Instead of working out like I should be, I am procrastinating. (Don't fret KY and Erin. I'm still going to workout tonight.)
This afternoon, Preslyn embarked on an exciting journey-- climbing the stairs.
For the past several days, Preslyn has become preoccupied with the bottom stair of the staircase. She climbs up the first step, sits, and turns around to look out at the world. We've been trying help her climb to step two and eventually step three. (Big mistake!) As I was sitting by the fire, I noticed Preslyn crawling to the stairs. Glancing back, after what seemed like only two seconds later, I saw she was heading for step four. I flew up to try and save her from a nasty tumble; however, I found myself trying to find that balance between startling her and getting her attention. Disaster averted as she sat down on step three and clapped for herself.
Of course, Doug wanted to see this action, since he was in the kitchen and missed my near heart-attack. We made mistake number two when we tried to see how many steps she would crawl up with me hovering closely behind. She booked it up the entire flight of stairs with her family cheering her on. It was quite the exciting moment for little Preslyn. And of course, we repeated this process a few times.
In the education world, we call the GRR or the Gradual Release of Responsibility. (Work is haunting me. It's quite sad that this actually popped into my head.) We typically rejoice when students can complete a difficult task on their own after much scaffolding, modeling, and guiding.
In the case with Preslyn, however, it isn't so pleasant. She has turned into a climbing machine. I eventually got tired of climbing up and down the stairs, protecting her at all cost. So I slid the ottoman over and blocked the entry way of the stairs. She was not pleased and started jabbering all kinds of fourteen month-old speak.
She quickly got over it when Madi and Braelyn started dancing in the living room. Five minutes later, she started climbing on her music play station. (This is not a sturdy toy meant for climbing by any means.) Doug had to rescue her as she found herself in a panic, balancing on her knees between a four-note keyboard and a little guitar. Innocent baby turned dare-devil.
Preslyn might be ready to scale the stairs, but we aren't.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Sunday, November 6, 2011
From School Walls to Prison Walls
As Doug and I were coming home from Portland two nights ago, we witnessed a really strange interaction between a man and a woman. We pulled over and watched them for a while because we both wanted to make sure that the woman was okay. We ended up calling 911 because if I was being attacked in public, I would want help too. Three police cars ended up confronting the couple, and it resulted in the man in handcuffs. I wanted to find out what exactly happened, so I went our newspaper's website to check the crime reports. I knew that the chance of the report being immediately posted online was slim, but curiosity got the best of me. My night changed due to that decision.
I couldn't find what I was looking for so I decided to click on the inmates' pictures in the county's jail. I started going through them one by one, looking at the crimes they had been convicted of. (Slightly morbid, I know.) Wouldn't it be sad if I saw one of my students on here? I thought. About five minutes later, I did.
"Freddy," who I had in American literature four years ago, had been convicted of attempted aggravated murder and a slew of other charges. Memories of him in my class immediately flooded my mind. I remember him joining my class in the middle of the semester. He'd come, dressed in a navy blue or black shirt, and quietly sit. Freddy spent more time heading his paper, carefully writing his name in calligraphy, than doing any other work. His handwriting was a very slanted cursive. I'd catch him shading his name, encourage him to get to work, and he would reply with a bashful, sheepish smile and say, "Okay." A few months after enrolling, Freddy started dating a fairly popular girl, who was also in my class. They broke up a month later. I remember a lot about him, and in a way, it's haunting. I would have never guessed that this would have been his future.
I've had other students who have been locked up. I've dealt with my share of parole officers. But attempted murder? Really? How in the heck did he wind up in this position? Did he not see in himself what I saw in him? I kind of want to visit Freddy. I don't even know if he would remember me; it wouldn't matter. I wonder if students fully understand how much so many of their teachers care about them.
Then there are the moments that bring a glimmer of hope to my existence.
Two weeks ago, I was in a class working with some students. I didn't get much sleep the night before. I was lying awake thinking about two students in particular. I had discovered how messed up their home lives were. So there I was, functioning on little sleep and extremely frustrated with them for screwing around. I pulled "Juan," "Ricky," and "Zack" aside and told them why I had gotten very little sleep the night before. I flat out said, "I'm working my butt off for you guys. I want you to pass this test so you can graduate. But I can't want it more than you." They were quiet for the rest of the period and worked hard. I thought to myself Yes! Maybe I got through to them. I was really disheartened when I had to break up a fight a few periods later that day that involved Juan. It's hard to break free when a person is caught up in gang culture. I left that day feeling defeated; I didn't get through to them.
However, last week I was in the same class. They were taking a very important exam and "Johnny" was trying to distract Zack. (I had ticked Zack off the day before when I had to physically turn his desk because he wouldn't shut up during the same exam.)
I hissed, "Johnny, c'mon!" and gave him "the look." (Everyone knows what the look means. And I've been told by students it's quite scary.)
Out of the blue, Zack responded to Johnny. "She's saying that because she cares." All I could do was smile. He got it. He listened.
I know I'm not going to make a profound impact on all of my students. Kids like Freddy and even Juan are still going to make their mistakes. I try not to dwell on it. It's hard not to though. I hope, in the end, all kids leave my class knowing that I cared about them-- be it telling Dean I like his new haircut, complimenting Julie on her shoes, or congratulating Vanessa on her soccer win. Because who knows who or what they have to go home to.
I couldn't find what I was looking for so I decided to click on the inmates' pictures in the county's jail. I started going through them one by one, looking at the crimes they had been convicted of. (Slightly morbid, I know.) Wouldn't it be sad if I saw one of my students on here? I thought. About five minutes later, I did.
"Freddy," who I had in American literature four years ago, had been convicted of attempted aggravated murder and a slew of other charges. Memories of him in my class immediately flooded my mind. I remember him joining my class in the middle of the semester. He'd come, dressed in a navy blue or black shirt, and quietly sit. Freddy spent more time heading his paper, carefully writing his name in calligraphy, than doing any other work. His handwriting was a very slanted cursive. I'd catch him shading his name, encourage him to get to work, and he would reply with a bashful, sheepish smile and say, "Okay." A few months after enrolling, Freddy started dating a fairly popular girl, who was also in my class. They broke up a month later. I remember a lot about him, and in a way, it's haunting. I would have never guessed that this would have been his future.
I've had other students who have been locked up. I've dealt with my share of parole officers. But attempted murder? Really? How in the heck did he wind up in this position? Did he not see in himself what I saw in him? I kind of want to visit Freddy. I don't even know if he would remember me; it wouldn't matter. I wonder if students fully understand how much so many of their teachers care about them.
Then there are the moments that bring a glimmer of hope to my existence.
Two weeks ago, I was in a class working with some students. I didn't get much sleep the night before. I was lying awake thinking about two students in particular. I had discovered how messed up their home lives were. So there I was, functioning on little sleep and extremely frustrated with them for screwing around. I pulled "Juan," "Ricky," and "Zack" aside and told them why I had gotten very little sleep the night before. I flat out said, "I'm working my butt off for you guys. I want you to pass this test so you can graduate. But I can't want it more than you." They were quiet for the rest of the period and worked hard. I thought to myself Yes! Maybe I got through to them. I was really disheartened when I had to break up a fight a few periods later that day that involved Juan. It's hard to break free when a person is caught up in gang culture. I left that day feeling defeated; I didn't get through to them.
However, last week I was in the same class. They were taking a very important exam and "Johnny" was trying to distract Zack. (I had ticked Zack off the day before when I had to physically turn his desk because he wouldn't shut up during the same exam.)
I hissed, "Johnny, c'mon!" and gave him "the look." (Everyone knows what the look means. And I've been told by students it's quite scary.)
Out of the blue, Zack responded to Johnny. "She's saying that because she cares." All I could do was smile. He got it. He listened.
I know I'm not going to make a profound impact on all of my students. Kids like Freddy and even Juan are still going to make their mistakes. I try not to dwell on it. It's hard not to though. I hope, in the end, all kids leave my class knowing that I cared about them-- be it telling Dean I like his new haircut, complimenting Julie on her shoes, or congratulating Vanessa on her soccer win. Because who knows who or what they have to go home to.
Monday, August 22, 2011
The End of the Dog Days of Summer
When people learn that Doug and I are both teachers, the first question that comes out of their mouths is, "Wow. What do you guys do all summer long?" This is a common misconception that the general public has-- that teachers have three months off. Those in education know that this is not the case whatsoever. Summers are typically filled with trainings, classes, and lesson planning. These are things that are all work-related. Surprisingly, teachers do have personal lives, which typically get put on hold during the school year. Most of my teacher friends, not unlike myself, compile a huge to do list that we save for summer time. Everything gets too hectic during the school year to tackle many of the projects that need to be accomplished.
This past summer was the strangest summer that we've had so far, but Doug and I have had vastly different experiences. I took 10 credits and worked most of the summer. I had two weeks with no work. My summer was short. As I start work tomorrow, I am not quite ready to return. I do, however, have the excitement and trepidation that begins with a new job. I am leaving my comfortable, cozy home at McNary and am trading them in for experiencing life as a McKay Royal Scot. With all of the changes made in the district, this year will be difficult; but like most teachers in my district, I am thankful to have a job.
My summer experience definitely juxtaposes Doug's. He kicked off his summer with a termination letter effective June 17. He has been at home with the girls and has been doing a good job at it as well. For example, I came today, only to find him playing Pretty, Pretty Princess with the girls. Had he been gainfully employed, today would have been his first day back at work. We hope that a recall phone call or letter appears soon.
That to do list I mentioned? Yeah, it didn't really happen. Between working most of the summer and adding Preslyn into the mix, it has gotten that much harder to accomplish anything. I return to work with a half painted downstairs, a cracked windshield, a broken seat belt, a broken A/C, two unfinished baby books, one baby book that hasn't been started yet, caulking that needs to repaired, and the list continues. But our lives go on, and there will always be another summer.
This past summer was the strangest summer that we've had so far, but Doug and I have had vastly different experiences. I took 10 credits and worked most of the summer. I had two weeks with no work. My summer was short. As I start work tomorrow, I am not quite ready to return. I do, however, have the excitement and trepidation that begins with a new job. I am leaving my comfortable, cozy home at McNary and am trading them in for experiencing life as a McKay Royal Scot. With all of the changes made in the district, this year will be difficult; but like most teachers in my district, I am thankful to have a job.
My summer experience definitely juxtaposes Doug's. He kicked off his summer with a termination letter effective June 17. He has been at home with the girls and has been doing a good job at it as well. For example, I came today, only to find him playing Pretty, Pretty Princess with the girls. Had he been gainfully employed, today would have been his first day back at work. We hope that a recall phone call or letter appears soon.
That to do list I mentioned? Yeah, it didn't really happen. Between working most of the summer and adding Preslyn into the mix, it has gotten that much harder to accomplish anything. I return to work with a half painted downstairs, a cracked windshield, a broken seat belt, a broken A/C, two unfinished baby books, one baby book that hasn't been started yet, caulking that needs to repaired, and the list continues. But our lives go on, and there will always be another summer.
Monday, June 20, 2011
The People of Costco
Everyone seems to rip on the people of Wal-Mart. For example, Doug used to tell his loud, obnoxious students that they were using their Wal-Mart voices, and I have to agree that this is a good analogy for most people. I realized, however, that there are a certain type who shop at Costco who can be classified into several categories.
The first group I call the oblivious because they are completely unaware that anyone else is shopping. They create traffic jams because they are in their own little worlds. They stroll up and down the isles at a snail's pace hoping not miss an item. In the meantime, they might just sporadically stop mid-stroll causing a back up of irritated people (like myself). This leaves those patiently waiting the task of figuring out how to get around said cart in a timely manner. Because there are, after all, about six other carts trying to get through the aisle as well.
Whenever I see the food sampling tables out, I cringe. The eaters believe the world is going to end if they don't taste every slice of greasy meat or cheese being offered. They steer their cart, head down, straight to the 90 year old lady talking to herself about the delicious and nutritious wheat cracker, knocking everyone out of their way. (Because heaven forbid, someone snatch the cracker that this eater had his eye on.)While lunging for this tasty goodness, they leave their carts perpendicular to the sample table so no one can get through the aisle. The sample is just that good! After tasting this tiny morsel, many eaters stand around licking every last crumb from the provided napkin, continuing to create even more congestion. Because, after all, it was free, right?
The socialites are those who clog the aisles because they have encountered a long-lost friend. (And really, I could extend this title to people texting or conversing on the phone.) They seem to assume that everyone shares in their overwhelming joy in this reuniting of kindred spirits. I say this because they, too, stop dead center in the middle of it all, paying no attention to the twenty people trying to get around them. These same socialites slow down their pace when attempting to push a fifty pound cart and text at the same time. No, the world is not going to stop because these socialites did not respond to a text within thirty seconds. But those socialites with narcissistic tendencies seem to think so.
Without these three groups who fail to politely move their carts out of the way, gosh, maybe most Costco-goers could escape in under an hour?
The first group I call the oblivious because they are completely unaware that anyone else is shopping. They create traffic jams because they are in their own little worlds. They stroll up and down the isles at a snail's pace hoping not miss an item. In the meantime, they might just sporadically stop mid-stroll causing a back up of irritated people (like myself). This leaves those patiently waiting the task of figuring out how to get around said cart in a timely manner. Because there are, after all, about six other carts trying to get through the aisle as well.
The socialites are those who clog the aisles because they have encountered a long-lost friend. (And really, I could extend this title to people texting or conversing on the phone.) They seem to assume that everyone shares in their overwhelming joy in this reuniting of kindred spirits. I say this because they, too, stop dead center in the middle of it all, paying no attention to the twenty people trying to get around them. These same socialites slow down their pace when attempting to push a fifty pound cart and text at the same time. No, the world is not going to stop because these socialites did not respond to a text within thirty seconds. But those socialites with narcissistic tendencies seem to think so.
Without these three groups who fail to politely move their carts out of the way, gosh, maybe most Costco-goers could escape in under an hour?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
One Little Blue Folder
Like the famous words of Toby Keith, "I wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then" I find myself echoing the exact same words, and while he is referring to his cheating girlfriend, I relate it to my shiny new blue folder. It all began with a night from hell where my 2 year old decided to literally take on the Nathan's hot dog eating champ Joey Chesnut at a friendly BBQ hosted by none other than my beautiful wife. She continued with an onslaught of chocolate chip cookies and chips just to stoke the fire. Though I should have been more cautious as her father, I let it go because she was in good spirits and we all know how two year olds can get two hours past their bedtime. As the BBQ came to a close and my daughters were all snug in their beds, I ignorantly believed the night would bring nothing but sweet dreams and uninterrupted sleep. This, however, was not to be. The wake up call came around 1:45 am with Braelyn screaming at the top of her lungs, and when I entered her room I was reminded of scenes from the Exorcist. On her bed there appeared to be what looked like a mutilated opossum followed by the smell of freshly heaved hot dogs. On her pillow was more puke and she stood there looking like the toxic avenger confused and scared. As I cleaned everything up I was reminded of the fact that I had get up in a little over three hours.
The rest of the night went unnoticed and soon I heard my alarm reminding me that it was time to begin the prework warm up. I say prework warm up because with three daughters and a wife it takes time before we can actually get out the door. Despite being really tired, we managed to get ready and out of the house on time. When I got to school I was still tired, but in high spirits as the thought of summer vacation loomed closer and closer. It's a shame I couldn't have relived just the morning over and over again like on Ground Hog's Day because the afternoon is something I never want to relive. It was already known at school that some teachers were going to lose their jobs due to budget cuts but that was just talk and it never sunk in. In fact, I held several conversations with coworkers about being worried I would be riffed, but I was always reassured it could not happen to such a "good guy." A friend of mine who teaches health found out she was being let go the day before and I spent much of after school consoling her and reassuring her all would be fine, but I still did not think for one moment I would take a walk in her shoes. As the bell rang for 6th period I was reflecting upon what was said to me during my prep period, "Watch out for the email that says meeting from the principal!" When I got to my classroom I immediately ran to my desk and checked my emails just to be safe. In what seemed like an eternity I scrolled one by one through each title only to find the words "Meeting" sent by my principal. My heart sank and my stomach turned several knots. I had to keep my composure as I still had fifty five minutes of class time to dedicate to my rowdy and unknowing 8th graders. After many attempts to forget about the email, I could not shake the thought that I might be one of the 250 teachers out of a job.
The bell finally rang and I was on my way to meet my fate like a cow on its way to being slaughtered. I entered the principal's office sat down and heard the worst introductory sentence a man can ever be subject to, "This is one of those meetings you never want to have with a teacher." The words hit me with such power and force that my mind went numb. I don't really know what was said past that because so many things raced through my mind. Anger, frustration, sadness, humiliation, and anxiety took over my body. I didn't know what to say or how to react so I sat there silent and broken trying to fully comprehend the reality of my teaching career. It was over, just like that. In five minutes I had learned my fate and received my shiny new little blue folder that stood out like a swastika on Charles Manson's forehead. I walked down the hallway defeated and to the shock and surprise of my comrades. Nothing they said could erase the emptiness inside me, but I kept my composure just as I had learned from my father and grandfathers. So here I am writing a blog as a way to release my frustration and agony of the whole situation. I am humbled and honored to have called myself a teacher, and appreciative of the fact that I have been an influential person in so many student's lives. I am scared at what is to be but I know that there is a grander plan in store for me. As I finish out my work week I know that I must look for employment elsewhere. Thankfully my wife is employed and we have some form of income, but it doesn't replace the feelings of guilt and the inability to measure up. I began with much to give and I left with a little blue folder, but I am confident that I will find my new calling and begin a new legacy to be proud of.
Doug Jr
The rest of the night went unnoticed and soon I heard my alarm reminding me that it was time to begin the prework warm up. I say prework warm up because with three daughters and a wife it takes time before we can actually get out the door. Despite being really tired, we managed to get ready and out of the house on time. When I got to school I was still tired, but in high spirits as the thought of summer vacation loomed closer and closer. It's a shame I couldn't have relived just the morning over and over again like on Ground Hog's Day because the afternoon is something I never want to relive. It was already known at school that some teachers were going to lose their jobs due to budget cuts but that was just talk and it never sunk in. In fact, I held several conversations with coworkers about being worried I would be riffed, but I was always reassured it could not happen to such a "good guy." A friend of mine who teaches health found out she was being let go the day before and I spent much of after school consoling her and reassuring her all would be fine, but I still did not think for one moment I would take a walk in her shoes. As the bell rang for 6th period I was reflecting upon what was said to me during my prep period, "Watch out for the email that says meeting from the principal!" When I got to my classroom I immediately ran to my desk and checked my emails just to be safe. In what seemed like an eternity I scrolled one by one through each title only to find the words "Meeting" sent by my principal. My heart sank and my stomach turned several knots. I had to keep my composure as I still had fifty five minutes of class time to dedicate to my rowdy and unknowing 8th graders. After many attempts to forget about the email, I could not shake the thought that I might be one of the 250 teachers out of a job.
The bell finally rang and I was on my way to meet my fate like a cow on its way to being slaughtered. I entered the principal's office sat down and heard the worst introductory sentence a man can ever be subject to, "This is one of those meetings you never want to have with a teacher." The words hit me with such power and force that my mind went numb. I don't really know what was said past that because so many things raced through my mind. Anger, frustration, sadness, humiliation, and anxiety took over my body. I didn't know what to say or how to react so I sat there silent and broken trying to fully comprehend the reality of my teaching career. It was over, just like that. In five minutes I had learned my fate and received my shiny new little blue folder that stood out like a swastika on Charles Manson's forehead. I walked down the hallway defeated and to the shock and surprise of my comrades. Nothing they said could erase the emptiness inside me, but I kept my composure just as I had learned from my father and grandfathers. So here I am writing a blog as a way to release my frustration and agony of the whole situation. I am humbled and honored to have called myself a teacher, and appreciative of the fact that I have been an influential person in so many student's lives. I am scared at what is to be but I know that there is a grander plan in store for me. As I finish out my work week I know that I must look for employment elsewhere. Thankfully my wife is employed and we have some form of income, but it doesn't replace the feelings of guilt and the inability to measure up. I began with much to give and I left with a little blue folder, but I am confident that I will find my new calling and begin a new legacy to be proud of.
Doug Jr
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Ready, Set, Chaos
Today after school, there were about seven or so teachers patrolling the hallway. There was some sort of police activity in the neighborhood nearby so we had to keep watch of activity in the halls. While we were waiting for some sort of update, James, the financial adviser of our 403b, walked up to the circle of teachers. He remembered me and Doug by name, which was pretty impressive. When I commended him for his amazing memory, he added, "Now don't expect me to remember the names of your kids. You have two of them, right?" After correcting him and added some offhand joke about popping out another one, the crowd of teachers somewhat dispersed. James and I continued to talk about our kids and he asked the the ages of the girls. After responding with their ages (3 1/2, 2, and 5 months), he laughed and said something to the extent of "Do you have a death wish?". I laughed because this is how most people respond (because anyone with a toddler knows how things can turn out) but thought to myself: They are pretty good girls; it isn't that bad.
Then I picked them up from Cleona's...
Braelyn cried the entire way home because she had a booger in her nose. (Imagine a two year old repeatedly crying, "I got de burger," but with an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent.)
At dinner, Madi and Braelyn were flipping around in their chairs and didn't want to eat their steak because it was "too saucy." Braelyn started crying and wanted a "big hug." Somehow that girl manages to produce the biggest crocodile tears ever. Madi proceeded to spill her water all over the place and began crying because she had to clean it up. Preslyn, who is usually silent, started crying because of all of the noise and because it was 30 minutes past her bedtime.
I returned to a somewhat quiet living room after putting Preslyn to bed; the girls were peacefully coloring. That lasted for all of 3 minutes. The big container of crayons spilled all over the kitchen floor. I repeatedly asked them to pick up their crayons. Thirty minutes later...the crayons were still on the floor. Tired of dealing with my crazy monkeys, I sat down in the living room while Doug threatened to throw the crayons away. (I will admit I had flashbacks of my dad making this same threat. I even had images of him breaking my sister's play broom over his knee, making a loud crack.) The girls began to scream, cry, and tell on daddy, but still I sat...in the chaos.
Admittedly, there are times when bedtime for the girls is my favorite time of the day. This is the case for any parent. However, when I went to put sweet little Braelyn to bed tonight and she ran over to her bed, knelt down, and began saying her prayers, all of the horrors of the day were quickly forgotten.
Then I picked them up from Cleona's...
Braelyn cried the entire way home because she had a booger in her nose. (Imagine a two year old repeatedly crying, "I got de burger," but with an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent.)
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| Although this isn't Madi, it's a perfect reenactment. |
I returned to a somewhat quiet living room after putting Preslyn to bed; the girls were peacefully coloring. That lasted for all of 3 minutes. The big container of crayons spilled all over the kitchen floor. I repeatedly asked them to pick up their crayons. Thirty minutes later...the crayons were still on the floor. Tired of dealing with my crazy monkeys, I sat down in the living room while Doug threatened to throw the crayons away. (I will admit I had flashbacks of my dad making this same threat. I even had images of him breaking my sister's play broom over his knee, making a loud crack.) The girls began to scream, cry, and tell on daddy, but still I sat...in the chaos.
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| This lady totally depicts me. |
Monday, May 2, 2011
Addicted
A few Saturdays ago as I was walking around Egan's (my favorite spot to buy flowers), I realized that I am completely addicted to buying flowers. *Live flowers...not the dead ones that cost a fortune.* I have always loved having a colorful yard decorated with flowers everywhere. We learned a lot from landscaping our first house. Now we both know the kind of flowers and plants that we do and do not like and the importance of planting a variety so they bloom throughout most of the year. (And believe it or not, Doug contributes a lot to the flower and plant purchases.) Whenever I leave Egan's, our SUV is usually packed. But this time, I limited myself to three crates for several reasons:
Doug and I are slowly re-landscaping our front yard. We tore out all of the shrubs and rhododendrons. My favorite flowers are calla lilies. I made sure to plant four of those bulbs and am really looking forward to those growing. On this particular day, I planted everything myself because Doug hurt his back picking up a toy and couldn't walk. (Yes, he's getting old.) I was alone in the rain planting bulbs and flowers. (Ironically, I really dislike yard work.)
I can't wait until everything blooms this summer and fall. There's nothing better than sitting on our deck on a warm summer's night, admiring our hard work.
- In October, I planted almost 90 bulbs. In March, I bought 90 more bulbs to plant. (We are running out of room.)
- We were smarter with our plant selection last year and bought a lot of perennials.
- We had friends coming over that night for dinner, and I had two hours to plant everything.
Doug and I are slowly re-landscaping our front yard. We tore out all of the shrubs and rhododendrons. My favorite flowers are calla lilies. I made sure to plant four of those bulbs and am really looking forward to those growing. On this particular day, I planted everything myself because Doug hurt his back picking up a toy and couldn't walk. (Yes, he's getting old.) I was alone in the rain planting bulbs and flowers. (Ironically, I really dislike yard work.)
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| This was right before all of the tulips sprouted. |
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| See the black thing in the back? It's called Black Mondo. (I LOVE IT!) |
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| Some of our tulips...they are my second favorite flower. |
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| See the four poofy flower containers? These are my third favorite flower. I used to call them poof ball flowers until I recently discovered they are called English Daisies. (In fact, they used to be considered weeds). |
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