12-20-2010

12-17-2010

Oh. That's just not nice!

Funniest moment of the day.... Charles, working on his computer at the dinner table while the children are having snack...

"Oh... OH! Someone farted. Oh... That's just not nice!"

"...Sorry dad..." replied both BW and JB in unison with slightly red faces...

What THE…?!

Back in August, my post "Finding the pet in the peeve…" received the following comment:

"Perhaps if you didn't act like a simpering chick, even when you know you are, and putting up a front about not being one now, and don't really need to hear the answer because you know in your heart you are a stalking, psycho in huge denial about your intent with this friend...then you would find the real questions that need answered."

It was posted anonymously so I am unable to confidently identify who may have submitted it. I have a few ideas, but honestly, I would like to think that anyone who knew me would never use the words ‘stalking’ and ‘psycho’ when describing me and if they did it would be in a humorous moment or they would have the courage to let me know that was really how they saw me and why.

Granted the last six months have been a personal hell involving a series of one torturous life events after another and a person can handle only so much before they get a bit too close to the edge. Those I hold closest gave me the latitude I needed to work through the stresses, emotional pain and personal comprehension for the "Whys" of it all, and perhaps that is where these feelings arose but they were never conveyed to me.

I rejected the comment when I received it as it left me reeling and filled every fiber of my being with an overwhelming sense of shame, betrayal and hurt. Of course, to a casual observer it appeared as though I let it wash over me like rain on a duck's back, but deep inside I was shattered. Even now, whenever I hear the word 'stalker' or 'psycho', even in casual conversations between people as they walk by or as part of a script on a TV show, my ears are attuned to it and the shame and pain are renewed. Self confidence that took years to build was gone. It is only just now beginning to return.

I realized that in NOT publishing the comment, I was giving the individual who chose not to take ownership of their feelings more power than they deserve. In response, I'm not only publishing it, I'm addressing it head on and making it a post.

If, dear reader, you were the individual who made the comment, I would ask that you either leave another on this post, or send me a private email so that I can better understand what it was that caused you to write such angry and hurtful thoughts. I apologize if I wore out my welcome with you, but shame on you for posting those words without warning and without affording me the opportunity to defend myself. Communication is a good thing and many of the worlds problems and misunderstandings would be resolved if it were better practiced.

And if, for some reason, you feel that I am in fact the ‘stalking’ and ‘psycho’ person described in the comment, please respect me so much as to let me know so that I no longer burden you. And then, please fall back into your corner of the world and we'll go in our different directions.

And to be clear about my intents with the person the original post was about, they were simply for friendship. To share our life's experiences and stories about our families as they grow up. To suggest otherwise is to sully the boundaries of the relationship and disrespect not only the both of us, but our families as well. 

In general, I’m done saying I’m sorry. Those words have made far too many appearances in my relationships this summer and they are holding me and those I love back from healing. I’m ready to Live, Love and Laugh. In other words, I’m not postponing joy anymore. Sadness will always be a part of me in that AunTie won’t be here to share in life, but I’m certain that she’d rather see tears of laughter and life on my face than those of sorrow or shame.

Slowly but surely I am returning to my ‘old’ self and laughter is returning to the Olson household. A renewed sense of calm is returning to my being and a smile graces my face more often than not... just because.

09-29-2010

09-24-2010

Flotation Devices

We belong to a little pool here in town. I suspect that at one time it was part of an HOA, but once the neighborhood matured, the HOA disbanded, and the pool became it's own entity. Like an HOA pool, it's open only to members, but anyone who wants to can join - and it's been lovingly a 'summer home' for many, many families in our area. We've known about it for a long time, but it wasn't until this summer that we joined, as it seemed important for us to have a place to retreat to when the summer dull-drums came into effect or we needed to escape the heat.

It's been a fun experience, and one that I hope we participate in for years to come.

Over the course of the summer, a natural rhythm developed. At some part of the day, once class was over for the day and Charles returned to work, JB and BW would grow tired of each other's company and the bickering would begin. At that point, Mama grabbed a few snacks, the towels and computer, and off we'd head to the pool for a couple of hours of sun, fresh air and the kids could use their 'outdoor' voices while mama was able to get some homework done.

Oftentimes, BW's and JB's friends from school would be there and it was a lot of fun to see how the children would play amongst themselves and work out tense moments, misunderstandings and conflict. It was also amazing to see how quickly the kids adapted to the water, and turned into swimming fish almost overnight.

Perhaps the most memorable game they came up with involved a colossal alligator shaped inflatable raft upon which two or three children could ride. I'm not sure what the lifeguards thought the first time they heard BW and his buddy screaming "TITANIC!!!" at the top of their lungs as they tipped it over and swam under the thing splashing and screaming that they were sinking.

At first, Titanic easily held three 1st graders on it's back without thread of sinking and was immediately THE MOST POPULAR toy in the world, or so I was told by many mama's wondering a) where ever did we find such a thing, and b) how in the world did we fit it into my little car. (I drive an Escape, and it took some maneuvering to get it in there!)

From that first moment, we never again left for the pool without Titanic in tow, even after he sprang a leak and was no longer as buoyant... He was in fact even more popular once he wasn't as turgid since he was easier to tip, and far more likely to sink as they 'struggled' along resisting "THE TITANIC!!! AHHHH HE'S SINKING!!!!"

This last weekend was the last of the season. The pool is now officially closed after getting a late start due to cold weather and construction delays. Titanic retired to the recycle bin with a great deal of pomp and circumstance, reminiscing about how much fun he was, and many utterances that the pool would never be the same. The house had two very distraught, somber children.

Charles went shopping again. And somehow, from somewhere (he won't share) another box, filled with a plastic inflatable alligator silently appeared. Squeals of delight were heard from the Olson household.

It's pretty much guaranteed that next summer we will once again be toting along a worn and sagging alligator by the name of Titanic Too, as he was gleefully christened, and if you drive by our little community pool screams of "AHHH THE TITANIC'S SINKING!!!" may be heard.

That is, if they let us back in.

The forbidden fruit...

When you are a six year old who is learning about Johnny Appleseed at school, and there is an apple tree in the back yard... there is nothing more exciting than picking and shaking free every apple within reach from the tree on this, a crisp beautiful and sunny day and presenting them to the world around you as the ultimate gift.

Only. Well. We have an ornamental apple tree in the yard. And we don't spray for worms. And ... The apples are so tiny they resemble plums more than they do apples. But, BW and JB have more initiative than do most children their ages... so we were presented with baskets and baskets of little green apples.

After being hounded by two very excited and persistent children, who didn't want to see their apples and hard work go to waste, Charles and I peeled, cored, de-wormed, and sliced nearly five pounds of these tiny green apples. Tiny, green, hard, unripe projectiles.

Not willing to put all of the collective efforts to waste, we found a simple recipe for apple butter that called for enough sugar that it might, just might counter the tart nature of the green projectiles. The hard part was waiting the 17 hours that were needed to let the concoction cook down into a smooth and flavorful past that we could spread on toast or add to oatmeal or yogurt.

Surprisingly, after that deliriously long period of time, the concoction turned out to be a tasteful treat! One that we've all enjoyed and celebrated!

It was (and still is... there were a LOT of apples) a loving demonstration of "Teamwork!" as JB described it.

It's good to be back...

Dear Ambien...

Dear Ambien,

I'm sorry to have to do this, but I must. We are just not good for each other; you've been driving me crazy for the last several months. Literally. As in were it not for darling Charles asking me why I was so down when things were so good, I might not have been forced to reflect on our relationship.

Friendships have been strained or outwardly lost. Charles has endured, the children have suffered - all because you drive me crazy; literally, bat-shit over the edge thinking really bad long term and harmful thoughts. Sure, you help me 'reset' my sleeping habits when things are rocky for days at a time and I need to establish a better schedule, but the thoughts and moods that accompany you are just too much for anyone person to have to deal with. Too much that any one person who wants to live a healthy life should have to accommodate - much less those around them.

Sure, we haven't gone on any wild rides at night or emptied any refrigerators together, but having almost said goodbye to all those I hold near and dear... Well, I'm sure you will understand, but I need better friends who like to play much more nicely.

So, Ambien, I hope that you take no offense, but I won't be on anymore play dates with you, or visiting for hours on end. No, I think the break has been made and I'm better for it, and as wonderful as you may be for millions of others out there, I think I want to move on to greener pastures.

- Amy O.

09-15-2010

09-10-2010

One foot in front of the other...

This has been the longest, hardest summer of my life... and I hope, nay, I pray that I never have to go through anything like this again.

I've sooooo been looking for something funny, lighthearted and joyful to write about, to post, but the words fail to come.

Now that school has started and we are firmly entrenched in the regular ebb and flow of a routine, my mind and body have decided that it is time for me to begin the true, long and lasting process of grieving.

I've been able to avoid it thus far by making sure that everything associated with what was AunT's life is in order, taking care of two very active children over the summer while juggling a seriously challenging class and trying to decide what to do with my own future that I've been able to 'push it off' to another time (save for those moments when it was too much and I was forced to cry.) There are no more distractions.

But now, now I am in the process. The process of dreaming and reliving the calls that horrible morning. The process of remembering the echoes of the cries leaving my body when it became clear to me what I was being told on the phone.

This sadness, these feelings want out and until they are, I'll be 'stuck' in this place. And I'm tired of it. Tired of the wondering why, tired of the disappointment, the anger, and the waste of it. Tired of the inability to smile, laugh and take joy in the simple things. Tired of the overwhelming crushing weight of sorrow that follows me through the day and the tears that end the day.

I know and believe as the saying says, "Time heals all wounds". I'm just wondering how much time. I need to know that at some point I'll see my kids do something silly and be able to smile without the sensation of tears welling up. I need to know that at some point, food will again taste wonderful, and a glass of wine will be something to be enjoyed, not sought for comfort and it's numbing qualities.

I hope it is soon. We could all use a bit more of mama's joy and laughter after this summer.

When it rains, it pours

It has been forever since I've posted... It's not because I've forgotten or grown bored... no certainly not.

School recently started for most of us. This is the third week of school for BW and JB, and for me, this is the second week of classes. Charles is the lone man out, but he has his hands full covering the gaps and holding the reigns of chaos.

This semester is already going much better for me than did the summer one, even though I am taking four (really six) classes, and they are all chock full of online homework, paperwork, bookwork, tests and quizzes. Biology, Physiology and Chemistry are the subjects, and I'm excited about each one... well except for Biology... but every semester has to have one 'gem'. More on that later.

And, while I haven't been posting, I have been working on a few things between the flurry of classes. I'm looking forward to smoothing them out, adding a few finishing touches and posting them soon, I hope you are looking forward to reading them!

Finding the words

To Charles, on this our 17th anniversary.

I never get the words quite right, nor do I have the art of timeliness, but I have such an amazing love and respect for you.

Thank you for sharing this journey, this life with me no matter how many hills or valleys we’ve run across.

Thank you for sharing my days and nights.

Thank you for being the first person I see in the morning, the last one I see at night.

Thank you for your smiles, your humor, your warm touch.

Thank you for your optimism in times when I'm down.

Thank you for always seeing the bright side of situations.

Thank you for being the calm in my storm.

Thank you for being such a wonderful daddy and teacher, even when they drive you crazy.

Thank you for letting me be who I am, for supporting me and encouraging me when I didn't feel strong.

Thank you for holding me when I wasn't able to stand.

Thank you for supporting me even when I was wrong.

Thank you for listening to me, even when I made no sense.

Thank you for teaching me how to laugh, even at myself when I was too serious.

Thank you for being the only man who didn't break my heart after I said the words "I love you".

Thank you for your romance, your ability to find just the right words that make my heart melt.

Thank you for treating me like a queen, even when I didn’t deserve it.

Thank you for taking care of me, for loving me.

Thank you for being my other half.

Thank you for being you.

Thank you for all of our tomorrows.

Meeting in the Middle

Today Charles and I celebrate our 17th wedding anniversary. For the most part, they have been laid-back celebrations that involved watching "When Harry Met Sally", the movie that brought us together, cooking lots of seafood while drinking wine and listening to some of our favorite and memorable songs and reliving the highs and lows of years past and predicting what the next year will bring. It's a tradition that has become the soundtrack to our lives. Well, until we had children. Now of course, we never know what to expect when our anniversary rolls around.

The post-children years have been more chaotic, and quiet moments are harder to come by, but we still take an hour or so to celebrate, to have our "remember when" conversations and enjoy the places we've gone and the way that our lives together have turned out.

This year of course, will be remembered for BW's adventures in cliff diving. We are both tired and worn out from the adventure and the late nights of helping BW try and find a comfortable position to sleep in, that I suspect that as soon as the children go to bed, we'll settle in, watch a movie and continue our conversation.

After all, we have 17 years of "remember whens" to review, and countless more to plan for.

The Spring in Things

What nearly 7-year-old boy doesn't want to take a ride in a helicopter?

It was supposed to be our time to get away, our time to unplug from the world, take in some of nature's goodness and let the cares and stress of the world at home go free. It was supposed to be that way, but like most things in life, even the best-laid plans can change in the blink of an eye.

We were out camping at Lake Dowdy, which is located a little over an hour into the mountains from Fort Collins Colorado and is about 7,900 feet in elevation. We've all been looking forward to this trip since March when we made the reservations. Charles's goal was to do NOTHING, to relax; the kids wanted to fish, climb and hike. Me, I just wanted to sit and read for fun, which is in keeping with my usual camping tradition.

And it started off as the best camping trip in recent memory. There was no stress, no drama - and we even commented on how relaxed everyone was. Camp was set up with our usual quickness and efficiency; the kids were having a blast, making new friends and fishing to their hearts content.

After dinner, the kids went fishing one more time and Charles and I enjoyed a peaceful conversation, catching up with each other. Just as the sun started to set, Charles and I heard a huge 'thunk' of someone hitting the ground in the near distance and then BW's voice as he started to scream the most unholy of screams. In seconds JB was running towards our camp as fast as her little feet could carry her, and Charles and I were running with lightening speed towards the boulder spit.

BW, who'd been fishing from the topmost boulder at the spit, had lost his footing, slid over the edge and fallen about 11 to 12 feet to the ground. Fortunately he never lost consciousness, and there were two EMT’s at nearby campsites who were able to help.

The Red Feather Lakes sheriff and fire departments were called, and after 45 minutes to an hour of emergency care, BW was secured to a backboard, moved to the ambulance and driven to the fire station, where a "Flight for Life" medical crew and helicopter were waiting to assess him.

The only visible injuries were a large 'road rashed'/ gashed area on his head, and a very painful wrist, but given the severity of the fall, his age, the rural location and the fear of shock, BW was medivac'd to the Medical Center of the Rockies (at our request - they originally wanted to fly him to Denver's Children's Hospital). Because of the thin air, none of us were able to fly down with him - and the drive from Red Feather Lakes to Loveland (about a 1-1/2 to 2 hour drive) was one of the longest we've ever experienced.

At MCR they ran full body CT scans as well as manual manipulations to determine if there were any internal injuries, fractures or concussions. Given the height of his fall, the doctors, medical staff and we were all extremely surprised and relieved that the scans all came up normal.

They found that he did indeed have a fracture in his right wrist as well as a dislocated bone in the joint. After giving him some medication, they were able to manipulate all the bones back into their correct places. I hope we never hear screams like that again. They assure us that he didn't feel anything, but we sure did. A splint was placed onto his the wrist to stabilize the break. His gash is pretty big, and it'll probably take awhile for it to heal - hopefully just in time for school pictures.

BW goes in on Monday to get a fiberglass cast that will be on until the bones in his wrist heals. We'll need to keep an eye on him over the next couple of weeks to make sure that there aren't any silent concussions that weren't detected on the CT, but in the meantime BW is in fine spirits, and is giving JB a run for her money.

Wish us luck. We are all a bit worse for wear. BW for his injuries, JB for having witnessed it, and Charles and I for the stress of seeing a child injured, the fear of what the medical bills are going to be.

With school starting on Tuesday, and his writing hand in a cast - it's going to be an interesting month!

Va-Jara?

Overheard conversation while driving to the Post Office.

JB: Mama, what's the difference between boy's and girls?

Mama: You know the difference, I'm not going over it again, right now.

BW: It's their necks, JB.

JB: What?! (mama, silently echoing the sentiment)

BW: When babies are born, they are little and tight like a ball. You don't want to disturb them, so you look at their necks. That's how you tell if it's a boy or girl.

JB: Their necks? So if it's blue it's a boy and pink if it's a girl?

BW: Exactly. Then when they are bigger, and you can stretch them out, you can look and see if they have a penis or a va-jara. But until everything is grown up, you have to rely on their necks. Boys have a penis, girls have a va-jara.

Seriously. You can not make this up.

Even Cheerleaders Get the Blues

Sitting by the door is a letter that I'm avoiding mailing. It's the last step to saying goodbye to my life as a Landscape Architect, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that final step of leaving that life I once had.

Now that I've been out of the field for a little over two years, I've grown to miss it. I miss the rush of meeting deadlines, of accomplishing the impossible. Meeting with clients, cataloging their needs and wants, and determining the best creative solution that addressed their criteria as well as the requirements of the municipality we were working with and the public that would use and adopt the space long after the job was completed.

I miss the challenge of finding just the right plant materials that meet the design requirements as well as those of the environment without sacrificing the enjoyment of the people moving to and through the area.

I miss being in an office with other people. The team-like experiences of working side by side with folks through stressful and challenging projects and having someone to celebrate the victories and console on the defeats. I miss learning about where they came from, whom they share their lives with, how they got to be where they are and what they want to do with all of their tomorrows.

During one review with an employer, in recognizing my ability to bring people in the office together, she referred to me as the 'Office Cheerleader'. A simple but effective term it accurately described that I noticed people's moods, took interest in what was going on in their lives, and make them feel like part of a team, a family almost.

Many would consider being called a cheerleader as an insult, but for me, it was and is a tremendous compliment. Maybe it's that even in the face of adversity and long hauls of discouraging events I am still able to find the bright side of things.

At the moment though, I'm having a hard time seeing the bright side. Physics took a lot of wind out of my sails, the fall is looking to be challenging as well and I'm wondering if the path to becoming an MD is not the one I should be following.

We are about to head to the mountains for our annual camping trip and I hope with time away from the 'real world' and the opportunity to read a fun book, I'll come back lighter and leave the blues behind.

La vida Loca

Many years ago a friend passed on a beautiful lesson. When going on adventure, and things don't go as expected, don't look to it as a failure, but as a 'cultural event'. It was an opportunity to experience something you weren't expecting, and what was the positive take-away message.

School starts in 9 days. Nine days left of summer. In looking back over the holiday, I am certain of one thing. I hope to never have another one like it. I don't know if I'd survive it as it ranks among the top of the all-time worst seasons of my life thus far. I'm still trying to figure out the take away message.

The last year I was in college, Charles, having worked for an NPR station for many years as a DJ, applied for and was offered the position of music director with a little station in North Western Washington. Since we were located in South Eastern Washington, this amazing opportunity had to be accepted, even though it meant that we would be apart for days, if not weeks at a time. Were we to do this in today's modern age it would not be so difficult as there is the Internet, Skye, instant messaging or other ways to communicate. We had the phone, and a good portion of Charles's salary was spent on long distance charges. That experience taught me that marriage takes work, but love will see you through, and that no matter how big how overwhelmingly difficult a dream seems to be it needs to be explored.

The summer I worked as a greenhouse manager in Northwestern Washington was physically the hardest and spiritually the most challenging as I was responsible for the maintenance and delivery of over 6-1/2 acres of plant materials on a twenty six acre farm that was not even the slightest bit automated or modernized. I and one other person hand watered, spaced and dumped hundreds of thousands of plants over a 4 month period. All while the owner of the company made it a point to 'knock me off my pedestal' after learning that I'd just earned a degree in Horticulture.

That adventure taught me that motivation comes from within, that others can only dampen your spirit if you let them. I also learned the beauty comes in very small moments like the early mornings when classical music floated through the air of my largest greenhouse, humming birds swept from basket to basket of blooming tendrils and the sun broke over the crest of the skyline casting an orangery red glow into the darkness of night.

And this summer, oh this summer. It ranks among the others mentioned. I've laughed, cried, questioned, doubted and plodded on. Through my class, through my grief, through frustrations of hard and emotional work completed with no recognition. All while being a wife and mother and trying to maintain some semblance of order at home.

Now I am tired. I need some hammock time with a good book and a glass of iced tea. Then maybe I can see the lesson's that I've learned.

Roger This.

Sitting at the table, focusing intently on homework I noticed one of the kids approaching me. With a loaded Nerf Gun crammed in each pocket, and a walkie-talkie clipped to the collar of his shirt before me stood BW.

"Are you a good guy?"

"Ummmmm. Yes?" I replied.

And with that response, a spongy Nerf Bullet hit me in the forehead.

"What!? I'm a good guy!"

"I'm a 'RogerRoger'. I kill good guys." And with that, he turned and walked away.

Thank god summer is almost over.

Roger That.

While BW was on a play date at a friends house, the topic of whether to go swimming came up.

Garth: "Neal, do you want to go swimming?"

Jim: "No."

Garth: "How about you BW?"

BW: "Yes, can I take these handcuffs?"

Garth: "We're not taking handcuffs to the pool."

BW: "Then NO."

Laughter's Folly

Last fall was a joyous season. I found a kindred, one who’d been lost for many years, a puzzle piece of my being, and it’s been a wonderful experience learning about the path of their life so far and looking forward to sharing the experiences of tomorrow. It was just as I mentioned in ‘We Flock Together’, a long lost part of my soul was found and an inner peace flowed.

Unfortunately, they’ve become lost again. Having suffered the recent loss of both AunT and this kindred, not enough time has yet passed to develop clarity as to which is the more devastating.

Through the course of my life I’ve said goodbye to friends and family, both near and far, known and not so well known. Each has its moment of sadness the depths of which depend on the nature of the relationship.

With death, time stands still. It is the concrete moment that what you had, what you shared, your hopes and dreams about them came to an end. With their passing there is an opportunity to question why, to say goodbye but also to know that there are no ‘mores’. Memories are all that you have left. The shared experiences and conversations soften as time goes by, and fondness of the person grows with each season that passes.

For me, unlike the death of a loved one, the untimely loss of a kindred causes a painful state of limbo, a soul tattered with no hope of being repaired. There is only the knowledge that experiences that should be shared cannot; that there are no ‘goodbyes’, no explanations and the pain of hope that you might find each other again someday only grows.

It took more than twenty years to find this kindred, twenty years of wondering how life was treating them, twenty years of wondering if they’d found a loved one and of the joys and sorrows they’d experienced. Twenty years of wondering. I’m fortunate in that I had those few months to catch up with them and share our lives. I only hope that it doesn't take twenty more to find them again. As I learned with the death of my darling AunT, there may not be twenty more.

It’s with the loss of this kindred that I realize the one of the truly great though silent qualities of Charles. He knows me, he understands me, he trusts me. He has the ability to understand that people have kindred’s, that the depths of friendship that have no bounds in what they share, as well as the purity of their friendship. I only wish that all of my kindred’s had their own ‘Charles’.

He is also a great comfort when I need it. Knowing that alone, is comfort in itself.

One Slug, Two Slug

On Wednesdays we meet up with friends for dinner at the pool we belong to and each family brings their own main dish and a side to share. Last week we splurged a bit and found a couple of steaks to grill. The meat was cooked just right, but given the yummy nature of the other offerings that people brought, several pieces of steak were left over, just enough for a small lunch plate.

The following weekend while making lunch with the leftover steak, Charles reserved the fatty bits so that the kids could feed the dog. Calling JB over, he handed her the bowl of nubbins explaining they were for the dog and not to tease her. Nodding that she understood, JB quickly skipped off out of the room sing-songing "SQUIRT" causing the dog to excitedly prance after her. Charles then sat down and began to eat his meal and read his blogs. He should have known better.

After a few minutes of enjoying his lunch, the sound of increasing giggles and chants of "Slug! Slug! Slug! Go faster Slug!" began to catch his attention. At first he ignored it, but the intensity grew to the point where he HAD to check it out. Walking into the living room he found both kids on the stairwell laughing, chanting, giggling and pointing in ways that mean only bad things are happening. At the foot of the stairs stood the dog, eyes extremely focused at the molding along the base of the railing.

Along the spindles of the railing lies a flat piece of decorative wood that is apparently just wide enough for a fatty 'slug' of the steak scraps to be placed at the top of the stairs allowing gravity to ever so slowly cause it to slide it down the molding. When the 'slug' would get close enough to the bottom of the run, the dog would reach up and gingerly remove what remained of it off the wood and savored the morsel.

By the time Charles stumbled upon this ‘race’, three or four pieces of fatty ‘slug’ bits had already made their ways down the ‘trail’ and the kids were in various states of wetting their pants.

Seeing Charles’s reaction furthered the chaos. JB scrambled up the stairs to the bathroom a stain appearing on her shorts. Seeing JB’s loss of control caused BW to then lose control himself. He slid down the stairs, and as he ran to the other bathroom it was clear that he too needed a change of wardrobe. Charles sighed and went to get the cleaning supplies, leaving the dog in a state of excited confusion, wondering why the commotion and when the next fatty nubbin would make it’s way down the stairs.

One rule of the house is to never ask "What's next."

We don't want to know. But Squirt sure does.

The Things that Slip by

"Hey, someones bike was left on the sidewalk." Both kids run to the window, and JB says matter-of-fact "Oh, shit. It's mine, I'll go get it."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" a confused Charles asked JB. "I said it's my bike, I'll go get it."

"No, before that"

"Oh, Shit?"

"That's what I thought you said. Where did you hear it?"

"Oh, that's what mama says all the time."

"Please don't say that anymore. It doesn't sound very nice."

"Ok." and with that, she bounded off happily, to put her bike away.

I guess she's been spending too much time with mama... but in my defense... She used it correctly.

The Tickle

It's a fine summer's evening, the kids are taking advantage of the post dinner twilight and scampering in the yard before it's time to begin the bedtime ritual. I'm busily working on the computer, slowly slogging my way through my homework at the coffee table when BW bursts into the house and runs to my side.

"Mama! Wanna know what a tickle feels like?"

Before I can respond, he takes his cupped hands and dumps the contents onto my hurriedly outstretched hands and homework.

I can honestly say that I know what a tickle feels like. I now also know how difficult it is to try and capture what seemed like hundreds of roly-polys that were scrambling for dark crevices, desperate to escape the clutches of a small boy.

The best part... I was wearing shorts. I now know what it's like to move at the speed of light.

A Tent for Your Caterpillars

We have a couple of HUGE cottonwoods in our backyard. HUGE. As in, I hope they don't die in my lifetime because the cost of removing them and replacing those parts of the house that get smashed in the process will cost as much as the dream vacation I've developed in my mind's eye HUGE. So when anything goes wrong with them we tend to act on it without hesitation.

The first summer we lived in our house there was a massive infestation of Tent Worms (or caterpillars) in our area. An interesting species, they are social creatures that usually build a large silk 'tent' in which they sleep at night and gather to communicate about food locations and other colonies of worms. During especially bad years tents can become so massive that they will engulf an entire cottonwood and even kill it. When an infestation occurs, the best method of control is to remove the branches that are involved and kill the worms.

Overnight a massive tent appeared in the cottonwood closest to the house. And of course it was located up high in a branch that required gymnastics and the deft skill of balance while pruning.

Once the branch was down the massive quantity of worms in the tent was disturbing. We didn't want to smash them to smithereens, as that would leave too much nasty behind on either the deck or the driveway. Putting them in the trash would only delay the problem as they would only pupate and become a problem for someone else. We didn't have a bucket that was big enough to completely submerge the tent, it's contents, and the branch. That left one final option: Incineration.

All we needed was a container, the infested branch and a fuel. What could possibly go wrong? And what red-blooded male could possibly refuse the opportunity to play with fire in his backyard?

So, picture it. Its the middle of the summer during a drought, and in the center of the lawn sits a 35 gallon metal garbage can with a hole in it, the branch is stuffed into it with only a few wayward leaves hanging out, and gasoline has been poured over the branch and offending creatures. Charles stands tentatively over the combination, lights a match, drops it in... and.

Nothing. Nothing at all. So, more gas is applied, another match is lighted and dropped. And.

Again, nothing.

We poked, we prodded and we pondered and decided that "white gas" might be a better option. Charles rummaged through the camping equipment and came out with a container. Again we posed into position, poured some gas into the can, lit a match and dropped it.

A small fire began to burn and went out. Charles tipped the container to pour more into the can to try again and at that moment a "whomp" could be heard as the unseen flame opened, travelled up the stream of fuel and into the container, which was at that moment moving as quickly away from the trash can as Charles was, leaving in the lawn as he went a trail of fire and fuel.

The grass, which because of the time of year, drought and water restrictions began to quickly surrender to the trail of fire. Fortunately, we'd recently watered the garden, so the hose was still unraveled and it was only a matter of minutes before the fire had been extinguished and stomped out.

Returning our attention to the cause of all the action, the can of worms, we found that incineration was in fact an efficient method and the caterpillars would no longer be a problem. The lawn on the other hand, it needed some attention.

Would you like a side of Soda with that?

Last nights dinner was relatively uneventful save for one moment. He tried, really, really tried to eat his "No Thank You bites". With the first spoonful his eyes bugged, his face grew red, tears began to well in his eyes and finally he spat it out, wiping his tongue on his shirt, the napkin and anything else he could find to remove the offending taste. "That was NOT good, don't EVER do that to me again, please!?"

We had a Tuscan soup so that we could use some of the kale we have been receiving in our weekly CSA pickup. It's the first time we've had this particular dish, so we were expecting the usual; neither BW or JB would like it, they'd choke down their bites and we'd move on.

There's an unspoken rule in the house when mama cooks. Everyone. Out. Of. The. Kitchen. It's a good rule, crucial even. It only applies when mama is cooking though. Charles has the curious ability to not only block out the sounds of the children, but he also is impressively able to incorporate them into the experience, sharing and teaching the art of cooking. No so with mama.

I am a good cook, great even when certain conditions are met. No noise, no distractions, no maniacal giggles that indicate that bad things are happening, or screams that just might imply that an injury or fire has already occurred. You know, everyday life for a stay at home mama. But I try, and I do well... but on certain days - whoop - not so much.

At one point the soup got really fizzy when it was cooking, but being a new recipe, it seemed a fluke. The soup was finished; side dishes prepped, table set and the usual chaos of dinner ensued. As usual, Charles and I liked the dish, and JB took her bites and her review was "Not so bad". So BW's reaction was not entirely unexpected, just a bit extreme.

After BW's unusual protest, I looked back over the recipe and everything was suddenly clear as well as the value of the cooking rule. Just as I was reaching into the pantry to get the cornstarch for the soup, the kids came bursting into the kitchen screaming "MAMA" at the top of their lungs. Startled, I had instead grabbed the baking soda and added that to the soup. That also explained why it was runnier than I expected.

It will be awhile before I can convince BW to try that dish again.

Charles in charge?

I'm a bit worried.

I'm not sure which I'm more concerned about; the children, the house, or Charles's sanity.

In the last week I've heard the following statements from him.

"Yeah, duct tape, that should fix it."

and "You can make anything fit with a hammer."

I think if I were to make it to Denver to study medicine, I'm not sure I'd find the house as it was left when I return, the children still resembling children and Charles in his normal state. I fear almost that they will be there in all of their glory, in shambles with the remains of the house smoldering... but, I've always had a great imagination... haven't I?

Finding the pet in the peeve.

In a little less than two weeks I'll be heading north to the town I grew up in to celebrate my high school reunion, and in revisiting the past and reflecting on who I've been and who I've become, one thing has been consistent through the years. Of course, I say that meaning that several things have remained similar, a lot has gotten better, but one overwhelming characteristic about me has been the same since my earliest memories. My pet peeve. The one thing I wish that I could change about me. I HATE it when I ask a question and receive no response. Or, more importantly, I hate who I become when this happens.

Perhaps it's that I grew up in a loud and chaotic family where "he who is loudest is king of conversation" that I grew sensitive to lack of a response to a question posed. Perhaps it's that most questions that were heard received the response "handle it, handle it" or were even ignored or avoided that makes me so unsettled when a question is asked only to be met with silence. Perhaps it's that I'm afraid that the person whom I've posed the question to no longer cares to respond, is no longer interested in a relationship.

Charles learned long ago that the easiest way to make this confident, secure, intelligent, witty and fun person crumble into the unshakably clingy child that I was long ago is to ignore and remain silent to an honest question. I hate that I devolve almost instantaneously into a frantic almost shrieking girl that the more he seems to ignore, the more frantic I become. I've tried to change it; to excise it from who I am, yet every attempt fails. I loathe that person. That caricature of the feminine. I know. I hate to generalize, but I wonder if it is a girl thing.

How many times have you been out shopping to find a guy walking stoutly with purpose in a specific direction while his girlfriend/wife walks alongside becoming more and more frantic as she asks him questions and he fails to respond? I know how she feels, and yet I silently wish her the strength to become silent and hold her own. I wish that for her, and I wish that for myself more than anything.

As I prepare to head north, to remember the days gone by and celebrate the person I've become, I hope that one friend in particular can overlook this awful flaw of mine that has driven them away over time, so that for one brief moment they can give me the chance to show them calm, the fun, the remarkable side of me, because I miss their friendship. I miss our conversations, and I miss that in having this trait they think I am what they avoid with ever fiber of their being; a clingy simpering chick. What I hate most is that they ever saw that side of me, that pet peeve of me.

In the meantime, I'm trying to find the bright side of not having a question answered. Perhaps it's not the answer that I'm seeking, perhaps it's asking the question itself and how it came to be that is important.

Catch a Falling Star...

Dreams are all around us, almost as if they are swirling about in the air above our heads, just there to be plucked from the sky and followed to see where they lead. Dreams of where we want to go on vacation, what we'd do with a million dollars, the dream mate or house, what we want for our kids (if you have them), and what want to be when we ourselves grow up.

Those dreams that are the hardest to attain and provide the greatest lifelong satisfaction are the ones that not only connect with the soul of your being and that you believe are worth working hard for, but they are also the ones that challenge you, cause you to question yourself, cause you to doubt yourself, everything you are and all that you believe.

It's only through the deep questioning and soul-searching that you can really, truly identify not only that which is most important to you, but that which you know is worth fighting for even when it seems that every object in the universe, every odd in Las Vegas is against you. It's been this latest class that I'm taking, a physics class that has caused me to realize this.

I'll admit it. I'm not doing well, at least my grade doesn't reflect that I'm doing well in my class. It really isn't a bad grade. I know that were I not trying to get into med school it would be a respectable grade in that it is the class average, but I am wholly frustrated with it. After spending an embarrassingly large number of hours studying the topic, the associated homework and past sample tests, I STILL only pulled the class average for my exam score.

And I cried. And I sobbed. And I doubted. Doubted the worth in trying to change the course of my life at this time, at this age. With two kids that I dearly love and who love me, with a husband who supports me in my goal, and who wants to see me be all that he knows that I can be, even when I myself don't know what it is that I can do. Knowing that for every hour, every challenge that it is one less moment, one less experience that I'll have with them. Events that can never be relived.

And over the course of the weekend I questioned and I slept and I played. Played with the kids and the dog, with Charles and all things OTHER than physics, school and preparing for my application to medical school. I occupied my thoughts with what makes me happy, with working on my sister's estate to remember my times with her, and regaining contact with those tangible and intangibles that make me who I am. Then, on Monday, I got up and went to my physics class.

I've come to realize that in spite of the grade that is and probably will be posted on my transcript that its the intangible aspects of what it represents. Sure, I don't really 'get' the subject of physics, at least not with this professor. But, I taking it. I'm sticking with it. It's the first 'hard' science class that I've had in 13 years. The first time I've even really thought about physics since I was a senior in high school, 20 years ago. Considering that and all of my other life's responsibilities, I'm actually impressed that I'm doing so well.

And, if I give up now it means that I really didn't want it, at least not enough to survive the challenges that lie ahead. So for now I'm keeping my head down, my book open and my perspective intact so that when the next wave of doubt comes along, maybe I'll be able to surf that one as well.

A little blog of this, a little blog of that...

Wow! There is something really exciting about a person's first guest post. A joy that can barely be contained. Mine was over at Enjoy Fort Collins! and it went up today. Stop by, see what it's all about, and let me know what you think!

Please Pass the Calamine

This summer Charles and I celebrate 17 years of the married life. All together, we have been the best of friends for 20 years, and on most days, it seems like it was just 'last week' that we met.

We are a well paired team, one in which our individual skills, talents and qualities balance out the weaknesses or rough spots of the other. We have become so seamless in our relationship that one of us can easily anticipate the thoughts and actions of the other.

It wasn't always that way; it did take a long time for us to develop this precious skill. I believe that Charles's bottomless well of patience has had more to do with it than anything. Lord knows that with any other I would have been served my ass on a platter too many times to count.

There is a classic story that demonstrates the depths of Charles's patience. It is a true indication of his character, and it is a story that my sister, were she alive, could attest to.

Our home is a tri-level and our living room has a large 2-story vaulted ceiling. The previous owners had 'recently' redecorated the home using a cappuccino brown paint on all the walls, save for the large wall at the end of the room. That one stretches from floor to ceiling with nary a window, architectural point of interest; nothing. Just a long blank looming wall.

In reflecting on it, I'm not sure what decade counted as 'recently' in the world of real estate, as the wallpaper on that mammoth structure was a white, beige, and gold flake portrayal of aspens and deer. It literally had white 'textural' strings that ran vertically down the wall, designed perhaps as a way to introduce interest.

After living in our home for nearly two years and after a number of conversations about redecorating that went no where, one night at dinner I calmly set my fork down, got up and walked over to the wall that had the longest section of wallpaper, bent down, teased a corner of the paper away from the wall, and calmly, but efficiently, pulled the entire strip down. After rolling it up and setting it on the floor, I silently returned to the table and began eating as though nothing occurred.

AunT stared at the two of us, her eyes bugging. Any normal man would have gone completely berserk and would have gotten 'into it' with me. But not Charles. No. Having witnessed all of this, he heavily sighed, and quietly said, "Well. I guess we are painting the house this weekend."

And paint we did, over the course of several weeks. He naturally, chose the colors. But that's what makes us such a good team. We each know what is most important to the other.

Over the course of our life together, we have climbed mountains together, slogged through valleys, each helping the other as it was needed. Now that our children have grown older, and we approach the point where the "seven year itch" becomes a reality for so many, it is easy to see how such a number of the couples that we know, love and respect have succumbed to the pressures and wanderlust of this point of their marriage. For many, it's been a fork in the road of their marriage only to separate and move onto other lives.

I'm not what I would consider a romantic, at least when it comes to the cards that we exchange. I can never seem to find the right words that convey how special Charles is, or how much a part of me he has become. Unlike me, he always finds the right words, the right tone of card to give me, the right gift to go along with it, and the right moment in which to present them.

But I can say this. I would not be who I am nor where I am on this path of life were it not for his love and support, and even though I drive him crazy, I know that so long as we each draw breath, we will be together. I love you my darling, my heart is yours so long as it beats. I look forward to what life has in store for us, and knowing that you will be by my side is a greater comfort that you can ever know.

Happy anniversary love.

They have Legos in Heaven, Right?

Charles has an incredible love of Lego’s. It's a shock, I know, being that he's male and all. Before we married, he purchased a 'really cool' set of Lego's. Cool in that there were a ton of small pieces that came in a container that had a handle, so we didn't have to rely on a box that would grow shabby and weak with time.

When playing with Lego’s, I believe that he's secretly reliving his youth, and now that he has a partner in crime (i.e., a male offspring) he has an even better excuse to spend endless hours, money and attention to the plastic bits.

BW Loves Lego’s as much as Charles, possibly even more. When he was deemed 'old enough' to play with the teeny tiny Lego's that we've all come to know and love (not the clunky, made so you can't swallow bits of plastic that are endorsed by every parenting magazine available), Charles brought fourth THE BOX.

Yes, THE BOX. The box that holds every single Lego that the man ever owned over the course of his lifetime, as well as the ones that he's obtained since reaching adulthood. Hundreds possibly even thousands of little bricks. Clear, opaque, round, sharp, pointy, hinged and if you can think of it, it’s probably there.

After THE BOX and its contents were repeatedly put away and pulled out, risking the integrity of THE BOX's structure, the contents finally found a new home. Thomas the Train and his kinfolk have been relegated to the back of BW's closet, and it's former home, the train table, now hosts the multitudes of colorful plastic pieces.

It's a nightly ritual that once the kids retire to their rooms, BW will knock about for twenty or thirty minutes before timidly coming out and quietly asking if he can go down to the basement and get two or three "Really important pieces, please, please, please?"

We always say yes, as we've learned that saying no only prolongs the pain for all of us. And, as is the normal course of things, he knows exactly which pieces he needs and is back in his room with the door closed, quietly making little boy noises in less than five minutes.

He lives Lego’s, dreams Lego’s, and sleeps among the Lego’s. His room has evolved into a type of Lego-graveyard, never to be fully appreciated until summand to the room in the dark of night. Lego’s are murder on the souls of soft bare feet. Torture devices really.

Charles is familiar with and understands this passion, and it is a strong bond that he shares with BW. JB has gotten into the act as well - with pink Lego sets and special bits and pieces formulated to make 'girl' things (at her request of course!) but she doesn't have the never-ending interest that the boys have. She can't and won't sit for hours mulling over the designs and possibilities of the creations they come up with.

So strong is this boy bond, that Charles and BW spent four hours and twenty-two minutes building a 1,000 plus pieced space shuttle over the Fourth of July weekend. BW is only six. I never knew he had the stamina to spend that much time on one single activity. I guess I never fully appreciated how strong the pull of plastic can be.

I’m not quite sure what he’ll do if and when he finds a time or place where Lego’s no longer have the mystique they do now. I’m not quite sure what Charles will do either.

The Bliss of Spritz

It’s on cloudy spritzy days like today in Northern Colorado that I’m reminded of other corners of the world that I’ve lived or visited, and it makes this place ‘home’ even more special.

I know of few other areas in which such a wide variety of weather can be experienced in a very short period of time. Already this week we have had torrential downpours, severe thunderstorm warnings, tornado warnings, flood warnings, scorching days spent with children splashing in fountains, cool nights, not so cool nights, and wet misty days like today.

A friend happened to be visiting in town this past weekend and was so excited that we had received a tornado warning. That one was never likely to develop was beside the point. He had experienced the adrenalin rush associated with the possibility of danger… the same danger that is often portrayed on the weather channel, television or as in movies like the ‘Wizard of Oz’ or ‘Twister’.

We who live here are so exposed to such watches and warnings that most of us have lost that thrill, and we find it more annoying than anything, especially when our lazy hours

in front of our favorite show are interrupted.

But really, it can be a fun and exciting experience. Perhaps it is because I have small children, and with recent guests, that interests in weather phenomenon has been rekindled and modern technology allows us to watch the weather radar in real time to predict and follow a storms progression.

Being a high desert, it doesn’t seem like Northern Colorado has many spritzy days. We tend to have major downpours followed by bright sunny days. Today’s weather reminds me of the fun I’ve had wandering the streets of Seattle, exploring locations like Pikes Place Market, or moments when I’ve had the luxury to curl up with a book and a hot cup of tea or to watch a classic movie while snuggled up as a family making days like today so welcomed.

Sadly, this day is a busy one, so I won’t be able to pick up that book that has been begging to be cracked open for too long, nor will a movie be watched while snuggled up. Instead, as time allows, a pot of chili will be placed upon the stove for tonight’s dinner, and between errands, a warm cup of coffee will be enjoyed while standing near an open window, feeling the spritz of the weather, and enjoying the smell of the rain, knowing that tomorrow will probably be quite hot and sunny again.

Patience as a Virtue...

Squirt. In order to fully appreciate our corner of the world, you need to know about Squirt. Simply saying she's the family dog doesn't quite do her justice... So, I apologize for the length of this post.

Squirt is a greyhound and yes, that is her actual name. All seventy three pounds, standing 28 inches at the shoulder. When she came to us nearly seven years ago at the age of four months, she was a squirt, in every sense of the word. She was a tiny little thing that was a wiggly, licky, happy go lucky roly-poly whose tail would weeble-wobble her around the room it wagged so hard. And, when excited she would either lie on her back and piddle on herself or on the floor as she wiggled from one person to the next.

She became available to us a few weeks after my precious grey Herman passed away. I'm not entirely sure of what I was thinking since I was six months pregnant with my first child and I was working full time crazy hours as well.

It is very unusual to have a greyhound as a puppy. Most are raised for racing and become available for adoption only when they have a physical impairment or after they've 'retired' from the circuit - but by then they are usually close to maturity... Neither situation applied to Squirt.

As the runt of the litter, she was rejected by her fellow pups, and was taken in by the breeders to wean her. Alas, even after being returned to the litter, she was still rejected and developed her habit of 'squirt' when approached by the pack of running litter-mates. This, friends, will not do if a racing greyhound needs to be part of a pack running at full speed when the gates open.

She was in every sense of the word, the best child-proofing tool ever to set foot on this earth.

If it wiggled, she chewed it. If it was planted, she dug it up and spread it to every single corner of the yard she could find. If there was grass, she burned it out with her running loops. If it was a wall she'd lick it until reaching the 'chalk' of the wall board. If it was a stuffed animal and she found it - the guts would shortly be blowing around the back yard. And if it could be climbed, she conquered it. She loves to lick. And if she meets someone who will let her lick them... she will give them googlie eyes all the days of her life. She was and remains a whining fool and without rhyme or reason she whines any hour, every hour, day or night.

She is one of the smartest dogs I've met and until recently, (I'm knocking on wood right now) she was a master escape artist. Once she left the house she was off and running until sheer exhaustion would make her stop in her tracks. She can run nearly 53 miles an hour. I know this because I clocked her speed as I was chasing her with the car on one adventurous 'outing'.

Over our life with her, we've tried prozac (it worked a little), we've tried behavioral training, going to the dog park, long walks, and if you can think of it we've tried it. The only thing that HAS worked is time. Finally, after six years she's begun to nap. Greyhounds typically sleep 12 to 14 hours a day, beginning around the age of 3 or 4. Not so with Squirt. Anything associated with the word 'typically' does not apply to our girl.

She loves people. When she sees a potential 'friend' she loses all control of herself and it's like she's a four month old puppy again. On trips to the dog park she has little to no interest in the other dogs... you'll find her making the rounds with the other people at the park. Her most favorite activity is to participate in or attend a parade - where massive throngs of people are at her beck and call for loves. She leaves an impression on people. Even though we visit our vet only once a year (now, thankfully) the doctors and staff recognize her and cheer her name the moment we enter the clinic.

She is also the most gentle creature who's only crime is that she is completely unaware that she is a huge animal. She allows children of all ages and sizes to touch her, probe her, crawl on her and pet or even pat her. If she is uncomfortable with a situation the only thing she'll do is extricate herself from the kids and wander away. That, or regard Charles or I with a plaintiff look. We never allow small ones to hurt, tease, or abuse Squirt, but we've also found that she's happiest being in the midst of the small people.

She is a good companion too... save for the frickin' whining. She maintains the schedule in the house, letting us know when it's time for dinner, bed, time to get up to head to school or work, and she is the consummate welcoming committee when one or all of us return at the end of the day. And, if someone is off schedule, Squirt is the first to worry. And worry, and worry until everyone is tucked in where they belong. On nights when BW or JB is at a sleep over or Charles is out of town on a business trip, no one gets much sleep since Squirt patrols the house the entire time.

She is simply, another character in the cast of crazytown.

Ro-Sham-Bo!

Overheard conversation between BW and JB...

"...this time you be rock and I'll be scissors... aw man, I lost again?!"

A dandelion among the roses.

BW, JB and I were out running errands yesterday, and one of the stops was at the dollar store. I was looking for cozys for our beer and soda cans so that we could relax by the pool without worrying about the beverages warming up too much.

While there, I told the kids that they had been so good all day that they could each have one item. BW quickly picked out his toy - a spring loaded foam airplane launcher.

JB however, was at a loss for what to get. She said that she wanted something that would make her beautiful so that she could be popular. This is the girl who during the end of year preschool slide show, whenever a picture with her would appear, most of the kids would cheer her name.

Over the course of the day she mentioned the 'look beautiful so I can be popular' comment a number of times, and in spite of or perhaps because of the reassurance we'd give her, she grew increasingly more insecure about herself. I'm not sure where it comes from, but I've seen it before.

My sister AunT was never truly happy with whom she was, and that she wasn't able to attain that which she so greatly wanted. She sought the sexiness and allure, the thinness and the glamour akin to what is portrayed in shows like 'Sex in the City' or the magazine Cosmopolitan. She was never to accept that she was the dandelion among the roses.

I hope that JB does.

She has a sturdiness about her, a survivability that will take her where she needs to go in life... an intelligence and competition that will let her rise to the top of what ever challenge she takes on. She has a kindness and an intrigue that draws people to her. When you are sad, she's the one handing you the kleenex and giving you a hug with kind words to make you feel better. She is hardworking, but never fails to laugh, dance and sing when the moment is right. She has a true sweetness about her that I pray never fades.

I also hope with every fiber of my being that she never succumbs to the marketing splash and the peer pressure that tells her she isn't good enough and that she can be better. I hope that I can do a better job with her than I was able to do with AunT.

Denim and Dudes

This morning, like so many others before, was filled with the chaos of running late. Late for work, for school and for play date drop-offs. Charles had already left with JB for his day of meetings and her day of playing with her best-est girlfriends, leaving me and BW for the final scramble.

Somehow, between the craziness of work, school, (trying to) keep house, raising two active little ones, chasing after our greyhound and Mr. Toad, we managed to not only wash, but also dry the laundry. Well. Charles did. When I do laundry, I separate the clothes by person so that as each one is done it can be folded and put away. Charles 'gets the job done'. For that I am ever so thankful. Most of the time it even gets put away, it just might take a few days.

As with other mornings, when asked to get dressed, BW whined "Can you get my clothes for me, PLEEAAAASE?" After grumpily getting an outfit from the dryer, we proceeded with the rest of the routine; I'd hold up his shirt - he'd change into it and so on.

When I held up his pants and told him to put them on, his eyes grew big and said "I'm not wearing those."

"Yes you are. You asked me to get you some clothes, I did, now put them on."

"No, mama. I don't want to wear those."

"GRRRRR. There is nothing wrong with them. We are running late. Put the shorts on we need to go now!"

"Mama, please don't make me wear those...please turn them around and look at them ... Please?"

Flustered and frustrated I turned them around to see what all the fuss was about. Poor child.

There in all of their glory were butterflies and sequins.

In my haste, I'd grabbed his sister's shorts.

He prefers khakis now.

Things that go bump in the night

It's late (as in, it's summer time and it's dark outside) and everyone is asleep except me - cause as everyone knows, mama's don't sleep.

Or maybe it's the thumping and pounding and occasional crash coming from BW's room that's keeping me up. Just as my eyelids begin to resist the urge to stay awake and I can feel sleep's irresistible siren song, another crash occurs - making my heart leap and my breathing stop. WTF?

I used to walk with a heavy step. Anyone who knew me from times before I had children will tell you that is the unholy truth. Since having kids though, I've learned the value of the sneak attack. It took me awhile to perfect the technique, but I now cherish the fact that I can sidle up to them and observe them without their knowledge, and when the time is right, scare the hell out of them. It's a small reward for the long days and longer nights.

In pursuing a sneak attack on BW's room, I noticed that there were several wayward legos that had escaped from the grasp of a little boy who should have been asleep a long time ago as he hurriedly snuck to the basement, grabbed the pieces he needed and scurried back to his room.

Near BW's room, I heard scurrying and whispering. As soon as he heard me opening the door, he ran from his closet, jumped into his bed and rapidly covering his head he yelled "You scared me mama!"

The source of the crashing has never quite been solved, but I did notice a precariously balanced combination of Lincoln logs, legos and matchbox cars in his closet that stood about 18 inches high... And by morning... those wayward legos in the hallway had taken cover... their fate also unknown. BW swears that he didn't do anything with them... but. That's what he said about the bumps in the night too.