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Well, hello there.

I only have a few minutes to slap a few photos up here, but I cannot let another day pass by before doing so.

We just returned from a ridiculously lovely European vacation.

We visited four countries - Switzerland, Germany, Austria, and England. It was as heavenly as you might imagine it to be.

Made more so because we had the good fortune to go with these people:

We came home jet lagged, exhausted, well-fed, and happy. It's been a bit of a mad dash this week because we had house guests coming, a wedding to attend, two photo shoots for me, and the kids start school on Tuesday.

Eek.

Lots more coming, I promise.

One for the grandparents

For the past several months, Chase and Hannah have been running their little hearts out. They have participated in a local kids'  track club, as well as, supplemented with weekly personal coaching from a pro.  Day by day, they have slowly been scraping time from their mile run.

The biggest event of the year for their track club is the Festival of Miles (which they ran in last year, too).  It's a charity event which features a mile run for the kids, and a variety of races that elite athletes come from all over the world to compete in.  It's an absolute blast.  My favorite event of the night is the elite men's mile run that is finished in less than four minutes.  It's surreal to watch.  These finely-tuned athletes are machines.

With pressure from Chase, McKay even decided to enter the race (though he had trained not at all and was hardly looking forward to it).

The day of the big race found Chase running a fever and sick in bed.  It was tragic.

But with the other two registered and committed, we were still in.

McKay ran the mile that night in 6:35, which is pretty darn impressive considering he had not trained much at all. Hannah finished in 7:59, which was a new PR for her.

Chase laid in bed at home with a broken heart.

So, to make it up to him, we decided to host our own mile-run at the high school track.

Mindy, our fabulously expert private track coach, set each kid up with time goals for every loop around the track.  Chase was aiming for a time of 6:28, well below his PR of 6:55.

And they were off!  Mindy ran it with them to help keep them motivated.

I did my motivating from a bench at the finish line.   You know, because I didn't want to intimidate the children with my speed and all.

Yeah, that's it.

Oh shut up.

And here is Chase, crossing the finish line in SIX-TWENTY!!  A whole eight seconds faster than his goal, and a new PR for him, as well.  Props to Nick for playing Rabbit and helping keep the pace.

Hannah was a trooper, too.  She finished strong at 7:50.  Four seconds faster than her own PR.

And the entire crew after the race:

It has been so great to see the kids work on something, learn discipline, and see results for their efforts.  This mama tiger is hugely proud.

You know.  From the finish line.  With her donut and diet coke in hand.  Go team!

What I've been up to

I write this post carefully with fingers that ache to the core.  Sitting on my rear end, I feel the tugs and pulls of muscles that hurt in all directions.  I hold my head up with a stiff neck that feels permanently kinked.

I also write it with paint covering every last inch of my skin.

I have spent the last two days holed up in what feels like a dungeon.  Painting, priming, and then priming some more.

I am anticipating finishing today's tasks in a mere eight hours, as opposed to the 12-13 hours I have been putting in every day this week.

I'm slightly giddy with excitement at the possibility of finishing soon.

And by soon, I do mean in three more back-breaking, brutal days.

I have cursed mentally (and out loudedly) at the foolish notion that I could do this.  That I, a single, solitary person, could paint and prime an entire brand-new 1,500 square-foot basement all by myself.

Yesterday morning, in a puddle of tears, I called in the cavalry and begged the help of my friends' teenage daughters with the promise of cash.

They came and I cried a puddle of grateful tears.

My friend Mindy joined me for several hours, as well.  For which I can never repay her enough.

What I have learned is this:

• Don't be afraid to ask for help.  Most especially when you offer to pay said help.  The masses will come and your load will feel more manageable.
• Painting all day definitely makes it easy to stay out of the kitchen, resulting in a 3 pound weight loss over a two-day period.  Painful, but I'll take it.
• The Husband's sincere and heartfelt awe over your mad hard working skills will make it slightly less easy to hate him while he's traveling and dining at fine restaurants.
• Clarifying shampoo does not still remove all the paint from your hair.
• Primer is of the devil.

If I don't make it out alive, make sure my funeral is held in that blasted basement and that a good portion of the service is devoted to staring with gratitude and reverence at the ceiling.  I painted that bad boy all by myself.

The sin of gluttony is a bad one

Last night, we got a rare treat with the Husband actually being in town.  We were sitting in the back yard together, relaxing, catching up, and more than a few of us were craving something sweet.

The Husband said he had an idea for a fabulous dessert and ordered all of us in the car.

He refused to tell anyone where we were going, even me, and the suspense in the car was palpable.  We threw out possible guesses and named several ice cream parlors, bakeries, and restaurants along the way.

With each passing mile, our mouths just salivated.  I expected at any moment for us to pull up to a new, untried place, and was giddy with excitement.

Not to mention, by this time, extremely hungry.

Imagine my horror surprise when we pull into the parking lot of Burger King.

I half expected him to yell "Gotcha!" as we pulled back out again and headed to our real destination.

Sadly, that WAS our destination.

Shock turned to annoyance as I said, "Burger King?  What. the. eff?"

Annoyance turned to disgust when he told me what he wanted to order from there.

Internet, I give you the worst dessert in the history of mankind:

image via

On principle alone, I refused to try it. Even when the gluttonous sounds of pleasure emanated all around me, I did not give in.  There are just some things that should not meet.  Some worlds that should never collide.  I might eat my weight in cookie dough, but I certainly never do it with cured salty meat in the batter.

I do have some class.

And I will never know what possessed the people at BK headquarters to combine ice cream and bacon.

Probably the same mental illness that possessed my Husband to drive 20 minutes to buy it.

Celebrating the important holidays

 

Yesterday was a big day.

In case you didn't know, it marked its 68th year.

Around here, this holiday is probably second only to Christmas for one of my children.

Still clueless?

Then you must be new around here.

You see, every year, on June 6th, we celebrate the allied invasion at Normandy during World War II. Otherwise known as D-Day. Or Operation Neptune. Or Operation Overlord.

I know all these things, you see, because he tells me.  Every year.

Whatever you call the day, it's a big deal in the heart of my boy.

First thing out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, his face is in mine, as he wishes me a Happy D-Day. He then proceeds to follow me around the house, sharing time lines and details from that morning long ago. He doesn't just find it interesting; he breathes it in his soul. His passion spills over to the rest of us, and we can't help but get caught up in it, too.

(Though, for his brother and sister, I suspect a lot of the enthusiasm comes from the annual cake that Chase makes to celebrate.)

This year, it was a tank, made up and created entirely by Chase.



So, fallen brothers at Normandy, let your souls be at peace. All the way across the pond, in a little suburb of St. Louis, a 12-year-old boy remembers your sacrifice.

And makes sure that none of us forget it either.



I think it's pretty freaking awesome.

The Va-Jay-Jay Cheerleader

Note to any men, male relatives, or easily offended readers of this blog:  The following paragraphs will contain references to lady bits, va-jay-jay's, and other mysteries of the deep.  Please feel free to hunt off elsewhere for something to read.

For the remaining eight readers, let's discuss OB/GYNs.

I have been going to my current one for about four years.  Originally, I had seen someone else, but she no longer became an option on my insurance, and her practice offered up my current physician as a replacement.

After baring my lady bits to the world not once, not twice, but THREE times with the birth of my children, I stopped really caring too much about who takes a peek at my hoo-ha.  All I really need out of a GYN is a cervix swab and the daily prescription that keeps me from single-handedly maintaining the profits at Tampax, so honestly, one pair of hands is just like the other.

I should say, one speculum is just like any other.

Cue my introduction to the current lady bits inspector.

The first time I met her, I waited for the real doctor to come in and wondered if she was a high school student interning for the day with the nurses.

I'm not kidding.  She seriously looks like she is 15.  She is perky, chipper, and annoyingly adorable.  She could easily pass for a high school cheerleader, and at any moment, I half expected her to lead the room in a cheer for my excellent va-jay-jay.

But instead, she hiked up her shirt sleeves, slapped on the rubber gloves, and went deep into female territory.

Through the always-pleasant cervix swabbing conversation, I learned that she was only a year into her practice.

By my calculations, that would make her roughly the same age as my children.

Okay.  Maybe I exaggerate.

But only slightly.

It is a little disconcerting to start being older than the doctors that are taking care of you.  You expect wisdom to come with age, and assume that you automatically know more than everybody else who is younger.

You don't feel any older, yet almost overnight you become a woman with grey hair, wrinkles, and cobwebs on your uterus - all while kids that were born while you were in middle school suddenly are licensed physicians patting your hand and mumbling, There, there.

It's the stupid circle of life.

And next week, when I'm sitting in the stirrups, clapping along to the chants of, "Go!  Vagina, Go!" I will take comfort with this one thought:  I might be getting old, but the only hoo-ha I spend any time with on a daily basis is my own.

I can't say the same for the va-jay-jay cheerleader.

You could set your watch by it

It's not the warm, muggy weather that is starting to creep in and make you sweat all over.

It's not the lack of homework or plethora of school functions four out of the five nights per week.

It's not even the sudden urge to stop eating and drop 40 pounds because OH MY GOSH it's time to get into a swimsuit.

Though that is a serious problem.

How do you know that summer is almost here? These fabulous hair cuts, that's how.

Six years running, people.  That is a lot of hair history.

I give you the Mohawk Brothers of 2012.

Before:

And after:

I was hoping to find an explanation for behavior like this, but sadly, I don't think we can blame it on the mohawks.  I think we can blame it on the fact that they are boys.

And boys will always be boys.

Welcome back, summer. It's good to see you, old friend.

A post! Don't die of shock

You wouldn't know it because I haven't posted since Adam and Eve were disciplining that little rascal Cain, but there is actually a lot of stuff that has happened around here recently, most of which is blog worthy.

I know!  Try to contain the excitement.

Tragically, I have had no internet all week to share any of it with you.

Or a home phone line with which to call and whine to you about.

(Provided, naturally, that you're one of the three people in my life who I'm actually willing to talk on the phone with in the first place.

A phone girl, I am not.  Give me email or give me death.)

But stay tuned.  There are things coming your way.  I succeeded in functioning as my own I.T. guy and the technology in my home is back up and running.

(No thanks to you, AT&T.)

Hooray for a belated return to blogging!  And thoroughly embarrassing my kids with tales from their real life!  And narcissistic posts all about ME that are sure to annoy my brother!

I. really. can't. wait.

DIY Bulletin Board

Want to learn how to make this cute bulletin board in just a few easy steps, one which does not require a can of spray paint and costs less than $20?

Step one: Buy a really ugly large print on clearance at Michael's or some other craft mecca. This one is 24x36. Large. And freakishly ugly. Unless black and white abstract leaves are your thing. In that case, never mind. You go back to enjoying your colorless, boring life full of leaves. And I'll try to stop judging you.

Step two: Remove the offensive, abstract leaf artwork, the accompanying mat, and, ever so carefully, the glass. Discard all of these items.

Step three: Insert 12x12 squares of cork board, also purchased at craft mecca. My print was a multiple of 12, so my squares fit evenly without having to cut any of the cork squares. If your frame is odd sized, just cut the cork to fit.

Step four: Using the double-sided tape tabs that come with the cork, secure all of the cork pieces to each other on the edge.

Step five: Using the thick backing that came with the print, flip over the newly joined cork squares. Lay fabric of your choice on a flat surface, and flip cork and backing over the top, with the cork facing down.

Step six: Pull tightly and staple edges of fabric to thick backing. I used a regular stapler because I'm lazy klassy like that. You could use a more advanced stapler, but mine worked just fine.

Step seven: Cut off excess fabric, and put inside your frame.

Step eight: Hang the bulletin board on your daughter's wall, and feel like an extreme crafter. Refuse to succumb to your husband's taunts about your lack of proper staple usage. Know deep down that your improper usage is what makes you awesome and distinguishes you from other DIYers and their fancy equipment.

Step nine: Stand back to admire your handiwork. Reward yourself with some chocolate and a diet coke.

Any questions?

How long until spring break next year?

In an effort to not get a year behind on the life documentation that was once this blog, I cannot let a post about spring break go unwritten. (Feel free to click off and hunt for p0rn or up-to-the-minute Kardashian news if you are not a grandparent or one of the people with us on this trip.)

We were invited by some friends to come share a beach house with another family in Florida.

Ten kids.
Three moms.
No dads.
A week on the beach.

What could have been a recipe for mayhem was a recipe for success. We had SO. MUCH. FUN.

So much so, that midweek, I realized with horror that it wasn't actually summer, and that we'd have to return to a rainy, wet, Midwest and resume getting up early in the morning for school.

It was a depressing 45 seconds.

Then, I gave myself over to the gloriousness that was our time there and sucked the marrow from life.

As you should during a week-long beach vacay.

Chase begged to bring his newly-received raft, and I gave in with reservations. I worried that it would take up too much room and not get used by anyone.

Oh, I was sorely mistaken. I think the raft was probably the most-used item, second only to the showers. They played in it every day. At the beach. In the pool. Everywhere. And, clearly, all at once.

Also a hot commodity were the many iPads. Will my children ever appreciate the gadgets that are such a big part of their world? Will they ever understand how I survived a childhood without them?

And with the hours of silent entertainment they bring, do I really want them to?

I'm going with a resounding no.

Mindy wins the award for best sport. When she reached down to get something out of the pool, my evil instincts kicked in and before I could stop myself, I gave her tiny backside a push. She fell in head first, clothes and all, and came up laughing. I waited tentatively all week for her revenge, but she never once retaliated. THAT, peeps, is a good friend to have around.

Also exciting was sharing the city with several intoxicated college students, who were also on spring break. Notice the handsome fellow bravely wearing a bright yellow speedo in the background? TOTALLY Mindy's team. Given to her generously by Beckie and I. Because we're just kind like that.

Also awesome was the up close and personal lesson my children received on the down sides of alcohol. Watching a group of (I'll call them) kids beer bonging on the beach at 11 a.m. left a pretty bitter taste in the mouths of us un-drunk beach goers. Thank you, spring breakers, for showing my kids firsthand what I want them to avoid.

All in all, it was a dream week. Even puncutated by the usual trip to urgent care for our family, it was a vacation to remember. One I'm anxious to go back to right now.

Finding the mojo

Oh, little blog. Will you ever be a regular part of my routine again?

I feel as though you are on life support, and I can't quite bring myself to pull the plug. You are quietly dying, neglected in your corner of my busy life. I love you and think of our great times together, and wish to be back in that place again. The place where I came to you and wrote often. Poured out my feelings and documented the everyday wonderfulness of our lives.

Yet I wonder lately if it would be easier without you weighing on the back of my mind, nudging me to pay attention to you, guilting the part of me that wants to see you thriving and well again.

Sigh.

What to do?

I feel as though most of the blogs I started with are gone. The fabulous circle of internet friends who made this world so fun has dwindled to the remaining few who bravely keep on posting. I want to be one of you. Really, I do. I just lack the motivation and the mojo. I feel as though I am out of ideas. That I have written on every topic humanly possible, and then some.

But then? Something will happen and a little drawer in my mind opens up and files away an idea. I think to myself, Yes! I could write a post about this. And then the phone rings, or the emails come in, and all of a sudden a month has passed without a post.

I hate that.

I miss the writing most of all. The cathartic clearing of my head. The joy of sitting down, fingers to keyboard, ideas giving way to words. The trembling fear of pushing publish on a heartfelt or emotional post, that ultimately led to peace and serenity in my soul. The giggling and secret joy, as I got my own jokes, and found myself far more humorous than anyone else ever could.

I need that. I need this.

I need a journaling outlet. I need a way to look back and remember how fantastic this life of mine is. It's going by at an ever increasing pace and I know I'll regret not jotting it down. Not remembering just how beautiful and awful and annoying and joyful it all really is. I am on the cusp of a whole new phase of life with my darlings, and I don't want to forget a moment of it. I want to remember the smells, the sounds, the glances, and the little touches.

I want to remember it all.

I'm going to get back. Though the frequency will likely be inconsistent at best, I refuse to give up the ghost just yet.

I have faith in you, little blog.

Hang in there.

Dear Husband...

While you were out this week, you missed a lot of exciting things.

First, we joined a gym! I know you will be totally thrilled about it. I am sort of sure I mentioned it on the phone, but sometimes you are busy not listening to my chatter working and miss things. Things I KNOW I told you about. And never accidentally forgot to mention or anything. Ahem.

You see, Chase had to complete a swim test for scouts and, seeing as how he missed doing it at scout camp last year due to a family vacation, the local community gym was our best option.

Once inside their beautiful facility, I looked around me and it was as if the heavens opened and a vision was granted to my eyes. I saw all kinds of greatness. I saw myself working out there like three times a day. Which would, of course, cure me of my cookie addiction, and bring on truckloads of weight loss, thus enabling me to achieve my lifelong goal of being mistaken for a young Grace Kelly. Everywhere I go for the rest of my life.

I also saw our children, racing on their bikes after school and swimming a few laps, thus enabling them to release pent-up energy and complete homework with joy and excitement.

All of this will be occurring while puppies, rainbows, and unicorns fly around us, naturally.

It's going to be great.

Once we, uh, you know, start working out there.

This week also introduced an old friend to our lives: The 4th Grade Recorder. I was hoping to have Hannah save all her practicing for the weekend so you can enjoy it as much as me, but her eagerness has dashed that dream. She has been tooting away for what seems to be hours, but is, in reality, only about ten minutes. It's, well, awesome. And highly valuable to her education, I am sure.

Lastly, you missed the gourmet feast of Tortizzas (think pizza tortillas) brought to us by Chase as a required lab in the sixth grade home-ec class. While it might not become the newest trend in culinary sophistication, it was a meal NOT prepared by me or purchased as take out from anything ending in 'ickdonalds'. He was thrilled with his success, and has since made them every day as an after-school snack for himself. It's quite honestly a welcome reprieve from his creatively inspired "homemade chocolate milk" that was more sugar than milk, and left a mess on the counter, cupboards, ceiling and floor. Tortizzas only leave a mess on the counter. It's great.

Otherwise, things here are going rather well. We're holding our own and anxious for the weekend to arrive. The boys have big plans for you to take them to the movies, and I have big plans to sleep late, watch some Downton, and maybe eat a few Tortizzas.

Oh, and go to the gym.

See you soon, love.

Stie

P.S. This is me attempting to re-enter the blog world after an almost unprecedented four week absence with no excuse to offer you whatsoever. I offer my apologies and assurance that all is well in our neck of the woods. Busy, but good.

Fourteen

Dear McKay,

Well, my boy, you are now 14.

As I've thought about what I'd like to tell you in this birthday letter, I am drawn time and time again to the contrast between you and the person I was at 14. I was snarky, sarcastic, angry, and insecure. I took every opportunity to buck the rules laid upon me, and resented the grown up people in my life. I was rebellious and unhappy.

The greatest thrill of my life is that you are, in every single way, the complete opposite of what I was then. You are happy, kind, sweet, and confident. You love and adore the parentals in this house and look forward to time spent together as a family. You obey the rules religiously, and bring logical well-planned arguments for our consideration when you think rules should be altered. Quite honestly, we usually agree with your logic, and make changes accordingly.

Though we don't tell you often enough, we are proud as punch for the maturity you show in times like these. You make it nearly impossible to tell you no, kid.

And you leave me wondering what I ever did to deserve you.

Right now, you are obsessed with all things basketball. Almost every item on your birthday wish list was basketball related. You have a routine after school each day, and you follow it rain or shine. After guzzling a large glass of milk, you head out to the back yard and shoot some hoops. I think it helps you to clear your head and unwind before the chore of homework begins.

What brings a smile to my face is that most days I look out the window and see you with your brother or sister, offering pointers, and cheering them on from the sidelines, rather than shooing them away to focus on yourself.

It's not the game that matters. It's the people who play alongside you that count. A lesson, sweet boy, that we are all learning from you.

Mack, your heart is pure gold.

As you grow into a man, which I know is bound to happen whether I like it or not, I hope you will take this knowledge and lock it deep inside your heart: There is not a day goes by that I don't thank god for sending me you. You are truly a noble soul. Your sweetness of spirit is infectious and brings joy to all those around you. You are quick to laugh, especially at yourself, and so easy to love.

You make me smile each and every day.

Thank you for showing me just how fantastically wonderful teenage boys can be.

I love you, my little KcKay. And I always will.

Love, Mami

Big Mack

Last week, I registered my baby boy for high school.

It brought a great deal of anxiety to our home. There were tears and panic attacks. Late night worry and lots of stress.

And all of it mine.

It is a marvel to me, this child of mine. Where I am worry and uncertainty, he is all confidence and cool. His junior high experience was (thankfully) nothing like mine. He breezed through halls that are fraught with angst and cruelty, and has come away unscathed.

He has aced all of his honors classes and still finds time to shoot a few hoops with his friends in the back yard. He loves freely and laughs often.

He likes the girls, we are discovering, but not overtly so. He's a fierce competitor, but not a poor sport. He wants to be just like his father and he loves his brother more than anyone else in the world.

Quite frankly, he's got us all wrapped around his not-so-little-anymore pinkie finger.

And, in spite of my protests otherwise, he will turn fourteen in just three days.

The clock is ticking on our time with this one. Here's hoping it slows down long enough for me to enjoy it.