She won't answer you; she's a bobcat

Oh, little neglected blog. Will I ever make you a priority again?

Here's hoping.

I have the best of intentions. What I lack lately is time.

Every day when the Husband calls at about four -- smack dab in the middle of the witching hour, mind you -- he asks what I did that day. And every day, for the past three weeks, I have boringly said, "Work."

Oh lazy days of novels, workouts, lunches, and movies, where have you gone?

Work is a good thing. Being so busy your head spins is a blessing when you're a self-employed photographer. This week alone, I've got five sessions. FIVE! Can you believe it? I'm literally booked solid until the end of October. It's insane.

But mama's got a new set of lights to pay for not feel guilty about, so the work is coming in handy.

And in lieu of anything remotely interesting, funny, or entertaining out of my psyche, I give you the genius that is Christopher Walken and SNL.



You're welcome.

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.

I'll never say no to you, whatever you say or do...

Internets, I married a good man.

A man who doesn't hesitate to say yes. A man who supports me in whatever I do. A man who selflessly gives time and time again.

And recently, when I mentioned my desire to [someday] get this, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and told me I should get it.

I don't have to be told twice.

And now, as a result, my basement currently looks like this:

Not everyone is as excited as me. Clearly.

And some of us are a little TOO excited for my taste:

While others of us will use any excuse to throw their brother into a wickedly awesome headlock:

Though ultimately, with promises of chocolate chip cookies, I eventually get something closer to what I'm looking for:

And even though I have some idea no clue what I am doing, I think it's going to be a whole lot of fun figuring it out.

P.S. Anyone know the name of the movie that the title comes from? Hint: It's a musical. And a good one at that.

A letter to my son

Dear Chase,

Please consider yourself very fortunate that you inherited genetics which would assemble in such a way as to provide you with a ridiculously cute face.

Were it not for that, my darling son, I do believe at this very minute you might not be alive.

You see, Chase, your Mama saved all her bad TV watching until such time as you were back in school. Not wanting to take away precious time spent with you this summer, Mama selflessly gave up her Bravo Housewives, her TLC Sister Wives, and her I'm-Really-Too-Crazy-To-Be-Believed-Jeff Lewis.

And this week, after you went back to school, Mama sat down to edit pictures with her beloved trash TV in the background. What Mama discovered was, tragically, that the DVR was full.

And not full of the trashy TV Mama likes, either.

IT WAS CHOCK-FULL OF THE SHARK WEEK.

Rest assured that the scream heard 'round the world at approximately ten thirty a.m. last Wednesday was me. And while I am proud as punch of your quest for knowledge, I must question the need for all 900 hours of shark-related television programming. Surely four or five hours would have sufficed?

Know this, sweet boy, should you ever entertain the idea of deleting ANY of Mama's shows from the DVR again, you will most certainly not make it to your next birthday.

And since I know how fond you are of birthdays in general, I suggest not touching the Mama's DVR.

All my love,

Mama

P.S. Please also remember to wear the deodorant. I hear sharks are attracted to B.O.

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.

Back from the dead, baby

Oh, the fun we have been having around here.

And out west, as evidenced by one of the mere handful of photos I took on our two-week vacation to the Beehive State. It's shameful, I know. But sometimes you just gotta take a break from documenting life to live it. We did a bike tour in Moab. It was hands-down, one of the funnest things we've ever done. (Unless your name is Hannah. Then it's one of the worst. Girlfriend was terrified and exhausted the entire time.)

All in all, this has been a surprisingly fantastic summer. Giving myself permission to unplug was one of the best things I could have done for myself. My focus every day was on the three little people that walk around here calling me Mama. There were late night movies in my big bed. Hours logged at the pool with friends. Chocolate chip cookie dough. Lazy mornings. Ice-cold popsicles. Visits from favorite cousins. Photo shoots. It's been glorious.

But it's time to reconnect and start blogging again. I've really missed it.

Also? School starts in three days. And I am in serious mourning.

But exciting things are happening around here that I can't wait to show you.

Give me a day or two, will you?

I'm coming back, baby.

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.

The power of prayer

Image via

This week, some friends and I threw a bridal shower for the daughter of another friend. Monday night, we got together at my house to make the party favors.

We laughed, we talked, we got it done.

The next morning, I received a call from one of my friends asking if she had left her rings behind. I hadn't noticed them, but searched the kitchen and living rooms to no avail. A few hours went by, a few more frantic calls, and I searched again.

What she was missing was her gorgeous diamond wedding ring (in and of itself a hugely valuable treasure), and a diamond ring that had been her grandmother's. One, mind you, that she had just been given at her mother's death a few weeks before.

I was sick. She was sick. I gladly went through disgusting trash bags and looked in every nook and cranny I could think of. Still no rings.

All day yesterday, I worried and fretted about them. I was devastated at the possibility that these beautiful treasures would be lost. The monetary value alone was enough to make one weep, but the sentimental value was irreplaceable.

And last night as I slept, I had a dream. In this dream, something came to my mind and I knew exactly where the rings were. I sat bolt upright in bed and instantly knew that she had slipped them off while we were working and put them in the pocket of the apron she had been wearing.

Baffled, I laid back down and went to sleep. After all, there were no pockets on that apron that I knew of. I figured my mind was reaching for any solution to this problem.

But when I woke up this morning, I felt compelled to at least check. I rifled through the laundry basket in the mud room where I had tossed our dirty aprons Monday night.

And lo and behold, tucked safely in the pocket of the apron, were the rings.

I immediately called my friend and felt her relief and joy reach out through the phone. She had spent the last few days tearing her own house apart, searching her yard, retracing every step. Heartsick, she prayed fervently to find them. She hoped that her sweet mother would whisper from heaven and help lead her to the rings.

I truly believe that her prayers came true.

I am in awe at the turn of events. It was not simply a matter of our continued searching that led us to the rings. It was not even dumb luck. I was told specifically in a dream where to find the rings, and they were in a place I didn't even know existed.

It was a tender mercy from our Heavenly Father, I have no doubt about that.

It reinforces to me that our prayers, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, are heard and answered.

And I just wanted to share this story in the event that you, like me, sometimes need a reminder of that.

Note to self

Dear Self:

Next year, on the Fourth of July, when you get giddy and excited about taking pictures of the fireworks, remember this: NO ONE NEEDS 387 PHOTOS OF FIREWORKS.

[Especially someone who already has four times that number of fireworks photos taking up space on the server from the last few years anyway.]

Oh well. They still look wicked awesome though, don't they?

And for your 387 fireworks photos next year:
ISO 100
f/10
2 second exposure on the bulb setting

Realizing fully how annoying this post will be to everyone but me

I am desperately trying to get caught up around here. Step one in that process has been uploading the nine million photos I took on our little trip to the west coast. Step two (which seems to take hours) is editing, narrowing down, and posting them here for your my viewing pleasure.

The Husband works for a consulting firm which has a family retreat every year. Though I joke with him that it is ofttimes like The Firm, it truly is a great place to work. The family conferences are held in a different city each year, and the amenities are always ridiculously lavish. This year, the San Diego conference was no different.

Internet, feel very sorry for me.

We stayed in a two-bedroom, two-bath suite that quite literally was on the beach. I fell asleep every night to the sound of the waves lapping up on the sand. I sat on a beach chair every day and watched my babies exhaust themselves with sunshine, laughter, and togetherness.

It was heaven.

And for the sake of grandparents and posterity, I leave you with a few photos of our time there. Keep in mind, that I could have taken these same photos every single day, as our life was on a recurring loop of wake up, play at the beach, fall asleep, repeat.

With maybe a few meals and a sea kayak expedition thrown in between for good measure.

It pained my heart more than a little bit to board the plane and return home to my beach-less existence here in Missouri.

It seems totally unfair to get a taste of paradise, only to have to leave it again.

Probably almost as unfair as, say, posting obnoxiously about your beach vacation to the internet?

(Touche, Stie. Touche.)

The one where I return and report

Hi all.

Didn't mean to drop a bomb like that on you and then disappear for over a week. Sorry 'bout that.

The Dan update is this: Surgery went well, though it was hours and hours of an agonizing wait. Took way longer than it was supposed to.

They were able to remove the entire tumor without removing his kidney, but it did turn out to be cancer. He is doing great and will see the doctor next week to find out more. We are not sure what the next steps will be (if any). We are furiously hoping that the tumor removal is the end of this saga for him (with the exception of those body scans and blood tests he'll probably have to endure every six months or so). Fingers crossed that there will be no chemo or radiation.

Thanks a million for your thoughts and prayers. Daniel has no idea how many strangers out there were pulling for him. You peeps rock.

Me? I returned last night in the wee hours from a gorgeous, ridiculously lavish vacation with the family. My laptop died on the plane ride out (literally. Won't turn on. Any ideas, anyone?), and as soon as I am finished washing the sand from our laundry, I will upload the millions of photos I took and make you feel extremely jealous of how I spent the last six days.

Plus? I've got my favorite person ever coming to visit this weekend, and I can hardly wait.

Now I KNOW I've made you jealous.

Be back soon. Promise.

I love him anyway

Hi internet. How are you?

I am still here, and have missed you thoroughly. I have been busy with some of my favorite house guests, father's day and the Husband's birthday (all in one week), summer, gearing up for a vacation, and eight photo shoots in two weeks.

I'm exhausted.

But that is not what I am here to share today.

I am breaking radio silence to thoroughly embarrass and humiliate my brother Dan.

Dan is known by many of you here as the commenter who speaks his mind in a hilarious, if not slightly insulting, way. I can always count on him for a dose of reality and a good laugh. Usually at my own expense.

But what you don't know about him is that he is a father to four beautiful children and husband to a gorgeous, thoughtful wife. He is the dad who gets on the floor and plays trains with his boys. He has attended more of his daughter's tea parties than most men would have the patience for. He changes diapers and does the dishes.

He always has my favorite snacks and drinks on hand whenever I come to town - even though no one in his house ever consumes either. On those visits, he stays up until the wee hours of the morning, listening to me, making me laugh, and sharing stories of his own, then cheerfully gets up for work with only a few hours of sleep.

Sometimes he even calls me on his way home from work for a quick chat. Just because. And I love him dearly for it.

He is one of my best friends.

And right now, he is the one in need of some extra help.

A few weeks ago, doctors discovered a tumor on his kidney that is most likely cancer. He's going under the knife tomorrow to get it removed. I absolutely believe in the power of prayer, and I am asking you, dear friends, to add him to yours.

The risk is great that he could lose the kidney entirely.

I gladly offered to donate one of mine, but he doesn't think it'll come to that. I was slightly disappointed because I imagined the lifelong joy I would derive at the thought of one of my organs socializing and infecting the rest of his with my cooties. When I said that to him, he quickly put me way down on the list of donors. Right after the water-logged carcass of Osama bin Laden, I'm sure. Darn.

Anyway, if you think of it, your prayers on his behalf would be greatly appreciated. The power of a collective voice to our Heavenly Father is one that can work miracles. And that's just what we're in need of.

Though I know this post will annoy him to no end, I think that makes it all the more worthwhile, don't you?

Love ya, brother. Get better quick so I can come out there and kick your trash.

The one in which I have failed to train him properly for his future wife

The other night, I was in my bathroom washing the make-up off my face. McKay came in and a conversation ensued that went a little something like this:

McKay: "What are you doing?"

Me: "Washing my make-up off."

McKay: "Do you even wear make-up?"

Me: "Um, yeah. I wear a lot."

McKay: "I don't like it when girls wear a lot of make-up. You should just be natural. It would look better. Don't wear it anymore."

I finished washing and showed him the horror that is me au naturale. He wrinkled up his nose, made a face, and said:

"Um, never mind. I think you should wear some. Maybe even a lot."

Making it count

"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life,
To put to rout all that was not life
and not when I had come to die
Discover that I had not lived."

~Henry David Thoreau

We are doing our best around here to suck all the marrow out of life.

I look at my three babies, one of whom is only a year away from high school, and my chest tightens into a ball of emotion. I feel compelled this year to make every moment count. To not waste one minute of this summer, this life. The life that seems to be slipping through my fingers like soft, white sand.

I find myself letting things go that would normally be screaming for - and receiving - my full attention. My conscience won't allow me to keep them in for something so trivial as organizing the closets. The house, for the most part, is sitting untouched - dishes are loaded and floors are swept - and that is about it. We have been soaking up the sunshine, swimming through muddy creek beds, racing together down the big slides at the pool, and laughing about all of it over melting ice cream cones.

The poem that I have often rolled my eyes at is running through my head on repeat because it's true -- babies don't keep. And cobwebs do indeed sleep.

Or at the very least wait for another day.

I feel like this summer should be the one that they remember because they played so hard, laughed so much, and smiled until it hurt. I want them to drop into bed exhausted every night, their freckled noses crinkling with silly giggles. Eyelids heavy, hearts full.

This summer will be the one we played together every day.

So, dear friends, you will understand if I suspend some of the regularly scheduled blogging around here for the summer. Posting will be spotty, but there when I can. Rest assured, come August, I will return with stories and How-To's galore.

But for now, I am not going to miss this summer. I am not going to miss them. They are growing before my very eyes and I am afraid that in a blink it will all be over.

I am going to suck the marrow out of this gloriously wonderful life I've been given.

After all, we only get one.

Here's to making it count.

The one where we brag for the grandparents

In 2004, I ran my first (and last) marathon.

I trained for months, read Runners World faithfully, and talked about running ad nauseam to anyone who would pretend to listen.

I pretended thought I knew a lot about running.

Fast forward to four years ago when we moved here and I met my friend Mindy. While humble and quiet about it, she knows all there is to know about the sport of running. She has trained elite athletes and coaches. She has run umpteen marathons. Her personal record for the mile? Has a very, very small number in front of it. She'd never tell you that herself, but girlfriend is hard core.

Chase has discovered this past year that he is a runner. He loves it and has been putting the miles on his shoes. He went from running the mile at school a year ago in 12 minutes to running it in 6:56 this year. He's thrilled and continues to push himself.

So when Mindy told us about a kids track club, we were all over it. And last night, they had their very first meet. It was a mile run, and nerves were running rampant.

And that was just the moms.

Here is Chase in the pack as they cross the starting line:



It was not long before we saw Mindy's son Nick leading the pack. Setting a new personal best and winning the kids event, here is Nick crossing the finish line:



Yes. That is a FIVE-TWENTY-NINE for his time.

I am not sure I can walk into the grocery store from the parking lot in 5:29. The kid has lightening for feet.

While we are awaiting chip time results officially, we believe Chase broke his personal best for a finish time of 6:55 (or faster. Hurry up. Post the results, will you?)

And, yes, he finished with that Chasey flair we have come to expect:



Not long after that came Nick's eight-year-old sister, Olivia. Me thinks this little one will be taking after her mama, too. I am not sure I could do a sub-eight-minute mile.

Unless I had a bike. Even then, that might be pushing it.



All three of our little runners, smiles and happiness to be done:



It was a really fun event. Especially exciting was watching the elite men run a mile in, oh, I don't know, THREE-MINUTES-FIFTY-SIX-SECONDS.

Seriously.

I bow at the throne of running.

Uh, oops

The holiday on Monday kind of messed me up.

I walked around all day yesterday thinking it was Monday.

My obliviousness continued as I was sitting poolside with the kids, sunning, and congratulating myself on having such a fine, carefree life.

At about three-thirty, I glanced at the calendar on my phone and realized my mistake. A mere half hour before Hannah had a mandatory rehearsal for her dance recital. And an hour before Chase had track practice. And an hour and a half before McKay had baseball.

Needless to say, there was a little bit of cursing.

And a lot of scrambling.

Thankfully, we made it to all three, in large part due to some awesome friends who had left messages offering to carpool. Mindy and Beckie, I owe you one. You girls are the best, and you totally saved my hide.

It was a crazy few hours yesterday.

And so I offer my apologies to you How-To Tuesday devotees. Those of you who put your posts up, patiently waiting for me, the blog host who never showed up to her own party.

I'll try to get my act together a little better next time.

Share with us your wisdom anyway, won't you?

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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.

Shamelessly promoting myself

Just a quick note:

Go take a peek at the fun things happening here.

I must tell you though: You may want more babies once you get there.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

As you were.

How-To Tuesday: How to clean your microwave

image via

Today's post comes to you courtesy of my children and their inability to cover things when heating them up in the microwave.

You know that popping sound you hear when heating up leftover pizza? It seriously sends terror and chills down my spine.

Sort of like that scene in Sleeping With the Enemy when Julia Roberts' character hears the Symphonie Fantastique and just knows that she has been found by her brute of a husband and is about to be killed.

Yeah. Cheese exploding in the microwave does the same thing to me.

And since I figured out a solution that was better than death to the children, I will share it with you here. So that your children may also live to see another day.

Step one: Microwave some water in a cup for 3-4 minutes. More if your microwave is like mine especially disgusting.

Step two: Let it sit without opening the microwave door for 2-3 minutes. Choosing to spend this time lecturing your children on the importance of paper towels over plates they heat up might be a good idea.

Step three: Open the microwave, and wipe it down. You'll find the melted food comes right off.

Step four: Lecture the children one more time in the vain hope that this time it will sink in. Then find a strange desire to re-watch Sleeping With the Enemy.

Your turn. What you got this week?

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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.

Poison ivy is the devil incarnate [Updated]

Right now, both of my boys have a wicked case of poison ivy.

Funny how army crawling on your belly through the backyard woods will do that to a person.

A trip to the doctor resulted in prednisone and some steroid cream, though tragically not the kind of steroids they were hoping and dreaming of.

Chase is a few weeks ahead of McKay in the healing process, and finally seems to be clearing up. McKay, tragically, is not there yet. The worst of it is on his face and neck. It's hideous and all I can do to keep his scratchy fingers away from it. I keep saying words to him like permanent disfigurement and scars, but sadly, to no avail. The boy likes himself the scratching.

But that is not the problem I'm whining writing about here today.

The problem, my friends, is the prednisone. And its disgusting, nasty, two-seconds-on-the-tongue-feel-like-twenty-to-my-boy-with-the-ridiculously-sensitive-gag-reflex. The first time McKay took the pills, he threw them back up before he'd even swallowed.

And let me tell you what a treat that was.

Especially the part where he walked the LONG way around the kitchen island, barfing into his hands as he went, to finally find his way into the bathroom and finish up there. (Jessica, we need that training video, stat!)

Seriously.

But I digress. My question for you wise internets is this: Is there a way to get those suckers down his gullet without him gagging and puking every time? Any tricks you've tried that helped your sensitive gag reflex kids?

Because yelling at him to not throw up just isn't working.

Please help.

I am well past the stage as a parent where I can nicely clean up after him in a case like this.

Also? In related news, my mother of the year banquet is tonight. I'm really excited.

[[**Edited to add: He normally has NO trouble taking pills. Takes his allergy medicine every night without any problems. I think the prednisone has a terrible taste that just simply makes him gag the minute it hits his tongue. Any helps on that end, oh wise internet?

Just wanted to clarify that my 13-year-old is very capable of taking pills.

As you were.]]

How-To Tuesday: How to save your hair from utter destruction

My hair dresser has been telling - nay - begging me for years to stop washing my hair every day. The very idea of that grossed me out beyond belief and I always smiled, promised, and left the salon with no intention of changing my ways.

My newest stylist finally got through to me. Her persuasion was much more effective with the idea of a dry shampoo. One that would help remove dirt, sweat, and oil, making my hair actually feel clean, even when it wasn't. Just think -- not washing your hair every day saves you at least 182 blow dries, flat irons, and wear and tear per year. (How sad is it that I had to get a calculator for that number? Math be not my strong suit. English either, from the looks of that last sentence.)

ANYway. Here's what you do: First, get this product. It is not cheap, but well worth the price. (And goes a lot further if your boys don't mistaken it for hairspray and slather it all over their mohawks. Bad boys.)

Second, pull all your hair up and out of the way. Take a picture of your unmade-up face and quickly put it on the internet before you change your mind.

Next, shower as usual, washing all your body parts with the exception of your hair. Keep that dry and unwashed.

Then, get dressed (properly. Not like this.) and let your hair down. Lean over and spray dry shampoo at the roots all over. Run your fingers through your hair to work the product in.

Lastly, style as desired. Voila! Non-greasy, non-grimy, clean feeling, soft hair without the damage of a blow dryer, flat iron, and shampoo.

I am telling you, I was a very big skeptic on this concept. But really? My hair actually looks cuter on days that I don't wash it. What they have been saying to us for years is true. Don't do it every day. Save your hair. I have noticed a huge difference with less damage and breakage. It really works, and with a good dry shampoo, you will never notice the difference.

Your turn. Teach me.

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Five years running

It is that time of year, my friends.

The time of year where we pull out the shorts, wash the swim towels, and prepare to spend a fortune in keeping the pantry stocked.

It is also the time of year when we celebrate the impending summer with a little trip to the barber's chair.

As you can see, this handsome shag dog was beyond ready for a trim:

As was his brother, Justin Bieber McKay, whose hair was getting so big that his father threatened to trim it for him daily.

It is time to once again embrace the mohawks. Five years running now.

Yeah, baby.

I love it.

And, apparently, so does half the girls in the eighth grade. It has put our boy smack dab in the middle of a whole lot of female attention, and he has proclaimed the mohawk to be his new haircut of choice.

Here's to summer and her long absence from our lives.

[If only the weather would look at the calendar and catch up already. Sheesh.]