Copy cat.

So lately, my obsession has been sewing.

This is fairly typical for me at the start of the school year, however, I tend to stick with it only long enough to spit out a couple of dresses or a skirt. I honestly don't have much patience for the precision of it all.

But this year, I've sort of been on a simplicity kick. Simple lines. Casual. Hiding imperfections. Or not caring that there are imperfections at all, and making them a part of the look. This makes sewing much easier (and enjoyable for me). If you haven't seen it yet, take a look at JCrew's Crewcuts line for kids....this is precisely what I am into these days. I love the idea of throwing odd things together to make a mismatched child. It's a perfect metaphor for life, no?

And then I started to look closely at their things. Their VERY expensive things. And I thought I might try my hand at copying one of their casual, cute, expensive dresses.

This would also be my first attempt at sewing without a pattern. Which wasn't so bad, but let me remind you, the end result is not perfect! But I don't care! I also bought really cheap cotton fabric, so if it all went to hell in a hand basket, I wouldn't feel so bad.

Here's the dress I copied, sold for $58 at JCrew:

First off, I knew I would modify: I started with two layers of ruffles around the neck, and boy am I glad I stopped there, because with the way I put it all together, any more layers would have made this seam too thick. Also, I did not add ruffles to the armholes, mainly because I am envisioning this as a fall/winter dress to be worn with a cardigan, which would constantly hide those ruffles, and perhaps even make things bulky looking. I compensated on the ruffle quota by adding two rows on the bottom.

Here's my knock-off, in gray. I'm kind of obsessed with gray.

My price: $8. This is as close to success as I'm going to get--and I like it! I'm thinking of something fun, like red tights, or maybe even polka dots?

Here's to trying something new!

Our weekend.

This is the second Saturday in a row that we have spent at the Citygarden, downtown. Last weekend we came, sans swimwear. Big mistake.

So the weather in St. Louie has not really been screaming "SUMMER!". More like fall, which makes water activities somewhat chilly. And apparently I have come to associate the months of June, July and August with submersion in water, because I find myself a tad bit angry that our fire-pit weather is about a month early.

Anyway.

We ran through fountains and built fires and made s'mores and wore jeans this weekend. And I rather liked it. Even though I'm supposed to be sweating. But let's face it, I hate that part of summer.

All this to say, the past two days have been dry and cool and sunny. And unexpectedly perfect.

How I know for sure that dropping naps are not a good idea.

L, at 5:03 p.m. on Thursday:

This afternoon preschool thing/no naps for the little kiddies may not be going so well. As evidenced by the photo above.

Here is the general rundown of our afternoons: I pick the little ones up from preschool, at which time they run to the mini (van) dripping, as if just bathed in their own sweat. They are SO wet that one might assume they were actually showered, except for the fact that their faces are glowing red. In which case, they may have been boiled in water a little, but I can find no obvious burn marks or blisters, so I've ruled this out for the time being.

While running around on an asphalt playground for 35 minutes in 90 degree weather might make my organs fail and my body shut down for survival purposes, for the wee ones these conditions trigger a state of hyper-energy. This means they shoot right out of their classrooms, through my arms (because they are too slippery), squealing/yelling (though I can make out NO words, just high frequency pitches). Something to do with not riding the school bus, but it comes out as, "MAAAAAAAAA-MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! ScHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOool bUUUUUUUUus! YiEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Yes! Yes! AAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"

Trying to get them in their seats with seatbelts buckled is almost impossible at this point and usually involves some sort of punishment threat or treat, depending on my mood.

The 20-minute ride to G's school entails head butting. Lots of head butting. And squealing. Oh Lord, the squealing.

Thinking they had extra energy to burn, I let them run around on G's school playground after we picked her up. Oh, mistake. Because apparently, L is emotionally allergic to playground equipment.

First she cried because she wanted to swing. And once she got going she stopped herself. And then she cried because she wanted to swing again. We went through this little dance at least 5 times. And then she cried because she didn't want to share her swing. And then she just cried. And then she cried because she wanted a stick.

Other reasons for which L cried last night: because she wanted to go outside without shoes on, because she had to eat, because she had to share the art supplies, because she wanted to ride her bike, because the world revolves around the sun, because cheeseburgers are from the devil, because we weren't taking a bath, because it doesn't snow in August, because Little J touched her, because she wanted water, because bowling pin kitty can't talk, because life isn't fair.

Ugh. Sleep deprived four year olds can be mighty draining.

Bye, bye boobies.

Last week, one of our heavy, ceramic salad plates broke. Boo.



Commonly referred to as the "boob" plates/bowls, we registered for these things back in 2000 when we were getting married. And as previously stated, I do not own many things that are blue, nor do I use any shade of it in my decorating decor.

But back in 2000, I was drawn to these plates for some reason.

And I still love them (minus the fact that they are misfits among a house that is primarily red, green and mustard yellow). Though, I'm probably more in love with the fact that they were a part of our blissful wedding preparations (she says with sarcasm), then the actual plates themselves.

And so every time a plate or bowl has cracked or broken, I have saved it. Until about 2 years ago, when Mike begged me face my hoarding demons and let them go, which I did.

Only this week, another one bit the dust and I kept it on our counter in an attempt to save it without banishing it to the dark hole that is our basement. We might call our kitchen "Craft Purgatory".

Mike-the-all-knowing instantly sensed what was going on here, and asked, "Can I throw this away?"

To which I replied: "I'm going to do something with it."

"Really? Or is it just going to sit in the basement for years? In which case I say just toss it now."

AM I going to do something with it? Am I? I take that statement as a crafting dare.

So, last week, I abandoned the other 10 projects I've been working on (lots to show in the weeks ahead), and went after the plate. Hobby Lobby. Acrylic paint. Glue gun. Oh, and those sand dollars we collected from the beach 2 years ago, killed and soaked in bleach.

The finished product:

Hobby Lobby frames were 50% off, so I take this project as a sign from God, similar to his calling for me to avoid paddle boats (inside joke for blog readers!). Found a frame with a flat, wide boarder, painted it blue...and went to work placing my plate pieces. I will also note that I bought a plain blue plate at the dollar store and broke it to bits, because my single boob plate wouldn't have covered this frame. I also added those iridescent marble/rock things you put in vases for some texture...and the sand dollars were remembered and found at last minute (kept in a baggie above our microwave--isn't' that where you keep your sand dollars?). Anyway, I love how it turned out and I am dying to do another in a different color scheme. I am also particularly happy with the large, chunkiness of it--I'm a big fan of the messy, throw it all together look. Anyway, I'm thinking other frames with plate bits and random items thrown in...how cute would silverware or door knobs or you name it, look added to a frame!

Possibilities are endless. Particularly if you own a basement that is a treasure chest full of crap.

Something simple.

Today, something simple. I did this a few weeks ago when I was looking for something EASY...chalk paint!



Two ingredients: corn starch and water. It doesn't get easier than that, folks! You mix the two in equal portions. I think I did 3-4 tablespoons of each to make these quantities, and then added food coloring. Of course I had to mix more because it was inevitable that these were dumped on our driveway.



Such is life.







My kids generally lose interest in sidewalk chalk within seconds. This stuff dries JUST LIKE chalk..it's impressive. But in a liquid form, it's instantly more captivating. I believe that a child's interest in something is directly correlated to it's ability to make a MESS. Can't prove this in any sort of geometry proof, but I have my strong suspicions that it is absolutely true.





And within hours of our driveway masterpiece, we received a dumping of rain that washed it all clean. Easy clean-up...mommy likey.

How my life was spared.

I fear it may be my God-given destiny to die by paddle boat.



Not that I've ever, actually, paddle-boated. But that's kind of the point.



Because I have begged to do it MANY (many) times, and there are a few reasons it has never come to be. For starters, my husband equates a date with me in a man-powered vehicle on any sort of water body to death via nose-hair plucking. We've motivated ourselves to try it at all the wrong times. We have four children, and bringing them along sounds painful, loud and dangerous. Or...we think of it at the right times (perfect August evening with 70 degree temps) and they happen to close early or have weird hours (lame).



In any case, I have never, in 33 years, ever been on a paddle boat. And I am taking that as a sign from God that bad things will happen if these feet ever try to propel a boat/bike through water. Because if I have tried this hard to make it happen (literally begging at every holiday, birthday, anniversary), and it hasn't come to be, I'm going to take it as a direct message from God.

I think of it like taking Calculus in college. Or not taking calculus...by the grace of God. For some reason, I didn't think college would be complete without crying nightly and questioning my self worth with a good ol' semester of calculus. Because I am an ENGLISH major...which means math is from the devil. I tried three times to get into a calculus class...perhaps the most commonly offered class in all of college history...and three times I was denied because it filled too fast, it didn't fit in my schedule, you get the picture. Saved from a semester of misery.



No paddle boating on my birthday, which means I lived. Yeah! But we did have an excellent evening at the Boathouse for drinks and on to Pho Grand for a great dinner. And to keep with our food and beverage theme, on to the Cupcakery for dessert...though they happened to be closed at 9 p.m. (also lame), so we settled for 20 extra pounds of dairy at the Cheesecake Factory.

Bring it year 34!

Officially 33.

On this very day in 1998, I decided I hated birthdays.

I love my birthday but am not such a fan of big hooplas or anything over the top. Wait. I suppose that I should say that I am not such a big fan of EXPECTATIONS for grand gestures. There is a difference.

Which is good, for me, because today my daughter gave me a stomach full of vomit as a surprise gift (unexpectedly). Note to self: do not rush L when drinking a smoothie.

But years 19-21 were not good for my expectations. Of anything. Life, friends, work, and birthdays. I'm thinking of sending my children to college in Somalia for precisely this reason--it will make their transition in to the real world all the more easier. College was way too good to me.

Particularly with birthdays. Because when you and 2,000 of your closest friends return to campus every year on the precise week that marks your entry into the world, well...you come to expect big blowouts.

I had fantastic birthdays from 1995-1997. When no one was studying yet and there were no excuses not to join in the fun. I went to school in a small town. Tiny. There were, maybe, two decent restaurants, three if you include McDonalds, and four bars. If there was a birthday, you knew it. If there was a 21st birthday, you REALLY knew it.

Enter the real world on my 22nd birthday. When I cried because my friends were hours away, beer cost more than $1 a pitcher and I had to...work. And Mike got the pleasure of celebrating that evening with a puffy, slobbery mess. This was the time in our lives when he became my personal Jesus and bore the brunt of all of my unhappiness and insecurity. Fun times.

We all know it wasn't the birthday, so much as what was missing. The start of a new school year was over. Living with my best friends was done. I was starting a new phase of life which I didn't care particularly much for. There was no orientation. No cafeteria. No roommates. No morning classes followed by a 2-hour afternoon nap. No one cleaning my bathroom. No Days of Our Lives after lunch.

And then no party. It sucked.

And it's taken me a few years, but I've come back around. I've mellowed. I've had children, and well, let's be honest, that's a sure cure for a lot of selfish behavior. And then I got to throw little girl birthday parties. And I got to be the one to plan all kinds of fun for my children, and as it turns out, I rather like being on that side of things.

And all of a sudden, eleven years later, nothing is missing. And I am cleaning puke and doing dishes and having sushi for lunch with my best friend and going for a paddle boat ride in Forest Park with my husband (which I have been BEGGING to do for years).

And it is perfect.

How to tame a wild three year old.

The differences between a three and four year old?

Harnesses.

As witnessed by the bus-riding rules of the St. Louis Special School District.

I'd say that's about right. What a great portrait of the little boys in my life...and deadly accurate, I might add. If I wasn't totally opposed to child leashes, I might consider crafting one of these babies for general public use.

Until Little J is 4, he must wear this harness for optimal bus-riding safety. It is quite the piece of machinery, what with it's 23 latches and buckles and ties and what not. And he didn't cry! Not one tear, even when he was being bound with this contraption that looks like it could suppress the weight of a rabid elephant.

I am not complaining.

Simply laughing.

The new face of terror.

Never, NEVER tell a large laundry pile to screw itself.

Because as it turns out, our large and rather angry laundry pile took the first floor--without much of a fight, I might add. It was a MASSIVE, yet clean, blood-letting, as my life force/intestinal remains were instantly consumed by our super absorbent towels and clothing. This is perhaps the benefit of washing 50+ loads of laundry over the past three months and then leaving it to sit and evolve and dream of military coups where whites and darks unite to rule the world. Or something.

Turns out that if you are plotting murder, death by laundry may be the way to go. It will, however, leave you with 60-80 pounds of evidence.

Which will then have to be washed clean.

But before you have the chance to fold it, it will reassemble into an army of greater killing capabilities. And then what you will have on your hands is the world's cleanest and most accurate assassin.

What comes next will be on your conscience.

For those of you who wonder when I find the time to sew and plan fun kid parties...well, I think you're lookin' at it. This is easily where 100 hours of my summer went ignored.

Freedom.

Today, I wore my new, favorite t-shirt. It's gray.



And. For a three-hour span of time, I also happened to send four children to school. Simultaneously. I liken it to a fit of engineering genius, having arranged the schedules like-so. After (almost) seven years, I have tasted the sweet freedom that is having children of school-age.




Oh. It is good.


So, what does one do on her first day of freedom? Glad you asked.


Here I am not caring that there are dirty dishes in the sink from breakfast and lunch. Not shown: tornado that is our kitchen after a meal involving three young kiddies. Didn't care much about that either.

Here I am dancing to "Fire Burning" by Sean Kingston, while simultaneously (wow, have I used that word twice in one post?) giving this laundry pile the finger. Screw you laundry pile, you will not ruin my freedom.





Here I am, post-run. Yes, I actually managed to exercise AND shower before 8:00 p.m. And here is my new, favorite, gray t-shirt.





Here I am on facebook. But let's face it, I am on facebook everyday--this is not that exciting or overly special. Perhaps it is monumental that I am not ignoring my children so that I can cyber-stalk. Today while I played computer lurker, they may actually have been learning to read.

Here I am enjoying a 98% fat free hot dog, on a fat-free bun, while catching up on People Mag. Or what I like to refer to as heaven on a diet.

And before you know it, my time was up and I was back in the mini (van), picking up the little tykes and hauling it over to the big girl's school for carpool. Then to the park to burn off the last of the energy fumes they were functioning on, as witnessed by L ACTUALLY remaining still enough to watch TV when we returned home, and then falling asleep in a half sitting/half laying position.

Yes, I have had sitters before, but that has generally entailed me leaving the house. No more! I have reclaimed my space for six hours a week! Six glorious hours to watch "The Real World" and listen to gangsta rap and eat M&M's without having to hide them (or explain why it's okay for mommy to eat junk, but not kids). Six hours to live without censorship.

Although, I am just kidding about the gangsta rap--that is not so much my style as power ballads of the 80's and 90's. I did, however, hear Bon Jovi's "I'll Be There For You" on the radio today while in the carpool line, and that DEFINITELY made my day, as it is a favorite, yet less-frequently played hit from my favorite band. Of. All. Time.

Now, if the entire Bon Jovi "New Jersey" album could have been playing while I was reading People Magazine and eating my fat-free meat products..well, I would call that heaven, on a diet, with really cool tunes.

And I will leave you with that.

What you can do with straight lines of stitching.

One of the ongoing projects I worked on with G this summer was learning the basics of sewing. And I say basics, because that is truly all I know. I can't pleat or smock or sew an invisible stitch, BUT I can sew in a line...and that's 90% of all sewing, I'd say.

So we started (and kept going) with lines and curves. First on paper, without thread, eventually advancing to those curly lines that swim all over the paper...and then adding thread. We did this for a few days to give her the feel for operating the foot pedal and guiding her paper (without stabbing her fingers continually with the electrically operated needle).


Step #2: Create something with straight lines. May I introduce G Longstocking. The background is made up of different strips of paper, each sewn on with one straight line of stitching. Next came the body, which was pretty easy, as I cut her clothing out of felt, minus the skirt which was a piece of a ruffle left over from the ONE pillow I have sewn for my bedroom makeover. We added some ribbon for fun on the shirt, and cut her arms out of zebra scrapbook paper. All sewn in place with straight lines.

Then we glued a head on from a picture I had laying around, and cut some yarn for hair and sewed the pigtails on too. Ta-da, a fun sewing collage!



Last project: a pillow and blanket for the doll of her choice. Here's where we raid the fabric graveyard of projects past, and find two pieces that will make an 18x18 inch square. I could be lying here, it could be 8x8, but I am really bad at judging three things--distance, food quantities and size--so, do with that what you will. I also added a layer of batting (the warm stuff inside of a quilt), to give it a real blanket-y feel.

Seriously, if you sew, a blanket is as easy as you get, particularly one this small. Right sides together, four straight lines (with a small hole left to flip it right side out). Done! Pillow is the same deal...right sides together, leave and small hole and turn it right side out, stuff it and stitch it shut! Perfect for a six-old-beginner, or a 33-year-old who seeks projects that take minimal effort and skill!

Enjoy, Froggie!

You are a super star.

It was back to school for these three goons. And quite honestly, I don't think a picture has ever captured the first day of school like this one. It is the PERFECT snapshot of my kids, on this day, in this moment.

I really wanted to do something fun for all four of my children this morning. And I say morning, because, they all go to preschool in the afternoon, which means this year will be somewhat like a science experiment, where we study how lack of naps and total schedule shake-ups directly correlate to Mommy's head exploding. Should get messy.

But.

Before it gets crazy, I wanted to start the year off on the right foot. Send them out the door excited to learn. Eager to make friends. Hoping, of course, that they are emotionally ready to be a friend (as causing head wounds and general selfishness DO NOT a friend make). This morning was all about building them up and encouraging them to tackle the year ahead.

So, a tradition was born. The Back to School Breakfast (or dinner, as it will become when my children actually keep normal school hours).




Our theme: You are a star. A rock star, a shining star, a super star. I revisited my banner-paper-as-a-tablecloth idea, this time filling it with sentences that began "You are...". You are a Super Star. You are beautiful. You are loved and adored. You are a miracle. You are the answer to our prayers. You are the loves of our lives.



On the menu: Cinnamon rolls. I really love these things. Too bad I picked the wrong week to kick fat to the curb.

A personalized note. They can't read, but here is where I am hoping it's the thought that counts, right?

Nothing extravagant, but compared to our normal breakfasts of toaster scrambles and bagels, this was FAN-CY. Different and unexpected.

My hope is that one day my kids will remember the start of their school years with great memories--of being excited, being prepared, being together. I hope they will know that I did not suffer through their summers at home, only to dump them back at school when I couldn't take it anymore. That I am so excited for this next chapter of their childhoods, even as I CONSTANTLY second guess the years that I have had leading up to this point. Was I intentional with them? Should we have done more of this? Less of that? Every year moves them closer to independence and farther from me and my false sense of control--and that big, scary world makes me think there is no way I can possibly get this parenting thing right. I mean, how exactly do you teach a six-year-old to love others, fear pedophiles, be nice, say no to drugs, not drink milk unless its hormone free and think long and hard about tattoos because they are PERMANENT????

There are not enough hours in the day, my friends.

I'm really trying my darn-dest to love them intentionally. To try hard. To stay up late and put in the effort, if it makes them feel just a little bit special. Or excited. I'm trying REALLY hard not just to survive their childhood, which is especially hard, because this job kicks my ass daily. And its mostly not about fun parties and cinnamon rolls (thankfully,or I would be a ga-zillion pounds), and more about heart issues and character building, which makes me feel like I am losing a mental battle with a toddler on a daily basis. Awesome for my confidence as a mom!

But sometimes it is all about fun. Of the spontaneous nature, as well as the kind we have all the power to create. Like today.

Here is to a great first day--and the nine months to follow! Three kids off to school, one to go on Thursday!

A new chapter.

Pardon my tardiness tonight. Lots to do, since this guy is headed to school for the VERY FIRST TIME tomorrow. How is that even possible?

I guess that makes today our last official day of summer--boy, did it fly by faster than I ever imagined it would. But then again, it seems like just yesterday that this little red head made his grand debut. After holding me hostage on bed rest for a month.

Only now he is off to school for six hours a week. And I will miss him dearly. I haven't been sad when any of my other kids have headed off to school, and I can only guess that it's all stemming from the end of baby-hood in our house. Apparently Little J is no longer this six pound, four ounce bundle of joy (and attitude). I did not receive that memo.

So. I've been working hard on somethin' I've been thinking about for a while now. I'm hoping it will be fun and tasty and special all at the same time. Pics and thoughts to come, tomorrow.

Night-night!

Hell hath no fury like a mom buying school supplies.

Choices are from the devil. And he lives at Target.

So, this morning saw us running a slew of errands in preparation to send my children back to school (or, to school, in Little J's case). First to G's school to do some copying, as I am officially her ROOM MOM this year! Yes, I am that excited. I am the coolest person you know.

Only, I realized 2 seconds in to this project that I have no knowledge of copy machines. Or, more specifically, how to make them collate and staple and fetch me a diet coke, which apparently they do these days. So, we went old school, circa 1988. Copy one page. Put paper back in the tray. Copy on the back side. Repeat. Lay out neat little piles and organize papers in order. Staple.

Retro is in. Haven't you heard?

Four small children came along for the task. In a room full of copiers and laminaters and staplers and markers. Lordy. None were flattened or pierced or duplicated in the process--AMEN (especially on that last one).

My fatal error was leaving the Target run until 11:15 a.m...but we need school supplies! What's a mom to do?

I'll tell you. NEVER go to Target again in the week before every school resumes. And under no circumstances should you even think about Wal-mart, I don't care if it might save you 30 cents.

There were, maybe, 12 items on my list. Standard, everyday classroom items. Items I bought back in 1981 when I was entering first grade.

Item #1: Spiral notebook.

Wide-ruled? College-ruled? Perforated? Purple? Blue? Princesses? Camouflage? Lavender-scented? One subject? 50 subject? Pink? With a pocket? With 5 pockets? Fresh-linen scented? High School Musical?

G wants Hannah Montana. We don't even watch that show! For this reason! Which just goes to show you the scary genius/mind-washing capabilities of the Disney machine. Even I like that Miley Cyrus song, "The Climb" and I am 33-years-old and OBVIOUSLY way too cool for that. I am room mom and all.

Item #2: 8-pack of crayons.

Classic colors? Tropical colors? Smelly Crayons? Fat? Skinny? Oh wait. No 8-packs. Only 24-packs. But I need eight! Just eight! It says eight!!!! Do I buy the 24-pack and just guess which colors the teacher is most likely to use? The difference between royal blue and turquoise could mean life or death in first grade. I think I read that in the handbook.

Item #3: Folders. See all choices listed above, under notebooks.

All of which just BEGS the question...what happened to the Trapper Keeper? Because that thing was all binders/folders/notebooks/general coolness wrapped up in one plastic, velcro package.

And don't even get me started on the clothes. Which are freaking awesome, btw. Way to go Target! Who ever is in charge of buying for the children's department deserves a raise (so long as it doesn't raise prices, lets keep it real). First the plethora of polka dot bathing suits. And I am glad to see you have continued that trend with corduroy bubble skirts in an orange/pink theme. Bravo.

Might I offer a suggestion.

Satan/Target-Powers-That-Be: Would you please send at least 100 of every item in a size 7. Because apparently, that is the age/size of every girl living in the St. Louis region. As witnessed by the fact that no size 7's exist in all of your massively crowded and currently-under-construction store. Except for jeans of the acid-washed variety. Please do not send ANY MORE of those.

A final shout out to Jesus, who so obviously kept my mental health in check and spared the lives of my many children while we were being consumed by the fire of hell (translation: shopping at Target). Because losing it over glue sticks and denim does seem kind of silly.

Cuteness in a poly-cotton, polka-dotted package.

So, before leaving on vacation, I alluded to a project I was working on. More like consumed with. I think I learned that I can only take on new projects at precisely the worst and most hectic moments of my life. Something to do with being a glutton for punishment.

Or perhaps, loving the end result when it's all said and done. I mean, can you really appreciate something if you didn't bleed and/or question your worth as a human being just a little?

Weeks ago, I found a tutorial (link here), detailing how to make a lined pillowcase dress. I've done this before, but after reading this tutorial, I realized their was a MUCH easier way. This screamed to me that I needed to make not one, but FIVE dresses. For the five girls that would be on vacation together.

Because if you know me, then you know that I am a sucker for: last minute projects, matching outfits, polka dots and monograms. Done.

It was like the perfect storm of crafting.

And so, this method for dress making has changed my life. My only glitch...there was no navy, polka-dotted, grosgrain ribbon to be found in St. Louis. Thanks for the suggestions, ladies...it was a no-go. Lots of royal blue, no navy.

Had to make the shoulder ties out of the navy polka dot fabric, which slowed me down some...but in the end, I think I am much happier with them this way.

So there you have it. And perhaps now you will understand my blogging absence...as I poured myself into these for days straight and then drove through the night to reach the beach. I was practically brain dead for half of our vacation, and liquored up for the rest.

'Cuz that's just how I roll.

The cutest darn lemonade stand. Ever.

Here's what happens when you vacation on a golf course. With adorably, small children.

Our first (ever) Lemonade stand. Genius.

I thought of this idea when getting ready for our va-cay, and mentally preparing for the kind of crafty things I could do while away from home. Lemonade stand instantly came to mind, as the house we stay in sits right across the street from the 12th green, and smack-dab next to the tee box on #13.

Not to mention that my G tends to be pretty shy and timid when it comes to this sort of thing. Nothing like 8 other little rug-rats to peer-pressure her into bringing out her inner salesman. Hey, it's not cocaine we're talking about! And for the record, I am all for peer pressure if it teaches a life skill like sales or potty training.

So we made some sugar cookies, mixed up a batch of Crystal Light lemonade...and our dream was born. Okay, my dream. Carried out by workers that do not comply with child labor laws, if you want to be all technical about it. They also may or may not have dipped their fingers in the cookie icing and licked them clean. A few times.

I will have you know that they LOVED it. When we substantially dehydrated them before 10 a.m. and headed to the beach, they STILL wanted to sell lemonade. And did, again after lunch...this time in swim wear. Lots more cookies and lemonade sold on the second go-around...I don't know what that says about our clientele.

And for less than an hour of work, they earned a whopping $12. Enough for every young worker to receive a dollar, with extras left for taxes and tithing. They then got to spend their earnings at the General Store. Gotta love Hilton Head. It's like the place exists just for lemonade stands.

Me in real life.

As of 2:07 a.m., this morning, we are home.

Hooray.

And I say this with such little enthusiasm, because returning home from a long va-cay always body slams me into reality with the force of a rogue tsunami. This time around I am being pummeled by school health forms (due three weeks ago), school lunch menus (due yesterday), unpacking, grocery shopping, arranging carpools, school supply shopping, kennel pick-up for an overweight beagle, meal making...oh, and arranging my schedule for the next week, which includes nothing short of 50,000 various back-to-school activities and meetings. Small pieces of pertinent info regarding times and dates for these said activities are floating around in my head (along with the theme to Gilligans Island, random), but no actual plans have been recorded in any sort of calendar/PDA/piece of paper/palm of my hand/in the highly organized files of a personal assistant that we all know I NEED just to function.

Let's also not forget that I spent the entire vacation eating as if I had the metabolism of a 6-year-old girl with a drinking problem. Because on vacation, fat isn't really fat. Not until you return home and can't fit into any of your pants because you ate a minimum of 3 cheeseburgers on the road trip home (in my calculations, that adds up to a small cow). Plus a slice of 13-layer cake from the gas station with the llama (and the 6 legged cow...not kidding). I won't even mention the pounds of gummy animals consummed.

Anyway. I am, indeed, larger than when I left.

The phone just rang. No joke, it was Little J's teacher calling to say they hadn't received his necessary paperwork. She was so kind and gracious, she said it was no problem if we brought it to the open house.

The open house. The open house... The. Open. House. Hmmm, drawing a blank.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip...

"Thursday, the 13th," she reminds me.

That started from this tropic port, aboard this tiny ship...

"4:00 p.m.," the final bit of info. Got it. It's now floating in the vacuum of space that holds a handful of Japanese words (retained from 2 years of class in high school) and all kinds of useless info about Bon Jovi (because they are awesome).

Hum, hum, hum, I don't know the words...a three hour tour, a three hour tour...

Yes, this is what it is like to be me. And here is also how I know that our God is all about miracles. Because I do manage to get to where ever it is I am supposed to be, most of the time. Sometimes I even shower. And as you can see, of my own abilities, I can barely manage to blow my own nose.

So when you see me this week, just be glad that I am clean and without snot pouring down my face.

The greatest celebration of the pig...

3rd Annual Rib-fest

Hilton Head Island, SC

August 5, 2009

9:00 a.m. and on...

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Love means ten bags of lime and a worm of pork.

There has been a death in our family recently, and as a result I have learned that people express their love and concern with food.


When you don't know what to say, or help, or how to react, or sympathize, or when you realize that their are no adequate actions or words to cover that kind of loss...well then, there's always food. Because everyone needs to eat.

It's an instantly satisfied, every four hour, need. And people have a tendency to want to meet needs.

All this to say that we are currently on va-cay. Hence my absence for the past few days. I will tell you that I was in a mild state of coma for a couple of days, as my husband felt it a good plan to drive us down here, through the night.

Ouch.

But now we are here, with some of our favorite people in the world, and I am beginning to feel firsthand that love does indeed manifest itself in the form of food. Because we are always cooking something.

Large amounts of something, actually.




Vast quantities of meat. Including a pork tenderloin (purchased at Sams), which we lovingly refer to as the "tremor". As in, the large, man-eating worm of movie fame.

If you're wondering what the deal with the limes is, I will tell you that it has everything to do with margarita making. And apparently, lime juice from concentrate is unacceptable. I believe that Mike-the-bar-boy has squeezed through 6 large bags of lime. No joke. Four more bags were purchased today.

Pizza night.

Lots of these. Lots.

One night of corn. You might see why we are at the grocery store MULTIPLE times a day.

My favorite week of the year. More to come when I am digested.