Monday, July 16, 2007
funny daddy
good dad
sad when she didn't make the finals
Originally uploaded by Kristal
He was consoling Mikal when she didn't make the finals in the shot put. He was great about supporting the kids in track this summer.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Splatter!
His whites are never really white... jackets, pants, tshirts, walls. Paint. On. Everything!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
playing catch up
I haven't posted in a while, but not because I like him any less. It is hard keeping up with all of the things I have going online and I have been concentrating on my main blog. Here are a few pictures from the last several months:
Mike at the Children's Museum in Santa Fe, watching the kids.
Teaching Echo how to fish.
Watching Mia and Mica run in the 5k Superbowl Sunday.
Grandpa. Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Missing Mike
This picture was taken last weekend, at our granddaughter's first birthday party. It is hard to believe that he is a grandpa! I'm going to have to start teasing him about being an old man... as soon as he gets back from his hunting trip. I hope he takes some pictures for me!
Saturday, September 30, 2006
dancing
Bleu had a dance recital last night and a few of the kids got to choose a partner from the audience. He chose his dad. After spending a few minutes teaching them the dance, the kids and their partners performed in front of the group. Mike was a great sport and played along with the whole thing. Bleu was beaming. He was so proud. It was nice to see Bleu making an effort to be involved in something and even nicer to watch the boys bond a little.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Happy Anniversary
originally posted on kristyk.org
Today is the 8th anniversary of the 2nd time Mike and I were married. That's right. Confusing? A little. Two anniversaries means twice the celebration and twice as likely he'll forget. [Which he did!] He has been using my van all week, so I haven't had a way to go shopping for a present. Last night, Mia went to Walmart and I had her get an ironing board for me to give him. That may sound like a crappy present, but I hate ironing. We have an iron that I NEVER use. Mike doesn't like his clothes wrinkled, but I figure if it bothered him that much he would iron them himself. He doesn't.
I grew up in a starch loving family. My mom ironed her clothes every day. People would bring over their clothes before special events because she loved to iron THAT MUCH. My brother was just as bad. Seriously. He was the wannabe cowboy with no horse but pants that would stand up on their own. He would go through cans [plural] of starch every week. The creases never came out of his jeans, even when we washed them. I hated it. I hated the smell. I hated the fussiness and the time it required. I hated it because I was unhappy with my life and that iron was a symbol of everything that made me unhappy. Uptight, rigid and starched to the nines.
Every time Mike and I go somewhere overnight he will ask if I packed the iron. Most of the time I can't even find it. I figure the hotel should have an iron in the room. If they don't, it probably isn't the sort of place that worries about appearances. Giving him an ironing board, hangers and a letter promising to iron all of his clothes is a huge concession on my part. I figure that since he has put up with me for this long, the least I can do is iron a few shirts. I know, I'm a hopeless romantic.
Today is the 8th anniversary of the 2nd time Mike and I were married. That's right. Confusing? A little. Two anniversaries means twice the celebration and twice as likely he'll forget. [Which he did!] He has been using my van all week, so I haven't had a way to go shopping for a present. Last night, Mia went to Walmart and I had her get an ironing board for me to give him. That may sound like a crappy present, but I hate ironing. We have an iron that I NEVER use. Mike doesn't like his clothes wrinkled, but I figure if it bothered him that much he would iron them himself. He doesn't.
I grew up in a starch loving family. My mom ironed her clothes every day. People would bring over their clothes before special events because she loved to iron THAT MUCH. My brother was just as bad. Seriously. He was the wannabe cowboy with no horse but pants that would stand up on their own. He would go through cans [plural] of starch every week. The creases never came out of his jeans, even when we washed them. I hated it. I hated the smell. I hated the fussiness and the time it required. I hated it because I was unhappy with my life and that iron was a symbol of everything that made me unhappy. Uptight, rigid and starched to the nines.
Every time Mike and I go somewhere overnight he will ask if I packed the iron. Most of the time I can't even find it. I figure the hotel should have an iron in the room. If they don't, it probably isn't the sort of place that worries about appearances. Giving him an ironing board, hangers and a letter promising to iron all of his clothes is a huge concession on my part. I figure that since he has put up with me for this long, the least I can do is iron a few shirts. I know, I'm a hopeless romantic.
Friday, August 25, 2006
the painter
crossproccessed, Olympus OM-1
Mike, making concrete columns look like marble.
