5-7-9

Today, my newborn baby boy started high school. It's a little hard to imagine how he is getting from class to class, what with his being like FOUR DAYS OLD and all. But maybe someone gave him a piggy back ride? Helped him open his locker with his tiny, peeling, newborn fists?

I do hope so.

Because I'm sort of a wreck just thinking about it.

All day long, I've been chomping at the bit, anxiously awaiting his arrival home.

And, thanks to the cross country practice, he won't get here until dinner time.

By which point, I expect he's grown a full beard, has a job, and four kids of his own.

Don't mock.  It feels about that long since he WAS a newborn. They always told me it would go so fast. When I had three kids under age four, I fervently hoped it was true with every fiber of my being.  The days were endless, and the nights - anything but restful.  It was one long sleep-deprived millennia, dotted here and there with moments that made it all worth while.

Like when they were all asleep at the same time.

But now that they're fun, interesting, and like the same movies as me? I'd sort of like time to just stand still for a moment.  To freeze the laughter that fills the air like a thick fog when we watch Seinfeld re-runs together.  To remember their sharp wit, and bottle up the occasional hugs from their long, gangly bodies.  To hold on to them for just a little longer.

Sigh.

The other two were much more nonchalant as they headed out the door this morning.

The middle child is smack dab in the middle of his middle school career. He knows the ropes, he has his friends, and it's all not nearly as exciting as the 900 hours he taped for Shark Week.

But, man, do I love him something fierce.

And my baby girl.  Starting what will be our final year of elementary school. She is as dramatic as she always has been. What with the ASSIGNED SEATS AT LUNCH, UGH. And actual HOMEWORK required of her. But still. I forgive her for growing up because she flies into my arms with a choking squeeze as soon as she gets off the bus.  Never knowing which one of us really needs that touch more.

I think it's going to be all right.

Plus?  We're now one day closer to summer vacation next year.

My lucky day

A few weeks ago, I went on a little trip across the pond.

Or did I mention it? My trip? Yes?

All right then. Shut up.

While there (and properly following the instructions on my electricity converter, mind you) a slight mishap occurred that involved me and a Chi flat iron.

It broke my heart. (But mostly because it meant I had to walk around London and Paris with bad hair. And how would Darcy, Prince Harry, or Daniel Craig ever be able to fall in love with me?)

Because smooth, straight hair? Slightly important. Unless the Diana Ross ever comes back in style. Then I'm all set.

ANYway, the point of this rambling post is that I had to buy another one. So, first day off the plane, I stampeded my big-haired self into my local Ulta. Hannah came with me because, hello, she's female, and that store is like a magnet for us X chromosomers.

While in the checkout line, the clerk asked if I would like to donate a dollar to breast cancer research.

This happened at the exact moment that Hannah began tugging on my sleeve and whispering asking in a loud voice whether I thought the clerk was a boy or a girl.

The clerk, who was very obviously a boy, was wearing more make up than Cher on her best day in Las Vegas.

In a cheery attempt to distract Hannah and keep the He/She busy, I said that, sure, I'd love to donate to breast cancer. Oh, and what is that lovely thing over there?

I have no doubt that the He/She heard Hannah, and I got out of there as fast as I could.

Fast forward to today. I get a call from Ulta saying that I had won the breast cancer giveaway, which was $600 in free beauty products, and would I mind coming in to pick them up?

Would I mind driving five minutes down the road to claim my free stuff? Heck, I'd have crawled there in my underwear while wearing a crown of mayonnaise on my head. I love that store and spend a fortune on anything promising to make me look 12 again. Now you want to give me a whole bag of it FOR FREE?

Internet, I give you the booty, bounty, and beautiful pile of free stuff from the tragically gorgeous He/She at Ulta:

Shampoos, lip glosses, a blow drier, a curling rod, face creams, hair spray, nail polish, perfume...you name it, I've got it.

Even three pairs of fabulously pink reading glasses.

I'm thinking today HAS to be my day to play the lottery.

Either that, or I should just put everything on my face at once, head over to Ulta, and take a photo with the He/She.

(I'll bet he'd (she'd?) still look better than me. Seriously. Boyfriend rocked the make-up.)

Telephones and toilets don't mix

Last week, I was on the phone with a teacher from Hannah's school.

See, Hannah has recently started going one day a week to a creative learning campus* and the adjustment has been a bit of a struggle. She feels lost, is frequently in tears, and is begging to return to her home school.

I have worried and wrung my hands about how to help her. I feel that to let her quit something after such a short time goes against everything I am trying to teach her about commitment and endurance.

When she faked sick last Friday to try and get out of going, and my tears mirrored her own, I decided it was time to ask for help. I made calls and sent emails to the school counselor, as well as her morning and afternoon teachers.

One of the teachers eventually found a few minutes in her busy day to return my call. As we chatted, I shared with her the struggles that Hannah has been having. I found myself pouring out my anxiety and worries quite tearfully over the phone. I begged and pleaded for her wisdom as an educator to help me help my child.

And then, over the phone I heard --

-- the distinct and disgusting sound of a flush.

Followed shortly thereafter by the sound of running water.

And the unmistakable crank of a paper towel dispenser.

Her 'mmm-hmmms' suddenly seemed a little less attentive than I thought they were.

I was horrified and repulsed. She could not take two minutes to go to the bathroom BEFORE calling me back? She couldn't mute her phone? The fact that I was crying and pouring out my soul to her while she sat on a toilet did nothing to reassure me that my daughter was in good hands.

Albeit, very clean post-toileting hands.

I must beg the question of you, dear internets -- have you ever made a call whilst on the pearly white throne? Do you flush and dial? Are you a pee talker?

I. am. not.

And I'll try not to judge those of you who are.

*Hannah begged and begged all last year to be tested for admittance into our district's Center for Creative Learning. I finally acquiesced, she was admitted this year, and absolutely hates it. In spite of the phone/toilet interaction, we have come up with some good strategies to help her and she is feeling better about it. I, however, will likely be scarred for life.

My face, the math lesson

Today at church, I noticed Hannah staring at me out of the corner of my eye. At first I ignored it, as she is sometimes fond of counting my freckles.

Which, by the way, is great practice for her to learn counting into the hundreds of thousands. The freckles and I are just doing our part to help with the math skills, you know. We're generous that way.

When she eyeballed me longer than normal, I turned to her and asked her what she was staring at. She crinkled up her little nose and said, "Mama, you have these weird bumps all over your face."

I immediately reached up and began to brush at my cheeks, trying to wipe the offending bumps away. Thinking it was merely makeup gone awry, I asked her if that better.

She stared for a minute more, then said, "Oh, nevermind. It's just your wrinkles."

Great.

At least maybe counting the freckle to wrinkle ratio will help with her fraction skills.

Mama's melancholy smile

The morning started smooth and easy, a familiarity to the long-forgotten routine of showers, lunches, and backpacks. It was maybe an exceptional morning in that they were served a hot breakfast, instead of fending for themselves with the cold cereal and the eggo waffles.

They seemed so comfortable with what lay ahead. No nervous chatter. No endless questions. Their serene state and happy attitudes filled the air like a thick, warm blanket.

Yes, they both answered for the fourth time, they had everything.



The oldest boy politely inquired about exactly where the first-day photos would be taken. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed and slightly worried that he'd hurt his mama's feelings. Knowing the bus stop has been off limits for several years now, she reassured him that all the photos would be taken from afar.

The boys laughed at each other, and hugged their mama tight. Glancing nervously around to be sure there were no witnesses, they posed for the obligatory photos outside.

They turned without another thought and walked to the bus stop, chatting together.

Their mama's heart broke just a little bit.

One boy forgot his schedule and came tearing home to get it with a sheepish grin on his face. His mama laughed and told him to hurry, shaking her head in just that way mamas do when they know they were right.

And then, the big, yellow bus came and took them away. As it seems to do with increasing frequency every year.

The little girl was surprisingly easy to rouse from her sleep. In spite of her pleas to be home schooled forever, she was ushered downstairs and fed a hot breakfast of her own. She moaned and complained, worrying needlessly about lunch table assignments. She debated out loud about various hair styles for the day. She happily slipped into her new clothes.

She sat on the driveway waiting for the bus, not afraid to take the pictures with her mama. She posed in several spots and offered suggestions for the best angles. Her mama smiled, hugged her, and laughed at the little girl who seems to know it all.

They talked for a few minutes, and then in the distance, a familiar rumbling was heard. The squeaky brakes left no doubt that her turn was soon upon them.

She hugged her mama one last time, put on her very best smile, and climbed aboard.

With summer freckles on their noses, excitement in their toes, and melancholy in their mama's heart, they begin another year.

One for the grandparents

What do you do when it's 104 degrees outside WITHOUT the humidity heat index? When the pool feels like warm bath water and you've already been to see two movies?

Answer? You clean up your three babies, make promises of ice cream, head to your favorite greenhouse, and snap a few pictures. That's what you do.

Then you sit down to edit and cry when you realize they are just not babies any more.

I think their faces say it all

Here's to:

No more tornadoes
sleeping in
fun vacations
lazy warm afternoons at the pool
sunshine
freckles
ice cold diet cokes
and the inevitable, interminable humidity.

Welcome back, summer. We've missed you, sister.

The Resistance

Have you heard? The world is going to end tonight. The righteous will be taken up to heaven, while the rest of us will be left here to burn with the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bernie Madoff.

Exciting.

I have every confidence that I will NOT be taken up to heaven with the righteous, as my sins are quite grievous. Just ask Hannah. She reminds me of them daily.

In fact, she started a club in our family a few weeks ago which she named The Resistance. There were only two in our family worthy enough to be granted admission into The Resistance - herself and the Husband.

They had many secret meetings in which a charter was offically drafted. Rules were made and promises of loyalty were said, the breaking of which would result in death and chastisement from Hannah (a fate probably worse than death).

The rules of The Resistance are this:

1. No swearing EVER.
2. No use of substitute curse words (like frick, eff, beyotch, and crap)
3. You can like Lady Gaga's songs, but not her personality or her clothes
4. No eating any food from McDonald's (especially diet cokes)
5. No repeating words or lingo from the old tv show Battlestar Galactica
6. No wearing of immodest clothes

Since I am pretty much guilty of at least four of the six cardinal sins of The Resistance, there is little chance for my salvation. And as the boys are guilty of violating rule number five on a daily basis, that leaves them behind for the burning, too.

Instead of crying repentance and begging her forgiveness, I'm stocking up on ice, diet coke, People magazine, and preparing myself for the worst. While I don't think it will be entirely pleasant to sit in a burning pit of fiery damnation for all eternity, I kind of picture it won't be all that different from Missouri in July.

In a way, I think eternal damnation for me will be quite familiar and homey.

Nice.

Mamarazzi

More often than not, I have my camera packed away and I miss the opportunity to capture forever things that totally make me laugh.

Like this, taken moments after Hannah popped the lid off her pudding:

Unfortunately for her, I had the camera out and totally caught her in the act.

Don't worry, baby girl, I always lick the lid, too.

Nine

Dear Hannah,

Today at exactly 9:10 p.m, you have been in my life for nine fantastic years. When I think about that number, it astounds me. Partly because I cannot believe it has been that long, but mostly because it means I am halfway done with your daily presence in my life. And quite frankly, I don't know what I'll ever do without you.

We had your birthday dinner last night with Daddy, and, as per our tradition, I told the story of your birth. You laughed and smiled, shrugging your shoulders when I told about you being so late. I remember when I finally did get to have your tiny body in my arms, and was able to gaze at your absolutely perfect face -- in that moment, I knew I was complete. I knew there was nothing else in the world that I would ever need. You were the icing on the cake. And our life has known nothing but pink, fluffy sweetness ever since.

You constantly amaze me with your creativity. You currently plan to be an author when you grow up, and are in the middle of writing your first novel. Last fall, you brought me a jar and several scraps of paper, and told me to give you topics to write about. I brainstormed and filled up your little pieces of paper, then sat back and reveled in the writing you brought me.

You write beyond your years, baby girl.

Please don't let anyone crush that in you. The creative writing bug is a delicate thing, one that must be protected and nourished. I hope you will continue to pour out your soul via paper and pen. I think the world will be a better place for having read it.

You have still not outgrown your fierce independence, and deep down inside I am grateful. You have no doubt of what you want, and how you will get there. It is a constant negotiation with you. I can't simply say no, I have to tell you why, and when, and how I came to that conclusion. Your keen mind has to be satisfied, and sometimes that takes quite a bit of work on my end.

I also frequently have to remind you that I am still the mom, as your inner leader comes out when dealing with your brothers on an almost daily basis. The funny thing is, they tend to actually obey you and do what you ask.

It leaves me no doubt that you will one day make a fantastic mother.

Deep at your core, there is nothing but goodness. You and sensitive and kind. You root for the underdog every single time. You are happy and your laughter is contagious. You make me try harder, as mediocre is not in your vocabulary.

You are so beautiful, and your smile lights up the room. There is nothing I love more than seeing your green eyes sparkle as you chatter away about your day. Or holding you on my lap, cuddling you and your gangly limbs.

Can I just tell you how much I love that? How much I love that you still climb up onto my lap now and then? You've not fit there for quite some time, but I never tire of feeling your soft hands as they explore my earrings or count my freckles.

You make my life sparkle. You make everything so much fun. I thank the lord in all his wisdom for sending me exactly what I needed, just when I needed it.

For sending me you.

Happy ninth birthday, chica. I love you more than you will know.

Love,

Mama

Why he'll never win an academy award

This past weekend, we decided to celebrate the start of spring break with a little stay-cation and booked a few nights in a hotel downtown.

Pretty much the Husband's dream come true.

Who wouldn't love getting home from an exhausting week-long business trip to stay in a hotel in their own hometown, then leave again Monday morning for another hotel out of town?

What can I say? I married a good man.

We ended up having a fantastic time. We toured around St. Louis, visiting restaurants and sites we've never been to before. The weather was beautiful - we walked all over our fair city with sunshine on our shoulders and smiles on our faces. We slept in. We swam in the hotel pool. We had adjoining suites overlooking the polluted beautiful Mississippi River. We watched movies and ate fabulous food.

And last night, as I was sleeping peacefully, I awoke to the sound of coughing from the kids' room. Only, it didn't sound quite right.

Mama-sense tingling, I tiptoed into their room and was assaulted by the unmistakable smell mothers everywhere fear with dread. Someone had thrown up.

And most definitely not in the bathroom.

I stepped gingerly towards the foul stench and tripped over a body on the floor. Cursing and grumbling, I found that Chase had climbed out of his bed and was asleep in a nest on the floor. I made my way to the bedside lamp and switched it on.

The light revealed poor Hannah, asleep, and lying in a pool of vomit. Completely unaware of the evil she had just done, she was soundly sleeping. Horrified, I wondered for a moment what to do.

Realizing there was no way to avoid the embarrassment, I made the call of shame down to housekeeping. I snapped into mom mode and put Hannah into the bathtub. I pulled the soiled bedding and bundled it up. I started wiping down the walls and the carpet (because, yes, it was one of THOSE times where it went everywhere). I met the poor soul from housekeeping at the door and apologized profusely. He smiled and said they just been through mardi gras. They were used to this.

A hefty tip for housekeeping, clean sheets on the bed, and a bottle of air deodorizer later, I was ready to fall back asleep. As I climbed wearily into bed, the Husband rolled over and in a voice so fakely groggy it was pathetic, he said, "Hey, what's going on? Did something happen?"

Um, yeah. Not fooling anyone here, Husband. There is no way on earth you slept through the vomiting, cursing, bed changing, bath taking, and room spraying.

Not even if you were dead.

Which for pretending to sleep until it was all cleaned up last night, you just might be.

All she needs now is juicy shorts and a tramp stamp

As I whined about mentioned last week, the Husband was gone on a six-day ski bender. Two states, countless runs down the mountains, and a couple of very sore legs later, he staggered in the door with a smile on his newly-scruffled face.

Once the children had let go of their manic death grip on his legs, he pulled out the souvenirs. Tee-shirts for everyone (myself included). The boys snatched theirs up and ran to try them on.

For us girls, he had two shirts - both the same size - and said that Hannah and I could decide between us which one we wanted.

[Pause for interjection: Obviously, I am not a child size 7, nor will I attempt to squeeze myself into one. The shirt for Hannah will be a little big. Just clarifying in case you had me confused with Kate Moss. Or Hugh Hefner's girlfriend(s). Now back to our story.]

Hannah, whose favorite color this week happens to be blue, took the blue one. Not really caring which one I got, I happily agreed.

And then I read the shirts.

Here is the black one (rejected by Hannah on the basis of color alone):

Aaaaand, the blue one. Her shirt of choice:

Seriously. I tried to tell her what a cute pajama shirt it will make, and her eyes welled up with tears. "Why? Why can't I wear it to school?"

Why, indeed.

I know she doesn't get it, but her teachers certainly will.

And once again, I have become THAT mother. Yay me.

Love notes

Last week, I found baby girl furiously scribbling a note to one of her classmates. She was writing and re-writing, crumbling up little post-it notes, wanting to get the wording just right.

When I peeked over her shoulder, this was the note causing her so much grief:

Apparently, a boy in her class had demanded a note from her stating whether or not she would be willing to kiss him.

What do you think it would take to get that note copied and distributed to every boy within a 50-mile radius in, say, seven years or so?

I'm thinking the Husband would gladly spend thousands to make it happen.

P.S. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your sweet words on my little headshot project. You can see the new one over there on the right. You all rock. Way to make a sista feel good about herself.

Irony

Hannah came running in, her cheeks flushed and her face set. She sighed, an exasperated release of air coming from her tiny chest.

I waited, stifling a grin.

She sighed again, looked at me and rolled her eyes, just willing me to beg it out of her.

Practiced in the art that is Hannah, again, I waited.

Impatient, she burst out, "Mommmmm! The boys called me a tattle-tale!"

I am not sure which offended her more - the boys' description of her; or me, doubled over with laughter, rolling around on the floor, unable to punish them for their keen ability to hit the nail right on the head.

I am...

I am the kind of mom that says yes to yet another package of silly bands.
But says no when they want to play in the muddy rain puddles.

I am the kind of mom that always says yes when they beg for a treat at the store.
As long as that treat is not the Skittles.

I am the kind of mom that likes to read a story out loud to them.
But seldom finds the time to to do it anymore.

I am the mom who hugs and squeezes their dad in front of them.
Even when they pretend to be thoroughly grossed out.

I am the kind of mom that gets frustrated and cleans their rooms when they're at school.
But I never tell them what I throw out in the process. (And they almost always never miss it anyway).

I am the kind of mom that takes time for my own hobbies, dreams, and needs.
And I think that's extremely good for them.

I am not the mom who sits on the floor and plays legos or does puzzles with them every day.
But I am the mom that sits and listens, then dries their tears with encouragement and support.

I am the mom that has fresh-baked cookies and milk waiting when they come home from school.
I am not the mom who buys the Oreos.

I am the mom who loves these three with a fierce intensity that goes down to my core and sometimes nearly consumes me.

I am their mom.
And they are my heart.

She's got the look

Ah, Cheeky. What do you do in your sleep to create such fabulous hair styles? The perfect combination of tangles, ratting, and volume -- effortlessly.

I can't tell you how many perms, cans of Aquanet, and hours in the bathroom it took me to achieve that very same look in 1986.

Somewhere in the world, Bon Jovi is weeping with envy into his handfuls of mousse.

I am what I am, and that's all that I am

The other night, I was attempting to make dinner but something kept getting in my way.

That something was Chase's head.

Every time I went to add something to the pan or stir the food, his head was peering over the stove examining the bubbling concoction.

I had to pause, and was caught up in the memory of something I had completely forgotten about. I laughed as I saw this exact scene roughly 10 years before. It was during our early days in Seattle. Chase was about 10 months old and completely insatiable. His curiosity was so consuming that sometimes it drove me crazy.

EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. when I was making dinner, he had to be propped up on my hip, watching everything I did. He would lean out, one hand tucked safely behind my arm, and peer intently into the pan. Time after time, I would pull his head back out of the way so I could see what I was doing.

There was no activity interesting enough to keep him busy during this time. He would crawl over to the stove, pull himself to standing at my legs, and cry and fuss until I picked him up. There was no way around it. I eventually just learned to multi-task, as all mothers do. I was able to cook, chop, rinse, and stir with one hand and a 20-pound kid on my hip.

But what's funny is that he is EXACTLY THE SAME at age 10 as he was at age 10 months.

It got me thinking about the other two, as well.

McKay has always been a rule follower. Even as a toddler, he felt compelled to obey the rules. So much so, that often his free-spirited brother caused him a great deal of stress. He'd watch anxiously as Chase ran behind the counter in a restaurant or tried to jump up and operate the cash register in the grocery store.

Which was probably not at all annoying to the store employee actually operating the cash register.

Looking to me for help, McKay would wring his hands in worry and say, "Chase! We not s'posed to do dat!" Chase, meanwhile, was completely oblivious to it all and could have cared less about getting in trouble. By the time I could catch him for a scolding, he was already off exploring something else.

Today, Mack is concerned as ever with doing what he's supposed to. The very idea of stepping out of line causes him near panic attacks and ulcers. In fact, last year the Husband offered him twenty bucks if he'd get a pink slip at school just once. Pink slips are handed out for being late, missing assignments, goofing off, etc., and they entitle one to a lunch detention with the teacher. From what we hear, they are used on quite a frequent basis at the middle school. At the start of sixth grade, McKay was consumed with worry that he'd get a pink slip, and stressed constantly about it.

Even with the Husband's offer, he has yet to earn that twenty bucks.

This little chica is also exactly the same as her baby self.

She is, and always has been, everybody's mother. I often hear her correcting the boys' grammar, as well as their behavior.

Her teaching moments and lectures are usually met with eye rolling and a lot of sarcastic comments, which enrages her even more.

[Ah, the wonders she could have done with baby Chase.]

She is also extremely articulate (and was as a toddler, too). I have to constantly explain and negotiate things with her. It's not a simple matter of being told no. She wants to know what, why, when, and how. The ever popular phrase, "because I said so" is just not in her vocabulary.

I don't know why it's so surprising to me that they are the same people they've always been. I think I've known it, but not really connected the pieces of this puzzle together.

Do you think that means I was a stupid baby?

Never mind. Don't answer that.

Faking it, for history's sake

The first day of school came and went. I had planned to stand on the driveway, camera in hand, and dutifully capture every detail of their departure.

After making breakfast and lunches, cajoling, nagging, and cleaning, I went to grab my camera. Tragically, the batteries were dead.

What is it they say about the shoe cobbler's kids never having shoes? A photographer's children never having photographs?

Yeah. Something like that.

So we staged some first-day-of-school-photos on the second day of school. Honestly, in 20 years, no one will be the wiser.

Plus, they'll be too busy mocking their hair and outfits (and blaming me for both) to really care, I am sure.

This boy came bursting home on the first day, eager, happy, and thrilled with his new grade. Second day? Eh. Not so much. Turns out that teachers like to give homework; plus, tests and studying will be requirements this year.

Unlike his hopes and dreams otherwise.

Good news is he will survive. Really, what choice does he have?

This kid wore his new clothes the first day (which, mind you, I forced him to purchase) then happily threw on his oldies for the second day. Don't know why I bother spending ANY money at all on him. He would prefer to dig through the trash and find old things to wear, use, and undoubtedly, eat.

He is excited to be playing violin this year, and when we went to rent his instrument, they offered a wide price range of options. When the sales lady assured us that they all play the same, but vary in looks only, he requested the oldest, most scratched up violin possible. She laughed, looked at me like, "Is he serious?" and I just shrugged my shoulders.

I am pretty sure he is the first kid in the history of the world to request the old, ugly violin. Most are probably begging and pleading for the newer, unscratched models.

Not Chase. Gotta love that kid. He's saving me thousands of dollars against my will.

The little princess has been THRILLED with her first few days of school. Her BFF Jilian is finally in her class this year, and they have been two peas in a pod. Every day is a new adventure in chatting with her besties. School work, reading, tests? Not on the priority list for this social butterfly. School = friends.

She dresses herself daily and (to my dismay) always looks way cuter than I do. I am thinking those critical comments she makes about my wardrobe might have some substance to them after all. Crap.

And me?

Well, I'm holding my own and trying not to have too much fun during the day. In three days, I have already treated myself to lunch, a movie, a shopping spree, and a nap. It's glorious. I think I love school more than anyone else in the world.

Except for one thing: Its constant interruption of my sleep.

(As modeled by Hannah for you here)

The six a.m. alarm clock is killing me. It will soon be dark at that hour, and cold, and I don't know how I will survive another nine months of this. I'm a frightful beast early in the morning and look something like this:

Yikes, right?

How many days until Christmas vacation?

Maybe, just maybe

My kids go back to school tomorrow. All week I have watched them with melancholy in my heart, loathe to part with them.

The past few days, I even mentally composed a touching, heart-felt post describing my feelings in great detail. One that would make all of you weep right alongside me.

And then...

Then they spent today fighting and tormenting each other.

And they whined to go to the pool. Then whined to go home once we got to the pool.

And left me a present of muddy shoes in the laundry room sink.

And accidentally dumped an entire plate of rice on the floor. Then attempted to sweep it up with a broom, leaving a sticky trail of wet rice behind.

And spilled -- not one -- but TWO glasses of milk at dinner.

And on my hands and knees, mopping it all up, I decided I actually might be ready for them to go back to school.

But then...

Then I walked past the boys' room and smiled at them -- heads together, bent over a Calvin & Hobbs book, their laughter filling the air.

And I hugged my baby girl goodnight, and for the millionth time kissed the tiny freckles dotted across her button nose. Her hair, smelling sweetly of shampoo, brushed my cheeks as we parted and I had to reach back down and hug her tight again.

And I talked a nervous middle schooler through his schedule yet again, loving the way he shrugged at the end of it saying, "Thanks, Mom," as though I accomplished a huge feat.

And I laughed out loud when my funny, quirky middle son set out his first-day-of-school-clothes, planning to wow his classmates with his retro Jaws tee shirt and his current favorite read. Noting with a smile, the man-eating theme with which he's chosen to start the fifth grade.

And at the end of the day I decided that maybe, just maybe, I might miss these little people after all.

She's trying her darndest to save my soul

There is a new master in my life:

Thanks to the Hannah, I have been made to be accountable for my sins:

Apparently, girlfriend doesn't like it when the mama swears.

I would not think of myself as a foul-mouthed fiend. I don't swear in casual conversation with friends. I do not ever swear at my children in a fit of temper. And I have yet to fling any expletives at the Husband during marital, ahem, disagreements.

But occasionally, a mild swear slips through my fingers on the keyboard and ends up here as a joke. Or I drop something heavy on my foot and grumble a less-than-choice word in frustration.

Like the hell word.

Or the damn word.

Very rarely, maybe a version of the son-of-a-beyotch word.

Most certainly never the F word. [Unless that word is the frick word. Guilty of that one a lot.]

But on our recent trip to Utah, my lack of appropriate language when joking with my brothers brought Miss Hannah to tears. Her little heart overflowed with worry for my soul. With pleading green eyes, she looked up at me and softly asked why I keep breaking the commandments.

I had no answer.

Clearly, saying to my brother on the phone, who was leaving work to meet us all for dinner, "Hurry up, dammit!" does not a joke make in the mind of Prudence McPrude Hannah.

And so I have acquiesced. After all, were those same words to escape my children's lips, there would most certainly be hell heck to pay.

So consider this my formal resignation from the use of bad language on this blog.

No more hell. Or damn. Or even frick.

[Shoot. I just totaled up the number of quarters alone this post is going to cost me, and I think somebody will be a few dollars richer by the end of the day.]

Crap. [&#@!!#]