On Mondays, we build blanket forts.

Come to think of it, we build blanket forts on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, too.

And we use every blanket in the house, because nothing says GREAT FORT like THE SIZE OF ALASKA does.  The downfall to this is that our arm span isn’t exactly wide enough to fold all the blankets we use, so guess who does the folding?

And guess who UNFOLDS all the blankets to build a SECOND FORT twelve minutes after the first one has been picked up?

This is our lives now, people.

Colds And Coughs And Congestion And Closets

Someone posted on Facebook this morning that there are 93 days left until Christmas.  My first thought was, “Is this accurate?”  My second thought was, “WHO has time to sit down with the calendar and count this up?”  Because that person?  I would like them to come do some things at my house.

Namely, laundry.

Because what I don’t have time for is flipping the pages on my big kitchen wall calendar to count out how many shopping days are left.  I’m entirely too busy having anxiety about how we’ll actually PAY for Christmas, as well as WHAT DO YOU BUY AN EIGHTEEN YEAR OLD BOY AS A HOLIDAY GIFT?!  I mentioned this to the boy (the CAN YOU BELIEVE SOMEONE COUNTED THE DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS MANUALLY? and not the WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR CHRISTMAS, because I already know what he’s going to say:  a 1960 car that’s a total fixer-upper and doesn’t run, so I can let it sit in the driveway and talk about how cherry she’ll be some day soon), and he told me, “Mom…. There’s this thing called a computer, and I imagine if you asked Siri how many days between now and December 25th, she could spot-on tell you in two seconds.”

And this is why he’s getting scholarships for college.


Apparently there are 93 days left before Christmas morning hits us and sends us all straight to Credit Card debt, but what has ZERO DAYS LEFT before we reach it is COLD SEASON.  I’m not talking about the weather, because Small Town has had a moment of love for us and has decided to keep a gentle, warm fall rolling for a bit yet.  I’m talking about COLD colds.  The type that start out at 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon as a sore throat and then morph into a I MIGHT DIE NOW chest cold at midnight.

Yes.  ‘Tis the season, and I have partaken.  I am celebrating and embracing a lovely chest cold that has left me wanting to just lie down on the floor, because my bed is simply too far away.  I blame a friend of mine who kept texting me last weekend, proclaiming I HAVE A SORE THROAT, and I AM GOING TO THE STORE FOR ORANGE JUICE, BECAUSE I FEEL A BIG COLD COMING ON, and I HAVE SOME SINUS ISSUES HAPPENING NOW.  Even though I didn’t see this friend in person this week, I’m fairly certain that her germs went straight through the phone lines and crawled onto me.

(And another thing the boy would probably say?  “Mom, we don’t actually HAVE phone lines any longer.  We have cell phones and it’s nothing but cell towers and the age of being digital.”  WHATEVER!  I taught that child to use a spoon AND the toilet, which seem PRETTY BASIC, so he needs to cut me a moment’s worth of slack.  Grace.  It’s for all of us.)

(And now I’m wondering if I should show grace and mercy to my friend, and blame my second son for the chest cold that I’m in the throes of.  He did, after all, find a REALLY CLEAN TUBE OF CHAPSTICK THAT SMELLED JUST LIKE A DELICIOUS MILKSHAKE on the playground last week, and we all know the kid USED IT.  He probably kissed me with dirty milkshake Chapstick germs.)

Regardless of the chest cold that plowed into my immune system this weekend with the force of a space shuttle launch and left my voice sounding like a six-packs-a-day smoker, it was all THE SHOW MUST STILL GO ON, because MOM STATUS.  So… I gutted our walk-in closet.

Our walk-in closet has been the stuff that the producers of the Hoarders TV series would love to get their hands on.  Every manner of clothes we no longer wear was shoved in there, along with shoes that have seen better days, and the boy’s Halloween costume from a decade ago.  And if you think it was all hung up and placed on the shelves NEATLY, then you grossly underestimate the Jedi family.  I had two giant Hefty garbage bags of hand-me-down clothes for Thing 2 sitting on our closet floor, which the cat had dug into, in her effort to create a cave in the midst of size 6 T-shirts.  She’d managed to pull a good portion of those little boy clothes straight out of the open bag, so that she could have herself a nice bed to hide in.  I had enough dirty laundry on my closet floor to constitute an intervention, too.

“Hi, Mama.  Come on in and sit down.  We’re here because we CARE ABOUT YOU, and we are overly concerned with your inability to wash the dirty clothes in a timely manner for your family.  We say this in love, as we look at the fourteen loads you have on your closet floor, right now.  Let us help you.  Let us send you away, to a facility.  It’s quiet there.  There will be counseling sessions and gourmet dinners; you can stroll through the flower gardens, and you can focus on the hurts someone has caused in your life to keep you from washing clothes like a normal girl should.”

To this, I say, “Thank you,” and also, “Where do I sign the paperwork?”  Because a lovely estate with lush gardens and casseroles for dinner that someone else made sound wonderful.

So yes.  THAT is how I spent my sick weekend.  I wasn’t in bed, as any husband would have done.  I was upright, mentally yelling at all the kids in my PE classes who came to school last week with coughs and snot, as I created a mess in my bedroom that rivaled the fall of an entire empire by air-dropped bombs.  I had pulled everything OUT of my closet.  By then, it was too late to quit, because WHERE WILL WE SLEEP TONIGHT?!  THE BED IS PILED HIGH WITH THE FALLOUT AND DEBRIS OF THIS PROJECT.  So, I kept going.

And the washing machine kept going.

And the Sudafed kept trying to work.

All the blesses.

The payoff is that I now have a walk-in closet that could actually be labeled by a realtor as A WALK-IN CLOSET.  It’s no longer THIS SPACE WHERE YOU STEP ON EVERY MANNER OF CLOTHING TO GET WHAT YOU WANT.  I have a bare, hardwood floor now, and, people, I swept it clean yesterday.  We have shelves with some space.  We have rods that aren’t crammed full of hangers and wrinkled clothing we haven’t worn since the Reagan administration.

Plus?  CLEAN LAUNDRY.  You know… until these heathens all decide they want to disrobe tonight and wear pajamas, as they toss today’s outfits into the hampers.

The punks were kind of cute today, so I snapped their pictures, before I sent them all out the door to church this morning, as I said, “Mama needs to lie down with her cough for seventeen seconds before the dryer tells me it’s time to fold more clothes.”

It doesn’t take a CSI:  Small Town detective to come to the conclusion that the little one had just washed his hands seconds before his mother snapped this picture.

Yep.  That’s water on the shirt.  Why use a hand towel, when you have a perfectly good T-shirt on?

And the bigger punk?  Well, listen.  He’s going to have to stop hanging out with the cute neighbor boy, because the cute neighbor boy is now labeled as A BAD INFLUENCE.  He challenged the two of them to NOT SHAVE UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

Hmm.  Apparently that’s 93 more days without a razor.

I am not a fan of the beards, and I am REALLY not a fan of one attempting to grow on my baby’s chin as wispy stubble, because then I have to admit that he’s now a MAN.  I offered him $20 in cold, hard, laundered cash to shave it all off this morning, before those whiskers really get out of hand and people mistake him for a relative from the Duck Dynasty family.  He grinned and said, “Ninety-three more days, honey!”I told him, “Then I don’t even have to worry about what to buy you for Christmas, because I don’t buy gifts for beards.”

In reality, I think I’ll just give this child the gift of a LIFE SKILL, and teach him how to use the washer and dryer.  We have 93 days to learn the art of NO REDS WITH WHITES and DAWN DISH SOAP IS YOUR MIRACLE HELPER IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM.

Y’all have a good Sunday.



We May Catch The Plague, But Our Lips Will Be Smooth

Every afternoon, when I pick Thing 2 up from school, I ask him, “What was something awesome that happened at school today?”  And every day — one hundred percent of the time –– that little man tells me something that happened at recess.  In his world, AWESOME can’t  happen at school, if it’s not happening on the playground, because WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE WHO MAKE ME SIT STILL AND READ WORDS?!

Today was no different.  He loaded up into the car in the school parking lot, and chucked his backpack and lunchbox into the back, with nary a care in the world as to what homework assignments he might be bending up.  I got into the driver’s seat and asked, “What was something awesome that happened today?”

And he replied, “Well… at recess today I found a tube of Chapstick, and it was practically brand new.”

Do you know that sinking feeling mother’s get in the pits of their stomachs, when their sons are drafted for war?  It also happens at times like these, when they have potentially been exposed to germs.  You can bet your very last dollar that the sound that I emitted was a SCREECH, as I asked, “YOU DIDN’T USE IT, DID YOU??!!”

But, in my heart, I already knew.

Thing 2 said, “Well… I… um… I SMELLED it, Mom.  I smelled it for a long time, and it smelled delicious.  It smelled like a milkshake.  And don’t even worry, because I looked at it really good, and it was a CLEAN tube of Chapstick.”

And I screeched again, “Did… you… USE IT???!!!  DIDYOUUSEIT, DIDYOUUSEIT, DIDYOUUSEIT???!!!!!!”

“Just a little, Mom.  But remember?  I said it was CLEAN!”

I don’t know why tranquilizers for mothers during the parenting years aren’t sold as over-the-counter products.  I would have bought THREE of them this afternoon, because YES!  My kid used a CLEAN Chapstick that he found on the playground, that smelled like delicious milkshakes!


Once I recovered from the shock of that, we had a snack… and then we went to Thing 2’s soccer game.


The wind blew at hurricane levels, even though we are not in hurricane territory.  It was a biting wind, that let us know that our four days of glorious fall weather could break at any moment and turn into a raging blizzard, the likes of which even the residents at the senior center can’t remember ever seeing before.  The thing about Small Town is that we have six days of spring, followed by a blistering summer, and then we have five days of fall, which is chased off by the onset of winter, winter, winter.

And all that cold winter blowing in will probably end up chapping our lips, but listen!  I know where there’s a perfectly CLEAN tube of Chapstick.

And the bonus?  It smells just like delicious milkshakes!

Golfing With The Boys

High school golf is over.

This means that we no longer have to set our alarms, so that we can get the boy on a 5 AM bus for a golf tournament.  The joy I feel about THAT is equivalent to the joy one would feel when she has an ingrown toenail cut out by the foot doctor.  It just feels better instantly, as the pain evaporates, doesn’t it?  But then the boy threw a monkey wrench into our second day of Golf Freedom, when he announced last night, “I’m meeting some kids at the coffee shop at 6:30 AM.  It’s Jake’s birthday, and we’re all going for bagels.”

So there was THAT to get through this morning, which turned out fine, because I had to teach PE at 8:15 today anyway.  And?  For the record?  I think Jake needs to reconsider things for his next birthday, and just invite everyone out for 6:30 PM pizza.

But yes.  The boy finished up his fall golf season this last weekend, with a trip to state golf.  He played some of his best golf ever there, over the course of three full days, but he didn’t manage to snag a trophy.  No matter.  His mama loves him anyway, and she clapped like a raging lunatic every evening when he texted her his daily golf score.

And frankly, I am thrilled that golf practice is no longer a real thing at our house, because we are all four back at our dinner table.  Between working fifty to fifty-five hours every week at the golf course AND THEN practicing golf after school, the boy became a stranger around here this summer.  I felt like I needed to put mints on his bedroom pillow and leave a card with our WiFi password on it on his nightstand, exactly like we would do for a guest who stayed with us.  We knew we HAD another son; we just never SAW him.  It has been perfectly lovely to have him at our dinner table again this week, sharing about his experiments in chemistry lab and giving us the lowdown on all of his teachers and classes.  Thing 2 has been fascinated with the lab stories, as he asks every night, “Did you blow anything up, Bubbie?  Did anything EXPLODE?!”  And then Thing 2 kind of holds his breath in excited anticipation, because a giant explosion, involving fireballs the size of Chevy Suburbans, is kind of his love language.

But lo!  Not long before school started, the boy and Thing 2 and I all went golfing together, which is to say the boy and Thing 2 golfed, while I rode in the golf cart with them and sipped my lemonade.  We had such a fun time, just the three of us together, hanging out.

Thing 2 has the most interesting golf swing in the entire world.  We’ve decided that what this child plays is a cross between golf, hockey, and ninja kickboxing.

The two of them were chatting, as they approached this green.

THING 2:  “What club would you use here, Bubs?”

THE BOY:  “My putter.”

THING 2:  “I don’t know, Bubbie.  I overshot the green again, and I’ve got one helluva putt coming up.  Is this the type of golf course that frowns on you smacking the ball with a baseball bat?  I need to get a little distance here, or I’ll never make par.”

Afterward, we joined Hubs at his favorite restaurant for lunch, which is the gas station.  Yes… you read that right.  Hubs’ favorite place to eat in town is inside the gas station, where they serve a mean chili dog and grape Slushie.  I believe the term you’re looking for is HIGH CLASS and also REFINED and maybe even THEY MUST VACATION ON NANTUCKET FOR THE SUMMER, IN THEIR VINEYARD VINES SHIRTS.  Clearly, we are your people, and others want to be us.

This went down as a powerfully fine day, minus the fact that Thing 2 had a hard shell taco at the gas station (because taco?  Cheeseburger?  Mini pizza?  Nachos with liquid cheese?  Chili dogs?  They have something for everyone there!), and he wiped his greasy hands on my shirt by mistake.  This shirt is now considered to be my WORK OUTSIDE shirt, as well as my CAMP ON THE MOUNTAIN shirt.


Y’all have a happy Wednesday evening.


Spilled Coffee, Spilled Mascara And Lego Trains

My PE schedule changed this year.  Since the dinosaurs roamed the earth, my first PE class has started at 9:15.  I took this for granted with two kids, because I could get everyone up and out the door by 7:45, and then I could breathe a sigh of relief.  I had plenty of time to take my own shower and sip my own cup of coffee in all the silence left behind, after the exodus of the children, and I was never crazy.

This year, I agreed to take a PE class at 8:15.

I know.

I have no idea what I was thinking either.

So now I basically run around the house like a hyper squirrel with a Mountain Dew IV drip on the days that I teach, as I get all the stuff done.  I make the lunches; I set out the breakfasts.  I make sure Thing 2 doesn’t look completely homeless with his daily wardrobe choice.  I rush myself through the shower, and I rush through the application of mascara.  (I’ve learned that this rushing during mascara time is usually a terrible choice, because last week I stuck myself in the eyeball with the mascara wand, and this week I dropped the wand down my face, so that a black trail commemorated the fall.)  I have decided that I have no idea how working mothers get everyone out the door by 7:45.  Who are these women?  Do they get up at 3 AM to accomplish everything that needs to be done before they leave?  I stand in awe of any woman who successfully pushes children and husbands and herself straight out of the front door before the bells toll eight.  As for me and my household, we are going to have to revisit the morning schedule for my PE days, because we are turning into a wide pot o’ crazy over here.

This morning, the boy wanted soft boiled eggs for breakfast, because we have just recently learned how to make them.  Oh, I’ve been able to boil eggs successfully for at least a couple of years now, but last month I saw a recipe for THE SOFT BOILED EGG, which was then dropped onto HOT BUTTERED TOAST, and I said to myself, “I think the party is right there.”  So I  made them one morning (one SUMMER morning, when nobody had to be anywhere on time, except for Hubs, who is fairly independent).  They were delicious.  The following morning, I made them for the boy, because the boy is in love with fried eggs, where the yolk runs free and spreads all over the plate.  He has never been a fan of the BOILED egg, because… well... the yolk is solid.  So, I was fairly certain he’d love this new recipe (*wink wink*).  I made them, and it was true:   The boy rose up, and he called me blessed among mothers.  He complimented me AT LEAST three dozen times on how wonderful his eggs were that day, and then he asked me for “the recipe.”

I simply told him, “It’s a boiled egg that doesn’t stay in the water as long.”


Six and a half minutes, in a pot of boiling water, and there you are, people.  Go ahead and thank me now, if this changes your life, because it will change your life FOR THE BETTER.

We have eaten our weight in boiled eggs at the Jedi Manor lately, because soft boiled eggs and hot buttered toast are better than Christmas morning.  Even Hubs has gotten on board with them, which is nothing short of miraculous, because Hubs has always been opposed to ANY egg with a mushy yolk.  If the yolk isn’t pale yellow and hard as a golf ball, Hubs turns up his nose and walks away, commenting that anyone who touches it will develop salmonella.

But one morning, he looked at the boy’s plate of soft boiled eggs and announced, “Those look good.”


… DUH.

And that’s how I have come to be the egg-boiler in the mornings.  Everyone wants one, except Thing 2, who would rather be stabbed through the gut with a rusty sword than be in the same room with an egg.


This morning, there was a lot of rushing and a lot of me yelling out, “Hurry!  Everyone!  Please!  Just… HURRY UP!!”  So… you know… a USUAL sort of work morning for me.  Hubs made me a cup of coffee, because he’s still the romantic man I married, twenty-three years later.  I ran with my coffee to the bathroom, because I had a date with a mascara wand that was going to fall down my face and leave a black trail of horror on my cheek, but FIRST!

FIRST… I had to open the medicine cabinet to get the toothpaste…

… and I knocked a prescription bottle of old eye drops out of the cabinet.

That bottle of eye drops fell straight to its death…

… in my coffee cup.

It landed much like a six year old demonstrating the belly flop at a local neighborhood swimming pool, so… AS YOU’D EXPECT… coffee was displaced (Do you like my smart science term there?!).  It basically exploded out of my cup like a raging volcano, spraying beige-colored coffee and cream all over everything within a twenty-six foot radius.

I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy… down in my heart!”

I had to do some happy singing, before I cried over spilled cream and coffee.

And then I got myself to school, and I was even on time, which was a stunning revelation, considering that I had to clean mascara off my face and coffee off of everything and cook runny boiled eggs.

So now… we play catch-up on the blog, because I have been a negligent blogger, but we talked about that last night.

Long before school started… long before we cut the curls off, at Thing 2’s insistence… our second son decided to work toward earning a Lego train set.  I know that YOUR KIDS are all perfect and adorable, so they’d NEVER need to correct certain behaviors, using a reward system, but we found ourselves smack in the middle of that territory.  So… I bought the coveted Lego train set and a package of neon garage sale stickers.

On days when Thing 2’s behavior choices were pleasing unto me, he got to put a sticker on the box.

And when he had accumulated enough stickers, the Legos were his.

I have never seen such a willing student, who was determined to change, because TRAINS and LEGOS are his love languages.  This was the pinnacle of everything that could make Thing 2 happy in life.  We had a couple of weeks of GLORIOUSLY WONDERFUL BEHAVIOR, and Mama was happy.  And Thing 2 was happy, as well, because every neon dot was one day closer to building that train set.

And then…

… it happened.

He had collected enough sticky dots, according to our notarized contract and legal terms.

He set up shop in the living room, which is Grand Lego Building Central at our house.  This insures that there are ALWAYS plenty of Lego pieces for us to find in the dark of the night, with our bare feet.


(On a side note, Thing 2 stepped on a Lego brick with HIS bare feet one day about two weeks ago, and bawled his pain to the heavens and the earth.  I felt a little sorry for him, but basically I just relished the chance to shout, “This is why I tell you to pick up the Legos!  Because I’m always the one who steps on them with MY bare feet, and NOW YOU KNOW!!!”  Fortunately, I said none of this, because I am a very mature parent.)

The little man built and he built and he built.

And then he built some more.

He studied instructions.

He cried when one section didn’t work out, and then he recruited his older brother to retrace his steps in the manual for him, until that eighteen year old had found the error.  Together, they dismantled one section and added the missing brick, which made everything line up right.

Big brothers are worth their weight in gold when it comes to Lego help.

By that afternoon, Thing 2 had a train.

And let’s just take a moment to look at those curls.


His mama begged to grow them long, but Thing 2 shut that dream down the week before 1st grade started.  He likes his hair SHORT… and the shorter, the better, as far as he’s concerned.

Which means that a shaved military haircut… at a military school… instead of a Lego set… might work out fine the next time we need to get rid of some unwanted behaviors!

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

That Little Faithful Blogger Of Yesteryear

Once upon a time, there was a girl who wasn’t very good at scrapbooking.  It probably had a lot to do with the fact that she wasn’t very good at crafts, because crafts made her need to sit down, with her back against a wall and her head hung between her knees, as she drew in long breaths of air to keep herself from hyperventilating.  (She hyperventilates easily, because she is dramatic, but that’s a story for another day.)  Oh, she WANTED to be good at scrapbooking, because all of her friends were diligently using those crimped scissors to make scalloped edges on THEIR photos, to perfectly preserve their trip to Cancun and the arrival of their new Golden Retriever and the time when their kid was five and lost his first tooth.  She wanted to have a fully-finished scrapbook, too, to whip out at dinner parties and declare, “It was nothing.  Just four hundred and seven hours of labor with the glue stick and $14,000 spent on fancy paper and stickers.”

But the truth is, she gave up on scrapbooking because when her boy was five, she had completed the first four months of his life on acid-free scrapbook pages.  There they were, in all of their full-color glory, with every manner of fancy paper involved.  Four entire MONTHS.  She had documented his birth.  She had documented the first night he slept in his crib.  She had documented the first time he had a bath and the first time he ate baby food and the first time his grandparents held him.  But… the boy was FIVE YEARS OLD, and she was behind enough to make her OCD personality need a nerve pill.  And that’s when it dawned on her:  cutting pictures into fancy circles and asking the Lord for a vision on the layout style for her pages (that would impress the world and get her into scrapbooking magazines) was so time consuming, she would never catch up.

And that’s how the boy became a nine-year-old, who was tall enough for the third grade, and the scrapbook still sat in a basement box with no pages to turn after the page celebrating LOOK!!  HE IS FOUR MONTHS OLD NOW!

So she started blogging, because blogging was all the rage, and WAHOO!!  There is no glue involved and no glittery stickers to worry about!  So while her husband was on a business trip, that girl who was every bit as good on a computer as Martha Washington was, started a blog with nary a second’s help from the husband.

Because he was out of town.

She texted the blog link on her old flip phone, when texting took two minutes for five words, to the man she loved and said, “Look what I have done!”

And that husband texted her back and said, “I am so proud of you,” because emojis didn’t exist yet, so he had to use real words instead of his favorite THUMBS UP picture.  And then he came home from his business trip with a book entitled BLOGGING FOR DUMMIES, which she immediately devoured, because WHAT ON EARTH HAD SHE GOTTEN HERSELF INTO?  But, lo!  She was committed, and she faithfully blogged five nights a week, come the first frost in Hell or high waters in Small Town.  She was determined that this blogging endeavor would not be like the scrapbooking hobby.

And it went on and on for years.  The boy grew.  He lost more teeth.  He grew his hair long; he cut his hair short.  He turned ten and then thirteen and… yes!  Even eighteen!  He got a frog for a pet, he had Nerf gun wars with his friends.  He hosted sleepovers with his buddies; he went to prom.  He got a little brother.  The girl got older, and so did her husband, and there she was… still blogging like it was HER JOB.  Look, everyone!  She had quit scrapbooking and she had quit step aerobics and she had quit her George Foreman grill, but SHE HAD NOT QUIT BLOGGING!!

The little brother grew up.  He ate baby food; he crawled.  He lost teeth; he went to kindergarten.  She recorded it all, right there on the World Wide Web, just like it was her digital scrapbook.  She wanted to write a post about how he slept through the night, but that never happened, because she had taken so much pride in how well her firstborn slept, the Good Lord told her to settle down and see what life was like underneath of her pride, where her second child stayed awake more hours than he didn’t.

And then somewhere along the line, during Hell’s trifecta of great hotness, when it was June, July and August in Small Town and she was sweating like a pink pig the week before Easter, she let a few nights slip on the blog.

And then she let a few more nights slip on the blog.

She was tired.  The younger son was always awake.

The laundry piled up like fourteen people were living in her house and taking all their clothes off for showers.  She wondered how four people could generate so much laundry, and how she could get it to stop.  She suggested they all pick a favorite outfit and wear it for an entire week, but… even though she lived with nothing but menfolk who don’t put too much stock in smelling fresh… they declined her suggestions.  They continued changing clothes frequently.  The laundry baskets grew heavier and heavier, until she wanted to cry.

So… she let a few more nights slip on the blog, because she was waist-deep in mounds of freshly washed socks and T-shirts that all had to be folded, and she was living in a time when she considered getting up at 5:30 on a Saturday morning with the little man as SLEEPING IN.

And then there was dinner.  Every single night, they all wanted to eat, and it was so hot, and she was still folding laundry, so WHY COULDN’T THEY MAKE CAP’N CRUNCH IN A BOWL?!  Though they professed their love of cold cereal, they only wanted that in the mornings, like traditionalists.  In the evenings, they wanted meat and potatoes.  They wanted fruit.  They wanted noodles and sauces and fried this and sauteed that.  They wanted everything…

… except vegetables.

So she let a few more nights slip on the blog.

And then sometimes, when all the planets were lined up just right and the wind was blowing slowly out of the east, she and that husband would find a couple of minutes before the washing machine bells chimed to sit on their deck and drink pineapple rum mixed up right with frozen fruit.

So she let a few more nights slip on the blog.

And now… here it is… the middle of SENIOR YEAR and the FIRST STINKING GRADE, and she feels like she’s back at that old scrapbook page labeled FOUR MONTHS.

But, she is a feisty girl, who has been known to pull her act together before.  Even though she walks through the valley of the shadow of little sleep, she will try to blog.  Even though her sprinklers are currently broken and the lush greenness of her front lawn is being threatened by NO DRINKS THIS WEEK, KENTUCKY BLUEGRASS… and even though the husband keeps sending her to the basement to turn handles on water pipes, but she accidentally turns the handle on the gas pipe instead, because WHERE ARE THE DISTINCT LABELS?, she will try to blog better.  Even though the six year old is still a rotten sleeper… even though one of her cats has done an ungodly thing and… AHEM!… WET on her carpet and caused her to HATE CATS and want to SKIN CATS, because OH, HOLY MOTHER OF SCOOBY-DOO!! THE STENCH!!!… and even though the laundry pile is still obscene… and even though she still has to pack a lunch that follows the guidelines of GLUTEN-FREE AND ALSO DAIRY-FREE, but adheres to the term KID FRIENDLY, every single weekday morning… and even though someone at her house used a ballpoint pen to make superhero signs on a T-shirt that must be dealt with… and even though the toilet in her bathroom keeps running but seldom flushing… and even though she committed herself to helping teach Sunday School to first graders on Sunday mornings, FOR THE ENTIRE SCHOOL YEAR, even though this is not her spiritual gift… she will try to be more faithful at blogging.

Amen and selah.


Opening Game

Well… Thing 2 opened up his soccer season late this afternoon with five shots on the goal.

He hit the goal post three times.

He missed the goal by inches once.

And he was shut down by the defense on his last attempt to score a point for Team Red.

But… even though he didn’t score a goal this time around, our little man played soccer like a professional maniac tonight.  He was all over the field, kicking constantly and not really passing when he should.

I believe that would be… well... #ballhog.

After the game, the little fellow who brought snacks passed out tall plastic bottles full of bright red corn syrup, to celebrate Team Red’s win.  (Yes. We won, three to one.) Thing 2 cracked the top off that drink and slurped it down like a dying man in the desert, as he gasped, “My mom NEVER lets me have this stuff!  I don’t even care that I missed all my goals tonight, because we got RED DRINKS!!”

If that isn’t genuine happiness, then I don’t know what is!

Y’all have a good Wednesday evening.


All The Cool Girls Have Kids Like Mine


I’m new here.  (Clearly, because POST MUCH LATELY?!)

I’m just looking for the cool girls in the lunchroom.  And by cool girls, I mean the other moms who have had a woman stop them in the grocery store, while their backs were to the shopping cart and say, “Excuse me?  I’m a little worried about your child.”  Worried about my child?!  What?!  And then it became obvious, because LO!  There he was, in the cart behind me.  His feet were IN the shopping cart.  His hands were ON THE DIRTY GROCERY STORE FLOOR.  His body was pressed up against the end of the cart, obviously UPSIDE DOWN, as he hung there, attempting some trapeze experiment that other children aren’t brave enough to try.


And if that wasn’t enough to test the Jesus in me this week, then let me tell you this:  On Saturday night, we had a barbecue in our cul de sac.  Oh, it wasn’t THAT which tested the Jesus in me. THAT was all fun and wonderful, because who doesn’t love sitting in lawn chairs in the middle of your cul de sac, drinking strawberry daiquiris and eating pulled pork sandwiches and homemade potato salad with all your fun neighbors?  But later… when we were running well past our very-rigid bedtime schedule, Hubs and I successfully got Thing 2 to bed at 9:30.  It was the easiest bedtime in the history of all the bedtimes of non-sleeping children.  Brushed his teeth, put the jammies on, said his prayers, and boom!  Boyfriend was out cold, because a long week of first grade will do that to a young man.

But then Thing 2 got up at midnight.

And he went back to sleep at 5:30 AM.

Now, I’m not a math genius, but I can do the subtraction there and come up with the answer of THING 2 WAS AWAKE ALL NIGHT.


And THAT is what tested the Jesus inside of me.


… after a shaky start last night, because we were JUST TOO TIRED TO SLEEP (because that’s a real thing, people!  A real dadgum thing!)…

… we got Thing 2 asleep at 9:30, in the middle of the tears and the thirty requests for a glass of water…

… and then we had this:

It was glorious, and it lasted until 5:15 AM today, because WHY would it last any longer than that?!

So yes.  If you can direct me to the cool girls, who are also exhausted and have coffee and cream in oversized soup bowls, because a mug just isn’t big enough, that would be great!

Happy Monday, y’all.


Your. You’re.

Not all days are Pinterest days.

Some days are just messy.  They’re full of unmade beds and headaches and hurt feelings and cat barf on the floor and wet bath towels draped and left over wooden bed frames to rot.  They’re full of finding out there’s not enough half and half for a cup of coffee.  They’re full of lunch spilled on a shirt and little boy pee all over a toilet seat and coming out of the grocery store to discover that the car parked next to you parked THISCLOSE, so you have to get in your passenger door and crawl over your gear shift, to get to the driver’s seat.  They’re days filled with screams and tantrums and hair that didn’t turn out right in the morning and miniature spiders that bite you in the arm, while you’re standing outside, waiting for your kid to come out of his school.  (That tiny spider is dead, by the way, and I’m sad to say that I don’t believe he went to be with Jesus.)

Days like this are messy days, topped off with bad attitudes.

I’ve had one of those today, but then… tonight… I was slumped in the living room chair, mindlessly looking at Instagram and grumbling, while I used up all my energy, feeling sorry for myself, when I found THIS little gem:

I won’t lie… I laughed out loud.  The grammar nerd inside of me couldn’t help it.  (Of course, the punctuation nerd inside of me wanted to add some capital letters and a couple of periods, but I won’t gripe about that right now.)

Anyway… now I can end the day with a smile.

Clearly, it’s the little things in life…

Y’all have a happy Labor Day Weekend.

1st and 12th

And… here we go.

This morning, I sent them off to the first day of the 1st grade…

… and the first day of the 12th grade.

And right after I snapped these pictures this morning, I pretty much burst into tears, because of WELL, THAT’S OVER.  It was the LAST first day of school picture for the boy.  Pretty much, I’m going to need someone to rock me and pat my cheek and brush my hair this year, as I try to cope with how fast I know the next nine months are going to fly by, before graduation smacks us across the face.  I just want to frantically scramble around and attempt to put the sand BACK IN the hourglass this year.

But… I DO KNOW that these two boys are going to do big and bold and brave things this year, and I pray that it’s a fantastic year for both of them.