Some greeting cards just seem to slip through the cracks and can’t quite find a market.

This may be one of those.

Hallmark Card FAIL.

Eighteen years ago today, I awoke from a scarcity of sleep to a generously sunny May morning. Around me were friends that had come to usher me into a new life. Before me was a future I couldn’t have imagined. Outside the door that contained all of us sloppy, sleepy girls, the smell of pancakes pulled us into full awareness. It was Saturday, May 15, 1993. This was it. I was getting married.

At that time, I had no idea what Todd had been up to with a much less savory band of boys in our new duplex. Did they smoke cigars? Would the place look and smell like rancid sardines when we returned from a California honeymoon? Did they shave his legs the night before our wedding? I was already worried about things I couldn’t control. I was already trying to bridle a horse I didn’t even own.

The day went on like an old waxed over jar of honey. I was anxious for 7 p.m. and yet I had too much to cram into the creeping minutes. Things like a trip to Gayfers (I’d like to meet with the people who sat around a conference table and decided this was a good name for a department store) for help with the hair and make-up, last minute packing for a trip to San Francisco, snacking because I didn’t feel like eating, and tiny spurts of conversation with the man I wouldn’t see that day until I looked down a very long center aisle to see him waiting at the end of it. These conversations were hard to squeeze in, in a world without cell phones. I made a phone call from the Gayfers reception desk to our new home. I finally caught him home. It was a different world in 1993.

I remember being very concerned with the details of the day. Would I know what to do with my bouquet when it was time to hand it off? How would I turn in my dress to light the unity candle without getting twisted into an awkward wreckage of sequins and lace? Would I light my dress on fire, thus upstaging the entire event? Could I eat little smokies at the reception without smearing my lipstick? Who did I need to say goodbye to? So many details.

Since then, the details have faded and backslid into corny memories of 1993. The dress was donated to charity during my 2nd pregnancy after I attempted to take flight using only the puffy sleeves. When I determined it was not aerodynamic, there seemed no reason to further store it. Also, it was yellow. And ugly. The engagement ring was lost at the beach the summer of my final pregnancy, whenever that was. If you think I haven’t grieved over that one a time or two or 316, you can rethink. Gone are the details, the dress, and even the diamond. (Bless the man, he got me a new diamond this past Christmas! I love it.) Gone is the red, red lipstick that was applied by a stranger and almost made me cry that heralded my arrival like a flashing emergency signal. Here are the children, the blessings, and the vows that are stronger than they were that balmy day 18 years ago. Here still is the proof that we were indeed meant for each other and for the children God would someday carefully hand to us to raise. Here now is the much more mature understanding of what it all means and what it needs to look like. And here with beaming clarity is the realization of what I have and my dedication to treating it delicately.

I married Todd because he was smart, because he REALLY made me laugh, because he loved God, and because his family was everything I wanted. I couldn’t know what the choppy waters would feel like or when they’d come. I’ve been blessed to discover that Todd goes from good to amazing when faced with grim circumstances. These are things you can’t know when you are 22 and so stupid you think you are smart.

“I do” are very short words. My young sons can spell them and they think they know what they mean. I thought I knew too and I’m thankful for the mercy of 18 years. This has given me time to realize what those words don’t mean and how to re-file our family flight plan for the umpteenth time. And though my sharp-witted Todd has promised,yay even on his life, to never stand before humans again and renew our vows, or sing Devoted at a rehearsal dinner (what were we thinking?), or dress up like monkeys in sequins, there are a lot of things he has promised and he’s come through on them all.  Also, I still think I can talk him into a Hawaii vow renewal. Maybe for our 20…

One Todd + one Missy + eighteen years = an Andrew, a Brady, a Lucy, a Jenna, a Flipper, a Tiny, an Olive, and a Claire. At one time, it really mattered where I was going. Now all that seems to matter is the ones I’ve got going with me.

To be continued, on the North Shore of Oahu. In 2013. You’re all invited.

I don’t receive a lot of personal mail, either in my physical box or electronically. I would guess that most of us don’t, now that Canadian drug companies know how to spam us and we all get so many offers to become rich beyond our wildest dreams if only we’ll wire our account information to Mr. Navarro in Nigeria. Perhaps you do get 15 pithy, personal emails a day from all of your closest friends. If you do, please don’t tell me.

I hear from Groupon and Living Social a lot. Most of the time I delete their epistles without reading. I know right off that I’m not going to Belize this year or spending a day at a mud spa. I’ve got my own mud spa right here, where St. Augustine grass is supposed to be. But sometimes the subject line promises a bit of entertainment, even if it doesn’t promise a deal I plan to take. I’m not really sure why I opened the Living Social email today, because the subject was as dry as my great-great aunt’s split ends. Something about dental cleaning and whitening. Riveting. So I opened it. And here it is for your own personal growth. I’ve highlighted the things that made me wear my James Bond face.

A healthy, bright smile isn’t always as easy as brushing with top-notch toothpaste and slipping on whitening strips. Everyone needs a professional to give your mouth a proper cleaning. Get your grin in check with today’s deal from HaHa Sedation and Family Dentistry. For $99 (regularly $465) your teeth will be treated to a proper cleaning along with a whitening treatment that will put any of those over the counter gimmicks to shame. You will endure a dental exam, full X-rays, a healthy mouth cleaning, and a take-home Nitewhite whitening system. With a focus on implants and sedation, Dr. Ha will certainly be able to take care of all your future dental needs. After your visit with today’s deal, you’ll be saying “HaHa” all the way to the bank.

• HaHa Sedation and Family Dentistry. Is that for real? Or was he just tripping on Nitrous Oxide the night he printed his brochures?
• You’ll be saying HaHa all the way to the bank? Does anyone go to the bank after visiting the dentist? Again with the trippin’, Dr. Ha. That’s an expression you use when you are making money off of something. And while $99 is quite a savings from $465, it still isn’t a profit. And it still means going to a dentist called Dr. Ha. Would any of us actually go have work done at a place called HaHa Sedation? No. We would not. Ever. In fact, I don’t think I’d go to HaHa Sedation if it meant receiving a check for $99 as I left the building. I would go there if I could leave with a check for $465.
• I can be bought. Keep that in mind if you have money.  If you don’t have money, don’t contact me.
• Ha.
• Or should I say HaHa.
  

I have two things to share that will not change your life in any way.

I hate bathroom fans. You know, the white noise bathroom fans you turn on to disperse steam or an unpleasant aroma? Hate them. Hate.them.  I can’t explain it. I can’t trace it back to a traumatic childhood event involving bathrooms, fans, or white noise. But I hate this appliance and I turn them off any chance I get. Unfortunately, I am part of an extended network that is practically married to the bathroom fan. And no matter how many times I turn it off myself or announce to the world that I hate bathroom fans, the fan blades keep on turning.

Sigh.

When I rose from my slumber this morning, I found not one, but TWO bathroom fans running in this house. That’s ALL THE FANS WE HAVE. And they ran all night. What in the world? It was like acid poured directly into my ear drums at 6:30 this morning. That’s no way to wake up.

And since nobody in my house actually cares how much I loathe the bathroom fan, I have no other option but to blog about it. It doesn’t take away the pain. But it does give me hope that if the bathroom fan actually causes my untimely death, one of you might stand up and protest in my funeral. I’d like someone to stand up suddenly in a quite moment of reflection on my life and yell out with angry fervor, “IT WAS THE BATHROOM FAN THAT KILLED HER!”

Actually, no matter what kills me and when, I’d like to ensure this happens. Thanks.

They buy you hydrangea bushes and stackable storage and v-neck pink t-shirts. They draw your likeness on cards that they made just for you.

But the real gift is in the fact that when there is a hug to be given to only one person, it is given to you, the mother. When there is a problem to be solved by just one person, the little ones bring it to you, the mom. When there is a choice to be made, they choose you. When there is a secret to share, they share it with you. When there is a game to be played, they want to play it with you. It’s true that you also have to accept the other side of that coin. There are all of the horribly unacceptable things from my previous post. Things that ought not be discussed and certainly shouldn’t be blogged about. It is you holding the bowl under the chin, chiding the child for doing things even farm animals wouldn’t do, and cleaning the sheets in the middle of the night. But this is a price most mothers are willing to pay for the rewards that come alongside it.

Every day has moments that cause me to take a breath, consider who I am and what I’ve been given, and utter my thanks to the Father of Lights. Every day presents opportunities to savor parenthood and observe it for its gore and its glory. But this day is set aside for the public expression of all of that. It is a mom’s annual review from her company.  It is the day the world professes the thoughts that other days just remain in their heads.

Today was nice. Worship was warm and uplifting. Lunch was delicious in every way except for my unobstructed view of a man whose pants did not suffice, if you know what I mean.

I was thinking I might like some Botox, you know, to kind of buy back a few days from my early thirties or something.
I received, among other things, an iron (badly needed, I assure you).
But the real gift is not in any of this. It is in the milky white skin, the chipped toenail polish, the brown eyes that almost completely disappear during laughter, the sticky hand of the oldest child that reaches up in the middle of a department store and unexpectedly takes yours, and the note that is passed to you in the middle of a sermon that tells you you’re special. The real gift is fragmented into, but not diminished by,  every single moment of every single day…

And I think living in a shoe without the Botox is a small price to pay for all of that.
Happy Mother’s Day.

Ah, yes. Haven’t we all been singing along to Africa by Toto and caught ourselves singing, “There’s nothing that 100 men on Mars could ever do…I left my brains down in Africa…” You know you’ve done it. If you don’t know the song Africa by Toto, I want you to find a spatula and slap your own face. Hard. Be ashamed.

But in honor of Mother’s Day weekend, tonight we are keeping it light and keepin’ it real. Here are some of the butchered song lyrics you submitted to me on Facebook:

Oh Canada
Butchered: Oh Canada, We stand on cars and freeze.
Proper: Oh Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

Funky Town
Butchered: Taco Belly, Taco Belly, Taco Belly, Taco Belly
Proper: Talk about it, talk about it, talk about it, talk about it.

Hey Jude
Butchered: Hey Jew.
Correct: Duh. Really, Josh? He thought it was a song about Israelites and he was in Junior High at the time. That’s what happens when people don’t listen to the Beatles.

Place in this World
Butchered: My face in a swirl
Proper: My place in this world

867-5309
Butchered: 867 By the Real Nighty Night. (What? Huh?)
Proper: DUH.

Free Fallin’
Butchered: I’m three, three fourin’
Proper: I’m free, free fallin’

Who Will Follow Jesus
Butchered: Who will follow Jesus, who will bake a pie?
I am on the Lord’s Side, Master here’s your pie.
Proper: Who will follow Jesus, who will make reply?
I am on the Lord’s Side, Master here am I.

Sowing the Seed
Butchered: Are you sowing the seed of the king, Dumb Brother?
Proper: Are you sowing the seed of the kingdom, brother?

Walking in a Winter Wonderland
Butchered: Later on, we’ll perspire, as we dream by the fire.
Proper: Later on, we’ll conspire as we dream by the fire.

Ghostbusters
Butchered: Who ya gonna call, Cold Mustard? (We all reach for the phone book to call Cold Mustard when we are in need…)
Proper: Who ya gonna call, Ghostbusters?

From Pocahontas:
Butchered: Sausages, sausages, barely even human (that’s true, you know)
Proper: Savages, savages, barely even human.

And probably my favorite for tonight:

Butchered: Be strong and Caucasian. (I’m not even going to touch this one…)
Proper: Be strong and courageous.

Well, it’s that weekend again. Mother’s Day. I’m going to post a couple of times a day through the weekend, because there is just so much to blog about when it comes to having a mom, being a mom, wishing I was a mom long before I was, etc.

My first Mother’s Day, I spent very, VERY grateful, because I’d finally emerged from almost 4 years of infertility. I was also very grateful on my second Mother’s Day. The newness had not worn off quite yet. My son was a year old and I still logged his quirky church behavior under the  “Baby” tag. He wasn’t expected to turn to the passages in his Bible quite yet.

But then I began to take myself a bit seriously. My expectations went up. The behavior went down. Then there were two boys. Somehow I thought they were going to weave me friendship bracelets and lanyards to tell me how much I meant to them as their mother and then they would wear knickerbockers and recite scripture during church. And then we’d go for Olive Garden after church and the boys would eat like angels, while I sipped my Diet Coke and twirled my pasta against my spoon.

Boy was I disappointed with a set of Tupperware and a load of defiance.

But then I got over myself. And with each child, I’ve learned more and more. My twenties (if only you could see how many times I had to backspace and retype that word) were about me. My thirties were not about me. (Please join me in a moment of silence for my thirties.) My forties and fifties will also not be about me.

Hold on. I think I just hit a nugget. I was about to type that my sixties would be about me again, but actually it’s never going to be about me. And it shouldn’t be. Life has nothing to do with me. God has placed me here, in these moments, with these children, and I have to do my utmost with all of it. And in light of that, I found a paragraph I wrote when Professora Destructo (Baby #4) was a newborn. I still feel exactly this way.

For Granted

I just laid my youngest blessing down in her bed and paused to watch her sleep as the rain fell steadily outside against her window. She resides now in what was once MamasBoy”s room. I still have very vivid memories of rocking him to the sound of a similar rain. As I stood there, it occured to me again how much I have…how blessed I am. It also occured to me that it is very easy to love God with all of this around me, in my arms, in my face. Daily. If one of these children were taken from me suddenly, if my health were taken, or a friend, or a parent, what then? How much harder it would be to accept God’s decisions if I perceived that they were against me…if they disrupted the peace that I give Him credit for giving me. I take these things “for granted,” a phrase I’ve been thinking about for at least a week now. What is for granted? A phrase that indicates there is something that should be granted me…something I am owed. Is there anything in my life that I really deserved? Anything I was owed? We come to expect things that come with a territory. If I am in my 20s and seeking, I should be married. If I am married and financially stable, I should be able to conceive children. If I am young, I should be healthy. If my family is young, they should all be alive. The list goes on. We expect these things. We struggle when life takes a turn against the expectation…against what should be granted. Or so we think.

There is nothing “for granted.” Nothing. Nothing that I should not view as a miracle on loan. Nothing that I should not on my knees thank the Lord for. And NOTHING that should cause me to forsake Him if it were suddenly removed from me. This has made me think, because as I stated, it is EASY to love Him on top of the blessings He has given me. It is easy to love Him alongside what I have. The trick is to love Him more than all of that. The trick is to be closer to Him than I am to the gifts He has given me while I am journeying toward Him. He has to be my ultimate relationship, because the ones He has given me here for my own comfort and strength are just on loan. They are granted me for now, but are not to be taken for granted.

There’s much work to be done on this one.

Mother’s Day Top Ten Lists Coming Later Today.

Todd’s got me reading Top Ten lists. They fascinate me even more than People magazine articles about deaf wiener dogs and IAMS cat ads. And so, since I found myself scrambling around for some crucial things this morning, I thought a Top Ten List for Productivity and Joy might be in order.

The Beloved Update is that, though the vomiting has finally (FINALLY!) abated, she has resigned herself to a life of being a 33-pound invalid. I am trying to find her a Hoveround from the Scooter Store, but they don’t make them small enough for her. So I’m thinking of adding a Razor engine to her Dora tricycle. I think that will work. Mostly, I just need to build up her strength. She has had half a Caprisun,  brought here by our neighborhood saint, Becky. That’s it for 3 days. Water and half a Caprisun. Yikes. But today. Today will be different.

And I know this, because here is a Top Ten List for Productivity and Joy:

1. Get up and get moving. The more sluggish you are, the more likely you are to remain sluggish. You may even begin to believe you aren’t feeling well. I know this because I’ve had it happen to me personally. More recently, I am raising a child that now wants to wash herself with a rag on a stick.
2. Get dressed. REALLY dressed. Get the kind of dressed that if Muriel walks over from next door, you are not ashamed to invite her in. Don’t put on the scary workout outfit and stay in that all day hoping you work out. Put on clothes. If you should work up the gumption to sweat, you can dress down at that moment. Put on shoes, too. It’s amazing how much more productive one can feel when dressed, ready, and wearing shoes.
3. If you are feeling a little low, sing. Sing LOUD. Sing like you mean it, even if you don’t. When you are done singing, you likely WILL mean it. If you can’t think of any songs that sound good loud, allow me to suggest a few: Jesus Loves Me (your kids will love this one), Zippety Doo Dah, Anything from the Sound of Music, Take Me Out to the Ballgame, etc. I’m also quite certain that Michael Jackson could do wonders for a person.
4. If singing doesn’t work, find an insulated spot and laugh maniacally. I say ‘find an insulated spot’ because most people won’t understand this and you don’t want to find yourself as the object of some investigation as a result of this activity. Don’t wear a trenchcoat while doing this one, in case you are discovered. That will be evidence stacked against you. Really, though, forced laughter does work.
5. Hug someone. Almost anyone will do, but it’s best if you know the person.
6. Make a list. Yes, Kim. You read it here. Make a list. Check things off as you accomplish them. Don’t force yourself to the wall on this and don’t be ridiculously unrealistic in making the list. Just define a few things needed in your day and stick by them.
7. Read something inspirational. Something like this blog. No, I am kidding. Don’t read this blog for that and steer clear of People and Time magazines. The Bible is great for that. Something that qualifies as actual literature would work well.
8. Exercise. If you are able to, move a little. This can be as simple as lifting 3 pound weights for a few minutes or as complicated as going for a strenuous ride on a mountain bike. Oh, how I long for a strenuous ride on a mountain bike. How can I strap my 33-pound invalid to the bike without breaking her in half? I can’t. Oh, well. I’ll go with something lighter for today.
9. Think of someone who would like to hear from you and call them. You’ll brighten their day, which in turn brightens yours and brings energy to everyone.
10. Pray. Pray throughout your day. About big things. About little things. Just pray.
11. Think of something that needs to be done today that you are absolutely dreading. Envision yourself as a rock star at this activity. Now do it. Right now. Make the dreaded phone call. Look the dentist in the eye and tell him you are not the scum he tries to make you feel you are (we have some personal issues on this one…). Clean the toilet that you fear will claim your hand forever (this one I made up, I promise. My toilets are clean…). Add up what you spent yesterday and make a new plan. Apologize to the guy on the beach whose big hole your children ruined (really, it’s a public beach, dude). Do it. Now. You’ll feel better. So much better. And then you can move on to something more productive and joyous.

Now go get dressed, moving, singing, laughing maniacally, exercising, calling, reading, and praying. I’m sitting here in gym shorts, barefoot, and ignoring the ringing phone. Hmm.

One final note: Have you gone to Pioneer Woman to comment on her Quarters post for the victims of last week’s tornadoes? If you haven’t, hop over here, click the Confessions tab, scroll down to the Quarters post, and leave a comment. She’s donating 25 cents for every comment in that post. We have until tomorrow at noon for the comments.

At night I am forced to tell stories. One kid cares. The others humor me. The one kid, who asks for these things, REALLY cares. So I tell him. I tell him true things. I tell him fiction. But somehow they started wanting Little Missy Stories; stories about life when I was a kid. This is one I have not told them. But if I had to choose just one story to describe who I thought I was, who I really was, and who I became, it would be this one. Forgive my recent silence. It is over. I do love my readers; all 13 of you. 🙂
_________________________________________________________

My 7^th grade year, just before my 13^th birthday, I came to myself, shook my own hand in some sort of subconscious rite-of-passage, and stayed. That was the year I became who I still am.  But it wasn’t without its foibles.

I began and ended that school year with a blue piece of rubber that would, in my own opinion, completely and irreparably ruin me. One piece of 25-cent rubber caused more emotional anguish than any other single event I can recall. It was a spacer for my very elaborate collection of orthodontia. They put it in one September afternoon, less than a week before school pictures were to occur, and stationed it between my upper front two teeth to intentionally create a nice little David Letterman gap that horrified me to the point where I refused to open my mouth for anything I considered superfluous. I ate and talked when necessary, but joking and chatting became a thing of the past and open-mouthed smiling was just totally out of the question.

Six days after that spacer moved in, Herff Jones and company arrived to take pictures for the yearbook.

I knew this was coming.

I knew the open mouthed smile was unacceptable.

So I had practiced my alternatives and had come up with one that would definitely work. In my thinking, and as I had practiced it, it was a modern cousin of the mona lisa. Friendly. Unassuming. Timeless. It looked good to me during my rehearsals. I thought I had perfected something I’d actually be happy with. Weeks later, upon sliding the actual photograph out of the sharply crinkled cellophane, my opinion changed drastically. A nauseating shock sucker-punched my disillusions straight out the back of me, causing me to audibly gasp in my homeroom and expose the very spacer that had started this whole ordeal.

“I look like a duck,” I said, in muted disbelief.
“A what?” my friend Sharon asked me, staring at her own photo.
“A duck.” I said, disgusted. “I look like a duck.”

At that, she looked over.

“Let me see,” she took the pictures out of my hand and examined them blankly.

“I’ve never seen lips that big on a human,” I said, still talking more to myself than to her.

“Nobody likes their school pictures,” Sharon said, trying to console me without investing too much into the conversation. There was no consolation. There was no point in further discussion. She must have understood this, because she had stopped even trying.

I stared at that picture for a long time before sliding it back into the plastic that I hoped would become its tomb. My mother’s potential plans for these pictures became my only concern. If I could escape the Christmas cards, I’d be okay. To be immortalized as a duck in the middle school yearbook was bad enough.  But to have the pity of every friend my mother had, from the hat-lady-with-asthma at church to the girl from dental hygiene school 22 years ago, seemed more than I could emotionally digest. I was pitiful. My classmates were going to know it. My mother’s pen pals did not need to.

It took a good month to get used to my new look and get over the trauma of the yearbook pictures. As the season marched on and the days got shorter, so did my memory of that photo. The only thing I really knew to do was to just stop looking. So I did. I gave up mirrors. And with the time I was not spending looking at myself, I began to look around at others that I considered the “beautiful people.”  Anne Deason was one of those. I wanted to be her. And I think I must have decided that, on some level, I could be. I set out to create a Christmas list that included things related only to fashion and vanity, and determined in my mind to be as close to the beautiful people as I could. I was driven to do this. And every driven person chooses a method of accomplishing their goal.

My goal was to be with the beautiful people.
My method was yellow corduroys.
It never occurred to me that one was not the means to the other.

It is 2:31 a.m. on Wednesday morning after I have not posted in several days. When I did post, it was Easter Bunnies. Lots of them. Demented, evil, child-eating Easter Bunnies. Large, fluffy, pajama-wearing, Easter Bunnies with ears like grain silos. Even I was tired of all of that mundane dunderheadedness. Yeah, spell-check THAT.

What am I doing at 2:34 a.m. (can’t even believe it took 3 minutes to type that first paragraph)?

Well, I’m typing. But you knew that already.
I’m wearing a super fashionable outfit. I can only hope somebody wakes up and wants to hang out, so they can see me like this. Or maybe some night-owl neighbor will stop by.
I’m eating Millet and Flax chips, because when I find myself awake at this hour, sometimes I get ravenous. At least it isn’t Cheetos, right? Baby steps.
I’m thinking. About things that don’t matter. And about things that matter a whole lot. About May, June, July, August, September. I think I even thought of a weekend in November. But I didn’t think of October at all and I am not at all thinking of December. Well, I wasn’t until I typed that. Now that I typed that, I’m thinking about Christmas. I’m going to ask for a MacBook Pro and a St. Bernard.
All of the thinking is why I haven’t been writing. I’m not a person of simultaneous skills. I can run and listen to Robert Randolph and the Funky Bunch. Wait. I’m sure that’s not right. And I can drive and scold my irresponsible children. And I can eat Flax chips and read emails. But that’s about it. I can’t think about things and blog about other things. So I guess I just need to stop thinking. I will do that. On Friday.
Let’s see. I’m scratching a mosquito bite on my leg.
I think that’s it for what I am doing.

What am I not doing at this hour?
I’m obviously not sleeping.
I’m  not eating peanut butter, which totally would have been my choice. As much as I love the Greek-ish people that made these awesome and healthy flax chips, my first choice would have been Peter Pan on a fluffy piece of white bread. But Dr. Loseit.com has told me to lay off a few things. And though she hasn’t specifically chided me for my love of peanut butter, I can hear her voice in my head. She is calling me things I can’t type here. For sure, I can’t eat the peanut butter.
I’m not writing anything worthwhile at all. But maybe useless drivel beats the evils of the Easter Bunny? You decide.
I’m not washing the dishes that are piled up in my sink since dinner. When 7 a.m. rolls around, I’m going to wish I had.
I’m not getting any less hungry. This is going to be a problem if it persists.
I’m not drinking Diet Mtn. Dew, which is a tearful shame no matter what time of day it is.
I’m not talking to anyone. It’d be cool to find someone out there awake at this hour who wants to chat. Someone besides a thief or hooligan. Someone besides SnuggleMonkey. She freaks me out in the middle of the night.

And I’m still not sleeping. But it’s unlikely that I will accidentally fall asleep while sitting up in this chair typing. So I guess I’ll go give this another shot. I will be back, gangbusterly, on Monday, if not before. Until then, just know that people of very little brains just have to use those brains for the most pressing matters.We can’t all be geniuses, I guess. I will try to post a few things from the week before Monday. I did finally get a good Easter shot of the kids. I also got some really, really bad ones. And I managed to ignore the Easter Bunny entirely for one more year.

Happy Spring Break. Hope you are sleeping. If you aren’t, call me. I’m up.