Read PDF Snug Bug (Penguin Young Readers, Level 2)

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Editorial Reviews. From Booklist. Preschool^-Gr. 1. In this bedtime easy-to-read, a little bug--bath taken, teeth brushed, story read--settles down for the night.
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Some days, I imagine my great-grandmother Gudrun at 17 years old, standing with her hands on her hips, 1, miles from everything familiar to her, looking around the place, the wind whipping her dark hair and long dress, wondering how she wound up so far away from the fjords of Norway. I was raised 2 miles from where my great-grandmother raised those children, one of them who was my grandma Edith, the woman I named my first daughter after. While my grandma Edith was growing up, down the road from her was a young man who laid claim to a homestead when he was just a teenager.

He was married, went to war, came home and lost his wife when my grandpa Pete, the youngest of four, was just a child. And who was there to help him with raising those children when he was trying to raise the crops and the cattle? Everything from groceries to day care to schools to housing is stretched and moving and shifting every day. Because community also means support. And support, now more than ever, means working to understand one another by sharing our stories, our concerns, our needs, our ideas and working beyond our differences and finding a way to go beyond survive and into thrive.

I had no idea when I was singing for my supper, driving up and down the middle of the Midwest alone with my guitar at a time when people were moving away instead of back, that I would be married to my high school boyfriend and living at the ranch that raised me before I hit 30 years old. Last week, my neighbor called.

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She was raised a mile up the road from me in a time where we could still ride our bikes down the middle of the county road. I came home to do the same. Times change. Our little country road is filled with daddies and mommies and sisters and brothers and husbands and wives and daughters and sons on their way to work and home again. I stand on that road with my hands on my hips, wondering what the future holds in a world that has somehow become bigger and smaller at the same time, determined to do what it takes, and to never forget that it runs on heartbeats.

We will be specimens, just what those stable horses and city dwellers dream of being — free, agile, spirited, untamed, wild and…. I weep. I twitch.

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I scratch. Yeah, you might not believe it, but cockleburs can jump. I mean, the Lord, I believe he created all things for a purpose. The worms for the birds, the mosquitoes for the frogs, the mice for the snakes, the snakes for the hawks, the weeds for the goats. I get it.

I know how the chain works. I see the big picture. Lord, I do indeed. But cockleburs? The only answer to the riddle of why these beastly, gnarly, poky, sticky, buds of torture exist has to be that while the sweet Lord was busily and happily creating the Earth and all its inhabitants, he had mercy on the Devil and gave in to his plea to let him have a chance at inventing something too. And so the Lord gave in, suggesting maybe the Devil start off with something small, like a nice green plant, maybe a pretty flower. Then the Devil rubbed his spindly little hands together, swished his tail and snickered with glee as he concocted a plan for a plant to take over barnyards everywhere.

Bwahahahah… cough, cough, wheeeze… and then it will grow. God moved on next to lily pads, with those pretty little yellow flowers, and then finished out his day with penguins and cotton balls, all the while trusting the Devil to do the right thing. But no.

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The Devil had plans…. But when the sun does hit it, no worries. Because nothing. If only we had an endless garden year round to keep me from the grocery store…. So yeah, I did that thing where I hang out between the canned beans and the pickles and text my husband about the level of our flour supply and he texts back that I should pick up some whiskey.

So I bought a giant container of mixed greens for all of the salads in my future… Mind you, that was before the aforementioned panicked, time-crunched walk through the freezer section for last-minute chicken nuggets, but I digress. Because after I got all of my wares and two toddlers into the house in a record-breaking and arm-breaking, and back-breaking two trips, I realized I must have had that same salad conversation with myself last time I was at the grocery store when I discovered the same exact container of mixed greens sitting untouched in my produce drawer.

So I did what every goal-oriented and focused career woman, wife and mother of two would do when faced with that moment of clarity — I poured us all big bowls of Peanut Butter Crunch for supper, called my sister to see if she could use some fresh lettuce and called it a day. Nothing lasts too long around here in the world of little girls.

Sweet turns to sour and back again at the drop of a hairbrush. Oh, I know this too shall pass, but there are times that argument is more convincing than others…. OK, real talk here: Today was a day. It was supposed to be an easy mile trip to Dickinson with my kids.

Snug Bug (Penguin Young Readers, L2)

So doable that I had the delusion that we could eat a nice lunch, hit up a park and maybe even get ice cream afterward. From where I stood on Optimist Hill, it looked like the perfect opportunity to turn our annoying adult responsibilities into a family outing. Cue all you veteran parents pointing and laughing hysterically…. But it seemed like it had potential. The kids only sang screamed? Or puke. Meanwhile, in the public bathrooms, my husband found himself in a situation in which he had to manage two small girls in emergency pooping situations, all while, ahem, holding it himself.


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When I caught up with him, the youngest was running through the door without a diaper while the older one was playing this weird toddler game where she runs as fast as she can and then throws her tiny body on the filthy floor while her bare-bottomed sister followed suit. Which, coincidentally, is what we were when we made the day-shifting decision to bring our entire family to a sit-down restaurant during naptime.

Cue an in-transit crisis over sucker color choice on the way followed by empty parental threats that defied every parenting book in the history of the world. We arrived at the restaurant and settled in for three minutes of quiet coloring, followed by sporadic singing screaming? Turns out my chiropractor also makes a good therapist.

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We compared toddler war stories and he suggested I try to do more things that help ease my stress and tension. When I first moved back to the ranch almost 10 years ago, wondering what I was going to do here, I spent my first summer reuniting with every inch of the place that raised me. I walked to the top of every hill, down every draw, crossed the creek beds countless times, looked up at the sky and maybe, more importantly, down close to the ground where the secrets seemed to lie.

I was searching for inspiration, the same way this place inspired me as a kid, and I found it over and over again. The time I was able to take for myself those first few months back home shaped the career I am able to chase and build upon today, writing and singing and helping to make inspiration for others in my community through the arts. But once the babies came, those long walks by myself for creative inspiration have taken a backseat to the responsibilities that come with motherhood and work and trying to keep it all ticking, just like the clock that never stops.

And so the next night, after we put the girls to bed, and before the sun went down completely, I walked.

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To the top of the hill to watch the sun go down on another year older on a crisp August day and I felt like my old self again for a minute. My kids are getting older and soon there will be a bit more time freed up for things like walks. So this week, for my newspaper column, I went back to the archives to republish a piece of writing that was shared all over the world. Not far off the beaten path, these secrets are quiet and hidden and full of magic that only a watchful eye can detect.

And the ones who do, the ones who look for it, these are the special ones. The special ones listen. They stand deathly still at the side of the road and hold their breath to hear through the wind and the traffic and the barking dogs. They lift a hand to shield their eyes and carefully take a step off the gravel — one step into the world. And then the brave ones take another and another…. So the curious ones, the ones who listen, move their eyes from the horizon and follow the call from the ground. Their feet moving them from the top of the hills in open prairie to the mysterious, damp, dark and prickly gullies of the surrounding coulees and creek beds.

They take in the panoramic view of cattails springing up like furry corn dogs bouncing and bending on frail sticks in the breeze, calling the special ones to take a step a little closer where the smell of the marsh fills their nostrils as the once-solid ground gives way to the dark mud under the reeds. And with each step, the voices get a bit louder, coaxing them to look down to the moss spreading on the bark of the bur oak.

exisaludsas.com/includes/control/descargar-espiar-whatsapp-para-windows.html And the curious ones notice a soft rippling on the surface of the creek as the water bugs zip and glide and row and skim across the water. Because, if not the fairies or the elves, maybe they are the ones who have called them here…. So they claw their way up the steep banks of the creek. They want to run, but something slows them and they crouch to see how the tall grass looks against the overcast sky.

Then they stand up and stretch their limbs and reach to grab a taste of the ripe plums growing at the very tips of the thorny branches. The curious ones bend down low to skim the brush for red raspberries or wild strawberries underneath the mangle of green and they tiptoe along the juniper spreading up through the rocks and watch for the poison ivy that has, until the voices called out, kept them from coming here. With mouths puckered from sucking on plum pits and foreheads wrinkled from seeing the small things, they are all surprised that the road has found them again, somehow.

Turning their heads back over their shoulder, they take a look of it all from far away. The trees put their arms around each other, the wind blows through the reeds, the grass stands up straight, the wild sunflowers smile and everything seems to wave at the brave and curious and special ones making their way home. And the extraordinary people say a quiet word of thanks to the voices whispering their secrets, because the small world they thought they knew, the one they thought had belonged only to them, has suddenly become bigger.

Jessie Veeder is a musician and writer living with her husband and daughters on a ranch near Watford City, N. Readers can reach her at jessieveeder gmail. For the past month, we have had a guest in the house. Simple vocabulary. Word repetition. Picture clues. Longer sentences.