Ramona Mae

I like to tease the golf enthusiasts in my life by explaining to them that golf has about a 1:1 ratio of difficulty to pointlessness that makes it a bad way to spend your time. This also goes for synchronized swimmers, but these folks are usually in a little better shape than your average golfer and a lot crazier, so you don’t want to mess with them.

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I am out of it. A few days ago someone asked me how old I am and I really could not remember. I was embarassed and thought, “Don’t panic, just subtract back to 1974. Oh crap, what year is it?”

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So, almost every mom I know has a story of some horrifying thing one sibling has done to another. For instance, one friend’s infant son crawled up to her covered head to toe in poo. Only it wasn’t his poo. It was donated poo from big brother that had been lovingly applied to every nook and crannie.

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Just a quick update: Andy weighed Ramona this morning (thanks honey) and she is now…

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I must have misunderstood the doctors when they were talking about Ramona’s weight gain. Because lately, I’m the one who’s been eating like my life depends on it.

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I got word last night that a cyber-friend has suffered a miscarriage. My heart is just breaking for her. The day we miscarried my first response was, “I’m disappointed, but hey, we live in a fallen world”. Talk about a pat reaction. That lasted about a day, I think I was in denial.

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There is a new church opening today in our neighborhood. A “Grand Opening”, their banner says. So we’re going to do our best to check it out. I’m feeling tentative about taking Ramona out in public, but we would really like to be going to church if possible, so we’re going to keep her close and limit her contact with fellow church goers.

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