereal and a tiny water dish made from the bottom of a bathroom cup.  Sweet Twitchy.  I wanted him to be safe from the cats so I placed him in my sewing room and closed the door. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okay, lets get back to the present time.  Groceries are put away and I am off to see about Twitchy. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He is not there. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bad Twitchy! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don’t know were Twitchy is but I guess he will not be snake food after all.  We looked for him but that was useless.  Two cats and two dogs in this big house, I hope he is safe until we find him.  And I certainly hope Twitchy was not pregnant. Our electricity went out next.  It's about 50 degrees today and it is slowly but surely getting cold in the house. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Poor Twitchy! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Something fell off the electric pole outside and they are fixing it (two hours later).  It is getting near dinnertime and we are starting to get bored.  No TV, no radio, and alas, no video games for Timmy.  He is getting restless and starting to annoy me in his special way.  And we have not found that mouse yet!  A most interesting day it has been.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh Happy Day!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We found Twitchy!  He appeared later in the evening.  Timmy was in his room playing video games and I heard a shout. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Mom, I found the mouse!  Come here and help me." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He was trying to escape in the closet.  He scurried into a bag with all kinds of " Timmy stuff" and we had to dig through old batteries and used lighters, papers and drawings all folded up.  Speaker wire and old remote control that are worthless.  Someone around here is a pack rat.  Twitchy is now in a fish bowl with food and more paper towels and the empty toilet paper roll. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cute Twitchy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Timmy said if I pay for another mouse he wouldn't feed Twitchy to that darn old snake.  Those were not his exact words, he likes the snake.  I do to, but not if he is going to eat Twitchy.  This is Twitchy's lucky day!  I agreed and promised that I will not look at or touch the next furry critter than came into this house.  It's awful being a softie.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-3035206521508269540?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/3035206521508269540/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=3035206521508269540' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3035206521508269540'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3035206521508269540'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/arrival-of-twitchy.html' title='The Arrival of Twitchy'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-3042757675561997242</id><published>2008-02-14T16:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-14T16:28:39.757-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='silly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='memories'/><title type='text'>Garbage Disaster</title><content type='html'>Garbage is a disgusting thing.  And I have discovered another reason why.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was Thursday morning (trash day) and we were leaving for work.  Scot always takes the trash to the end of the driveway on Wednesday evening to get it over and done with.  Our driveway is very long.  Funny thing that morning, the newspaper was in the flowerbed.  It is usually down at the end of the driveway since the newspaper man is too lazy to drive the whole ways up the road to the house. We got in to the jeep and headed down the driveway.  As we got closer to the end of the driveway, our mouths started gapping open and our chins dropped to our knees.  There was a week's worth of garbage all over the place!!  We were in shock.  No wonder the newspaperman was generous enough to bring the paper up the driveway.  We would have never found it in that mess.  I will never talk bad about him again!   Scot backs the jeep up the driveway and goes into the house to get more trash bags.  See there are all kinds of dogs running loose up and down the road.  No one seems to think it is a problem, yeah right! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We get to the end of the road and park the jeep.  Scot and I get out and start picking up the mess.  It stank!  It reeked!  It was awful!  And it was still dusk.  I was afraid to put my hands in that mess, but what else could I do?  Do you know what empty beer cans smell like that have been sitting for days in the heat?  As we were scooping up the mess one of the dogs started coming our way.  Scot says, "There is one of them now."  He picks up a rock and hurls it in the air and says, "Get out of here you son of a $%#@*!"  Next thing you know there was a yelp or two and the dog tucks it's tail in and thunders off down the road.  Scot says, "Hey I got it," as he chuckles.  I looked up in time to see a glorious smile on his face.  A moment of satisfaction and revenge for him.  Pretty good shot since it was not to light out yet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally we had most of the mess cleaned up.  All that was left was soiled cat litter, wet coffee grounds and nasty cigarette butts.  They would have to wait.  And hopefully blow away before we get home.   As we got back into the jeep I smellt of my hands.  Oh yuck!  They smelled like garbage.  Scot offered to go back to the house so I could wash them but I said I could make it until we got to town and wash them at work.  We were really running behind. We got stuck behind the school bus for about 15 minutes on the road.  Stopping and loading every three minutes.  And when we came to a dead stop I could smell myself when the wind wasn't blowing.  Nasty! As we were traveling down the highway we went through two clouds of skunk odor.  I would have loved to put my hand over my mouth and nose to cover the smell, but I took the lesser of the two evils and toughed it out.  How I wished I had taken Scot up on his offer to go wash my hands!  I sat very still all the way in town and did not touch anything but my mug of coffee.  When we got to my stop it was day light by them.  I looked down at my hands and was surprised to see how nasty and dirty they were.  Thank goodness I had tied my flying scarf (to keep my hair in place) on my head before I started picking up garbage.  Now all I had to do was carefully take it off.  The thought of touching my face did not appeal to me at this moment. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to the ladies room as soon as I got in the building and scrubbed my hands.  Then I worked on the handle of my coffee mug.  I went outside to the Smokey pokey and sprayed perfume all over my pants and shoes.   As I recited this story to my friends at work I continued to ask them for the first three hours of the day if they could smell me.  Then I added more hand lotion and perfume to myself.  They said they did not smell me but continued to call me garbage lady all day.  When Scot picked me up after work I told him that I was paranoid all day that I smelled.  He said he had the same problem, only he did smell.  He had "stuff" wedged in between the tracks on the bottom of his shoes.  Ewwwww!  We are still laughing about it, especially the part where the dog got hit in the rump with a rock.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;New rule…… never ever, leave garage at the end of the road unless every bag is securely locked inside the trash can with the lid tightly sealed!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-3042757675561997242?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/3042757675561997242/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=3042757675561997242' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3042757675561997242'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3042757675561997242'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/garbage-disaster.html' title='Garbage Disaster'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-6115725333497990524</id><published>2008-02-13T15:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-13T15:24:46.606-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='silly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='memories'/><title type='text'>And there came a flood</title><content type='html'>It seems that we are always having some kind of adventure at our house.  What I would give for a few weeks of nothingness. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sunday was a most hectic day for us.  Timmy recently got a new job and had to be at work at 11:00 on Sunday.  So at 10:30 Scot kissed me good bye and they headed out the door.  I was in my sewing room repairing a pair of shorts for Shawn that was not worth the trouble.  They were so old and worn.  I sighed and gave up.  I put the last load of laundry in the washing machine and went back to my sewing room again.  I needed to replace a zipper in a skirt for Chrissie.  It was a tedious job since I had to take half the skirt apart to do it.  But I was determined to finish it so I got very engrossed in the project.  The radio was playing and I was in my own little world.  It took me about an hour and I was finished.  Just in time for Scot to be home.  I heard the dogs getting excited so I knew he was coming in the front door.  I got up to go greet him and as he was coming in the door I heard him yell, "&lt;strong&gt;SHEILA!!!!&lt;/strong&gt;"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then I saw it for myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The washing machine had been filling up for an hour.  There was a flood like I have never seen before.  I ran to the washing machine ever so gently so as not to slip and fall, and hit the button to stop the water flow.  I also noticed that I was really wading in about 2 inches of water.  It had spread all through the utility room, into the kitchen and was just touching the edges of the carpet in both the front room and the family room.  Then I heard it, the sound of a waterfall.  The register vents in a mobile home are on the floor.  The water was falling down the kitchen vent at rapid speed.  Panic struck both of us.  Did you ever notice how fast your reactions are when panic strikes?  Thank goodness we have one of those water sucker upper machines!  We pulled it out of the closet (grateful it was not outside in the shed) and had it together in no time.  Scot was dragging it through the water before I could unwind the cord.  It was plugged in and he was getting busy.  I went back to the utility room and opened the back door.  Where to start?  Mopping was useless, so I got the broom and began to sweep water out the back door.  The flood seemed to be never ending.  Scot had his first load of water to dump.  He was carrying it to the kitchen sink and heaved it up to dump it.  There was way too much water in the tub and most of it spilled right back on the floor. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I won't tell you what he said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Guess for yourself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At this point I did not make any eye contact.  I just kept sweeping.  I was sort of laughing inside, it is just his luck that something like that would happen when he is under stress.  The other full tubs of water were dumped in the bathtub.  Thank goodness for one-floor homes.  The back yard was beginning to look like a swamp at this point.  With all the rain we have been having and now this, it may never dry out.  On my hands and knees now, I am sopping up water with towels and wringing them out in a bucket.  The bucket gets dumped out the back door.  It is never ending. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bucket after bucket out the back door.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tub after tub of water into the bathtub.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My jeans were soaked to the knees, the dogs are wading around in water.  The cats are hiding, somewhere up high, I am sure.  No time to look for them now.  I had a thought of dread at that moment.  What if it seeped through the walls into the other side of the house?  Our closet and bedroom are on the other side.  I went to check and could not believe our good fortune.  The rooms were dry!  Scot unscrewed the register vents.  There was a lot of water to suck up down there.  Lots of dirty water I might add.  But just think, now our vents are real clean.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By one o'clock we just about had it done.  Jeremy and Jinny arrived about that time and Jeremy asks, "Are you guys doing some heavy duty cleaning today?"  The water sucker upper machine was still going.   I was still on my hands and knees sopping. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Ah, no", I said, "We had a flood." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked at me strange, as to ask what do you mean? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I said, "The washer filled up for an hour straight." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh!" he said, and raised his eyebrows. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He sat down at the table to quietly read the Sunday paper and get out of the way.  We finally finished.  And the rest of the troops arrived.  And so we share the story with all of them.  The carpet under the dining room table was a bit soggy no matter how much Scot worked on it.  So anytime someone stepped on it they either slid (if they had sneakers on) or the bottom of their jeans slowly but surely got soaked.  I guess the floor mopping I was going to do on Monday won't be necessary?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-6115725333497990524?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/6115725333497990524/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=6115725333497990524' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6115725333497990524'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6115725333497990524'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/and-there-came-flood.html' title='And there came a flood'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-477548048733105644</id><published>2008-02-12T13:35:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-12T13:44:16.661-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='silly'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='memories'/><title type='text'>Afflicted with stupidity</title><content type='html'>It was a slow day at work.  It usually was that time of year.  I had already finished my steamy romance novel and a letter to my brother and sister in law.  In between calls I decide there was some information I needed to check out on the net.  I was recently blessed with Internet access at work.  Ask and you will receive, who ever thought it would be so easy?  I was on a floor that was mostly occupied with management.  We had our own little section to our selves.  I wanted to check out something called 'restless leg syndrome'.  I suffer from it.  It is a pretty new thing and I wanted to see what to do for the horrible symptoms of aching legs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It seemed forever for me to find anything but finally I was there.  I figured it was safe to just print it and read it at my desk without having it on my screen for everyone to see.  Naturally, we are not supposed to be doing things like that from our computers but, I did anyway.  I hit print, all, and 1 copy.  Click.  I rushed down the short hall way to the central printer and waited.  Nothing.  I went back to my desk and hit print, all, number of copies, 1, click.  I hurried down the hall and again there was nothing.  Well, dag gum it!  I went back to my desk once again.  Print, all, number of copies, 1, click.  I hurried down the hall and heard the whining of the printer before I got to it.  Finally it worked!  There, coming out, was what I printed.  What is this I see?  Page 1 of 42.  Oh no!  Crap!  I looked over my right shoulder, I looked over my left shoulder.  Seems everyone was at a meeting for management.  Lucky me.  I drummed on the top of the printer with my fingers.  Still watching.  Page 27 of 42, half way through.  I neatly stacked them &lt;em&gt;upside down&lt;/em&gt; as they came out.  Just in case anyone happened to pass by.  They would surely think I was a busy worker.  Page 39 of 42, almost done.  I was safe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The printer started to wind up again.  I decided to stay to make sure it wasn't something for one of the other ladies.  I could save them a trip to the printer since I was already there.  Oh no!  Page 1 of 42.  This is not good.  Again I look over my right shoulder, and over my left shoulder.  I tap my fingers on top of the printer.  Stacking the paper so nice and neatly &lt;em&gt;upside down&lt;/em&gt; on the table.  Just in case anyone comes by and sees how busy of a worker I was.   I cannot believe my stupidity!  Finally it was done.  The smell of fresh ink and warm papers was in the air.  I kind of like that smell but that was not a good time to enjoy it!  The printer started to wind up again.  It just could not be!  But oh yes, here it comes again.  Page 1 of 42.  I did hit print three times didn't I?  I tried to hit any button on the printer to make it stop.  Nothing was working.  I did not care if I canceled anyone else's printing.  I just wanted it to stop!  Oh please stop!  I would have been skinned alive if anyone were to come by and see my face.  For it was ridden with guilt!  Finally it was done.  No more winding up.  It stopped for real.  Thank goodness. I went back to my desk with my large stack of warm freshly printed papers.  How many pages was that?  126?  My, but they did smell nice.  And they were so nice and warm.  I can't believe I wasted that much paper and ink.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought not to share it with anyone but you know how it is when you are afflicted with stupidity.  The more stupid it is, the more you want to share it with someone.  I knelt by my co-workers chair, laughing as quietly as I could.  She said, 'what did you do this time?'  She was already laughing and I hadn't even told her yet.  I finally told her in between laughs and she laughed even harder.  I had only to figure out what to do with all those papers I printed.  I could have dumped them in the recycling bin but surely someone would have seen my grave error.  They would not know it was me, but I was too chicken to take the chance.  So I kept one copy and dumped the rest in my wastebasket.  The nighttime janitors would be the only ones to see them.  They won't care.  I read the other copy.  What a bunch of hogwash!  Medical terms I could not understand anyway!  Geez, what a deal!  I dumped that copy in the trash after I read what I could understand.  I would still be afflicted with restless leg syndrome, the cure was too hard to comprehend.  And I would still be afflicted with stupidity.  No laughing!  You know that all of you are afflicted with it once in a while too.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-477548048733105644?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/477548048733105644/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=477548048733105644' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/477548048733105644'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/477548048733105644'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/afflicted-with-stupidity.html' title='Afflicted with stupidity'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-4587542276452148139</id><published>2008-02-12T13:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T16:21:04.753-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='award'/><title type='text'>An Award!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R7IQlkOqaBI/AAAAAAAAACA/rWVZqwAgzvw/s1600-h/coolcat.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166209960113760274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R7IQlkOqaBI/AAAAAAAAACA/rWVZqwAgzvw/s320/coolcat.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Look at me! Just a few days into blogging and already someone gave me award.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Thank you to Dragonstar over at &lt;a href="http://dragonstardays.blogspot.com/"&gt;http://dragonstardays.blogspot.com/&lt;/a&gt; for my very first blogging award!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-4587542276452148139?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/4587542276452148139/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=4587542276452148139' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4587542276452148139'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/4587542276452148139'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/award.html' title='An Award!'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R7IQlkOqaBI/AAAAAAAAACA/rWVZqwAgzvw/s72-c/coolcat.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-6112031485888770516</id><published>2008-02-11T07:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-11T08:10:05.120-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='kids'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='memories'/><title type='text'>Boys will be boys</title><content type='html'>The weekend always brings a visit with the kids.  Once in awhile they can't all make it out to the house but mostly they never miss coming.  It's a free meal and free laundry day.  This particular day was my birthday.  Scot was on a trip to Pennsylvania and I was so looking forward to the company.  Debbie called me early to say Happy Birthday and I was yacking with her until I saw my friend Shirley coming down the road right past the house.  It was her first time to come to the house and she looked a little lost.  So I hung up the phone and hustled down to the end of the driveway to wave to her to stop.  She was coming to say Happy Birthday to me in person, and we visited for awhile.  Everyone was concerned about me being home alone.  How nice of them all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Soon after she left the kids started arriving.  Jeremy and Jinny showed up with bags of food.  I was not cooking today, hooray for me.  What a joy that would be.  And if the truth were known, I hadn't really eaten anything worth while this past week since Scot left.  We were having teriyaki chicken, fried rice, mushroom's boiled in teriyaki sauce, and zucchini and squash on the grill.  Hmmm.  Jinny was fixing up some strawberry cheesecake for dessert.   Shawn and Timmy arrived and Chrissie could not make it.  Her brother has a birthday the same day as mine.  I am robbed!  In comes the laundry and the noise begins.  I hadn't realized how quiet it was all week until this moment.  And it was nice to hear the sounds of family again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were hanging out for about two hours visiting and someone said something about it being my birthday.  Timmy said, "I didn't know it was your birthday?"  "It is," I said.  Poor Timmy, he is so uninformed.  Where does his mind linger?  It was almost time for Jeremy to start the grill.  No charcoal,  now doesn't that figure?  There was also no milk for the cheesecake.  Remember, I used half and half to whip up some macaroni and cheese for dinner one night?  I guess it's a run to the store for Jinny and I.  I let her drive, I had had enough of that for the time being.  We got what we needed and some extras and back to the house we went.  The dinner proceeding began and the kitchen was full.  Jeremy is a wonderful cook, but very messy.  I had the dish rag and wiped up as he went.  I wonder, does he realize just how messy he is?  But I didn't want to mention it since he was so engrossed in his work.  He was stirring rice and simmering mushroom's.  Slicing vegetables and wrapping them in tin foil.   The chicken was ready to go on the grill and it smelled so wonderful. Cheesecake was being whipped up and placed in the refrigerator.  The laundry going and people were in and out of the kitchen.  It was all the things that make a home homey.  Sigh~~~~~~~.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dinner was too good for words.  My son is a wonderful cook!  And all of it got eaten up but a tiny bit.  Jinny said, "I can't imagine what your grocery bills must have been like when they all lived at home! This one meal cost us nearly a weeks worth of groceries."  I told her that is why we have extra money now.  After dinner I offered to clean up since it would be just as easy not to have so many bodies lingering in the kitchen.  And all my previous wiping and washing helped a lot.  Our bellies were full and later we had strawberry cheesecake.  How they fit that much more into their bellies I don't know?  I was stuffed!  Then it cooled off a little, and we all went out on the deck in back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Do you still have a grasshopper problem, Mom?", Jeremy asked. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes, they are still here eating everything in sight.  Or, what's left of it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That is his queue.  He searches for his usual stick in the flowerbed and heads for the back yard.  What is he going to do you ask?  The same thing he does every weekend he comes out to the house.  The same thing all of us do in the evening.  The grasshopper hunt begins.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's called grasshopper baseball.  Yes, I know it sounds cruel.  But if you could see what they have done to my flowers you would understand.  Nothing has kept them away.  Bug spray hasn't helped.  And since the other neighbors have no plants or trees they all end up in our yard.  Me, Jinny and Timmy sit and watch as Jeremy tosses the bugs in the air and wacks at them.  He is not a good shot this week and misses a lot.  Timmy says, "Look at him?  Can you believe this guy works at a bank and counts money and deposits checks?  Look at him swatting at grasshoppers with a stick and enjoying it."  It was funny.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Timmy can be so philosophical at times.  Shawn is out in the yard with Jeremy and looking around the barn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You still got black widow spiders?", he asks. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh yes, they are still here too."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; As he is looking under the eve of the barn wasp start swarming him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh by the way, we got a wasp nest out there too."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's ducking and we are laughing.  Jeremy gets side tracked from his bug batting and they investigate the wasp nest.  Some things never change. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I hope you don't get stung out there.  I got some wasp killer if you want to spray that thing."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I go inside to get the spray and give it to them.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jeremy starts spraying and said, "This stuff smells flammable."  No duh!  "Let's see if we can light this thing up.  Someone give me a lighter."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now they are leaning on the ground very close to the barn. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You better not set that barn on fire or your dad will hang you!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah," Jinny said, "and that is where the horseshoe pit is going to go!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am not sure if we should laugh or not.  They once set the woods on fire at our other house.  Oh, wait a minute.  That was Timmy and one of his friends and he was sitting here with us.  But still?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As they are lighting the wasp nest up and crouching down to look closely at it (I am wondering why this is so interesting?) Timmy comes out of the house with a firecracker.  He shows it to Jinny and I and puts his finger over his lips and says, shhh.  He goes out to where they are and lights it and places it under Jeremy's butt.  Naturally Shawn and Jeremy are so engrossed in looking at the flaming wasp nest they never notice him there.  He casually walks away.  BOOM!  Shawn jerks away and Jeremy stands up very quickly.  Didn't think he could move that fast? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What was that?!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We of course are laughing really hard and could hardly say anything.  Then they spot the firecracker on the ground. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Timmy, you moron!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Laughing resumes and we all get a real kick out of it.  Jinny says to me, "I can almost imagine what your life must have been like seeing them together like this.  Playing with bugs and fire."  My eyes felt sort of misty.  Yes, it was interesting.  Never a dull moment and you can guess who the instigator was all the time?  We looked at Timmy and laughed.  I do miss those years when there was always so much excitement and someone was always in trouble for tormenting someone else.  When someone was always digging around in the cupboard for something to eat and holding the refrigerator door open for so long, just gazing in their looking for nothing in particular.  When the kool-aid picture was nearly empty, not enough to fill a glass, but the previous person didn’t empty it for fear of having to wash it out.  The same thing with the bag of chips, and left over macaroni and cheese.  If there was any that is.  No one would own up to making a mess in the bathroom or leaving glasses sit in the living room over night.  And it was way too much trouble to put a new roll of toilet paper on the roll when the other one was empty.  I sort of miss the days when the bathroom door would open and someone would yell, I need more toilet paper!  Modesty goes out the window at a moment like that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As they all got ready to leave I sort of got sad.  It is so good when the weekend comes and they all come for a visit.  One day there will be little ones about and it will be even more exciting.  I can't wait to share stories with them of when their daddies were young and restless and wild.  It seems that it still lingers in their hearts.  I can't wait until the kids call me and say you won't believe what your grandchild did today.  I will say, oh yes I will.  And I will be able to say do you remember when?  They won't get away with it that easily.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Scot comes home tomorrow.  I am sorry he missed this day and all the laughs we had.  Jeremy's car goes home today.  And after I got the seats and mirrors adjusted to fit me.  I survived a week alone.  I really did!  I am glad Scot will be home tomorrow.  I really miss him. There were hugs all around and I love you's spoken openly, and Happy Birthday mom.  I had a great day.  My life is so wonderful.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-6112031485888770516?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/6112031485888770516/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=6112031485888770516' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6112031485888770516'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/6112031485888770516'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/boys-will-be-boys.html' title='Boys will be boys'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-7859698300443302437</id><published>2008-02-10T09:26:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T16:21:04.943-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Mack'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='photo hunt'/><title type='text'>Photo Hunt: Heavy</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R68ztkOqZ9I/AAAAAAAAABg/FKO-Qh0jACo/s1600-h/11-2006-08.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165404155529553874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R68ztkOqZ9I/AAAAAAAAABg/FKO-Qh0jACo/s320/11-2006-08.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Poppy and Mack go for a spin on the very heavy riding lawnmower.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-7859698300443302437?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/7859698300443302437/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=7859698300443302437' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7859698300443302437'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/7859698300443302437'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/photo-hunt-heavy.html' title='Photo Hunt: Heavy'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R68ztkOqZ9I/AAAAAAAAABg/FKO-Qh0jACo/s72-c/11-2006-08.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7219871996922917589.post-3202243796790789829</id><published>2008-02-09T18:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-09T18:40:15.381-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Mack'/><title type='text'>That’s Illegal, but dancing is not!</title><content type='html'>Children have such imaginations.  It makes me wonder,  did I have that kind of imagination when I was a child?  It’s been so long I can’t remember.  Mack is one of those kids and I think maybe his imagination is exceptional. He often tells us about his book of illegal stuff.  In this book are all of HIS rules of things he dubs illegal.  We are not aware of all the rules, but he let’s us know about them when situations come up. We went to Wal-mart today to do some fun shopping.  Not grocery shopping, or shopping for “ I have to” shopping,  but fun shopping.  There is a big difference.  It’s a bit of a drive to the store for us, since we live in the boonies.  We are driving and talking, he talks A LOT, and he is helping me make a mental list of things I want to get and things he wants to get.  Five dollars is a lot to a little boy, and there is a five dollar bill in his pocket.  My list has seven things on it and his list has two things on it.  We will remember our list by the numbers.  That is always how we do it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I tell him, "Mack, I am sorry but you will have to go into the ladies dressing room with me while I try on jeans."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Do I have too?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Sorry, I can’t leave you alone in the store and not be able to see what you are doing."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"But Nanny, that is illegal on my list.  No going into the ladies dressing room with ladies, and no going into the boys dressing room if you are a lady."  (Even though he comes into the bedroom with me while I am dressing and I have to kick him out.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Sorry Mack, you have to come with me."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, I guess I am going to have to scratch that off my list then so it won’t be illegal!" &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I guess so."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; He hangs his head and with a sad face says, "Oh I have to always scratch things off my illegal list, that’s not fair". We get to the store and we start at the end where the jeans are so we will be able to work our way through the store in a nice straight line.  I am not a three hour shopper.  I make a list and then I go and shop in the shortest amount of time.  The jean shopping was easy enough.  One trip to the ladies dressing room and we are off to the next area. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the way across the store they have shelves full of those singing and dancing stuffed animals for Valentines Day.  You know the ones where you squeeze the hand and it starts playing a song and wiggles around?  We needed to get Mack’s little friend, Gavon, something for Valentines Day since he moved away and a care package was being sent to him from his family.  Free postage, I love it!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Look at these, Nanny!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They are gorillas with a record player that starts “scratching” when it starts playing.  He is wearing head phones and big sun glasses.  The song is “everybody dance now”  You have to understand that Mack &lt;em&gt;loves&lt;/em&gt; dancing.   He starts squeezing a few and instantly, in the front of the store where the aisle is large for people coming and going, breaks out into dancing.  I guess I could have said 'Mack, settle down and let’s go'.  But something stopped me and instead I got out my digital camera, which can make video’s also, and said 'ok, squeeze that gorilla and do it again'.  He began squeezing gorillas and broke out into dancing.  As he is dancing he keeps going down the line of gorillas and squeezing as many as he can and never looses a step.  That boy got some skills!  He’s got crazy skills!  I am filming and people are coming by looking.  Mack is laughing out loud, a hardy, full honest, 'this is the best time of my life' laughing.  One man goes by and turns his head and grins a big grin.  Two older ladies come by, one pushing a basket the other on a scooter chair.  They look and turn their heads and look at me.  One says 'isn’t he cute' the other looks like she wanted to say, 'why would she let him act like that?'.  He is laughing and dancing, oblivious to anything else going on around him as he keeps squeezing the gorillas over and over.  I wouldn’t destroy this moment of sheer happiness for anything.  I stop filming and all I can do is smile. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Mack you are a fabulous dancer," I tell him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He stops dancing and there are still dozen’s of gorillas playing and you know what he does?  He goes down the line and one by one squeezes their hands and one by one he turns them off. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"That was great Nanny, wasn’t it?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Sure was."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The rest of our shopping trip was very relaxed and happy and we finished our list of items to get.  Mack picked out his construction paper and his water colors and went to the register and pulled out his five dollar bill and gave it to the lady.  I pitched in a dollar and a quarter and he got one penny back which he thought was pretty crappy but he was still happy about the fun we had on our shopping trip.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love modern technology, I love my digital camera.  I love my grandson and his spontaneous personality.  I love the fact that I don’t have to be stuffy and make him act prim and proper.  There is a time and place for everything and having fun while shopping is a must!!  Otherwise it would be useless to drag a five year old any where.  The memories I will have of him as a little boy will be only fun and happy memories.  And that digital camera can bring them all to life one day when he can read my words and see with his own eyes how much fun he really is.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7219871996922917589-3202243796790789829?l=backporchlife.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/feeds/3202243796790789829/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7219871996922917589&amp;postID=3202243796790789829' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3202243796790789829'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7219871996922917589/posts/default/3202243796790789829'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://backporchlife.blogspot.com/2008/02/thats-illegal-but-dancing-is-not.html' title='That’s Illegal, but dancing is not!'/><author><name>Nanny</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/18425008889952629166</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='19' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Bnh7LdWrKkE/R691hEOqaAI/AAAAAAAAAB0/nxb2qXHVfF4/S220/vac1.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
