Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

The long, sleep-deprived drive home.

Tonight Logan did an uncanny impersonation of me arriving home at 6:45 this morning.

He grabbed my purse, went out on the porch and pounded on the door several times. (I don't have a house key and the doors were all locked when I drove up. I don't need a key because we don't lock our doors. Rob us blind! We deserve it!)

When I opened the door he came in, threw the purse on the sofa and said, dramatically, "I am so fucking tired, I need bed."

Then he hurled himself through the house to the bed. It was like walking only with more forward leaning. He mimed pulling off a bra and necklace and laid down on the bed like a corpse and said, pretending someone was trying to kiss him hello, "I need sleep please don't touch me."

And, though I hate to admit it, it was true. Our happy reunion involved my sleep psychosis.

I left San Francisco at 10pm Sunday night, after walking with a group of people (a few of them exceedingly adorable) around the city all day.

My flight was full and full of children. Full of very tired, very cranky and very loud children. I'm glad I'm done having kids because the remaining eggs in my ovaries gave up somewhere over Montana and hitch hiked into Canada away from me and Northwest Airlines.

My flight was also lacking a travel pillow (I forgot mine at home) and a blanket which meant sleep was a sort of yogic event. My favorite position was 'Pretzel Neck' and it was extraordinarily unpleasant. It involved drool running down my face and the weight of my head jerking me awake every three minutes, so I decided to read a book instead of sleep.

By the time I arrived at the shuttle to take me back to my car at 5 o'clock in the morning I had the look of a wild animal. When the shuttle driver asked me where I parked I said "3" which was neither the lot I parked in, nor the row I parked in. I pulled that number out of my crackling brain and left it on the dashboard.

When the driver told me how hot it's been here, and how it was slated to be 108 with the heat index all week, I flashed to the breezy air conditioned goodness of San Francisco and then I started to cry. I survived almost all the weekend without tears, Alice tried but the closest she got to tears was saying two words to me: "Good" and "Bye". Detroit finally did me in with it's rain forest impression.

We found my car and I realized I had left it unlocked since Wednesday. If you want to rob someone, you should probably find me, I'm practically traveling through life leaving a bread crumb-like trail of ways to rip me off.

I've been to and from Detroit Metro 6 times in the last 6 months. I drove away from the Airport and when faced with my first exit choice I honestly didn't know if I should head for Detroit or Chicago on 94. I thought maybe we'd moved to Chicago while I'd been away?

I drove past the first exit I needed to take and had to turn around. After that I took the most bizarre wrong turn of my journey which took me almost one hour out of my way and the delay caused me to be tossed into the indignities of rush hour traffic..

I've lived here my entire life and suddenly I couldn't understand why Lahser road was spelled that way, why not Lasher? Why am I even on Lahser, I don't live anywhere near here. Why are the exits on the right and not on the left? What is the speed limit? Why am I still listening to Drew and Mike? Who's driving this car?

My sleep deprivation took over with each passing minute and even when I pulled into my driveway I didn't entirely recognize my house. Had it always been this way? Why was it locked? Why don't I have a key to the house I've lived in for the last 8 years?

And so I went to the front porch, knocked on the master bedroom window off the porch and when Logan opened the door I threw my purse on the door, flung myself through the house and hurled my body onto the bed. Exactly like Logan showed me tonight.

Because I am, unfortunately, not a robot.

(The kids heard my flinging and woke up precisely upon my arrival at 6:50 am. If I were a better, less sleep deprived parent I would have been thrilled to see them. Instead I felt happy to see them but also sorrowful for the sleep I would be giving up in the name of love.)

How I wish it went.

Marritt: "Does anyone have any questions?"

Me: "I have a question for Alice. Alice, can you tell me how you got so awesome?"

Travelling

A few weeks ago I had a dream I was heading to France with Sarah Brown's dad. No, I don't know him and have never met him. I know he's got some good Dad Tricks and that is all.

When I arrived at the airport I realized I'd forgotten to pack a suitcase. Or pants. Or wear any. No pants and also no shoes. I kept telling myself it was fine, I'd buy new clothes once we arrived. But the shoes thing really bothered me.

So I asked the ticket counter person if they had any shoes I could borrow. And she pulled out a pair of clogs from behind the counter. Not just clogs, bright green clogs.

I bring this up because it's 7:30 in the morning, I have a mild hangover, a half packed bag, two sleeping kids to drop off with the Presbyterians (one really angry one) (grrr) and one thousand small details to take care of before I go to the airport in 1.5 hours.

It's entirely possible I'm going to arrive in San Francisco with an empty suitcase, no pants and green clogs on my feet.

I am brilliant.

Maybe you've been sitting around today looking for proof of my brilliance.

Well, here you go.

It's often difficult for little kids to hold up their hand of cards when playing Go Fish or Uno and in our family this means we play with our cards on the table. This also means I always kick the kid's asses in our card games.

But not anymore.

You'll need two lids and a paper fastener. Put the two lids together, so their flattest sides are facing each other, make a small hole in the center of the lids and push the fastener through. Spread the prongs and you're ready for a game of Uno. Or strip poker.

*I didn't really come up with this idea. My friend Chrissy did, so I'm not really all that brilliant.

It was a busy weekend.

We had a yard sale Saturday and then we went out for my friend Stephanie's birthday on Saturday.

Yes, she puts the S in CLAMS.

Look the flower is like Leslie's party ring.

This is us at the end of the evening.

Stephanie (in the middle) is concerned about appearing 'drunk'. I took care of that though, didn't I? I'm completely wasted and also showing it. If Stephanie was feeling it no one will notice it because Of the face I'm making. Leslie continues to smile as she always does in pictures.

I thought Saturday was the best day ever with the garage sale and the birthday party.

But I didn't know what was waiting for me on Sunday. The Hot Diggity Dog Festival.

July is national hot dog month and the Royal Oak restaurant association wanted to beat the longest hot dog world record. Today as they measured the huge bun which would hold the world's longest hot dog, Logan said, "If this hot dog bun is bigger than 57 inches, I am going to lose my shit."

Guess how big the hot dog bun was? 62 inches. Logan totally lost his shit.

The kids also played at the Hot Dog Festival.

Then they had tantrums and had to be distracted. Thank God I married Logan because he's good at distraction.

After it was all done (and we saw the pie eating contest) we went home and watched the kids play in the blow up pool.

Then we ate tuna and broccoli stir fry. And drank two cocktails made with Pom juice and you know I wouldn't have drank the Pom but Logan ran 12 miles this morning and needed the antioxidants. It's Marathon Training Season again.

Remember last year I wanted to bash his knee in during training. If all I have to do is drink an antioxidant laden cocktail this year, I am happy.

Eating babies is voluntary

Therapy has drained me of my will to write. But you may find it interesting to note that even though I'm taking out long put away issues and examining them again and that I'm sad a lot of the time when I think about these issues: I still feel like looking at all of this again is part of the puzzle.

But enough about that. Let's talk about how summer is going. Last year I talked about how much I hated my children as early as June 30. In 2004 we made it to July 30 without me wanting to tear them limb from limb.

What made the difference? It's not medication because this year I'm not on medication. It's also not as much Heavenly Playgroup because everyone's been running in 20 different directions this summer.

It might be the fact that I've spent nearly $500 (so far) on summer activities for the kids. Plus I've found a young babysitter (not a nanny) to come over once or twice a week.

When I mention she might be coming over Max says, "WOO Hooo!" and, since she's a little shy, I ask Max, "What do you like about Sarah*?" He says, "Uhm, I like how she wears braces." One for the baby book: 'Baby's First Fetish!'
*Sarah's not her name.

Last year I sent the kids to a camp at the Detroit Zoo. This year I tried but they refused to charge and enroll the kids. I faxed my registration and they never charged me. So I called....SIX times....to see if they'd missed us or didn't charge until the class started. The ONE SINGLE person who knew how to handle this question was ALWAYS not there. I was transferred across the entire zoo phone network to figure this simple issue out. After the last call I said, 'Forget it.'

Dear Detroit Zoo, I know you're struggling but I wanted to give you $250 and you refused to take it. I'm not a business type, but refusing to take money from patrons seems like bad business. I mean, at least it does to me. Maybe I don't understand these things.

Last year I also sent the kids to Vacation Bible School. Vacation Bible School marked the only time in my life of evil (just ask my in-laws) where I appreciated what God could give. God gives quiet time. God is good. God wants my kids to spend the hours of 9 to noon learning about His greatness while I do other things.

This year the Presbyterians aren't so much showing me God's love. They've decided you have to volunteer if you want to send your children to be indoctrinated in their religion. Isn't it enough I give them impressionable brains to mold in their ideals? Can't they just eat their babies by the light of the moon and call it a day?

It's not even the volunteering which bothers me. It's the fact that it's a requirement for attendance only the Presbyterians are too polite to come out and say, "If you want to use our church for the free time you stand to gain, you're going to have to volunteer to make it happen."

They say things like, "How Will You Volunteer?" Instead of "Can you volunteer?" and think that's 'clear' enough.

Even the letter we got in the mail says, "There will be one table for families who have already registered their children and have expressed their volunteer preference. The other table is for families who need to register."

None of this screams: "Volunteer or don't come."

Do they realize this is America? Subtlety is for Europeans.

I only know volunteering is an attendance requirement because of an inside source.

I'm happy to volunteer but I've got a plane heading to California and I intend to be on it and no Presbyterian is going to keep me away.

As an aside, do you want a Vox invite? Unless we share a last name, then don't even ask. Gone!

Friends With Training Wheels.

The problem with blogging while you're in emotional flux is that you start to write and realize you're questioning everything you think and say. "Am I being defensive here?" "Maybe I'm transferring here...." "Maybe I'm glossing over my emotions?"

So all you can do is I don't know. Not post?

I've been looking forward to the day both my kids would be in school every single day since I found out I was pregnant with Madison. I saw those two pink lines and first I thought, "Wow, the pill really can fail." and then I thought....well if I hurry things along they'll both be in school every day when I'm 32."

I even put school supplies on my baby shower registry.

Max starts kindergarten on September 6 and all last year as I tried to keep up with the frenetic pace of Flogging Baby I dreamed of the day I'd have 3 hours to work every single day free of guilt. Guilt because Max watched way too many hours of television in order for me to meet my quota each month.

I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I get a little thrill when thinking about the afternoons of freedom awaiting me in just over a month. But, something very bad has happened. Something I didn't believe possible.

I am crying when I think of summer being over.

At Max's preschool I made friends. Friends who I love and need in my life so much. I used to feel sad all the great women I've met through this website didn't all live on one single block in well maintained homes where we all had the same tolerance for loud stupid music blaring for all the world to forcibly listen to. (This tolerance would be: zero.)

I often felt, through my years with the MOMS Club, that I was a misfit in this place. Motherhood looked different in other places, why couldn't I find mothers more like me?

And I found my friends and I don't mean to rub your noses in it, because I know so many of us are still feeling lost amongst the mothers in our vicinity. But I feel so lucky to know these women. I need them as much, actually I think at this point I need them more, than I need the internet mothers I know.

Since our kids have been in preschool together for the last two years, we've seen each other almost every day. At preschool pick up and car pool pick up. We've had weekly playgroups and we've had girl's nights in where I shared more of myself than I ever have with real life people besides Logan, we've had family nights where we talk and laugh and our kids play and then nights out where we have fun like adults.

I'm not very good at intimate relationships. It's amazing Logan and I have been able to forge the relationship we have. It points to both my honesty with myself and even more so, his extreme patience with difficult women.

I've often called my friends my "friends with training wheels". Sometimes, during conflict with someone or another I feel like I bring Helen Keller to the table, flailing about, to their Anne Sullivan trying to give me the gift of communication. ("It's 'Water' Helen! W-A-T-E-R!")

(As an example: Me: "I just don't know how to tell you when I don't like something you've said. Tell me how I can do it without hurting you." Her: "I don't know....don't personally attack me?" You mean that's not 'helpful'?)

("That's right Helen! It's a doll! D-O-L-L!")

One night early in the summer Leslie talked about how it's not going to be the same in the fall. All our kids are going to different schools and/or attending different kindergarten sessions (some gluttons are sending their kids to AM (insane!), while other lazy people (me!) are sending their kids to PM).

At first I told Logan how sad I was for Leslie and Andrea who both still have 2 and 3 smaller kids at home even though they're oldest kids are starting kindergarten. The other three of us are sending our youngest kids to school, which is like entering a whole new world of living. I was still busy thinking only of the 3 hours I'd have every day to myself.

For the ones with younger siblings at home, they still need as much support because it's hard being at home with little kids all day. It's physically exhausting and emotionally draining. At least it was for me and I only had two little kids at a time.

That night (where we stayed up until 2am on a Thursday talking about, you know, everything) when Leslie brought up how different everything will be next year I tried to contrast Leslie's talk about it being 'different' with how it won't be different. I said we'll still be able to get together as families. We can still have girl's nights. We'll have playdates on half days and vacations.....

But then I started to cry because it will be different and different is scary.

We've all been running in a hundred different directions this summer and it's already different. I'm trying to keep breathing but sometimes, when I let my brain go I start to flail ("It has a name Helen!").

I'm not very good at making friends. It took me nearly seven years to find these friends and I'd like to think the training wheels are working and showing me how to reach out to other people. I know all my friends are great at reaching out and just being who they are and attracting people to them.

I put a helmet on and knee pads and wrist guards and without the training wheels I drive my bike directly into the nearest tree. So I retreat to the safety of my crossed arms standing alone praying for the safety of The Circle Drive.

I was feeling bad for Leslie and Andrea who still have little kids to entertain and take care of all day. But what I realized is I'm also feeling bad for me because I'm afraid of being left behind.

If Hell Had A Bathroom It Would Look Like This One.

Seriously, Satan would gladly use my toilet and scrub himself in my frightening shower.

It has. Begun.

Let's see, I only wrote this post in April, and finally yesterday Logan tore out the fancy mirrored tiles. So that this:

Is now...this:

Logan, packed it all up and it's ready to be mailed. Who could he be mailing deadly shards of mirrored tiles to....hmmm....watch your mailbox.

This:

is now this:

Yes, instead of removing the wallpaper, we just tore off the entire wall. And Oh! Look we used to have tile.

And a non-basement ceiling, a plaster ceiling. A crumbling disaster of a plaster ceiling:

Also a hidden door into Max's room.

Oh half assed remodeling, how you plague us.

You would think since we tore all this up we're ready to go on our bathroom remodel, but you would be wrong. There are non sensical walls to be torn out and reframed and plywood subfloors to be torn out and old floorboards to be cut out to the joists. Oh and then glass block windows to be installed and new window openings to be created. Oh and the opening to the bathtub has to grow by 3 inches on each side to make room for a regular sized tub.

We've done all of this exactly never times.

Logan woke up in a cold sweat a couple weeks ago and said, "Holy Shit I can't remodel a bathroom! What the fuck?" (If Logan had a blog it would be titled "What the fuck?" and he would say this after every sentence he ever wrote because lately that's how he talks.)

So now we're looking for a handyman type (Do you know someone?) (we have actual money) who will assist him in getting us to the drywall, tile, beadboard, lighting part of the job we can complete with a little help from friends.

We need help getting us to the normal remodeling job normal people get to do in their bathrooms. Nothing we have left to do in this house is 'normal', everything is going to be a shitty ordeal.

Should we take bets on how long we live with our half torn apart bathroom? I'm guessing another month, we are Class A Procrastinators in this house.

This makes me laugh.

...also choke on my tongue.

"Keeping Talent "Happy"....A Primer"

In my day

The other morning Max came into my bedroom and took advantage of the ungodly hour they both wake up these days and the fact that I was barely concious to ask if he could have a bottle of Gatorade. So I said, 'Ungh....drrrrr.....fine....keep it on the coffee table so you don't spill.'

Which, roughly translated to Max-lish, is: "Here you go do whatever you want with this bottle of red staining liquid."

And so he did. All over our ottoman and the rug. I tried to be kind but there's nothing like running from your bed to clean a red disaster.

Since I was awake I decided to have a glass of Gatorade myself. I ask you, who can't use a few extra electrolytes early in the morning? Moments later I knocked my own glass of red staining liquid all over the rug, (end) table, floor and one of Max's baby books.

Max said, "Awwww...you're supposed to keep Gatorade on the coffee table. Just like you said."

I swear things like this never happened to my parents.

Logan came home and saw the ottoman slip cover in the wash and he said, "What happened?"

I told him about the Gatorade and Max and his loose understanding of 'Keep it on the coffee table'. He then noticed the beautiful silk bound Molly West baby book (Oh please, I didn't pay full price. $19.99 + free shipping!) stained in red gatorade on the counter and said, "Oh man, he got the baby book too?"

And I replied, "Yes. He did. They never listen to me."

If only I'd known this was our leather anniversary.

[Holy Crap Typepad. I've never been this annoyed with you.]

I'm going to suggest you don't schedule a therapy appointment just before an anniversary date with your husband. Especially don't do this if you're seeing a therapist who has already walked through your brain so there won't be any benign chit-chat preceding anything of substance.

You know, the usual, "I was born a poor black child...." things you do before getting to the real issues you're paying a billion dollars to work through. Instead you'll dive right into some hairy stuff which takes your breath away.

You'll rush out of the office and drive 90 miles an hour home but you won't really remember the drive because you're distracted by all that hairiness you didn't leave at the office.

But maybe that's just me.

We raced down to Detroit to eat at Small Plates before they closed. Logan gave me a card of his own design, because he's a robot, and I gave him a store bought card because I am not. When we arrived I gave him my card.

I bought a blank card hoping at some point something profound and sentimental to say about our marriage and our relationship would come to me. But it never did, so I wrote:

Happy Anniversary To My Best Thing.
Nine Years and Still Kickin' It.
(Oh God, I'm so sorry I just wrote that.)
I love you.

Logan continues to love me even though I write ridiculous things in store bought cards.

We've been married for 9 years now (together for 13) and it's hard to think of something new to say about our marriage and our relationship which will not make you gag and flail about with convulsions.

("I married my best friend!" [gag] "He's the wind beneath my wings!" [I just consumed my tongue.])

I've written everything I wanted to say already. Last year I felt like we were plugging away at life and there just wasn't the time to spend together. The year before I felt hopeful, but also weary because we'd fought hard that year to keep our marriage together.

This year I realized things have been good. There have been no new babies and the hormonal plummet which follows. Those Who Must Never Be Named have been contained behind a wall which protects my marriage from people who would dismantle it. We aren't on a financially sinking ship anymore. The kids are older and less physically demanding.

Things are good and maybe that makes our marriage easier. Functioning under immense stress takes it's toll on those you love the most.

Last night my therapist asked why I thought these things were coming up now, now that things are good. I feel safe and loved. I'm not exhausted from dealing with a crumbling relationship with my in-laws. I'm not battling postpartum hormones. I'm not looking at an empty checkbook and hyperventilating. I'm not trying to learn how to grow and change with my husband.

I just am and what I am is mostly good. And now it's okay to look at the things which aren't okay and maybe I can heal them. Maybe that's what I want to say about my marriage this year.

I would not be able to go to my therapist's office and look at the bad things if I didn't have Logan to love me anyway when I get home. But 'Nine Years and Still Kickin' It' is way catchier.

Flip Flops and Awkwardness.

We made it to northern Michigan without incident. We also made it back from northern Michigan without incident, unless you consider keep-you-awake-and-in-misery food poisoning from crappy road food an 'incident'. Or if you consider sitting in traffic for an extra 1.5 hours an 'incident'. Because those things happened on the way home and still the trip was, in my mind, a great success.

If you're stuck just outside of West Branch in hellish construction related traffic realizing you just ate some pathogen-laden food and are now not moving at all on the interstate, do not use your watch to time how long it takes you to actually move a mile.

You might think, as I did, it will make you realize it's not really as bad as you're feeling it is, but that will only happen if it doesn't take you 32.7 minutes to go 2.3 miles. When it takes you 32.7 minutes to go 2.3 miles and you're faced with the (written down) proof of the fact that you're trapped on the road to hell with no exit in sight and no alternate route in mind you'll start to feel anxious and also angry.

Then you'll worry about that pathogen-laden lunch you just consumed because I can pee on the side of the road with the best of them but I like to vomit and/or do other things in the privacy of my own home.

Our trip was only 1.5 days total, and yet we packed in an entire week of activities into that day and a half. I packed the kids and I thinking we'd sit around the beach and read about how afraid of being alone Nick Lachey is. My kids love reading about Nick Lachey.

Since I thought we'd be sitting at the beach I packed a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and a couple of pairs of underwear for the children. For myself I packed a pair of jeans, which I wore to the beach, and a pair of flip flops.

Imagine how fun it was to hike in flip flops! And sail in t-shirts! (I bought overpriced tourist sweatshirts for the kids. Should they suffer for my unpreparedness?)

Jean invited me up to stay at their vacation rental and I used to babysit for Jean's kids who are now 16, 19 and 22. I loved her kids as much as I could ever imagine loving anyone at that time. I loved playing with them and watching Jean parent them and I learned a lot of good things from being part of their family in that way.

Saying that probably hurts my own family, which is probably why I've never mentioned Jean's name or posted her picture on this website.

I used to go up north to babysit nearly every summer and I spent time with their friends back then, since I was babysitting.

I watched them all and felt horribly out of place with all the ugliness I'd left at home. I wondered if I'd ever feel as at ease as they all did. I wondered if I'd have a husband who would love me like theirs did. I wondered if I'd ever figure out how to be as normal as they were. I wondered if laughter would ever come freely to me and I wondered if I'd ever have friendships with people who understood who I was.

So these last few days, being back with those people as an adult with my own children, I felt 16 again. I felt out of my own element where I do have friendships where I can be myself and I don't feel awkward and I have a husband who drags me along into the crowd when all I want to do is feel ugly and stupid.

I went to this spectacular house and had dinner at the grown up table and I watched. I reminded myself I'm 32 now, these are my two beautiful children and I have a life with great friends and an amazing husband and I've got what I thought they had back then. I got what I wanted.

Still I just couldn't shake the awkwardness of being 'Lissie' in the world of grown ups. Not just grown ups, Professional Grown Ups.

This feeling was helped immensely on the huge sailboat we rode on as I watched the Pro-Grown Ups hanging out, sharing cocktails and great stories from an awkward spot on the deck. But it gets better because as I sat on the deck, holding a lot of paraphenalia only a non-sailing type would hold, the boat tipped sharply.

I knew I should get off the deck and sit with everyone else but felt foolish moving around. Only I don't exactly know why, I suppose I just wanted to be subtle and 'cool'. So instead of simply standing up and moving to a safer spot on the boat, I gripped the top part of the boat as tightly as I could. I gripped until the angle was too much and my shoes, camera and (most importantly) my beer went crashing to the far side of the boat.

At which point I combusted into flames and wondered why it is I have to be a self concious freak all the time.

When I relayed my thought process to Jean on the way to dinner, when we were alone, she said, "No one thought twice about what you were doing on the deck."

And I realized then that I'm apparently starring in my own private television show where I am a glaring idiot half the time. Thankfully, though, no one's really watching my show and hopefully the network will cancel it.

Speaking of the past and being the 16 year old me even as a 32 year old: guess who's changing therapists? Guess who I'm going to see? I'll give you a hint: it's not Dr Phil.

Women of Michigan, put your man snatching panties on.

I'm going to make a gentle suggestion. If one of your favorite people in the world moves away, just pray she moves somewhere very nice.

Also pray that favorite person not only moves somewhere nice but also comes back to visit and enjoys northern Michigan the way you do.

Then, because this is a two step process, hope your favorite person has extra space at her vacation rental in Northern Michigan and also likes children and so asks you to come up north and enjoy a few days at their Lake Michigan retreat.

Tomorrow, after swim lessons, we're driving up north. Remember where we went last year? This place is ridiculously close to where we're going tomorrow.

Since just the kids and I are going, I hope you know I'm wearing my man saving panties. Because everyone knows a man worth having is one worth saving. Wooo!   

We got out tonight for an event at one of Logan's freelance client's place. The project doesn't have a website yet (Hello? Jennifer? Bill?).

Logan has been working on these cars for the last month and a half. He has gone to bed extremely grumpy after a few hours of work on the cars. He's come home and we'd have plans with friends but he'd spend an hour before our departure on 'The (FUCKING) Cars'.

Tonight, though, we went and saw the work laid out on actual cars and heard Bill and Jennifer talk about the project in such enthusiastic terms I immediately forgot about all the muttering curse words when Logan came to bed. All I saw was Bon Scott and then, later, I learned who Bon Scott was.

I am jaded to a fault but I love to hear people talk about what they love doing.

After the car event we had a couple of hours alone, just the two of us.

Before I leave for points more northern, I'll leave you with this picture of Logan saying something inappropriate. Something inappropriate we may or may not be doing right now. As you read this.

I'll be back Sunday. With a new appreciation for my addiction to the internet since I'm about to leave email behind for the next 3 days.

Hold me.

Thanking God I didn't drink the Lynchburg Lemonade

We had a nice Fourth of July.

We played bocce.

I attempted, using odd faces and sheer willpower to control where my bocce balls landed. It wasn't exactly effective.

Logan used his face to charm his bocce balls into submission.

When faced with Flip Flops or Clogs, I'll always choose the Flip Flop, linux support or not.

"Flip Flops. On men. Ha ha ha ha...."

Look kids! These are the fireworks!

Appearing Tonight! Pink Beaver!

Chloe has just consumed a homemade pudding pop. It looks delicious doesn't it?

Here, would you like one of these half eaten ones?

Woooo! Sparklers!

There are now just nine weeks until school starts. Nine long weeks......

Unfortunate Description.

Getting suits on for some 4th fun with friends.

Max: "When I get in the pool? I get a chubby!"

Me: [Eyeballs explode.] [Tongue. Lodged. In. Throat.] "What's that?"

Max: "Like, in the front of my swim shorts. It gets chubby when I get in the pool."

Me: "You mean, your shorts fill with air when you get in the pool and it makes you look chubby?"

Max: "Yeah!"

It's times like these I'm so glad Max is headed to public school in the fall. I love the Presbyterians as much as anyone can love a group of people who eat babies in the moonlight. But sometimes, it stressed me out thinking of the things Max might say to his private school teachers.

At public school though? It's a free for all.