3650 days of marriage.

Kenny and I are honing in on our ten-year wedding anniversary.  Impossible!!  No WAY!!  Yes, folks, it's true.  In August, we will celebrate our 3,650th day of marriage.  That's a whole lot of days.

Minus that one year that I birthed a baby on our special day, we have never exchanged a single anniversary gift.  We're not exactly what you'd call a 'sentimental couple.'  We're basically happy with each day as it is.  And not that kind of happy that calls for inspirational quotes to describe our lives.  Not the happy where we have to shout to the world each living day that we are so, so, so, so, so happy and lucky and in love just to prove it to ourselves.  I mean real happy.  That happy where we have to do the dishes sometimes twice in one day because our children need a different plate for each serving of food, but it's okay because it gives us a chance to stand side by side and talk and laugh and maybe have a water fight.  Or the kind of happy where somebody ate the last ice cream bar but nobody will admit to it, so we have a full-family tickle-torture fiasco until someone fesses up (even if they aren't guilty) just to stop the madness.

Oh great, now I've gone and confessed my twisted happiness.  Shoot.

I'm getting totally off track.  Ten years is BIG.  With the rate of divorce being what it is, I suppose each year of marriage is big.  Heck, each day even.  But ten is such a popular number that it makes me feel like I should do something.  I'm a horrible gift-giver.  Here are the impossible and irrational ideas I have come up with thus far:

-A thunderstorm.  Kenny LOVES thunderstorms.
-Kenny bobblehead.
-White lion (because one time at the zoo, he said, "That lion's pretty."  So he must want one.)
-A town named Kennyville.
-A full-sized house hand-built by me, made from love, time and recycled beer cans.

As you can see, I need some major help.  Long gone are the days that I can impress my husband by reciting the preamble or The Lorax by memory.  He knows what I know and who I am and every mood I've ever been in and every feeling I've ever felt.  How to impress somebody like that?  I need to do something new.  But not crazy new, like skydiving.  Me, clinging to the front seat of an airplane with both arms and legs wrapped around it, screaming that I'm not ready to die would actually be quite unimpressive.  So what then?

You think on it.  I'll think on it.  We'll meet back here in one month with our ideas for Operation: Happy Husband.  Or...I suppose you could just comment your ideas below.  Yeah.  Yeah, that'd be better.  Do that.  Please and thank you.

This is just a phase, right? RIGHT?!!

When Mae asked me for a popsicle before supper, I simply told her, "No."  She screamed, "I HATE MY LIFE!!"  Then, she stomped her feet loudly all the way to her bedroom and slammed the door shut.  She slammed it so hard that it flew back open, so she got a bonus door-slam, which she did not waste.  Kyler and I stared on, dumbfounded at what had just happened.

The almighty and brave Kyler cautiously walked over to Mae's door and called out her name.  She replied, "LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"  

He tapped gently on her door and calmly said, "Hey, Mae, wanna play cards?"

The door opened and out of reflex, Kyler braced himself.  Mae had a smile on her face and said, "Yeah, can we play War?"  She skipped out of her room, pulled the deck of cards out of the drawer and sat down on the floor to shuffle and deal.

Kyler and I stared on, dumbfounded for the second time in one minute. 

She is seven years old.  NOT seventeen.  SEVEN.  I love my little girl with all of my heart and would do (and have done) anything in the entire world for her...but it is common knowledge that we were blessed with the sweetest, calmest, most gentle baby in the history of existence...and then we had Mae.  And when I tell people this, she gives a proud smile.  And sometimes she even winks.

Filter-Unfriendly. Hmphh.

Swimming season is here.  I can read the telltale signs.  For the past five days, I have been unable to locate a single clean towel in the house, though I have done many loads of laundry.  There is also a permanent trail of water mixed with grass that leads from our back door to the bathroom.  And my last clue is that in all of the laundry I've done, there were no actual clothes.  This means that my children have been wearing only their bathing suits.

The backyard swimming pool filter continues to taunt me.  I spent one entire hour last night fighting with it.  First, I opened the lid and water spewed out endlessly.  I pulled the old filter out and put the new one in, water still smacking me in the face, then tried impossibly to put the lid back on.  After a very long and trying time, the lid miraculously tightened back into place.  I picked up the filter to move it back to its spot, and the "engine" fell out the bottom of it.  I realized then that I had made an error when replacing the filter and this meant the lid would have to be taken back off.  I took a deep breath and lefty-lucy'd.  Fast-forward about thirty minutes and I've just finished retightening the lid.  By now, I am soaked from head to toe and my frustration level is off the charts.  It is hot and windy outside and I decide that I've done enough for the day. 

I head back toward the house and decide that kicking the empty ten-gallon bucket that is sitting next to the pool for no obvious reason is a good idea.  I did.  It wasn't.  I envisioned that when my foot hit the bucket, it would take off soaring through the air, along with my frustrations.  What actually happened was that my foot stopped at the bucket and much pain jolted up my leg, leaving my toes numb and my eyes watery.  The bucket was, unbeknownst to me, filled with water by my loving children so that they would have a place to rinse their feet before getting into the pool. 

I entered the back door and my family was lounging on the couches, watching television.  Mae was immediately upset at the sight of me and said, "Mom!  Why didn't you tell me you were swimming without me?!"  I explained that I was not swimming; I was simply trying to change the pool filter.  I then complained on and on about how the filter system had failed me.  When I finished pouring my heart out, Kenny explained to me that there are two covers that attach to each end of the filter, thus stopping the water flow and enabling me to change the filter without flooding myself.

Without even pulling my hair out with both hands or punching any walls, I calmly excused myself to the bathroom.  I showered without crying and put myself straight to bed. 

I think I'm okay now.

Both kids were unexpectedly invitied to friends' houses today.  I took the opportunity to do a little shopping in the 'big city'.  The wind tried to push me off of the road a few times, but it was no match for my superior driving skills.  Softball socks for Mae, bat bag for Kyler and dried mangos for Kenny (I didn't want him to feel left out).

When I returned home, there was a very confused-looking turkey stumbling around in my driveway.  First, he trotted right in front of me so that I had to drive two miles per hour.  The wind finally pushed him out of my way.  Trying to fight back against the wind, he looked like he was drunk and I'm pretty sure he heard me laughing at him. 

I parked and began gathering my things and my wandering mind wandered completely away from the turkey.  I was searching the back seat for Kyler's baseball bat and glove and by the time I finally found them, the turkey was nothing more than an afterthought.

With my hands full and my keys hanging out of my mouth, I exited the vehicle.  The turkey was RIGHT there, mere feet away from me.  I looked at him and he looked at me and I'm pretty sure that neither of us knew what to say so we just stared at each other for a while, trying to stand upright in the wind. 

There is a terrific photograph that my sister took of a turkey that was attacking her (please ask her to see it if you know her; it is the most hilarious photo I have ever seen) so I was on guard.  However, I was armed with a baseball bat.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, the wind shoved him off again and I ran inside while steadily keeping my eyes fixed on him. 

I know that owls are associated with an oncoming death and eagles symbolize power.  Just out of curiosity, I google'd what turkeys symbolize.  "Abundance and Fertility".  

Please excuse me now.  There is a confused turkey that I need to chase through a corn field and redirect.  It is obviously lost.

C25K

I have successfully completed my second week of Couch-to-5K Training.  It feels great.  Well, the actual running part feels like death, but after I'm done (which happens to be right now), I feel wonderful.  This training takes place in my back yard, where Kenny was nice enough to mow me a running trail (but don't hand him an award just yet...he did it because when he found out that I planned to run down our road like a normal person would, he said, "...I know you'll get hit by a car...").  Thanks, hon!  (Yeah, he's probably right.) 

I am following everything in the C25K Training program down to the second.  This is very unlike me.  I do, however, feel that there should be some added rules:

1.  Do not drink three cups of coffee before running.  I know this is common sense, but I am neither common nor sensical, so the obvious really needs to be pointed out to me.

2.  If there is a branch hanging down in your path, dodge it.  Running directly into said branch hurts way more than one would expect.  Feels like a swift slap in the face.

3.  A running partner is a bad idea.  I suppose this one might be case-sensitive, but in my case, it's a horrible idea.  When I am running, I am very focused on trying to breathe and maintain my status of 'alive'.  If anybody so much as looks in my general direction, my instant punch-reflex is uncontrollable.

4.  A running partner in the form of dog is an even worse idea.  They think it's a race and will do whatever they deem necessary to win, including knocking human running partner to the ground and then leaving them in the dust.  (Don't tell Teeyl I said so, but I'm pretty sure she didn't even know where she was running to). 

And here are some things that are good and helpful to do:

1.  Bring a clock in any form (well, probably not your wall clock; that'd be weird).  It makes tracking time much simpler than my previous method of counting in my head and using my fingers to keep track of minutes.

2.  Set up a swimming pool near your running area.  You'll thank me later.

3.  Run when everybody's asleep.  This ensures no interruptions (which may cause aforementioned punch-reflex) and also helps to avoid the embarrassment of your running form (I personally look like a drunk giraffe).

And that is all I have for now.  This is an eight-week program so I'm sure I'll have plenty more advice to give as I charge on. 

"The miracle isn't that I finished.  The miracle is that I had the courage to start."  -John Bingham

Filter-Friendly.

Mae and I headed home from my niece's volleyball game yesterday afternoon with the goal of setting up the backyard swimming pool.  I fully expected Kenny and Kyler to be home from golfing and was slightly hopeful that they had already set up the pool.  Hindsight tells me this was a foolish thing to hope for.  Not because it's not something they would do, but mostly because the pool was still in the back of the Jeep, of which I was driving. 

We pulled into the empty driveway and I realized this task would be solely up to me and Mae.  No big deal, though.  It's just a pool. 

We got the actual pool part set up pretty easily.  Before we could begin filling it with water, we had to attach the filter.  This has always been Kenny's job, as anything more difficult than hammering in a nail flusters me.  But I didn't want to let Mae down (who, by this time, was already in her bathing suit with goggles on and blowing up her inner tube).  I opened the filter box and dumped out the one-hundred pieces of disassembled filter.  Mae's eyes immediately swelled up with tears and she said, "Oh NO, where the heck is DAD at?!" 

After counting backwards from ten to calm myself, I decided I could do this.  I opened the instruction booklet to page one.  I cried a little and my left eye started twitching.  I carefully closed the instruction booklet, tore it in half and threw it right into the wind, where it catapulted back into my face. 

After counting backwards from ten thousand to calm myself, I started putting random pieces together.  Some of them didn't fit.  But some of them did, so I decided that must be where it goes.  Mae warned me that this was not a good idea, which only gave me more motivation.  After about fifteen minutes, a lot of random things were fitting together and forming what looked like something that might work.  I got really into it.  I used to love Legos, and this was basically the same thing.  At one point, Mae asked who I was talking to.  I told her, "Oh, I'm just talking it out."  She said, "So, when you talk it out, you talk to Dad?"  I didn't even realize I had been saying such things as, "Haha!  I don't even NEED your help, Kenny!" 

About thirty minutes after start time, I gave Mae the cue to turn on the hose (the cue was me yelling, "Turn on the hose!"). 

As the pool was filling up, Kenny and Kyler returned home.  Kenny looked outside.  The very first thing he said was, "Cool, the pool's set up.  So, who put it all together?"  I proudly explained to him that I set up the pool and put the filter together all by myself, there were no extra pieces left and I didn't even use the instruction manual.  He looked terrified.

Much to everybody's surprise (I'll admit, even my own), it works and it works right.  Unfortunately, I think more is now expected of me.  I may have just cursed myself.  I suppose it's never too late to learn what a wrench is and how it works, but that's definitely a job for a different day.  Today, I will just bask in my wonderful (and lucky) filter assembly happiness.

Smelly Ball

Mae walked through the front door and held up her "new" soccer ball.  It was visibly dirty and had an unpleasant odor to it.  I asked where she got it and she said, "Somebody's trash.  Can you believe somebody would throw this away?!"  I gave her a sarcastic, "No way!  Somebody threw that gem in the trash?"  Not getting my sarcasm, she replied, excitedly, "I KNOW!  I can't believe it!"  I then took on my best Mommy-tone and told her to please go put it back where she found it.  The smile faded from her face and the radiance that surrounded her just seconds ago vanished.  She hugged the ball tight, got into her fighting stance and said, "NO."  So I told her, "Go put it back where you found it and then take a bath."  Again, she gave me a stern, "NO."  I then tried a new tactic and told her to at least put it outside, since that's where she'll play with it anyway.  Of course, I planned to dispose of it at my earliest convenience.  She put the ball outside but it was obvious that she knew I was up to something.  She disappeared into her bedroom for quite a few minutes.  I figured I'd take care of the ball when it was dark outside and I could be sneakier.  But then, Mae came out of her bedroom.  With pleading eyes, she gave me this:



After going through all of that trouble, I just couldn't justify telling her no.  I only hope that letting her take in an orphaned stinkball didn't swing the doors wide open for future orphaned puppies, kittens, bats, snakes and squirrels.

MI(gag)LK.

Kyler and Mae latched on to the gallon of milk with both hands (that's both hands EACH, for a total of FOUR hands).  They pulled in opposite directions, arguing about, "I had it first!" and "Give it here!  I need it NOW!"  Prompted by the argument, I walked into the kitchen. As I did, Mae released her hands.  Kyler and the milk both toppled to the floor in a white, liquidy mess. 

If you know anything about me, you know that I hate milk with a passionate passion.  It looks gross.  It smells gross.  It tastes gross.  It makes me gag.  I gag when I wash dirty milk glasses, regardless of whether they have been rinsed or not.  I gag sometimes just watching somebody take a sip of milk.  Even the sound of the word 'milk' disgusts me.  And you don't want to get me started on people who pronounce it "melk", trust me.

So, not only were they in trouble, they were in MILK (gag) TROUBLE.  And by the looks on their faces, they knew it.  They both sprinted to their bedrooms before the anger had a chance to travel from my brain to my voice box.  I looked at the milk spilled all over the floor and had to cover my nose and mouth.  My nose, so I wouldn't smell it.  My mouth, just in case there were milk particles in the air that I might accidentally inhale. 

I can't tell you how thankful I am for my dogs today, never afraid to lick the floor and anything that might be on it, just trusting that I wouldn't mislead them.  Yet, it's time to face the facts.  Summer vacation is really here and it's back with a vengeance. 

Eighty-four days and counting...

And just a sidenote:  Milk Trouble and Good Trouble are archenemies.  Don't let their shared last name deceive you; they are completely unrelated to each other.  They wouldn't be caught dead in the same room, let alone on the same planet.

Mama's Day

For Mother's Day, the boys went golfing, leaving Mae and I free to do whatever our hearts so desired. 

First, we planted yet another flower garden.  It turned out beautifully.  In the middle of pouring on the mulch, Mae said, "Mom, I might write you a song for Mother's Day."  I am a sucker for anything sentimental that I can extract from my children and hold dearly for the rest of my living days, so this pretty much melted my heart.  Until she said, "I'll name it 'I Farted in Your Garden.'"  Never mind.

Next, we gorged ourselves on chocolate and ice cream.  This is what girls secretly do when boys are not around. 

We cleaned the Jeep out. We washed the Jeep. We vacuumed the Jeep.  We even fixed the broken vacuum at the car wash.

Finally, we ended up at the Firth park.  This is a park we had never ever been to before.  There was nobody else there.  I immediately scoped out my hiding place.  I climbed underneath the slide with a full packet of sunflower seeds.  Mae was already playing crazily.  I like to hide in case other kids show up.  It's not the kids I'm afraid of; it's the parents.  Sometimes they talk to me.  A mother once sat for at least fifteen minutes talking to me about couponing.  I understand that saving money is necessary when you're on a budget, but this woman was insane about it.  She told me that she spends "literally hours and hours" each week scouring the internet for deals and clipping coupons from newspapers.  She told me that I'd be amazed at how much money she saved.  I was more amazed at how much time she wasted.  Hours and hours per week adds up to weeks and weeks, eventually months and months, perhaps even years and years.  When did we lose track of what's really important?  Time.  Say it with me:  "TIME."  And she wasted fifteen minutes of my time to tell me how much money she saves.  So now, I hide. 

Underneath the slide,  I could hear the man across the street mowing his yard and then the sound of a train in the background.  It was really the opportune time for something incredible to happen, like an epiphany of some sorts.  I thought as hard as I could, knowing wholeheartedly that something nobody had ever thought of would creep into my brain.  But all I could come up with was, "I wonder who invented socks?..."  And to make things worse, I pondered this for an incredibly ridiculous amount of time.  I came up with questions about socks that I'm too embarrassed to even depict here.  I pondered so long that I heard three trains pass.  Then, I realized that the lawnmower had stopped.  It was nearly silent, except for this annoying kid that kept saying, "Help, help, Mommy, heeelp!"  God, whose kid is that, anyway? 

I finally snapped out of my daze with a notion to make 'mean eyes' at whatever parent it was that was ignoring their kid.  That's when I noticed that we were still the only ones at the park and it was my kid.  My sweet little Mae had somehow shoved herself into a baby swing and got stuck, one leg sticking out the front and one leg sticking out the back.  It was quite a sight and I wondered if I might have enough time to retrieve the camera from the Jeep and snap a picture before I helped her.  I decided against it because she was already suspended mid-air in an uncomfortable position.  She had her arms crossed over her chest, giving me the evil eye that said if I didn't help her right away, I would pay for it in high-pitched whines.  I helped her out, then bought her a soda.  Mom of the Year right here, that's right.

Bully Me Not.

In the hustle and bustle of the morning, time lost track of us and we found ourselves racing to the bus stop, wondering if we'd already missed it again.  But we didn't (hallelujah!) and we were even a whole minute early.  I slapped a kiss on Mae's cheek as she hopped out of the Jeep.  I turned to tell Kyler that I love him and that's when I noticed that he had horrific bed head, but only on the left side.  I told him of this new discovery and fully expected him to lick his hand and slick down his hair.  Instead, he rubbed the right side of his head against the back seat, much like a bear scratching its back against a tree.  With wild tufts of hair sticking out over his entire head now, he asked, "Is that better?"  I told him that if by 'better' he meant that the 'crazy' was distributed evenly throughout, then yes, it's 'better'.  He said, "Okay, good."  And away he went.

There goes my son, unafraid of any single thing in this entire world, not limited to, but including bullies.  It's as if, sometimes, he does stuff just to see if anybody will make fun of him.  But they don't.  In lieu of all of the recent bullying that has gone public in this world, Kyler might just be onto something.  Dare them to tease you and it causes Bully Overload (aka: shortness of breath and dizziness), rendering said bully speechless.  Though Kyler does possess that one key factor that no bully can ever break through: he really, really, and I really mean REALLY doesn't care what people think.   

If ever I choose to grow up, I want to be just like my son.

I Love You. Sometimes.

Kyler and Mae, before their spring concert:

Kyler and Mae, after their spring music concert:

Every day is a perfect balance of sibling love and sibling rivalry with these two. 

5k Training

Without giving it too much thought, I signed all four of us Bigley's up for The Color Run.  Don't know what that is?  Check it out here:  http://thecolorrun.com/.  After checking it out, say, "Whoa!  That looks AWESOME!" and then continue reading this. 

So, I got us all registered.  I told Kenny about it and he let me know that he will be mostly walking the entire 5K.  I told the kids about it and they were ecstatic.  Kyler asked, "Is this a race?"  I replied, "Well, yeah, I guess technically, but it's mostly for fun."  He replied back, "It'll be WAY more fun if I WIN."  Oh.  Shiiiiit.  Kyler = Forrest Gump with added brainpower.  The boy is freakishly fast.  And there is no doubt in my mind that he can run the entire race without rest.  When you take into consideration that he will be nine years old by the time this happens, in a foreign-to-him city with thousands of other runners, you might understand why this is slightly concerning.  SOMEBODY (me) is going to have to keep up with him.  I used to love running and I was good at it...half of my lifetime ago, that is.  In the past fifteen years, I can count the number of times I have ran over two blocks (without stopping) on one hand (thrice). 

Let's put this into perspective: I have two months (TWO months) to prepare to keep up with a young boy who sports one percent body fat and runs every single day.  Uh huh.

I'm not too proud to ask for help, so I enlisted the kids in Mommy 5K Training 101.  They proudly accepted the task.  Yesterday was Day 1.  They took me to the Pickrell Trail.  I asked them how it's fair that Kyler was on his bike and Mae was on her roller blades.  Mae said, "Mom, WE can already run.  We're here for YOU, remember?"  Point taken.  So away we went, me in the middle at a steady jogging pace.  About 15 steps in, Mae bladed right over a rock and fell down.  I tripped over her and also fell down, her blade brake stabbing me in the foot.  There was blood (real blood!)  and the kids were all, "Mom, get up and keep going, COME ON!!"  And they really made me run with blood dripping from my foot!  And now they have all of these new rules, like I can't wear flip flops next time and I'm not allowed to carry three bottles of water at one time. They even confiscated my entire pocketful of tootsie rolls and as punishment, ate them in front of me.  Do you have any idea how much that hurt to watch?  Since I quit smoking, tootsie rolls have been my new vice. 

Oh lawdy, what have I signed myself up for?

Welcome to my Thirties...

For the first time that I can remember (though my memory is neither good nor trustworthy), I forgot to eat lunch.  I simply don't understand how people do this.  An entire hour late, my hunger pangs were eating me alive.  I gasped when I saw the time on the clock and immediately sprinted to the kitchen and squirted some syrup into my mouth to tide me over.  The two-minute wait that I endured for my hot pocket was nothing less than excruciating.  Somehow, through my heightened pulse and blurred vision, I held on.   Close call.

I 'Good Night' you, too?

Two things you need to know before I get to the actual story:

1.  Kenny has a long history of talking in his sleep.  I have heard just about everything, from a speech about carpenter ants to, "Oh, YOU'RE still here?" to pointing his finger while laughing insanely. 

2.  Kenny gets upset when he has to repeat himself.  Once is no big deal, but if I ask, "What?" or, "What'd you say?" or, "What'd you say and please don't be mad because I really didn't hear you?" more than once...well, he gets mad.  I'll admit that I, too, get overly annoyed when I have to repeat myself, but only if I think the person is really just not paying attention.  But with Kenny, there is a secret and I have figured it out.  When I don't understand what he said, I reply with, "I love you."  I know it's unfair, but somewhere in the rules of marriage it says that if you ever get upset with your spouse for stating that they love you, you are a bad, very, very bad person.  So he just has to grin, bear it and speak UP.

Now, the story.

I was passing through the dark bedroom where Kenny lay asnooze in our bed.  I heard him mumble something inaudible.  I didn't know if he was just sleep-talking again or if he was awake and giving me actual very important instructions or advice that my very life depended on.  I creeped closer to him but it was too dark to tell if his eyes were opened or closed.  Not wanting to risk it, I said, "I love you."  He replied, "Good night you, too."  Then, he laughed and kicked his leg in the air. 

Hey, better safe than sorry.

Emotional Nosebleed

Kids do such funny things.  Adults are not funny this way.

My friend’s daughter, Grace, once got a bloody nose at our house.  Upon announcing it, Kyler paused his video game and Mae dropped what she was doing to crowd around her and get a better look.  Bloody noses are not scarce around here, yet their interest seems to grow with each one.  Once Grace’s nosebleed came to a halt, they all sat around and reminisced about the great times they’ve had with their own bloody noses.  There was much laughter, and later (upon speaking of a favorite shirt lost to a bloody nose), much emotion.

As adults, we hide such things.  Blood spewing from the nose is no longer interesting.  We do not feel the need to run into the middle of a crowd with blood dripping down our faces and point at our noses saying, “Look, everybody!”  People do not surround us and ask if it hurts, if we’ve had one before, or if we need more toilet paper. 

I personally like a little attention when something is amiss with me.  Good thing I have kids around to show interest in my pain.  It makes getting hurt much more bearable.

Good Trouble

While Kyler was at a friend's house, Mae and I headed outside to do what we love most: yard work.  (If fifteen-years-ago me could read that, she'd not believe it.  And probably cry.)  For two solid hours, we pulled weeds, watered the plants, hauled rocks and boulders with the wheelbarrow (I even hauled a couple loads of 'Mae' for fun), swept sidewalks, trimmed bushes and maybe snuck a couple strawberries out of the strawberry patch (don't tell). 

Just before it was time to pick up Kyler, we stopped walking in the middle of the yard to look around and take in all we'd done.  My arms and legs were already in the beginning stages of soreness, but our back yard looked great.  That's when I noticed Mae put her hands on her hips, scan the yard and take a deep breath.  She said, "Oh my God, Mom, when Dad gets home we are gonna be in so much good trouble."

Good Trouble:  the more beloved and celebrated cousin of Bad Trouble and Big Trouble.  If you're gonna be in any sort of trouble, this is the kind you want to be in.  In fact, we should all make it a point to get into a little bit of good trouble each and every day.

Keep Rollin', Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'....

Mae's friend gave her a pair of roller skates a few months ago and she wore them endlessly (even to the grocery store once).  A natural on eight wheels, she is.  It was definitely love at first sight until...well, she found a new love.  She spotted a pair of roller blades at a Goodwill store and the excitement in her eyes told me that seven dollars could buy her much happiness and my clean dishes for one week.  I made the purchase and she literally had them on before we even exited the store.  One would think that the downhill parking lot in front of us would instill some sort of fear in her, it being her first time on blades and all, but fearless Mae took off at full-speed all the way to the car.  When she realized that she had no idea how to stop, she just ran right into the car, turning around to yell to me, "THAT WAS AWESOME!!!" 

At a different Goodwill a couple of weeks later, I spotted a pair of brand new, tags-still-on roller blades in Kyler's exact size.  Assuming that what makes one child happy will, of course, make the other just as blissful, I bought them.  Next up:  Grandma and Grandpa's house.  Kenny put Kyler's new blades on and I pulled out the camera, absolutely certain that Kodak moments were upon us.  And it did, it did start out that way.

See?  Picture perfect. 

But then...

...this happened...

...and then this.

Just so you don't think this blog entry is solely dedicated to making fun of my firstborn child, I will say this about Kyler:  the boy has dedication.  After fifteen minutes on the blades, he did take them off and say he needed a break, but they were back on before the end of the day.  The above pictures were from Saturday.  Yesterday (Monday), I witnessed him take on a very steep hill.  We did not need to make a rushed visit to the emergency room; he cleared the hill with much confidence.  There is no doubt in my mind that soon, I will be posting a picture of him triple-flipping through the air after using a makeshift plywood ramp on bricks.