When a man beats his wife, and she lets him, people urge her to leave, call her an idiot, and try to get the man in jail. Apparently when a woman beats her husband, he signs a contract saying its ok, as long as it only happens once a week. And it's all ok, because she feels really bad seeing him covered in bruises.
Anyone else think things here are just WRONG????
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Friday, 4 December 2009
Fun With Photoshop
Clicky any of the piccies for biggerness
I love Photoshop. I only have elements, not the full version, because MONEY!! and I usually only use it for my own amusement, and basic photo-fixing, but I LOVE IT. I take millions of photos of my kids, and while most of them turn out nice, with photoshop I can make some of them even better.
Like this:
Cute, no? Helps that the subject is pretty adorable. But, cute as it is with those massive eyes, its kinda dark. A few minute with my trusty phtoshop, and it becomes this:
which is so much better. LOOK at those eyes now!!
Or this:
Also better, but decidedly different.
By using different filters, layer effects, or even just changing the colour, I can change the image quite a bit. I can make some interesting 'artsy' effects,
make my little one rather creepy,
or even make the image look old fashioned.
I LOVE Photoshop.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
noise in the small hours
slowly, awareness comes. it is cold, and dark, and i do not want to be awake. my furnace-hot husband is curled up in a ball behind me, our backs pressed together, the only part of me that is warm. vaguely i am aware that i should pull the blanket up, but today is technically the first day of summer, and i stubbornly refuse to give in, especially as up til now it has been so hot we've been forgoing even a sheet at night.
i roll over, determining to go back to sleep, ignoring the slightly distressed tiny noises the man makes whenever i move away from him. after six years, they hardly register, unless he is facing me and i have to disengage his suddenly vicelike arms and reassure him i am not going anywhere. with my face pressed against his back he relaxes, and i allow consciousness to leave me again. as i slowly drift, a noise jars me back to the cold - obviously the reason i was awake to begin with. insistent and annoyed, my daughter is awake, and only milk will satisfy her. i pull the blanket onto the bed as i leave the room, and my husband barely stirs.
in the dark and the cold, the creak of the floorboards is deafening, and i am sure i will wake everyone. miraculously, only the mini-one notices, and her insistent annoyance becomes fear and sadness when i do not materialise next to her bed the moment she hears my footsteps. her sobs of anguish are only quieted when tiny outstretched arms and feathery soft head find their resting place on my shoulder. in the heat of yesterday, the sleepsack was her only nightwear, but now, in the dark, her pudgy arms are cold to touch, and i reach for a tiny soft shirt to keep her warm, before we return to my bed to nurse.
my footsteps still creaking, suddenly i freeze. a voice, loud in the darkness, and baby's head startles off my shoulder - i have to make sure and get more chicken so we don't run out. silent laughter racking my body, i try not move, as her tiny head swings from side to side and she questions into the dark, not understanding. i just didn't know anymore so i went and did it. my son has inherited my sleeptalking, and i wonder, not for the first time, how sleeptalker and nightnurser do not constantly disturb each other.
eyes adjusted to the dark, i see the skinny body sprawled across the bed. one foot hangs off the side, his head is pressed against the wall, toy-puppy gripped firmly by the arm twisted behind his arched back. satisfied he is still sleeping, i pull pirate-covered blankets over my cold skinned boy - when do we get to go back to the zoo for burgers again? - and make my way back to my own bed with the now-warmer-girl. tired and hungry, she cries again when i lay her down, never remembering in her half-awake state that i will be joining her shortly and the milk will flow. as we adjust ourselves to more comfortable positions, a sleepy arm is thrown over me, and she startles off, squealing with delight as she feels daddy's hand. he is oblivious, lost in the sleep i crave, and she soon resumes nursing, the possibility of daddy superseded by the reality of milk.
comfortable between two warm bodies, i search out the clock in the dark before i let sleep claim me again. 3-4-9 i see in blurry green. almost 5am, as we don't change this clock for daylight savings. slowly the dark becomes complete as tired eyes close, and sleep cautiously returns. i drift, warm and dark, till again i am jarred awake, by the 5am alarm calling the man to get up and ready for work. he stirs, moving away to end the jarring alarm, my back suddenly cold without his bodyheat to warm me, and then, silence.
slowly sound and warmth return, wakeup call ignored in search of rest. small body in my arms warm and still, save for twitching fingers and breath-raised chest, husband behind me asleep almost instantly, his constantly-hot-body keeping my back warm in the cold, hand holding his daughter's, his sleep-steady breath beside my ear lulling me to my own sleep once more, and blocking out all other noises in the small hours.
i roll over, determining to go back to sleep, ignoring the slightly distressed tiny noises the man makes whenever i move away from him. after six years, they hardly register, unless he is facing me and i have to disengage his suddenly vicelike arms and reassure him i am not going anywhere. with my face pressed against his back he relaxes, and i allow consciousness to leave me again. as i slowly drift, a noise jars me back to the cold - obviously the reason i was awake to begin with. insistent and annoyed, my daughter is awake, and only milk will satisfy her. i pull the blanket onto the bed as i leave the room, and my husband barely stirs.
in the dark and the cold, the creak of the floorboards is deafening, and i am sure i will wake everyone. miraculously, only the mini-one notices, and her insistent annoyance becomes fear and sadness when i do not materialise next to her bed the moment she hears my footsteps. her sobs of anguish are only quieted when tiny outstretched arms and feathery soft head find their resting place on my shoulder. in the heat of yesterday, the sleepsack was her only nightwear, but now, in the dark, her pudgy arms are cold to touch, and i reach for a tiny soft shirt to keep her warm, before we return to my bed to nurse.
my footsteps still creaking, suddenly i freeze. a voice, loud in the darkness, and baby's head startles off my shoulder - i have to make sure and get more chicken so we don't run out. silent laughter racking my body, i try not move, as her tiny head swings from side to side and she questions into the dark, not understanding. i just didn't know anymore so i went and did it. my son has inherited my sleeptalking, and i wonder, not for the first time, how sleeptalker and nightnurser do not constantly disturb each other.
eyes adjusted to the dark, i see the skinny body sprawled across the bed. one foot hangs off the side, his head is pressed against the wall, toy-puppy gripped firmly by the arm twisted behind his arched back. satisfied he is still sleeping, i pull pirate-covered blankets over my cold skinned boy - when do we get to go back to the zoo for burgers again? - and make my way back to my own bed with the now-warmer-girl. tired and hungry, she cries again when i lay her down, never remembering in her half-awake state that i will be joining her shortly and the milk will flow. as we adjust ourselves to more comfortable positions, a sleepy arm is thrown over me, and she startles off, squealing with delight as she feels daddy's hand. he is oblivious, lost in the sleep i crave, and she soon resumes nursing, the possibility of daddy superseded by the reality of milk.
comfortable between two warm bodies, i search out the clock in the dark before i let sleep claim me again. 3-4-9 i see in blurry green. almost 5am, as we don't change this clock for daylight savings. slowly the dark becomes complete as tired eyes close, and sleep cautiously returns. i drift, warm and dark, till again i am jarred awake, by the 5am alarm calling the man to get up and ready for work. he stirs, moving away to end the jarring alarm, my back suddenly cold without his bodyheat to warm me, and then, silence.
slowly sound and warmth return, wakeup call ignored in search of rest. small body in my arms warm and still, save for twitching fingers and breath-raised chest, husband behind me asleep almost instantly, his constantly-hot-body keeping my back warm in the cold, hand holding his daughter's, his sleep-steady breath beside my ear lulling me to my own sleep once more, and blocking out all other noises in the small hours.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Accomplishments
Done yesterday:
- laundry
- chocolate pudding
- roast dinner - beef, potatoes, sweet potatoes, yorkshire pudding, broccoli, gravy
- scrabble with the boy
- standing practice with the girl
- far too many dishes
- more house-hunting
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Plans
What I want to do today:
What will probably actually get done:
(No, that wasn't a mistake.)
- waffles
- chocolate pudding
- tortillas
- sewing practice
- knitting
What will probably actually get done:
(No, that wasn't a mistake.)
So Far Today
- I've been mostly awake since 3am
- the baby is being weird
- she stinks
- my eyelid feels like its on fire
- I have killed over 30 fleas in the last hour
- the rat came into the house
- I have no idea what to do for dinner
- the boy keeps arguing
- I keep yelling at him
- God loves me anyway
- that makes everything better
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
I Never Wanted To Keep Her In Pink
When Critterbug was a baby, we often had questions as to his gender. I didn't really understand that, as to me he looked like a boy (right from the start, to me he looked like a Boy rather than just a Baby), and he was always wearing 'boy' clothes - little jeans and blue shirts with monsters and trucks and stuff on them - but I understood that people didn't want to say 'what a cute little boy!' only to be told he was a girl, and we were just a little untraditional in our clothing choices, especially since it is generally deemed more ok to dress a girl in boy's clothes than it is to put a boy in girl's clothes.
Its getting a little ridiculous with Gosling though.
Granted, she doesn't have a particularly feminine face yet (not that she looks masculine, she just looks like a 'baby' instead of a 'girl'), but when she's wearing a pink t-shirt, a pink velvet skirt with butterflies and flowers on it, a pink velour jacket, and pink tights with more flowers on them, she's holding a pink teddy, has a pink dummy (pacifier/binky) in her mouth, and has two pink blankets in her pram, people STILL ask if she's a boy.
That's right, its a boy. We're just trying our hardest to scar him for life.
Maybe once her hair grows out we'll stop getting stupid questions? In the meantime, despite not wanting a frothy frilly pink girl, I have resigned myself to the fact that if I want less confusion, I'm just going to have to have one, and I'll never be able to take her out dressed like this:
Its getting a little ridiculous with Gosling though.
Granted, she doesn't have a particularly feminine face yet (not that she looks masculine, she just looks like a 'baby' instead of a 'girl'), but when she's wearing a pink t-shirt, a pink velvet skirt with butterflies and flowers on it, a pink velour jacket, and pink tights with more flowers on them, she's holding a pink teddy, has a pink dummy (pacifier/binky) in her mouth, and has two pink blankets in her pram, people STILL ask if she's a boy.
That's right, its a boy. We're just trying our hardest to scar him for life.
Maybe once her hair grows out we'll stop getting stupid questions? In the meantime, despite not wanting a frothy frilly pink girl, I have resigned myself to the fact that if I want less confusion, I'm just going to have to have one, and I'll never be able to take her out dressed like this:
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