Super-secret mission is cause for super-human strength.

I have a super-secret mission to accomplish today.  I can't fully tell you what it is, but it requires sole use of the Jeep.  Nope, not taking the kids mudding...we did that two weeks ago (on accident).  I just need to pick up a very large Christmas gift for Kenny and it won't fit in the trunk of the car.

Kenny woke up less than one hour before he had to leave for work today.  He paced around the house, drinking his coffee and talking about the day ahead of him.  When there was less than thirty minutes to go, he caught a glimpse of the headlight bulbs sitting on the counter that he had purchased last night.  This caused him to remember that the driver's side headlight in the car is out.  He grabbed the new bulbs and decided that now was the perfect time to take on this project.  He walked out the front door and I could already see that I was going to have to fight for the Jeep, and without giving off any notion that I need it (remember: TOP secret.) 

Five minutes later, Kenny stormed inside, slammed the door and proclaimed, "I'm taking the Jeep today.  The stupid headlight won't come out and there's not room to fix it unless I take the whole battery out and I don't have time for that right now!"  That's actually only part of what he said, but I had to edit out all of the swear words.  This is a family blog.  (Also, he whines just like Mae).  His plan was to just leave the tools outside and the hood propped open until tomorrow, when he has more time. 

Alarmed at the thought of him taking the much-needed Jeep, I clocked out for an early lunch.  Not wanting to look suspicious, I told Kenny, "Well, it has to be fixed before you leave because I have to take the kids trick-or-treating."  I pulled on my rain boots (to avoid the hassle of tying laces)  and raced outside.  Since this was basically a pressing emergency, I took full advantage of the extra adrenaline that flowed within me and quickly shimmied the headlight out.  It took approximately two seconds before I was popping the cap off to get to the bulb and unscrewing the screws.  Kenny, who had been watching from indoors, then came outside and announced that, "I can take over from here"  and, "When did you get so strong?"  He looked afraid, and rightly.  If I had felt the dire need to jump directly through a brick wall at the moment, I bet I could have.  That's just what happens when a woman needs to get something done.  I shuddered a little when he said, "Wow, you really want to take the kids trick-or-treating, don't you?" 

So, tragedy averted.  The Jeep is mine and my secret is still secret, except the kids will have to be a part of this mission so they, too, will know.  And most likely blow the surprise before Christmas.  But at least it will still be a surprise at some point.

Llamas always lick if your name is Mae.

From where I sat, my favorite Saturday night brain-snapshot looked like this:  Kenny was sock-sliding into the kitchen with a plate filled with freshly grilled burgers and hot dogs.  My brother was spinning the swivel chair as fast as he could while the cat hung on with all her might (and all her claws).  My niece was laughing hysterically at herself because her motto is: It doesn't really matter if anybody else thinks I'm funny; I KNOW I'm hilarious.  The kids are all gathered around the food because they know that in order to earn smores, they must first endure real food.  And the dogs are both tangled amongst the kids' legs, waiting eagerly for food to drop to the floor (which, of course, it did).  And I like to just sit and watch sometimes because these people and this house and these days just make me so happy.

Then it was Sunday.  It was more than apparent that the weekend was coming to an end and the dog was NOT happy about it.  On Saturday, Mae and her friend, Grace, had dragged Mae's mattress off of her bed and into the living room.  They then set up a tent around it, filled it with comfy pillows and blankets, found a flashlight and had a 'secret sleepover'.  We won't tell them that every word they whispered echoed throughout the house. 

On Sunday morning, when the tent was taken down and the mattress was stripped, Teeyl-doggy let it be known that she was not having any of this.  It is still Saturday and it will always be Saturday and the smell of grilled food and laughter donning the entire house is vital to her very existence.  She placed herself onto the mattress in such a manner that she thought we could not move her.  And it turns out that we couldn't, but mostly just because we were doubled over with laughter:

She stayed like this for a very long time, all limbs sticking straight out and making her body as heavy as possible.  (We didn't have the heart to move the mattress until it was getting dark outside.)

Unsure what to do with our Sunday, we headed to Lincoln to drop Grace off and purchase food that required us to do nothing more than eat it (pizza).  We then decided that even though we're not your typical pumpkin patch kind of family, we'd give it a go this year.  It wasn't until we'd already arrived at the pumpkin patch and paid that I realized I was not wearing proper pumpkin patch footwear.  Walking through the corn maze in high heeled boots was less than pleasing, and Kenny called me a 'bad example' when he caught me cutting through the corn toward the exit. 

Speaking of bad examples, please enjoy the following photos of Mae and Kenny showing us how children do as we do, not as we say.  I would like to add that before Kenny came climbing up the haystack (rather than using the wooden steps provided), Mae was sliding down the slides happily and properly.

See how Mae was all ready to go down the correct way, until she spotted her dad swooping down the INCORRECT way?

You can't hear him, but when this was taken he was saying, "No, Mae, you shouldn't go down like that..." as he was fully ready to catch her.

And one last picture, just because it makes me laugh.  Mae has a way with llamas.  At the fair last year, she was licked from chin to forehead by a llama.  This photo was taken right after she was licked in the back of the head as she turned to say, "Mom, look, this one didn't lick me!"

We picked our pumpkins and purchased snacks.  I ate my very first caramel apple and I shouldn't have.  It was delicious but really, my bad habit limit is pretty much full and I shouldn't be trying to add more.  I suppose it can be a once-a-year deal.

When we got home, we ate makeshift leftover supper.  The kids took showers and got their backpacks ready for school.  They were both fully asleep by six o'clock.  I guess they can only handle so much weekend.  Fun is exhausting!

After you finish that nap, DON'T take out the trash.

Sometimes, I sit here without a thought in my mind that I want to share.  I go to my blog, click 'New Post' and just let the blank page sit there and stare at me.  My brain finds this unacceptable and quickly comes up words to fill this space.  Something is triggered, we'll call it the need-to-write-stuff-in-case-I-die-too-young part of my brain, and funny/happy thoughts fill my head.  Like a lightning bolt, these thoughts whisk right through my arms and into my fingertips, released only by keystrokes on my computer.  Now, if I could only figure out how to also trigger the need-to-clean and need-to-save-money parts of my brain, I'd be set.

Halloween is fast approaching.  Mae announced that she wants to be a cat this year.  Before she could change her mind to something that would cost me more money, I raced to the store and purchased a pair of cat ears and a tail. 

Over the weekend, I needed to do some grocery shopping and Mae wanted to tag along.  We made it through almost the entire store before she walked in front of me and I noticed that she was wearing her tail.  No ears, no whiskers painted on...just a tail with her regular clothes.  I suppose it could be worse, like the day she wore roller skates to Wal Mart and I didn't notice until we got there.  Or the day she learned the f-word and spouted it proudly to every person that passed her in the store no matter how many times I scolded her (she was two years old; this wasn't recent).  As I was born without the neeed-to-save-money part of my brain, I am quite sure that Mae was born without the I-get-embarrassed part of her brain.  It just doesn't happen.  Ever.

I feel like I don't report Kyler stories nearly as often as I write about Mae, but he is our sweet boy who always does (almost) everything that he's supposed to do, when he's supposed to do it, how it's supposed to be done and without complaint or worry.  He's so honest that I trust his words more than my own thoughts.  Just yesterday, he told me that he's worried that he has lost muscle mass since he didn't participate in football this year.  With the wrestling season just around the corner, he decided he needs to do something to make up for it.  I suggested that he could run a mile on the treadmill each night and do some push-ups and sit-ups.  He took that in, thought about it for about three seconds, then hopped onto the treadmill for exactly one mile, followed by push-ups and sit-ups.  See what I mean?  He just does what's right all the time in a way that I am very unaccustomed to.  You want me to run?  Then I'll sit.  You want me to work?  I'll roll down a hill.  Clean?  Take a nap.  I believe that everything that is requested of me is a form of reverse psychology, like people are trying to trick me into doing good and I won't stand for it unless it's on my own terms.  And then I wonder why nothing ever seems to get done.  Maybe if I was constantly ordered to take long naps, make large messes and embark on multiple vacations every year, I would counter those orders and be productive.  Yeah, I'm sure that's what would happen.

I reNember the day you stepped on your own hand.

It has recently occurred to me that my kids no longer use kid-talk.  Mae doesn't 'reNember' things anymore.  Kyler doesn't ask me to 'back-forward' (rewind) the movie.  And neither of them ever use curse words  because they are fully aware of which words will get them into trouble.  I can't pinpoint exactly what day this happened, but it seems to all have happened at once.  They are suddenly big kids and it makes me sad.  I wish time didn't have to be so straightforward.  I mostly like living in the here and now, but it would sure be nice to hold my babies again. 

Okay, enough of the emotional baby stuff.  Here's a good reason that I LOVE the age that my kids are:

Last night, we were enthralled in the longest game EVER of Uno.  I told Mae that she should go pop us some popcorn and she got really excited because she loves popcorn.  As she eagerly tried to stand up from the floor while at the same time sprinting to the kitchen, she somehow stepped on her own hand and went somersaulting into the kitchen.  She was laughing, but didn't want to lose any time so she gracefully rolled out of the somersault and jogged to the microwave, leaving Kyler and me to wonder what had just happened.

A few minutes later, as Mae walked back into the living room with a large bowl of popcorn, Kyler and I were still trying to reenact her folly.  She said, "No, you're doing it wrong.  It's like this."  She then was able to show us exactly how she had stepped on her own hand while twisting into a jumping run.  She asked me quite seriously, "What, have you never stepped on your own hand and fallen down?"

I can honestly say that in all of my thirty years, no, I have never accidentally (nor purposely) stepped on my own hand and fallen down.  That takes true talent.  Mae revealed to me that this was not the first time it happened.  Apparently, it also happened at school last year.  I'm not sure whether to laugh or feel sorry, but I do take pride in the fact that she can laugh at herself because that's really a great characteristic to have.

Stop laughing and start sleeping. (Impossible!)

Sleeping.  We've been doing a lot of that lately.  Not sick-sleeping.  Not I-worked-too-hard-sleeping.  Just simply I-feel-like-sleeping-sleeping.  I'm sure it's the weather.  When the temperature drops, hibernation mode sets in.  And it seems to have struck every member of this household, all at the same time.  One minute, we were running through the yard, catching frogs and flying kites.  The next minute, a waft of cold air went through us and we were all laying across the couches, snoring and dreaming of running through the yard, catching frogs and flying kites.

And when I say every member of our household, I mean EVERY member:

Two nights ago, Mae, Kyler and I were all strewn across my bed top, happily reading our books.  It's a great way to wind down.  Kyler announced that he had read for enough minutes to earn a 'hunk of pizza' from the grocery store, so he would be retiring to the television to watch wrestling.  It must have taken Mae and I about five minutes to pass out, books still atop us.  When Kenny got home, he turned on the light, saw Mae laying there, pushed her into the middle of the bed and then flipped the light switch back off to dive into his pre-warmed spot in bed.  He whispered to me about his day at work, so as not to wake our slumbering little princess.  I whispered back to him about our day at home.  After a few minutes of this, Kenny whispered, "Okay, I'm going to sleep now.  I love you."  I whispered back, "Good night; love you."  Then, loudly, Mae said, "I LOVE YOU GUYS, TOO.  BUT WHY ARE YOU TALKING SO QUIET?"  Oh, that little girl.  It then became one of those I-can't-quit-laughing moments that went on forever.  Once I'd finally quit chuckling, Kenny would start and that would set me off again.

I love my funny, sleepy family. 

Parks are for playing, not sitting.

Yesterday, it was so nice outside that after swim lessons while the kids were still dripping wet, we were able to go to the park and play. 

Both kids immediately climbed the human-sized spider web all the way to the top and I began wondering just exactly how hurt they could get from falling off.  I decided it would depend on how many times they got tangled up on their way down, but the possibility of severe injury was very great.  And since this thought was in my head, Mae decided to go ahead and test it.  Except she fell more from the bottom than the top, as she was getting down, but she still caught her arm on one of the ropes on the way down.  She laid on the ground, scream-bawling and holding her arm.  I ran over to her and inspected it: scraped but not severed.  I decided she would survive.  Her screaming was very persistent so I told her that maybe we should go home and get a band-aid.  She abruptly stopped crying, said, "No, I'm not done playing," then jumped up to begin the uphill spider web trek once again.

After the web fun dulled, the kids decided to have monkey bar races.  They made me race, too.  I let them win, but they didn't believe me.  (Neither do I.)

Next, Kyler and Mae crammed themselves into the tire swing.  They're almost too big to fit at the same time.  I began spinning them around and didn't stop until they were both screaming like little girls.  When they finally did come to a stop, they both tried to exit the tire swing through the tire hole and got stuck: chest to chest and face to face.  They stood there like that for quite a while, arguing over whose fault this predicament was.  Every time one of them tried to move, they would end up bumping the other in a painful way.  They finally looked at me, told me to quit laughing and then left it up to me to fix the situation.  After carefully lifting Kyler out, Mae was free, too.

As the sun was setting and I was thinking we should be on our merry way, Mae told me that I had to try out her obstacle course.  I'm pretty sure she was making it up as she went along, but she sure was having fun so I just tried not to let her see me laugh ("Go down the slide backwards, then jump in the air and fart if you can.")  In the meantime, Kyler somehow got himself stuck on top of the rocking crocodile.  He was nicely asking if somebody would please help him and Mae said, "I will."  I just love it when they get along so well.  She walked right over to him, gave him a nice, big shove and watched him fall to the ground.  She said, "There, you're not stuck anymore," and walked away.  From where I sat, atop the monkey bars, I could see Kyler give Mae his oh-no-you-didn't face.  As he heisted himself up off of the ground and ran full-speed toward her from behind, I made the decision that it was time to go home.  Announcing this aloud saved Mae by mere seconds as Kyler yelled, "Last one to the Jeep is a rotten egg!"  He changed his goal from sister-tackle to first-kid-buckled and the rest is just a memory. 

To be honest, I didn't even want to go to the park.  But I know that the day you let it be known that you don't want to go to the park is the day you become labeled 'old and dull'.  From a kid's standpoint, if you don't want to run and jump and swing and play, you may as well shrivel up and die.  What is life without a playground?  And I did have so much fun yesterday that my heart beat faster and we laughed until we felt tears stinging our eyes.  I never wanna not go to the park again. 

My life is a maze...ing.

Today is the one day each year that I go into the office.  Not to work, but for a health screening that is required in order to qualify for insurance benefits.  It is also the one day each year that I don't eat breakfast, which is terrifying for all involved because I am not good at being hungry.  It gives me a headache and makes me irritable.  But it is the afternoon now and the screening is over and my belly is full so I'm back to being normal.  But of course, since I left the house, there's a story to tell.  It's actually a pretty common happening in my life and I'm wondering if I'm the only one.  Does this kind of stuff happen to other people?  Repetitively?

I headed into downtown Lincoln and was already cursing all the traffic.  (Anything more than three cars in a one-mile radius is considered 'heavy traffic' to me).  As I neared my work office, there were NO parking stalls free.  I ended up parking two blocks away and I had exactly one minute to get where I needed to go (which changes every year so I had no idea where I was really headed). 

I walked the chilly two blocks to the front doors, wishing I had worn my winter coat instead of my hoodie.  I went straight for the escalators but...they weren't there!!  They were there LAST time, but this time it was as if they'd just disappeared into thin air.  The escalators were now a wall.  How do you take escalators out?  But I didn't have time to be baffled.  I hate elevators but I had no choice so I headed toward the one opened elevator, which contained a whole group of people who only stared at me as the door shut and I was running toward it.  Buttheads. 

I then noticed a big sign that said 'Stairway' and decided that sounded much safer anyway.  Up to the second floor I went, then through one skywalk.  At the second skywalk, there was a sign with an arrow on it that said 'Wellness Check' so I followed it.  And from there, there were at least ten identical signs, pointing me in all different directions, down two escalators (yeah, the escalators were still on the OTHER side of the building), and finally landing me in a foreign part of the building.  I was completely lost, but at my destination.  I looked out the window to try and figure out exactly where I was, and directly in front of the door...my Jeep was parked. 

It was much simpler getting out of there than it was getting in.

What is this confidence you speak of?

Yesterday morning, Kyler sat at the breakfast table with a big smile across his face, happily eating his cereal.  I asked what he was so happy about and he looked at me and said, "I don't know why I'm smiling on a Wednesday.  I don't usually care about Wednesdays but I'm really happy today."  And then, "...Oh yeah!  I get to present my habitat diorama to my class today!  That's why I'm in such a good mood."  I asked if that meant that he had to stand up in front of his entire class and tell about his project and he beamed, "Yep!  And I can't wait!"  Then Mae, who had been glumly staring off into space, chimed in, "Ooh!  I forgot!!  I get to present my finger-weaving directions to my teachers today!" She was instantly chipper. 

I tried not to show my shock, but I just do not even know where my children came from.  I mean, I know where they came from, but I don't know how they're mine.  They are so very unlike me.  I was terrified of the entire human race when I was their ages.  Parents, students and teachers alike.  They could all throw me into panic mode just by looking in my general direction.  And to stand up and talk in front of them?  No.  Way.  My second grade teacher once asked me to read a poem in front of my class and I started crying and told her that there was a heartbeat in my eyeball and I had to go to the nurse's office immediately.  I remember how she looked at me, dumbfounded, and I didn't even give her a chance to say anything before I found myself headed down the empty hallway to the nurses office.  I stayed there for over an hour, promising that there was something wrong with my eyeball.  The nurse eventually made me return to class.  I walked in and sat down, pretending like nothing strange had happened.  And my teacher never asked me to read anything again after that. 

When the kids got home yesterday afternoon, I approached the subject cautiously, worried that their presentations didn't go as planned (like everything I ever presented in my lifetime thus far).  Kyler said that it went well and he thinks he got a good grade.  But Mae...well, apparently her whole class thought that finger-weaving was really cool and they all wanted to learn how, so she was asked to teach them.  So she did.  The entire class, all at once.  Like a teacher.

It took me about twenty-two years before I felt comfortable enough to ask directions from a stranger.  And here's Mae, eight years old, teaching multiple humans how to finger-weave at the same time. 

The only thing that makes sense is that I must have paid it forward.  For every awkward moment I had as a child (which was basically every moment of my existence), my children get a glorious moment. 

Some people are proud of their kids when they win trophies or spelling bees or get a scholarship.  I am simply happy that my kids are able to speak in audible voices and have friends and don't freeze up when spoken to by an adult.  And when they do get awards, you'll find me hyperventilating in the corner, a mess of tears and sweat, so proud that I'm certain I will actually combust.  Watch out.

I run. You eat. Let's see who really gets the better end of this deal.

I've still been running, in case anybody's wondering.  Daily now.  It's become so simple.  Routine.  Yet, I'm still shocked that I can run.  I always envisioned my leg bones crumbling if I tried, but apparently you can spend years chain-smoking, drinking way too much and living on a diet of ho ho's and chocolate milk and then one day just say, "I think I'll be healthy now," and your body miraculously is okay with it.  However, I have learned that I'm not allowed to 'go back'.  If I try to drink even a few beers, I wake up with a very poundy head and find myself unable to fully open my eyes for the next twenty-four hours.  It hurts like I never imagined and makes me feel like I'm thirty years old.  (In case you're new here, I am thirty years old.)


So I am becoming something that I never, ever, ever, NEVER envisioned myself being: a health nut.  I find myself subconsciously tracking calories and reading nutrition facts.  Couch-potato Sundays are now roller-skating Sundays.  We've traded the all-you-can eat pizza buffet for Subway.  And this isn't a trial run.  It's already stuck.  The kids have taken to this way of life with stride and ease.  The only resistance whomsoever is Kenny.  He has a stash of Little Debbie snacks hidden under the bed.  (See my willpower?  I know they're there and I honestly don't eat them...except maybe one every now and then).  If he knows he's exercising, he refuses.  (He hasn't caught on that roller skating and biking are exercise yet).  He still smokes like a chimney.  He's never been a beer-drinker so at least he's good in that aspect, but I just don't know what more I can do for him aside from tricking him into exercising and healthy eating (which really hasn't been very difficult at all so far).

The saying is true:  Be a good role model for your children and they will follow.  However, it doesn't work on husbands.  I run on my twenty-dollar treadmill for half an hour, sweat pouring down from my forehead, and I see Kenny looking thoughtful.  He exits the room and for a moment, I think he is going to put on his jogging shoes and join me.  But then, ugh, then he returns with a freshly-opened bag of potato chips that he had stashed in his car and he plops down on the couch to eat them in front of me.  He licks all of his fingers after each chip and every so often, he looks at me and tries to smile innocently but I see right through him.  He's trying to avert his manliness (aka stubbornness...I am eating this chip to show you that you cannot change me and also because I know you are hungry and sour cream 'n onion are your favorite and now I will lick the greasy goodness off of my fingers and smile at you to show how sweet I can look but really I am trying to hurt your soul and it is working...) but I know that he, too, will crack someday and fall into the abyss of good health that the rest of us are in.  A matter of time, that's all.  If I have learned anything about Kenny in our thirteen years together, it's that reverse psychology works on him in the same manner as it does on a two-year old child.  Is that all you're having?  Chips?  I can make you some hot chocolate with extra marshmallows to go along with that snack.  And let me bring you an after-meal cigarette.  And the smile instantly fades from his face because he knows he is being tricked but he's not exactly sure how.  A sort of deja vu hangs in the air.  He puts down the chips.  No!  He picks them back up.  She wants me to put down the chips!  Did she just turn the channel to football?  What is this?!  I will not watch this.  She wants me to!  That's it, I'm going for a walk around the pond to clear my head!  And then he sets the bag of chips aside and goes for a walk, not sure yet if he's won or lost but knowing that he needs space to think.  And halfway around the pond, he realizes that he just abandoned his potato chips to go for a walk.  By the time he makes it back into the house, the chips are nowhere to be found and we're just getting ready to watch a family movie.

And that's how you do that.

Colorful Honey.

Kenny, Kyler and I were laughing about a story we heard on the radio.  Meanwhile, Mae sat looking excited and confused.  She was not laughing with the rest of us. 

The story:  Local beekeepers in France were shocked when their honey began turning different shades of greens and blues.  They began tracking their honeybees in an effort to figure out how this could be and they found that the bees were entering an m&m's plant and sucking on the colored sugar, thus producing colored honey.

As we talked over this and how strange, yet hilarious it was, Mae still sat looking excitedly confused.  I finally asked, "Mae, whatcha' thinkin'?"  She looked at me, fiddled with her fingers for a few seconds, then beamed, "I didn't know m&m's grew on PLANTS!!!"  and then much more quietly, "...but how do the m's got on them?!"  She knew it didn't make sense, but she so wanted it to be true.  Her face dropped (and her hopes) when I explained to her that the word 'plant' can also be another word for 'factory.' 

Oh, the wonderment of a child.  If only there truly were m&m plants, the world would be content.  And more colorful.  And probably very diabetic.

Cheerful, screaming, painful bliss. Yep, that's us.

As a child, I always wanted to be "that family".  You know, the one you'd see in movies or on commercials, driving around in their brand new car, singing cheery songs in unison?  Yeah, them.  But my vision was not meant to be.  For starters, it was hard to be cheerful while riding around in a very loud, orange Pinto that overheated about every third block.  Or at Dad's house, there was the car with the broken windshield wipers, so him and my stepmom created a hand-propelled system with thin rope.  Every time it rained, they would roll down their windows, grab their rope and demonstrate teamwork to us as they said, "One, two, one, two, one, two..." and the windshield wipers worked...though riding in the back seat with the windows rolled down while it was raining is NOT somewhere you want to be.  And unlike the actors on the big screen, my siblings and I did not actually like each other when we were all packed into the back seat of the car.  So many bloody noses!

But then; THEN, I got older and had my own kids.  Of course, when Kyler was born, I thought  this is really it.  With our shiny new car and our brand new baby, we would be "that family".  Except when we drove, Kyler didn't like my cheerful singing.  And the only thing he seemed to hate more than my singing was riding in the car.  HATED it.  In fact, we learned that the only way to keep him from screaming until he was literally turning blue was flipping the radio tuner to the spanish station.  And despite my four years of high school spanish classes, I wasn't able to sing along or even translate what a single song was about.  But this is what we listened to in the car together for the first two years of his life. 

And shortly after he turned one, Mae decided to join the family.  Except baby Mae didn't like the spanish station.  Or any station.  She just wanted to make sounds and she wanted everybody's undivided attention at all times.  And if she wasn't the only one making noise and being constantly listened to...well, bloody murder-like screaming would ensue.  So as you can see, no matter what we did, we had at least one screaming baby in the car at all times.  And sometimes it was both of them, which was almost (almost!) enough reason to want to drive off of a bridge.

But now they're older.  And they like music.  Except...well, it seems that none of us have quite the same taste in music.  Our car rides are a series of arguments over what to listen to.  And it's starting to make sense; the way my mom acted when I was a kid.  I always wondered how she could turn the music up, sing, and not hear a single word I was saying, no matter how loud I talked or how big my hand gestures were.  I do that now!!  Oh, I can hear them.  I hear, "This song sucks" and "Why can't we listen to Cyndi Lauper?", but like my mom, I choose to ignore it and just keep singing.  Every so often, the back seat quiets and sometimes (but you better not tell anybody, ever) I hear them singing along to my music.

So, as it turns out, I DO get to be "that family", if only for a few moments here and there.  And at the small cost of listening to only spanish music for two years and enduring many painful hours of ear-splitting screaming and crying.  It's all worth it.  I swear.

And while I'm on the subject of music in the car, I will say that the kids were not at all impressed when R. Kelly's 'Ignition' came on the radio the other day and Kenny and I busted out not only our best still-seated dance moves, but we also belted out the lyrics word for (mostly) word.  There was a long silence when the song ended, so Kenny and I both looked toward the back seat to make sure the kids hadn't jumped out and they both looked terrified.  Mae asked, "What was that?"  And Kyler told us to please never do that again.  (But we absolutely will when we get another chance.)

Micropachywhat?

The kids strolled through the front door at exactly four o'clock yesterday afternoon.  I announced that we would be dining out and Kyler said, "But not until I finish my homework."  He dropped his backpack onto the floor,  fell to his knees and pulled out his folder and pencil.  The assignment:  To write the name of an animal for each letter of the alphabet.  It's no secret that Kyler loves animals and does much out-of-school research about every being that has ever walked, hopped, swam or slithered this world.  This means there were no books needed to do this assignment, which explains why he was so eager to get it done.  I sat down on the floor next to him to ensure he was doing his work correctly.

Next to the letter 'A', Kyler wrote 'Archaeopteryx'.  I asked, "Is it okay to use dinosaurs?"  He replied, "Of course it is.  They were animals, too."  Seeing that his answer didn't ease my mind, he then explained that he had received prior approval from his teacher.  Good boy.  He got back to work and continued to scribble in answers of other dinosaurs as well as some exotic animals of which I have little to no knowledge about.

Midway through the assignment, Kyler looked slightly stumped on the letter 'M'.  I felt I should put in my ever-so-wise suggestion and said, "Mouse?"  Kyler rolled his eyes and said, "No, I just don't know how to spell Micropachycephalosaurus."  (Yeah, he can pronounce that but not the word 'pretzel'.)  After staring dead-faced at him for a very long moment, I told him, "It hurts my brain when you talk like that."  His eyes looked toward my laptop and I knew what he wanted.  Once again, Google to the rescue.  (And twice again, just so I could type this.) 
After the letter 'M', I kept my suggestions to myself.  The assignment was over before I knew it so we headed out to eat.  Then to the park to play.  Then back home for bath time and bedtime.  Mae passed out on the couch and I left her there.  Heisting her over my shoulder and climbing the ladder to gently lay her atop her loft bed is not really a reasonable option.  I've tried.  We won't talk about the outcome.  And due to her insistence that beds just aren't as comfortable as couches, when I walked out of my bedroom this morning, this is the first thing I saw:

When both kids woke up, we had a great laugh about this.  This is very similar to what Kenny looked like last weekend when I was unable to get a photo before he woke up, except he was facing the other way.  It was nice of Mae to recreate the moment for us.

I'll still be laughing even if it DOES catch on.

Kenny woke up and drank his daily pot of coffee, which always sets his mind racing and makes for some good subject matter for me.  Today, while happily sipping away, he watched the news.  He learned that the quickly cooling weather has struck many children sickly.  Colds, strep and the dreaded flu are quickly making their way across the country, striking one innocent school building at a time. 

At the end of the newscast, Kenny shut the television off, looked thoughtful for a while, then walked over to my desk and declared, "I know how to end it."  I asked what he was planning on ending and he said, "Disease.  Sickness.  All of it."  I gave him all of my attention, just waiting to hear the secret cure-all that everybody in the world has been waiting for somebody to stumble upon.  And here it is:  "Forearm-bumping."

"Forearm-bumping?"

"Yes, forearm-bumping.  We need to eliminate handshakes and fist-bumps so that we quit spreading germs.  It's so simple.  Here, I'll show you how."

Before I knew it, he had pulled me out of my chair and was teaching  me how to forearm-bump.  He was so, so very serious.  I, on the other hand, had tears of laughter streaming down my face.  Half of them were due to Kenny's hilarious demonstrations and the other half were a direct result of the idea itself.  And it gets even better.  After I had mastered the art of forearm-bumping, he also taught me the proper way to high-five with feet.  Unfortunately, he was wearing shoes and I was not, but my stubbed toes did allow me to retire back to my seat to continue my laughter and try to catch my breath.

According to Kenny, I will be embarrassed about my laughter when this catches on.  Of course, teaching kids to cough into their elbows has caught on and I thought that looked extremely goofy when the idea began, so maybe Kenny's right.  Either way, change is always funny to me when it starts with Kenny saying, "I've got an idea!" and ends with, "Here, stand up, I'll show you."

Chalk it Up.

I headed to town to buy toilet paper and coffee.  We were nearly out of both and without them, I could foresee much sadness and destruction in our house.  So to the store I went.  Except I got distracted by a couple of garage sales.  And then I wanted ice cream so I had to go to Dairy Queen.  And then on my third attempt at making it to the store, I passed Mead Lumber and remembered that I needed paint.  But it takes a while to mix paint, so while I was waiting, I wandered the store aimlessly.  I didn't need anything, nor did I want anything beyond my paint.  That is, until I saw "it".  "It" is an aerosol can that sprays chalkboard.  No, really, they have that.  And I didn't know it.  I read and re-read the back of the can to ensure that what I was seeing was really true.  You can spray a chalkboard anywhere?  I immediately took the can to the paint clerk, held it up and demanded to know, "IS THIS TRUE?!"  She said, "Yeah, you can even spray it on your wall."  She then pushed my can of paint across the counter and told me to have a nice day.  After having a slight panic attack, I made my way through the check-out, raced to the store, then headed home.

When I arrived home, there were extra people here.  I LOVE it when extra people are here, especially when I have something incredibly awesome to show them.  My niece was standing in the kitchen, saw the bags I was carrying and asked, "What'd you buy?"  I immediately pulled out the can and proudly displayed it about four inches from her face.  She casually shrugged and said, "Cool."  NOT the reaction I was looking for.  I told her, "No you actually have to READ it."  She then read the can, put both hands on top of her head and screamed, "NO WAY!!!"  There's the reaction I was after.  Without any further hesitation, she held her arm out towards me and said, "CHALKBOARD MY HAND!!!!"  Can you tell we're related?

I now have to tell you the sad news:  I have yet to turn anything into a chalkboard.  See, what happened is that I bought the can solely intending to turn a used-to-be end table into a chalkboard table for Mae's room.  But since it was Saturday, I had time to think.  And thinking isn't always good when you're me (which you're not, so you'll just have to take my word for it).  I suddenly became very aware of all of the possibilities and they are endless.  And when there are endless ideas, it hurts my brain and I get confused.  Where to start?  What if I chalkboard the toilet and then decide that I would have rather chalkboarded the Jeep?  Why did I only get one can?  What if they run out before I can make it back to the store?  WHAT IF THERE'S A SHORTAGE OF CHALKBOARD-IN-A-CAN?!  So I've been clutching my can tightly ever since, knowing it won't be enough.  Ever.  I want to chalkboard my counters.  And my fridge.  And the siding on my house.  I want a whole chalkboard house.  We would never have to buy paper again.  Or pens.  And we'd never be bored.  I want to live in a chalkboard world.  But I only have one can.  And if I don't snap out of it soon, I will end up spending the entire rest of my life protecting this one can and never using it.  When I die, they won't be able to pry it out of my hands so then I will have to be buried with it. 

I told Kenny that he should never let me leave the house alone.  This is the kind of stuff that happens when I am unsupervised.