Tonight, my children got high in the year 2025.

Swim meet tonight.  And my brain stem hurts because I drank 7,531 ounces of Diet Coke today--and a friend of mine told me that Diet Coke turns into formaldehyde when heated by the body's 98.6 core temperature.  So if you consider that, PLUS the fact that the swim meet was held on the sun (so damn hot), then, I will begin to look like a life-sized figurine made of wax and leather in about...oh...4 minutes.

Also, my dinner consisted of cheese puffs and a sugar cookie.  If you're keeping track this means that I am now:  diabetic, being chemically preserved AND dried like a fine leather handbag.  Super.

We almost had a nuclear-meltdown tonight, as the pool hosting the swim meet has the LONGEST parking lot I have ever seen in my entire life, and my children don't do: long or hot or walking.  We are talking about only four rows of parking spots, that stretch the entire space-time continuum.  We parked in the 2nd to the last spot, somewhere near the year 2025.   A Delorean and a puffy vest would have been helpful.

But then, as G was swimming in her first event, I noticed a smell (and I have NO sense of smell).  Distinct.  Is it....?  No, can't be.  Yes. IT. IS.

By now the children had begun to crawl back from crazy, and I was attributing it to the fact that they were being slow roasted on a pool deck and losing the will to live.  Which is dumb, because we all know the chickens SCREAM when they are being cooked.  Turns out, however, they were receiving a STRONG dose of 2nd hand pot smoke.

If you're thinking that someone was lighting up at the community pool?  You would be wrong.  It is not an entirely bad idea, however, seeing as the pool and the possible drowning and the goggles and the wet everything (and the Diet Coke) fry every nerve in my body--but this was not a case of non-traditional parenting choices for surviving the pool.  I happened to run into a friend of mine, and she provided the missing link, the reminder that the field directly over the fence is being set up for a 4th of July carnival.  Ahhh, CARNIES!!!  

One day, remind me to tell you how I was a carnie for 3 weeks in my junior year of high school.  No joke.  CARNIE BARBIE!!!  Blah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

I want nachos.

Sorry, it's not you.  It's me.  And the carnie pot.  And the diet coke.  And the diabetes.  And the beef-jerky like transformation I am currently undergoing.    

On a side note:  I am all hyped up over yesterday's post and the comments it has generated.  In all honesty, it *could* be the diet coke, but really I love this kind of discussion.  And the posts by both Greta and I are really just the tip of the iceberg, I think.  There is really so much more to it, and for that very reason, I am calling in all kinds of favors to get different women to tell the stories of their insecurities.  More to come, I promise.

But first I need (in no particular order):  An ice bath, insulin, 57 hours of consecutive sleep, a skin peel, a small glass of wine, anti-aging cream, a hot dog and someone to retrieve the cooler bag I left in my mini-van.

On being Barbie.

Yesterday, I read THIS POST by my friend, Greta. 

Greta and I have met several times, we have a lot of the same friends, we read each other's blogs--and this week, we go to the same Vacation Bible School. 

You really need to read her post, about the insecurities that women carry, and the unfair comparisons we hold ourselves to.  Not to mention, the hormones and the HORMONES and the unnatural stretching of the _____________ (insert private part; ALL are appropriate).  It's impossible (and semi-elastic), this business of being a woman. 

But you really need to read it, because today I am going to give a voice to the Barbie.  Not out of argument (because I admire her words) or offense--but simply because there are two (or 3 or 12) sides to every story.  And those sides aren't always in disagreement. 

Never in my life have I considered myself pretty.  I'm average height, I'm not rail thin.  In fact, I've majored in the art of "blending in" my entire life--which is an incredible feat when you are half-white in a practically Asian country (Hawaii) and half-Asian in a cornfield (Indiana).  I did not draw attention to myself, good or bad--even though, as a teenager, I wanted to be the star of something/anything, because that's what high school rewards.  You're either the best looking, or the best athlete, or the best student, or the best slacker, or you're everybody else.  It's just the way the system works, and if you don't like it I suggest you join up with the Duggars.  But also, and here's the secret--EVERYBODY hates the system.  Well, unless you are the *exception*, the kid who is confident in their own skin, who understands sin and insecurity and the bigger picture that NO ONE WILL CARE if you were the head cheerleader when you are 35. 

But for the purpose of this blog, I'm going to consider myself a Barbie.  Not a tall blonde with legs up to my neck or anything, but probably of the groups of women of which Greta speaks.   Let me be clear, IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS, that I do not consider myself the type of girl that looks or acts as if I have my sh#! together on a daily basis.  Quite the opposite.  But I have gone to the church that sponsors this particular Vacation Bible Study for over 10 years.  I am comfortable there, I have friends there. I did happen to wear workout clothes on numerous occasions during drop off this week (they were not made of spandex).  I do get that I am an insider.  And not in a way that's pompous or snotty--and DEFINITELY not in a way that takes offense to what Greta is saying.  I'm just saying, with lots of awkward words and hand  motions, that I get it.

I get it for a number of reasons, and this blog has made it very clear.  You see, I DO NOT consider myself a Barbie (I don't think ANYONE woman with kids does, unless they are inebriated)--and yet, I'd be lying if I didn't say there weren't *comments*.  Not the sweet kind that come from friends who tell you you look great (because you showered) or that your wearing a nice dress.  FYI, if you give me those kind of comments I will say one of two things:  1.) Thanks!  I showered today!, or 2.) Thanks!  It's from Target!  I do not take comments well, unless I can play them off on simple hygiene, or prove, with receipts, that my looks cost less than $10.  Fact.

Want to make me SQUIRM OUT OF MY SKIN?  Tell me I am a good writer.  That's the kind of compliment I CANNOT handle.

No, the kind of comments I am talking about, in regard to "Barbie-ness" are of this variety: 

"I read your blog and it's so great!  But I just can't read it anymore, because the stuff you do with your kids makes me feel like a terrible mother."

Wow.

Friends, that's what we are now going to refer to as "The Barbie Bitch Slap".  There are no words that sting quite as good as those.  To do something you love with your kids, something that drives you creatively--and to be told that the simple act of being good at something makes other people feel terrible.  It can be your looks, it can be your talents, it can be the way you mother, it can be the way you eat broccoli.  WHATEVER.  I am a firm believer that women shouldn't have to apologize for being good at something.  For being the Barbie of anything.  People who wear monograms have feelings (and insecurities) too.

That last sentence was sarcastic.  HALLELUJAH, I have my sarcasm back. 

Now, where was I.

Right.  So, I write this here blog, and I do share some of the things that I make or do with my kids (not all, because you can't handle that kind of AWESOME...kidding).  Do you only see the side of me that acts like Martha Stewart, or are you reading that I am in the middle of major family changes that are threatening to send me into code-red-mental-breakdown if that damn house doesn't sell SOON???  Do you think that I am shallow because I like my children to wear (matching) shirts that I applique?  Do you think that because I exercise that I am self absorbed?  Or are you reading (gross) tales of the things growing on my feet, the 60 pounds I gained with EACH pregnancy and the stash of post-natal pads I recently parted  with?

I think I am very real about the things that are, well...REAL.  You get both good and bad here.  But it can't be just one-sided, because ladies, LISTEN UP.  We're all good at something.  We were created in the image of God, and he aint mediocre.  And we need to own that.  And love what we do, and who we are.  And not apologize for it.  And not compare the strengths of others.  We are created to be a body, different in our gifts and talents.  THE BIBLE SAYS SO.  

I had FIVE children in three years.  FIVE.  When Little J was born, G was only 3, and there was that whole cluster of premature, one-year-old twins.  I have been stretched and scarred.  I have worn a Size 14 and a Size 4.  I've been on bedrest twice and been force-fed Jimmy Dean sausage sandwiches (barf).  I've lived those crazy baby years on a much, MUCH abbreviated schedule, and I've survived!  Ladies, you will SURVIVE!  And one day, you will get to shower whenever you want.  And grocery shop anytime you like, when ALL the kids are in full-day school.  You'll be able to exercise anytime you want, without feeling like you are sacrificing your only free minutes to aerobic torture.  You will be able to go to the pool and not feel like someone is going to die.  Resist the temptation to compare yourselves to other mothers; we walk in different stages, at different times.  We ALL pay our dues.  We are all puked on and yelled at and whined at and sleep deprived at some point--that is the privilege (sarcasm) that comes with being the most constant and trusted things in the world of our little people. 

I have lots of Barbie friends that I love.  And you know what?  I try to be intentional with them, because in my experience, women treat Barbies BADLY.  With jealousy and distrust--and with so much insecurity that they assume these seemingly perfect women would never want to be friends with someone less groomed.  And just to be clear (again), I consider myself of the less groomed variety.  I've known so many women who are so humbly beautiful, and so completely misunderstood.  Held at a distance, because no one likes that kind of comparison.  I have Barbie friends that are really successful at their jobs, but feel alienated from the stay-at-home-mom crowd.  I have Barbie friends who have gobs of money, but are incredibly insecure at the kind of attention that brings.  You name it, Satan has an AWESOME talent for turning our gifts and talents and blessings into poison for our relationships. 

Resist.

Again, this is not meant as a rebuttal, or an argument against what Greta is saying--instead, more of a virtual conversation?  Because really, I think we're kind of saying the same thing?  No?  Thoughts?  Barbie Bitch Slap?

The summer of semi-caring about everything.

Oh, blogworld--where to begin?  There is SO much, and yet SO little to you.  I feel so incredibly uninspired these days, as maybe you have gathered from that rather riveting post about the perils of licorice all up in my shoe?  I would like nothing more than to entertain you with stories of my current trip back in time to 1984 (also known as the summer of living without a DVR system in my in laws basement).  There's good stuff here!  But every time I attempt to write it, all I hear in my brain is "Wah-wah-Wah-wah-Wah-wah", ala Charlie Brown.  I fear I am a little bit dead inside.  And by that, I do not mean that my emotion or my empathy or my understanding of the world has passed, but rather that I cannot find my SARCASM and it has rendered me an empty, lifeless shell.  Woe is me.

In other  news of how my world is semi-terrible:  The pool looks less like the devil-possessed kid in the Exorcist, but still isn't *quite* right.  I  think those two weeks of demon possession have really dumbed down our expectations though, as we wake up every morning and whisper sweet affirmations to it, about how its looking SO GOOD today!  But compared to the other pools, ours is still rocking the equivalent of a massive head gear, a perm and a Star Trek sweatshirt.  Harmless, but AWKWARD. 

Yes.  The house is still on the market.  And even though it hasn't been that long, it still feels like it's been NINE YEARS.  What we neglected to disclose?  The house is magic and self-cleaning, constructed out of diamonds with 5 brand new money trees growing out back!  It's a steal!  Now someone, BUY IT.

I'm not kidding.  

I have a life to get on with and schools to figure out and desks to crap disaster into and ponytails to shove in random drawers.  And also, I am leaving on an extended Hawaiian holiday here in a couple of weeks, at which time I shall travel forward (and yet still backward) to living in my own parents home, circa 1989.  Although, I do believe they have a DVR system, and you had better believe that I will be ALL OVER re-runs of America's Next Top Model.

Speaking of reality TV--replaying episodes of Celebrity Rehab and The Real World/Road Rules Challenge at midnight is really screwing with my sleep schedule.  And don't even get me started on 16 and Pregnant.  That show makes my blood boil on a regular basis and yet I. Cannot. Look. Away.  If I am going to scar my children emotionally, it is sure as hell going to be because I chained them up in our basement during their teenage years--and please, dear LORD, not because I in some way enabled them to procreate in high school.

Tonight, I heard rumor that copperhead snakes have been seen around these parts, in the woods surrounding my in-laws house.  Probably in the very creek that I encourage them to explore daily.  Great.  All I need is another far-fetched and horrific scenario in which to imagine their tragic demise.  Have I mentioned that I am going to be flying over an ocean in 2 weeks?  And that I hate (HATE) to fly for fear of fiery death?  Deep. Cleansing. Breaths.

So there you have it.  Massive pity party/brain dump. 

Still blah. 

Working on it. 

Proof that licorice might be the most powerful weapon you can give a child.

Friday's drive-in viewing of Cars 2 was a GREAT success!  Despite the 70-minute drive time (one way) and the initial, aggressive and CONSTANT demands for gummy bears and cotton candy and licorice, the children and their parents did, indeed, enjoy themselves. 

Note to self:  NEVER AGAIN hype this type of event with a Target candy run.  Their desire to become diabetic *almost* outweighed their excitement for the movie.  Next time, bring broccoli.

Further argument for my vegetables-as-snacks theory?  My nasty-ass shoe.

Which, apparently, managed to attract the 347 pieces of licorice and cotton candy that my children BEGGED FOR and then promptly discarded on the ground.  This ended up being .03% of a blessing in disguise, however, because if I hadn't stepped on all that sticky?  Then we might have lost the sock to G's American girl doll (pictured, top right).  Which had to be surgically removed from this mess of high-fructose paste. 

Note to self:  Never, EVER give the children licorice unattended.  Licorice + carpet= the children's equivalent of prison weaponry.  And that mess would blow a hole straight through my sanity.

Awe. Some.

Summer happenings and an inadvertent animal-themed post.

St.  Louis has an AMAZING and FREE zoo.  I almost forget about it in the summer when the crowds are out, but today I realized that our membership is about to expire in a week, and after that we'll be in Hawaii.  My original plan was to take the kids on a hike, but this was met with much protest, and NOTHING sounds so unbearable as commanding 4 unruly children on a 3-4 mile hike that involves cliffs.  And maybe mountain lions.  No telling what I would do if faced (simultaneously) with extreme whining AND a mountain lion.

Also.  G has been BEGGING to see the sting ray/ shark exhibit that visits our zoo during the summers.  I've held her off for a month, but figured it was time to bite the bullet.  In years past, most of my children have been too small to get their grubby little paws down far enough into the water to actually be able to touch these things.  However, it looks like those human growth hormone injections are working, because we managed to fondle big flat fish (?) for about a half an hour.  Well....as you'll see, L wasn't *quite* tall enough.  Not to worry, I held tight to her waist band in a wedgie-type maneuver. 

And.  The kids are OBSESSED with earning money, which is great...except that they want to spend it at Cici's Pizza, to make up for all of these years that Mike and I have REFUSED to give them money for they candy machines/arcade.  I was able to talk them down from spending their money on crap, but somehow agreed to let them buy a rabbit?  I don't really remember this, but it's obviously one of the things I deafly "uh-huh-ed" too while surfing Pinterest.  Parent FAIL.  Here's hoping rabbits cost $2000 and that the chickens lose interest or frequent Cici's Pizza about 75 times before they manage to save for it.

Tomorrow's adventure?  Cars 2 at a drive-inn theatre.  This is going to be brilliant....

We are experiencing a few (million) pool issues.

The summer of the pool has been...postponed.  Algae, what a BUZZ KILL.

Pool maintenance appears to be an ongoing and highly temperamental job.  If this pool was a woman, she would be in a never ending state of menopause--and though we have thrown her lots and LOTS of mood stabilizers (chlorine and acids that will remove body hair), she is still behaving similar to the Incredible Hulk.

{As a cuter sidenote to the pool maintenance:  Mike's parents live next to a creek and we rescue wildlife from these waters on a DAILY basis.  Mostly frogs.  But there was the saving of a chipmunk two weeks ago.}

Mike's new past time is running up to the pool store with a water sample.  Friends, I have watched this thing turn an alarming shade of green over 2 days time, and it frightens me that my children have ever swam in a pool so demon-possessed. 

Our first concern was a *slight* cloudiness to the water.

We were told the pool needed "conditioner" and were sold the appropriate, million-dollar bottles of chemicals.  A day later, it was SPARKLING and clear.

Two days after that, it was the color of leprechaun pee.

As this was *alarming*, Mike took a sample of the water back up to the pool store.  The verdict?  WAY TOO MUCH CONDITIONER.  Sonofabitch. This is the much abbreviated story of how the pool has become our SIXTH and most hormonally-imbalanced child who HAS TO HAVE the equivalent of braces and a new car and a college fund, all in one week.  {Child #5 is Little J's chronic eczema.}

I will spare you the details, but as of this morning?  The pool's chemical balance appears to be PERFECT.  You know, except for the fact that is GREEN. 

Pool Gods--I have a LIFE to get on with.  And playdates that I have promised to my children.  And earlier this week, someone went and had themselves a bout of diarrhea in the community pool we belong to and this has given me a slight twitch when I think about the fact that Big J is incapable of faux-swimming with his mouth closed.  I need this pool happy, and balanced and NOT GREEN.  ASAP. 

Friends--If you are waiting for a pool invite?  You are MORE THAN WELCOME here.  It's just that the pool is less clear than a pond that grows amoebas.  As I watched Mike dump chemicals into it today, I remarked at how the children *probably* shouldn't get in the water, for fear their skin would melt clear off their bodies. 

Mike's response?

"It won't hurt you, but it might bleach your suit a little."

EXACTLY.

Stripper giant vs. the Bunny.

In breaking news:  Steve Madden is a bastard.

About THREE years ago, I was in the market for black, strappy heels, back in the day when I still fancied myself a civilized woman who wore anything other than Reef flip-flops.  As I can never make up my mind am particular, I shopped for 3-4 weeks before purchasing these babies from Steve Madden via the Internet.  Once they were received and modeled, it became quite apparent that I was one sequined, string bikini top away from a pole dance, and "giant stripper" was not the style theme I was aiming for. 

{On a side note--my wardrobe has now been completely reworked and VOID of any clothing that looks appropriate with heels.  Thank you, Target.}

I *meant* to return these.  But we all know I operate below the level of a 3-year-old when it comes to, a.) returning something and b.) returning something BY MAIL.  Oh, and Steve Madden (the a-hole) had a 10-day return policy window. 

I did what any sensible woman would do.  I hid them in the back of my closet where my husband was sure not to find them and ask, a.) how much they cost, or b.) why I didn't return them. 

Upon moving from our home and *rediscovering* these little gems, I decided WHAT-THE-HELL, let's give them a shot.  So, I decided to wear them on Saturday's ill-fated, two-hour-inadvertent-chardonnay-extravaganza.  On top of making me appear drunk (before I was ACTUALLY and ACCIDENTALLY drunk), they also gave me the illusion of having a glandular-related height issue, as I had to dodge patio umbrellas and small villagers and A GIGANTIC BUNNY SITTING ON A TABLE. 

I see how you *might* think someone slipped me some 'shrooms.  Not the case, friends.  There was an ACTUAL, GIGANTIC rabbit sitting on a table.  There was also a blanket and a stroller, to give you an accurate mental picture.  I understand what you are envisioning.  Think BIGGER.

Buzz around the restaurant was that this rabbit was a service animal, and there was some kind of civil-rights documentation to back this up.  A casual perusing of the Internet tells me that this is a very controversial topic--but I'm not here to argue the specifics, friends.  I'm just here to tell you that there was a HUGE freaking rabbit sitting on a table at a restaurant.  I don't discredit the value of such animals; but it would alarm me to see a golden retriever sitting ON a table in a busy restaurant.  And this is the MORE BIZARRE equivalent.

If you are going to make the argument that bunnies are smaller?  YOU ARE NOT IMAGINING THIS SCENARIO BIG ENOUGH. 

Also.  This woman did not enjoy having photos taken of her rabbit sitting on a table.  Which, I'm sure, is an occupational hazard.  Thankfully, she finished her meal before I stomp, Stomp, STOMPED my way out of there in those heels that made me want to cut all of Steve Madden's toes off.  Bunnies do not like awkward, angry, stripper giants. 

Really, we are only one hour and 1.5 glasses of wine into the night.  Which tells you that the next hour was a doozy for me and those damn heels.  It really wasn't all that eventful and CERTAINLY wasn't deliberate, let's just say that cookie cake and tortilla chips do a sh#! job of filtering alcohol out of one's system. 

Upon walking diagonally (as in ACTUALLY leaning at a very awkward angle) out of restaurant #2, I managed to ride home and eat three french fries and ONE bite of a quarter-pounder.  And I was passed out in my bed before 10 p.m.   

Just trying to keep it classy, St. Louis.

SuperDad.

Happy Father's Day!

This is always an incredibly CRAZY week in our household, as Mike's birthday falls within a few days of Father's Day, every year.  Which leaves us scrambling to come up with a slew of meaningful gifts and gestures. 

The gift you should never give your husband/father:  A day of eating no solid meals that consist of ZERO nutritional value beside various pieces of cookie cake, chocolate almonds and multiple diet cokes (me), followed by a night on the town & four large glasses of wine (me, again).  TRUST ME.  Unless he likes sloppy, and then, by all means, this would be PERFECT.

There is a story here, and it involves (what felt like) 13-inch high heels and a gigantic rabbit/service animal on a restaurant table, and my brain ACTUALLY floating in chardonnay.  But that's a story for another day.

Our other Father's Day offerings were less alcoholic in nature, and included a shirt hand-stamped and embroidered with our theme, "SuperDad".  Going along with it was a story the kid's wrote and illustrated, about Mike and his super abilities to save the kids and their eight dollars from "the bad guys".

*Spoiler Alert*--SuperDad manages to tie up the bad guys and put their mean pet bear to sleep with magical puppy chow.  He is totally our hero.

I am blessed BEYOND measure by so many wonderful "dads"--my father-in-law, my own dear dad, and my wonderful husband.  All of whom bring great joy to me and my children.  Happy Father's Day to you all--WE LOVE YOU.

To Mike, the father of my kidlets--there is NO ONE who does this as gracefully and selflessly as you.  What you provide in strength and patience and stability, I counterbalance in hormonal and book-material CRAZY.  You are so very necessary for my survival and sanity.  Love, love, love you. 

No birthday post is complete without a reference to sexual malfunction.

Happy Birthday, to my sweet husband, who turned 36 today.  In this family, the ultimate show of love is a yellow pound cake with fudge icing (pictured above).  Yes, I said pound cake.  With fudge.  Otherwise known as that extra fat fold that is sure to make an appearance tomorrow around pool time.

The cake itself takes some voo-doo magic and the patience of the Dalai Lama to make.  Well, not the cake exactly, but the icing--it has to heat to a PRECISE temperature, or else it's some version of a disaster.  Too hot?  The icing won't spread and you get a gloopy mess, not unlike a hair balding pattern.  Not hot enough (as tends to be my problem)--too runny, and the cake appears to be constantly weeping icing until it decides to harden itself.  EVERY YEAR, as I am about 3 degrees away from the *preferred* temperature, I start to PANIC and think I am going to overcook or burn the icing.  Which leads to the cake baking equivalent of a premature ejaculation and an end product that looks like it needs anti-depression meds.  Whatever, it still tastes the same.

Tonight, it was planned that we would have a fancy picnic in our new backyard.  For a better part of the afternoon, I schlepped tables and chairs and plates and fabric and candles to our perfect, grassy spot.  And the effort was worth it, because it was *magical*. 

And Mike was happy, because we served meat and fudge icing.  Though, the southwestern flank steak was served on a bed of Sonora salad, so it's not quite the heart attack on a plate that is pictured below.  Close, but not quite.

And as I type this, Mike is enjoying an evening of pool-side poker with some of his best guy friends.  With a cookie cake, because I KNEW he wouldn't share that sad, fudge cake.  So, I would say this has turned into a pretty awesome day for him.  Which was EXACTLY the goal, because he is the most selfless man I know.  Kind and patient and humble and reliable.  When I think about how young and immature and NEEDY I was back when we met (15 years ago), it still amazes me that Mike is the man that the Lord blessed me with.  I wouldn't trade a minute of our life together.  Not one.

Happy Birthday to my partner in this adventure, the one who lets me vent without retaliating, who has watched me grow and shrink (and grow) through three pregnancies, who has fed me Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches while I was on bedrest (barf), who lets me sleep in whenever possible, who has held my hand at the funeral of our son, who has encouraged me every day for YEARS to write a book. 

You mean the world to me. 

Getting festive.

Someone is celebrating his 36th birthday tomorrow.

Hint:  It's not Big J.

Going with a "birthday" theme, here is a picture of a present we took to a birthday party this week.  As it has been a wee-bit cold and rainy, we took this opportunity to make some wrapping paper.  G & L used some fun paint colors and their fingerprints to make a heart pattern.  And YARN is my new favorite ribbon. 

The wondertwins were asked to bring a grab-bag gift for a boy or a girl to the party.  L (the little stinker), PURPOSELY chose the gift she brought when it was her turn to pick.  We are now the proud owners of our 213th Zhu Zhu pet. 

Had I known she was going to reclaim what she brought?

I would have wrapped a box of chardonnay.  Or possibly, some anti-anxiety meds.

On becoming BOLD.

If water was flammable, this would be a hazard.  And I would venture to say that this many kids in a pool has got to be a serious life risk, but for the fact that it is all an impressively managed, four-hour goat rodeo.

Last night, amid my meltdown, we had the pleasure of watching G swim in her very first meet of the season, as a Kirkwood Riptide.  Compared to our country club meets, this was less *dressy* and more relaxed--but what Kirkwood lacks in formal dress codes was made up for with the stress of SO. MANY. PEOPLE. 

Arriving at the pool and trying to figure out what G was supposed to do sent my PANIC into hyper-drive.  Here's how it went:  We escorted G into the team "tent", laid claim to a spot and wrote her name and event numbers/strokes on her arm in black sharpie.  This is team protocol, and honestly, the ONLY WAY to properly identify and wrangle 3,864 children to their races at the appropriate time.  I got a small glimpse into the world of cattle branding, and I gotta say, it makes sense.

As the meet is 4-hours long, I was sent an email of items G would likely want to have to pass the time.  It included:  Two towels, a blanket to sit on, swim gear, a shirt to wear between races, dinner, a snack, a water bottle, something to do (cards, books, etc.), paper to write letters home because we are going to be there for all of eternity, a photo of our family so that G remembers what we look like, and a shiv for protection in the "tent wars" that are likely to occur when you contain that many children for so many hours.  I'm *kind of* kidding.

Once she's settled into the tent, Mom & Dad wave goodbye, and wait for their little swimmer to magically appear at the start blocks for their race.  PAN-IC.  This has the potential for disaster written all over it, but by some large miracle, G appeared at all of her races. 

And she swam her little heart out!  I have ZERO pictures of her actually swimming because I was too busy screaming at her to GO FASTER cheering her on. 

Because here's the thing with G, and the reason why this team is a PERFECT fit for her.  G likes to be good at things, but she lacks the competitiveness to put herself out there.  Swimming, in general, is great for her because there is a time trial every week, and she can compare her times to her competitors.  I don't mean this in a negative way, its actually quite positive--because when G sees that she is fast, or only a few seconds behind the fastest swimmer, her confidence soars.  Without this knowledge, she will always assume she is the slowest swimmer out there; and she will perform at exactly that level.  We have TRIED to boost G's confidence, to tell her she is a wonderful swimmer in her own right--but she is a timid girl that sees the world in black and white.  She fears failure and as a result, she has become quite comfortable riding the middle ground.  She is EXACTLY like her mother.   

The other great thing about swimming for such a large team?  Every event in her age group is broken down into heats, so swimmers of the same pace are competing against each other.   G's time trial gave her the fastest time in the second heat of all of her strokes--which put her in a GREAT position for a confidence boost.  My girl has always wanted to win a ribbon--what kid doesn't?  On a new team, where her times were good, and she had yet to figure out who the better swimmers were?  She was in a perfect position to PUT. HERSELF. OUT. THERE.

And she did.  I've never seen this kid move so fast in water. 

She managed to shave three seconds off her freestyle time, and win her heat.  With a time that puts her up there at the top of her age group.  All because she FINALLY thought she could. 

I told her all night long how proud I was of her; not because she won, but because she REALLY tried.  Finally.  All those years of training her to be so safe, has led her to take so very few risks--and to watch her take a big step out of her comfort zone? 

Amazing. 

The point of drowning.

Today, I felt the panic rising. 

I've thought about this feeling that grows steadily from my gut and upward to my tear ducts, and the writer in me has looked for the word, the EXACT word, to describe it--and it is PANIC.  Low, rumbling and threatening to overtake me at any given second.

I'm not sure why, exactly.  Except that we have a lot going on, and I suppose that sometimes my fragile gate of sanity begins to leak, and without warning I am one committment, one slow driver, one child tantrum away from drowning.  Even in that kind of helplessness, I know there is a life preserver waiting to be thrown--but I so rarely like to rely on help.  I truly HATE to need.

Today was a careful dance of schedules, and out-of-the-ordinary routines.  It is the start of a busy week, and the expectation of how it will all play itself out is thick and heavy.  Mostly, it's just a crazy time of transition and shuffling for our family and I am doing it POORLY.  It is hard to be in someone else's space, it's hard to carry the weight of caring for someone else's things (particularly with four children).  Our story has yet to see a chapter in which something doesn't break or become marred (or at least seriously dirty) on a semi-daily basis, and when I factor that in to our current set of circumstances, it is like feeding field mice to the PANIC.  This makes me hyper-vigilant and short and less creative and terrible.  Today, for example, we owned squirt guns for exactly 1.4 hours until they were both irrepairably damaged--this hit a nerve so very deep in my misplaced anxiety over things that, in reality, matter so very little at all. 

It is just a phase; but I struggle with doing things terribly.

Bottom line:  It's near impossible to settle a family *temporarily* and today, the longing for our new home and the work of surviving at our current one feels like drowning.  Apparently, I can do limbo and patience for exactly three weeks before the PANIC rises, and we have met that mark.  I had begun to think the outer edge of my faith in God's timing is 21 days--but am beginning to understand that this is where it really begins. 

Not in patient safety.

But at the point of drowning and the need for saving.

Lord, PLEASE let that life preserver look like a house contract and a 4-week closing date.  Or (as a distant second option) the patience to handle another month of waiting + greater fine-motor dexterity and emotional control on the part of my children, so as to keep the *breakage* of things to a minimum.  Amen.

How Sara got her groove back.

 

Why, hello crafty-mojo.  It's nice to have you back. 

With our move and garage sale behind us, it seems that I have found some *appropriately* timed inspiration, that resulted in this lovely little treat.  It's REAL simple and just as it looks--making packages of jello + unflavored gelatin (1 packet per color), pouring them into cups, chilling 25 minutes.  Repeat.  For the white creamy layers?  A can of sweetened condensed milk + one cup of boiling water + 2 packages of unflavored gelatin.  The exact recipe I used can be found HERE.

Though, I've gotta tell you--for the version I made in individual cups, this is A WHOLE LOTTA extra gelatin, and the end result was quite firm.  Like, ass of a body-builder firm.  I think I could cut the gelatin down by half and it would still be adequate.  I'm guessing that the rock hard jello works best if made in the pan (as specified by the recipe)--because, I think a more solid jello is preferable when serving in cubes. 

The sweetened condensed milk layer?  Pure magic.  If you can adjust your recipe so that the end result is, of course, greater than a degree short of a hard as nails description.  Though, I gotta tell ya--I'm now on the look out for various liquids that I can solidify with the voodoo of gelatin, and I am considering an entire dinner of jiggly cubes.

I think I just created the next great restaurant chain.  For reals.

Also, as part of my craft-themed manic binge?  I am repurposing like a PSYCHOPATH, and have sewn approximately 42 pairs of shorts for my kids today.  But that's a post for another day.   

Welcome to the new week, blog world!!

Where I counter-balance the tale of my twins survival, with the demise of our goldfish.

I know you're all thinking I'm *awesome*.  I know, I get that a lot.

But tonight?  Tonight, friends, I am going to regale you with tales of how I managed to kill TWO goldfish with pure stupidity.  Turns out my brain is more deadly to fish than a sharp hook attached to a hot dog. 

I mentioned a few posts back that our besties took us on a date to a local church carnival (also known as the human-blacktop-frying-pan)?  At this fun fest, we managed to win TWO goldfish by tossing ping pong balls into small, round vases.  This produced GREAT excitement among our children, who have never been allowed to kill own fish before.

So.  We got home and threw them in a bowl, and headed out the next day to purchase a suitable habitat for Angie & Charlie, some food and those magic drops that take the poison out of tap water??  You should already see that this is going to go BADLY.

Everything I have been told about fish is that they tend to freak out and die if you change their water too suddenly.  Something to do with shock?  Or hormone imbalance?  Or bi-polar disorder?  Who knows.  Somewhere in the deep corner of my brain, I remembered this, and seemed to think the key to fish-whispering was not *disturbing* them all that often.  I mean, they live in RIVERS for goodness sake, and those are filled with dirt and gunk and beer cans.

Also.  Within 24 hours, these bastards had totally crapped up their entire bowl.  To the point that the water was closer in appearance to dirty milk, with a smell similar to that of my mini-van.  And there were particles floating in it.  Gag.

I did what any responsible pet owner would.  I cleaned the bowl, added new water, added the magic drops...and then added a few cups of the nasty-smelly-dirty-milk water.  SO AS NOT TO SHOCK THE FISH.  As a result, the water now resembled DILUTED nasty-smelly-dirty-milk-water.

Continue this cycle for 3 days.

Until Mike woke me this morning to tell me that the fish were *sleeping* at the bottom of the bowl.  Because they were DEAD.

Um, NO, I say (ever so confidently).  If they were dead, they'd be floating.   

(Are you laughing?  You should be laughing.)

Common fish myth:  Dead fish float.  In reality, when they die, they actually remain at the bottom of the bowl with their eyes open.  I think.  I could only catch fleeting glimpses of them through the now nasty-smelly-THICK-dirty-milk water.  Listen, I thought I was doing them a FAVOR (translation: I was unknowingly killing them with my steel-sharp idiot mind) . It never once occurred to me, in all the times I've ever noticed fish as pets, that their water was ALWAYS clear and non-smelly.   That would have been *good* and logical information to recall.



If you are now wondering how I was able to make life-or-death decisions on the part of my wondertwins?  Yep, I'm amazed to.  Thank goodness I didn't *hear a rumor* that preemies tend to thrive if fed entire chicken bones down their ventilators. 

And in a related note, Charlie began floating at the top of the bowl sometime around noon.  Because I got BUSY, people, and dead fish were not high on my list of things to clean, so get off my back already.

The end.

How these scars sing of joy.

For all of L's life, Mike and I have purposely kept her out of bikinis.  This is a hot button *issue* for Mike in general, dating back to 2003, when he freaked out like I was selling G into prostitution when I bought her an infant-sized (polka dotted) two piece.   If he could get his hands on a Duggar-like modesty suit in sizes 5T and 8, he would be ALL. OVER. IT.

But L's tummy is somewhat of a battleground.  There's the reminder that, at birth, her skin had all the strength of tissue paper--which resulted in skin tears and gaping wounds when her monitor leads were changed.  There's also the issue of the hernia that has been repaired twice, however, I am now beginning to believe that her intestines are just "bumpy" and therefore, unable to be corrected surgically.  The most prominent of the scars is the knot left by her g-tube, that man-made port responsible for ALL her feedings for 4 years straight.  I love and hate that scar in equal measure.

Less recognized, but EASILY the most horrifying of the scars?  The big gun on her back, a party favor from her very first surgery at 3 weeks of age, when she weighed less than 2 pounds.  I will always remember how her neonatologist described the surgery, which basically entailed tying off a valve to her heart that should have closed on it's own at birth.  How he laid out the facts and gave us the choice to proceed.  How much patience it had to take to put the life of such a sick baby in the hands of parents who had no idea.  How just physically moving L from the NICU to the surgery wing was a major risk to her survival.  How the surgeon told us the incision would be about as big as the tip of his index finger (and it was).  How L came back to the NICU with a normal-sized bandaid covering her very major heart surgery wound.   How that scar has grown with L, which is amazing really, because it means so much more every day that she is alive.

Oh, how that scar (all the scars, really) saved the life of my little daughter. 

I don't know why, exactly, but I always assumed we would hide those scars from the world.  Because they are deeply personal, and I am completely UNWILLING to have L made fun of or harassed for them. 

Until today.  When L came across G's old bikini and threw it on.  And I thought about how I want her to OWN these scars and be proud of them, and completely willing to karate chop anyone who dares to mock her for them.  Even if she wears a one-piece for the rest of her life, I want her to have a deep gratitude for the very wounds that tell the story of healing and strength and miracles.  I want her to never be ashamed of them.  And I'm fairly certain she will never understand any of it, if we simply cover them up and pretend they just aren't there.

As I took these pictures today, I asked L if  she knew what they were.  She answered, without hesitating, that the prominent scar on her belly was where her "button" was (this the the common term for a feeding-tube port).  Since it's only been 2 years since her tube was officially removed, it's likely that she remembers being fed this way.  But also COMPLETELY amazing to me, that L (and Big J, for that matter), really have NO IDEA the measures that were taken to save them.  They are stories they've been told; not memories.  No matter how many times I tell them that they were sick, or lived in a hospital for half a year, they will never have a grasp on how long and dangerously they danced on the edge of disaster. 

And so, today, I helped to write the story of L's life, with great pride and joy, as she will come to know it and embrace it.  The story of the scars that make her incredibly beautiful, that saved her for these days of running carefree around a pool in a pink bikini. 

Consider this the blog post where "I've seen a million faces, and I've rocked them all."

Lordy, what a day.  I'm too tired to think in any kind of witty and coherent style, so I am going to attempt to give you the most random bullet points EVER. You can fill in the blanks (literally, blog world, because you KNOW me, and you KNOW how this all goes).  Consider this the part of the Bon Jovi concert where Jon holds the microphone out to the audience for the entire opening verse of "Wanted Dead or Alive", because you know....it's all the same, ....only the names will cha-ange...

--Shopping at the Gap is very OBVIOUSLY against God's will for my life, as we managed to lose G's amazingly cute, yellow-flower bathing suit, 10 days into our summer.  Why we can't lose ANY of the clothing items with cartoon characters on them?  I dunno.  This makes my blood boil and signifies mental issues on a very deep, consumer-related level.  I suppose if I had gone for that tye-dyed glitter number G asked for, the depths of my despair *might* be less severe.  Live and learn, I guess.

--When visiting the NEW! Dollar store in the neighborhood (that has yet to open, fyi), I was confronted by a large union rep who wanted to give me some information about how the Dollar Tree eats babies or something similarly appalling, I'm sure.  Turns out that HUGE sign they have street-side is not-so-much an advertisement of the upcoming store opening, but a protest of some sort over construction labor?  Blah, blah, blah.  I  don't want to hear about it.  I just want to buy cheap crap and NOT BE BULLIED FOR IT.  I said "No thank you", I was polite, but he made some loud sarcastic comment and OBVIOUSLY missed the memo that I lost a yellow Gap bathing suit that morning, which is the equivalent of feeding me steroids while PMS-ing. This guarantees that I will shop exclusively at Dollar Store For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life (out of principle).  Lucky for all of you who will be getting married or having children in the next 60 years or so.

--Just when I was getting all comfortable and cocky with my pool routine, me and the chickens made the WORST and most ungraceful exit from the lazy river today.  I almost lost L downstream, and then there was a dropping of some goggles, and there were lifeguards and random bystanders involved in rescuing my children and their 437 accessories.  Sidenote:  For the love of all things holy, someone PLEASE invent goggles that float.  If I had a working knowledge of plastics, I would get right on this--but let's face it, I would get bored within 48 hours.

--My children are NOT allowed to ask me questions when I am trying to gather their previously mentioned 437 swim accessories, upon exiting the pool.  This might result in me telling them that I will never feed them snacks EVER again.  I did not ACTUALLY mean this, and can only blame it on the sheer trauma and grief of losing a beloved swimsuit and looking like an ass on the lazy river.  Oh, and the 'roids.

--I still hate the large *cannonball* pool.

--New pet peeve:  Lifeguards who tell pool patrons to WALK, when it is fairly obvious that all cement surrounding the pool area is made of  liquid-hot-magma.  Apparently, skinned knees are considered a more serious injury that melting skin.

--My darling husband arranged for a surprise date tonight, and it was AWESOME, but also thought provoking, as the boutique pizza place we ate at listed "Queso Chihuahua" on the menu.  This led to a lively discussion of whether or not you would rather have:  dog-flavored-cheese, or cheese-flavored-dog?  I opted for the dog FLAVORED as cheese, because who wants to eat something that tastes like a pet?  Mike found this to be deeply disturbing.  We asked the waitress about this *bizzare* offering, and STRANGELY enough, no one had ever inquired as to whether they sold dog, or dog-flavored products?  What the hell would you think if Chihuahua was offered on the menu???  Curious to hear your thoughts, blog world. 

Memories, guilt and housemaking-inadequacies for $.50 a piece

This weekend, a friend of mine organized a 2-day, 7-family garage sale.  And what you are looking at is the EXACT reason that Target and Babies-R-Us remain are in biz-ness.  As a semi-related sidenote--whoever "invented" the idea of expiration dates on baby gear is also a mad-consumer genius that guarantees that parents will stimulate the economy every 5-10 years.  I mean, I'm pretty sure infant car safety equalled padding the back seat of our car with towels back in 1976, and NOT the sophisticated system of latches and pulls and harnesses and iron belts and what-nots that are prevalent necessary today.  And look.  I turned out just fine, right?  RIGHT?

Despite the 97-degree temperatures, the sale was a HUGE success, because I made some cash AND I got rid of the stuff that haunts me in my dreams.  I cannot stress enough what ENORMOUS growth this signifies for a hoarder.  Also, a funny thing happens when you begin to see people buying your stuff--it awakens an inner beast that wants to sell EVERYTHING.  For sport, basically.  Following the success of day #1, I perused our temporary home to find more, More, MORE (which of course, was not difficult). 

Unfortunately, there was no luck in selling Potty Time Elmo.  That bastard.  Now he's Goodwill's problem. 

Clothes--HUGE hit.  This was the particular area where I raked it in, as I had eight years/four children's worth of outfits.  Also proven:  I single-handedly kept Baby Gap in business between the years of 2002-2008.  Also, I have this annoying habit of "saving" my kid's good outfits for "special occasions" that exist only 2xs per year.  Which means, several lucky buyers purchased name brand clothing that was worn once, for $.50.  This is EXACTLY the kind of guilt that has filled my basement and storage space for years.  Also annoying?  I bought a bunch of stuff with European names at fancy-schmancy children's boutiques--but ALL of it was made of material that REALLY wrinkles (i.e. soft cotton and NOT flammable polyester-blends), when you neglect to fold laundry for 2-3 weeks.  It appears that I also draw the line at ironing.

On Day #2, G and L set up a bake sale.  As they were not willing to approach ANY customers, their sales were a tad slow, but $13 is still a lot for these girls.  I'm working on a plan for round 2, as G would like to use her earnings to purchase "Just Dance 2" for our Wii--and let's face it, that is a WIN for everyone.  Except the human race in general, because our moves on  "Just Dance 2" are what one might consider a crime against humanity.  

Garage Sales are a helluva-lotta work.  The sorting and the pricing and the math and the clean-up, and the inevitable amount of crap that gets handed over to Goodwill.  I brought home what I want to keep, and also took a bunch of stuff to drop off at GW...that hasn't made it there yet...and this has DISASTER written all over it, unless I motivate and actually drive that 2 miles in the next 48 hours. 

And following it all, we were treated to the BEST DATE EVER with our best friends--which included a pedicure, and several glasses of some sort of summer "brew", and an orzo dinner, and a church carnival in which we scorched our internal organs, but managed to kill the fire with a nightcap of chardonnay (because wine is LIFE SAVING), while our kids ate popsicles and fell asleep in front of a movie.  Per-fecto.   

And now, my scheduled projects for the summer have officially come to an end.

Except for that business of selling and buying a house.  Oh right, that.

Further proof that the kingdom of Heaven is likely a Target store

As further evidence that Target is the bomb-diggity, allow me to share the romper/jumper/elastic one piece modeled by G.  Found on the ADULT women's sale rack.  Size XS.  I would truly LOVE to see the woman who would wear this little number that fits my 8-year-old to perfection, because it would either be a medical marvel, or quite a sight to behold.

As it was marked as an "internet item", it's blatantly obvious that it was retagged and shelved by an 18-year-old boy who CLEARLY does not understand the proportions of the female body.  Surely, it never crossed his mind that his was a CHILD'S item, though I am SO SURE that "hot cheerleader Taylor" and her teenage metabolism would look SMOKIN in it. 

However.

This oversight and inability to properly identify said jumper-thingy resulted in me purchasing it for $5.06.  This is a win for me, but not for the 18-year-old stock boy who will sadly search an entire lifetime for the woman who can wear a children's XS.  Not. Gonna. Happen. Dude.  

What you are looking for, in essence, is a four-foot-tall female with not-a-breast-bud in sight.  She does happen to be 55 pounds, but I'm thinking this is *probably* not as ideal as it sounds. 

But good luck with that.

{edited to note:  spell check does not recognize "diggity" as a word, but it SO is.  In your face, spell check.}

Organizing summer.

Today's task:  Creating our summer to-do list

• Swim in the pool
• Go to the Botanical Gardens
• Go to the Zoo
• Play outside
• Make origami
• Print (and color) pictures
• Leap off a diving board
• Ride on an airplane
• Swim with dolphins
• Go to the City Garden
• Go on a bike ride
• Play soccer
• Make a string telephone
• Play basketball
• Plant flowers
• Messy play day
• Have a playdate
• Make popsicles
• Make sidewalk chalk paint
• Go on a hike
• Play with sparklers
• Go to Yo My Goodness
• Make someone cookies
• Write a letter
• Make friendship bracelets
• Build a fort
• Watch "The Chronicles of Narnia"
• Go to a movie
• Paint
• Write a story
• Go to Cici's pizza
• Read Harry Potter
• Play in the creek
• Feed ducks
• Go to a baseball game
• Play miniature golf
• Have a fancy picnic
• Go to the magic house
• Slip-n-Slide

Hello, Summer!  We are officially kicking things off with a garage sale tomorrow & Saturday, at the home of a friend that has graciously offered a spot to peddle our CRAP.  I have moved said crap TWICE in the past 2 weeks, and I am TIRED.  Here goes a purging of all my baby-related items...I believe that it is time.  And if we are indeed looking for a house with smaller/better use of space, then I find it irresponsible to waste it on things like a breast pump and 50,000 onesies.  If you are in town and know of anyone looking for baby related items, this is the sale to be at--there are 6 of us selling mostly kid and baby stuff, and THREE of us have had multiples.  There are 3-7 of EVERYTHING you can think of, and enough clothes to outfit an entire country, I'm almost positive!  I'm putting a link up on my facebook page, so check it out!!!!

Summer is going to turn pro in the sport of kicking my ass.

Official score:  Summer, 1; Me, a hot-tired-over-scheduled ZERO.

Also important to note:  Moving during the last week of school AND a major climate change might be the WORST idea since Nazism.  Not to worry though.  I have located all 62 swimming suits, 4 pairs of goggles, 2 diving torpedoes AND our pool towels.  Which were all, coincidentally, packed in separate boxes/bags/drawers.  With canned goods.  Still missing:  MY FREAKING MIND.

You know how summer is supposed to be that relaxed, no-schedule, totally chill time of year when you don't have to wake up at the butt-crack of dawn?  TOTAL lie.  And I fall for it every year, I limp through the last weeks of math homework, I push my wake-up call back by 10 minutes, I  lack the energy to brush my kid's teeth before school and I ACHE for  the start of summer and a simpler, simpler time where bad hygiene habits are covered by pool chemicals.

And then.

I wake up on our first FREE day and I think, sonofabitch, we have swimming in 30 minutes.  Thankfully Mike has thrown some bagels at the inmates, but I have to dress and wrangle FOUR wild chickens into a mini-van and get them to a pool  where only ONE will actually be allowed to swim.  Plus locate goggles.  Let me put on record, I HATE GOGGLES.  They are never present/tight enough/loose enough/the right color/able to do magic like my kids want.  And they actually make L blinder and more Asian (with the way they pull on her eye skin) than she already is, which is...impressive.

We barely survived practice because Little J was "hot", which does not bode well for the next 3 months.  Also, his skin is doing that thing  where I fear spontaneous combustion, and I am unsure if this is an allergy to life, a sun burn or eczema (the gift that keeps on f-ing giving).  I chose to treat it by constantly showering him and slathering him with any combination of:  moisturizer, steroid cream, some kind of new anti-steroid cream and sunscreen.  It ISN'T working.

To distract the youngest kidlets during part of G's swim practice, I took them to a neighboring park.  Where L proceeded to pick up, pet, fondle and attempt to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to the plague-like locusts that are OBVIOUSLY taking over the world.  Three days ago, this made me vomit.  Now I'm just kind of *meh* about it. 

So, G's practice is done, and we head  home for lunch, before heading BACK to the pool.  Now.  I LOVE the idea of this pool.  It has a shallow *toddler* pool with a fun playhouse and slide, a family pool that's only 4 feet deep, a large, standard pool, two big slides and a lazy river.  It's pretty freaking rad.  Except that it allows for plenty of opportunities to LOSE a child.  Or four.

Days 1 & 2 at the pool have been spent figuring out how to be in 389 different locations over 2 acres of ground COVERED IN MOVING WATER.  Not counting locker rooms and the ever-present threat of child predators.  So.  G has now been promoted to the title of "Mom #2", responsible for  keeping at least one of her siblings alive AND happy (good luck with that, SUCKA!).  So far, she is rocking this new responsibility, which is most daunting when she has to enter/exit the lazy river with a sibling and not get pulled down? around? stream with the current.   On Tuesday,when it was overcast there was NO WAY IN HELL I was going to float in that ice bath, so I helped all four kids into tubes and sent them a float.  Lazy river = awesome babysitter.  Until I texted Mike a picture I took of them and he asked, "Where's Little J?".  I take it back, that sitter SUCKS. 

Also.  If G and L are on their own, and happen to come looking for me, but can't find me in the crowd of a million swimmers (because one of them is *technically* half blind)?  L FREAKS.  And then it looks like I let a toddler run loose in the community pool with her 8-year-old babysitter. 

And lastly. 

For WHATEVER reason, my children are very drawn to the "big" pool...you know, the standard sized, rectangle pool with the diving boards.  I try to sell the gradual  entry pools with the slides!  And the fountains!  Nope.  They want the same damn pool that exists 10 feet outside of our back door.  This is fine, except it is the CRAWLING with kids and there is always someone doing a cannon ball 2 inches from my face.  Which, apparently, makes me CRABBY.  Very CRABBY.

If I could just figure out  a way to levitate above the entire pool campus, this will all be just fine. 

Until then, it goes something like this: 

Sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen, creamy sunscreen.  Goggle, goggles.  Tighten goggles.  Go play.  Sip of Diet Coke.  Sunscreen ONE of my arms.  Goggles.  Family pool.  Sit (5 seconds).  Bored.  Water slides.  Sit (5 seconds).  Bored.  Goggles.  Lazy River! Hoard four tubes.  Grab goggles.  RUN to bridge.  Wave!  Yell safety instructions.  Assist in lazy river exit.  Goggles.  Goggles.  Goggles.  Bathroom.  Big pool.  Gigantic splash of water up the nostrils.  Angrily march children to water slides.  Tears.  Goggles.  Threats to go play OR ELSE.  Sit (5 seconds) bored.  Goggles.  Repeat 245 times.

Toss 200 degree Diet Coke.  Sad!

Locker room. 

Car.

The end.