When life hands you freakishly heavy med school books

There's only one thing to do.... 

BUILD FORTS!

Dear Molecular Biology of the Cell, 3rd Edition, you've been judged by your cover (and contents) more than any other.  You've endured the scorn of many a medical student.  No doubt your life in print hasn't been easy.  But today?  Today was your moment to shine.  And shine you did, as the anchor to the bestest ever flimsy fortress. 

And do tell me, what is it about forts that makes the heretofore boring old toys turn into magical must-haves?  The kids literally ransacked their rooms to give every last piece of plastic an opportunity to dwell under the shelter of the 500 thread count shingles.

And the magic didn't stop at the toy rejuvenation.  Caed actually requested that he be allowed TO SLEEP in the fort.  Did you hear that?  My child REQUESTED sleeping time.  It's the same as being offered free chocolate, coffee or babysitting.  The answer is always "YES, ARE YOU KIDDING ME, YES!!!!"

Granted, he was hoping to sleep in the fort at night.  But when I offered a nap in the fort instead of quiet time in his room, he totally went for it.  

"Uhh, yes, I'll take a solid hour of total peace and quiet, for two hundred dollars please, Alex."

And I'm sorry, but I can't resist this exhausted cliche:

Medical school books: $700 dollars (Yep, those bad boys aren't cheap.)

King size sheets: $40

A morning of fort building: Free, and super fun times

An afternoon of fort sleeping (a.k.a. peace and quiet): Priceless!

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May the Good Team Win

"Do you want to be a bad guy or a good guy?" Caed inquired as he fashioned legos into fighter planes.  

"I'll be the lunch lady", I said, scraping out the last few helpings of peanut butter.  "You want to eat, don't you?"

"No, you hafta choose a side.  There's no such thing as the lunch lady in this game." He was starting to sound exasperated.  "Come on, Mommy, what are you going to be?"

"Alright then, I'll be the bad guy."  I sided with the outlaws as I spread the last bit of jelly into place, knowing he doesn't like to be called the bad guy, even if just an imaginary one.  

"No, I really think you should be the good guy," he countered.  "We'll just make Dani the bad guy.  Cuz if you are the bad guy, you'll have to fight 'gainst the good guys.  And you would win, and we don't want the bad guys to win.  So you should be a good guy, with me."

(We'll ignore for the time being the part about him enthusiastically assigning his baby sister to a lose-lose situation.)  

I stopped my sandwich making and found his eyes.  He looked up expectantly, offering this reluctant co-pilot a freshly constructed, primary-colored weapon of imaginary destruction.  I couldn't help but smile straight back at my fellow good guy.

While we whirled and whooshed and bombed and blasted, I relished in this:

My son still wants me on his team.  

He thinks whatever side I'm on will win.  

He wants to make sure the good guys win, and he believes I can help.  

And that sure beats being the lunch lady.

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Visit Emily at Chatting at the Sky for her new Tuesdays Unwrapped series...discovering gifts in the midst of the ordinary.

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A Summery Look

This afternoon I started obsessing about changing my Blogger format.  I then preceded to waste spend a whole stinkin' hour messing with it.  I wanted something a little less busy, with a more summery feel.  

(On a side note, I'm appalled that spell check recognizes the word "summery" and "springy" and "wintery" but not "autumny".  That's seasonal discrimination if I ever saw it.)

Mind you, this blog overhaul activity was not remotely on my To Do list, so apparently HTML is quite compatible with procrastination.  (Dear laundry, I promise to put you away before the next clean load comes in, but keep in mind, that might be awhile.)

I tried without success to change fonts and formatting in my header, because frankly, Times New Roman doesn't do it for me.  Not to mention it isn't the slightest bit summery.  Stuffy, yes.  Summery, no.  

So what do you all think?  Should I have just left well enough alone?  Or is the new way fine by you?  More importantly, is it beach weather yet?  Because yes, I've got SUMMER ON THE BRAIN.  And now, thanks to my coding genius and prefabricated templates, it's on the blog too. 

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It's a Dangerous World Out There

Especially if you're part of a doll house family under Dani's care. First the incident with the oven, and now this. And let me tell you, the kids would NEVER let something like this happen to Thomas. If by some horrible mishap, Thomas did end up in the pit of a Playskool toy, you can bet your buffers that they'd send Cranky the Crane in after him lickity split.

But the baby? She wasn't even reported missing.

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The Way They See It

She called it a cool breeze.

He called it a harsh wind.

She was lying in the sun.

He was running in the rain.

They were both right.

And yet they both shook their heads in disgust at the other.

How can she be so naive?

How can he be so negative?

It's simple.

When we aren't in the same place, we don't see it the same way.

It's all about perspective.

I often wish I could share the perspective of those I love.

I wish I could know, really know, what it's like and how it feels to wear my husband's white coat as he plods through 25 days straight at work, constantly chasing and never catching up.

I wish I could know, really know, what my friend means and how she feels when she says she doesn't--she just can't--believe anymore.

I wish I could go there, all of me, to the place my sister got lost, and sit with her there for a while in her postpartum despondency. To keep her company in the dark until the worst is over. And to not obsess over where the light switch might be.

I wish I could feel, like it was my own heart in my throat, when my son chokes back tears and gives up on what seems to me like the smallest and silliest task. He's done it before. Why can't he do it now? I want to understand how overwhelmed he must feel instead of fixating on my frustration.

It's not that I want to feel their pain because I don't have enough of my own. I just want to understand, to be in the same place long enough to say, "Oh, I see it too!". Because I love them. Because I want to share in life where they are living it, to share their perspective. So they aren't so lonely. So we're not so far apart.

I'm stubborn and strong willed and selfish enough that I haven't the slightest worry of actually losing myself in the pursuit of another perspective. I don't worry about being a doormat so much as I worry about being on the other side of the door, unavailable, unyielding, without empathy.

So I sit here in the cool breeze and harsh wind, and I pray for grace, the kind so freely poured on me by the One who is able to perfectly empathize with my weakness. I ask for extra helpings of grace to be heaped upon my plate, and for the wisdom not to hoard it.

I want to gather up the grace in my arms like a clean load of laundry, piled so high I can barely see beyond it. And I want to spread it out and sort through it, and divide it among the people I love. So that even when I can't see life the same way they do, I can be there, on the right side of the door, with something to offer.

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I admit I'm not much of a photographer.

I'm especially not a portrait photographer.
And I'm really truly not a children's portrait photographer.

Because what was supposed to be sweet little Easter pictures of the cousins (L to R: Glory, Sheridan, Caed, Grace) turned out looking like a strange interpretation of the Macarena:

Or maybe this could be a "He is Risen!" proclamation? Yep, let's go with that one.

Hey Robin, you there? Hi!! I miss you already. And yes, all you need to know is two parts sweet and sour, two parts tequila, one part triple sec. You're totally welcome.

And because blogging is the sincerest form of randomness, I can unapologetically share some left field stuff my sis and I found laughable:

1) What we'd like to know is, when did a pregnancy test become an impulse item? Dollar Store Display People, you crack us up.

2) Robs and I ran out to do a few errands without the kids (Uncle Stym, you are a saint!), and we stopped first at the pharmacy. They had this foaming antibacterial sanitizer by the counter, and we both thought, hmm, this is nice. Robin put some on, and then came my turn. I pushed the pump down, and it projected foam in a line drive right onto my face. I'm not kidding. I was literally foaming at the mouth. Robin was too busy laughing at me to take a picture. And I was too busy trying to say, "Can someone find me a tissue" without actually opening my mouth. Considering the anti-ish nature of the stuff, it wasn't as disgusting to taste as it sounded. But it wasn't exactly Easter basket material either.

So if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm back home. It seems Monday disappeared somewhere along the stretches of I-90. So tomorrow will seem like Monday and actually be Tuesday. But the visit with my dear family was worth the drive, the missing Monday and then some.

Over and out.

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Because there's no "my" in "Family". Oh wait, there is. Oh well.

Q: Why did the lady with two preschoolers, a springer spaniel and a trunk full of baby clothes cross the road? Or more specifically, why did she detour off the toll road, make two U-turns and a few last-minute lane changes?

A: To get to the drive through Starbucks, of course!

Q: And why did the two kids put up with the coffee break and the seven hour road trip?

A: Because this caffeine crazed Mom bought their silence with McBribery. Oh yes I did. And you better believe I played the Play Place card for the first 200 miles.

We arrived at Robin's house just after sunset in relatively good condition, full-bellied, eyes heavy yet wide. We survived the road trip without any major accidents (road or potty variety), and even incidents and arguments were limited. (Thank you again, Ronald McDee. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.)

We did have one minor dispute about whose kin was whose. Caed insisted my sister's three precious girls were HIS cousins. And Dani, despite having no earthly idea what a cousin was, insisted they were HER cousins. After a couple minutes of hearing, "No, they are MY cousins!", I broke up the verbal ping-pong and delivered a speech about brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins.

By the time we reached our destination, Caed was on board and correcting Dani, "No, these are OUR cousins." Dani still didn't get the cousins concept, let alone the sharing concept. Shocker, I know.

So we're here, and we're having a blast. I could go on and on, but nap time doesn't last long in a house with five under five. And there's that thing about wanting to spend quality time with my little sis that I never get to see.

And I know this is random, but how gorgeous is this barn? We had just detoured (on purpose) off the freeway and caught this scene as the sun was going down:
And if these pictures aren't darling, then I don't know what darling is:
And goodness gracious, would you look at the jowels on my neice? Those are some serious pinching cheeks. I'm tempted, really I am. But I don't want to get labeled as "that crazy old Aunt who pinches cheeks", so I'm refraining. For now.

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My Yellow Hat's Gotta Be Around Here Somewhere

My friend was in mid-sentence when it dawned on me. Something was wrong. I could actually hear her voice on the other end of the phone. I wasn't mumbling, "Excuse me" and then bellowing, "Do NOT hit your brother with the axe!" or "Stop your screaming!" or "No, it does not matter that you are just pretending the dinosaurs are fighting. It is still screaming, and I am on the phone, and that is rude!"

Okay, now where was I? Oh yes, it was quiet. Perilously so.

The trustworthy one was supposedly downstairs picking up his toys. But where was his sister? (Notice how I'm starting to sound like a Curious George book? "But where was George?" And we all know how that usually ends.) 

It seemed like only seconds ago Sheridan was underfoot, inspecting the freshly folded laundry and flinging it on the floor like a drill sergeant,  "You call THIS folded? You call THIS clean? Try again, Soldier, and GET IT RIGHT NEXT TIME!"  

Somewhere between modeling jeans on her head and turning the socks into rhythmic gymnastics ribbons, she had gone AWOL.  So I left the scattered shirts to wrinkle and went in search of Sergeant Mischief.

I made it to the top of the stairs before I heard, "OH NO, Dani, why did you do that?"

My friend was still on the phone.  She heard me utter a few words dangerously close to profanity and excused me from the conversation with a knowing, "Uh oh, well, call me later..."

By now, I had reached the bottom of the stairs.  

"Mommy, look what I made for you!" Caed offered preemptively, holding up a piece of construction paper adorned with glue, glitter and stickers, and lovingly signed in the darkest colored marker.

It was a freakin' art project.  Um, yeah.  Not to sound ungrateful, kid, but what on earth gave you the idea it was okay to unpack the entire stash of art supplies and get creative all over the carpet?

"What's going on here?" I hollered, sizing up the damages.  "You were supposed to be cleaning up!" 

And there she was, Sgt. Mischief, sparkling like the fourth of July, surrounded by uncapped markers, four vials of glitter, including one recently emptied, a glue stick in one hand and a paint brush in the other.  

Caed explained, "Well, Dani dumped out the whole thing of glitter and I told her that wasn't a good idea.  But then we fixed it because I had a plan!  We used our glue sticks and our paint brushes to put the glitter back away!"

"But, actually" he continued, "It isn't workin' too well.  There was a lot of glitter."  

Ya think?

I will spare you the glittery details of the lecture and the clean up that followed.  I know I should have turned this impromptu episode of carpet creativity into a golden teaching opportunity, but I didn't.  I just hollered and vacuumed and found a new hiding place for the art supplies.  My clothes sparkled, and my spirit seethed. 

I finished cleaning up and returned upstairs, this time with Dani safely secured on my left hip.  I'd like to see her try to get into mischief now.  I noticed my half-open, nearly empty bottle of facial lotion sitting on the counter and remembered I had brought it with me on my hunt for George Dani.  I'd forgotten it in the midst of my morning multi-tasking.  (Yes, it was only 8:00 a.m. at this point.)

I picked up the age-defying lotion with my free hand and tried to no avail to apply a few drops to my freckled face. 

But wait! Could George Dani help?  What would happen if she grabbed the bottle and threw it on the floor?  Why yes, the lotion DID come out that way! George Dani had done it!  She had figured out a way to empty the lotion!  Hurrah for George Dani!

And that was the last of my lotion.  And possibly the last of my sanity, splattered metaphorically all over the hard woods.

On the bright side, my floors now look fifteen years younger.

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Because Running Is a Good Way to Stay Warm

I'll spare you the dramatics this time and simply say, "I went for a run.  It was awesome."

Today I tackled the first road race of the season with Kate, my friend and fellow runner.  Neither of us were really "feeling it" this morning, but we managed to keep up a respectable pace in the 5K, no thanks to the wind, cold, and a defective Shuffle.  

Okay, it wasn't really defective. It just ran out of juice halfway through the race.  So I guess that makes the person in charge of charging it the defective one.  

I was tempted to run out of battery power myself, especially when my music stopped blaring, but thankfully I was running next to the Energizer Bunny.  So she shouted a little All the Single Ladies for me, and we "oh oh ohhed" our way up the hill.  

I even passed a few people, including an elderly couple, who, let me just tell you, were motoring like you wouldn't believe.  Seriously, this was the kind of motoring that the 75+ crowd typically only do in an RV.  I was proud of them.  And proud of me too, for passing them.  

So if you care to see more photos of the lovely event, check out Kate's place.  She and Ryan have a wicked sweet camera now, and they captured some nice shots.  Yet somehow I don't look like the glamourous Sporty Spice I fancied myself to be as I passed Granny & Grampy.  Oh well, must be a defective camera....

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"I Do It Myselt!": Images of Independence

"Mr. Fear?  No, I don't believe we've ever met.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go freak my mom out with my sweet balancing moves."

And what she is actually saying in the picture above: "NO HE'P!  GO AWAY MOMMY!"

And then presto-chango, she adorns this cute and cuddly look, her method of choice for manipulating her unwitting subjects. 

And see her pointing her finger, bossing me around, in the picture below?  That is normal. And the next picture where she poses sweetly?  Not normal.  Emphasis on the word "poses".  

And holy stilettos, would you look at those red shoes?  If you're wondering how Sheridan manages to be consistently more fashionable than her mother (not that this is a huge feat or anything), you should know she has her very own fashion benefactor.  Thank you Sayre & Kate!  

(And should anyone like to jump in and become MY fashion benefactor, I would not be too proud to turn you away.  Just so you know.)

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