Archive for February, 2009

Oh dear

Addie:  Mommy, I can’t wait to be married.

Me:  Oh really?  What kind of man do you want to marry?

Addie:  Someone like Daddy.

Me:   Good idea.  Why can’t you wait to get married?

Addie:  So I can kiss him like this- *pulls lower lip down to chin and sticks out her tongue*.

Me: …

And then there were five

We have been a family of four now for five long and wonderful years.  We have all expressed the desire for our family to expand.  We discuss names, nicknames, where he or she will sleep when he or she makes their appearance.  We have hoped and prayed for this moment for a very long time.






I am pleased to introduce the newest member of the Murphy family.

Our fish, Darby.

Our fish, Darby.


He’s pink, he lives in a pink fish tank and his name is Darby.  Believe me, that is a whole lot better than the other name the girls were insisting on; Melissa.


Here’s a close up.

Isn't he beautiful?

Isn't he beautiful?


To be honest, the addition of another living, breathing, eating, pooping creature in our home wasn’t really my idea.  And Darby doesn’t do a whole lot.  But, my kids adore him.  And that’s awesome to see.

I type with bleeding fingers

Well, not really.

My baby sister is having a baby.  That so sounds like an After School Special.  She might also yell at me for typing this. 

My sister is having a baby (her second) and she asked me to make some wall art for the baby’s room.  I had the crazy notion, once again, of busting out my wool sweater stash and going to town.  It didn’t turn out quite the way I imagined, but nothing ever does.  However, I am pleased with the results.  Would you care to see? 

First, let me explain what I’ve done, in case you can’t figure them out.  I took three art canvases and painted them (erm, they were supposed to be light pink and light green.  Haven’t a clue as to why they turned out peach and teal.  Help, Sean?)  Then, I cut out flowery petally thingies from the sweater and sewed them to the art canvas with embroidery floss, so the stitches would be big and glossy-like.  Hence, the bleeding fingers.  It is way hard to push a big fat needle through painted canvas.  I eventually had to use pliers.  I should have thought of that in the beginning, but a little torture is good for the soul.

Anyways, here they are.

One of the set of 3

One of the set of 3



Two of set of 3

Two of set of 3



Three of 3

Three of 3



And so you can get a feel for the size and scope of them, here is one of them all together.  Try to ignore the fact they are propped up on my office chair.

All three

All three

They are meant to look imperfect and irregular.  That’s just the way I roll.
Well, Kammy Whammy, I hope you like them and that Mayer will learn to love art, so Aunt Kiki can have something to offer besides gum.

Famousosity, sort of

Remember awhile back, when I told you I entered some of my posts into a humor contest?  Well, the results are in and I am a semi-finalist.  I’m not sure what this means.  But I do know I get published, and that is oisome.  They chose this post, if you’re interested.

Also, the second prize winner is Joan from The Retirement Chronicles who is over on my blogroll.   She entered a post about burgers at Burger King and it had me in stitches.  Congratulations, Joan!  I’m so glad you won!  (Only on Fridays.  Only on Fridays.  I can’t go on Tuesdays.  Only on Fridays.     HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAAH!!!)


In other news, I had a dream last night that I joined the Army.  If that’s not weird enough, I dreamed I was in a classroom taking a test and finished early so the teacher who looked an awful lot like Christina Applegate passed out something to read while everyone else finished.  It was a list of newspaper headlines from the last 10 years.  Number one was about Muhammad Ali and something to do with boxing.  I skipped over that because even in my dreams I could care less about sports.  Number two was about Monk and how the writers of Monk had begun to slip in four letter wordsTony Shaloub was quoted, “Well, now we’ll say I’m going to turn on the LAMP, or going to drink a SODA…”

And then Lance woke me up.  I was laughing trying to tell him about this crazy dream and his response was blink… blink… blink.  When I  pressed him for a response he only said, “well, it’s not very funny.”

Oh well.

What’s mine is yours

Me: Addie, please get off my bed with your marker.

Addie: It’s not your bed. It’s Daddy’s. He bought it.

Me: Well what’s his is mine.

Addie: And what’s yours is his?

Me: That’s right.

Addie: Then I guess Daddy has a lot of makeup.

Addie’s birthday

It was a quiet night, when suddenly I was awake, gripping my bulging belly. 

“I think I’m in labor!” I cried to Lance.  I glanced at the clock.  A red 3:30 glared at me.  I laboriously made my way out of the bed to the phone and called the hospital. 

“What do I do?”  I asked the nurse.  “I’ve never been in natural labor.”  I listened to her advice and after thanking her, I hung up.  Turning to Lance I repeated what she said. 

“I should take some Tylenol and a bath, but since I hate baths I think I’ll take a shower and then I’m going to do the dishes and vacuum the floor.”  Lance blinked groggily at me. 

“You’re going to what?”

“Shower, dishes, floor.”  I was determined as all psycho nesting mothers are.

So after a shower, I washed the dishes and Lance vaccuumed the floor. We sat and timed my contractions.  They were only 8 minutes apart, but the pain was getting worse.

Lance called his parents around 5:00 a.m.  “You’d better come on, it looks like the baby will be here soon.” 

Lance convinced me to lay down again, assuring me the house was clean enough for company.  I managed to nap between contractions but the pain was so intense that I had to get up on my hands and knees and breathe through the contractions.  My main fear was not getting an epidural. 

I convinced Lance to call a lady in our church to come over and stay with Emma so we could go to the hospital.  The pain was now taking my breath away. That epidural was my prize now.  Sally, a church member, arrived at 7:15 and after showing her Emma’s clothes, breakfast and other pertinent items, we made our way to the car.

I had fancied a Bojangles biscuit before heading to the hospital, but the four times I had to stop my tour of the kitchen with Sally to get on my hands and knees and breathe convinced me to head to the hospital NOW.

We made our way to the delivery ward with me in a wheelchair and my pillow, suitcase and video camera all perched precariously next to my bulging belly contracting all the while.  Passing by the Admitting desk, the clerk took one look at me and said, “Go on, honey.  Daddy can come back down and fill out the paperwork.”  I grunted out a thanks and we were off again. 

We made it up to the tiny labor ward and the two nurses sighed as they saw us.  Apparently, there were four other women in labor and only the two of them.  I glanced at my watch.  7:30 a.m.  Lance went to finish my admittance paperwork while I slowly got undressed and put on the sexy gown the nurse handed me.  I think I asked her at least four times if I could have an epidural now, please.  She called my doctor as the other nurse checked my dilation.  I was now dilated 5 centimeters.  The nurse on the phone said my doctor was on his way, and that the blessed anesthesiologist was also on his way, that he would be here within the hour.  It was now 8:00 and Lance hurriedly rushed into the room.  I will never ever ever forget the expression on his face as the nurses checked me again and said, “We have no time for an epidural because you are a 10 and you need to push.”

I vaguely remember crying, because the idea of natural labor terrified me.  I had never prepared for that, never wanted that, didn’t take the stupid classes that taught me how to breathe.  This was just all wrong.

The meaner of the two nurses approached me and got right in my face.  She told me that she was going to help me bring this baby into the world and would tell me what to do.  I think I apologized for the way my breath smelled, I can’t quite remember.  But I do know that she was mean and bossy enough to tell me when to breathe and as she was being mean and bossy, the other nurse was getting the room ready for our little girl.  We kept glancing at the door, hoping my doctor was going to be there, but it was just us.  

Suddenly I felt, horror of horrors, that I was going to poop on myself, the fear of all laboring women.  I said, “Um, I think something’s happening…” and suddenly I felt the hot splash of my water breaking.

The next moment, I felt the need to push like never before.  My child’s head shot out and the nurses were shouting to me to NOT push.  I remember asking, “HOW DO YOU NOT PUSH?!”  They said, “Pant like a dog!”  So I panted like a dog.  I do remember glancing up at Lance who had his mouth hanging open and eyes as big as saucers and shouting “DO SOMETHING!”  Poor Lance.

I looked up at that ceiling and panted like a dog.  Occasionally animal sounds came out of my mouth and I just HAD to push, ya’ll ladies know.  Finally after this went on FOREVER the nurse said, “Ok, you can push.”   And my doctor walked in. 

One push later, a squirming, icky baby emerged, much to my relief. 

It was 8:32 a.m. and Adelyn Morgan Murphy had just breathed for the first time. 

She was a honkin huge baby.  8 lbs 11 ozs.  21 inches long.  All natural, not one bit of drugs, not counting the Tylenol from the dingbat nurse who told me that would help. 

Addie is now four today.  She is the funniest, blondest, wiriest, sweetest, most ornery kid there is.  She can make you laugh, make you pull your hair out, make you sit and cuddle with her and try to mentally burn in the moments when she wraps her arms around your neck and squeezes. 

This morning she got out of bed, padded her way across the room to me and tugged on my shirt.  “Mama, is it my birthday?” she asked in her raspy morning voice.

I scooped her up, squeezed her tight and said “Yes.”


I wrote that last year, the day Addie turned four.  Now, she’s five.  I can’t believe how fast that kid is growing up.  She’s reading now.  She writes her name in that cute kid scrawl where the A is tiny and the E on the end is five times bigger.

She’s got a sense of humor.  She’ll cut a joke and look at you out of the corner of her eye with a grin, just waiting to see if you got it. 

Addie doesn’t walk.  She skips. 

I pray that my child will bring joy to people.  That as she skips into the room, states something completely obvious, “You have blue hair.  Are you really old?”, that the subject in question will stoop down to her level and pick up some of the life that radiates from Addie. 

She sparkles.

Tomorrow, the day of her birth, we shall go to our nearest Kid’s Mecca, aka Chuck E. Cheese and eat pizza and collect tickets.  We shall celebrate the birth of our baby.

Addie, Christmas 2008

Addie, Christmas 2008

Addie on the farm

Addie on the farm



First day of school, August 2008

First day of school, August 2008


My Addie

My Addie

Diagnosing my purse

“So, Kearsie, did reading two of those Cake Wreck posts have you in stitches?  *Chuckle* I must say the one about E.T. had me about to pee my britches.”

“Erm.  Yes, I did read them and they were funny.  Thanks for the recommendation.”

“How is your funny bone sprain?  Do you feel the funny today?”

“Well, more a rant.  I slipped in the shower and suddenly felt the need to rant about how slippery my shower is.  It’s getting dangerous to be in there.  Nothing like feeling like you’re standing on snot as you’re getting clean…no, see that’s not fun to talk about.”

“Hmm.  I see your point.  Ahem.  I’ve been going through your history and it appears that this sprain is a reoccurring injury.  I saw it here and here.”

“Yes.  Sigh.  The malady strikes me occasionally.  I try to do a Lee and just press on.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Well, do you have any good post ideas for today?  Surely someone had a suggestion for you.”

“Actually, my buddy at The Retirement Chronicles has tagged me for a Bag Tag or something.  I’m supposed to take a picture of my bag and reveal the contents of it.  What do you think?  Shall I do it?”

“Sure!  No time like the present.  Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Well, here’s my camera.  Why don’t you take a picture of the bag and I’ll sort the contents.”

“Ok.  Should I just point and click this little button -OW!  That flash is bright!”

“Erm, sorry.  Yes, just hold it like that and I’ll step out of the way.”

*Click*  “Done.  Now let’s open up this bad boy and see what’s inside!”

“Doctor, why are you rubbing your hands together like a mad scientist?  You’re scaring me.”

“Sorry.  My wife never lets me inside her purse.  I’ve always been curious.  Where did you find this little beauty?”

“Walmart.  $12.00.  It was a bargain.  As you can see, the faux leather has that glossy shine that shouts, “I’m cheap!” But, it holds all my junk, so I shan’t complain.”

“Well, let’s dig in and see what we’ve got!”

“Well, as you can see, it’s mostly junk.  I’ve got two pens with blue ink, a checkbook, my cell phone, my camera, my camera cord, an iPod Shuffle, the docking thingy to charge it, two bottles of Bath and Body Works Hand Sanitizers, a bottle of lotion that smells like cake, sunglasses, a cool polka dot wallet, a cardboard thingy I tore from our fridge pack of Diet Coke with my code, a thank you card I keep forgetting to send, a set of car keys for each car, another set of keys to get into work because I enjoy torturing myself in efforts to unlock the door and sift through the junk in my purse hunting them down, Blistex, a couple of band-aids, a *cough*lady’s item*cough*, and a ball of yarn with two knitting needles poking out.  That’s it.”

“Wow!  That’s a whole lot of items in your bag!  I’ve only got chapstick and my wallet in my bag-erm, I mean, erm, if I carried a bag that’s what I would have in my bag.  Ahem.”


“Ok, you ever heard of a man-bagor a murse?”


“Erm, come back and see me if you can’t find your funny.”


Ok, Retired and Awarded One, here is a picture of my sad bag from Walmart.

My sad little purse.  Actually I really like it.
My sad little purse. Actually I really like it.

Anyone who wants to do this, feel free!  All the nosey interested people like me will love it!

I need a cure.

“OK, Kearsie, what seems to be the problem?”

“Well, Doctor, it’s my writing.  Every time I sit down to write, I freeze.”

“Hmm.  Have you tried wearing gloves?  I hear Isotoners work wonders.”

“Erm, no.  Not that kind of freeze.  I mean, I can’t write anything.”

“Sounds like a clear case of illiteracy.  There are programs at the local school that can cure that in a few months, if you’ll dedicate yourself to hard work and-”

“No, that’s not what I mean either!  Sigh.  What I mean is, I don’t know what to write or how to write-er, no, scratch that last part.  I know how to write just fine.”

“So, you mean you don’t know what to write.  Do you write…words?”

“Are you kidding me?  Of course I write words.  I write lots of words.  Some big words, some small words, silly words like discombobulate or vaginal or-”

“Kearsie, I don’t understand.  You say you can’t write but it seems that indeed, you can.”

“Well, what I mean is, I can’t write anything…funny.” 

“I see.  Hold out your arm, please.”

“Like this?”

“Yes.  Now, bend it to a 38 degree angle.  No no, that’s 57 degrees.  Bend it just a little more.”

“Ok, like this?”

“Yes, let me just take a look.  Mm hmm, mm hmm.  I see the problem.  It’s a sprain on your funny bone.  It happens all the time.  I suggest you read two of these and call me in the morning if you’re not better.”

“Ok, that sounds easy enough.  Thanks, Doc…Well, can I take off this paper dress?”

“Erm, that’s not an examination gown.  It’s a wad of paper towels I used to wipe up my spilled coffee.”


Dear Kearsie

Dear Kearsie,

I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your blog for the day. I need to share a few thoughts with you so I figured I could just do it here. I want everyone to know how awesome I think you are. You are my greatest inspiration. Here are a few things I have learned from you over the years. (I could list thousands but since I have to write this on my iPhone I will keep it short.)

From you…

1) I have learned the meaning of grace. You know me so well and yet you still love me. You know my darkest secrets. I have told you my most embarassing thoughts. You have seen my worst moments. Through all of this you just keep loving me. The one thing that allows a marriage to thrive is grace. You saturate us with yours.

2) I have learned the meaning of faith. I am amazed that you trust God so much that you are willing to follow my leadership. It may not be popular in this modern era but you have followed me through quite a few storms. That will be popular in eternity because it means you trust God enough to trust me.

3) You have taught me the meaning of intimacy. Let’s face it. My greatest spiritual gift is faking it. I watch you as up close as anyone and I see someone who is real. My favorite thing about our relationship is that we tell each other everything. You really are my best friend.

Blog readers out there. Know this about my wife. She is the most amazing person I know.

Kearsie, I love you. Happy Valentines.

Yours forever,


P.S. Do you know where we hid those gummy handcuffs? It is Valentines Day!

P.S.S. “Officer Murphy here. Kearsie you have been a very bad girl. I think I am going to have place you under arrest.”

My mother is awesome

Awhile back, I told you about our harrowing experience with the law which ended up in handcuffs and a barrage of questions from my poor children.

We’re mostly over it now.  We’ll get to laughing, “AHAHHAAHAHAHHA, you were arrested!” and then a few minutes later it’ll hit us.  “Dude.  You were arrested.”

But we’re mostly over it.

Lance’s birthday is on Monday and Addie’s is a week later, so my mom sent them some birthday gifts.  When Lance opened his, this is what he found:

Looks like an ordinary box.

Looks like an ordinary box.


Let’s open the box:

"Dessert" for now or "Just in case" for later

The note says: "Dessert" for now or "Just in case" for later



Now we open the tissue paper:

It looks like Hostess Cakes taped together.

It looks like Hostess Cakes taped together.



Let’s remove the tape.

Yes, that's a nail file.

Yes, that's a nail file.


Mom, you’re the coolest.