A Normal Night. Why So Cranky?

My head tells me that I slept last night. No big kid invasion of the bed. Charming, though he didn't sleep through, only ate three times (over 12 hours so it isn't as bad as it sounds). And though I didn't want to go to bed last night because I hate being awakened and I feared that I would, I was still in bed by 10:30.

I know I slept last night, so why am I so exhausted today?

Hubs and I have always contended that you always feel worse the second day after an all nighter and I'm certainly not proving him wrong.

Maybe it's my kids fault. After all, their gratitude is in the negative numbers. I think Grandma broke them. They get used to the short order kitchen and think it is their right. As much as I love and appreciate the "week off," the next week is always a bear. Or maybe I'm just sleep deprived.

After all, they didn't seem broken on Monday.

What to do, What to do?

Charming just gave it up. And now my bed if full of feverish little boys who've taken over their perceived deserved spot. (How do they know I've left? It makes me wonder if they come in and check all night to see if they can fit in.) Okay, yeah tonight they were in there on the floor anyway, but still.

I was going to take off for the couch, but I think Charming is fussing again.

Say a little prayer for me, will you? It's hard to be a kind mommy when everyone got more sleep than you.

Good Morning to you, too.

It is 5AM and Charming is wide awake. As he has been since 4:15. Now that we've crossed over into the 5 o'clock hour and he only seems to be showing more and more awake personality, I've nearly decided to just make some coffee and call it day.

Why bother trying to get any more night out of yesterday when I never really got any in the first place? As I told Hubs, rather hysterically, at midnight, I don't know why I didn't go to bed at 7 when I was falling asleep on the couch. Silly me thought that if I went to bed that early I would have a restless night. I didn't realize it would be the only night I would have the privilege of having.

Shortly after 8 Frodo, who'd been asleep since 4:30 (fell asleep in the living room with a fever--it was a good bet he'd stay down) came to me. I asked if he needed a drink. No. What do you need buddy? "I just want to sit with you!" He shrieked.

Okay, Charming just rolled back to tummy. That is a first. At 5:09. And he'd grinning like he just did something big. I guess I'll continue to be nice.

Now, back to my regularly scheduled griping.

I don't know how else to describe Frodo's statement other than shriek. Hub's and I exchanged humored looks and I scooped him up and we "sat." Half an hour later when we had both dozed off, I tried to put him in his bed. Unacceptable. This little ball of fire must sleep on me with his heavy blanket in THIS HEAT.

Fifteen minutes later it was a moot point because Charming was awake and "hungry."

Nurse. Place sleeping baby in cradle. Brush teeth. Go to bed. Hear fussing baby. Repeat. Three times. Grow hysterical. Enter thunderstorm. Go help Hubs bring in stuff from backyard. Climb back in bed. Big thunder. Enter Eldest. Sleep (or cry from fear and fever) between Mom and Charming (two feet between bed and cradle). Two hours of thunder and rain and fear. Charming needs to eat. Step over Eldest who gets up and does something. Enter Frodo who wants to sleep in my bed. Enter Eldest who resituates himself. Try to wake Hubs to get at least one boy on his side of the bed. Fail. Frodo situates himself somewhere. Mom tries to situate now dozy Charming in his cradle. Fail. Charming has recognized that he is not the only one awake and perceives that that means it is morning. Begins "talking" in bed. Eldest rolls over and makes closet doors bang. Mom scoops up baby heads for recliner. Forty-five minutes later gives up fight and begins typing.

If I got an hour of sleep I'd be surprised.

This reminds me of the nights when I had fewer children and I was so depressed and desperate for some sleep and I'd think, "For this child I prayed...and now all I can pray is that he'll go to sleep." You always think in the infertile years you will appreciate the sleepless nights. While I tolerate them better than I might otherwise, I have absolutely no appreciation for them.

That was my pity party and I'm cordially disinviting myself now. I'm going to go make some coffee. After all sunrise is only an hour off.

HOT

We've had a heat index over a hundred degrees for most of the week. I'm totally drained. Nothing worth typing, to speak of, because we are just hunkering down and waiting for some wind to blow the hot away.

It is too hot to do anything.

My air conditioner has run nearly continuously for two days. And I set it pretty high.

All I want to do is sleep. Interesting that is the only thing Charming doesn't want to do.

My big kids either have some strange virus, or heat stroke. Fever for eight hours and no other symptoms. On the upside, they don't move much. On the downside, they keep fooling me into believing they aren't sick when they crash with fever again. Bizarre.

So, that said, now you know why I'm not blogging. Nothing worthwhile to say. And my fodder for entertainment are all passed out in front of a fan.

Actual thought that passed through my head

So there I am, hanging a load of reds, when I place an outfit (probably too small) of Charming's in between shirts of Eldest's and Frodo's (I am compulsive in the manner I do laundry so it was intentional the way I was hanging the clothes) when I think,

"Goodness, the kids wore a lot of reds."

Hello! It was a load of reds. Not a load of "colors," or a load of "whites" or a load of "darks." My thought that "Goodness they wore a lot of reds" is the equivalent of thinking "goodness, they used a lot of towels" when I do the towel load. Of course there are a lot of towels, it's a load of towels! Who knows how many weeks is represented in that red load.

Now if I saw a lot of green in a color load, that would be noteworthy.

Small Town Lure

The Siren call of the small town, henceforth referred to as "home," has grown in her wail.

I had a Vanilla latte yesterday that would almost make leaving Starbucks in my rear view mirror bearable. Not only was it good, it was cheaper, and the barista (how do you spell this, and if it is a guy is he a barrister?) gave me an extra shot of espresso for free. Now that's service.

And then I went out to eat at this little family Mexican place that had a fajita quesidilla to die for. Well, the cow had to die. I would give up the quesidillas here for it though.

And icing on the cake (and yet the reason I will stay here for now) is that I thought I'd eaten so much I'd probably gained back the weight I'd finally trimmed off because I felt like I was the size of a barn. But when I got home (here home, not there home) my scale read the same as when I left. Even though I licked the plate clean at La Cabana. It was just that I'd been standing too long in the aura of my ultra skinny sister-in-law.

Filling up on Words

Getting a little tired of eating my words.

I know that would be an indicator to someone that maybe I should quite talking/typing, but since I know I won't (no matter how hard I try), I will at least try to admit when I'm horribly wrong.

Prang watercolors are better.

I still don't know why we have to have the best when we don't paint but once a year, but I have been dutifully informed by the voice of experience that Prang are better. Better than Crayola. And Roseart don't even get to be on the map of watercolor goodness.

This weekend I even read a whole newspaper write up about the benefit of certain brand school supply requirements. Between the paper and the teacher who was in the room as I read and commented upon the article I learned that if everyone has the same supplies it equalizes the kids. And teachers don't want folders, they want red folders (apparently it has to do with "get out your red folder" versus "get out your science folder" though my kids "get out your homework folder" and since they only have one it can have superman on it and they still know what it is---which, I'm sure, is why we can buy any folder and not just red, blue and yellow). And spiral notebooks snag on papers and cause a 5 second delay over the much more expensive composition notebook. (What is $1.50 (times six subjects) for 5 seconds of a teacher's time? Oops, that was nasty sarcasm. Eating my words again. Tasty. And, by the way, in a roomful of 30 students I think this probably makes sense--mine are just in a room of, let's see, 5. Well, the room will hold eight, but there are five first graders. And, interestingly enough, I don't have to buy composition books--this year.)

Did you know Crayola crayons break less often than Roseart? I knew they colored better, but the breakage factor was news to me.

Fiskers scissors have proven to cut better?

Anyway, it is nice to know there is a reason--time tested over years according to the paper--that we must buy certain brands and I will quit fussing about it.

And if I do, well, I'm sure I'll need a snack.

My Public Profession of Wrongness

Hubs tells me I misunderstood him.

Let it be known that he did not say this isn't what he wanted to do.

I, apparently, am wrong.

On the other hand, I am also right. He says that a successful company isn't a life long endeavor. I argue that it is for some people and he's been telling me that all these years about the guy that started McDonald's and how many companies failed before he was successful and if he had quit at the first or even 35th failure where would he be today (not killing off the next generation through obesity, perhaps?)? If he could use it all those years to make his point, I think I can use it now to make mine.

I think it is unfair for him to argue that this wasn't a life long endeavor when, call it luck, he was able to make it work for him in his very early 30s. Sounds a little ungrateful to me.

He sort of agrees.

I wanted to cure cancer. When I was in high school I thought I'd be a doctor. When I was in college I was going to be an immunologist. I started grad school and worked in a lab that may, eventually, make some discoveries that lead to the obliteration of cancer (may it be so). There is a life long aspiration that I've given up on. But there really aren't that many of that type of aspirations out there. Not biggies like building a rocket in your backyard and shooting yourself off into space (and am I the only one who was bothered by the fact that his "wood" bard didn't go up in flames when he took off, not once, but twice?).

Anyway, I guess I do still know my husband. I was a tad worried there for 24 hours.

Back to the reason he is right: he thinks we don't think big as a people anymore. No more space race. No more splitting atoms. No more "be able to fly." It seems to me it is because we've conquered it. But people thought we'd never fly either. Maybe time travel isn't all that off, we just don't see how to get there. I don't know.

So if that's what he means, I'll give him the "right" and try to get over the incredulity that his statement caused. After all, we have a whole lifetime ahead of us.

Things That Annoyed the Heck Out of Me Yesterday

No Comment on whether I was easily annoyed yesterday.

1. The "minister" at the garage sale that knew all the cures for all of the social failures out there, but never once mentioned God in any form (Jesus, Christ, The Lord, God, Jehovah, Yahweh, Higher Power) or sin. Why, when we have the true answer, are we giving out humanist answers for the world's ills? And if we aren't going to invoke the name of God (whichever "God" she thinks she represents), why bring up that we are a minister, Huh?

2. Charming won't sleep.

3. No stores are selling summer clothes. Here in the Midwest we have a full two months of hot yet and probably the better part of three before we have to bury ourselves in coats. Do you know how much a baby will grow in three months? If they MUST put out winter "school clothes," can't they at least still sell summer clothes for the under one crowd?

4. Charming has given up sleeping for Lent. I can't convince him that Lent is over. And he isn't allowed to give up sleeping until Lent.

5. So I took myself to a couple of the children's consignment stores. One sold summer clothes up to size 6 mo. (which we've grown out of, hence my problem). And they sold summer 2T. I could find nothing in the store for 9 mo, winter or summer. There was a whole rack of winter 12 mo. I know they have to sell what people bring in, but come on! NO ONE brought in something summery in the 6-12 month range? Or did I get there a day late because I'm not the only one with this problem?

6. The other store, Once Upon a Child, I'm using their name in vain because they have done this to me for years, lures me in with their idea of "clearance" plastered all over the window. And considering that I have looked all over town for 9 mo summer clothes, I figure if someone is clearancing out something it might be summer things. They have all of four outfits in the size I need. Are they on sale? No. They, the used clothes, are priced for MORE than I would have to pay to get them new at Kohls. Which is where I'm heading in a few minutes.

No number here because I have to explain: I went everywhere BUT Kohl's yesterday because I always shop at Kohl's. With three fewer kids to drag along I thought I'd go try some of these other stores where people are always telling me they find such great stuff. Kohl's will have summer things, I'm sure of it. (Please, oh Please!) I like Onesies as much as the next person, but I do feel a little conspicuous taking my son to church in the equivalent of undies all the time. I mean Onesies the brand not onesies the snap crotch shirt. Those I'll take him to church in. However, thank goodness that Onesies are sold year around so that if I don't find something for Charming, he will have clothes.

7. Old Navy. Three walls of infant girl clothes. 1/4 wall infant boy clothes. What season was on that 1/4 wall? Winter. And on another note, their "onesies" are really high cut on the leg so the entire diaper shows. If you put pants on over them, the side hole sticks out over the waistband.
Love the clothes, hate the cut.

8. Dillards. Who puts their 5 month old in a $43 outfit? Really. Unless it is a wedding or baptism, buy the kid some play clothes that you wouldn't actually mind them pooping on.

9. And to my waiter last night who didn't think he'd get a good tip because we ordered an ice water and shared an entree: we do it to save calories, not money. We do it to save money too, because we won't eat all the food, why buy it? We usually double the tip so that you know we aren't cheap and so that you didn't get ripped off. You, my friend, deserved to pay us a tip. The squat you did get was to prove you wrong, though I hated to reinforce your crappy behavior.

10. Hubs informed me last night that starting and building his own successful company wasn't his dream.

excuse me.

WHAT?!

There we were, having just watched The Astronaut Farmer, and he wants to know what his life changing dream is.

HELLO!

And when I told him it was building this business, he told me that wasn't his dream, that was just making money.

Excuse me. I'm having a moment.

Exactly WHAT money was that making? I'm still bewildered. I have scrimped and saved and lived on a shoestring for EIGHT YEARS to help him "pursue his dream" and he totally robbed me of that last night. Because that isn't his dream.

I wrote an article that will be in a national magazine in a few months about supporting your spouse in the pursuit of a dream through hardship and I find out I haven't done it.

I'm bewildered. I'm even feeling a little sick. I'm not angry. I'm really not. I'm just absolutely floored. I wonder why we've been doing this for all these years. I feel robbed. Almost violated. Deceived. Burdened. Frustrated. You have got to be kidding me. I might just need to go vomit.

Who am I? I'm not sure I even know anymore. I thought I was a supportive wife, but apparently I'm a fool. Or maybe a leech. Because he thinks he's done this for me.

Blink.

I don't know what else to say.

Maybe I'll go build a rocket.

Caterpillar Update

I have spent the morning watching caterpillar number five weave himself into his chrysalis. It is positively fascinating. All the others did it at night. I wish Princess was here to watch with me.

How Often It Works

My children have been "raising" caterpillars this summer. As opposed to last summer when we'd find the caterpillar, dump some green stuff in the bucket and let everything inside die, this summer the kids caught five, and I did a little research.

I discovered that we had "Buckeye" caterpillars which, incidentally, eat snapdragons (imagine that! since they found them on, you guessed it, the snapdragons.). We have faithfully plucked the life right out of my snapdragon bed and kept these caterpillars alive. They've grown and several have gone into their chrysalis.

When the first chrysalis showed up, Princess was so excited she picked it off the jar and brought it to me. I thought she'd killed it for sure. She dropped it, squeezed it, carried it around and finally dumped it back in the bottom om the jar so that, as her mom told her, IF the butterfly came out, we'd know it happened.

Since that first chrysalis made its appearance, three more caterpillars fattened up and went into hiding.

Contrary to my expectations, the first chrysalis opened to reveal a butterfly (abuse and all). And then the second. And today, the third.

We have one more chrysalis and one more fat caterpillar that I expect to go into hiding any day now. We've released three beautiful butterflies.

This morning I was again amazed at how well God's earth works. Caterpillars hatch, eat, go into chrysalis, pop out and fly off. Over and over again. As long as they have something to eat and air to breathe that is.

So many times we get all wrapped up in ugly side of life when something goes wrong. We get to where we expect life to fail us. And we've failed to notice how often things go right.

Miss Fix It

Yey me! After months of nagging Hubs to put in a new door knob because ours is broken, we only have one key and I was forever leaving the house unlocked....I drove myself to Home Depot, picked out a new doorknob and dead bolt and installed them.

Just.

Like.

That.

Tomorrow I'm tackling the half stripped bookshelf that has been sitting in my garage for a year.

Speaking of The Lizness...

Go wish her congrats!

Reality Check

Although my big kids are away for the week (read: relax and sleep), Charming decided to give up sleeping. Late to bed, up all night, ready for the day at SIX. A.M. Yeah, to say I was annoyed is an understatement. And then I got this tip from Joyce:

There is an Infertility Film Festival. Who knew? And I popped over to watch a couple videos. This is my favorite so far. And, be aware, they aren't all Christian, so prepare yourself for some language, etc.

Anyway, it gave me a healthy dose of reality. How far I've come in seven years. You know, the last days of July seven years ago our third adoption was falling through. I had several positive pregnancy tests and no one to show for it. I hadn't had a positive test in eight months (because I quit taking them, probably). And I was certain the agency we were working with would never call us again after the fiasco we'd just gone through.

As Liz would say, my Joy in the Morning was on it's way. Or as I would say, my Joy after the Mourning was on it's way. But I didn't know that.

All that to say, that Charming's smile is being quite a lot better received than it was two hours ago.

What a long way we've come.

Oh, and if you pop over to the festival, bring a box of tissues.

it is a Psalm 15 kinda day--in that I wish I were....

I am sad.

Or in the words of a great children's author, "A might melancholy. A bit blue." It could be that my three larger babies are at Grandma's for a week. It could be that, as Hubs tells me, I've become unsocial. I don't know what it is, exactly.

It could be that I've been in a situation that brings out the self-loathing in me again. Too much social life on my weekend calendar. Too much talking in my social life.

I'm still self-flagellating over the outfit ordeal. Which is so far in the past that one must wonder what it is that keeps bringing it to mind.

I should be self congratulating. I had an opportunity to say exactly what I wanted to say, and didn't say it. Holding my tongue is NOT my forte. And I did. The words would have sounded nice. If I typed them, you would wonder what it was that was so wrong with the statement. But my meaning wouldn't have been nice and I would have known it. And I didn't say it.

No, but I didn't keep my peace either. I didn't give off positive vibes. Or a favorable impression. I have got to learn to control myself. It doesn't matter that I'm irritated. And it doesn't matter that I didn't say anything particularly negative to or about the person on the receiving end. I still shrouded myself in negativity.

Have you ever heard of the motivational speaker, Ed Foreman? If you ever get a chance you should sit in on one of his seminars. In his "How to have a gooooooood day every day" (or something like that) he makes a statement, "I'd never met anyone so enthusiastically negative in my whole life!" Today I feel like that person.

I don't know if that is why I'm sad. I just don't know. but I'll leave you with that alliterative author and her great book anyway:

Bringing Me To Tears

I cried for Eldest's birth mother today. Nearly seven years later and I still shed tears for her. The story goes like this:

When we got the call that we could potentially parent Eldest, we'd had three situations fall through for us already. You could say we were cautiously optimistic. In Arkansas, where he was born, the law states that the birth mothers can sign before the baby is born. She has ten days after the baby is born to change her mind and get him back, but the clock doesn't start ticking until she has signed and she can't sign under the influence of anything (including pain meds for the delivery). Sooooo, she can sign before she goes into labor and the clock starts ticking immediately at birth. And we actually had to wait 12 because her 10th day was on a weekend so they gave her the weekend plus Monday.

By the way, this, to me, is a huge pro-life kind of a law. If she can sign consents before the BABY is born, the BABY is in fact a BABY. Go figure. Here she could still have aborted him and called him "tissue." Off topic. Climbing down off my soapbox.

Well, she did sign. But we were still a hair gun shy. We didn't buy a single thing. Not even diapers. We went into her room and met her and she made us believe it would probably happen, but we still didn't really think we'd come home with a baby. Not really. Not enough to run out shopping while we waited for them to be dismissed.

Yes. We were new parents. We should have been excited. And we were. But not so much that we went out and bought a "coming home from the hospital" outfit. I didn't want anything that I'd memorialize should she change her mind.

Hindsight. Probably a bit overboard.

So when she called to tell the attorney that she and he were being released, she asked if we had an outfit for him to leave the hospital. I hadn't thought that far. I scrambled through the clothes we'd borrowed and found something that I thought would fit this teeny guy. It was a red sleeper with Mickey Mouse on it. Obviously worn.

She sent him home to us in that outfit. And with him came the most adorable little white sailor suit. Someone had obviously picked it out for him. I can only hope it was one of her friends. But today when I saw the sailor suit I cried for her. To love him so much and let him go and to have to send him away to people who didn't even buy him something new to come home from the hospital in...

So hating myself right now. Why didn't we just take the plunge and buy an outfit on hope? We had a special one on court day which was the day I had earmarked as a "big day," but the other was a big, momentous day, too.

So today, seven years later, I'm shedding guilty tears. I hope she knows what a big day that day was for us. Regardless of appearances.

I've Become One of Them

I've done diaper studies for years. A diaper company provides you with a set of diapers, you tell them what you think. They pay you. Free diapers. Money. Need I say more?

I've done these studies through the same group for years.

I've gone to the same orientation meeting for years.

(The questions have gotten quite a bit more detailed over the years, but basically it's the same thing.)

For years I've obeyed the rules. Show up 15 minutes early for the 30 minute session. Fill out paperwork during the 15, lady talks for 30.

I've wised up. If you go to the last session of the day, she abbreviates the talk. She's said the same thing 15 times already and knows that the vast majority of the moms in the room are, in fact, smarter than a post and could figure out what to do even if she didn't tell them. (You know, they should ask when they call if you've ever been and save the "real"orientation for the new people who aren't sure they are smarter than a post until they get home and realize a chimp could figure the questionnaire out. Let the rest of us just pop in and pick up our stuff. IMHO.)

So, like I said, I've wised up. Because inevitably a woman or three come staggering in late and the teacher lady waits for them to sign in and starts over. I'm there 45 minutes, the late staggerer is there 10 max. Today, I intended to get there just on time and figured I could fill out my paperwork while she was pausing for the staggerers. I hit traffic. I became a staggerer.

There is a reason people are staggerers. It is NICE to be the staggerer. I shaved 35 minutes off my time and I didn't have to be annoyed at the staggerers and inwardly fume that SURELY if I could make it one time she could.

She probably could, but chose to wonder why bother?

I so get it now.

I didn't mean to, but I'm not so sure I'm gonna stress about it anymore.

I know. That makes me one of those inconsiderate people. But the truth is, after the study is over I'll promise myself it isn't worth it because I always do. Until the next time. And by then, I'm sure I'll have forgotten that I would intentionally be rude. Therefore I won't be. So I'm going to justify this rude like desire on the basis of I'll never follow through.

Except--For as a man thinketh....

laughing!

From here:

Boy, n: a noise with dirt on it.

Nope

Okay, with sales, you'll do better than Amazon on markers. I'd have edited the last post, but I'm having blogger issues again.

Is it me, or is it them?

I think it must be me.

Here's an Idea

I've been fussing with my friends about school supplies. Sure, you can get ten cent notebooks at Wal-Mart, but when the teacher insists upon a certain brand of paints and markers it can get expensive fast. For example: Prang Paints. One, they are $3.50. Two, the kids used them, maybe, twice. But this summer they've used them enough that I have to buy new. Very Frustrating. Why the expensive brand if you won't use them anyway? However, on a whim today I checked Amazon. Lo and behold, they beat Wal-Mart prices. I'm going to check Crayola washable markers now, but I thought I'd share.

And for those of you who live nearby, if you haven't bought yet and want to combine an order to avoid shipping, let me know. Because once you pay shipping, well, it defeats the purpose.

By request

Julie asked, and in case someone else wants:

Pasta Alfredo

8 oz pasta (if you want to be like the hut, use a tri-shaped pasta mix)
1 1/2 cups whipping cream
1 1/2 cups milk (I used 1%)
3 tablespoons butter--the real stuff
3 tablespoons flour
2 cups (8 ounces) grated Parmesan and Romano cheese--I used it out of a can, but I'm sure fresh would be even better.
1/2 t salt
1/2 t pepper
1/2 lb browned sausage

Cook pasta according to package; drain

While the pasta is cooking, combine cream and milk and bring to room temp or warmer. I microwaved it. But be careful, the micro can really do a job on milk. Or the milk will to the micro. I know this from experience.

Melt butter. Whisk in flour. Add milk mixture all at once (if you add it cold, your flour will lump). Keep whisking it until it comes to a boil. Lower heat and continue to whisk for five minutes until it thickens. Add Parmesan/Romano, salt and pepper. Whisk until smooth.

Now, I dumped the pasta into a big bowl, dumped the sausage over it and the sauce over that, stirred it up and served it. If you want it more old school Hut like, stir the sausage into the sauce, pour over pasta in individual baking pans (like creme brulee dishes), top with Mozzarella and broil until the Moz is melty and bubbly and browning.

And these amounts are the corrected amounts. I began with a Pampered Chef recipe that called for way too much pasta. It was a bit too dry for our tastes. We like things extra saucy. That and it made way too much. We'll could all eat it for three meals and still have some left, I think. This ought to better serve a "normal" family. Well, maybe not with teens. I don't know about that. You might want to double the sauce and use a pound of pasta.

Pepto Bath

So? Better than the pepto bismol bath of the soul? I'm liking the horsehead nebula. Looks pretty chaotic. Suits me.

Congrats Me!

I've figured out Pizza Hut's OLD fettuccine recipe (circa 1993). With a little less pasta and a little more sauce, I will have it perfected.

Neener-neener Hut, you can change your recipe, but you won't convert me.

Barnard 33

What I got from here: The dark nebula that forms the Horsehead itself is known as Barnard 33 (B 33).

Yeah, I had to pick a lovely nebula with a name like Barnard. See? What did I tell you?

Hello, I'm from the Horsehead Nebulae

Do any of you wonder if you really operate on a whole other wavelength from the vast majority of people with whom you come into contact? You know, Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus, and though you'd secretly thought your mother had adopted you from Jupiter, you woke one day to discover you are from a whole different galaxy?

That's what I've felt like this weekend.

Like, I'll be in a group, and they are talking about a subject. And everyone there seems to be on the same plain, right? Except me. I can't wrap my brain around what they are talking about because I have this whole other nagging issue about what I THOUGHT we were talking about, but I'm the only one.

Worse (as if it could worse than operating on a different plain than your whole social network), here's an example:

I am obsessed with a house that is for sale. Right next door to said house is a gorgeous home. Plenty big for my family. Looks like a neat layout. THIRTY-THOUSAND dollars less than the one I'm obsessed with. See, I could be obsessed with a home with nice siding, move in ready, yellow (I live yellow homes), well-landscaped, CHEAPER, and very stereotypical I-have-arrived-in-this-county home that 99% of the people I know would love to have. Well, I think so. Anyway...

No, I must be obsessed with the repo next door. There is a massive hole in the dining room ceiling. The siding on this house is Nas-ty. You just drive by this house and it looks like a wart on the nose of the neighborhood princess. I want the silly house. And it costs $30,000 more! And I have no idea why. But I keep asking Hubs if we can go see it. As if we could afford it, anyway.
(We can't even afford the one next door! Shoot, we can't afford the one we are currently in!)

Here's one more:

So Hubs might sell his company. I say might because the counter offer that was supposed to come in, didn't. And I'm supposed to be praying that this will happen. And last night I confessed to Hubs that I can't pray it. I'm scared of the money. I only know broke. I have a whole identity in broke. I love clearance racks. I get a rush out of buying three pair of jeans, two skirts, a pair of shoes and a hair thingy for $24.53. Not only that, what if I can't change to accommodate having money and Hubs leaves me for a woman who likes the lavish lifestyle? What if the money changes me and I just want more and more sparkley things? What if our children get even more materialistic than they already are?

What if, what if, what if???????

See? I'm a freak. I'm from the Horsehead Nebulae. I'm only pretending to be Venutian.

Linky Love

Mandy posted this too many days ago to admit, but I'm behind, even on my favorites.

I have to admit we are in the midst of something right now that makes this so apropos.

A Couple Bits of Randomosity

Charming seems to be on the mend. He, however, coughed and sneezed into my face one too many times. By the sheer amount of eye goo, I have determined that his lung thing has invaded my eyes. Better than staying up all night coughing, but still.

And friends and I traded calls all day as we discovered the clearance racks. A friend called to send me to Old Navy for cheap jeans for Princess (I found some for Eldest also).

On one of my outings I picked up milk. I decided it is a sad day when a gallon of milk costs more than a pair of jeans.

It's Done

Well, I gave in and had the Pepsi.

And then another.

And then two coffees later, (plus some more Pepsi) and Princess' room is pronounced clean.

Even that crevice between her bed skirt and the wall.

That ought to last about four hours.

One Thing

I promised myself that today I would take care of two problems.

Princess' bedroom.

The living room.

I would obsess about nothing else today. Tackle those two and have a successful day.

I just went up there and couldn't do it.

The thing about kids' rooms is that you can make them clean them, but until you, the mom, go in there and take care of all the rinky-dink junky-junk around the perimeter, the room really just doesn't look clean. Oh, how I abhor that job. Because I see trash. I treat it as such. But the kids? They notice I've entered their rooms and they come supervise. And every piece of crap(visualize a strike through) treasure I lay my hands upon is at once declared priceless.

If it is so durn priceless, why has it been stored here in this crevice between the bed skirt and the wall for these last three months?

I can do this. I can.

If only I have a Pepsi first.

My Name is Jamie

And I'm a Pepsi-holic.

I opened the fridge this morning, going for the milk, when I spotted it. An open two liter. Suddenly that was all I wanted. All I could think about. That eight cups of coffee I'd just brewed? Not interested. The standard breakfast fare of a string cheese stick? No thanks. Not unless I could have a Pepsi with it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a problem.

I do OK as long as Hubs doesn't crack open a two liter and store it in the fridge. Room temperature Pepsi has no hold over me. A sealed two liter I can resist. Especially if it is in the garage. A can, even in the fridge? I can usually hold off until my 3 o'clock break. That open two liter first thing in the morning?

I can think of nothing else.

Rest In Peace

Way back in September of 2002, Hubs and I took our second and final voyage upon the SS Norway. Nine months later there was an explosion in the boiler room while she was in port. Last I heard, she was rotting away in that ship graveyard somewhere in Asia (Thailand?).

I have mourned the loss of that ship. She was old. My friend called her "shabby chic." It wasn't a cruise ship for rich people; it was a cruise ship for real people. (I think lots of cruise ships would say that about themselves, but I'm not sure I agree.) She wasn't flashy. There were a couple small pools. A couple hot tubs. Several "lounges." Our favorite was this jazz bar with a dance floor that was nearly always empty. You could sit in there and visit and relax and the music was wonderful. No climbing walls. No water slides. But lots of deck chairs.

The staterooms were teeny. Really teeny. I've seen maps of other ships and their smallest rooms were twice the size of our closet. And we never had one with a porthole. So they were black as night whenever you wanted to sleep. But it didn't matter because you could just go find a lounge or a deck chair and read or visit and relax.

What I loved most about this ship was that our last cruise on her was $250 per person for seven days in the Caribbean. You can't match it. (Not for a cruise, anyway.) On our last trip we got to take our very good friends and that made it that much more fun.

Sigh.

One of the lesser known benefits of this cruise (and I suppose many) is if you went to 10 "work out" sessions, you got a free t-shirt. As we are cheap and didn't want to buy the $20 t-shirts, all four of us did it. (One of the work out sessions was a putting contest. Another one was "sports trivia.")

This morning, Eldest pointed out that my shirt had a hole in the armpit. Boy, did it. A hole the size of a large fist. It will have to be put out of commission.

My Norway is crumbling and I can't stop it.

Rest in peace old girl. Rest in peace. Here's to many fond memories.

In Answer...

No, no and double no, Nurse Boy. I do not keep that show on the air. However...

I am not known for having good taste in television. As my addiction to Survivor 2 (Outback) can attest. (take THAT Nurse Boy!) Is there anything GOOD on TV? (Aside from Heroes which I didn't discover until the third to last episode and isn't playing this summer. And is still gory.)

I don't have cable.

The baby's been sick, won't sleep and won't let me read.

Desperate times require desperate measures.

I watched some NOVA thing on PBS about glowing microbes. I watched a bit of that Candid Camera thing I think they call Just for Laughs (okay and the dude peeing into a theme park river was too funny!). And eventually the options were Who's the Boss or Shaq.

I wanted some motivation to NOT eat the ice cream, but it ended up back firing.

I enjoyed every bite, by the way.

I'm so stoked!

(DUDE!) Or is "stoked" a drug reference? I'm so ignorant of those things. I say words for years and then I find out what I really means after it is already part of my habit vocabulary. Don't get me started on the British F-word that starts with B. I'm telling you, I can't stop. I try, but I'm failing.

None of that was my point. As if I have one.

As I've said before, I review for Armchair Interviews. Yesterday, when the list came around, Cindy Woodsmall's new book When the Morning Comes was on it. I read When the Heart Cries last year and it just tore me up. When I talked to Cindy at the ACFW conference she told me how long it would be until the sequel came out and I wanted to crawl into a hole and blubber for a while. And though I offered to be a "first reader" (look for plot holes and give my very valuable opinion (snort!)) she didn't take me up on it. (Can't imagine why...my lack of publishing credits, you suppose?)

Anyway, I have too many books in my log so I was slow to even check the Armchair list, but when I did I BEGGED and Andrea gave it to me!

If Cindy does even half as well as she did in Heart, I'm in for a great read. Woo-hoo!

The Ultimate Oxymoron

Polishing off a tub of Blue Bell Cherry Vanilla while watching Shaq's Big Challenge.

Yes. I. Did.

If you are in to books....

Here's a fun survey. It is interesting to see what thought process the pub houses go through to get the cover right. And you might win a free book out of the deal. I did a survey like this last year for the book The Heir. I think they ended us with the cover I liked best. (Yeah, me and 600 other people....)

YES!

Apparently it takes more calories to jiggle a hysterical baby all night than it does to sleep. I've lost three pounds and not given up ice cream! In fact, my sugar consumption has increased dramatically in the last four days. And last night I had a Creme Brule that was so full of fat, I could feel the lard coating the inside of my mouth.

Still no sleep in sight...

There is a silver lining to all things, isn't there?

Today?

Basically a repeat of yesterday.

Except I've gone 24 more hours without sleep.

Still have high hopes for tomorrow.

Bad Mom Day

I wish bad mom days could be covered as easily with a ponytail as bad hair days. I suppose you can cover them with kisses and I-Love-Yous, but the damage has still been done and the hurt could possibly remain.

Charming isn't well. I won't go as far as calling him "sick" because, for one, I've read too many books lately with mortally ill children and, for two, because I think he is on the mend. However, that doesn't negate the fact that he's been up most of two days and I'm including the nights with that. Forty-eight hours of fussy baby who must be held, bites when I try to nurse and won't sleep.

Makes Mama a little crazy.

It is on days like these that I expect my "big" kids to take care of themselves. If, on the off chance, Charming lets me put him down for ten seconds, I might, perchance, want to cook something.

OK, seriously, I don't WANT to cook something. I NEED to cook something or we will forage all weekend for food and Hubs gets grumpy and I feel wretched (crackers and cheese might be a healthy snack, but isn't healthy over six meals).

But, as usual, if I begin to cook something, Charming again needs me. Hubs thinks that there is nothing he can do for the baby (not that I do either, but I AM the mom...).

Picture, if you can: Crying baby, bread dough very over-risen, cabinets covered in cooking apparatai, me juggling baby and Frodo asking every 12.4 seconds for strawberries.

I CAN'T DO IT ALL, PEOPLE!

So when say Eldest or Princess come in the room and ask a very reasonable request, what does Mom do?

BLAGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! (remember Animal from the Muppet Show? Or maybe the Tasmanian Devil?)

Yeah, I spent the day wishing my kids would ACT THEIR AGE! And then I remembered that they are. They area acting like children. Young children. Which anyone with half a mind would recognize them being.

I could argue that with as little sleep as I've had that I only have half a mind left, but excuses don't cut it when there are people with feelings involved.

The nice thing is, they all still love me. Kissed me goodnight. And are very willing recipients when I do have time to give them. But, I'm reminded, the clock's ticking. They are growing up and leaving me and I will just want them to be little again.

Tomorrow, first thing, I'm going to....

And the nighttime resolutions begin. Tomorrow's another day.

Memeology

From my pal, Mandy.

What set your spouse apart and made you choose him or her?

Truthfully? He would fight with me. All we ever really did was disagree in our early years. You should have seen the sparks fly when we ran against each other for Stu-Co president! I loved that he held to his beliefs. And sometimes he would say things, just to set me off and see if I would hold to my beliefs. This following a guy who was so passive he let me win all the time. Sometimes I didn't want to win! Show me some FIRE! Some passion! (And eventually the fire and passion took over with Hubs ;D)

What type of music should someone play for you if his goal is to drive you insane?

Techo-crap. My Brother-In-Law gave Eldest a CD of his "music" that makes me want to claw my eardrums out when it has been played for the fifty-sixth time in a row. 'I am the operator with the pocket calculator....be-de-de-bop-de-dop-dop-ba-dop....I am the operator with the pocket calculator...(wash, rinse, repeat) AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaIiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

Would you rather watch sports at the stadium, or at home in the recliner? (Or never, unless your only other option is to have your toenails pulled out one by one?)

Let us see, shall we? Am I watching the Kansas City Royals in Crown Club seating? At the stadium. Suite seats? At the stadium. Hy-Vee seats with a view of the Crown club? At the stadium. Baseball simply must be seen in person. But I'd rather just sit in Crown. Have I mentioned that?

Kansas City Chiefs? Is it 70 degrees? At the stadium. Below 30? At home. Above 90? At home. I think. Unless I'm on the shady side of the stadium.

Kansas Basketball? Home.

Anyone else? Home, unless they are playing the Chiefs.

If you could choose any person to mentor you, living or dead, famous or not, who would that be and why?

Interesting concept. There are people whom I respect in different areas but wouldn't necessarily in others. I mean we could go straight to the correct answer and say "Jesus" which, of course, is the perfect mentor and you could argue that He is still available if you just listen. I'd like someone who could mentor me on listening better.

I think I'm spoiled to have a lot of great mentors. I don't know if they know they are my mentors...and some writers are my mentor because they've written stuff that I just want to eat with a spoon over and over until I figure out how to live those different aspects of my life.

I guess I'm going to weenie out on this answer. Because some people that I've wanted to learn more from? Probably not as great as they sound in their books or on their tapes. Would I like Dave Ramsey following me around telling me how to save money? Yes. All the time? Not if there is an ice cream parlor around. Would I like Dr Laura reminding me how to care for my husband? Yes. All the time? I think I would hate her. Would I like the flylady telling me how to keep my house neat? yes. Except on the days I don't WANT to wear lace up shoes. Which is most of them. John Rosemond or Kevin Leman telling me how to parent? Until they said something that I wholeheartedly didn't agree with.

I guess I'm just a hair too stubborn. My pastor's wife is a pretty good mentor to me though.

M & M’s: plain, peanut, almond, crispy, or peanut butter?

peanut. hands down.

Unceremoniously Dumped

I realized this week that I have been let go from my columnists position.

I knew it was only a year commitment, but I thought that since there were several of us sharing the post, we'd go through the whole round (of 17). Since I am approximately 15 on the 17 scale, my number didn't come back up for the fourth round in the year's time.

This week they started the new year's columnists.

I was trying to figure out what to write for my "last column" and I realized I don't even get to do it. There was no email thanking me for my year, my contributions, for nothing (you know, "thanks for nada lady"). Nothing that said, "by the way, I know you are due, but you've been replaced."

I knew it was only for a year, but I guess I expected more than just the quiet ushering out. The silence of nothing.

I feel deflated.

Sniff.

The Entrepreneur's Life

This morning, as Hubs tied on his shoes, Frodo looked at him and said, "I don't wike church."

(note: he does. He doesn't like having to wear something other than his Dash PJs and we make him wear real clothes to church.)

And Hubs and I said, basically at the same time, "We aren't going to church today, Buddy."

And Frodo answered, "Then why are you dressed like that, Daddy?"

See, Hubs was wearing Dockers and a polo. Not name brand, mind you, a cheap version. I think he may have even shaved this morning. He has a meeting with a customer.

Does that tell you anything about what he usually wears to work?

By the way, we did, in fact, turn down the "lots of zeros" offer to buy our company. Yikes. I think we are certifiable. (I blame the partners.)

Arthur and the Invisibles

Because Princess and Eldest are in Day Camp this week I took Frodo to the Summer Movie Series this morning. We went to see Arthur and the Invisibles.

It had potential to be good. Though why I get my hopes up on children's movies these days, I don't know.

I just wanted to warn the parents out there who care there was a WHOLE LOTTA O.M.G.

Now you might say OMG INBD! But I don't. I don't even like to hear my kids say Oh. My. Gosh. I say it. I try not to, but it does come out. We try to focus in on saying goodness or heavens or some such which I know is all a derivative. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Whatever. Think what you like. I don't want a debate over what is okay and what is not.

I'm just warning you that it is said a LOT in this movie. The first time I heard it, I was a little surprised (it is animated, for heaven's sake), but thought that maybe I mis-heard. Well, if I did, I mis-heard it a bunch more times and frankly, I don't like it. And I won't be allowing my kids to get this one from the library.

There is Shrek with his gas problem and calling Donkey "A$$," but this is the Lord's name in vain and is a whole other thing in my books.

It's My Problem, Not His

My home is my domain. And I'm very picky about the way things are run around here. (My Mother in law is snickering now.) Especially when I'm here all the time with all the kids. There is just a way to do it and that's all there is to it. And I give out orders all day like I'm a Lieutenant.

Hairbrushes belong in three, maybe four places. And specific hairbrushes belong in specific places. Move my hairbrushes and I have issues. Really cranky.

Toothbrushes are similar. Certain people keep their toothbrushes in certain bathrooms. Period. I make an exception for Hwho sometimes rises early or goes to bed late. He gets a spare for the downstairs bathroom because he brushes his teeth so loud and for so long that it makes my toes itch (read: wakes me up and makes me irritable).

Dirty dishes go in only one side of the double sink. The disposal side. If there is a dish in the other side, it jolly well not have any food on it. Only one person cleans out the sink, ever, and by golly, I don't want to have to scoop the junk out of the other side.

You take the last shower you push the auto shower cleaner button. How hard is that?

The recycling bag is right next to the trash can. You finish the soda, the can goes in recycling. Move over three inches, it isn't that hard.

Dirty clothes go in a pile at the end of the hallway, equidistant from all bathrooms and bedrooms. It is far easier to throw them there as you take them off, than it is for me to go around the house, scooping them and gathering them to go wash them, fold them and put them away with a baby in my arms. I'm not asking a lot. You don't have to color sort them, put them in a hamper, or take them downstairs, just hit the corner of the hall as you go by.

I really don't ask much.

But I realized last night, just after I snapped Hub's head off, that it is his domain also. I mean, I certainly wouldn't have a place to call my domain if it weren't for him, so maybe I could cut him some slack.

Here's the story: He sticks his head in the bathroom and asks if we have another toothbrush somewhere. Yes, I answer. Kids' bathroom. Top shelf. Pack of ten. Of course, I remind him, he could also go downstairs and get his toothbrush that he took down that morning, will leave down there, never retrieve, and eventually have a stockpile that he will never use because once he gets a new one upstairs, ,he will take it down, use it once and get a new one. And I already told you I keep one down there for him, but he never remembers that part.

I didn't mention that he stole my hairbrush yesterday morning in a similar fashion. Which actually, I did mention. (But not to you, until now.)

I think he stomped downstairs and got his toothbrush, but I'm not sure. I didn't ask.

The man makes all the money in this house. You'd think I could cut him some slack. And I can, most of the time. But I never really realized how particular I am about just a few things.

MY hairbrush belongs at MY sink. The second runner up belongs in the kitchen (where I always do Princess' hair). Third version belongs in kids bathroom. Fourth belongs in the basement bathroom.

This weekend I saw Hubs scoop up my kitchen hairbrush and take it upstairs, telling Princess that she needs to leave hairbrushes where they belong. I kid you not.

Hubs prefers MY hairbrush. It was mine before we got married, so it is legitimately mine. I don't mind that he uses it, I MIND that he takes it downstairs and leaves it there and then, the next time he wants it, exasperatedly blames our daughter for stealing it. I use the one in the kitchen and eventually make it downstairs where I find the hairbrush stockpile. It is usually right next to the toothbrush stockpile. The toothbrushes that, when I ask him, he says he doesn't know are his because we had company once two months ago.

I'm not kidding.

All that to say, the man could not possibly know these rules because I've probably never told him (though I did last night in a less than Christian manner). But because I've been firing off commands at the kids all day, I think I've taken to firing them off at him also.

Gotta work on that.

I tell you this, not to make my husband sound like a fool, but because THIS week I'm the crabby one and he's just skirting around me.

Five more weeks until we are at the high end of the rollercoaster, right?

Guest Blogger Allie Pleiter!

I am the mother of teenagers. Well, one of them’s eleven, but that’s double digits--so it counts--and the other is a fifteen year old girl--so that’s double the drama--so I consider myself the mother of teenagers. What has fifteen years in the parenting trenches taught me? I decided to think hard about that. Especially in the light of all the time I spend writing and thinking about love and grace and faith. Here’s my take:

The first 24 hours of ANYTHING do not count.

The first 24 hours of a relationship (think lovesick delirium), of an editor’s re-write letter (think vengeful smoldering), of a medical crisis (think hysterical internet searches), of ANYTHING don’t count. Our knee-jerk reactions are very rarely wise or lasting. This is a vital lesson in the high-drama of high school or middle school. Us supposedly rational adults? We need to learn it, too, because we are just as prone to flying off the handle. I’ve done it twice this week already—both times to regrettable results. The thoughts, plans, and fears I had within hours of an event weren’t even CLOSE to how I saw the situation with the balm of time.

This, they tell me, is part of what’s wrong with our instant world today. We don’t have time to think it through. Ticked off? You can fire off an email before you’ve had a chance to think things through. Your victim will get it on his Blackberry in the middle of dinner when his wife just said something to make him mad. Your kids can IM the friend who just “dissed” them before they can get the real facts. You can decide your life is in jeopardy—based on the 15 Google hits from who knows what sources--when perhaps all you really need is some extra care.

The space of time when everyone got to simmer down, wise up, cool off, or chill out is GONE.

But we need that time. That time is the seed of wisdom. The space between situation and reaction is where all the growth, all the grace, and all the drama happens. Having said all that, the writer in me understands that place as my playground. The impulsive, passionate kiss packs as much power as the slow embrace we’ve waited 50 pages for. And really, if we all acted with wisdom, where’d be the conflict? The fun? The drama? The stories?

I’ve decided that real life falls in between. The real growing happens in how we handle the drama, deal with the passion, and recover from the mistakes. How we cope with the loss of that wisdom-growing time. Now more than ever, life is more about how we react that about what’s handed to us.

Often, my choice is to laugh. To crack a joke to battle the fear, to be goofy to soothe a conflict, to poke fun at the thing we think is holding us down. I think it’s one of the wisest choices we can make. It is, perhaps, the most powerful lesson I can teach my children for the age they live in. Or, if I’m lucky, my readers as well.

So, next time life hits you at 100 miles an hour, remember that the first 24 hours don’t count. Breathe, find some way to laugh, and give it a moment.

What’s that got to do with my current release, THE PERFECT BLEND? Well, nothing. Some days I’m more philosopher/mother than marketer/author. So, in deference to my publisher, take a deep breath and then go buy a book that might make you laugh. I have one to suggest…

A really wierd day

It has been one of those days that make no kind of sense.

An acquaintance went to be with Jesus while I was attending a wedding. Starting a life and ending one, in many ways. And it made me want to hug my kids a little tighter.

And I got really excited because I got a check in the mail today. Since Hubs hasn't been paid in eight weeks, that $295.50 seemed like an especially good deal. Except we also got an offer today for our company that would make all temporary pain go away, it has lots of zeros (not all of them ours, we have several partners), and I don't think we'll take it.

Strange. Very strange.

The Highs and Lows

Hubs doesn't like me this week.

I shouldn't say that. I imagine he probably likes me, but I'm irritating the heck out of him. We all are. He's got a lot on his mind. I have a lot on mine. And Charming is in that stage when he wants to be held all the stinking time so I can't get anything done. Not the least of which is the housework, laundry, cooking, etc. (he is out of "nice" socks. Not out of clean socks, just his favorite ones). None of the kids are sleeping well, thus neither are we. (Hmmmm, maybe I should turn down the air conditioner?)

Was it only six weeks ago that I had nothing but nice things to say about my husband? Things were going so smoothly there for a while that I wondered what was wrong with us. We'd hit our stride.

And you know what? I think we really have.

Because I know this is just one of those lows that every marriage has. And I know that in six weeks we'll probably be back at a high.

When we are at a high, I don't think we try as hard to "make it work" and a slump inevitably follows. But even the slumps don't seem so bad. He's irritable and cranky and I'm not really taking it personally. I ask if there is something I've done or should have done. He answers "not really" and I wait it out. Do the best I can. I don't slam things around and assume that he's not telling me something. He's probably really just crabby. Sometimes I am and I expect him to know that it isn't him, even if it is him, because it is only him because I'm crabby and not because he is himself.

Clear?

So we'll ride this one out. Again. And we'll be in a better place when we are done. That is if I do what I can do to pull us out of this slump.

(Insert plug for Dr Laura's Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands here)

I think we've spent a lot of our time and energy this month worrying about other people's marriages and coasting on ours. We need a date. Preferably with a beach, but I'd settle for a coffee. I miss my best friend. I'll try to remember to let you know when he's back.

Of course that is the thing about things being good, you don't really notice.

Interesting thought

again compliments Ms Billerbeck but since it is a quote....

"You must learn day by day, year by year, to broaden your horizon. The more thinks you love, the more you are interested in, the more you enjoy, the more you are indignant about, the more you have left when anything happens." ~Ethel Barrymore

Happy Fourth!

There is a big boom every five seconds and a constant smell of sulfur every time I go outside. And it is kind of gray from the smoke. And it isn't even 8 pm when the real celebrating starts.

Did I mention that fireworks are illegal where I live? The police must be busy tonight.

I'm sick to my stomach and can't even eat the hamburgers and homemade ice cream I made for the family. I tell ya. My liberties are being crimped.

But, I live in a wonderful, patriotic city where we followed more than a mile of flags on both sides of the road. It is lovely and makes me teary.

Be thankful for what we have folks.

Let Freedom Ring!

You'd Think He'd Know Me By Now

So, I'd ripped a recipe page out of a magazine and left it on my kitchen counter. Apparently, Hubs came along and scooped it up (presumably to find out what he'd be forced to eat next week). He came upstairs concerned.

"So that recipe on the counter.....?"

"The bananas foster?" (his favorite dessert in all the world, but I've never made it and until last week had never seen a recipe)

"Oh, good," He smirked. "I picked it up and thought, 'Penne with Cauliflower? What is Jamie thinking?' Then I saw the sauteed Bananas over Ice Cream with Oatmeal-Rum Cookies. I hoped..."

Uh, hello? When have I ever cooked cauliflower as a main dish?

I have been talking about calories too much lately.

Father Time

Do any of you (ladies) remember the day you realized you had your mother's hands?

My mother's hands have always been lovely. Long fingers. Long, flawless nails that she actually cuts (heaven forbid!) because they are in the way. And veins that stand up.

I don't remember it happening. I didn't have my mother's hands, and now I do.

An Ode to my Entryway

Compliments: Kristin Billerbeck, Split Ends, page15:

"We have that linoleum from decades gone by that doesn't wear but instead gets uglier as the designs appear to get bigger and darker over the years...Spotless and yet still disgusting--now that takes talent."

The Things We Talk About

This morning at play group I brought up calories, I don't know, three, four, six times?

I didn't know I thought about calories that much. Calories. Not fat. Not carbs. Calories. I didn't know I thought about any of those things that much. Seriously.

(I must be at that post-partum time when I think I will be stuck with this body forever. I can't exercise, so I must have to change my intake. Which is scary because I love intaking.)

I know I've read a couple books recently, for review, that talked about health and fitness, plus I watched Shaq's Big Challenge last week, so I have thought about those things more than normal. But to turn every conversation into that...how boring can you get? Who wants to talk about the sinfulness of food? Food is to be enjoyed, in my opinion.

When I get a frappuccino, man, I don't want to think about how many calories are in it. I don't get one very often because of it, but dude, when I have it, I have it. Full fat, full cal, venti, pure delight.

Calories? Seriously.

Next week I'll probably bring up the greenhouse effect a hundred times. Bleh.

I'm having one of those weeks where I have so much to say that I'm not saying any of it. I guess I'm processing. Self flagellating. A little congratulating.

Lots of praying.

Meanwhile, I'm reading this book, Barefoot, in which one of the characters is diagnosed with lung cancer. 31. Young kids. Not a smoker. And she's always been a list maker. Now that she is dying, she only keeps one list. A running list.

Things which no longer matter.

I've found myself keeping that running list this week as I process and/or self-flagellate. Friends coming over when the house is a pit. Throwing out something someone gave me that I never used. Taking sloppy joes to a friend because there is no energy to take something more elaborate. Pitching half the contents of my baking cabinet. Letting kids go to bed grummy. Eating popcorn for lunch.

The thing is, I try my best. My best is never good enough and never will be. I will always say stupid things. I will never be the perfect person I want to be. And even in the rare moment when I am proud of myself, there will immediately follow a moment of self-loathing.

I guess that is why we have Jesus, eh?

Now that's scary

My ice cream doesn't expire until October 21st.

2008.

Now that's scary

My ice cream doesn't expire until October 21st.

2008.

Welcome!

Yesterday afternoon someone who could potentially be my daughter-in-law someday, was born. (Probably not, but you never know.)

Welcome little girl.

A Rose by any other name could never be so sweet....

The End of an Era

The Wonder Years ended last night and I cried.

Yes, yes, I know, it ended years ago.

But since Charming was born and I was entertaining my sleep-deprived self with television, I've watched the entire series. Two episodes a night, five nights a week. I've watched Kevin Arnold and Winnie Cooper grow up and fall in love.

And then, suddenly, last night, a Thursday, it ended.

And I cried.

I tried not to. I didn't want to cry. But I had to. And I don't think it had a whole lot to do with The Wonder Years.

I think it has to do with the fact that Charming is almost never awake anymore at 9pm. He goes to bed very shortly after his siblings. He sleeps until they get up in the morning. My life is good.

But my baby is growing up.

How is it, that he got so big? That enough time has passed that I could watch five years of TV since he was born?

I feel like I'm holding onto smoke. My kids are growing up and there is nothing I can do about it. And just like people told me, it goes so quickly. And this is the way it was meant to be.

Several years ago there was a family here who was washed away in a flash flood. All but the father died. A mom and five children gone in an instant. I remember it vividly because my sister and I drove the same highway with our (then) nine children just hours before. And it was surreal.

The father has since been on Focus on the Family and other programs telling his story. He is a believer and has an amazing testimony. One I hope to never have, quite frankly. I heard him speak in person. And in his telling, he reads an inscription that his wife wrote in a book that she gave him. It says a lot of things, but one that imprinted was "I love my life..."

When I heard him I was suffering terrible post-partum issues. I cried and cried. I cried all the way home from the event. But not because of what he lost (I cried over that in the immediate aftermath), I cried because of the guilt he made me feel. Or the guilt I chose to feel over what he said. He talked about living life to the fullest. And to really enjoy your children. Because it all goes so fast and you never know when it might end sooner than you think.

He wasn't trying to make us feel guilty, I'm sure. He was trying to encourage us. Which Hubs told me over and over. But I couldn't let it go for days. Weeks. Possibly years. Here I had these gorgeous (alive) children and I was so depressed and was such a horrible mommy and I couldn't say "I love my life." I hated it. I had to take pills to even get out of bed in the morning. And I'd had such trouble getting pregnant and I was certain that God knew what a horrible mom I'd be and that was why I couldn't get pregnant and that He went ahead and gave me three in less than three years to prove His point. (Because God is sadistic in the way that I am....(yes, that was sarcasm.))

And I realized in just the last few days how much I LOVE MY LIFE! I have come so far since then. One, I'm getting sleep and until recently I had everyone potty trained and I could go to the store and keep everyone happy and not raise my voice. And, as many people told me, I was probably just exhausted. Exhaustion and depression go hand in hand.

Anyway, I guess that's all that I need to say. But if you are where I was....hang in there, it WILL get better. Hopefully, very soon, you too will be able to say, "I love my life!"

Is it something I said?

Wow. I just got my sitemeter report. Holy smokes have my stats taken a hit.

I used to never really think about how many people visited. But when I had Charming, my stats jumped. And then that letter to Hubs caused another jump. And then between last week and this, my visitors dropped by half.

I can see a slow tapering. Especially if I wasn't posting regularly. I don't really think so highly of myself to really believe that millions of people would want to read what I have to say anyway.

But when you see a smack down like that, you have to wonder what offensive thing you said.

Well, that backfired

There are things I never knew about being the mother of boys. Like underwear. Boys, like mommies, decide they need privacy when they are in their underwear. So things like underwear being too small may slip some less aware moms.

Like me.

And then one day you see your kid in his underwear and realize they are W-A-Y too small. And you look at the tag the next time they come through the laundry and, WOW, has it been that long? Like since you were potty training? My almost-seven-year-old literally had a pair of size 2 underwear he was still squeezing into. Now, the elastic is shot (as you can well imagine) so when you hold them up to the 4s and 6s they don't look like a 2, but you know...

So I confiscated all his underwear, told him that they were no longer his, and I would get him some. (The better ones got passed down to Frodo who had been swiping them for several weeks anyway. Spiderman, ya know.)

Meanwhile at Wal-Mart....

I found fancy pants for my kiddo. A whole new stack. And right next to the underwear were some Spidey t-shirts that I thought he'd get a kick out of. The kid is so picky about clothes. It takes him more than a year to get used to something "new" and it is often too small, and passed down to Frodo, before he decides he likes it. At which time he wears it. Too small.

I want to put a sign on his back that says, "I really do buy his clothes to fit, he just won't wear them!"

So I thought, "Yeah, I'll buy him these new underwear, these two new shirts and these camo shorts (loves camo) and I just know he'll wear them."

Yeah, right.

So Frodo, this morning, wonders why he didn't get anything. Well, Frodo, you get all of Eldest's "new" unused clothes. You don't need anything. Besides, all you wear is PJ pals anyway....

Next thing I know, Eldest is still wearing Frodo's USA shirt from 2003 (used to be his) and Frodo is decked out in Eldest's size 7 brand spanking new Spidey shirt and underwear.

One could say that Eldest is being compassionate. Which he is. He saw the envy and took care of the problem. He even let Frodo pick which shirt and underwear he wanted. (Is this even my kid? Makes me feel really selfish and petty.)

All I see is that there is NOTHING I can do to get him to wear clothes that fit. Either one. Frodo is always in clothes too big and Eldest in clothes too small. I may as well just put all their clothes together and let 'em at it.

Crossing the Line

Yesterday I was nursing Charming when I was nearly overcome with love for him. He is fabulous. He is a treasure. I can't imagine my life without him.

I argued with God over whether I should have him.

No, not after conception. Before. God and I argued for nearly two years. Well I argued. God, He just kept saying His piece.

Now I wonder what I potentially missed. I mean this started long enough ago that I could be missing a whole person. Because it is easier for me to contend with, I'm going to assume that God knew I would fight Him for two years and that is why He started so soon. Because I want to, I'm even going to believe that there is a two year old brown girl out there that will soon find her way to our family to fill that gap. But that is another story for another day.

So, after I put little Charming down in his bed I was still thinking about how great he is and how glad I am that I finally let God win. And then I thought, basically, "But it's the last time."

After several years of infertility I made all kinds of resolutions that I'd NEVER use birth control again (this coming from someone who used it all of three months. NFP, yes, "real methods," no), but when I got to the point that Frodo was potty trained and would basically follow me around the store, etc., life got pretty easy. Like last summer. I just knew that this summer I'd be able to go to the pool with the kids and sit and read a novel.

(I think God is snickering.)

Nope. I'm hauling around a sweaty little baby. Dodging from one patch of shade to another so as to not burn his sensitive skin. Cramming my post-partum flab into a swimming suit that is so not attractive. This is not what I had envisioned.

I got off track again. Baby brain.

So I was thinking about the fever I get after I give birth. I get it every time. I don't like it. It isn't easy. I don't want to do it again. I want to adopt (have I mentioned that?:D). And just as quickly I thought, "but he's worth it."

And, just like that, I know I've crossed the line. I can't think of a single reason bad enough to stop me from having another baby. Which means I probably will.

I crossed the invisible line to the "larger family" corner with Charming, but I think I've crossed another line in my mind. I'm terrified. And I'm excited to see what God has in store. It's an unusual life in today's society. But God never promised that we'd be normal, did he?

The Eye Saga Continues

This morning I did something out of the ordinary for me. I went for a third contact.

I wear disposables. And as my old college pal Ann would say, I don't change them often enough. I think they are two week contacts and I generally squeeze six weeks out of them. I'm cheap and I don't spend a whole lot of time thinking about my contacts unless they are bothering me. They generally bother me at about six weeks when they get dry and I change them. Which I told you yesterday.

So I changed them. And the replacement pair was crummy. So I tried a second. Which was crummy and I decided it was my eye. (That was the recap.)

Yesterday I wore glasses most of the day. (I put in contacts to go to the pool. They drove me nuts. I took them out as soon as I got home.) So this morning I did a crazy thing for me. I tried my third contact in as many weeks.

No eye problems.

I am so kicking myself for suffering for all that time.

You could say that it was because I wore glasses yesterday. Maybe. I think it is the contact.

Which begs the question: should I get a refund for the two crummy contacts? Two in a row. What is the likelihood?

Dinking around

I've hit the point in my blogging career that I think I need a new look. I'm gonna play around for a few days and see if I can figure out how to make myself unique. Interesting in theory. We'll see if anything comes of it, or if I continue to look like a blogger template girl the rest of my life.

Vanity, thy name....

My eyes are driving me crazy. Ever since the morning I left for Philadelphia, I've had trouble with them. The night before I left, they were really dry (my clue that it is time to change my contacts) so the next morning I put in new ones. The left one bothered my eye so much I went around with only one for a while. Kept trying and finally gave up and put in a new new one (thinking it must have a tiny tear in it or something) which also bothered my eye...but not as much. I climbed on the plane expecting my eye to get used to it when the irritation from the phantom tear wore off.

Two weeks later it still hasn't worn off.

Maybe it is because I'm so vain. Yes, I'm trudging all over Philadelphia where no one knows me but my mom and sisters (all three intimately familiar with every ugly thing about me physically, mentally, spiritually, etc., etc.), but I continue to put in the blasted contacts rather than wear my glasses.

Could it be that my glasses are from 1991? Possibly.

Could it be that I don't see the optometrist as often as I should, don't change my contacts as often as I should, and don't rest my eyes as often as I should? Yes.

But I can't stand it anymore. I want to claw my eyes out. So today I'm wearing my glasses. I even wore them a lot this weekend with all my in-laws in town. I didn't apologize for my ugliness, I just wore my glasses. And they didn't make fun of me.

Frankly I'm surprised. They mercilessly teased Hubs about his ugly glasses until he got new ones (that they funded for his birthday last year). Personally, I think he prefers his old ugly ones (for seeing, not for public appearances. There the new ones win, hands down). I suppose I was spared because they never see me in glasses and might think I actually like these.

Surely not. Surely they think I have better taste than this. (I know I tend towards tacky sometimes, but these glasses...ugh.)

Anyway, I'm not wearing the glasses to the pool this afternoon. I'm too vain. And I have to wear sunglasses if I don't want a headache. But other than that, I'm putting my vanity on the shelf. I have got to get my eyes healed up.

The first thing I do when I have a spare million dollars is have my eyes lasered. (Unless I just spring for the new glasses.)

Big Shoes to Fill

Today, Princess was repeating, "I'm Grandma!" From my vantage point I had no idea what she was talking about. All I could see was her decked out in her bling (as she would call it: her "bedazzler" birthday girl shirt, sparkely shorts and princess birthday crown.). Nothing Grandma about it.

As I trudged up the driveway, her feet came into view. She was wearing Grandma's shoes.

The kids do that a lot. Strap on a pair of adult shoes and play grown-up. "I'm Mommy!" "I'm Daddy!" "I'm Poppin!" "I'm Granny!" "I'm Gramps!" Yet they don't change one other thing.

I think that whoever it was that started the expression, "He has big shoes to fill" had been watching children.

Happy Birthday baby girl. I have every confidence that you'll fill out those shoes nicely. I'm so proud of you.

(And I'm still so glad I'm not in labor!)

I may not have been a boy, but....

He taught me to shingle and to hang rain gutters.

Much to my neighbor's dismay as he is constantly trying to talk me off a ladder. As if. (huff!)

He taught me to take pictures and to develop them.

Much to my dismay, no matter how I promised I wouldn't get antsy stuck in that dark room, I always did. I started too young and have positively no memory of how to develop photos now, but he did teach me.

He taught me how to ride a bike, steal a basketball (during a dribble), and to stop on a dime.

Literally. He put a dime on the street and made me practice stopping ON IT. In his truck that didn't have power anything. (He still drives it.)

He taught me that I never want a dog. He does, but he made sure I knew how much work they are and I won't be fooled by any cute furry faces. I won't. Much to the dismay of my chilren.

H taught me every landmark between Liberal, Kansas and Stone Wall, Colorado.

Be still my heart, those ladybugs that positively covered the bushes on the rim of that volcano that you were finally talked into stopping at. What was it called again?

Thanks, Dad, for everything.

Especially for the father of my children, which you so kindly pointed out tonight, that I only know because of you.

Can I Just Say?

I'm so glad I'm not in labor.

I'll be saying that for a minimum of 23 more hours.

I'm glad I'm not watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon also. It may just be due to the fact that I was in labor, but I'll muster a guess that it was really just that bad.

But, my Princess, you are worth it.

An extension of himself

I have proof. Hubs really does think that his computers are an extension of himself. More so than anything else I can think of. I'll explain.

Hubs and I don't often verbally spar. We snip. We gripe. We grow irritated. We "discuss." But the raised voices? Not so much. After 11 years, I guess we've figured out that doesn't really do much good.

Insert computer.

I've mentioned my woes this week. Hubs is rebuilding it, slowly but surely. I'm cranky about the situation. (Did you read that correctly? The SITUATION.) However, God in his merciful wisdom, warned me of the impending crash. I got multiple "blue screens of death" before the real blue screen of death made its appearance. Hubs coached me over the phone while I saved all my word documents onto an external hard drive. (This should have been my first clue.) But he kept getting annoyed. I was panicking, I'll admit it, but I couldn't figure out why he was annoyed when I couldn't make the computer say what he told me it would say. I finally told him, "We are obviously speaking different languages and neither of us have time to translate. I am going to hang up now and try to figure out what you are trying to say [without you repeating it over and over in my ear]."

I figured out how to do what I was supposed to do (and the computer never did say what he told me it would say, but I did get my docs saved).

It never occured to me to be irritated at Hubs for the computer crash. I was irritated that my computer was crashing and hopeful that it would hold off until I got my stuff off. Okay?

Fast forward to this weekend when my computer blue screened for good. While I kept trying to restart it, Hubs kept trying to restart it and kept (what I percieved as) being irritated with me because the computer wouldn't work. As he was home for the weekend, I used his computer to blog and check out my email remotely.

Something about that was irritating me. I think I was having a hard time getting into blogger because I kept trying to sign in with my old blogger username and I forgot that google uses my email for my username...which I forgot because I had my computer set up to remember names and passwords. No irritation at Hubs or his computer AT ALL. Irritation at me.

At my first exclamation of "huff!" (half sigh, half snort, insert your spouses sound of annoyance here) he got snippy.

"What now?!" (nothing, Love, just having a hard time getting signed into blogger....)

There's another clue.

So, the man bought me a hard drive. He put it in my computer. He is slowly getting my stuff back on it. Knowing the importance of internet access to his adoring spouse he got that on there for me and will probably get Outlook and Word (the semi-less urgent "needs") on this weekend. I am happy with this.

But this morning I was having trouble with my fingertip mousepad (I have a laptop (Hub's old one that he gave me for Valentines day two years ago (another clue)) because we haven't turned on our air conditioning yet. And though it isn't hot, it is slightly humid. And fingertip mousepads don't work very well when your fingers are sticky/sweaty. I'm not even sure I knew I was griping. I say stuff. I probably need to concentrate on what I say, but I have been married for a while and I don't guard my words so much.

FOR ONE, BECAUSE I THOUGHT I WAS COMMENTING ON THE COMPUTER.

Hubs snapped something along the lines of, "Well, hook up an external mouse then!" Really snapped. As in raised voice.

And I snapped something along the lines of, "Why are you yelling at me?"

And HE said, "Because everytime you complain about the computer, I feel like you think it is my fault. (emphasis mine) And it's irritating!"

And I said, "It has nothing to do with you! (note: I'm still yelling) I'm irritated because my HANDS ARE SWEATY! Sometimes I'm just irritated with stuff on the computer, I NEVER think of it as your fault!"

Yes, yes, I know. The things people fight about. But as I thought about it this morning I realized that most of the heated arguments we've had over the years have had a computer invloved and this morning I finally figured out why.

If Hubs thinks that a criticism of the computer is criticism of him well, it just goes to show he really does think it is an extension of himself. I've suspected that he felt strongly about his computers, but I had no idea how much he related to them. To me, they are a tool to do what I love (write and communicate) but I think to him they are more like a prosthesis.

Anyway, I hope what I said this morning took. I hope he actually heard me when I said my computer had nothing to do with him. But I'm also going to try to remember that he thinks it does.

And hopefully we can go back to "discussing" money where we know the problem. I think I need to spend less and he thinks he needs to make more. We both know the problem. We both know the solution. And if we both work toward it, surely we'll be okay.

As long as we leave the computer out of it.

Things I've learned about God...take 2

It has been a really full day.

We had playgroup here, where better than 20 people graced my living room, most of them under the age of 10.

We, almost immediately, went to the pool after everyone left.

We watched a movie when we got home from the pool.

We ate watermellon.

We went to the library after we watched a movie.

We ate kid friendly food for every meal.

But was it enough? No. They are never satisfied. It is never good enough. And, as I was lamenting to Hubs that it is never good enough. No matter what I do. No matter what I go through (as if I want to hold a sleepy, sweaty baby, under an umbrella, at the pool, with my post baby body crammed into a swimsuit that is too small....ahem) when, lo and behold, I had another one of those God moments.

"Sounds familiar...."

I'm glad He has a sense of humor. Or at least that He puts up with me.

three days down...

and I don't have the shakes yet, so I must not be addicted.

I sure feel addicted.

And you'd think I'd get some housework, or something, done.

NOPE.

Can't read. Can't write. Can't check email.

It's raining.

Can't go to the pool. Can't send them outside. (Not really, anyway.)

I did clean two toilets. Didn't do the shower though.

When, oh when, will I have a computer again? All this high speed internet (wireless, too) and no way to use it.

Poor, poor pitiful me.

Crumb!

My hard drive crashed. I saw it coming and saved most of my word documents (the writers out there will understand the importance of saving that rubbish), but didn't get my outlook and bookmarks saved quickly enough. I hope I haven't lost everyone. Sigh.

Looks like my blogging will be limited to times when Hubs is home with his computer. Sigh.

Email will be interesting.

So, in short, my life has been majorly altered. You realize how much of your life is lived online when you can't (don't read addicted into there. I've managed).

What I intended to write last week was that though my kids are a L-HA-HA-HA-HA-T of work, it just isn't home without them. When they walked through the door, all big, everything was right again.

Charming didn't think so. He adjusted quite well to his new life, thank you very much. He quite enjoyed being carried in his sling all day (side note: never, no matter how much the sling stinks, I repeat, never, wash a sling once you get it perfect. I hauled the kid all over Pennsylvania in that thing, but couldn't manage a simple Wal-Mart trip once I put it through the washer. Hopefully I'll get it back to fitting again soon), taking naps on mom, seeing her face as soon as he opened his eyes, never having to cry to be picked up, having four women dote on him all his waking hours, nursing from his car seat when he got bored. That was the life. This? NO this is loud and not Charming centric. Bummer for him.

Anyway, I'll get back when I get back. Hopefully sooner than later. Hubs promised me a new hard drive very soon. I hope he defines that the same way I do. Like yesterday....

Back to the Grind

My children are restored to me!

Due to some scheduling circumstances,

Yeah...

I started this 2 days ago. I suppose--enough said.

I have a blog, and I'm not afraid to use it!

Yesterday I spent a great part of my morning on the phone trying to iron out an insurance kink. A Catch-22 if you will.

You see, if I had given birth to Charming in the hospital, my insurance would have happily paid my doctor $8000. Now, as most of us know, hospital births are much more than $8000, so I would have had to pay above and beyond that, setting me back a good chunk of change. I, however, chose to have my baby at home. Midwife: $1300. Circumcision in the doctor's office: $468.08. (Let's take a moment and scoff at the audacity of that, shall we? But, I do want qualified hands cutting "down there," I must admit, and I THOUGHT the insurance would be more likely to cover the Dr than the Mohel therefore....). Grand total: $1768.08. That, to me, is a bargain.

But, oh no, not to my "share program." The share program that I joined, and stayed in, not only for economical reasons, no, but because they not only support, but promote, home birth. In fact, up until about a year ago, they only paid about $3000 per birth because that more than covers what nearly all midwives will charge. (Homebirth midwives, that is. Don't get me started on the hospital midwives, who are FINE, I'm sure, but pricey.)

Fast forward. Share program decides to join a PPO to lower costs. PPO makes rules in order to be joined. Share program decides that young couples are more economical than older couples and expands maternity payouts because young couples want epidurals. Suddenly Share Program doesn't cover home birth. Oh, they say they do. It looks good on their propaganda. But the midwives they have covered for several births (mine and my sister's) are suddenly unacceptable for the PPO because they are only "certified" and not "licensed" and the licensed midwives (nurse midwives rather than lay midwives) only deliver in the hospital. (But the Share Program doesn't hesitate to educate me about the fact that "why would someone hire a midwife to deliver in the hospital? Those midwives deliver at home....(crock of hooey).)

On top of that, even though I followed all the rules, Share Program doesn't want to cover Charming's circumcision because the doctor's office coded it as "routine." Because, let's say it together, CIRCUMCISIONS ARE NOT SOMETHING DIAGNOSABLE.

Any-hoo.

(Interesting. The tornado sirens are blowing. They match my mood.)

So, I have a couple people at Share Program that are supposed to be "trying to find a creative way to cover this." If they do, I'll happily tell you who Share Program is and tell you to join. If they don't? I will be smearing their name to kingdom come. You don't sign off every phone call with "God bless!" and not follow through with what you say you will do.

Oh, and the tornado sirens were the weekly drill. The weather here is sunny and hot.

In Short

We took a whirlwind tour of historic Philadelphia. We came, we saw, we conquered. What most people pack into a half day tour, we took three. (Though my sister says we did finally see everything the tour guide said we should see if we only had half a day...)

My mother would describe the weekend like this: "All we did was eat, eat, eat. I've never eaten so much in my life! If I ate like this everyday, I'd be the size of Pennsylvania! Where's the coffee?"

I would describe the weekend like this: "Oh. My. Gosh! I finally get to break fast. I swear, if I'd known we were only going to eat one meal a day I would have brought lunchables or something! If I keep this eating pace up I'll lose 10 pounds by the weeks end! Anyone seen a cheesesteak vendor anywhere? (And a Starbucks would be nice.)"

Sure, the history and scenery were nice, but unless they promise to feed me next time, this will be my first and last girls history touring weekend. (It couldn't have had anything to do with the fact that I hauled a 15 pound Charming all over heck and gone, could it? BTW, he was fabulous. Quite a trooper, and currently sleeping it off.)

And Melanie, my maid did clean while I was gone. If I hadn't been so exhausted, I would have fainted from shock. (He even loaded the dishwasher....gasp!)