The Curse of Imagination

We went on a great hike today - along the Blue River (we think) to the shores of Lake Dillon. We tossed sticks and stones in the river, pretended to be bears, and enjoyed a picnic lunch while watching fly fishermen toil. (In our many trips to the lake, we have seen plenty of fishermen, but not a single fish. Huh.)
 
We have been blessed with heavy afternoon rains for the past couple of days, so the river was running cold, high, and fast. None of us were foolhardy enough for any serious wading, but it was fun to toss sticks in and watch them ride the current (Xtreme Pooh Sticks, as it were). Wrig would put her toes right at the edge of the bank, balancing precariously while holding a huge stick above her head, then lurch her entire body weight forward to throw. All I could picture was her losing her balance, tumbling into the cold water, and racing downstream, bouncing off rocks while wailing for help.
 
My imagination is often filled with pictures like this. In each and every one - the falling from great heights movie, the being taken by a stranger movie - I am forced to try to visualize my own reaction: what would I do to help? What am I ready/able to do to protect my daughter? The answer is always the same: not much. I hate those damn movies.
 
I know, I know. The imagination is also responsible for the other movies. The ones where she graduates college and wins athletic events and finds a boyfriend whose knuckles don't scrape the ground. But today, while watching clear water tumble over sharp rock, it wasn't the wind that gave me the shivers. 

Archaeology

We've been spending a lot of time on the shores of Lake Dillon this week, which means we've been picking up other people's garbage here and there. The other day, Christie unearthed a pull-top from an old pop can. I was a little surprised to see that some company was still making pull tops, but not surprised to see one littered on the beach. Before we left, Christie found another pull-top. "You know what this is about?" she asked. "It's the drought. The water is at 80% of normal - these are probably 20 years old."
 
Who knew going to the lake was going to be an archaeological experiment?

And So It Begins ...

W: Daddy, maybe one day we can buy a dog.
D: No, Wrig. We won't be buying a dog.
W: Well, maybe we can buy another cat. When Marble. When Marble. Decides she doesn't want to live with us anymore.
D: Yes, sweetie, I think that is likely to happen.

Henceforth, all books featuring anything resembling a canine are banned from the house.

Junkie

Christie is addicted Ricolla Mints (only 69 cents at your local Trader Joe's!). Just like any parent, she has passed her addiction on to Wrigley. Any time Wrig sees Christie chomping on a mint, any time Wrig even smells a mint, she asks, "Christie, can I have a big piece of your mint?"

Yesterday, tragedy struck. While waiting for the bus, Wrig asks, "Mommy, would you like a mint?" (which is, of course, quickly followed by, "Can I have a big piece?" Mom said sure, so Wrig dug through our bag to find the box. Which was. EMPTY. Horror of horrors.

I asked Wrig if she wanted to go with me to throw the box away, but she decided she wanted to eat pretend mints. Moments later, she offered Mommy a pretend mint. When she accepted, Wrig asked,

"Can I have a big piece of your pretend mint?"

Greetings from Colorado

We're staying in Colorado for most of July, which means our entries will be either a) less frequent than usual, b) more airheaded than usual, or c) both.

We are staying at Christie's folks' place in Breckenridge, which is a city as much like Portland as you can get if you shrunk it down to 10 city blocks and replaced all the puddles with mountains. We really like it here, except for the fact that the air is so thin you have to stop and rest between flights of stairs.

Christie's folks kept us company for our first couple of days here. We had a fine ol' time, feeding chipmunks (W: Those are chipmunks, not squirrels, because chipmunks have stripes), riding in a boat (W: I liked when we were coming back, but I didn't like the part where we went bumpity-bumpity-bumpity-bumpity), and searching (successfully) for pika and marmots (Christie's Dad called them sun bathing dust mops) - and finding a deer, a porcupine!, and an elk along the way (W: I think it was a deer). We've spent a considerable amount of time admiring hummingbirds. The orange hummingbirds do not know how to share well (my comment, not Wrig's). They aren't so much interested in feeding at the feeder as making sure none of the other hummingbirds try to enjoy the feeder. The weekend was finished off in spectacular fashion with a Texas-style dinner of corn on the cob, Grammy's cole slaw, and Granddaddy's brisket (which made an even better lunch this afternoon!). Wrig cannot comment on the quality of the brisket because, for some reason, she will not try meat.

We had a special treat on Friday, when Wrig's Uncle Jim and Aunt Wendy stopped in Breck on their way back to Denver. Wrig finally got to meet and play near her cousin Jake (who is mighty cute in his own right). They got along fairly well until it was time to say good-bye. Jake gave his Aunt Christie a kiss good-bye. Jake gave his Uncle Eddie a kiss good-bye. Wrigley, who may not be able to read but sure can read the writing on the wall, dashed into the bathroom and shut the door. "No hugs! No kisses!" When we asked if she at least wanted to say good-bye, she courteously hollered, "Get out!" I hope Jake has better luck with women when he hits high school.

That's all for tonight. Stay tuned. When we get back home in August, I'm sure Christie will have a ton of photos for your blogging pleasure.

Aye, Matey

The pictures from a couple of posts ago are back up. Scroll on down. Sorry to have teased you. But for your patience, you are rewarded with rare photos of the pirate First Mate Blind Wrig LaFroop!

Plunking down her arm for a new tatoo


pillaging a ship

The Contrary Poet

M: I'm all why?ed out. I can't answer anymore why?s
W: Whywhy?
M: Hon, I said I was all out. No more, please.
W: (indignantly) I was talking to my self.

Why.
why why why?
whywhywhywhywhy???
whhhhhy wa-wa-wa-why

(it works better to imagine her in a smoky bar with a beret)

M: sigh
(at the end of the day, it still bugs me even though she's not talking to me).

PS - Later that night, she asked Daddy if he was full of whys. Pretty wise kid, if you ask me.

...and the living is easy

okay, we live with a 2 year old, so easy isn't the right word, but we have been having fun!

Wrigley found a slug in the back yard. We plan to show her this picture when she is 12 and grossed out by bugs. She was quite pleased with her find!

We went blueberry picking. Wrigley picked 3/4 of a pound. They were a DOLLAR a pound. Boy, labor & transportation sure add to the price of produce! I ate far more than Wrigley did among the bushes. Luckily, they didn't weigh me on the way in and out.

It takes lots of concentration to pick blueberries.

We've been drawing on the sidewalk in our most stylish sun protection,


reading on the couch together,


and romping in a fountain.




And there are even more pictures here.