These are a few of my favorite things

Big Mack

2012-02-01T17:05:00.003-06:00

Last week, I registered my baby boy for high school.

It brought a great deal of anxiety to our home. There were tears and panic attacks. Late night worry and lots of stress.

And all of it mine.

It is a marvel to me, this child of mine. Where I am worry and uncertainty, he is all confidence and cool. His junior high experience was (thankfully) nothing like mine. He breezed through halls that are fraught with angst and cruelty, and has come away unscathed.

He has aced all of his honors classes and still finds time to shoot a few hoops with his friends in the back yard. He loves freely and laughs often.

He likes the girls, we are discovering, but not overtly so. He's a fierce competitor, but not a poor sport. He wants to be just like his father and he loves his brother more than anyone else in the world.

Quite frankly, he's got us all wrapped around his not-so-little-anymore pinkie finger.

And, in spite of my protests otherwise, he will turn fourteen in just three days.

The clock is ticking on our time with this one. Here's hoping it slows down long enough for me to enjoy it.

Just when you think there's nothing to post about...

2012-01-31T09:41:00.004-06:00

Last Friday, the Husband lost his iPad.

He left it on a Delta Airlines flight to who knows where.

Yes. The brand new iPad that I surprised him with on Christmas morning.

The iPad that I so sneakily hoarded funds in order to keep a surprise from him, rather than just plunking down the American Express.

And, due to my incredibly sneaky hoarding of funds, when its loss came to our life, there was no American Express to step up and replace it.

I asked. But, strangely, they weren't interested in replacing an iPad that they didn't help us purchase.

Jerks.

We both have been in mourning about it for several days now. [I mean, thank heavens our diamond shoes are still safe. At least THAT gives us some consolation in our bleak, bleak trials of life.]

Well, yesterday afternoon, the Husband received a call from Delta that we never thought would come.

The iPad? Not lost! Turned in by some good samaritan and on its way to St. Louis. It's traveled to a few cities and seen the sights, but it will be in our hot little hands come Wednesday.

I know it's trivial, and I know it's just a thing, but it makes me oh, so happy.

There really ARE some decent people left in the world.

And wherever they are, whatever they are doing, I hope life sends lots of good things their way.

Playing catch up

2012-01-30T10:13:00.006-06:00

Last night, about 11 p.m., as I was dozing off to the high brow intelligence that is the programming on E!, I received a concerned text from none other than my ~~biggest heckler~~ brother Dan.

He was concerned that something was wrong.

You know, because I haven't blogged in about eleventy billion days.

I told him that I've been extremely busy lately, but all of it has been boring. Nothing exciting has happened and I can't imagine writing about any of it.

He suggested a post in tribute to his fine self, and I thought about that for all of two seconds. Then I reasoned that my boring was WAY more interesting for all of us than that.

Sorry, Dan.

Prepare to be astounded. It's been all kinds of awesome around here.

Like, for instance, when I took the kids for a nutritious meal at the Panda and Chase found this fortune inside a cookie:

Truer words have never been spoken. Man I love that kid.

Also of note was turning the corner while shopping at an electronics store last week and finding this smart aleck with his nose buried studiously in what I can only assume by his expression is the most awesome book ever written:

But where I've most enjoyed spending my time is the Pinterest.

Okay, fine, yes, I admit it. Pinterest is about the greatest thing that has ever happened to mankind, not counting the advent of diet coke. I eat every bad word I ever said about it and invite you to come find me on there. My boards? They pretty much rock.

An especially fantastic Pinterest find was the sock bun curls tutorial, which I promptly tried out on my skeptical, yet willing, daughter. The before photo:

And the after:

Which, yes, I realize is not very focused and taken with a crappy iphone camera, but whatever. I also enjoy using the Instagram, and invite you all to come join me there. It's highly addictive, but oh so fun. I am @clhalverson. Come see more of my everyday drivel, won't you?

A gorgeous photo shoot I've been playing with that was taken with a FAR better camera was with these lovelies, who surprised us by visiting over Christmas. While I still haven't taken off the weight I gained from that week alone, it was fabulously wonderful to spend time with them:

And, that, dear friends, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings for the past few weeks. Not pictured is the many lunches, diet cokes, chats with friends, and hot cups of tea sipped while snuggled under a blanket with a good book. January is treating me rather well, I'd say. And coupled with the fact that today is going to be in the 60s, I just might declare it my favorite St. Louis winter yet.

I'll try to be better about posting. Not just for the three of you who still check every day, but for me. So I don't forget the fabulously boring and incredibly, wonderfully ordinary life I am living.

I love it.

It's a win-win for everybody

2012-01-11T20:38:00.004-06:00

A few days ago, McKay asked me to pick up some new shoelaces for his sneakers.

Being the responsible, loving parent that I am, I forgot.

And forgot.

And, yes, child protective services, I forgot again.

Yesterday, when he was ~~nagging~~ reminding me yet again, I told him to write me a note and I would BE SURE to pick them up.

And, since I am all kinds of awesome, I completely forgot all about it.

Until, I opened up the fridge and saw this note taped to my beverage of choice:

In case you can't read his terrible chicken scratch, it says, "Buy McKay black sport SHOELACES."

When I asked him about the unusual location for his reminder note, he simply said, "I put it where I knew you would be going the most times in a single day."

I think that means one of three things:

a) I have a serious diet coke addiction and my children are left in no doubt of it
b) I have an awesomely creative son who knows how to get the job done
c) all of the above

What do you think? I'm voting C.

Either way it's a win-win: Kid gets his shoelaces; mama gets her brown liquid drink on. Happiness all around.

The extraordinary ordinary

2012-01-09T20:38:00.010-06:00

The house is quiet but for the sound of pages turning, novels held in the hands of my boys. Their tired lids fight to finish just one more chapter before sleep washes over them. I look up periodically as one of them pads down the hall to share a funny part with me. I smile, taking in their broad shoulders and long limbs. These boys that are turning into men right under my nose. And me, powerless to stop them.

Hannah has finally succumbed to sleep, and tonight that is no small victory. Her repeated pleas to sleep by my side were rejected, one after the other, each more creative in its attempt to persuade. Were it not for the cold I am fighting, I would have given in. Her snuggles keep me company most nights in my life as a travel widow. In spite of her flailing limbs and all-night-thrashing, her presence is comforting in a quiet bed. But tonight, I need rest above all else. The calendar this week is dotted with line after line of tasks and activities, all of which will require my best self.

The phone rings, and a familiar voice closes the gap of miles that lie between us. I share every moment, even the ones mundane. He laughs at our idiosyncrasies, the ones he knows so well. He vents a little of his own day, and my heart aches for him and the stress of his life. We say goodnight, and I offer a prayer of gratitude for the good man that he is. For his capacity to love that is seemingly endless.

I weigh the choices before me and pick up a book instead of a remote. I relish the extraordinary ordinary that is my life. I snuggle under a blanket and close another day. I am grateful and humbled by the peace I feel deep in my soul.

Life is extraordinarily good.

The story of the pants

2012-01-04T12:38:00.000-06:00

One day a lovely pair of pants was sitting at home over Christmas vacation. Seen here:

Okay. Maybe the pants really looked like this:

This kind-hearted, but rotund pair of pants took her daughter to see a movie. As rotund pants are known to do on occasion, and most certainly over Christmas break, this one indulged in a few movie treats.

While watching the previews, the daughter of the rotund pair of pants remembered that she had to use the restroom. The pair of pantses got up together, leaving their snacks to save their spots.

They returned minutes later, just in time for the movie, and sat down to enjoy the show.

Tragically, what the rotund pair of pants did not know, was that a few junior mints had fallen out of the box and landed onto the seat while she was getting up to walk to the bathroom. When she returned to the dark theater, she sat down, completely unaware of the sinister misfortune that had just befallen her. It looked ~~sort of~~ exactly like this:

The rotund pair of pants and her daughter ran many errands after the movie. They went to the Home Depot. To Sam's Club. Even to the Target. Stores where, to their delight, they ran into no less than FOUR of their acquaintances over the course of the afternoon.

It was not until about ten o'clock that evening that our rotund pair of pants discovered the ill-placed junior mints. Her expression was something like this:

When her sensitive Husband found out about her misfortune, he showed her all the sympathy he was capable of.

Her children found the predicament as funny as did their father.

Naturally, the owner of the rotund (and now very stained) pants found very little humor in the situation.

The moral of the story is this:

~~No more movie treats.~~

~~Check rear end of the pants after every snack~~

~~Never run errands without a full body scan and/or spare pants in the car.~~

~~Ignore friends at the store in case pants are stained in a poo-like manner~~

There is no moral. It's just one more Story of Shame to add to my ever-growing collection. Which, sadly, as my friend Kathy asked me the other night, are all true.

I can't fault his logic

2012-01-03T19:19:00.005-06:00

The other day, I walked in the kitchen to discover Chase shoveling food into his mouth from a bowl using only his fingers. At once disgusted and humored, I asked him if he needed a fork.

His response was classic Chase --

"No. What I really need is a bigger mouth."

2012 is off to a good start

2012-01-01T09:33:00.004-06:00

This morning, at the unholy hour of 7:42 in the a.m., the phone rang. Still reeling from the ~~eating and napping~~ hard partying I did last night, I begged the Husband not to answer it.

And, as he is occasionally wont to do, he chose not to listen to me.

[Thankfully.]

It was our bank calling. They wanted to double check that we actually did want to order those expensive hookers and a limo service in New Jersey before they authorized the charges on our credit card.

Seeing as how we are in Missouri, fun like that might be a little difficult to enjoy.

Lucky for us, our bank is vigilant and doesn't let little things like hookers and limos fly under the radar and go unnoticed. Not so lucky, however, for the identity thieves who are now sitting in Trenton wondering how in the world they will ever pay for their wild night with Sheila and Tiffanie.

But for us, I'd say we're off to a good start on our New Year's Resolution list: No more hookers or limo rides through New Jersey.

I think it's going to be a good year.

Perspective

2011-12-22T13:06:00.005-06:00

A few days ago, I had a meltdown of epic proportions.

Tears, crying, and, oh, did I mention the tears?

I was decorating my umpteenth batch of holiday cookies for the neighbors. I was simultaneously also preparing a dish to take to the Husband's holiday work lunch the next day. I had been up really late the night before working on client orders and was exhausted. I had laundry literally exploding out of the mudroom, crawling on its dirty hands and knees towards me, begging to be dealt with. I had kids to shuffle to baptisms at the temple. And there had been workmen in my house all day long.

I was almost at my breaking point.

With the timing of a hurtling bomb, a boy reminded me of something he needed at school the next day. Which meant yet another trip to ~~Hades~~ The Target.

Hiding in the bathroom, I dried my tears and took a deep breath. Gritting my teeth, and stifling every urge of protest my feet made, I grabbed my purse and we headed out.

I glared at everyone in my path. I felt no love for the season and wondered why in heaven's name all these people come out of their holes this time of year. I hurried through the store, grabbed what we needed, and headed to the checkout. Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I sighed with impatience. Mentally counting out all that I still had to do this week, I felt the irritation seep out of my every pore.

Finally it came time to pay, and I gratefully prepared to leave.

As I was digging in my purse for my keys, I glanced up and noticed the girl in line behind me. She was short on money and was having to decide which items to take out of her bag.

Instantly, all my irritation melted away and I actually looked at her with kinder, softer eyes. Instead of seeing her worn coat and thin sweater, nails chewed down to the nub -- I saw something else. I saw a sister, younger than me, struggling to pay for her Christmas gifts. Gifts, it appeared, that were for young children. Having been there once myself, compassion flooded over my body like a warm blanket.

I felt like absolute crap. I had been whining and complaining over what, in the right perspective, are no real problems at all. I had momentarily gotten caught up in the material needs of the season and forgotten the meaning behind it.

With tears in my eyes, I reached into my purse, pulled out all the cash I had, and slid it across the counter towards her.

Merry Christmas, I said, and then walked away.

Much happier and more grateful than when I had come.

[I tell you this story not to brag of my good deeds or seek your praise. I tell you in case you, like me, needed a reminder of the good that can be done if we will just look. Look through different eyes at those around us. There just may be some that we can help. ]

Playing catch up

2011-12-14T19:35:00.004-06:00

It's been a busy month. Didn't mean to take such a long blogging break, but stuff happens. And in case any of you are left to care, the following is a list of reasons why I have not been blogging. In no particular order:

My laptop is playing dead right now, and it's at least a 12-second walk to the basement computer, which is just far enough to leave me distracted by the shiny cover of People magazine or to hear the siren song of the refrigerator calling my name. Laptop did this once before and miraculously came back to life a few weeks later. I just keep telling the Husband that it's on vacation and will start working when its good and ready to. (Fingers crossed!)
My customers are strangely not like me and actually wait until December to order prints and/or holiday cards. They don't start thinking about it mid-April and have it done, say, by Halloween. Weirdos. Anyway. They're keeping me far too busy and I have packages arriving daily from the print house. Which is nothing to necessarily complain about, I realize. But still.
I'm tired from all the not-exercising that I'm doing.
I'm worn out from the constant eating that is brought on by the not-exercising.
I'm too busy shopping for another pair of diamond shoes. Those orphans in Africa better hurry up and get sewing. Mama needs new sparkly feet for Christmas!
I got sucked into watching this and have seriously not showered for two days as a result of it. I blame my friend Mindy. She told me how good it was. She was right. You should log onto Hulu and start watching. But feed your kids first. They might get hungry and be annoying to you later.
I've had men in my house nearly every day for the last two months. Sort of hard to put a coherent thought together with constant interruptions and loud banging/pounding/hammering/singing. Thankfully, they are all but done. Which means I get to post after pictures. Try to hold on to your excitement. I, for one, am ecstatic.

Anyhoo. That about sums it up. Here's hoping life slows down a bit so I can get caught up here again. I love this as my family journal and it breaks my heart to think that there are chunks of our life not being recorded for posterity. Or for my kids' therapy later. You know. Important things like that.

Not to mention the three or so of you who actually come here and like what you read. Sorry to have been MIA. I'll try to be better.

Where's a good curse word when I need one?

2011-12-06T11:59:00.006-06:00

At the risk of being put on the naughty list, I offer this simple, declarative statement that sums up my feelings today:

I. hate. everything.

I had lovely posts planned this morning that would share our happenings over Thanksgiving, let you see the holiday decor of my home, and entertain you with wit and humorous stories galore.

Instead, I offer this little nugget from my morning.

Imagine, if you will, that it is about 8:30 in the a.m.

I had just taken Hannah to school and was trying to decide if I should start a load of laundry before (miraculously) hopping on the treadmill. My cell phone rings and all hello kitty breaks loose.

The plumber was upstairs installing the boys' bathroom faucets. Apparently, the faucets that I picked out would not fit where the granite guys had drilled the holes. And, lucky for me, the plumber had bent the crap out of the faucets trying to get them in, rendering them likely unreturnable.

Seeing as how our contractor marks up any fixtures that he purchases for us to the tune of about 30 percent, we opted to purchase all those ourselves.

When I first saw these faucets, I fell head-over-heels for them. They were funky and cool, yet totally went with the rest of the bathroom. It had taken me weeks to even convince the boys to let me put them in there in the first place. Now, I was being told that I couldn't have them and would need to pick something else. Oh, and would I hurry and do it right now because the plumber would only wait for a few more minutes before leaving?

Right as I was pondering if I had time to brush my teeth, the electrician informed me that the light fixtures [the ones I had made a special trip to purchase last night!] for the boys' closets were the wrong ones and would not pass inspection.

Nice.

So, in yesterday's ponytail, my paint-stained sweat pant pajamas, and NO BRA, I headed to Lowes. Not really caring at this point what I got, I searched for faucets that would match the holes already drilled. And, tragically, the only ones that matched the other plumbing fixtures in the bathroom were eleventy kajillion billion dollars.

Grumbling under my breath, I grabbed the fixtures.

Next I stampeded my stinky self over to the light section and (with the help of a probably frightened clerk) found what I needed there.

Remembering the electrician's counsel that I should grab some florescent bulbs for them, as well, I added a few of those to my now-precarious stack.

Here is a visual for your viewing pleasure:

Rounding the corner, boobies jiggling and hair flying, I hurried towards the check out stands. As if in some Murphy's Law super slow-mo, the light bulb on top of the stack went careening off like a suicidal maniac and dove for the floor.

Shown here:

Going...going...

Gone.

Not having any free hands, I watched it fall like a dummy. It landed with a crash, and shards exploded in a five foot radius around me.

Trying to keep the tears from spilling, I gathered the empty light bulb box and headed back to retrieve another.

Because, hello? Not making another effing trip to this effing store looking like this.

Setting the large pile on the counter, I informed the clerk of the breakage and offered to pay for the light bulb I had broken.

I paid and, to my horror, watched as the genius clerk bagged up the empty box of glass shards for me to take home with the others.

Pretty sure I won't be needing that.

Whatever.

The best part of the day? An hour later, the electrician walks up and asks if I have nine 40-watt light bulbs for the chandelier they are replacing in the foyer.

Frick. Frack. Frock.

Somebody please kill me.

Giving Thanks for Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T10:51:00.005-06:00

I have decided to invent a new holiday.

One that I'm positive can't offend all the ~~First Americans~~ Indians.

But first? A little back story.

Yesterday I received a letter from a blog reader who has become a friend. Reading through this letter, I had tears streaming down my face and joy in my soul. I won't share the private contents of the letter here, but I will tell you this: This girl is an absolute rock star. She, who is all kinds of awesome herself, was thanking me.

It got me thinking about the new type of friendship that the Internet has given birth to: The Internet friend.

And I'm definitely not talking about the kind of Internet friend who wants to meet you at your house and then is surprised when Dateline: To Catch a Predator is there.

No one should have any of those kinds of Internet friends.

I'm talking about the friend who is in the motherhood trenches, the same as you. The friend whose blog you might read on your lunch hour, clear across the country, or even across the world. The ones you have met in real life; and the ones you have yet to meet. The people who tune in every day to blogs, hoping there are snippets from what you are sure is no ordinary life.

These are the people who get you. And the people whose words touch your heart, make you laugh, or tell you that you are not alone. The people who make our day a little bit better with their stories, photos, and wit.

So what I am proposing is this: Let's start a Thanksgiving revolution today. Think of someone you know (or don't know) whose blog you read. Send them a simple note, letting them know what their words have meant to you. Or simply thank them for continuing to entertain you. It doesn't need to take long - just a few minutes to type a note.

Imagine what that thoughtfulness will mean to someone. Their day is going to no doubt be hectic today; maybe they are traveling. Maybe they are cooking for inlaws. Maybe they are all alone. But to inboxes across the world, let's spread a little love.

We'll call it Giving Thanks for Thanksgiving.

I know what my letter meant to me. Imagine if every single one of you gave that feeling to someone else.

Just think of all the love flying around the Internet today.

It'll be amazing.

And just like the old adage that it's better to give than receive, imagine how great all of US will feel in return.

Go, internets. Fly out to the world with your good deeds. Then return and bring us word.

Thirty-eight again

2011-11-21T19:09:00.006-06:00

Last Thursday I finally turned 38.

I say finally because I have inadvertently been telling people for the past two years that I am 38. I didn't do it on purpose; I genuinely forgot how old I was and kept thinking I was 38. A few weeks prior to my birthday, I paused and wondered if I was finally going to turn 39 or 40 this year, as it seemed that my thirty-eighth year was really dragging on and on. Calculating my actual age led me to realize my mistake.

After having a good laugh, I decided it is quite telling.

It shows how unimportant the numbers of your mid- to late-thirties are. You're not quite to the forties, and just somewhere in the middle of the thirties, and all rather meh when it comes to years. I don't feel old; yet I don't delude myself into thinking that I am still a little young thing. I am just me. Plugging along happily, living my life, and hoping to eventually drop those 20 pounds I keep meaning to lose, but never seem to care enough to actually give up the food it will require to do so.

I am way more confident than I was in my twenties - both as a mother, a wife, and a friend. My kids are older and much more independent, making them, quite frankly, a lot more fun. I have all day to myself to work, shop, or meet friends for lunch. I happily indulge in an afternoon matinee at the theater and feel no guilt whatsoever. Those books I always intended to read actually get read.

I feel very at home in my skin. I've accepted the inevitability of the stretch marks staying for life, and, quite honestly, I have decided it's the least of my worries when it comes to my body. I work out, but have sort of given myself permission to eat, too. At 38, I have noticed the wrinkles becoming more prominent, but they are not quite concerning enough to act on just yet. Besides, I know my forties will be all about the botox anyway.

I am still slightly schizophrenic when it comes to loving my freckles, however.

But all in all, I am happy. I am experienced enough to be confident in my positive contributions to the world. I am not afraid to try new things and I still know there is a lot for me yet to learn and do. I know it is better to be full of love and forgiveness than to harbor hate and resentment. I know the value of a good friend, and feel my life richer for the beautiful women who I am blessed to know - both near and far.

I think that the thirties and I have done just fine together.

Here's hoping the rest of the decades are just as accommodating.

If not, maybe I'll just keep saying that I'm still 38.

*****

P.S. Awesome things to note in my birthday photo: The coconut cake. If you have not made it yet, please do. It is life changing. And totally worth every bite of its 9,000 calorie self. The diet coke in a goblet? Courtesy of my children. Making their mama's caffeine addiction classy since 1998. The sweater? Courtesy of WHBM. My current favorite place to shop for all things ruffles.

It'll be okay. Don't worry.

2011-11-15T13:06:00.007-06:00

A few years ago, when I first heard Randy Pausch's Last Lecture, I was moved to tears. Partly for the tragic horror it would be to face mortality and its consequences as a parent, but partly also for the magnificence of Randy Pausch's mother in letting him draw all over his bedroom walls.

Pausch says:

"When I was in high school, I decided to paint my bedroom. I always wanted a submarine and an elevator. And the great thing about this is they let me do it, and they didn’t get upset about it. And it’s still there. If you go to my parent’s house, it’s still there. And anybody who is out there who is a parent, if your kids want to paint their bedroom, as a favor to me, let them do it. It’ll be OK. Don’t worry..."

That quote has come to my mind many times. When my kids have asked to hang a particularly ugly poster on the wall in their bedroom or begged to paint their room a hideous color. Without fail, each and every time, I've said no. And patted myself on the back for not letting them make decisions I was confident they'd regret later.

Deep down inside, it's haunted me.

So this weekend, when I announced that I would be painting their walls as part the The Remodel, I was fully prepared to say no when they asked to help.

But I thought of Pausch, his mother, and I somehow found myself saying yes instead.

In the beginning, it was all I could do to not take over the job myself. Every fiber of my being cried out against this loss of control. When I stepped in large gobs of paint spilled on the floor. When I caught their paint drips racing down baseboards, and discovered I had caught them too late.

Most especially when one of them fell off a five-foot ladder, landing in a painful heap on the hard floor.

But once I'd made peace with the inevitable paint smeared on the ceiling, the paint dripping down the closet corners, and the extra hours it took for all of this, I noticed something.

I noticed the eagerness in their eyes as they talked about where they'd place the furniture in their new rooms. I noticed their smiles and laughter, as they sang along to the music. I noticed the teamwork as they helped each other navigate tricky angles. I noticed the ownership and pride on their faces at being given the responsibility of such a grown up task. I noticed us working, side-by-side, as our happy chatter passed the time.

And I noticed something I had missed all along: It's really not such a bad thing to let your kids paint on the walls after all.

And it'll always be okay.

Because the things that matter are not drips in the corner or smudges on the ceiling.

The things that matter are the three wonderfully perfect little people who put them there.

Eleven on the Eleventh of the Eleventh

2011-11-11T07:37:00.002-06:00

Today is 11.11.11.

I can't help but flashback to 8.8.88. I was in junior high, and my best friend Christina and I decided to have an eight party. We bought each other eight gifts, had eight things to eat, and I'm not sure what else. We thought we were pretty awesome though. As did the zero boys who were in our life at that time. Correlation?

Nah. We were awesome. And our hair was big and curly. (Hi, Christina!)

I thought I'd spew some random thoughts for your reading pleasure this morning.

You're welcome.

1. I'm up early this morning, having just gotten my boys off on a church youth trip to Independence, Missouri. It's funny to have two old enough to go. Kind of blows my mind how fast the years are flying. I feel like the preschool age lasted like 20 years. Now that they're fun and interesting? Time is flying by at warp speed. Makes me sad.

2. The Remodel is going well. Last night, they FINALLY finished painting the ceiling in the living room, which meant that the Bubble Boy room was dismantled. The two couches in my kitchen have been returned to their rightful place, and it makes everything feel so big. Progress, people.

3. A few days ago, the Husband's company had a dinner at a glass blowing factory where we learned how to manipulate glass that was 2,03950,000 degrees. (Yes, I realize that is not a real number. But I exaggerate to show you just how stinkin' hot it was). We had a long safety seminar where they told us over and over NOT to grab the metal pole with our left hand, as it would take the skin off our hand with the heat. Guess who reached for her pole very first thing? Yeah. Me. Thankfully, the Husband was right there and screamed before I could actually touch it. That could have been bad. And embarrassing.

4. My backyard is covered in leaves and I have ZERO desire to rake them. Seeing as how my two work horses have just spirited off to Independence, it looks like the job may fall to me. Anyone want to do it? I'll pay you five bucks. No? Jerks.

5. I am hungry today. Like REALLY hungry.

6. I think this post just crossed the line and became the worst thing on the internet today. Sorry about that.

7. I am extremely mindful this time of year of what a good place I am in right now physically. I think back to last year -- the pain, the tears, the crippling depression -- and I get teary eyed with gratitude. I do not think I will take my health for granted ever again.

8. Speaking of which, don't you love it when your insurance company overrides your doctor and decides what medication and treatment are appropriate for you? I am thinking I will call their 800 number next time I get a cold or a yeast infection. They seem to know best and will have all the answers for me, right? I'll make sure to especially describe in detail the yeast infection. And definitely to as many male employees as I can get my hands on.

9. I finally got my Christmas card done. This is WAY late in the year for me. I usually have it done and in-hand before Halloween, and have spent days wringing my hands in anxiety. The Husband has just not been home and we've been waiting on him to do the pictures. Though I did consider photoshopping Hugh Jackman or Mr. Darcy in, I felt it could create too much uncertainty and confusion for the children. Now I can rest easy. And it's going to be spectacularly awesome, if I do say so myself.

9. Yes, I realize I'm crazy. No, I don't care. In truth, it's the rest of you who are crazy. Waiting until after Thanksgiving to think about your Christmas card? Gives me hives. Oh, the horror.

10. A few weeks ago, I got the new iPhone and I have to say that Siri has changed my life. It makes texting and driving so easy. You push the big button on the front, tell it with your mouth who to text and what to say, and bam! your text is sent. No one has to die! I set verbal reminders for myself all day long, then go back to my little checklist and cross them off. You all need to get it. It's brilliant. (For the record, I never texted and drove before.)

11. And that's it! Happy Eleven Eleven Eleven. Send a little prayer up for those who keep this country safe. Also? Pray that I provide you a better blog post next time. This is absolute crap.

I am a but insensitive

2011-11-08T09:31:00.010-06:00

I HATE PINTEREST.

There, I said it. Too late to take it back.

Though I should clarify that statement by also saying that I have yet to even visit the site.

AWKWARD.

The reason for my rage-filled hate for the Pinterest is this post.

And, yes, I realize that it's my very own post, written with my own hand, almost three years ago.

That post is apparently making the rounds on Pinterest. I cannot tell you the volume of emails and comments I am STILL receiving on it. Most of them wonderfully complimentary.

But quite a few of them not so nice.

Take the most recent one, left by our old, cowardly friend, Anonymous:

Well, they're cute but Wampanoag Indians didn't live in tee-pees. They would be great for a lesson on the Plains Indians but not for Thanksgiving. Lumping all tribes and ways of life together is a but culturally insensitive.

I am assuming they meant it was a BIT culturally insensitive. I don't know what a but culturally insensitive is.

Though I am pretty sure my butt is quite offensive in several cultures. Maybe that was what they were saying?

And that is not the worst of them. I received a two-page email a few weeks ago from someone telling me I was promoting racial insensitivity, and that I was basically a racist pig.

In August, I got an email from a woman begging me to stop misinforming the world regarding the housing of the First Americans (as apparently, some don't like to be called Indians now). There were several informative links and if I gave a crap, I'd put them up here and educate the rest of you, too.

(Sorry. I don't give a crap. At least about educating the world on what the ~~Indians~~ First Americans lived in.)

Another kind reader informed me that I had no morals and was foul for using a swear word in that post.

(The dammit word.)

With the Resistance police hounding me night and day in my own home, I hardly need her to tell me I am going to you-know-where.

When I wrote that post THREE FREAKING YEARS ago, I had no idea that I would be offending Indians and prudes alike. I honestly just wanted a cute, edible decoration to put on my table at Thanksgiving.

I have said it before, and I will say it again, I WRITE WHATEVER THE EFF I WANT. If you don't like it, don't read it. And, if you have something crappy to say, have the courage to at least attach your name to it.

So, tell me, decent people of blog land, is there any reason at all that I should go visit Pinterest? Is it chock full of haters and anonymous trolls? Also? Is my butt offensive in your culture? Do you have obscure First American websites you could link for me? Would you like to send me condemnations for my bad language? Am I sarcastic and obnoxious?

Don't answer that.

My lucky day

2011-11-02T19:43:00.007-05:00

A few weeks ago, I went on a little trip across the pond.

Or did I mention it? My trip? Yes?

All right then. Shut up.

While there (and properly following the instructions on my electricity converter, mind you) a slight mishap occurred that involved me and a Chi flat iron.

It broke my heart. (But mostly because it meant I had to walk around London and Paris with bad hair. And how would Darcy, Prince Harry, or Daniel Craig ever be able to fall in love with me?)

Because smooth, straight hair? Slightly important. Unless the Diana Ross ever comes back in style. Then I'm all set.

ANYway, the point of this rambling post is that I had to buy another one. So, first day off the plane, I stampeded my big-haired self into my local Ulta. Hannah came with me because, hello, she's female, and that store is like a magnet for us X chromosomers.

While in the checkout line, the clerk asked if I would like to donate a dollar to breast cancer research.

This happened at the exact moment that Hannah began tugging on my sleeve and ~~whispering~~ asking in a loud voice whether I thought the clerk was a boy or a girl.

The clerk, who was very obviously a boy, was wearing more make up than Cher on her best day in Las Vegas.

In a cheery attempt to distract Hannah and keep the He/She busy, I said that, sure, I'd love to donate to breast cancer. Oh, and what is that lovely thing over there?

I have no doubt that the He/She heard Hannah, and I got out of there as fast as I could.

Fast forward to today. I get a call from Ulta saying that I had won the breast cancer giveaway, which was $600 in free beauty products, and would I mind coming in to pick them up?

Would I mind driving five minutes down the road to claim my free stuff? Heck, I'd have crawled there in my underwear while wearing a crown of mayonnaise on my head. I love that store and spend a fortune on anything promising to make me look 12 again. Now you want to give me a whole bag of it FOR FREE?

Internet, I give you the booty, bounty, and beautiful pile of free stuff from the tragically gorgeous He/She at Ulta:

Shampoos, lip glosses, a blow drier, a curling rod, face creams, hair spray, nail polish, perfume...you name it, I've got it.

Even three pairs of fabulously pink reading glasses.

I'm thinking today HAS to be my day to play the lottery.

Either that, or I should just put everything on my face at once, head over to Ulta, and take a photo with the He/She.

(I'll bet he'd (she'd?) still look better than me. Seriously. Boyfriend rocked the make-up.)

Somebody's singing in our shower

2011-11-01T16:34:00.014-05:00

Yesterday, Hannah walked in the door, paused, and looked up with horror on her face. Instantly, I knew just what her problem was.

"WHAT. IS. THAT?" she asked.

"Oh, that. It's the man upstairs."

"WHY is he doing that?" she inquired, hands held tight over her ears in a vain attempt at protecting herself from the onslaught raining down from above.

Having endured the sound for the past several hours, I had been asking myself the same thing all day long.

What was this audible horror story come to life, you ask?

It's our drywall guy.

Apparently, he really likes the singing. And music from the 60s.

Both at high volume. (And very out of tune.)

This morning, I walked by the boys' room, hoping my presence would serve as a shameful reminder that he was not, in fact, alone in the house. Sadly, I am afraid it had quite the opposite effect.

He looked up at me through dusty glasses, grinned like a bobcat, and said, "Don't you just love Pandora radio?"

I smiled, nodded, and went back down to the basement --the only place in the house where the new soundtrack of my life is slightly muffled.

Frankly, I'd like to stuff that Pandora back into the box where she came from.

And possibly him, too.

My after dinner snack? Tums.

2011-10-31T08:57:00.005-05:00

Tonight is the night mothers everywhere look forward to with dread. Not only do you have to try to keep yourself out of the chocolate, but you have to police your children lest they consume too much and find themselves home from school tomorrow with a belly ache and a bag full of candy.

Which, really, is a never ending cycle of misery for all that plays on repeat for days and days.

Plus, you have to parade your children around the neighborhood, frozen hands shoved in your jacket pockets, and beg the neighbors for yet more candy.

It's my least favorite holiday.

I will be glad once again when it's behind us and I can look forward to the real reason to gorge yourself sick: Thanksgiving.

But my scrooginess won't bring the party down -- we'll celebrate in the usual way: A pumpkin-shaped pizza, chocolate for dessert, and maybe I'll even find the energy to whip up a batch of these.

And, since I'm mean beyond belief, we'll also be taking the oldest boy for an after school appointment to get his braces tightened. Because nothing says I love you more than a Halloween orthodontic visit.

But, today, we wish you a very happy Halloween anyway. From a very cute cowgirl:

And two of the cast members from the television show Psyche.

Can you guess who this one is?

No? A cop with a gun, name tag, and handcuffs doesn't give it away? Combine a surly attitude with this, and maybe you'll have it figured out:

That's right, he's our favorite, Carlton Lassiter. Some of the boys' friends decided to band together and dress up as all the Psyche characters. It was an easy sell. Guns? Handcuffs? Bad attitudes?

Done and done.

Chase was assigned a critical, but lesser known, role. Any guesses?

He's the one cop on the Psyche police force who actually dresses like a cop. (And, yes, he wears shoes. As Chase sometimes does.) Give up?

It's McNabb, whose job is usually to bring in a bag of evidence or stand there looking pretty while holding a gun. Chase is quite thrilled to be him.

Happy Halloween, peeps! Raise your bottle of Tums high tonight!

[And last, but certainly not least, courtesy of our friends at Random dot org, the winner of the Son of a Gun giveaway is Amanda D. Email me your address, sister, and a copy is headed your way.]

At least he doesn't inhale

2011-10-26T16:23:00.007-05:00

Last night we had our church Trunk-or-Treat party.

Which, as many of you know, is basically just 75 kids running around on a sugar high begging for that which they do not need: more candy.

As I watched my friend Beckie (whose son, Jack, is a diabetic) administer his nightly insulin shot, I asked her if we ought to maybe just give every kid that walked by a little dose with the insulin pen.

She thought it was an excellent idea, and a possible way out of ANY and all future church callings.

Instead, we handed out candy and opted NOT to drug other people's children.

I know. We're boring like that.

Today, as I'm trying to control my the kids' consumption of the candy we brought home, McKay introduced me to a middle school phenomenon known as smoking the smarties.

The theory behind it is that you crush up a tube of smarties until they resemble a fine powder, keeping the wrapper intact. Holding the smarties ~~like a joint~~ between your thumb and pointer finger, you open one end of the ~~cigarette~~ candy wrapper and suck some of the powder into your mouth. You then blow it out in a sugary, billowy smoke that, honestly, resembles something far more grown up and sinister than candy.

He tells me the key is to not inhale the smartie smoke, to just take a little bit in before blowing it out again. And that his new goal in life is to be able to make the smoke come out of his nose.

He also claims, "It's not bad for you. And it won't hurt you one bit."

Where have we heard that before, hmmm?

I am thinking that in 20 years, there will be Anti-Smartie campaigns and DARE to Keep Kids Off Smartie parties at school.

Anyone know of a good smartie cessation program out there? It's probably best to wean him now while he's still young and pliable.

You old Son of a Gun

2011-10-25T09:40:00.008-05:00

Whenever I hear people complain about their in-laws, I thank my lucky stars once again for mine. Though I was madly in love with the Husband and could not wait to marry him, I also was madly in love with his family and could not wait to be a part of them. He is one of seven and often jokes that his parents like me better than they like him.

I do not dispute that. I am all kinds of awesome.

But this past year, my mother-in-law was given every writer's dream. She was contacted by her uncle with an idea he had for a western novel. He hired her to write it and breathe life and depth into his characters and story. She worked tirelessly for months to finish the manuscript. On a whim, she submitted it to a publisher, got accepted, and it's been a whirlwind of excitement around here ever since.

In fact, the top of Chase's birthday wish list this year was a copy of Oma's book.

The book is out this month and it's fantastic. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it and could not put it down. Though Oma kept it pretty clean in the event that any grandkids would one day want to pick it up, there is plenty of adventure for the rest of us: saloons, shoot outs, runaways, ladies of the night, and heroes that save the day. Without giving anything anyway, the ending will leave your jaw gaping.

So, to celebrate her big accomplishment, I am going to give one lucky reader a copy of her book. Leave a comment telling me your favorite author and come Thursday morning, I will randomly pick a winner. If you blog about the book and leave me the link, I will put in two entries for you, doubling your chance to win.

This is a great story - fun for people of all ages. Got a dad or grandpa who likes westerns? Enter and you've got a Christmas present all ready to go.

Hurry quick. Contest ends Thursday morning at 8 a.m. central time. And, yes, I will happily ship internationally.

P.S. Should you not win and want to get the book for yourself anyway, here is where you can find it.

We have nothing to fear but....how does that go again?

2011-10-20T15:48:00.006-05:00

The Real Bloody Mary, image via

As I mentioned a few days ago, we are in the middle of The Remodel. Now before any of you hunt off to search for free p0rn, I promise this post will not consist of any before and after photos. I do not intend to give a daily play-by-play of what is happening in my home.

Though I could.

But I'd be the only one left reading this blog inside of two hours, I am sure.

No, this story only relates to The Remodel as it is the reason my children are now sleeping in the basement.

Which, according to them, is evil, dark, spooky, and/or haunted.

It's been a bit of a battle, most especially with Hannah, to get them to willingly fall asleep down there.

You know, in our fully finished, well-lit, not haunted or evil, basement.

Last night, I sat down to watch a little television in the family room in the basement. It was like a moth to the flame - instantly, all three kids were at my side, attempting to snuggle on the couch. They simultaneously all pretended that I was beautiful and began petting me on the head while cooing words of love.

It was like a flash mob of sudden and really weird affection.

~~Not actually minding that much~~ Being a total pushover, I told them they could have 30 minutes with me, and then it was time for bed. We put on an old Seinfeld re-run and settled in for a few laughs together.

In the middle of the show, a commercial came on. For this movie. When the "Bloody Mary" scene appeared (watch at the 57-second mark, if you're very, very brave) they all three crushed me in a vice grip of fear. I peeled their fingers and bodies off me and told them it was just a stupid commercial for a very stupid movie. I explained who Bloody Mary really was and that it was just a superstitious joke about a terrible Queen in British history.

I even went so far as to say her name three times in the mirror, just to show them the stupidity of it all.

Fortunately, she did not appear. That could have been awkward.

But later that night, I was upstairs getting ready to crawl into bed myself. I heard the sniffles before I saw the feet shuffle in sheepishly. His eyes wide with fear, Chase begged to sleep in my room. Eight seconds later, McKay was at his side making the same request. Before I could weigh a judgement, I looked down to find Hannah tucking herself and five stuffed animals into my bed.

With a sigh, I caved again -- threatening that it would only be this one time. After all, the Husband was out of town and it seemed harmless.

And it was.

~~Until Bloody Mary appeared and killed us all.~~ Until about 11:30 p.m., when we were all still WIDE awake. And feeling very, very unhappy.

McKay was coughing.
Hannah was yelling at McKay because he was coughing.
I was yelling at Hannah because she was yelling at McKay.
Chase was apologizing for everyone because he was afraid I'd send them back downstairs to their graves.

It was a disaster.

In hindsight, it might have been better if Mary had appeared.

At 11:30 p.m. on a school night, my children would probably have had less to fear from her.

Hello Newman...

2011-10-18T19:23:00.004-05:00

Remember the old Seinfeld episode with the Bubble Boy?

I kind of feel like I am living it. Only without Jerry, Elaine, and their utter hilarity.

Internets, I am the Bubble Boy.

And it's way less fun than it looked on TV:

The reason for the large bubble is because of the giant hole currently in my family room ceiling.

Never fear - it's all for a good cause. (Otherwise, I'm not sure I could stand the dust.)

We are at the early stages of a massive remodel upstairs. When we bought this home four-and-a-half years ago (has it really been that long? WOW.) it had four bedrooms, a guest bedroom and bath in the basement, and two offices. We quickly converted one of those offices into a bigger family room in the basement.

And by quickly, I mean, the Husband took a sledge hammer and knocked the wall down just minutes after we closed on the house.

We have plenty of room for our family and then some. The bedroom upstairs that we put our boys in also happens to be huge. It's literally as big as the master bedroom. Way too much space for just one kid.

We are of the mindset that if the two boys share a room, ensuring very little privacy, one or more of those boys are less likely to get into any trouble in said room, always fearing that the other could walk in at any moment. It's our hope anyway. So, much to McKay's chagrin, we make them share.

It's worked well for us, doubly so because of the size of their bedroom. This photo doesn't do it justice, as I didn't have a wide enough lens. It's ginormous.

BUT, this has left us with a spare bedroom that has really only been used once -- and that was at Thanksgiving last year when we had three families visiting. It collects dust and, quite frankly, is just one more place for me to vacuum.

With the help of a (very boring and slightly expensive) architect, we drew up plans to make use of that fourth bedroom. We decided to convert half of it into a bathroom for the boys, and the other half into a walk-in closet for Hannah. The current kids bathroom will become Hannah's and will all connect via her bedroom. And the boys' bathroom will now only be accessible through their bedroom.

Eliminating that mad dash in a towel that my children seem to be so fond of.

It's been pretty okay so far - though I say that rather delicately, seeing as how we are only on day two. But our contractor really is fantastic - he has had a crew here from sunup to sundown each day, working like mad. I am extremely impressed thus far. He seems much sharper than our deck guy from last summer. (Did I ever tell you those stories? Remind me. There are some doozies.)

Anyway, take a peek. And enjoy one last look at the classy brass fixtures and faucets. BUH-BYE.

Hannah's room:

The boys' room:

The spare bedroom/new bathroom/new closet:

Chase practicing getting caught unawares in his new shower:

And my favorite moment was the look on Hannah's face when she stepped inside her new closet for the first time. She, clearly, is not at all excited:

I am thrilled, but completely jealous. Her closet might be bigger than mine now.

Je voudrais chocolat viennois...

2011-10-17T16:14:00.005-05:00

Internets, I would like you to meet one of my favorite things about Paris:

Chocolat viennois. My sole source of caffeine after my one and only attempt at drinking coca cola light, a.k.a, the horrible French version of diet coke. It was disgusting and not worth drinking. So, tragically, I was forced to move on to bigger and better things.

I had so many of them that it's no wonder the jeans are fitting a whole lot tighter this week. Yikes.

C'est la vie, right?

Other highlights from the trip included:

* The Eiffel Tower both by day and by night. We stayed about a block from the famous landmark and crossed under her massive steel girth many times. She is as magnificent as she looks in the movies. My favorite view was after dark when she had her lights all turned on.

* Unexpectedly catching mass at Notre Dame. Completely amazing in spite of not understanding a word they said. And the cathedral? UN-FREAKING-BELIEVABLE. So beautiful. So amazing. How did they build such massive perfection without the use of modern tools? Geniuses.

* Walking along the Seine and stopping at little shops.

* The Lock Bridge - you write your name and your lover's name, lock it up on the bridge, and supposedly your love is sealed forever. I was not necessarily excited to pay 15 Euros for a lock, so my love with the Husband remains unsealed. Here's hoping we survive.

* The Louvre. Absolutely fantastic, but way too crowded. My favorite part was eating at Cafe Richlieu which served food from the Angelina's menu. Divine. Especially the dessert.

* Also? Napoleon's dining room is a wee bit fancier than my own. But only slightly. I clearly need to get my gold on.

* Fat Tire Bike Tour through Paris. Amazeballs. Do it if you're ever in a city where they are. Worth. every. penny. Biking on cobblestone streets through the heart of Paris? Nothing like it anywhere else except, well, Paris.

* Fat Tire Bike Tour to Versailles. Slightly scary to put a bike on the subway with 20 other people and their bikes, but so fun. Gorgeous, surreal, and impossibly gaudy. So picturesque to ride around the grounds at Versailles. And definitely a cultural experience to order food at a French farmer's market, as well. Hmm. A food reference again? Are we detecting a theme here?

All in all, it was the trip of a lifetime. I never got tired of Annie, looking at the fabulous architecture, eating all the rich foods, and pretending to understand the language. It was JUST like they tell you it's going to be. It was everything they say and more.

It was magic.

Basking in the glow still

2011-10-12T09:27:00.006-05:00

I am back!

Physically, at least. I feel sick to my stomach with the jet lag and wonder at those who willingly go to bed at 5 a.m. and sleep past noon on a regular basis. My body has no idea what time it is, and I have never been so happy to see my own bed.

But in spite all of that, it was so worth it. It was such a fantastic time. My companion on the trip was the lovely Annie, and we made the most of every minute there. She was my ideal travel partner - flexible, happy, and eager to see it all. We laughed, ate, shopped, and soaked it all in.

First up was London. We had fish & chips. We rode a double-decker bus -- both to combat the jet lag and allow us to see the city while sitting down. Definitely a must when you're halfway across the world and trying desperately to stay awake.

We saw Westminster Abby. We saw Kensington Palace. We went to Les Mis, and cried from the opening song to the finale. (Though I am still trying to forgive Alfie Boe for being sick the night of our tickets. Boo.) It was amazing anyway. The understudy was perfection. Such a moving experience.

We snagged some last minute tickets to see Driving Miss Daisy with Vanessa Redgrave and James Earl Jones. (FABULOUS play. JEJ completely stole the show. We were close enough that I could see his perfect teeth. Such a great smile.)

My favorite London meal was high tea at The Orangery on the grounds of Kensington. It felt so royal, so British -- sitting on a patio, snacking on our finger sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and jam, eating our tarts, and sipping our tea - staring at the beautifully manicured grounds and doing it all just yards from Kensington Palace. Many times I wondered aloud if we were really there. It felt like I was living a movie.

Another highlight was The Tower of London. Having read all the Philipa Gregory books and nurturing a slight obsession with all things Henry VIII, it was surreal to stand in the places where they once did. Standing on a tower walkway, looking down and seeing cars, it felt so wrong and out of place with the ancient magnificence of the Tower. Walking through darkened hallways and windy staircases, you almost forgot what century you were living in. It was fantastic. I could have spent days there.

I had a surprisingly teary-eyed moment at Harrods. Walking through the store, feeling awed by the architecture and beauty, I remembered a silly bucket list that I made when I was about 14. Something I haven't thought about for years. On it were several things you couldn't pay me enough to do now (such as skydiving and bungee jumping), but one of the things I wanted to do was buy something at Harrods in London. The naive little 14-year-old me, who had never yet even been out of her home state, dreamed of what it would be like to travel and see the world. I remembered making the list and my determination to do all of the items on there at some point in my life. It was a sweet moment, indeed, to cross that one off the list. A dream come true, as they say, silly though it may seem.

After drying my tears, smiling at my teenage self and proudly thinking, "I did it! Just for you!" we set out to conquer as much of the city as we could. We shopped. We strolled through Hyde Park. We ate at Byron's. We ate at Jamie's. We collapsed into bed exhausted every night.

We made the most of it.

It was just divine. I am slightly heartbroken that it's over, but am so happy to be home and in the arms of my babies.

Stay tuned for highlights from Paris and the brutality of re-entry which somehow always seems to involve a sick kid.

And I'm off...

2011-10-02T14:15:00.004-05:00

I am heading out the door in just under an hour and my stomach is a nervous ball of butterflies. Last night, I had a meltdown of epic proportions. So much to do, so little time. Panic about leaving my babies for 10 days. Worry that I wouldn't get it all cleaned in time for the mother-in-law to come. Anxiety over all the things that could possibly go wrong.

There was crying. All of it ugly.

Today, with suitcases packed and passport in hand, I can hardly believe I'm really doing this. I stare in awe, and wonder whose fabulous life it is I'm really living.

How many men are there that not only say yes, but encourage the taking of trips to faraway lands? Who gladly work, sacrifice, and move heaven and earth to make dreams a reality? I am beyond blessed to have found one who does. He, who knows the toll this past year has taken on me, and encourages me to leave it all behind. He, who knows the healing power of gifts beyond measure.

He had my heart when all he had to give was his love. He gives me his as he makes my dreams come true.

I love him.

I am forever indebted to him for my every happiness.

Thank you, baby, for the trip of a lifetime. Au revoir!

Twelve + six days

2011-09-29T19:55:00.005-05:00

Dear Chase,

Last Friday, you turned twelve. You have been pretty excited about it and all the milestones that come with turning twelve. I'm left wondering when exactly twelve years came and went. It doesn't seem to be slowing down, either.

You are shooting up right before our eyes, and I am often tempted to measure you at night before you go to sleep. I swear, you are taller every morning. It is killing your big brother that you are taller than him. But you don't make it an issue, you don't rub it in. When people comment on that fact, you just shrug your broad, lanky shoulders and smile. Like it's no big deal.

Would that everyone had a brother as good as you, Chase.

The big excitement of this year is that you are now old enough to get your own gun.

It should not surprise any of us that the gun you picked is a replica of an old gun -- a collector's item -- and not necessarily one we can pick up at the local sporting goods store. It had to be special ordered, purchased through a federally licensed firearms dealer, and brought across state lines with lots of red tape and paperwork. This is pretty typical of you, Chase, as you have always prided yourself on being anything but ordinary.

You are one of a kind.

And we thank god every day for that fact.

This year, you also entered another milestone - that of middle school. It nearly tore my heart in two to watch you saunter so easily to the bus stop with your brother. Watching the two of you walk, the happy banter between you going back and forth, brought back a flood of memories. Memories of the two of you in diapers, playing together - best friends, even then. I can't count the hours spent watching your two heads bent together over a set of legos or sitting exhausted on a park bench, wondering if you'd ever run out of energy.

Which you never did, by the way.

And here you are, taking more independent steps away from me with grace and ease, and growing into a very fine young man in the process.

You are still such a sensitive little soul, and I hope you never lose that. Your kindness for the underdog in every situation has drawn friends to you that others wouldn't have the patience for. You don't mind the quirky kids, the ones with the special needs. In fact, you are so good at looking beyond their limitations and only see the best in them.

Quite frankly, you see the best in everyone.

Your quest for knowledge is as alive as ever. Gone are the days where you need anyone's help to satisfy your thirst for information. Quite often, it's me asking you about something, and without fail, you are always spot on with the right answer. Your brain is a sponge, kid.

And I have no doubt that should we ever find ourselves in a survival situation, I will live through it because of you.

Chase, your heart is pure gold. You love unconditionally and without guile. You draw others in and love them wholly.

There is nothing I love more than your lone dimple in a big smile - it lights up my world. You are so special and you have taught me more about kindness than anyone else ever could. You make me a better mom. You make me want to be worthy of the trust god placed in me when he made you mine.

I love you, kid. Happy twelfth birthday.

Love,

Mama

Calling all Europhiles

2011-09-27T19:16:00.005-05:00

Holy flip.

(Those are the closest things to swear words I'm allowed to say since I've been let in the Resistance. Did I tell you she finally let me in? Greatest day of my life. Tragically, I'll probably get a ticket for writing them here though. Totally worth it.)

I did not realize it has been almost two weeks since I posted here, with the exception of my complaints last Friday against the morons at Photobucket.

Sheesh. How is that possible? I was thinking maybe three days, five at most. I had no idea it has been almost FOURTEEN.

This should give you a little insight into my present state of mind right now. I am swimming. I have never been so busy in my entire life. My little business is booming, and it's something that makes me so very happy. Family sessions, newborns, senior portraits, and a wedding this week. But it leaves me very little free time for blog reading or blog writing. Or nap taking, for that matter.

I've got to remedy this. Somehow.

The other major time-suck right now is a little trip I'm getting ready to go on. Excuse me while I scream in excitement yet again.

Squeeeeeeee!

There. All better. I'm getting ready in about five days to board a plane with one of my favorite people and take a little hop across the pond to London and Paris. Where we will indulge my fantasy of a night with Alfie Boe singing his heart out in this, and possibly convince Prince Harry to fall madly in love with me. Which will be tragic, as I will have to break his heart since I am married to a man wonderful enough to send me on this fantasy vacation in the first place. But I'll probably wait to break the news to Harry until after he's showered me with a few of the crown jewels. As he will be wont to do, I am sure.

But the point, dear internets, is that I am up to my elbows in cleaning, shopping, editing, mothering, and cleaning all in preparation for the trip of a lifetime. I've got a mother-in-law coming to stay, and ain't no way is she getting a peek at my cupboards in their current state.

So, indulge me while I'm scouring sinks and drawers and tell me your favorite things to do in London and Paris. Must-eats, must-sees, and everything in between. I've never been and need to know all the best spots. What would you recommend?

And in the meantime, I'll try and carve out a little time and share some of the less-exciting, but still worthwhile, things that have been happening around here.

Umm...what?

2011-09-23T09:10:00.005-05:00

I. HATE. THE. PHOTOBUCKET.

Apparently, I have exceeded my bandwidth so my account is suspended. When I went to upgrade to pro which gives you unlimited bandwidth? They told me I cannot until I cancel my previous subscription. Which they won't let me do for reasons unknown to me.

These are things that might have been nice to be told, I don't know, YESTERDAY.

Morons.

I have emails into their customer service. They best be fixing it soon. Or I might be killing them.

Doing my best to fix the look of this hideousness soon. Hang in there.

In the meantime: Send chocolate and diet coke immediately.

Testing my patience

2011-09-14T15:49:00.004-05:00

Today's lesson in the culinary arts comes from Chase.

When you want to make a shake after a long, hard day at school, it is wise to remember one thing before starting:

Make sure the bottom is put on the blender BEFORE you pour the #!@$ milk and it runs all over the counter and floor.

Also of note: The blender is hereby off-limits to sixth grade boys pending further notice.

Adorable new smiles notwithstanding.

Telephones and toilets don't mix

2011-09-13T13:14:00.003-05:00

Last week, I was on the phone with a teacher from Hannah's school.

See, Hannah has recently started going one day a week to a creative learning campus* and the adjustment has been a bit of a struggle. She feels lost, is frequently in tears, and is begging to return to her home school.

I have worried and wrung my hands about how to help her. I feel that to let her quit something after such a short time goes against everything I am trying to teach her about commitment and endurance.

When she faked sick last Friday to try and get out of going, and my tears mirrored her own, I decided it was time to ask for help. I made calls and sent emails to the school counselor, as well as her morning and afternoon teachers.

One of the teachers eventually found a few minutes in her busy day to return my call. As we chatted, I shared with her the struggles that Hannah has been having. I found myself pouring out my anxiety and worries quite tearfully over the phone. I begged and pleaded for her wisdom as an educator to help me help my child.

And then, over the phone I heard --

-- the distinct and disgusting sound of a flush.

Followed shortly thereafter by the sound of running water.

And the unmistakable crank of a paper towel dispenser.

Her 'mmm-hmmms' suddenly seemed a little less attentive than I thought they were.

I was horrified and repulsed. She could not take two minutes to go to the bathroom BEFORE calling me back? She couldn't mute her phone? The fact that I was crying and pouring out my soul to her while she sat on a toilet did nothing to reassure me that my daughter was in good hands.

Albeit, very clean post-toileting hands.

I must beg the question of you, dear internets -- have you ever made a call whilst on the pearly white throne? Do you flush and dial? Are you a pee talker?

I. am. not.

And I'll try not to judge those of you who are.

*Hannah begged and begged all last year to be tested for admittance into our district's Center for Creative Learning. I finally acquiesced, she was admitted this year, and absolutely hates it. In spite of the phone/toilet interaction, we have come up with some good strategies to help her and she is feeling better about it. I, however, will likely be scarred for life.

Remembering

2011-09-11T05:21:00.006-05:00

This morning, my husband will pack a suitcase and get on a plane.

I am more than a bit mindful of the irony.

You see, ten years ago today, he innocently boarded a similar flight. It was a crisp, fall day then. It is a crisp, fall day now. His mind that day was undoubtedly on the meetings ahead; not on the horror that would follow.

Today, as he looks around the terminal at his fellow passengers, I can't help but wonder if the thoughts are running through his head. Who among them has a heart full of hate? Who has children? Who is all alone? Who will never get to mend fences with loved ones or say goodbye? Who will not live to make it back home?

My fervent prayer is that those questions will not be answered. Today or any day in the future.

The days following the terror attacks ten years ago were surreal. Where we lived, normally reserved and crusty New Englanders stopped and hugged strangers on the street. Petty troubles were forgotten, crime virtually disappeared.

It felt as though we had a unified purpose. We became one people, with one heart. We were a nation under attack, and we refused to let the terror win. We rallied around political leaders, regardless of our preferred party. We took the time to call family and make sure they were okay. For once, we didn't mind waiting in line at the store or the traffic light. We found patience for our children. We clasped hands with strangers and prayed together. We felt our hearts ache for those less fortunate.

In short, we were exactly as we should be.

I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to see my country at its best. My children have never seen this firsthand, and I pray it doesn't take another horrific act of violence to bring it about again. Please take today, and remember what it felt like in those few weeks following 9-11. Remember the pride you felt for your country and your people. Remember the love you had for your fellow man and forgive those who have hurt you. Be kind to strangers and refrain from judging others. Be patient and thoughtful. Help those in need.

Live just a little bit better.

BE just a little bit better.

And, please, don't ever forget.

A five-thousand dollar smile

2011-09-09T14:51:00.005-05:00

Today was a very big day in the Chase world. Probably the biggest he's known so far. I'll let his note do the talking:

It says:

Dear Siblings:
I am down stairs with my bran-new smile. Mom got me a cake and this. Please come see me.

Chase

P.S. Eat my goody bag*
P.P.S. MP are 40 tokens**

In case the full-sugar soda and "bran-new smile" don't clue you in, he got his braces off today. He about broke the dentist chair with happy feet when they told him the good news.

I doubt his brace-face brother will feel the same joy.

Here's hoping the cake at least cheers him up.

* The orthodontist handed him a gigantic goody bag full of all the treats he has been unable to eat for the last 18 months. Seemed contrary to good oral hygiene practices, but seeing as I ate a few things out of it myself, who am I to complain?

** The orthodontist also has been giving them tokens every visit and he and McKay have their eye on something Xbox related that is called MP. I have no clue.

What I really meant to say was...

2011-09-06T08:21:00.007-05:00

This morning, both my boys got up with their alarm clocks.

And by alarm clocks, I mean me tramping down the hall and telling them to get up.

They proceeded to cheerfully shower and get ready for school.

And by cheerfully, I mean fight about who had to take a shower first.

After much negotiation, they finally both had showers, and headed downstairs to quietly make themselves some breakfast.

And by quietly, I mean wake-the-dead-loud.

McKay is in a smoothie phase right now, and there's nothing I love more than hearing the blender crunch up ice at six in the morning.

And by love, I mean hate.

I hugged them both, handed out lunches, and waved as they went out the door. Then I promptly began to exercise.

And by exercise, I mean crawl back into bed and fall asleep.

An hour later, it was time to rouse the little Hannah. She woke up in her usual cheerful way.

And by cheerful, I mean hate-the-world-grumpy.

She quietly ate her breakfast while I made her lunch. She then calmly styled her hair and got dressed.

And by calmly, I mean with many tears. Her hair was "too fuzzy" (her words) to do anything with today. There might have been some silent cursing on her part.

And by silent, I mean slamming of doors and loud sighing.

I dried her tears, fixed her hair, and dropped her off at school with a bit of melancholy in my heart for the loss of her company.

And by melancholy, I mean joy.

I then plotted out my day and began my work ahead.

And by work, I do mean climbing back into bed yet again and ignoring it all.

Having the want to serve

2011-09-01T17:57:00.007-05:00

This afternoon, my boys came begging to have a lemonade stand. Seeing as how we had zero lemons in the house, and I had zero desire to drive and buy the aforementioned lemons, that business idea fell flat on its lemony face.

Next they wanted to have a bakery.

Tragically, it was a half hour before dinner time. And since I am ~~a complete OCD freak~~ an organized household coordinator, I nipped that one in the bud, too.

You know.

Seeing as how treats take at least a half hour to bake, another half to cool, and a third half for me to stop eating them long enough for the kids to sell them to the maybe one person who would be wandering our street at that hour. Our neighborhood? Del Boca Vista. Everyone is sound asleep in bed around here by five o'clock.

Hearts heavy, and all the business acumen nearly drained from their souls, they thought of a third potential business venture.

Internet, I give you the Fall & Leaves Co. Which is apparently very strong in religious acts.

Interesting question to ponder (aside from how one goes about becoming very strong in religious acts) is exactly where the business plans to acquire two leaf blowers, a dozen rakes, and hundreds of leaf bags. Because I'm pretty sure that I own none of those things.

Seeing as how our neighborhood does most of our lawn care for us and all.

Details. Getting in the way of budding entrepreneurs every day.

She won't answer you; she's a bobcat

2011-08-31T20:23:00.008-05:00

Oh, little neglected blog. Will I ever make you a priority again?

Here's hoping.

I have the best of intentions. What I lack lately is time.

Every day when the Husband calls at about four -- smack dab in the middle of the witching hour, mind you -- he asks what I did that day. And every day, for the past three weeks, I have boringly said, "Work."

Oh lazy days of novels, workouts, lunches, and movies, where have you gone?

Work is a good thing. Being so busy your head spins is a blessing when you're a self-employed photographer. This week alone, I've got five sessions. FIVE! Can you believe it? I'm literally booked solid until the end of October. It's insane.

But mama's got a new set of lights to ~~pay for~~ not feel guilty about, so the work is coming in handy.

And in lieu of anything remotely interesting, funny, or entertaining out of my psyche, I give you the genius that is Christopher Walken and SNL.

You're welcome.

My face, the math lesson

2011-08-28T19:32:00.003-05:00

Today at church, I noticed Hannah staring at me out of the corner of my eye. At first I ignored it, as she is sometimes fond of counting my freckles.

Which, by the way, is great practice for her to learn counting into the hundreds of thousands. The freckles and I are just doing our part to help with the math skills, you know. We're generous that way.

When she eyeballed me longer than normal, I turned to her and asked her what she was staring at. She crinkled up her little nose and said, "Mama, you have these weird bumps all over your face."

I immediately reached up and began to brush at my cheeks, trying to wipe the offending bumps away. Thinking it was merely makeup gone awry, I asked her if that better.

She stared for a minute more, then said, "Oh, nevermind. It's just your wrinkles."

Great.

At least maybe counting the freckle to wrinkle ratio will help with her fraction skills.

I'll never say no to you, whatever you say or do...

2011-08-25T17:00:00.005-05:00

Internets, I married a good man.

A man who doesn't hesitate to say yes. A man who supports me in whatever I do. A man who selflessly gives time and time again.

And recently, when I mentioned my desire to [someday] get this, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and told me I should get it.

I don't have to be told twice.

And now, as a result, my basement currently looks like this:

Not everyone is as excited as me. Clearly.

And some of us are a little TOO excited for my taste:

While others of us will use any excuse to throw their brother into a wickedly awesome headlock:

Though ultimately, with promises of chocolate chip cookies, I eventually get something closer to what I'm looking for:

And even though I have ~~some idea~~ no clue what I am doing, I think it's going to be a whole lot of fun figuring it out.

P.S. Anyone know the name of the movie that the title comes from? Hint: It's a musical. And a good one at that.

A letter to my son

2011-08-22T11:46:00.004-05:00

Dear Chase,

Please consider yourself very fortunate that you inherited genetics which would assemble in such a way as to provide you with a ridiculously cute face.

Were it not for that, my darling son, I do believe at this very minute you might not be alive.

You see, Chase, your Mama saved all her bad TV watching until such time as you were back in school. Not wanting to take away precious time spent with you this summer, Mama selflessly gave up her Bravo Housewives, her TLC Sister Wives, and her I'm-Really-Too-Crazy-To-Be-Believed-Jeff Lewis.

And this week, after you went back to school, Mama sat down to edit pictures with her beloved trash TV in the background. What Mama discovered was, tragically, that the DVR was full.

And not full of the trashy TV Mama likes, either.

IT WAS CHOCK-FULL OF THE SHARK WEEK.

Rest assured that the scream heard 'round the world at approximately ten thirty a.m. last Wednesday was me. And while I am proud as punch of your quest for knowledge, I must question the need for all 900 hours of shark-related television programming. Surely four or five hours would have sufficed?

Know this, sweet boy, should you ever entertain the idea of deleting ANY of Mama's shows from the DVR again, you will most certainly not make it to your next birthday.

And since I know how fond you are of birthdays in general, I suggest not touching the Mama's DVR.

All my love,

Mama

P.S. Please also remember to wear the deodorant. I hear sharks are attracted to B.O.

Mama's melancholy smile

2011-08-17T20:37:00.005-05:00

The morning started smooth and easy, a familiarity to the long-forgotten routine of showers, lunches, and backpacks. It was maybe an exceptional morning in that they were served a hot breakfast, instead of fending for themselves with the cold cereal and the eggo waffles.

They seemed so comfortable with what lay ahead. No nervous chatter. No endless questions. Their serene state and happy attitudes filled the air like a thick, warm blanket.

Yes, they both answered for the fourth time, they had everything.

The oldest boy politely inquired about exactly where the first-day photos would be taken. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed and slightly worried that he'd hurt his mama's feelings. Knowing the bus stop has been off limits for several years now, she reassured him that all the photos would be taken from afar.

The boys laughed at each other, and hugged their mama tight. Glancing nervously around to be sure there were no witnesses, they posed for the obligatory photos outside.

They turned without another thought and walked to the bus stop, chatting together.

Their mama's heart broke just a little bit.

One boy forgot his schedule and came tearing home to get it with a sheepish grin on his face. His mama laughed and told him to hurry, shaking her head in just that way mamas do when they know they were right.

And then, the big, yellow bus came and took them away. As it seems to do with increasing frequency every year.

The little girl was surprisingly easy to rouse from her sleep. In spite of her pleas to be home schooled forever, she was ushered downstairs and fed a hot breakfast of her own. She moaned and complained, worrying needlessly about lunch table assignments. She debated out loud about various hair styles for the day. She happily slipped into her new clothes.

She sat on the driveway waiting for the bus, not afraid to take the pictures with her mama. She posed in several spots and offered suggestions for the best angles. Her mama smiled, hugged her, and laughed at the little girl who seems to know it all.

They talked for a few minutes, and then in the distance, a familiar rumbling was heard. The squeaky brakes left no doubt that her turn was soon upon them.

She hugged her mama one last time, put on her very best smile, and climbed aboard.

With summer freckles on their noses, excitement in their toes, and melancholy in their mama's heart, they begin another year.

Back from the dead, baby

2011-08-14T22:02:00.002-05:00

Oh, the fun we have been having around here.

And out west, as evidenced by one of the mere handful of photos I took on our two-week vacation to the Beehive State. It's shameful, I know. But sometimes you just gotta take a break from documenting life to live it. We did a bike tour in Moab. It was hands-down, one of the funnest things we've ever done. (Unless your name is Hannah. Then it's one of the worst. Girlfriend was terrified and exhausted the entire time.)

All in all, this has been a surprisingly fantastic summer. Giving myself permission to unplug was one of the best things I could have done for myself. My focus every day was on the three little people that walk around here calling me Mama. There were late night movies in my big bed. Hours logged at the pool with friends. Chocolate chip cookie dough. Lazy mornings. Ice-cold popsicles. Visits from favorite cousins. Photo shoots. It's been glorious.

But it's time to reconnect and start blogging again. I've really missed it.

Also? School starts in three days. And I am in serious mourning.

But exciting things are happening around here that I can't wait to show you.

Give me a day or two, will you?

I'm coming back, baby.

One for the grandparents

2011-07-21T17:53:00.003-05:00

What do you do when it's 104 degrees outside WITHOUT the humidity heat index? When the pool feels like warm bath water and you've already been to see two movies?

Answer? You clean up your three babies, make promises of ice cream, head to your favorite greenhouse, and snap a few pictures. That's what you do.

Then you sit down to edit and cry when you realize they are just not babies any more.

The power of prayer

2011-07-13T11:25:00.004-05:00

Image via

This week, some friends and I threw a bridal shower for the daughter of another friend. Monday night, we got together at my house to make the party favors.

We laughed, we talked, we got it done.

The next morning, I received a call from one of my friends asking if she had left her rings behind. I hadn't noticed them, but searched the kitchen and living rooms to no avail. A few hours went by, a few more frantic calls, and I searched again.

What she was missing was her gorgeous diamond wedding ring (in and of itself a hugely valuable treasure), and a diamond ring that had been her grandmother's. One, mind you, that she had just been given at her mother's death a few weeks before.

I was sick. She was sick. I gladly went through disgusting trash bags and looked in every nook and cranny I could think of. Still no rings.

All day yesterday, I worried and fretted about them. I was devastated at the possibility that these beautiful treasures would be lost. The monetary value alone was enough to make one weep, but the sentimental value was irreplaceable.

And last night as I slept, I had a dream. In this dream, something came to my mind and I knew exactly where the rings were. I sat bolt upright in bed and instantly knew that she had slipped them off while we were working and put them in the pocket of the apron she had been wearing.

Baffled, I laid back down and went to sleep. After all, there were no pockets on that apron that I knew of. I figured my mind was reaching for any solution to this problem.

But when I woke up this morning, I felt compelled to at least check. I rifled through the laundry basket in the mud room where I had tossed our dirty aprons Monday night.

And lo and behold, tucked safely in the pocket of the apron, were the rings.

I immediately called my friend and felt her relief and joy reach out through the phone. She had spent the last few days tearing her own house apart, searching her yard, retracing every step. Heartsick, she prayed fervently to find them. She hoped that her sweet mother would whisper from heaven and help lead her to the rings.

I truly believe that her prayers came true.

I am in awe at the turn of events. It was not simply a matter of our continued searching that led us to the rings. It was not even dumb luck. I was told specifically in a dream where to find the rings, and they were in a place I didn't even know existed.

It was a tender mercy from our Heavenly Father, I have no doubt about that.

It reinforces to me that our prayers, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, are heard and answered.

And I just wanted to share this story in the event that you, like me, sometimes need a reminder of that.

Note to self

2011-07-06T15:08:00.002-05:00

Dear Self:

Next year, on the Fourth of July, when you get giddy and excited about taking pictures of the fireworks, remember this: NO ONE NEEDS 387 PHOTOS OF FIREWORKS.

[Especially someone who already has four times that number of fireworks photos taking up space on the server from the last few years anyway.]

Oh well. They still look wicked awesome though, don't they?

And for your 387 fireworks photos next year:
ISO 100
f/10
2 second exposure on the bulb setting

Realizing fully how annoying this post will be to everyone but me

2011-07-05T17:18:00.003-05:00

I am desperately trying to get caught up around here. Step one in that process has been uploading the nine million photos I took on our little trip to the west coast. Step two (which seems to take hours) is editing, narrowing down, and posting them here for ~~your~~ my viewing pleasure.

The Husband works for a consulting firm which has a family retreat every year. Though I joke with him that it is ofttimes like The Firm, it truly is a great place to work. The family conferences are held in a different city each year, and the amenities are always ridiculously lavish. This year, the San Diego conference was no different.

Internet, feel very sorry for me.

We stayed in a two-bedroom, two-bath suite that quite literally was on the beach. I fell asleep every night to the sound of the waves lapping up on the sand. I sat on a beach chair every day and watched my babies exhaust themselves with sunshine, laughter, and togetherness.

It was heaven.

And for the sake of grandparents and posterity, I leave you with a few photos of our time there. Keep in mind, that I could have taken these same photos every single day, as our life was on a recurring loop of wake up, play at the beach, fall asleep, repeat.

With maybe a few meals and a sea kayak expedition thrown in between for good measure.

It pained my heart more than a little bit to board the plane and return home to my beach-less existence here in Missouri.

It seems totally unfair to get a taste of paradise, only to have to leave it again.

Probably almost as unfair as, say, posting obnoxiously about your beach vacation to the internet?

(Touche, Stie. Touche.)

The one where I return and report

2011-06-29T10:40:00.004-05:00

Hi all.

Didn't mean to drop a bomb like that on you and then disappear for over a week. Sorry 'bout that.

The Dan update is this: Surgery went well, though it was hours and hours of an agonizing wait. Took way longer than it was supposed to.

They were able to remove the entire tumor without removing his kidney, but it did turn out to be cancer. He is doing great and will see the doctor next week to find out more. We are not sure what the next steps will be (if any). We are furiously hoping that the tumor removal is the end of this saga for him (with the exception of those body scans and blood tests he'll probably have to endure every six months or so). Fingers crossed that there will be no chemo or radiation.

Thanks a million for your thoughts and prayers. Daniel has no idea how many strangers out there were pulling for him. You peeps rock.

Me? I returned last night in the wee hours from a gorgeous, ridiculously lavish vacation with the family. My laptop died on the plane ride out (literally. Won't turn on. Any ideas, anyone?), and as soon as I am finished washing the sand from our laundry, I will upload the millions of photos I took and make you feel extremely jealous of how I spent the last six days.

Plus? I've got my favorite person ever coming to visit this weekend, and I can hardly wait.

Now I KNOW I've made you jealous.

Be back soon. Promise.

I love him anyway

2011-06-20T20:16:00.007-05:00

Hi internet. How are you?

I am still here, and have missed you thoroughly. I have been busy with some of my favorite house guests, father's day and the Husband's birthday (all in one week), summer, gearing up for a vacation, and eight photo shoots in two weeks.

I'm exhausted.

But that is not what I am here to share today.

I am breaking radio silence to thoroughly embarrass and humiliate my brother Dan.

Dan is known by many of you here as the commenter who speaks his mind in a hilarious, if not slightly insulting, way. I can always count on him for a dose of reality and a good laugh. Usually at my own expense.

But what you don't know about him is that he is a father to four beautiful children and husband to a gorgeous, thoughtful wife. He is the dad who gets on the floor and plays trains with his boys. He has attended more of his daughter's tea parties than most men would have the patience for. He changes diapers and does the dishes.

He always has my favorite snacks and drinks on hand whenever I come to town - even though no one in his house ever consumes either. On those visits, he stays up until the wee hours of the morning, listening to me, making me laugh, and sharing stories of his own, then cheerfully gets up for work with only a few hours of sleep.

Sometimes he even calls me on his way home from work for a quick chat. Just because. And I love him dearly for it.

He is one of my best friends.

And right now, he is the one in need of some extra help.

A few weeks ago, doctors discovered a tumor on his kidney that is most likely cancer. He's going under the knife tomorrow to get it removed. I absolutely believe in the power of prayer, and I am asking you, dear friends, to add him to yours.

The risk is great that he could lose the kidney entirely.

I gladly offered to donate one of mine, but he doesn't think it'll come to that. I was slightly disappointed because I imagined the lifelong joy I would derive at the thought of one of my organs socializing and infecting the rest of his with my cooties. When I said that to him, he quickly put me way down on the list of donors. Right after the water-logged carcass of Osama bin Laden, I'm sure. Darn.

Anyway, if you think of it, your prayers on his behalf would be greatly appreciated. The power of a collective voice to our Heavenly Father is one that can work miracles. And that's just what we're in need of.

Though I know this post will annoy him to no end, I think that makes it all the more worthwhile, don't you?

Love ya, brother. Get better quick so I can come out there and kick your trash.

The one in which I have failed to train him properly for his future wife

2011-06-08T09:15:00.005-05:00

The other night, I was in my bathroom washing the make-up off my face. McKay came in and a conversation ensued that went a little something like this:

McKay: "What are you doing?"

Me: "Washing my make-up off."

McKay: "Do you even wear make-up?"

Me: "Um, yeah. I wear a lot."

McKay: "I don't like it when girls wear a lot of make-up. You should just be natural. It would look better. Don't wear it anymore."

I finished washing and showed him the horror that is me au naturale. He wrinkled up his nose, made a face, and said:

"Um, never mind. I think you should wear some. Maybe even a lot."

Making it count

2011-06-07T08:34:00.004-05:00

"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life,
To put to rout all that was not life
and not when I had come to die
Discover that I had not lived."

~Henry David Thoreau

We are doing our best around here to suck all the marrow out of life.

I look at my three babies, one of whom is only a year away from high school, and my chest tightens into a ball of emotion. I feel compelled this year to make every moment count. To not waste one minute of this summer, this life. The life that seems to be slipping through my fingers like soft, white sand.

I find myself letting things go that would normally be screaming for - and receiving - my full attention. My conscience won't allow me to keep them in for something so trivial as organizing the closets. The house, for the most part, is sitting untouched - dishes are loaded and floors are swept - and that is about it. We have been soaking up the sunshine, swimming through muddy creek beds, racing together down the big slides at the pool, and laughing about all of it over melting ice cream cones.

The poem that I have often rolled my eyes at is running through my head on repeat because it's true -- babies don't keep. And cobwebs do indeed sleep.

Or at the very least wait for another day.

I feel like this summer should be the one that they remember because they played so hard, laughed so much, and smiled until it hurt. I want them to drop into bed exhausted every night, their freckled noses crinkling with silly giggles. Eyelids heavy, hearts full.

This summer will be the one we played together every day.

So, dear friends, you will understand if I suspend some of the regularly scheduled blogging around here for the summer. Posting will be spotty, but there when I can. Rest assured, come August, I will return with stories and How-To's galore.

But for now, I am not going to miss this summer. I am not going to miss them. They are growing before my very eyes and I am afraid that in a blink it will all be over.

I am going to suck the marrow out of this gloriously wonderful life I've been given.

After all, we only get one.

Here's to making it count.

The one where we brag for the grandparents

2011-06-02T10:28:00.005-05:00

In 2004, I ran my first (and last) marathon.

I trained for months, read Runners World faithfully, and talked about running ad nauseam to anyone who would pretend to listen.

I ~~pretended~~ thought I knew a lot about running.

Fast forward to four years ago when we moved here and I met my friend Mindy. While humble and quiet about it, she knows all there is to know about the sport of running. She has trained elite athletes and coaches. She has run umpteen marathons. Her personal record for the mile? Has a very, very small number in front of it. She'd never tell you that herself, but girlfriend is hard core.

Chase has discovered this past year that he is a runner. He loves it and has been putting the miles on his shoes. He went from running the mile at school a year ago in 12 minutes to running it in 6:56 this year. He's thrilled and continues to push himself.

So when Mindy told us about a kids track club, we were all over it. And last night, they had their very first meet. It was a mile run, and nerves were running rampant.

And that was just the moms.

Here is Chase in the pack as they cross the starting line:

It was not long before we saw Mindy's son Nick leading the pack. Setting a new personal best and winning the kids event, here is Nick crossing the finish line:

Yes. That is a FIVE-TWENTY-NINE for his time.

I am not sure I can walk into the grocery store from the parking lot in 5:29. The kid has lightening for feet.

While we are awaiting chip time results officially, we believe Chase broke his personal best for a finish time of 6:55 (or faster. Hurry up. Post the results, will you?)

And, yes, he finished with that Chasey flair we have come to expect:

Not long after that came Nick's eight-year-old sister, Olivia. Me thinks this little one will be taking after her mama, too. I am not sure I could do a sub-eight-minute mile.

Unless I had a bike. Even then, that might be pushing it.

All three of our little runners, smiles and happiness to be done:

It was a really fun event. Especially exciting was watching the elite men run a mile in, oh, I don't know, THREE-MINUTES-FIFTY-SIX-SECONDS.

Seriously.

I bow at the throne of running.

Uh, oops

2011-06-01T08:16:00.002-05:00

The holiday on Monday kind of messed me up.

I walked around all day yesterday thinking it was Monday.

My obliviousness continued as I was sitting poolside with the kids, sunning, and congratulating myself on having such a fine, carefree life.

At about three-thirty, I glanced at the calendar on my phone and realized my mistake. A mere half hour before Hannah had a mandatory rehearsal for her dance recital. And an hour before Chase had track practice. And an hour and a half before McKay had baseball.

Needless to say, there was a little bit of cursing.

And a lot of scrambling.

Thankfully, we made it to all three, in large part due to some awesome friends who had left messages offering to carpool. Mindy and Beckie, I owe you one. You girls are the best, and you totally saved my hide.

It was a crazy few hours yesterday.

And so I offer my apologies to you How-To Tuesday devotees. Those of you who put your posts up, patiently waiting for me, the blog host who never showed up to her own party.

I'll try to get my act together a little better next time.

Share with us your wisdom anyway, won't you?

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I think their faces say it all

2011-05-27T16:25:00.004-05:00

Here's to:

No more tornadoes
sleeping in
fun vacations
lazy warm afternoons at the pool
sunshine
freckles
ice cold diet cokes
and the inevitable, interminable humidity.

Welcome back, summer. We've missed you, sister.

Shamelessly promoting myself

2011-05-25T09:24:00.003-05:00

Just a quick note:

Go take a peek at the fun things happening here.

I must tell you though: You may want more babies once you get there.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

As you were.

How-To Tuesday: How to clean your microwave

2011-05-24T07:28:00.003-05:00

image via

Today's post comes to you courtesy of my children and their inability to cover things when heating them up in the microwave.

You know that popping sound you hear when heating up leftover pizza? It seriously sends terror and chills down my spine.

Sort of like that scene in Sleeping With the Enemy when Julia Roberts' character hears the Symphonie Fantastique and just knows that she has been found by her brute of a husband and is about to be killed.

Yeah. Cheese exploding in the microwave does the same thing to me.

And since I figured out a solution that was better than death to the children, I will share it with you here. So that your children may also live to see another day.

Step one: Microwave some water in a cup for 3-4 minutes. More if your microwave is ~~like mine~~ especially disgusting.

Step two: Let it sit without opening the microwave door for 2-3 minutes. Choosing to spend this time lecturing your children on the importance of paper towels over plates they heat up might be a good idea.

Step three: Open the microwave, and wipe it down. You'll find the melted food comes right off.

Step four: Lecture the children one more time in the vain hope that this time it will sink in. Then find a strange desire to re-watch Sleeping With the Enemy.

Your turn. What you got this week?

The Resistance

2011-05-21T11:22:00.008-05:00

Have you heard? The world is going to end tonight. The righteous will be taken up to heaven, while the rest of us will be left here to burn with the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bernie Madoff.

Exciting.

I have every confidence that I will NOT be taken up to heaven with the righteous, as my sins are quite grievous. Just ask Hannah. She reminds me of them daily.

In fact, she started a club in our family a few weeks ago which she named The Resistance. There were only two in our family worthy enough to be granted admission into The Resistance - herself and the Husband.

They had many secret meetings in which a charter was offically drafted. Rules were made and promises of loyalty were said, the breaking of which would result in death and chastisement from Hannah (a fate probably worse than death).

The rules of The Resistance are this:

1. No swearing EVER.
2. No use of substitute curse words (like frick, eff, beyotch, and crap)
3. You can like Lady Gaga's songs, but not her personality or her clothes
4. No eating any food from McDonald's (especially diet cokes)
5. No repeating words or lingo from the old tv show Battlestar Galactica
6. No wearing of immodest clothes

Since I am pretty much guilty of at least four of the six cardinal sins of The Resistance, there is little chance for my salvation. And as the boys are guilty of violating rule number five on a daily basis, that leaves them behind for the burning, too.

Instead of crying repentance and begging her forgiveness, I'm stocking up on ice, diet coke, People magazine, and preparing myself for the worst. While I don't think it will be entirely pleasant to sit in a burning pit of fiery damnation for all eternity, I kind of picture it won't be all that different from Missouri in July.

In a way, I think eternal damnation for me will be quite familiar and homey.

Nice.

Poison ivy is the devil incarnate [Updated]

2011-05-19T11:24:00.007-05:00

Right now, both of my boys have a wicked case of poison ivy.

Funny how army crawling on your belly through the backyard woods will do that to a person.

A trip to the doctor resulted in prednisone and some steroid cream, though tragically not the kind of steroids they were hoping and dreaming of.

Chase is a few weeks ahead of McKay in the healing process, and finally seems to be clearing up. McKay, tragically, is not there yet. The worst of it is on his face and neck. It's hideous and all I can do to keep his scratchy fingers away from it. I keep saying words to him like permanent disfigurement and scars, but sadly, to no avail. The boy likes himself the scratching.

But that is not the problem I'm ~~whining~~ writing about here today.

The problem, my friends, is the prednisone. And its disgusting, nasty, two-seconds-on-the-tongue-feel-like-twenty-to-my-boy-with-the-ridiculously-sensitive-gag-reflex. The first time McKay took the pills, he threw them back up before he'd even swallowed.

And let me tell you what a treat that was.

Especially the part where he walked the LONG way around the kitchen island, barfing into his hands as he went, to finally find his way into the bathroom and finish up there. (Jessica, we need that training video, stat!)

Seriously.

But I digress. My question for you wise internets is this: Is there a way to get those suckers down his gullet without him gagging and puking every time? Any tricks you've tried that helped your sensitive gag reflex kids?

Because yelling at him to not throw up just isn't working.

Please help.

I am well past the stage as a parent where I can nicely clean up after him in a case like this.

Also? In related news, my mother of the year banquet is tonight. I'm really excited.

[[**Edited to add: He normally has NO trouble taking pills. Takes his allergy medicine every night without any problems. I think the prednisone has a terrible taste that just simply makes him gag the minute it hits his tongue. Any helps on that end, oh wise internet?

Just wanted to clarify that my 13-year-old is very capable of taking pills.

As you were.]]

How-To Tuesday: How to save your hair from utter destruction

2011-05-17T07:54:00.003-05:00

My hair dresser has been telling - nay - begging me for years to stop washing my hair every day. The very idea of that grossed me out beyond belief and I always smiled, promised, and left the salon with no intention of changing my ways.

My newest stylist finally got through to me. Her persuasion was much more effective with the idea of a dry shampoo. One that would help remove dirt, sweat, and oil, making my hair actually feel clean, even when it wasn't. Just think -- not washing your hair every day saves you at least 182 blow dries, flat irons, and wear and tear per year. (How sad is it that I had to get a calculator for that number? Math be not my strong suit. English either, from the looks of that last sentence.)

ANYway. Here's what you do: First, get this product. It is not cheap, but well worth the price. (And goes a lot further if your boys don't mistaken it for hairspray and slather it all over their mohawks. Bad boys.)

Second, pull all your hair up and out of the way. Take a picture of your unmade-up face and quickly put it on the internet before you change your mind.

Next, shower as usual, washing all your body parts with the exception of your hair. Keep that dry and unwashed.

Then, get dressed (properly. Not like this.) and let your hair down. Lean over and spray dry shampoo at the roots all over. Run your fingers through your hair to work the product in.

Lastly, style as desired. Voila! Non-greasy, non-grimy, clean feeling, soft hair without the damage of a blow dryer, flat iron, and shampoo.

I am telling you, I was a very big skeptic on this concept. But really? My hair actually looks cuter on days that I don't wash it. What they have been saying to us for years is true. Don't do it every day. Save your hair. I have noticed a huge difference with less damage and breakage. It really works, and with a good dry shampoo, you will never notice the difference.

Your turn. Teach me.

Five years running

2011-05-16T10:28:00.006-05:00

It is that time of year, my friends.

The time of year where we pull out the shorts, wash the swim towels, and prepare to spend a fortune in keeping the pantry stocked.

It is also the time of year when we celebrate the impending summer with a little trip to the barber's chair.

As you can see, this handsome shag dog was beyond ready for a trim:

As was his brother, ~~Justin Bieber~~ McKay, whose hair was getting so big that his father threatened to trim it for him daily.

It is time to once again embrace the mohawks. Five years running now.

Yeah, baby.

I love it.

And, apparently, so does half the girls in the eighth grade. It has put our boy smack dab in the middle of a whole lot of female attention, and he has proclaimed the mohawk to be his new haircut of choice.

Here's to summer and her long absence from our lives.

[If only the weather would look at the calendar and catch up already. Sheesh.]

Inadvertently working the assets

2011-05-12T08:02:00.000-05:00

This morning at the unholy hour of six-forty, the phone rang.

Cursing and stumbling, I answered the call.

It was our [soon to be] new plumber. The one we asked to come give us a bid on some work we're doing on the upstairs of our house. Big work. Messy work. Work that will ultimately result in very good things [eventually].

He was calling to let me know that he was five minutes out. As in, I will be at your front door in five minutes. No matter that you're still in bed, sporting the filth that is morning mouth, and you are not dressed.

I flew out of bed and scrambled to throw some clothes on. Opting to spend my time brushing my teeth in lieu of putting on a bra, I went for the multi-layered/here's hoping it's enough to hide the girls look. My tops felt a little twisted, weird, and out of place, but the doorbell rang, and I had no more time to worry about it.

Plumber came and went. Gave me just the news I was hoping to hear: Yes, what you're planning here will be fine. I can totally do that.

[Still waiting on the news I don't want to hear: The cost.]

But a few minutes later when I happened to walk by a mirror, I nearly died at the sight.

Apparently, as I was hurriedly dressing, I missed the sleeve hole on one of my layers, resulting in a tangled mess of shirts on my torso.

Aaaaaaand it was configured in such a way so that the only thing standing between the plumber and one of my bosoms was a thin layer of cotton.

A very see-through layer of cotton.

[Apparently, I have the subconscious desire to show off my bits and pieces. Remember the horror?]

Do you think it will be enough to at least get us a discount on the plumbing?

How-To Tuesday: How to fail utterly at your own blog carnival

2011-05-10T07:30:00.004-05:00

Step one: Be swamped every second of the day on Monday until the moment you collapse into bed late at night.

Step two: Sit bolt upright in bed on Monday night and realize you did not do a how-to Tuesday post.

Step three: Collapse back onto your soft pillows and decide that it's okay.

Step four: Fall fast asleep.

Step five: Apologize, beg the internet's mercy, and plan a really great post for next week.

Forgive me, will you? [And still feel free to share your brilliance here.]

I know. I am so lame it's ridiculous.

Blessed

2011-05-09T13:24:00.003-05:00

Mother's Day for me was one of the best. With church at nine a.m., I woke early to breakfast in bed and four smiling faces. The presents they gave me were much more than I deserved and proved definitively that diamonds really are a girl's best friend.

Leaving for church, I glanced behind me with a smile at the spotless kitchen that I had nothing to do with cleaning.

Lunch and dinner were made while I sat on the couch in my bare feet with the iPad. Diet cokes were topped off and treat samples brought to me for tasting.

I tried not to laugh too hard at the sight of the Husband decorating the coconut cupcakes. Somehow a pastry bag does not look very much at home in his big hands. But they were as delicious as they were beautiful.

I was pampered and loved, and felt utterly appreciated.

These four fantastic people in my life are a miracle. I love them with the whole of my heart.

Redefining classy

2011-05-05T09:07:00.005-05:00

Chase has recently begun sprouting the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip.

It is thrilling to everyone, of course, except his older brother, who - for reasons known only to the gods of manliness - is lacking a mustache of his own.

[That, and the fact that Chase is now taller than him, has become the bane of his very troubled existence.]

Last night at dinner the ever-palatable topic of the 'Stache came up yet again. Chase was asking me if the Husband has to shave every day, and how quickly the stubble grows back in. When he found out that it indeed does grow everyday if you don't shave it, he seemed pleased.

Then he said, "Yeah, I think I'm going to grow a two-foot long beard. They're just so classy."

Classy? Probably not the Vogue magazine definition of the word.

But I'd say it definitely suits him.

How-To Tuesday: How to make homemade pitas

2011-05-03T06:20:00.001-05:00

Today's How-To post comes to you in one of my all-time favorite forms: The Carbohydrate.

Making your own pitas are so simple, you will never buy the cardboard tasting ones at the store ever again. Seriously. Stop buying that crap. They're gross and full of all kinds of preservatives. Spend a half hour or so making these and thank me later.

[I accept all forms of thanks, including, but not limited to: diet coke, cookies, and/or cash.]

Here's what you do: Take 1 1/4 cup warm water and add 2 1/2 tsp. yeast. Let it sit for about 10 minutes until the yeast is bubbled up.

Then add: 3 cups flour, 1/2 tsp. salt, 1 tsp. sugar, and 1 Tbsp. oil. Mix well.

Turn the dough onto the counter and knead well, adding flour as necessary. Divide the dough into eight equal parts. Roll each part into a ball, then flatten into a six-inch circle with your rolling pin.

Put circles on heavily-floured foil or parchment paper. Let rest for 30-45 minutes, until dough starts to slightly rise.

Then gently peel off each pita and place onto an ungreased baking sheet. You need to do this step; otherwise, they will stick to your pan as they rise in the oven.

Bake in a pre-heated 500 degree oven for about 3 minutes per side, turning halfway through. The pitas will puff up while baking. This gives you the hollow center for filling with deliciousness later.

Remove from the oven and stack pitas on top of each other, gently covering them with a towel. Let the pitas rest, and as the steam gradually escapes, each pita flattens out.

Slice in half with a serrated knife.

And, voila! A lovely little pocket just waiting to be filled with good things.

These are fantastic right out of the oven, can be made hours ahead, and even freeze well. Look at all the lovelies just waiting to be consumed:

Here are some of our fillings of choice.

[Not pictured: some chicken breast that I sauteed in a little bit of Italian dressing. Drizzle a little dressing onto your filled pita and you have a feast. (Though I am thinking Linsey's homemade hummus would be delish with these bad boys. Note to self: Get to the store ahead of time).]

And for a more printable version:

Pita pockets
1 pkg. yeast
1 1/4 cup warm water
3 cup flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp. sugar
1 Tbsp. oil

Sprinkle yeast over water in large bowl. Let sit for 10 minutes or until yeast is bubbly. Add flour, sugar, salt, and oil. Mix well. Knead dough until soft; divide into 8 equal parts. Roll each part into a ball and flatten into a six-inch circle with a rolling pin. Let rest on floured tin foil for 30-45 minutes or until slightly puffy. Peel off foil and put onto ungreased cookie sheets. Bake at 500 for 4-8 min. flipping halfway through. Stack on top of each other and cover loosely with dish towel to let steam escape. Slice in half and enjoy with your favorite salad or toppings.

And that's it. Your turn.

Teach me. Teach me now, dammit.

Mamarazzi

2011-05-02T11:53:00.001-05:00

More often than not, I have my camera packed away and I miss the opportunity to capture forever things that totally make me laugh.

Like this, taken moments after Hannah popped the lid off her pudding:

Unfortunately for her, I had the camera out and totally caught her in the act.

Don't worry, baby girl, I always lick the lid, too.

On princesses and fairy tale endings

2011-04-29T11:56:00.004-05:00

I must interrupt the highbrow, intelligent, and sage wisdom that you usually find here to bring you my thoughts on the royal wedding.

I know. Somewhere in the world my brother Daniel just poked his eyeballs out.

But to understand my feelings on the subject, you must first know something:

I thought I was Princess Diana herself. Evidenced here:

As a little girl, I was forever ruined when I saw Diana march up that exceptionally long aisle with a bridal train that was four miles long. I knew I had to have one just like it.

And, minus a few poofy ruffles, her short hair, and the ugly, cheating husband: I did.

As I watched the nuptials this morning, the little girl inside me who dreams of fairy tale endings, rejoiced. Tears fell down my cheeks, and I was powerless to stop them.

Today, a simple girl walked into a church as a commoner, and walked out as a princess.

It is the very thing little girls dreams of. It is the happy ending in every story we read to our daughters. It is the epitome of love and romance -- to marry your prince (whether he be an actual prince or simply prince-like). There is not a shriveled heart alive in the world today that doesn't find that captivating, romantic, and hopeful.

And, oh sweet fancy moses, the dress.

One look at it, and I made a frantic, early morning phone call to the Husband demanding that we get married again. Just so I could wear THAT dress.

He offered to let me pick a different groom, too. [I've got a few calls in to Hugh and Colin's people. I'll let you know how it goes.]

But it was stunning, simple, modest, classic, and elegant. I will love it forever.

Here's hoping the fairy tale ends the way they're supposed to -- a long life together, babies, lots of love, and no one named Camilla.

Mama, I shrunk myself!

2011-04-27T11:54:00.000-05:00

The other day while ~~ignoring my children~~ practicing hands-off parenting, I was interrupted in my reverie when a vehicle ran over my foot.

I looked down and this was the sight I saw:

Closer examination revealed an important message on my cell phone:

[In case you are blind], it said:

"Dear Mom, I am now the size of a pea. I had to duplicate myself to drive this car. Use this controller to change me back by pushing the stop button. Then count to twenty so the uv rays don't blind you. Thanks, Chase P.S. The tape doesn't hurt the phone"

I thought long and hard before making any decisions. After all, a pea-sized child might not be such a bad thing. Lower grocery bills, someone to spy on any conversation I want to listen to, less pants to grow out of.

But then I envisioned my rather sumptuous rear end accidentally sitting on the poor kid. Or accidentally sucking him up with the vacuum.

And that made me cry.

So I decided I better bring him back to normal size. I obeyed the instructions, keeping my eyes shut tight to protect me from the deadly UV rays.

After the longest twenty seconds of my life, I opened my eyes, and this was the sight I saw:

I guess now would be a good time to return that pea-sized dollhouse I bought him to live in, eh?

How-To Tuesday: How to whiten teeth in photoshop

2011-04-26T06:09:00.001-05:00

Let's say you have a photo of your son that you love. Your son and his awesome mohawk from last year. Only, since he is a kid, and not always as diligent as you'd like him to be, his teeth brushing has left something to be desired. Rather than live with the ~~yellow~~ not-quite-white teeth in the photo, I am going to show you how to fix it.

There about 9,459 ways in Photoshop to whiten teeth. I make no claim that this is THE one and only way. It's just the way I do it. And it takes less than a minute.

Step one: Open your image in Photoshop. I use CS3, but I believe it would work in Elements, as well as the newer versions.

Select the yin/yang looking icon on the bottom right hand side to create a new adjustment layer. In the pop-up menu, select "Hue/Saturation."

When the Hue/Saturation dialogue box pops up, select "Yellow" from the pop-down menu, and turn the slider for saturation to the left until your teeth have no yellow in them. At this point, you will likely have ruined the rest of the photo, but take heart, we will fix it later. Just focus on the teeth. Click OK.

Zoom in until your screen is filled mostly with the teeth. Now you want to hit CTRL-I, which will invert the layer mask. We will then use our brush tool (just push letter B and it will shortcut to the brush). Choose a soft-edged brush and begin "painting" over the teeth. This paints our saturation adjustment layer back in - restoring the fix we did, but only in the areas we want (i.e., the teeth). If all looks okay to you, merge down your layers.

Still with me?

Good. You can do this. While the teeth look considerably less yellow, they lack any whiteness or brightness to them. We want to fix that.

Create another adjustment layer, this time click on "Brightness/Contrast" from the pop-up menu. In the dialogue box, you want to take your brightness slider and move it to the right. Don't panic when your whole image starts to look wrong. It's all about the teeth right now. We'll fix the rest later.

Once your teeth look nice and bright, select okay.

Then hit CTRL-I again to invert the layer. Select your brush tool (B) and paint over the teeth again.

They will likely look horribly white - too white. Zoom out until you are looking at the whole picture. Then take your opacity slider on the brightness/contrast adjustment layer and reduce it until it looks right to you. For me, that number is usually around 25-35 percent. Do what looks best on your photo. Neon white teeth? Not so good. But we want to pop the brightness just a bit. Then merge the layers down.

And that's it! It sounds way more complicated than it actually is. And here is our SOOC (straight out of the camera) shot and the edited version. The difference is subtle, but that means we didn't overdo it in editing. A nice, white smile that doesn't look like we photoshopped the crap out of it.

Always a good thing.

Your turn. What can you teach me today?

Nine

2011-04-25T14:56:00.005-05:00

Dear Hannah,

Today at exactly 9:10 p.m, you have been in my life for nine fantastic years. When I think about that number, it astounds me. Partly because I cannot believe it has been that long, but mostly because it means I am halfway done with your daily presence in my life. And quite frankly, I don't know what I'll ever do without you.

We had your birthday dinner last night with Daddy, and, as per our tradition, I told the story of your birth. You laughed and smiled, shrugging your shoulders when I told about you being so late. I remember when I finally did get to have your tiny body in my arms, and was able to gaze at your absolutely perfect face -- in that moment, I knew I was complete. I knew there was nothing else in the world that I would ever need. You were the icing on the cake. And our life has known nothing but pink, fluffy sweetness ever since.

You constantly amaze me with your creativity. You currently plan to be an author when you grow up, and are in the middle of writing your first novel. Last fall, you brought me a jar and several scraps of paper, and told me to give you topics to write about. I brainstormed and filled up your little pieces of paper, then sat back and reveled in the writing you brought me.

You write beyond your years, baby girl.

Please don't let anyone crush that in you. The creative writing bug is a delicate thing, one that must be protected and nourished. I hope you will continue to pour out your soul via paper and pen. I think the world will be a better place for having read it.

You have still not outgrown your fierce independence, and deep down inside I am grateful. You have no doubt of what you want, and how you will get there. It is a constant negotiation with you. I can't simply say no, I have to tell you why, and when, and how I came to that conclusion. Your keen mind has to be satisfied, and sometimes that takes quite a bit of work on my end.

I also frequently have to remind you that I am still the mom, as your inner leader comes out when dealing with your brothers on an almost daily basis. The funny thing is, they tend to actually obey you and do what you ask.

It leaves me no doubt that you will one day make a fantastic mother.

Deep at your core, there is nothing but goodness. You and sensitive and kind. You root for the underdog every single time. You are happy and your laughter is contagious. You make me try harder, as mediocre is not in your vocabulary.

You are so beautiful, and your smile lights up the room. There is nothing I love more than seeing your green eyes sparkle as you chatter away about your day. Or holding you on my lap, cuddling you and your gangly limbs.

Can I just tell you how much I love that? How much I love that you still climb up onto my lap now and then? You've not fit there for quite some time, but I never tire of feeling your soft hands as they explore my earrings or count my freckles.

You make my life sparkle. You make everything so much fun. I thank the lord in all his wisdom for sending me exactly what I needed, just when I needed it.

For sending me you.

Happy ninth birthday, chica. I love you more than you will know.

Love,

Mama

Proof positive that I am awesome (at least in my own eyes)

2011-04-21T14:37:00.003-05:00

This, my friends, is what they call TRAGIC IRONY.

The irony lies in my refusal to give up cookies and diet coke, while still hoping to achieve a supermodel-like physique.

The tragedy lies in the fact that I kind of don't care.

How-To Tuesday: Organizational behavior, Stie style

2011-04-19T07:03:00.001-05:00

Before I got married, I made all sorts of promises to the Husband. Promises that the now me rolls on the floor laughing at. Promises that, if made today, the Husband would double over with laughter and say, "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Yes, as a soon-to-be-newlywed, I naively said things like:

I am going to be dressed and ready every day before you leave for work.

I am going to make sure you always have ironed shirts waiting in the closet.
I am going to have a hot meal on the table when you come home every day.
I am going to devote hours of my life to keeping a clean home.

Bwaaahhhaaa, right?

Okay. So maybe I kind of do the last one. But the others? Took me less than two weeks to pretty much abandon the lot of them. Unapologetically, at that.

But one thing I did embrace was my inner OCD, and our home has been (for the most part) neat and organized ever since.

Keep in mind, short of laundry days, I probably only spend 30-45 minutes cleaning each day. Believe me, there are bigger fish to fry in my life. But with a little bit of planning and organization, you can stay on top of your work and enjoy a clean house, too. Here's how:

Number one: I do laundry twice a week, and only twice a week: Mondays and Thursdays. Laundry must be finished to completion. No loads are allowed to be left undone for the next day. Otherwise, you'll NEVER get caught up. Stay on top of it and fold each load as soon as the dryer is done.

Lucky for me, my dryer finishes a load about 12-13 minutes before the washer is done washing. (I know. It's awesome). I grab the dry load and have it folded before the wash cycle is done. Then it's a quick switch and I'm off to ~~read blogs~~ the next task on my list.

Number two: I clean two bathrooms on Tuesdays and two bathrooms on Fridays (we currently have four of them, so it means they get a thorough scrubbing once a week). I loathe cleaning the bathrooms, but it is a necessary evil. I have two boys whose aim defies the laws of physics. It is not pretty in there. But until I can convince the Husband to pay someone else to do it, the dirty job has got to be done.

Number three: I pick a problem area (be it closet, drawer, cupboard, desk or occasionally even a child's room) and clean it on Wednesdays. When I have more time, I tackle the bigger projects. But sometimes just cleaning out a drawer or cupboard in the kitchen makes all the difference for my sanity, and it takes very little time. I feel like I've accomplished something and it motivates me to keep going.

Number four: Multi-task. Key to this is speed and constancy. Don't let any one area get out of hand. Hurry and throw those breakfast dishes in the dishwasher right after breakfast. Dust while you're on a phone call. Sweep/vacuum quickly while the kids are doing homework. Wipe down a glass door while dinner is cooking. We are all busy. We all have no time. But ten minutes here or there can make a huge difference. You'll be surprised how much you can get done in a short amount of time.

Number five: Be organized. Everything has a place, and every member of the family must know where that place is. If you find you are constantly clearing the mail pile off the kitchen counter, then you need a designated spot for it. Get a cute basket or mail sorter and find a home for the wayward bills. If your kids are constantly leaving their shoes in a pile by the door, get a shoe cubby. It takes time to train your family to be organized, but I am living proof that it can be done. If there is a mess in the same place all the time, then it means you don't have a place for that mess. Find a place, train your people, and sit back and watch your house clean itself.

Well, almost.

Your turn. What have you got for us today?

P.S. A reader sent me a great suggestion: Leave what you're teaching in the linky rather than your name. Makes it easy to go back and search for a particular link without having to dig through piles and piles of posts, you know?

Finding myself again

2011-04-18T11:59:00.007-05:00

I wake up, the bright sunshine streaming through my window. In spite of the migraine that is just beginning, I am ready to take the day on. I stretch my tired limbs. I am determined not to let Monday win. I intend to take her by the horns and throw her to the ground.

I ignore the scale today and walk downstairs, where my biggest boy is up and dressed. I chat quietly at the table with him, and laugh as he gives me one of his famous would you rathers. He heads out the door, but not before hugging his mama. I hug him right back, and make sure not to let go first.

I walk down the hall and wake the girl who makes the rockstar hair in her sleep. She does not rouse easily, and mumbles all the way to the breakfast table. She is quiet in the mornings, and is best left alone on these kinds of days. Sort of like her mama.

I call the early bird up from the basement, where he has already spent an hour watching a documentary on alligators. I shake my head and wonder how it is possible to wake up so cheerful so early in the morning. I smile, knowing he is sure to share some gory details over his bowl of cereal, much to his sister's dismay.

I pack lunches and pour milk. I remind them both to brush their teeth. Again. I comb her hair, and find that she has warmed up to the day. I listen as she chatters away. I hug them tight and send them out the door with I love yous. The boy, as he does every day, turns and waves. The girl, as she does every day, is busy talking with friends.

The trainer comes and I work out. Hard. I feel my body returning to a strength I once took for granted. I hydrate and thank god for letting me get better. For letting me heal. I put in some laundry and clear out my inbox. I start a couple loaves of bread and return a few phone calls. I shower and tackle a mess in the office. I edit pictures. I run errands.

I am busy. And it feels so damn good.

I feel myself returning to the person I used to be. Someone who was productive. And strong. And happy.

Tears fill my eyes as I remember the place I was in, even just a few months ago. A place of despair and sorrow. A place that, for me, was without hope.

I am so grateful.

I finally feel like me again.

How-To Tuesday: Coconut Cake Balls

2011-04-12T05:19:00.002-05:00

Our town has a cupcake store that is dangerously close to my front door. Their cupcakes are good, but definitely not my drug of choice. (Unless it's their red velvet. Then I can eat my weight in them.)

There is one item in their store, however, that I would buy each and every single day of my life except for two things:

1. They are almost two dollars a PIECE (and they're so small that I really need about 8 to satisfy my thirst for them)
2. I would weigh 900 pounds in less than a year

So I took it upon myself this week to try and recreate their tasty bites of awesomeness, if only to save the Husband's wallet a few dollars. (And to save me the shame of showing up there to buy any more. Last time? I placed my order for a dozen, and the clerk said, "Oh, you're the cake ball lady!" Yikes.)

While they do not taste exactly like the store's, they still taste absolutely divine. I will totally be making them again. And possibly again.

I give you, dear internet, the coconut cake balls:

First step is whipping up a batch of my version of the coconut cake (adapted originally from the goddess that is Paula Deen). Bake according to my directions and cool. Crumble cooled cake into a bowl and squish until you have fine crumbs. (Note, this cake makes three layers and is A LOT of cake balls. I only crumbled up about 1 1/2 layers and got around 50 balls, FYI.)

Some interesting observations here about me, my workspace, and the way I operate.

Moving on.

Add a cup or two of your favorite buttercream frosting. This one is my personal favorite and the only one I let touch my perfect cake. My darling. My preciousss....

Mix the cake and frosting with your hands until combined, adding more frosting to taste. Then pour in some coconut. I added roughly 1 1/2 cups.

Then roll them into balls and pop in the freezer for about 15 to 20 minutes.

Then (are you tired of using your mixer yet?) mix up a batch of my sugar cookie glaze:

2 3/4 cup powdered sugar
2 tsp. shortening
3 Tbsp. water
1 Tbsp. corn syrup
1/4 tsp. vanilla

I wanted it pretty thin, so I ended up adding easily 9 Tbsp of water or more. Just keep adding water until it's the consistency of Elmer's glue.

I dipped the balls into the glaze and basically rolled them on the edge of the bowl to get most of the glaze off. Otherwise, it's just too much. You only want a light coat.

Then dip, roll, and cover these babies in coconut. Be prepared for the coconut explosion in your house. It gets E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E.

Garnish as desired and try not to eat too many of them. I popped them into mini-cupcake papers (though I was wishing I had a color other than white so as to make them stand out more), but I'm pretty sure no one is going to complain about that.

Except the angry voice in my head.

And nobody listens to her.

And that, my friends, is how you win friends and influence people. Amen.

Your turn!

Simple

2011-04-11T06:02:00.001-05:00

It started out as a simple, regular, ordinary day.

One boy, home from school, taking his mental health day. His mama gives him one per year, you see, and he chose a sunny, happy Friday for the occasion.

The boy and his mama started the morning off right with a four-mile run together. They talked easily as they ran, each with one headphone pulled out. Music still flowed, as did their effortless banter. He asked questions; she answered them. He made her laugh; she smiled at him. They set a goal to beat the washing machine busily spinning at home.

And beat it, they did.

They hydrated and showered, then headed over to the mall for a movie. It was definitely his pick, for she happily sacrificed one of her own. After all, she can see movies any day she wants. She never gets to see them with him.

He loved it. And that was what mattered to her.

She treated him to lunch, and he repaid her with lively conversation. She watched him across the table, listened to his chatter, and wondered when it was exactly that her little boy grew up. She relished all the secrets he divulged without realizing it - these thoughts he keeps locked up inside; the things that make him tick. They shared a piece of cheesecake, and she gladly gave him the lion's share.

Her dessert that day had nothing to do with food.

She offered to take him shopping at those stores he loves, the ones with the brand names splashed across every shirt. He tried on everything until he found just the right items. He did not even seem to mind when he was accosted by the mama paparazzi outside of the dressing room. In fact, he posed for her and made her laugh with his very serious GQ face.

Her laughter flowed freely, and it was all because of him. He, this sweet boy of hers with the blue eyes and splash of freckles across his nose. The one who pretends he's tough and acts too cool for silly things like pictures and hugs. He filled up her heart and soul in just the way that only 13-year-old boys can do for their mamas.

It started out as a simple, regular, ordinary day.

And ended as something so much more.

Of muscles and men

2011-04-08T06:13:00.003-05:00

The other day, my kids were flexing their bicep muscles and showing off to each other. Not one to be outdone, I lifted my shirt sleeve and showcased my own muscles.

Or lack thereof.

The Husband laughed, in a polite sort of way, and felt the proffered muscle. Finding my arm lacking muscles of any sort, he started pinching around as if trying to solve the riddle of the missing bicep. What he did find in abundance, apparently, was a good deal of the squishy old lady flab underneath my arm.

The slight look of horror on his face told me he might not be too impressed.

I kindly offered to keep ALL my jiggly bits from his sight and touch, lest they gross him out and affect his ability to concentrate in meetings at work.

He suddenly found within himself and professed an undying love for ALL my body parts.

Especially the jiggly ones.

Imagine that.

Waterloo in the backyard

2011-04-07T07:54:00.004-05:00

Our neighborhood does not contain a whole lot of children.

We did not know that fact when we chose to purchase this home. We (like all the really old folks surrounding us) were lured in by the siren song of the HOA paying for lawn care and snow removal. It has been nice living here, in spite of the guilt I feel when I see all of our 90-year-old neighbors vacuuming their lawns for six hours a day, while my yard sits as the one blight on the street, shamefully un-vacuumed.

And mine the one back literally strong enough to do it. Go figure.

But the kids do not lack for friends. There is a neighborhood adjoining ours that is full of playmates, and at least several days per week there are strangers' offspring rooting around in my pantry for after-school snacks. It's great and I love it.

There is one boy, however, who lives down the street and - for reasons unfathomable to me - hates my children. We have invited him over countless times, and each time our invitation has been met with an excuse about the important date he has with his video games. Shrugging our shoulders, we moved on to other friends, and have not mourned the loss of his company.

The problem with this kid is that he is constantly challenging the neighborhood boys to duels of physicality. A baseball pitching contest. A basketball tournament. A foot race. These challenges are always issued with insults and spite -- and he has yet to win any of them.

He reminds me slightly of Napoleon (Bonaparte, that is, not Dynamite). He is short, angry, and determined to conquer the world and everyone in it.

The problem with the war he is waging on McKay lies with me. I have this innate psycho need to be liked. And to have my children liked. I can't fathom what we have done to offend him, and feel that he must be brought to reason. He MUST not know how awesome we are, otherwise he could not possibly dislike us. Surely, he has just not looked closely at our strengths of character, wit, and charm. I mean, we are likable people! We are funny! We are charming! We I have issues!

I am constantly interjecting into the strategy conferences between McKay and his allies that maybe all Napoleon needs is to be invited over for cookies and ice cream.

These suggestions are met with blank stares and questions regarding my sanity.

Apparently, war is not resolved over homemade chocolate chip cookies.

It is decided on the basketball court with a very short, hateful boy named Napoleon who does not like me my children.

And it is okay.

Or so they tell me, while I sit rocking in the corner mumbling, "But why? Why doesn't he like me?"

Don't worry. I'll be all right. Eventually.

How-To Tuesday: Canvas Maps

2011-04-05T05:54:00.003-05:00

How-To Tuesday is back, baby!

And today's post comes to you courtesy of Creative Juices Decor. I saw this idea featured on Remodelaholic and knew it was exactly what I had been looking for. We have been wanting to put a map up in the basement and keep tabs on the Husband's travels, as well as our own, for quite some time now. In fact, we've had the map waiting for almost a year, with just no ideas of how to hang it. When I saw this post, it was perfect.

(Note: If you do decide to post your own tutorial, please link back to Creative Juices. This idea is all hers and she should get the credit for it. I am nothing, if not vigilant, when it comes to crediting others for their brilliant ideas. Please do the same.)

All right. Here we go. Our multi-canvased map:

I started by tasking the Husband with designing the layout. He created the masterpiece in our living room, and I knew this would be perfect for his spatial brain. My brain? Pretty much full of a combination of People Magazine, puppies, and diet coke. Not much room in there for the math. Lucky for me, he is really good at the math.

We measured our map, then bought the canvases to fit per his design. I spray painted the edges black, not worrying about the fronts at all (since they will be covered by the map).

Once dry, I brought the canvases inside and laid the map over the top. I measured each canvas, and cut the map to fit each piece.

I then started to adhere the map pieces to the canvas with Mod Podge, and found a very eager little girl by my side. I silenced my inner Martha and let her help. After all, we were going to be sticking pins all over these maps. What damage could a child helper do?

She actually did great. She's much more craftily talented than her mother.

After the pieces were all attached with the Mod Podge, we left them to dry.

Once dried, we came back and applied another layer of Mod Podge. Then let it dry. And applied another.

[Not pictured: Since I knew we were going to be putting pins in these, I also cut a square of foam board and stuck it in the back of each canvas. I wanted the pins to have something to stick to, and this worked great. I simply hot glued the foam board in.]

Then the unhappy task fell to the Husband of getting the many pieces hung. This required a lot more of the math, plus a level, tape measure, and nails. He's slightly obsessed with never having any extra nail holes in the wall when he hangs things, and that makes it much more difficult (though efficient). It was a pain.

He's a good man. I'm totally keeping him.

Once hung, we started to put in pins for all the places we've been. Everyone got their own colored pin. The Husband's is red -- suffice to say, there are A LOT of red pins. The kids had fun helping and reliving vacation destinations. By the way, we only count a city/state if we've spent the night or had a purposeful meal there. Airports and drive-thru's do not count. Even still, we have been to a good number of states between the five of us.

And that's it! Super easy, visually interesting, and a fun way to keep tabs on our family travels.

Your turn. What can you teach me today?

How it all went down

2011-04-04T10:10:00.006-05:00

Well, my friends, April Fools around here wasn't pretty.

Especially if your name happens to be McKay.

All went according to plan. He walked in the door, shock and dismay on his face when he saw his younger siblings home before him. He saw them eating doughnuts and begged for one of his own. Of course we said no.

At least for a little while. Then, after much pleading on his part, his wish was granted.

Be careful what you wish for has never rang more true than at that moment.

He took a bite or two, and started to get suspicious.

Foolishly, he kept eating, but about halfway through the doughnut, he KNEW something was wrong.

Hannah yelled it out first, "April Fools! We put mayonnaise in your doughnut!"

A mad dash to the sink and it was all over.

Here's the funny thing: He took it like a champ. I expected (and was prepared to fully pardon) rage and bitterness on his part. I thought he'd be furious. I know I would have been. What we did to him was disgusting.

But my sweet boy laughed and smiled, and agreed it was a good joke. He asked questions about how we did it, and wondered when we planned it all. Not once did he express anger. Not once did he raise his voice.

He handled it much better than I would have, I can promise you that.

Because of his good sense of humor about it, we abandoned the rest of our plans (except for the princess music on his iPod. That one was already too late). And even that prank brought a smile to his face.

He's a good sport. He's a good kid.

Here's hoping that the memory of the doughnut will keep him from trolling around next year. But if it does not, I think we'll all take a page from his book and laugh about the pranks anyway.

Exacting our revenge

2011-04-01T09:13:00.004-05:00

From April 2nd to March 31st, my sweet firstborn son looks like this:

But from 12:00 midnight on April 1st until 11:59 p.m., he turns into this:

This morning, while the rest of the house was sleeping, he began his reign of terror. His first task was pouring lemon juice over all our toothbrushes.

He then moved to the freezer and attacked the frozen waffles (Chase's breakfast of champions) by dumping salt over EVERY. SINGLE. WAFFLE. Seriously. Like a whole freezer's worth of waffles? Completely inedible. Gone.

And, should Chase have been foolish enough to actually pour syrup over one of those salty breakfast treats, he watered down the syrup with about a gallon of water.

Honestly.

It took every ounce of my strength not to kill him this morning. Once discovered, he rolled on the floor, laughing hysterically. He cannot get enough of himself and wonders why the rest of us feel like punching him. The child is a troll and must be stopped.

Seriously, do you remember what he did last year? It's a miracle the child lived to see another birthday.

I thank heavens for you good people though, because I am using SEVERAL of your ideas today.

For example, I will be pulling the other two out of school early. And when McKay walks in the door and finds them already home? He won't be happy.

That unhappiness will turn to rage when he sees that they are sitting at the table gleefully eating cream-filled donuts. Which, for a while, won't be shared with him. We will make him sweat it out and worry. He will be bugged that we get treats and he does not.

Then finally, when we give in and let him have one? Oh, the surprise he'll find in the middle. Not sweet custard. Not cream. BUT MAYONNAISE.

Oh, yes. I am going there (thanks a million, Matthew M., BEST. IDEA. EVER).

And his beloved I-pod? Mysteriously erased and filled only with Broadway musicals and princess songs. Hmmm...how did that happen?

Also? The dinner I'm planning for tonight? One I know he absolutely hates, but the rest of us love.

And after an exhausting evening of mayonnaise donuts, bad dinner, and no music? He'll climb into bed, dejected and tired, only to find that hidden under his sheets are a full set of jacks.

And THAT, my friends, is why you should never, ever mess with your mama.

My family versus the volcano

2011-03-30T19:40:00.003-05:00

The headache starts first, followed immediately by an overwhelming urge to snap at anyone who talks to me. I feel irritable and annoyed without knowing why. I am put out if I have to answer even the most simple, basic question. It is all I can do to not throw a giant tantrum at the horror and injustice of having to speak. Then, if enough time passes, I start to actually feel hungry.

I don't know what it is, but I feel the irritation first and the hunger second. Am I alone in that?

My kids have learned to recognize it and McKay will often say, "Mom, do you need to eat something?"

The Husband will warn everyone that, "Mom is hangry. Better watch out."

Usually the word "hangry" prompts them all to either clear out and head for high ground or offer the beast some food.

It's like I'm an insatiable volcano - and they fear for their village if they don't offer some sort of sacrifice. Pretty much anything will work. As long as it's food. Or diet coke. Or both.

The Hangry? It feels sort of like the uncontrollable pregnancy hormones (though, um, no. Not what's causing it. I am not now, nor will I ever be again, thankyouverymuch). But it's like the Hangry is raging a war, and I am the vessel with which it attacks. I can no sooner control it than I can part the Red Sea.

Seriously, girlfriend has tried. (Tried controlling it. Not parting the Red Sea. Though it would be awesome if I could, right?)

Best thing to do is just not be hungry. Snack, drink lots of water, and stay on top of the beast.

Anyone else get the Hangry? Please say I am not alone in this?

SAY IT. OR I WILL EAT YOU.

The greatest idea ever invented. Ever.

2011-03-29T18:38:00.004-05:00

Last week, I shared with you the Husband's brilliant idea for spring break. Remember how I told you we handed our kids a pile of cash and told them they were in charge of what we did over spring break, and any remaining money at the end of the week was theirs to split three ways? That idea. [For better details, click over to the link.]

Anyway, I am here to report our success. And what a success it was.

The kids set a goal to only spend half the money, leaving the last day of spring break as a shopping day where we would hit the mall and they could buy whatever their little hearts desired with the rest.

Which, thanks to budgeting and prioritizing on their part, they were able to achieve.

For once, I was not the entertainment committee. And I was not stuck home, listening to whiny kids beg for something to do. In fact, they didn't whine or fight once. NOT ONCE. We ate out several times. We saw a movie. We had friends over. We snuggled up together in my big bed and had movie nights. We went bike riding. We (or I should say they) went fishing. And, at the end of it all, they got to shop for something new.

Though, the interesting thing to note was how much less willing they were to buy things when the money was their own. When it's me shopping at the mall with ~~the Husband's~~ my money? They want everything in sight. When the cash has to part out of their own grubby little hands? Not so much.

Here are some highlights of the week --

At the zoo with their BFFs where, clearly, they did not have any fun:

The photographer's son taking approximately 900 pictures in three hours, and all of them animals:

Don't you want to come over and look at slides from his vacations?

We had three days of near 80 degree weather, so we took advantage of that and went on several bike rides (as my very sore heinie can attest to. Yikes. How do people ride bikes? Tour de France? I am thinking Tour de Pain in Your Pants):

Even the Husband got in on the fun with a little basketball at the park:

It was seriously such a great week. So great, in fact, that we are planning on implementing this new idea over summer vacation and on any future trips we take.

I highly recommend it. It just might change your life the way it has changed mine. My children's travel agency is officially closed. Yay!

Putting it off for a week

2011-03-28T22:38:00.001-05:00

Do you hear that, internet?

It is the glorious sound of silence. It is the quiet solitude that comes from not having dozens of unanswered emails in my inbox, yelling at me for replies.

I know.

You thought that the voices in my head were merely the product of psychotic delusions. Like the one I have where the phone rings and it is Hugh Jackman on the line. (Hi, Hugh! Call me!)

No, the silent voices you don't hear right now are the peace that comes -- for once -- from having all my loose ends tied up.

At least electronically.

Sure, I have four photo sessions to edit. And dust collecting on the shelves in my bedroom. And a car whose registration expires very soon. And kids' closets just begging to be purged. And books waiting unread on the nightstand.

Crap. Now I feel stressed and panicked again. I HAVE SO MUCH WORK TO DO! Thanks a lot, me. WhatEVER.

But for the first time in months, my email inbox is neat and tidy. So neat, in fact, that there are only TWO emails sitting there. TWO! (Both online shopping confirmations that will be deleted as soon as the products show up. Yay!) I feel as though I have accomplished a huge feat.

But tragically, since I chose to tackle that task tonight, it leaves me without any time whatsoever to do a How-To Tuesday post.

I know. Somewhere in the world, a lone soul just cried into his cheerios with sorrow and defeat. (Poor Dan. Whatever will he do to console himself?)

But if by some small miracle, you were powered up and ready to participate - keep that post in your drafts folder and we'll get to it next week, I promise. If, like me, you felt as though you were treading water for the past five days, consider this your lucky day and take a breather.

Yeah. You're welcome.

My twin in the back yard

2011-03-28T07:32:00.007-05:00

It is the Monday after spring break, and I feel a bit like our snowman there. Head hanging, body dragging, I pull myself out of bed and glare at the alarm clock. Being up this early is as wrong as the freak snowstorm that invaded our city over the weekend. The cruelty of the early hour hangs over my heart like the snow that hangs on the newly-sprouted blossoms in my yard.

My hair is as tangled as the matted sticks adorning the snowman's head.

My bottom is equally, ahem, proportionate thanks to a week of eating treats with my kids.

I feel soggy, out of place, and long to just melt back into bed.

When, oh when is summer vacation?

How-To Tuesday: How to Survive Spring Break

2011-03-22T05:42:00.001-05:00

Today's How-To Tuesday comes to you courtesy of a genius idea the Husband had this weekend while we were on our little stay-cation. (No, it is not his How To Ignore Your Children While They Are Vomiting In The Night Idea. It's one I actually liked.)

As I mentioned yesterday, it is spring break around here. Which is really just school jargon for a week where the kids whine because they're bored, fight because they're annoyed, and end up costing me a small fortune in entertainment (which, nine times out of ten, they are bored by, fight at, and in general, annoy me as a result of).

The Husband's brilliant idea was this: We estimated the amount of money we would likely be spending for entertainment during spring break. Between movies, eating out, various museums/bowling/skating/jumping and whatever else they conned me into doing, there is always a big chunk of change. We took this amount and presented it to the kids in a large pile of cash. We told them the rules were this:

1. Whatever we did this week is going to be completely up to them (and they all have to agree amongst themselves about the activities). They can spend the money however they want on whatever activities they feel like.

2. Whatever money is left over, they can keep and split three ways.

3. Since THEY are choosing the activities, there will be no whining/fighting/teasing allowed. If any such behavior ensues, money will be subtracted from the pot. This rule automatically forfeits their right to complain about pretty much anything this week. I think it's my new favorite rule ever.

4. If they choose to pocket the money and forgo fun activities/eating out - they are responsible for finding their own entertainment for the week. If anyone were to come to me stating their boredom or unhappiness with the situation, money would again be withdrawn from the pot. It removes the burden of playing cruise director from me, and puts the responsibility of that right in their own little hands.

How did they take to the proposal?

FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC, I tell you.

First, they spent an hour and a half in a meeting of the minds, discussing, prioritizing, and debating happily -- all without my involvement.

Second, once they had lists of everything they wanted to do during the week, we started pricing it all out. Yes, the zoo is free. But parking is ten dollars. And the like.

Having all the information changed their initial budgeting quite drastically. I could hear them deciding whether or not it was worth it to go out to eat. I heard them lament at the exorbitant cost of restaurant eating. I mean, drinks are like three whole dollars!?

It was music to my mama ears.

We will see how it plays out, but so far today it's been amazing, and our plans for the week look better than anything I could have come up with. Plus, it provides a little lesson in budgeting for them with tangible, actual dollars. It gives them the freedom of choice, and the responsibility for their own happiness. I think the Husband may have stumbled upon his most genius idea yet.

Your turn. What can you teach me to do today?

Money image via.

Why he'll never win an academy award

2011-03-21T12:16:00.011-05:00

This past weekend, we decided to celebrate the start of spring break with a little stay-cation and booked a few nights in a hotel downtown.

Pretty much the Husband's dream come true.

Who wouldn't love getting home from an exhausting week-long business trip to stay in a hotel in their own hometown, then leave again Monday morning for another hotel out of town?

What can I say? I married a good man.

We ended up having a fantastic time. We toured around St. Louis, visiting restaurants and sites we've never been to before. The weather was beautiful - we walked all over our fair city with sunshine on our shoulders and smiles on our faces. We slept in. We swam in the hotel pool. We had adjoining suites overlooking the ~~polluted~~ beautiful Mississippi River. We watched movies and ate fabulous food.

And last night, as I was sleeping peacefully, I awoke to the sound of coughing from the kids' room. Only, it didn't sound quite right.

Mama-sense tingling, I tiptoed into their room and was assaulted by the unmistakable smell mothers everywhere fear with dread. Someone had thrown up.

And most definitely not in the bathroom.

I stepped gingerly towards the foul stench and tripped over a body on the floor. Cursing and grumbling, I found that Chase had climbed out of his bed and was asleep in a nest on the floor. I made my way to the bedside lamp and switched it on.

The light revealed poor Hannah, asleep, and lying in a pool of vomit. Completely unaware of the evil she had just done, she was soundly sleeping. Horrified, I wondered for a moment what to do.

Realizing there was no way to avoid the embarrassment, I made the call of shame down to housekeeping. I snapped into mom mode and put Hannah into the bathtub. I pulled the soiled bedding and bundled it up. I started wiping down the walls and the carpet (because, yes, it was one of THOSE times where it went everywhere). I met the poor soul from housekeeping at the door and apologized profusely. He smiled and said they just been through mardi gras. They were used to this.

A hefty tip for housekeeping, clean sheets on the bed, and a bottle of air deodorizer later, I was ready to fall back asleep. As I climbed wearily into bed, the Husband rolled over and in a voice so fakely groggy it was pathetic, he said, "Hey, what's going on? Did something happen?"

Um, yeah. Not fooling anyone here, Husband. There is no way on earth you slept through the vomiting, cursing, bed changing, bath taking, and room spraying.

Not even if you were dead.

Which for pretending to sleep until it was all cleaned up last night, you just might be.

The Ewww Factor

2011-03-17T07:20:00.000-05:00

One day last week, after a busy morning of ~~shopping for myself~~ running errands for my family, I popped through the drive-thru of the local St. Louis Bread Co.

Also known as Panera.

Also known as Delicious.

I have found myself frequently enjoying their salads as of late, and treated myself to the bar-b-que chicken chopped salad. It is full of all kinds of tasty things that blend together to make a most delicious party in your mouth.

The only complaint I have with Panera/Bread Co (besides their affinity with Pepsi products. Ewww.) is that you can't really place a 'made-to-order' order. Everything is kind of already made for you, and they are unable to leave off bits and pieces from your salad that are offending.

Like the onions.

And the peppers.

Ewww.

But I know this about Bread Co and I choose to somewhat accept it. On this particular day, I picked the yuckies out as I found them, and left them in a large rejected pile on the side of my plate. (It reminded me for a moment of those days gone by when I would leave a pile of offensive food on my plate as a child and be forced to eat it all in one bite at the end. Major ewww.)

I've decided what I need is this: I need the Jessica Seinfeld con job for adults. Because if I can't see the onions, peppers, or tomatoes? I will gladly eat them and possibly proclaim the flavor combination to be the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. But if I get a glance at the raw, fleshy look of a chopped onion? GAG. I will not eat it. I know it makes no sense to like the flavor of a food, but not the actual food. And as an adult, I should be rationally able to convince myself that quite possibly I DO like onions and peppers.

Ewww.

[Just writing that made me throw up a little bit in my mouth.]

Do you think Ms. Seinfeld could talk to the fine folks at Panera/Bread Co for me? Maybe they could puree the nasties and slip them into my dressing where I won't notice them?

Anyone else have this issue or am I alone in my crazy?

(Daniel, don't answer that.)

Inquiring minds want to know

2011-03-16T11:35:00.004-05:00

I have two quick questions for you today:

1. Do you think there is enough protein in a piece of cake to justify it as a snack after a session with the trainer? I'm going to say yes. But only because I already ate it.

2. Is anyone else as obsessed with Les Miserables as I am right now? After Annie's post, a frantic text from my brother about the 25th Anniversary concert on PBS, and a phone call from a sister-in-law in Idaho who gets better broadway right now than I do, I just can't get enough of it. I have it on constantly in the car, I am losing hours watching videos on You Tube, and I finally just gave up and ordered my own copy of the concert from Amazon. I love it. It still makes me cry, even after all these years.

It also makes me feel old. I remember when it first came out. TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. Yikes.

And someday if when I get to heaven, I am going to demand that my voice sound JUST. LIKE. THIS.

That is all. Happy Wednesday.

How-To Tuesday: How to Make Chicken Noodle Soup

2011-03-14T19:01:00.007-05:00

Alternate title: How to make your husband go absolutely weak in the knees.

What's that? Your husband's love language isn't homemade chicken noodle soup?

Well.

Make this, and it will be. I guarantee it. That sofa you've had your eye on? A girlfriend's trip to Paris? Make this soup for him, then casually drop into the conversation what you're wanting, and he will be powerless to resist you.

[Not that I'd know anything about that, ahem.]

This is an ancient family recipe, going back generations. It was a staple in the Husband's childhood home, and has become one in ours. It could not be any easier, and I feel it a sin if you waste your life on soup any less worthy.

Step one: Take a whole chicken and throw it in a large stock pot. We love to make this with leftover turkey at Thanksgiving the best. Second in line would be the pre-cooked chickens they sell at Sam's Club. But even just a regular, boring, everyday whole chicken will cook up nicely.

Add: A few whole carrots (unpeeled), a large onion (quartered, and with the skin left on), a few celery stocks (leaves still attached), a bay leaf, and some salt and pepper. I used a red onion here because it's what I had, but red, yellow, or white - any of them will work.

Pour in enough water to cover the chicken by a good inch or two. Then plop it on the stove and bring to a boil, lowering the heat and letting it simmer for a few hours at a soft boil.

During this part of the process, your house will smell divine. Your children will salivate. Text messaged photos sent to your husband's phone will result in meetings being canceled and him walking through the door MUCH earlier than normal. I'm telling you, this soup is like a magnet that pulls your loved ones home.

Once it's simmered, boiled, and married all the lovely flavors together, pour everything through a colander to a large bowl. Notice the splash and spillage of broth out the sides? Tragic is what that is.

(It's also wise to do this step in the sink. Unless you like the feel of hot boiling lava on your bare feet.)

I like to then re-strain my broth through a very fine colander or cheese cloth to remove any remnant chicken bits. Your broth will have a lovely yellow color and smell positively delicious. At this point, you could freeze your broth and save it for another day or even another cooking purpose. But since our hearts beat to the drum of chicken noodle soup, that is where we'll be headed.

If I can, I make the broth a day ahead and refrigerate it, bringing all that lovely fat to the surface. It makes it so easy to scrape it up and out - keeping your inner thighs free for other fatty treats. But with this batch I was in a hurry, and we wanted to eat right away, so I poured the broth into two containers and froze them both.

Splitting it like this made it so that the broth could cool/freeze faster, resulting in a lovely layer of fat just waiting to be removed.

Pour the now-fatless broth back into your stock pot and put it over medium heat on the stove. By this time, your chicken should be cooled enough to remove all the meat from the carcass. Probably the worst job in this whole process, but a necessary one. Discard the bones and vegetables once all the meat is removed.

Chop your chicken finely. Add it to your broth on the stove.

Recruit a minion or two with the promise of knife usage and you will find help abundant in the kitchen. Have the minion peel and chop 5-6 carrots. Or ten if you like. Whatever suits your fancy. Then add them to the pot.

Next comes the step that MUST NOT be skipped. Don't be tempted to throw a few handfuls of rice or (heaven help you) store-bought noodles. The whole point of this soup is the homemade noodles.

Take:
1 cup flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 egg. beaten
1/2 egg shell full of milk or cream

Mix all ingredients together, adding more flour or milk to make a pliable dough. Also? We typically double or triple this for a big batch of soup.

What can I say? Girlfriend likes herself some noodles. So do her peeps.

With a rolling pin, roll the dough flat and slice it into strips with a knife or pizza cutter. Don't be worried about getting them all even and perfect. Homemade noodles should be of every height, width, size, and breadth.

Just like people.

When your broth is at a medium boil, drop your noodles in, one at a time. Simmer for 15-20 minutes.

Then, ladle up a big bowl. If you are really awesome, serve some warm bread and butter on the side. Then sit back and watch your husband's face carefully. With the first bite, and its earthy, homemade goodness, you will see precisely just how much he loves you. He will be unable to hide it. You will be delighted.

Now it's your turn. What can you teach us today? Leave the link to your own how-to post in our Mr. Linky below. Then be sure to copy the html code (under the blue button on my sidebar) into your post. Sit back, and wait for the internet to bow at the throne that is your genius.

I'm waiting. Anyone?

Oh well. Next time.

Not seeing the boy

2011-03-11T16:37:00.006-06:00

He walks through the door, dropping his jacket and backpack in a large heap behind him. I trip over his shoes as I bend down to grab the wrapper from his after-school snack off the floor.

"Do you have any homework?" I ask, wearily.

He launches into a tirade of all the projects he is working on. I groan, knowing just how much time all those things will take.

Grabbing a paper towel, I wipe up the milk he has just spilled. I snap at him for his carelessness. Reaching for another towel, I stumble over his trumpet case.

In an instant, all the petty annoyance bubbles up and spills over. I chew him out for not practicing often enough, making threats about canceling his trumpet lessons. I move to the projects he has coming up, and remind him angrily that he better get them done before scouts. I grit my teeth and spew venom about the mess he has made on the counter.

I turn around to continue my rant, and notice his blue eyes fill with tears. He hangs his head and apologizes softly. He promises he will practice more. He reaches for his backpack to start on homework, as the tears spill over his lightly freckled cheeks.

Guilt and regret instantly turn my irrational rage into compassion.

I move across the room and take him into my arms. I apologize for snapping at him, and tell him that I love him. He sobs quietly, as he tells me how overwhelmed he is feeling today. How the projects at school seem insurmountable, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to find the time to get it all done.

I wonder then how I didn't notice the sagging shoulders and somber expression when he walked in the door.

How could I only see the mess and the shoes, and miss the boy completely?

I curse myself, wishing I could take it all back and start again. Today was a total mom fail. Doesn't matter that I am right. He does need to practice more. Those projects have to get done before he runs off to play. He should have been more careful with the milk.

But he's only a kid.

And he's my kid.

And today, instead of noticing that he needed to be picked up, I knocked him down. Instead of being that safe, warm place to come home to, I hit him with anger and annoyance the minute he walked through the door.

I need to remember when I'm tired and cranky, that I have no right to take it out on him. I need to look first, and yell later (or not at all). I need to be grateful that I have such a good kid. A kid who gets straight A's, is friends with everyone, and always tries to help those around him. I need to tell him how much I love him, and how proud I am of who he is.

Because at the end of the day, the trumpet, the milk, and the homework do not matter one bit. What matters is that he knows just how much his mama loves him.

a quick thanks

2011-03-09T09:59:00.004-06:00

How awesome was our first ever How-To Tuesday?

It was so awesome. Seriously. Made my day.

You need to click through and read every post. (Except for my idiot brother who thought it would be funny to link back to me. Whatevs.) They were fantastic! I am so happy you all decided to play along. If you missed it this week, start thinking of ideas and join in next Tuesday. Really, anything will work. How to make cookies. How to get marker off a wall. How to successfully carry on a telephone conversation with children nearby. How to eat cookies and not get fat.

Anyone? Anyone have the answer to that one? I'll pay. Really, I will.

Anyway, heading out the door to run about nine billion errands today. Sheesh. The people around here seem to think that having food is important. Oh, the nerve...

How-To Tuesday: How to tailor a shirt

2011-03-07T14:47:00.003-06:00

Welcome to the very first installment of what I hope will be a long series of highly informative, entertaining, or just plain silly posts on our How-To Tuesdays.

[I know it's Monday. I wanted to get it up early to give you all a chance to link up. And make sure I did Mr. Linky right.]

Today I am going to share with you a little secret that tailors everywhere do not want you to know: How to tailor your own shirt.

You see, last year, the Husband decided one morning that he wanted to get in shape. All he pretty much had to do was decide that and 20 pounds fell off his body.

I tried really hard not to hate him for it.

Being the frugal man that he is, he did not want to run out and buy all new shirts. We figured we could tailor the ones he wanted to keep, and buy some new ones, as well. So we researched how to do it, purchased a sewing machine, and made the greatest discovery ever. This is so easy, it's ridiculous.

Start with the shirt you want to take in. Put it on inside-out.

Pull the fabric to your desired fit, and start pinning. You need to pin both seams on the sides - going all the way up the length of the shirt.

In order to avoid any bunching, you need to make a continuous seam from the sides to the sleeves. If you are not taking in the sleeves at all, just sew up around the armpit and taper off until you meet the existing arm seam. If you are taking your sleeves in, keep pinning to the end of the sleeve.

Carefully remove the inside-out/newly pinned shirt from your model, being careful to not scratch his face with the pins.

Because when you do that? He doesn't like it. At all. And WILL complain loudly.

[Cough*wuss*cough.]

Then sew a straight line from the bottom of the shirt up to the sleeves, again, tapering off as necessary. Because he didn't want to take the sleeves in (you know, to accomodate those large, manly biceps), I simply tapered my seam until it met the existing arm seam.

Before cutting off the excess fabric, try the shirt on (right side out this time) to make sure it is a good fit. If you need to take it in a little more, you can. If you took it in too much, you can unpick the seams and start again.

Then carefully, OH SO CAREFULLY, cut off your excess fabric.

Be sure your shirt is not bunched up underneath, or you will cut a large hole in the shirt. And it might happen to be the expensive dress shirt that was your husband's favorite. The one he loved more than all the other shirts. And there will be no repairing it. And you will feel terribly guilty. And he will feel terribly sad.

Not that I'd know anything about that, ahem.

JUST. BE. CAREFUL.

And that's it! Takes less than 10 minutes to do, and saves you oodles of money at the tailor. Which then leaves more money for shoes. Yay!

It works great for women's shirts, too.

Especially if you happen to be smaller-waisted and larger-chested like me. In order to find shirts to fit me in the chest, they are often baggy and big at the waist. Drives me insane.

Enter the self-tailoring.

I bought this tank top at Ann Taylor Loft and fell in love with the ruffly flowers and beading. See? Look how adorable:

Only problem was, all they had left on the rack was a size L, which was too big for me. Rather than walking away from the store in despair, I bought it, knowing how easy it would be to tailor the shirt myself.

Here is the before:

Notice how baggy the fabric is at the waist (and chest). Not a good fit. Made me look larger than I actually am - something I avoid like the plague.

And here is the after:

So much better, right?

I do this now to any shirt that doesn't fit well. If I find something I love on the rack in a store, that maybe is too big in some spots, I buy it anyway, take it home, and fix it right up. Works like a charm.

Now it's your turn. What can you teach me how to do? Type the link to your post in our Mr. Linky here, grab a button from my sidebar, and play along. We all have something we can do. Let's share it.

How-To Tuesday: The launch party begins in two days

2011-03-06T14:22:00.006-06:00

While ~~pondering life thoughtfully~~ doing the dishes this weekend, I was struck with a genius idea.

So great in my mind was this idea, that had I been a cartoon, there would have been an actual light bulb in the air above my head.

And it would have definitely been switched on.

Besides my plans for world domination, peace in the middle east, and creating the pill that magically burns fat, this might have been one of my greatest ideas.

What was my genius inspiration, you ask?

This:

It's our new project: How-to Tuesday.

(And by our, I do mean yours and mine.)

What I propose is this: Every Tuesday, we all write a how-to post. It doesn't have to be complicated or long. It doesn't have to take hours of your time or include award-winning photography (but certainly could, if that's your thing).

Some possible topics could be: How to travel on a plane with a toddler. How to make your own curtains. How to host a party. How to decorate on a budget. How to teach your children to eat without leaving a large pile of crumbs on the floor.

(Anyone? Anyone have an answer for that one? No? Crap.)

Whatever your skills, ideas, or know-how, this is the place to share them. I will put up a Mr. Linky and we can all pop around the web and read each other's how-to posts. And, if the tutorials on the internet have led me correctly, I might even have a button for you to grab and put on your own blog.

I know. I'm the gift that keeps on giving.

And at the end of the day, we will have learned something we didn't know before. We will have shared with a stranger our wisest ideas. We will have visited a new blog or two, and maybe even made a friend. It will be almost as good as the fat-burning pill I long for daily.

So let's start it this Tuesday, shall we? Be thinking of your post, get it on your blog Tuesday sometime, and link up with our very first inaugural How-To Tuesday party.

I can't wait. I need your mad skillz in my life.

Please play along, won't you?

All she needs now is juicy shorts and a tramp stamp

2011-03-02T12:29:00.001-06:00

As I ~~whined about~~ mentioned last week, the Husband was gone on a six-day ski bender. Two states, countless runs down the mountains, and a couple of very sore legs later, he staggered in the door with a smile on his newly-scruffled face.

Once the children had let go of their manic death grip on his legs, he pulled out the souvenirs. Tee-shirts for everyone (myself included). The boys snatched theirs up and ran to try them on.

For us girls, he had two shirts - both the same size - and said that Hannah and I could decide between us which one we wanted.

[Pause for interjection: Obviously, I am not a child size 7, nor will I attempt to squeeze myself into one. The shirt for Hannah will be a little big. Just clarifying in case you had me confused with Kate Moss. Or Hugh Hefner's girlfriend(s). Now back to our story.]

Hannah, whose favorite color this week happens to be blue, took the blue one. Not really caring which one I got, I happily agreed.

And then I read the shirts.

Here is the black one (rejected by Hannah on the basis of color alone):

Aaaaand, the blue one. Her shirt of choice:

Seriously. I tried to tell her what a cute pajama shirt it will make, and her eyes welled up with tears. "Why? Why can't I wear it to school?"

Why, indeed.

I know she doesn't get it, but her teachers certainly will.

And once again, I have become THAT mother. Yay me.

Stie has gone global. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

2011-03-01T11:14:00.007-06:00

Hello, peeps. Can I just say thanks? Thanks to all of you who played along in our little mapping game. It was so fun for the kids and I all weekend. They rushed over to the computer every time it made the little 'ping' letting us know there was a new comment. Made the days go by so much faster.

And, hello? Some of you get to live in just about the best places ever. I am highly jealous. I would love to live in a little fishing town in Scotland. Or Denmark. Or Australia.

Heck, on this cold day, I'd happily take California.

I am highly intrigued by the reader living in Qatar, however. In my ignorance, it sounds positively terrifying. And the reader in Singapore! Sounds very exotic.

But maybe the grass isn't greener. Maybe you wake up in your respective cities, bored, tired, hungry, and head off to work. Or you grit your teeth and clean up spilled milk, wishing desperately to be somewhere else. Somewhere really exciting like Missouri.

Nah. Pretty sure your lives are awesome.

Anyway, here is the rundown, with the states highlighted in white having no commentors. Clearly, I am not loved in the Dakotas. Or that big chunk that runs down through Arkansas.

As you can see, I am represented by you fine people elsewhere though. I am highly adored by the good people of Utah, with California a close second. Ironically, no one from my own state of Missouri commented, though theoretically I have friends and peeps here. I'm pretty sure a few of my real-life friends read. But maybe not? Maybe I'm not as cool as I think I am.

Oh well. At least I'm loved in Australia. And maybe one of the readers down there knows Hugh Jackman? If you see him, tell him to call me.

Anyway, thanks for keeping us busy and entertained on what could have been an otherwise hard weekend. You are the best.

And if any of you have guest rooms and would like me to visit, just say the word. I'm just generous enough to impose myself upon you for weeks at a time.

Except Qatar. I'm slightly scared of things over in that neck of the woods right now. Matter of fact, Qatar, shall I ready my guest room for YOU?

**Updated to add: I misappropriated my Netherlands reader! So sorry - you mentioned being from Minnesota, and I put the tally there by mistake. I have people in the Netherlands! Woo!

Where in the world are YOU?

2011-02-25T14:37:00.004-06:00

It's been a long week, peeps. The Husband had a business trip, followed by a little ski vacation with his brothers. I begrudge him neither - that man continuously bends over backwards to let me go play with my girls. He lives to ski, and I am thrilled he gets to do it.

However, it will leave us home this weekend without him.

Which is hard.

The weekdays without him? We are used to that. We're pros, actually. But the weekends? The weekends are all about him. We rally around him, bask in his laughter, and make the most of our family time together. Friends are told no, phones are turned off, and emails are left unanswered. To say that we all live for the weekends would be a huge understatement.

If the weather were better this weekend, I might not feel so forlorn. But old man winter has reared his ugly head once again, and I find myself a wee bit melancholy.

So do me a solid, will you? Drop me a comment, tell me where in the world you are. Just your city and state. Or country. Or planet, if that's the case. I promise to not stalk you, send you anthrax, or demand you become my new BFF. I just thought it might be a fun little project this weekend for the kids and I to graph out the readers of this little old blawg. See where everyone is and map it out statistically.

Play along, won't you? Even if you hate to comment, indulge me this once? Pretty please?

How to be the hostess with the mostess

2011-02-23T09:41:00.006-06:00

I have made no secret amongst my family and friends how much I love having visitors. Maybe it's the excitement of showing off my city to visitors who've never been here. Or reconnecting with loved ones that we haven't seen in a while.

Quite possibly it's the week-long manic cleaning fest I engage in when I know guests are coming.

Whatever the reason, it's something we all look forward to.

And because I am ~~bored~~ awesome, I am going to share some of my hosting secrets with you.

I know. Try to contain your excitement.

In our current home, we are fortunate enough to have two extra bedrooms that we use as guest rooms. We've not always been so lucky (I'm talking to you, tiny townhouse in San Diego! And you, two-bedroom apartment in Boston!) but we are thrilled to be able to offer guests their own bedroom and bathroom now.

When we've not had lodgings to spare, we've kicked children out of their rooms, scoured every surface in bleach, and put guests in there. A key for happy visitors is not having to share a bunk bed with your three-year-old who is having night terrors. Privacy is a must. If you simply can't spare the space, offer to sleep on the hideaway in the living room, and put the guests in YOUR room.

Remember, they've come a long way and likely spent a pretty penny to get there. Make them feel welcome and comfortable.

Extra towels are a MUST. I always stock the guest bathroom with fresh towels, and put a stack of extras at the foot of the bed. I can't think of anything that grosses me out more than using a towel after someone else - be it my own husband, children, or otherwise. Towels cost only a few dollars at Wal-Mart or Target. Plus? When your guests leave, you have new towels to add to your own rotation, as well.

One trick I learned on my first visit to Casa de Gabi was the guest basket. I loved having one of my own at her place, and have never let a guest sleep in my home without one since.

The contents vary by visitor and my anticipation of their likes/needs, but the gist is the same. Magazines, snacks, water bottles, and spare toiletry items. You know never what you'll forget at home on a trip, and it's nice to have it on hand.

I also call each visitor a few days before their arrival and ask if there are any drinks/foods/snacks that they'd like me to pick up. My mother-in-law's drink of choice is far different from my own, and I know it makes her happy to find it waiting oh-so-cold in the fridge. If there are kids coming, what do they like for breakfast? What passes for a morning meal around here may not work for someone else's kids. Everyone is most comfortable when familiar foods abound.

Another thing I like to do is have a stack of recently-read books on the nightstand. I am not necessarily a book saver - if I've read it and liked it, I am happy to pass it on to the next person.

Plus? Maybe your guests are speed readers and have plowed through their 18 books on the plane or in the car. (No, Daniel, I'm not talking to you. I realize you're barely literate). But it's always a nice treat to have a new book to read or put on your list to be read next.

Lastly, be prepared with fun ideas in various price ranges for sight-seeing. Your guests have not likely prepared an itinerary of every local spot they want to hit. They are relying on you to know the best restaurants and sights to see in YOUR city. Have ideas ready so you're not spending half a day trying to decide what to do.

So, now I just have to ask, who is going to come visit next? Your room is all ready...

It's too early in the morning to buy a gun

2011-02-21T10:52:00.007-06:00

This morning, it being a holiday and all, I was ecstatic to sleep in.

At a quarter to eight, I felt my bed jiggling and heard the whispers.

"Is she awake yet?"

"No. Not yet."

"Is she alive?"

"Yeah, she's breathing. Just not awake."

"Dangit!"

I cracked a wary eyelid to find my boys' faces a mere three inches from mine, studying my every move, searching for any signs of life.

"She's awake!" they shouted in unison. I reached blindly for my glasses, looked at the clock, and wearily dropped my head back onto the pillow. I groaned and wondered silently if it was legal to sell kids on Craig's List.

"Mom, can we go to the store? Dad said I could spend my money on a new airsoft gun and I have the money. Can we go now? Let's go to the store. Pleasecanwegotothestorerightnow?"

Apparently, the Husband had given him permission to buy yet another massive piece of deadly machinery.

I acquiesced, trusting that the Husband knew what he was doing. I threw on my sweatpants (breaking my hard and fast rule of never going out undressed) and drove to the sporting goods store. Tragically, weapons of this magitude require an 18-year-old to purchase them, so I was forced out of the car and into the store against my will. The boys practically ran through the store to the gun section, and before I could catch up to them, were running back to the register, gun in hand.

Once home, it took some serious work to get it out of the package. Both brains nearly exploded with glee when it finally came loose from the plastic. The aim was tested and ammunition loaded. I think they would have gladly fired a few test shots at my leather sofa had I not been there to intervene.

The backyard is a much better alternative, don't you think?

Apparently, acting as a chauffeur for their weapons acquisition is enough to make me "like seriously the best mom ever!"

I think, however, I share Hannah's sentiment on the matter:

{Yawn} Can I go back to bed now?

To my real valentine

2011-02-14T19:28:00.009-06:00

A Recipe for Happiness

Take one tow-headed little boy:

And one farmer-tanned little girl:

Wait about 20 years, then mix in some awkward dancing, hand-holding, and head-over-heels falling:

Combine it with a ring, a nervous proposal, and lots of kissing:

Mix gently with an early morning wedding, newlywed bliss, grad school, and several cross-country moves:

Let it simmer, bubble, boil, and cook for almost 17 years, and you will have this:

Thanks, baby.

Thanks for loving me in spite of the very hideous perm years. And the pink gravy I made in our first apartment. And the pregnancy rage.

Thanks for helping me see what you see when you look my way.

Thanks for three beautiful children who are, as it happens, turning out to be quite a lot of fun.

Thanks for getting on planes very early in the morning, multiple times per week, and working into the wee hours so that I don't have to.

Thanks for not complaining when I am less productive than I should be.

Thanks for holding my hand, letting me cry, and hugging me tight this past year. I would never have made it without you.

Thanks for loving me anyway.

I totally get it now

2011-02-10T14:04:00.005-06:00

A few weeks back when I delighted you all with the smutty details from the dream, many of you wrote in and said your night-time fantasy man was Hugh Jackman.

I wrinkled my nose and judged you to be insane.

All I could conjure when that name was said was this less-than-stellar image:

Gross, right?

But then my friends Mindy, Beckie, and Shilo staged an intervention and tried to convince me otherwise. Mindy suggested several You Tube videos of Hugh hosting the Tony Awards.

Beckie dropped off the movie "Australia" and demanded I watch it.

Shilo told me (for the millionth time) that I was just plain crazy.

And lo and behold, what do you think I discovered?

Oh, yes. I get it now. He has quickly moved to the top of a very short list of men I wish to be given in my next life. He can sing, dance, and break a wild stallion in the outback. He grows a fierce man beard and is tall enough that I think it would work out between us. In fact, I think we make quite the handsome couple, don't you?

Hello, Drover...

Yes. Apart from my hideously awkward Kidman-esque skin tone, I think we are quite striking together.

But, alas, there is also my other boyfriend. The first boyfriend. The one I will love from now until the end of time. And the one that belongs to me. So don't even think about it.

Don't worry, Darcy. You will always have a special place in my heart. Even while I'm off in the outback with my newest boy toy.

What's that, James? You had something to say?

I know, Pookie. Don't be angry. You know they can't help it. I'm just too attractive to resist.

Oh...coconut cake, the beach and a very hot man all in one place? It's the ultimate trifecta.

However will I choose?

On humor and cannibals

2011-02-09T06:00:00.005-06:00

The other day I had a very memorable conversation with Chase. It went a little something like this:

Me: Ha ha hee hee ha ha ho!

Him: Hey, Mom, what's so funny?

Me: I'm just reading a really funny blog post.

Him: Is it about man-eating sharks or cannibals filled with bacteria?

Me: Umm, no.

Him: Oh. [Shoulders shrug in disappointment]

Although, had I been reading a post about either of those topics, I'm sure it would have been hilarious.

Something about an apple? Not falling too far from...what was it exactly?

2011-02-08T06:00:00.005-06:00

A few days ago, while driving in the car to church, the boys were bickering and competing with each other over highly controllable things like height and shoe size. Fed up with it, the Husband settled the debate for them with the following statement:

"Relax, boys. Your life is not a competition. But if it was? You'd both be losing to me anyway."

THAT, my friends, is exactly why I married him.