Not Enough Time In the Day

I have been feeling a lot of pressure lately.  Pressure to get it all done...from putting a hot breakfast on the table in the morning, to fitting in a work out, to attending basketball for the twins, to helping Emma make sure she has her Science Fair project completed.  Throw in the extra holiday festivities, food shopping, laundry that never ends, and taking on 2 new meetings at work.  Yep, I'm feeling it.

Speaking of work, Weight Watchers moved to a brand new facility in El Paseo, and guess who led the VERY first meeting there?  Yours truly.  And guess who was there watching my every move?  My boss.  And  you know what?   I bombed!  And that's being polite.  I floundered around the meeting room, unfamiliar with my new surroundings.  I struggled with the lesson information.  At one point, I even said, "I feel a bit dizzy.  Is it hot in here?"    I couldn't even fake it.  I just had an off morning.  I left feeling defeated, and beating myself up.  "That was stellar, Michelle.  She's probably wondering if you're even qualified to do this job.  You should have been more prepared.  You KNEW that stuff."

Fatigue.  Pressure.  Anxiety.  Shit, I need some Antivan...isn't that the happy pill that takes the anxiety away?  That's what I need!!  Or am I just making up medication names?

Anyhow, raise your hand if you feel like there's never enough time in the day.  


The topper of today was this:  I dropped my iphone, and it smashed into a thousand pieces.  MY FAULT.  I misplaced the bottom of the case about a month ago, and thought, "It'll be fine.  Pay 40 bucks for another case?  The phone is mostly protected...it'll be fine."  After talking to the nice Verizon phone insurance person  for 45 minutes, I was informed that my new phone will arrive via UPS, tomorrow.  I will be purchasing a case for it, pronto.  Lesson learned.

I know I should be "in the moment"...and thankful...and non-stressed. But sometimes, well sometimes, my perspective needs some fine-tuning.  Which is exactly what happened tonight.

Usually on Tuesday evening after I work, I go out and watch a movie.  All by myself.  And eat a medium sized  popcorn with butter in the middle AND on top.  All by myself.  But please don't ask me how many Points it is, because I don't have a clue.  But I can assure you:   it's A LOT.

Indeed, going to a show and inhaling a God-awful amount of buttered popcorn is a guilty pleasure.  But tonight, no movie.  Mama too tired.  Too many chores at the homestead calling my name.

As I walked through our front door, I found Tom finishing up with the dinner dishes.  I hadn't quite made it alllll the way into the kitchen,, when Emma came bounding in.

"Mom, you know the Adopt-A-Family for my class?"

In my mind, I was processing this information but kept my mouth shut. I thought, "Hey man, I got a gift for Cosette's Adopt-A-Family, so we're covered here.  Don't ask me to BUY anything else, or DO one more thing."

"Well Mom," Emma continued, eyes beginning to mist over, "the baby died, Mom.  The baby that was growing in her tummy, died, Mom.  It was their 4th child."

For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

"Oh honey, that is just so sad.  Come here Em."  She sobbed into my chest as we embraced.  I whispered, "Emma you know that their baby is with God, now.  It's okay.  But it is really sad, huh?  We can pray for their family Em, ok?"

"Okay Mom," she said, looking sad, and worried.

As Emma hobbled out of the kitchen to brush her teeth, I looked at Tom and said, "Well THAT sure puts it into perspective, doesn't it?"

He nodded in agreement, while saying nothing.  It was too much to take in.

 Life is precious.  So why am I so fucking worried all the time about getting it all done?  Big picture:  Appreciate my blessings.  Love deeply.  Recognize the nuggets of wisdom and joy as they are sprinkled on my path.  Pick them up.  Hold them.

And REMEMBER them...especially when I feel like there's not enough time in the day.

Haters Need Not Apply

Call it coincidence...or not, but I've been meeting a lot of really angry 50 something year old women lately.  I don't know why, but they want to let me know how much life sucks after 50.  They tend to look at me with disdain, like I'm really much too young at 39 years old, to even comprehend these horrors of which they speak.  50 and after bites in every way, shape and form, and I better get ready for it.

The following statements and the like, are usually being projected my way, "It's all downhill after 50.  Just wait, you'll see.  Losing weight is nearly impossible now that I am in my 50's.  Oh, and menopause doesn't help."

I mean, if we're talking boobies that touch yer knees...GOT EM!  If we're talking crow's feet and wrinkles...GOT EM.  If we're talking peeing your pants while laughing...happens more than I care to admit.

Maybe one day, I will be just as disheartened and pissed off.  But right now, right in this very moment, I believe that attitude and life perspective is INDIVIDUALLY based.  Is the glass half full?  Or half empty?

Oddly enough, I usually appreciate my life the most, when I hear of someone else's TRUE unfortunate circumstances.  Someone's husband has been diagnosed with cancer.  Someone's child is battling a mystery illness that has taken a toll on the entire family.  A mama of 3 young children is having health issues.

It is in these moments, I thank God for a loving husband, cheerful and healthy children, and an extended family that loves us more than I will ever understand.

 I am grateful for all that is right in my life, and the very little, that is wrong.

Every year, I enter a contest online to win dinner out and a limo ride through Vasona's Faaaaantasy of Lights.   If we want to continue being friends, you have to say it like I do...Faaaaantasy of Lights. Anyone who's experienced the Faaaaantasy, understands what a colorful Christmas light filled spectacle for the senses it truly is!

So anyhoo, there I am online, checking the times and dates for the Faaaaantasy, and there's the contest entry for dinner for 8, and a limo ride.  Every year, I type my name in, and I manifest positive thoughts, "This year, we're going to win."  And for 3 consecutive years, we haven't won Jack.  But it also hasn't kept me from re-entering.

Well guess what?  This year, WE WON!  The girls have NO idea, so Tom and I will be surprising them in the next few weeks with it  And I guarantee they will PEE their pants.  I will probably pee MY pants.

Positivity works!  But it is a conscious choice.  It doesn't happen by osmosis.  We must call it into our presence for ourselves, and those that we love.

 But most importantly, we must call it into existence for those who are angry and disgruntled with life.  It's a lesson I learned from my older brother just recently.

 Pray for those, for lack of a better term, you hate.  Or find really difficult to like.  Or have wronged you, and you just can't seem to forgive.   Pray that their hearts will turn to love.  Pray for them to be blessed. And in the process, your own heart will grow.

So I guess I better start now...praying for all the angry 50 year old women.  I'll do it, if you do!

Staying Afloat

I was the "Old and Haggard Mom" at the park last week.  Being the old and tired care-giver, who doesn't get a shower on some days, isn't for wimps.

One must be okay with her own ripe, and distinct scent of dried sweat from the work out from earlier in the morning. One must also be okay with the scent of caramelized onions and garlic that permeates skin and hair from the mid day cooking that took place to make spaghetti sauce for dinner that night, cause there's never time to actually MAKE dinner, AT dinner time, with a baby climbing up my leg.

Most days, I  feel self-confident without a shower, even if I smell like dried sweat.  And most days, I even feel okay reeking of garlic and onions.

 But some days, I'm also human.  Which leaves me feeling a little self-conscience.  Which is EXACTLY what happened last week. I meandered down to the park with the youngest 3 kiddos, to provide a happy and outdoor experience during Charlotte's witching hour.  Basically, I was trying to get to bed time, and keep my sanity, without anyone calling CPS on me.

So there I was, pushing my babe in the swing when I noticed a phenomenon.  A cult, if you will, of young moms who DID get a shower, and DID NOT smell like sauteed garlic and onions.  These other cute moms even had applied make up, flat ironed their hair, and were donning the latest trends.  There seemed to be a group of about 6 of these "Elle" moms, who all had kids the same age...16 and 1/2 months.

 I remember when people would inquire, "How old are your twins?"  And I would actually reply, "16 and 1/2 month old, (or some other obscure, but oddly accurate number)."  The best is when folks would ask how far along prego I was, and I would give WAY more info than they probably ever wanted to know. "I'm 23 weeks along, but I'll be 24 completed by next Tuesday at noon."

REALLY?  Is having all of those ages/numbers/gestational dates, REALLY important? I have concluded that these details are important when you're 29 years old, and you still have some of your brain left working to maximum capacity.

If someone asks how old Charlotte is now, I pause, trying to buy some time,  to actually remember.  The fact that I EVEN know how old she is, is a testament to my clarity!

 But even 5 years ago, I would have answered, "Well, she turned one on October 20th, so she's one year and one month.  She's 13 months old."  NO ONE CARES THAT THE BABY IS 13 MONTHS OLD.  It does not matter if they nod their heads politely, and ACT interested...WE ARE NOT.  Did I just include myself in that category?  Oops.

So anyhooo, here I was at the park with all these Victoria Beckham moms.  Not only were each of them looking good, their adorable 16 and 1/2 month olds were clean, cute, and seemed extraordinarily content.  In the back of my mind, I was sort of wondering if these toddlers had been drugged with happy pills.  I was waiting for a tantrum, or a fight over a Bob the Builder sand shovel.  Nothing.  I'm sure their rounded little tummies were full of goldfish, and juice.

Another astute observation was that each and everyone of these moms was sporting an adorable little baby bump, which meant they were about 23, almost 24 weeks along, next Tuesday at noon.

As I sat there, taking it all in, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the conversation.  They talked, and talked, and talked.  Never once did they even LOOK at me.  No way.  I was the old and haggard mom, who obviously didn't get a shower, and certainly was not channeling her inner Victoria Beckam. These moms were not interested in me in the least.

I wanted to yell at them, "10 YEARS AGO, I OWNED THIS PLAYGROUND, LADIES.  When you were planning your High School Graduation trip to Costa Rica that your parents paid for, I OWNED THIS PARK."  But I held back, figuring that my angry pep talk, but fall on deaf, Juicy Couture, ears.

So it didn't help matters, that my doctor ordered an EKG for me last week at Kaiser.  Yes, you read that right.  There I was, trying to "take care of myself" by banging out a Physical, and Pap all in one day.  The nice, but rushed nurse, was taking my blood pressure, and heart rate.

Then she cocked her head sideways, and sort of looked at me funny.  "How are you feeling?"  Was this like a trick question?

 "Um, I feel good," I replied, eyebrows raised.

 She paused, looking me up and down, before saying, "Ohhhh-kay," with a look of suspicious concern on her face.  

I proceeded into the room, where I waited for my doc.  That's when the bomb dropped.

 "Michelle, your heart rate is 40, which is low.  It has always been low, but it's dropped even more since your last visit."

"Ohhhh-kay."  Now I was the one sounding like the nurse.

"You know most doctors would never even worry about this, but I'm going to order an EKG just to rule anything out.  You're not having symptoms are you?  Pain in the chest?  Shortness of breath?  Fatigue?"

"Um, no.  I mean, I'm fatigued, but I don't think it's due to my heart rate, you know?  Those kids will kill ya," I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

As I walked down the hall for the EKG, I had a little pity party.  I thought, "I can't fucking win here.  I work out 5 days a week, I eat well, and something is wrong with my God Damn ticker!!!!  I'm going to eat an entire gallon of Haagen Dazs ice cream right fucking now!"

The nice EKG tech instructed me to take off my shirt, and put the paper gown on.  Next, she put little stickers on different places on my body that had tubes connecting them to the machine.

 I asked, "A heart rate of 40 is okay, right?"

She assured me, "You're active right?  This is probably nothing.  Lance Armstrong has a heart rate of 34."

"Ohhhh-kay," I replied.

 Next thing I knew, I was walking back down the hall to my doc's office with a copy of the EKG clutched in my fist.

The doc looked at it, "This is all good.  This indicates that you have a strong and healthy heart."

I shot her a confident glance and said, "I'm channeling my inner Lance Armstrong."

So what if those young, cute park moms don't want to talk to me? On the days I don't get a shower, it means I took care of myself by getting in a hike in that day.  And on the days I reek of onions and garlic, I'm lucky to have a home to provide my family with a hot, home-cooked meal.

My heart rate may sort of resemble me on the verge of looking like I'm dead...but I'm NOT.  Oh no, Victoria Beckham-Park, Moms.  Watch out.   I got a lot of living left to do.

These Times...

With sadness, I will share with you that The Walsh Booby Cafe shut its doors permanently last week.  Although not premeditated, I nursed my very last baby, for the very last time.

It just happened to fall on the same day as her First Year Well-Check Up.  In roughly a little over a year on the planet, it seems that my lil peanut has grown from the 6% in weight to the 78%!!  And her height?  Shocker of all shockers: 90% and going strong.

Truth be told, I NEVER paid any attention to those numbers with my other kids because all of them nursed voraciously, slept well, and hit every milestone on schedule.   But when I pushed out Charlotte, who weighed just a little over 6 pounds, I said, "That's it?  She is tiny."  The twins weighed more at birth than this little nugget.

In the beginning, as Charlotte struggled to latch, and lost weight, she was considered "Failure to Thrive".  And as I was carting her to Kaiser every other day to have her weighed and measured, I looked to those percentiles for reassurance.

But with time and patience, Charlotte and I became rather savvy at this nursing thing.  So savvy in fact, that as she would finish nursing on one side, I would ask, "Other boob?" Upon which, she would gently pull off, and wait for me to switch her to the other side.  Sensing she would be close to finished on that side, I would ask, "All done?"  On cue, she would again gently pop off and look at me like, "Okay woman, I'm fed.  Let's party."  I guess I figured when Charlotte was done with nursing, she would let me know in her own way.

With all my other girls, the first birthday HAPPILY marked the end of Mama's Milk!  FREEDOM!  ALCOHOL in ABUNDANCE!!  I logically figured: I grew you, and I fed you for TWELVE months.  We're good.  We're bonded.  I love you.  How about a hug, or a smooch, or a graham cracker?  Let's read a book, or something.  Here's a pacifier:  plug up.

And so I just didn't really see it coming.  Which in retrospect, is a blessing.  Our doc appointment, that had been going oh so well, ended rather violently, with shots.  I f'ing despise shots.  I seriously blocked out shots with the twins: survival instinct.  Shots are rugged to watch, horrible to endure, and just plain suck.  As my lil Charlie howled with discomfort, I offered her the only thing I had:  booby.  Which brings us full circle...

While hiking with Abigail recently, I began to realize how quickly, these times are a changing.  My babies are in SIXTH grade.  In the blink of an eye, they'll be in college.  And then off, living their own lives...sniff, sniff.

Without wanting to entirely freak her out by bringing up the subject of boys, I wanted to seize the moment of she and I alone...which happens so rarely with our ginormous clan.  I asked her, "Abby, what qualities do you see in Daddy that you admire?"  She answered without hesitation.

"Daddy is really good listener.  It's like he understands how I feel.  He's very kind, and always thinks of others first."  My daughter went on and ON, for quite some time.  I was thoroughly impressed that she is so observant.  Many of the traits that Abby admired, were the reason I fell in love with Tom.   She turned, and said to me, "What about you Mom?  What do you like about Daddy?"  I answered, "In addition to everything you have already mentioned, I really admire Daddy's deep faith and belief in God.  I learn a lot by watching him."

I mean, how many men are comfortable enough in their own skin to gladly sport a pair of MC Hammer pants,complete with black 80's fishnet shirt for Halloween?  How many husbands would let you blow dry their coif with enough gel, so that it forms into Vanilla Ice looking do, and then proudly go out Trick or Treating?

Not many.  No ladies, not too many.  Tom Walsh, Super Genius is one of those few fine specimens.  When I showed him the horrible 80's get up, he didn't shout, "HELL NO!"

You know what he said?  "Babe, thanks for getting me a Halloween costume."   Now that's a keeper right there.

Dudes...take notes.

Anyone who knows Tom, understands that he is a kind and gentle soul.  So kind and gentle, in fact, that he almost let an elderly Vietnamese woman climb into our Yukon with us on Sunday.

Let me back up a bit.  Our family had just finished a glorious hike at the Santa Theresa Bernal Ranch.  75 degree Fall day...perfection.  The girls were tired, but content.  As we loaded into our truck, Tom began the process of folding our Jogger down to load it.  This is where elderly, Asian woman saw her opportunity to join us.

 A plastic bag acted as her purse, and hung on her arm like a tree supports a branch.  With her other hand, she kept handing me the magazines that she carried:   a Woman's Day, and a Family Circle.  She thought she was part of our family, I suppose.  When in reality, she was just disoriented and a bit lost.  She was well dressed, complete with purple crocheted hat, black winter coat, and white socks with blue flip flops.

 After locating an address label in her "purse", we realized that she had drifted 2 1/2 miles from her home...if this was even, indeed, her home.  To ensure that she would get home safely, Tom and I decided the best thing to do was call the police.  We waited.

 I took our Tommy Bahama beach chair out of the truck and placed it on the pavement.  Tom gently held onto her, as she lowered herself to sit down and rest.    That sweet little, old lady had more Jade jewelry than anyone I've ever met in my life.  Gladly, she handed beads of jade to Charlotte.  She reached for Charlotte and I was reminded that all of us, despite how old we will one day be, we all start out as sweet lil, chubby, happy cherubs.

So here were these two beings, Charlotte and this elderly woman, interacting and communicating without saying a word.  Exchanging jade necklaces and smiles back and forth.

And if you ask me, this is as close as we can get to God while we're here.  Because one little peanut, was JUST with him before she joined our family.  And the other sweet little old one, will be with him soon.

For a moment, I felt completely filled up, and content.  And it was good.

An Apple A Day: Total BS

Remember when Rocky Balboa was training to fight the Russian, Dolph Whatever the Hell His Last Name Is? I'm talking like, Rocky IV.  The Italian Stallion was "getting stronger" while running beside draft horses in the heart of the Cold War.  Rocky did some CRAZY-ASS training in that movie.  The visual of Sylvester Stallone pulling full grown trees behind him through 5 foot snow drifts sticks out in my mind.  And we hated Dolph's movie wife:  Briget Nielsen.  With her short, blond pixie cut, and perfectly sculpted Iron-Woman shoulders.   Those damn Russians.  But Rocky won!!  And after becoming victorious, on Russian soil, I might add, he belted out from the ring, "ADRIAN, ADRIAN...I did it for you ADRIAN!"  Even though, all the while, Adrian was back in America.

Don't fret:  I am going somewhere with this.  I'm Rocky and I'm doing battle with The Russian, ie: all of my health stuff.   I feel like I'm training for the fight of my life.  Along with all of my regular "Mama / Wife / WW Leader" responsibilities,  I am supposed to keep myself healthy.  Where's the time, man?  Where's the time?

You probably get your teeth cleaned every 6 months, right?  Not me:  I have receding gums.  I have tooth sensitivity.  I grind the hell out of my niblets.  Therefore, I have a regular dental cleaning every 4 months.  I bet your bottom dollar, by the time I'm 45, I'll be in there every week.  I love my dentist, but when she puts that damn camera in my mouth so I can see what she sees up on the big screen, I seriously want to cut her.  I want to shout out,"YES!!  I BRUSH TWICE A DAY!  YES!!  I FLOSS TOO!!  I don't know why there's so much plaque and tartar build up...(sniff, sniff) I'm just so tired, Dr.Ra.  I'll see you next week when you fix that CRACKED tooth 'cause I GRIND."  I should just leave my check book at that place.

Exercise?  No problemo!  But going to see my O.B. for my regular pap smear?  Not so much.  Don't get my wrong:  I love Dr.C.  But I can think of about 1 million other things I could do with my time, than having her inspect my cervix with her gigantic eyelash curler-looking, speculum.  I mean, I JUST had a BABY a YEAR ago.  Didn't they do I Pap while I was in labor?  C'mon, let's knock this stuff out people!!

I also need to have my skin checked.  But Kaiser make you see your regular doctor FIRST, so that doctor can then refer you to a Dermatologist.  I feel like I need to go into that initial appointment with an Oscar worthy performance, convincing her I have Melanoma.  All... so she'll refer me.

You'll be proud to know I set up both my OB and Oscar performance for the same day next month.  It only took a year of me thinking about it to actually come into fruition.  During that year, by the way, yet another health issue has presented itself: a varicose vein has seemed to  pop up on my OTHER leg.  So guess what?  I had an ultrasound for that yesterday.

I have an appointment to find out the results of that ultrasound with Dr.Hot next week.  And I'm hoping to God he says that there's a blockage or something life threatening.  Well, not really.  But I want that sucker GONE, and Kaiser doesn't do "cosmetic" surgery.  CURSE YOU Kaiser!  I may just have to go for 2 Oscar worthy winning performances.  I must convince Dr.Hot that my life is in jeopardy so he removes that vein.

Which reminds me, I need to have my eyes checked.  Maybe I can knock that out on the same day.  I'm just so tired, (sniff, sniff), so tired.

One Perfect Moment in Time

I was parked on the couch, Charlotte nursing lazily before her mid afternoon nap, and I had this moment of clarity:  THIS is what life is all about.

It was like one perfect moment of time, when I was aware and fully present to what was happening around me.

As I gazed out my front window, I watched our two little Japanese Maples sway in the warm,, September breeze.  Have you noticed the slight difference in the weather these days?  A bit cooler in the morning and evening, but still warm and pleasant in the afternoon.  No, Fall hasn't arrived quite yet.

 But Summer is starting to pack up, like most of us do after a full day at the beach.  First by collecting and shaking out sandy towels, then by clearing the garbage from the cooler, next searching aimlessly for flip flops, before finally, gathering exhausted, but content, kids to hit the road for home.

Yes, Summer is on its way out.   And the Earth smells like hope. A fresh beginning.  A new chance.

I held that babe tightly, knowing full well, she won't want or need me in this physical way for much longer.  With my feet propped up on the coffee table, I observed Cosette swinging back and forth, methodically on our tree swing.  Pumping herself forward, feet pointed out strong and stiff, and then back,  feet pulled towards her bum.  Back and forth, back and forth.  How many times has Cozy swung like that, and I haven't noticed? Today I noticed.

Emma sat at the kitchen table, sucking a strawberry smoothie through a straw for snack, while contemplating her homework.  Emma, with glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and loose braids dangling at her shoulders, which had been tight that morning.  Self-motivated Emma, wanting to get it all correct, and leave no answers blank.  How many times has Ms. Emma been overlooked by the sheer size of our family?  Today she  was not overlooked.

We have invented this thing called "Family Fun Fridays".  But what it should really be called is "We're Too Tired to do ANYthing but Lay in the Fetal Position Fridays".  It turns out that the girls are just as exhausted, if not more so, come Friday, than Mom and Dad.  It's like, we all let out a collective sigh of relief.  Whew,  "we made it through the week."

On Friday, there is no rush through homework, to get to dinner, to take a shower, to read, to get to bed, because we have to do it again the next day.  No.   Friday represents, eating a leisurely dinner, while watching Charlie try to catch those darn rabbits out back as they scurry just out of her reach.  We have been ending our Fridays cuddled up on the couch, taking in a movie together, while munching on home made popcorn.

Last Sunday, we took an amazing hike through Henry Cowell Park in the Santa Cruz mountains.  As we descended beneath the protective Redwood tree canopy, and hit the trail that follows the creek, full of gorgeous green ferns, and rocks that have been there since the beginning of time,  Bella blurted out, "THIS IS WHAT I NEEDED, MOM.   I just needed all this...GREEN."

I looked at her, nodding my head in complete agreement, and said, "Me too, babe.  Me too."

It got me to thinking, this one moment of clarity, it did.

How much time have I wasted in the past planning, talking, or worrying about the future: which could be the next 5 minutes or the next 5 years?  And how much time have I wasted spent in regret over what didn't go right in the past: which could be the past 5 minutes, or the last 39 years?  So I've come to a decision:  ENOUGH OF THAT WASTING TIME, BUSINESS.

God whispered into my ear today, and do you want to know what he said?  "Pssst...hey Michelle, pay attention.  THIS is what it's about."

Debauchery

As I made my way to my old college stomping grounds recently, I approached the bridge where Chico State students flock by the hundreds on any given weekend, to lazily tube down the Sacramento River.  If it's a holiday weekend, like 4th of July and the like, the number turns to thousands.

"Oh gosh, that just isn't safe." I said, somewhat under my breath.

"WHAT?  WHAT isn't safe, Mama?"  Emma inquired.

"Well, tubing down the river is dangerous enough.  There are snags, and trees that are under the water that you can't see when you're floating on top.  But what is really unsafe, is that the kids drink alcohol while they're doing it," I explained.

Long pause.

"Did YOU do that Mama?"

Fork in the road:  do I tell my kid the truth, or lie like a no-good, sinner?

"Yes, Emma.  I did it, but I made a mistake.  And I would NEVER do it again."

"Well, Daddy says he makes 10 mistakes everyday.  So it's okay Mom because you learned from it."

Thank God kids are so forgiving.  It's that parental balancing act of being honest to drive the point home, but not throwing it all out there when it's unnecessary.  I like to think in time, when the really tricky situations arise, (drinking, driving, premarital sex, smoking the gange),  the girls will feel comfortable coming to Tom and I.

But that's probably wishful thinking on my part isn't it, parents of teens?  ISN'T IT?  You're laughing at my ignorant stupidity, and  flashing forward 5 years to the girls saying,  "YEAH, let's have a KEG PARTY.  Mom totally floated down the river LOADED."

Case in point:  I found myself at Scotty's by the River this last weekend.  For those of you not familiar with Chico, Scotty's is a bar/restaurant that is literally right on the Sac River.  It's a terrific place to go and chill, listen to some music out on the patio, and basically catch up with friends over a few cold beers.

Tubing in general, requires a vast amount of PLANNING.  A party needs one car for drop off at the start, and one car at Scotty's, Washout, or somewhere in between.  Although I have heard of some folks who stop at Beer Can Beach, and never make it out.

Now I have tubed down the river in the past, but NEVER partook during a holiday weekend.  I should have known I was in trouble when we passed Chartered buses, taxis, and limos, venturing to pick up the wet, sun burnt, tipsy tubers.

Highway Patrol cars and sobriety check points decorated the way.  By the time we actually reached River Road, I was ready to turn back.  Hundreds of college kids littered the streets and spilled into the agricultural areas, waiting for their rides home.  Some were piling into Honda Civics like clowns in a circus, complete with dozens of deflated tubes precariously tied on top of the vehicle.  And still some approached me brazenly, "I'll give you 20 bucks for a ride home."

What I wanted to say was, "Ummm, no.  You're wearing what's left of your wife beater and not much else, so I'm kinda thinking you don't have any money."

What I said politely instead was, "Not today.  I have my kids in the car."

 I won't lie when I say I was a bit worried that a large number of these people could have collectively rocked the girls and I out of my truck, and driven off with Charlotte still buckled in her car seat.

But that didn't happen because these young bafoons were too distracted by all of the sparkly, teeny, tiny sequined bikinis that were worn by 20 somethings, with 16 percent body fat.  WTF?  No wonder no one could walk straight.  I'm still confused as to how those little girls could hold down a tube while perched on top of it.

Scotty's itself, while not deserted, was no where NEAR the scene that invaded the front.  While Alyson and I sat out on the patio, the girls devoured greasy bar food, and basically, couldn't have been happier.  We watched them "perform" up on a stage that wasn't occupied by any musicians.  By 8 o'clock, it was time to go home.

But before packing it up, we encountered a young girl, who had been separated from her group.  She was visibly shaken, cold, and completely sober.  "Let us give you a ride home, okay?" I offered.  She graciously accepted, while explaining, "I'm not a very strong swimmer, and this was my first time floating."  Alyson and I sort of looked at each other with a "Thank God she made it out safely", expression.

Unfortunately, the sobriety check point had us idling like a concert had just gotten out, and we were at least 15 cars behind.  All of a sudden, 2 dudes popped up over their backyard fence, and were yelling out directions that went something like this,

"IF YOU HAVE BEEN DRINKING, AND DON'T WANT TO GO TO JAIL, TURN LEFT HERE.  MAKE A RIGHT, AND TURN LEFT AGAIN."

I just looked at Alyson, and said, "Only in Chico."

I wasn't worried about the check point, but I certainly wasn't going to sit in traffic at a stand still. And I'm happy to report that the alternative route was spot on.

I decided to stay an extra day in Chico, as I often find it hard to come home because I love it there immensely.  After getting over my parental guilt of having the twins miss school, I chose to make it a "College Campus Tour Day".  The girls and I rode our bikes through the most beautiful of spots, Bidwell Park.  We then parked our bikes, and walked the campus.  I took them into buildings where I had classes 15 years ago, and invited them to look inside the classes as Profs taught.  We cruised through the BMU, and I showed them the Dorms.  We even went into the library.

The highlight for me, was catching up with my mentor teacher from student teaching, Katy Early, during her office hours.  We just dropped in, and there she was.  'Cause it's Chico.  And people ride their bikes.  And have a couch on their front porch.  And swim in the creek.  And cross bridges on their way to class.

And sometimes drink too much while tubing on the river.

 But we have to make mistakes because according to Emma, that's how we learn.  I have to say,  some of my best mistakes were made in that little, po dunk, college town.

Mere-Dee-Belle

Think back to childhood.  Like 8 years old.  Did you have a best friend?  I most definitely did.

The details are foggy as to how or when we met.  But I do know one thing:  Meredith Powers was my partner in crime.  She lived right across the street on Silacci Drive.  As Foxy shooed me outside to "Go and PLAY!" on a daily basis, Mere was my sanctuary.  I learned that if I treaded lightly with my bare feet on the white paint of the cross walk in the street,  I could escape the burning heat of the 100 degree cement in the summer time, as I traveled to her house.

Meredith was the eldest of 2 girls.  We called her little sister, Bun, although her real name was Stephanie.  Mr. and Mrs. Powers seemed waaay younger than my parents, worked, and kept a very neat and tidy home.  I felt as though I needed to be on my best behavior at their house.

Meredith and I did EVERYthing together.  Many afternoons you could find us roller skating to our heart's content, riding our bikes around our neighborhood, or catching frogs in the creek.  One year, we actually caught polliwogs, put them in a tank, and then watched them transform into frogs.  I do believe it was my older brother, Paul, who gave Mere the nickname of Mere-dee-belle.

We plucked California Poppies, which as everyone knows, is BREAKING THE LAW, so that we could make "perfume" by adding water to the petals in a big bucket.  Meredith and I climbed to the tip top of the pine trees that surrounded our home, never once giving a thought that if we fell, our lives would end abruptly.  There's no time for thoughts like those when you're the ripe age of 10!  Covered in sap, we would go home exhausted, and sleep soundly.

As we got a bit older, we were allowed to walk to Taco Bell to grab lunch.  Or go to Westgate Mall to buy stickers for our sticker book collections.  That was right around the time that Baskin Robbins let you taste ice cream on a little bitty spoon before you chose which flavor you wanted.  We would often make the poor teenager working behind the counter, let us sample all 31 flavors, before walking out and not purchasing a thing.

My best friend and I would hang at El Paseo and catch a show at Saratoga Six ...this was long before AMC.  And I can fondly recall a few times when after watching the movie, we found ourselves at Swenson's.  Do you remember "The Earthquake"?  It was like 12 scoops of ice cream, covered in like 5 sauces of your choice, sprinkled with any toppings you wanted.  And Meredith and I ate it...all of it.

I fondly remember passing time at Mere's house watching "Growing Pains", (Kirk Cameron...swoon), "Three's Company", and "Bosom Buddies".  There was Hide-N-Seek to be played on warm summer nights, with the Bible thumping neighbor kids, The Gregg's.  I can remember times, when I would literally pee my pants as I was hiding.  I mean, to come out and use the bathroom meant surrender.  And clearly, it is better to wet yourself, than succumb to being found.

Meredith and I  had grand plans of having a double wedding, and living, you guessed it:  right across the street from each other so that our kids could play, much the same way we had.  Of course, our husbands, we would be best buds.

Mere and I were inseparable.  However, because she was a year my senior, she started 7th grade at Rolling Hills, while I was still at Forest Hills, in 6th grade.  She was like Jacques Cousteau, navigating the un-charted territory of Junior High.  By the time I got there, I felt secure, knowing that my bestie was an upper classman.

As we made our way through Westmont High School, Meredith and I remained good friends.  But we lost touch in college.  Through our parents, who still lived in the SAME houses, we were able to keep tabs on one another.

After we both married, I stayed local, while Mere moved away to raise her family in Texas, and then Georgia.  We would get our broods together when she came home over summer break to visit her folks.  And it was clear:  our kids got along very well.  Even if they saw each other briefly, and just once a year, it as the sweetest thing to watch our clans grow larger from summer to summer.  We currently have 7 girls and 1 boy between the two of us.

Just recently, Meredith shared with me that she was moving back to California.  To our hood.  I couldn't believe it.  It was just too good to be true!

Reader's Diges version:  she is living in the Glen, THREE blocks away from me!  The first night she and her hubby were here, I just kept saying to Tom over and over, "I just can't believe it.  She's so close.  I mean, this is something we manifested when we were TEN years old."

I picked up her girls on Friday, so she and hubs could unload their PODS parked on the street.  As I watched her girls walk home with mine, I was overcome with this feeling of incredible gratitude.  Big girls walking home with backpacks, while Crepe Myrtles bloomed on their path, their pony tails swaying from side to side.  My best friend's kids from childhood are walking home with my kids!!

This is totally surreal.  This can't be happening.  But it is.

I can not wait to teach the girls how to break the law, and make California Poppy perfume.

Fresh Start

School is back in.

Visualize the following:  me doing  my best cheer impression of a really EXCITED, JAZZED, and MOTIVATED cheer leader complete with sparkly poms poms, and a huge ponytail that extends from the middle of my noggin, and cascades down my cheeks as tho it is a water fountain, as I belt out:

"GOODBYE, GOODBYE!!!  Have a great DAY!  Lord, please stay with Abby and Bella as they navigate on their bikes, so they find their WAY!"

I do a round off, raise my pom poms, adjust my cheer leading skirt, and continue:

"EMMA, EMMA!!  The big Walsh sis on campus, fourth grader so COOL, throw me a bone, and do well in SCHOOL!"

I now do a series of cartwheels, with sparklers whizzing behind me, as I tuck into a somersault, pony tail untouched:

"COSETTE, COSETTE, she's our GIRL!  Time to give Kindergarten another WHIRL!"  ( A full blog will be devoted to this at a later time :)

The twins start middle school at 8:05 AM and are released at 3:00 PM.  That's because they don't have a 7th period.  If they did have a 7th period, they'd be home by dark...which is fine by me. But Wednesday is LATE START, and school doesn't begin until 9:15 AM.

As they rode their bikes tandem, down our street and away from me for their very first day in the 6th grade, I had all of these random thoughts:   Don't lose the 20 bucks I gave each of you to buy PE clothes; ride your bikes safely, making sure to look before you cross; lock your bikes so they don't get stolen, and in your free time,  think about  maybe getting a locker.  I started to record them riding away and out of sight, but had to stop when I felt a lump rise up in my throat, and tears fill my eye sockets.

Emma starts school at 8:15 AM and is dismissed at 2:18 PM.  WTF, right?  WHY 2:18? !!!  How bout we round up to 2:15, or down to 2:20?  No people, it's 2:18.  Big sis, Em, is in charge of picking up Cosette from Kinder...but Cozy will be hanging out awhile, because...

Cosette starts Kindergarten at 8:25 AM and is dismissed at 2:08 PM.  EXCEPT for the first 2 weeks.  She gets out at 11:47 AM, so she can successfully transition into Kindergarten.  Well, that doesn't buy me a whole lotta time does it?  And then I gotta double back to get Emma, who gets out at 2:18 PM...not a minute sooner or later.  Are you taking notes?

Last night, Bella says to me in sort of a quiet way, "Mom, I feel like I need to tell you something."

"Okay, babe.  What is it?"

She continues, looking rather forlorn, "Well, all the kids at school...they use really bad words, Mom.  Like you know how you say it when you're  really mad?"

I nod yes, solemnly.

"Mom, they just say those bad words to say them.  Why do they do that Mom?   Do you think I should say something to them?"

"OH NO, honey!  Don't say anything," I practically yelled at her to prevent her from becoming a moving target.  "You know, this is middle school now.  Some kids think that using those words makes them sound cool, or older.  They are trying to appear to be independent."

"Well, I want you to know Mom...I am NOT going to say those words."

Good!   I hope to God you share these same feelings about consuming excessive amounts of alcohol and participating in premarital sex when you're older.  WOW!  That Little House on the Prairie show does wonders!

"That's good, honey.  Don't be like Mama that way."

You know how the teachers send home the notes that say "tell me about your child" the first week of school? On Emma's note, I wrote, "Emma needs to be pushed.  She's a smart cookie."  I think she may be getting ready to have her world rocked.  But she is totally capable of excelling.

Cosette is repeating Kindergarten.  Cosette turns 6 this Saturday.  Cosette was a really young Kinder last year.  It's just too early to tell if she has a learning challenge, or she was just young.  But you know how I feel?  There's absolutely no shame in having her repeat because it's WAY better than having her move on and fail miserably at everything she attempts.  This in turn, leads to hating school and thinking you suck.  Can you tell I've been down this road before?        

Just between you and I, I love Cosette's teacher, Mrs.Brown.  She is organized, well-tempered, and she requests very LITTLE parent participation in the classroom.  That's because this lady knows what the hell she's doing, and I LIKE it!  Partly, because I'm selfish with my time.  But she also totally gives the appearance that she has shit under control.  She has a "Thinking Chair", and I'm under the impression that she won't hesitate to use it.   I don't care what anyone else says about you...I LOVE YOU GAYLE BROWN.          

Oh, and Charlotte?  She is on the BRINK of crawling...I've got maybe a day or 2 left before she will be completely high alert.  In fact, just the other day, I walked in after her nap to find that she had eaten an entire box of Kleenex.  Daddy lowered the crib that night.

While it's hard to believe that summer has come to an end, I think our girls are going to have a really good year!

Play It Again, Sam

So lately I've been dreaming about spending the night in a hotel.  By myself.  Alone.

Is that bad?  Does it make me a selfish person, to not want to serve anyone?  Or answer any of the bazillion, trillion questions that are asked of me by my children on a daily basis, like...

What's for breakfast?  What are we doing today?  Are we almost there yet?  Why did you say SHIT when that person cut you off in traffic?  How come you get to say SHIT, and I don't?  Can we have computer time?  When can we have computer time?  Why do I HAVE to ride my bike while you run?  Will you help me tie my shoes?  Can I have a snack?  Will you make it for me?  Where's my water bottle?  Is it just too much for you having 5 kids, Mom?   What's for dinner?   Can we watch a PG-13 movie that is really scary, cause Dad said it's okay?  Can I sleep in the floor of your bedroom, cause I watched a PG-13 movie, cause Dad said it was okay?  Mommy, why do you drink so much wine?

 AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

You know how you sometimes dream what your life would be like, if there were no boundaries?  Like if someone gave you a free-pass to be and do WHATEVER you wanted?  Well, here are my ridiculously, frivolous dreams.  Don't get me wrong:  I totally appreciate my very blessed life...but walk with me for just a minute...

 Live in Europe for an unlimited period of time. I would stay in youth hostels, and travel by taxi and Euro rail and participate in several other extremely dangerous adventures, being a young and stupid American.  I would sip espresso and go to famous museums, and ride my bike through the French countryside.  I would meet up and make friends with a winemaker, who, upon seeing my un-tapped talent for making wine, would teach me how to cultivate and grow grapes.  We would then sip this delicious concoction that we made, in the middle of the day as we lounged by the pool, in a Tuscan villa.  Our biggest worry would be simply this:  re filling our glass.  I would return home only, after drinking wine to my hearts content, or getting my fanny pack stolen.

Have 2 kids. Just to see what it would be like. Like to deliver one baby at a time.  Like to have one hand for each child.  One parent for each kid.    Have enough time and energy to actually give one on one time for each child.  Big sigh,  Followed by an extreme amount of mommy guilt.  Okay, moving on...

Work full time.  in my dream job, as a counselor.  So that I, with all of my damaged goods, could help others with their damaged goods.  So I could have a job, and feel like I'm contributing to my family in a monetary sorta way, while helping others find their way.  I'm thinking that the drive to and from work without anyone else in my car, (especially those under the age of 11), wouldn't be so bad either.

Start a GIRL POWER movement, that sweeps the WORLD...where girls and women alike feel empowered to say WHAT they want, WHEN they want, without worrying about what anyone else THINKS!  A world where every girl and woman embraces their body,  for what it can DO and how STRONG we are, and not solely based on what we look like!  A world where we are free to embrace our strengths and not question them.  To accept ourselves lovingly for all of our many flaws, instead of beating ourselves up!

Shop for clothing, shoes, purses, and accessories.  Oh wait, if you read my last blog, you know that I don't wear accessories.  And my snack bag doubles as my purse.   My shoes are for running.  And my other pair of shoes is flip-flops.  But this is my PRETEND life, silly!  Having the time and money to actually find outfits that compliment my figure that match, and flow.  VS buying my underwear at Costco next to the book section.  I have to have these clothes now that I'm working full-time, dontcha know?

Complete a marathon or climb Mt.Everest.  These two things are kind of one in the same to me.  It will never happen is this life, because truth be told, I don't really WANT to do either of them.  But in my pretend life, I would have countless hours to train.  I would be in the most AMAZING shape.  Like those crazy ass Cirque du Soleil acrobats, who support a full sized man with their pinkie, while riding a tricycle across a high wire that is on fire. I would also settle for having arms that resemble Madonna's guns.

P!NK, Oprah, Maya Angelou and I would hang out regularly.  My boyfriend, Hugh Jackman, would empty the dishwasher.  Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., and Jesus would make special trips from Heaven, and we would drink brewskis as we contemplate how to change the world.

Marry Tom Walsh Super Genius.  Have an insane amount of kids.  Live simply.  Love deeply.  Practice more patience.   Recognize that at times, I am an un-paid counselor. Realize that I can start my own girl power movement with my own clan.  Pray more regularly. Appreciate simplicity.

Yep, I think that about covers it.

Full Circle

Perhaps you have a friend, acquaintance, or female relative who meets the following description:   she pencils in her eyebrows totally off kilter, applies her lipstick mostly OFF of her lips in Pandora Pink, and painstakingly attempts to put on her eye liner with  the precision of a MAC consultant, but ends up looking kind of like a raccoon?

 It leaves the rest of us wondering, does that woman even LOOK in the mirror before she walks out the door?  I have answer for you:  Yes, WE do, but we are too tired, too busy, or a little of both, to care.  I am convinced I am morphing into this friend, acquaintance or female relative of yours.

Here's the sad part:  I know full good and well that my 6 minute quickie make up application will most likely leave me resembling a circus clown in some way, but I just don't care anymore.  I'm 39 years old man.   I got this damn gaggle of girls.  I just can't keep up with all that anymore.

 If I get a work out in, it's a good day.  If I get a work out in, and get some errands done, it's a really good day.  If I get a work out in, get some errands done, AND get a shower to apply my make up in an erratic fashion, now that's a STELLAR day.

If you've participated with me in ANY extra-curricular activities that are not listed above, (day trips of any kind, including but not limited to: the beach, the pool, Raging Waters, the river, some one's backyard BBQ, talking smack while I play cards, or dancing irresponsibly), you have probably noticed that my eyeliner is smeared down my face.  Or maybe you've realized that my eyebrows have been penciled in to a place where no eyebrow grows.

I just want to say thanks for still being friends with me.  Seriously, I appreciate you letting that go. But I do have one request for you:  if I have a big booger dangling from my extremely expansive nostril, and you don't say shit, then the friendship is off, understand?  UNDERSTAND?

It's all too much to keep up with, this being a girl thing.  There are grey roots to be concealed every 4 weeks at home.  The girls always stare with trepidation when they see Mama's home color application in the works...but they are all too scared to ask questions, so they scurry off to play outdoors.

About 3 times a year, I remember that I should probably apply some sort of hydrating mask to my rapidly decaying face.  If I'm donning the glow white "hydrating/erase wrinkles/supple skin" mask WHILE coloring my hair simultaneously, well, that's just all sorts of pretty right there.  I have scared the holy hell out of the twins more than once.  They will come around the corner, and scream.  LOUD.

There are eyebrows to contain into some sort of arched shape, and chin hairs to be plucked.  Lotion to be applied so I don't resemble some sort of aged piece of leather.  Speaking of leather, sunscreen is a must these days.  But you don't want to put the sunscreen designed for your BODY on your FACE...you need special facial sunscreen for that! What?  You didn't know that?  That's okay, neither did I until just recently.

I haven't even mentioned all the body hair that needs to be removed.  UGH.  I have also totally given up wearing any and all accessories, with the exception of my wedding ring.  Why would I put on a necklace?  So that Charlotte could lynch me with her sharpened infantile skills while nursing?  No thank you.

And you know what else?  Perfume is totally over-rated.  How do you even make a God damn decision?  Should I wear J.Lo?  Or Britney?  Maybe Gwen Stefani has created something lovely.  Or perhaps I should  stick with movie star scents like Halle?   Man, these days, my deodorant doubles as my eau de toilet.

Remember Love's Baby Soft??  Starting at about age 12, I would lightly spritz myself with that EVERY DAY.   It was like an un-spoken but religious habit, that meant:  I, Michelle Francois, could once again, face the world and be okay.  Me and Love's Baby Soft, together.  But the spritzing only took place after my hair was feathered just so, and my comb was carefully placed in my back pocket.  With my fruity tube of Lip Smackers in my front pocket, I was convinced that it's sparkly shine, clearly show-cased my braces.  This was also right around the same time that I just stopped wearing my glasses.  Did I trade them in for contact lenses, you ask?  No.  I made this decision with swift accuracy:  being blind was better than having to wear those damn things.

By the time I was 17, I had become a complete and total unmanageable teenager.  Love's Baby Soft had worn out its welcome, and  it was clear what I needed to do at that point:  trade it in for something more edgy.  Like Exc!amation.  And folks, it's been all downhill from there.

It is a trip watching this transformation take place with Abigail and Isabella.  I keep hoping and praying (REALLY HARD), that they will not, under any circumstances:  grow breasts, get their period, or get their hearts broken by some complete idiot boy.

 Stay 11.  Stay innocent and young.  Love origami for far too long.  Dress up like Laura Ingalls with no worry of who might care.  Sing all the wrong lyrics to Lady Gaga's new song, because you can.

I think I need to go buy some Love's Baby Soft.  Maybe that will stop this thing, they call "growing up".

The Big Picture

So I almost killed my 5 year old today.  I had one of those "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!!!" parenting moments in the Costco parking lot.  You know, the moments when you are so filled with frustration, your knuckles are turning white,  your pulse quickens,  and beads of sweat start to gather at your temples?

 Good times.

I think when good parents feel overwhelmed,  they inhale deeply and count to ten.  These good parents can then collect their wits, and parent calmly.  But this is just purely speculation on my part.  I wouldn't know, because I don't fall into that category.

 Bad parents, like me, just yell out loud WHY we are frustrated in the Costco parking lot, as the onlookers seated at the Starbucks patio, sip their lattes and wonder quietly, "What the hell is that psychotic mother yelling at her kid about?"

So let me share what happened today...

But first let me just say that the Walsh fam has been "on the go" for summertime fun for about 4 weeks straight. A camping trip, with several beach days, followed by Raging Waters, and hours spent at  Happy Hollow.  And don't forget swimming at the Elks Club.  Throw in a 5 trip to Chico, followed by a 4 day visit up to Santa Rosa to see the folks, and well...

 I think it's safe to say, that Mama is feeling a bit tired.  Mama is trying to eek out every possible opportunity of good times before school starts.   Mama has lost her mind.  It is in moments like these, that I realize that I often forget the "Big Picture".  Which is exactly what happened today.

As I stepped out of my truck, and unbuckled Charlotte, Cosette bounded happily out of my seat and onto the ground.  As I placed Charlie on my hip, but before I had time to grab my purse, Cozy locked the truck.  So there we were.  Locked out.  Standing on the blacktop of the parking lot.

"SHIT!!!!!   SHIT!!!!!  SHIT!!!!" I belted out.

Seeing my anger, Cosette's crocodile tears came in a free flow, who explained, between sobs, "I was helping Mama."

"I KNOW!! I KNOW! (followed by a long pause)  I know, Cozy. (short pause) SHIT!!!"

As I  marched into Starbucks, to ask to use the phone (because my cell just DIED, but that's a whole nother story), I  promptly told Cosette to sit at a table, saying,   "Mom is just really mad right now.  I need a minute."

After calming down, I began to see the Big Picture. Charlotte was on my hip.  Thankfully, she was not in the car in 100 degree weather, with the windows rolled up.  Tom was home.  He came to us.  Lovingly.  Willingly.  He stopped what he was doing to rescue us.

I explained to Cozy, "We are so lucky that Charlotte is safe, and that Daddy can come and help us, okay?  No more locking the car door without permission."  She nodded her head, as if she understood,  dried tear marks making tracks down her tanned cheeks.

Because the Big Picture was that this was simply an inconvenience. We were going to be late for a play date.  So why is it, that I lose my mind when these types of things happen?

Lately, I've noticed that Charlotte is more than a little distracted while nursing.  If someone speaks, walks into the same room, or so much as breathes in her direction, she flips her head to investigate her surroundings...all while holding onto my breast as if it's in a vice.   She's also taken to pulling my hair, slapping my face, grabbing my lips, and pinching my armpit fat.

These kind of special moments make for interesting bonding time.  Some days I feel like I need to nurse her in a sound proof padded room.  Maybe if I was wearing a special neoprene outfit, leaving only my nipple exposed, while Charlotte's hands were bound, we would be a more efficient pair.

But then I am reminded of her failure to even latch to nurse after she was born.  So many tears...hers and mine both.  Frustration over not expecting there to be ANY problemos whatsoever with the last babe.  The
Big Picture:  sometimes nursing isn't glamorous, but it's also fleeting.  And that's why when I come home from work on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, I wake her out of a sound sleep, just to nurse her.  The clock is ticking, and I get sad knowing there's not much time left to nurse with this one.  The abuse also tends to also be less violent at this hour :)

Recently I drove 2 hours home from a visit with my folks.  You know how it is when you get home from a road trip...there's the unloading, and putting away of clothes, toys, and food.  And I tend to become a bit anxious over getting it all done, knowing good and well, that my fridge is empty, and Costco is calling my name.  But not before Charlotte is screaming for booby.

Imagine my surprise, as I walked into my bathroom to hurriedly put away my toilertries, and discovered dirt all over my floor.  And dirt all over my counter.  And dirt coating my bathtub.  Shocked, I couldn't comprehend it...didn't I just clean this bathroom before we left?  Tom was the only one here.  Hmmm...

Then it hit me:  Someone, most likely my darling husband, had used the blower, but had forgotten to shut the window.  Thus, bringing all of Willow Glen into our bathroom.  Immediately, I fumed.  Well, as if it's not enough to do already around here...the hell if I'm gonna clean this bathroom again!  He did it.  He can clean it.

Then the Big Picture slowly began to take place, yet once again.  How lucky am I to have a husband who even blew our backyard?  Who wants to make our yard a sacred place for our family?

Yep, there was a little dirt in my bathroom.  I cleaned it up.  I used about 35 paper towels and a lotta Mr.Clean and Windex, to do it.  But it was fixable.

And  I am lucky.

The Elks Club

I have come to a life changing decision recently:  I want to be an Elk.  I want to embody the entire experience of what it means to be a Grand Pu-Ba.  One day, I will run for office and be the Exalted Ruler.  S/he does have a prominent parking spot in the lot, dontcha know?

Just flash back to scenes from the Flinestones, where Fred and Barney go to hang out with other  "studly" men, (which is open to interpretation), and you've got today's Elks Club.  Although women are allowed on the premises, I have come to believe that it is purely for the gawking satisfaction of the elder male observers.

That being said, allow me to examine all of the things that The Elks Club has to offer:

First, and foremost, a bar.  Does it have dark wooden panels lining the walls?  Does the carpet smell dank and disgusting?  Are the seats made of a fabricated pleather, that your ass sticks to as you get up?  YES.  It's like a flashback to 1970, but it's okay, man.  It's the Elks Club.  And let me tell you, the bar offers people watching at its finest.  You've got the older, hard-core, retired Elks, who just park it at the bar and drink...my guess would be, all day long.  Why not, right?  They have nowhere to be.  Nowhere to go.  Unless you count, stumbling to their RV, which is parked out in the lot.

Which brings me to number two:  a place to park your RV.  Hell, you can even LIVE in your RV at The Elks Club.  I'm not sure what the fee is for that.  But just think about it for a second.  Being old and retired, and taking a cross country road trip, let's say, to see the grand kids.  Load it up, and stay at your friendly, local Elks Lodges along the way.  That also have bars.  And young MILF's, with their kids at the pool.  Now that's what I call one-stop shopping.

And how could I forget the POOL?!!  The pool totally rocks.  There is no life guard on duty, which means you actually need to REALLY watch your kids.  But that's what the twins are for!  The Elks Club also has lounge chairs.  Like 5 of them.  But nonetheless, if you want to fight some elderly smoker lady, who's belting out her rendition of  Frank Sinatra's "My Way" because she's three sheets to the wind, for one of those 5 lounge chairs,  it could be a good time.

There are some things though, they you just have roll with at The Elks Club.  For example, being stalked by older men who have consumed a lot of alcohol.  It's all innocent...but still.

Just yesterday while I was there, I met a nice, older "gentleman", his wife, and  GREAT-grand kids.  He and I conversed about raising children, and where his four daughters are living now, yadda, yadda, yadda.

It was all fine and good, until I got up to walk to the bathroom, and he yelled out across the pool deck, "LOOK AT THE FIGURE ON THAT ONE!  LOOK AT THAT FIGURE!  NICE TAN!!!"  I like how he considers me to first of all, even have a figure.  Considering that after 5 babies, I'm rocking a bit of a mama muffin top and some silvery stretch marks.  But hey man, I'll take the compliment, from the elderly, drunk, stalker Elk.

Mind you, as he was screaming that out, his very sweet wife, of at least 50 years, sat next to him.


And then there was the 4th of July celebration.  Which involved cake walks, and hula hoop contests.  And a sack race on the aggregate concrete.

 As the Grand Pu-Ba lined the dozen or so kids up to start the race, I wondered, when is he going to move those kids to the GRASS?  But ohhh, nooo.  The horn blew, and those kids bounced across the pavement with all their might.  OHMYGOD!  I thought,  the Grand Pu-Ba is loaded, and doesn't realize that a kid could crack their head open, or break an arm.

This left me with only one choice:    scream at the top of my lungs to my 4 girls, "WIN!!!  WIN IT ALL!!"

Like I said, one day I will be The Exalted Ruler.

Overwhelm

So it's the third official day of summer vacation, and I'm ready for my kids to go back to school.  I'm kidding.  Not really.

 When we were IN school, I felt overwhelmed with state reports, book reports,  special singing and drumming presentations, Castle Day, Kindergarten sharing for the letter of the week, and watching my 5th graders being promoted.

In fact, 5th grade Promotion just happened to fall on the last day of school, AND the twins 11th birthday.  Anyone who's ever had a kid in school knows and understands the chaos of the "End of the Year" mayhem.  At precisely 8:40 AM,  I rushed to put Charlotte into the jogging stroller, because I knew full good and well, that if I didn't run to the school, I wasn't gonna get my sweat on that day.

What I totally did not expect, or see coming AT ALL, was the overwhelming emotions that overtook me as a parent.  As I was running across Lincoln Avenue, all of a sudden, instead of worrying if I would get to the school on time, I had this flashback of the twins in Kindergarten.  Little cutie patootie Blondies, full of excitement, anticipation, and joy over what elementary school could and would bring.  I was doing the ugly cry, and the stupid ceremony had even yet to begin!

Because now I get it.  They are my first.  They were in Kindergarten YESTERDAY.  And now they're not.  Next year they will be going to Willow Glen Middle School.  And I can't do a damn thing to stop it.

Gone is the innocence of all of the "fun" extracurricular school activities, like Walk-A-Thon and Family Fun Night. Many of these activities, which I straight up, boycotted.  C'mon, let's me honest for just a minute.  Which would you choose?   Going to a San Jose Giants game at the end of a long week, on a Friday night with 10,000 other Booksin kids, with a baby strapped to your midsection in a Bjorn?  Or sitting on your ass while drinking a glass of wine, de-compressing with spousey, while catching up on Oprah?  NO BRAINER...right?

It will never be the same for Abigail and Isabella.  And as much as I complain and kvetch about "fill in the blank here" part of their childhood, when it ends, it's over.  And when the next chapter comes, I grieve.  Gone are park days, and looking for worms after a  rain storm.  Here come bras and lip gloss...

The overwhelm of the summer scenario is simply this:  these damn kids are still here every morning at 8:01 AM.  WTF?  They like never leave.  It makes me feel as though I must actually schedule activities to keep us all sane.  Every morning, I'm greeted with the same question, from one of my bright eyed, positively radiant children,"Mom, what are we doing today?"  like I'm some sort of travel agent or concierge.

 I mean, just this past Sunday, I went to lunch, got a massage, played cards, and drank beer.  Not with my kids, silly.  With my very good friend.  I'm not really sure what the hell the kids did.  But it was the 10th anniversary of my 29th birthday, and so I didn't feel guilty about it.  Well, not too terribly guilty.

And let me tell you, it was a stellar day!  But after hitting the Capitola Brit, The Willow Den, and Aqui's, I  realized, that at some point during the day I needed to return to my homestead.   However, I also recognized it was very close to the girls bedtime.  This left me with only one decision:  go to The Marmist, and wait it out. Kidding, I didn't go to The Marmist.  But I WILL get in that place some day.  I have a dream, dammit.

Truth be told though, I could NOT go home just yet.  If I was able to successfully able to kill about another 30 minutes, I would be Scott free.  Free from bedtime stories.  Dreaded teeth brushing.  Requests of permission to go potty...one last time.   Please tell me I am not the only mother on the planet who does that.  Please validate my selfishness.

Or maybe I am.  I guess that makes me a horrible person.  But I think I'm okay with it.  Because seriously, we have like 500 more days of summer togetherness.

 Days filled with Library origami hours, and Happy Hollow.  Days that leave the floor of my truck resembling a playground sandbox, because we went to the beach.  And well, me washing 3 loads of nappy, gritty, wet, towels and bathing suits because we, well, went to the beach.   Days of my girls playing Hide n Go Seek out front with the neighbor kids after dark.  Evenings spent  raising a glass with my friends, as the kids dance in the lingering rays of sunlight as they don glow necklaces that somebody dug out from their Halloween left-overs.

I do love me some summer.  And well, pretty soon, these days of innocence will be long gone.

So when I start to complain again about the kids driving me nuts, just check me, will ya?  Gently remind me how quickly it goes.  Because before I know it, the twins will be going to their first dance.  Excuse me, as I go cry into my pillow now.

Pay It Forward

Doing the right thing is really, really, really hard sometimes.

Recently, when I found some money on the ground (40 BUCKAROO's to be a little more specific), I initially played that little game called, "Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers".  And then, almost immediately afterwards,  I felt guilty knowing that someone lost their cash.  That could be me. Or it could be you.  Shit, maybe it was you.  In that case, I should have kept it!

 Or after unpacking all of the groceries and baby into the car, it is then I find a package of contraband butter, which I find in some obscure location (like behind Charlotte's head in the car seat) that made it out of the store without being purchased.  Then the game is called, "REALLY, right now?!  Should I, or shouldn't I pack the baby back up, and go PAY?!!!!"

I have made a really significant discovery recently:  human nature leads us to the lazy path.  NOT the path of righteousness, man.

Just last week, our fam took a walk on a gloomy Sunday afternoon.  We were one block out, when it started to hail on us.  The girls took it as their opportunity to go "singen' in the rain,"  while Tom and I looked at each other, with an unspoken, "Should we turn back?" look.  Finally, after camping out under a tree for a good 5 minutes, waiting out the storm, I said, "Tom, let's man up here.  The girls are digging it."  And so we soldiered on to downtown Willow Glen.

By the time we made our way to Lincoln Avenue, the sun was shining, and the clouds had lifted.  I told the girls they could go into Powell's candy shop and each spend a buck...I know, big spender huh?  As we approached The Dark Side, (Powell's), I looked down to find three gift cards on the ground.  Two were for a chic little clothing boutique called Bella James.  And the other was for TJ Maxx Home Goods.

"SCORE!!!!" was my first thought.  I mean, I haven't bought any new clothes since the babe's been born, because truth be told, money has been more than a little tight.  Bella James is a store that I would never be able to afford, so I don't ever go in.  But I have seen it from the outside while I drink Sangria at Aqui's.

My second thought was, "Someone is really bummed right now because they lost these cards."  And so, with our girls on a severe sugar high, and following in tow, I marched into Bella James, and dropped the cards off to the clerk, explaining the situation

She said, "Oh, you know, I can TRACE these to whomever purchased them."  Well, that sucks, I thought.  I don't stand a chance.  "But if they're not claimed within the week, I will call you, okay?  Oh gosh, these are worth $100!"  I left my name and number, hoping I would luck out.

That call never came.  I waited until today to call and inquire about those gift cards, and the overly enthusiastic  clerk said, "OH!  She came in the very same day and claimed them!"

I was kind of expecting like a consolation prize or something.  How about one card for her, and one for me?  How about a phone call THANKING me for returning them?  Better yet, realizing what an outstanding citizen I am, I get $1,000 shopping spree at Bella James rewarding me for "doing the right thing"?

Nope.  I didn't get shit.  Just a good feeling inside.

Like I said before, doing the right thing is really, really, really hard sometimes.

Cry Baby

I am so EMO.  I am a crier.  There's no hiding it.  There's no shame in it.  It just is, man.  I am a cry baby.

I cry when I'm happy.  I cry when I'm feeling empathetic.  When I met my grand baby for the first time, I kissed on his rolls, and his sweet cheeks.   Then he had to get back on that plane with all grown up Katie-K, who's now a Mama doing a fine, damn job.  Not knowing when I would see those two precious beings again, I cried.  I cried when I left my Besties in Vegas, knowing full well,  that we'll probably never have a time quite like that again.

 I cry when I feel proud.  I cry when I'm overcome with emotion, with the tears that fall freely, being my release.

There have been many a time, smack dab in the middle of my Weight Watchers meeting, when I break down.  Professional?  Not exactly.  But part of my human condition?  Absolutely.

I received this gift from my Dad.  Oh - My - God, is that man a crier.  Through his example, I learned not to be ashamed, but rather, embrace emotion. Not quite the dealio for men of that generation.  A gift I've come to appreciate and accept about myself.

So it should be no surprise, that I started tearing up as I ran with the twins this last weekend.  You see, Abby and Bella have been involved in a program called Girls on the Run after school.  They have been training twice a week to run a 5k since the end of February.

The night before the race, I showed the girls how you get everything ready, 'cause race day comes damn early.  From your pony tail holder, to your socks, to your shoes, to having your oatmeal placed out on the counter and ready to go, the night before.

And so there we were on a chilly and overcast Saturday morning, awaiting the shuttle to take us into Vasona to the start line at  6:30 AM.  Excitement and anxiety filled the air, as 3,000 young ones waited to run.  Not to mention all of the mama's and daddies, grandma's and grandpa's who were lining the streets to cheer on their loved ones.

We took off in the front of the pack, racing like jack rabbits, to get the crowd behind us.  "Channel your inner Kenyan," I told the girls.  They didn't really get what I was talking about, but it sounded like a good pep talk at the time.  By the time we reached Mile 1, both girls had lost steam, feeling like they may need to walk.

"Let's just take it nice and easy.  Here we go, with a nice, and steady pace," I coached them.  By the time Mile 2 rolled around, I coaxed, "Only 1 mile left girls.  You are so strong."

All of a sudden, Bella got her second wind, and chimed in as though she was some sort of motivational speaker on a circuit, during a high school pep rally,  "C'mon Abby, 2 miles DOWN, only 1 left.  We GOT this THING!"

But Abby didn't look so convinced.  Bella started to ease ahead of us.  "Go ahead girl, we are right behind you," I said, not wanting to hold her back.  Abby and I fell into sync with each other.  As we crossed the bridge, with only a quarter of a mile to go, I looked over at Abby.  This was my very first time running with my daughter.  And here she was.  Sucking wind.  Sweating.  Pushing through.

My eyes started to tear up, pride filling my throat, so that I was barely able to eek out to her, "Abby, I'm so proud of you, babe."

There was something unexpected that happened as I watched her struggle, and then persevere through this physical hardship.  It felt as though my heart swelled with honor, gratification, and love on Saturday.  Not just for my girls.  But for all the little ones there, who never envisioned themselves accomplishing such a feat.  Running 3.1 miles is not for wimps...especially if you're in elementary school!

'Cause I know what it feels like to be unsure whether you're gonna make it or not.  To have a difficult time seeing the light, so to speak.  It's only when you reach deep within and do the extraordinary, do you find what you are really capable of.

I do believe I watched my daughter participate in that miracle on Saturday.  And I feel blessed to have been part of it.

Viva Las Vegas!

Or should I call this blog entry, "Cougars Take On Vegas", because I can't tell you how many times we were called that as we strutted our hot mommy bods down The Strip this last weekend.  One of us, would yell back, "We are NOT Cougars!", like that would effectively convince the young male passersby that indeed, we were still in our 20's.  But in our defense, we did have ONE cutie patootie with us who was all of  31 years of age.  And she was our Bobcat mascot.

Until this past weekend, I had never been to Vegas.  I had no idea what to expect.  And quite honestly, I don't think there is any way that one can physically, mentally, or spiritually  prepare for a girls weekend away in Sin City.

 I'll be the first to admit, that I was filled with anxiety, and felt a bit uneasy about this trip.  I was going with the same core group of ladies, more or less, that got kicked out of the PINK concert, plus 2 other women, whom I had never met before.

People just kept saying, "If you have something in your closet and you don't know when you'll ever wear it, bring it to Vegas."  And that I did.  As soon as I checked my bag packed full of more stilettos than one should own, I boarded the plane.   With Charlotte being only 6 months old, I carried on my pump.  Oh yeah, cause that's how mommy's roll.

I should have known from the moment I sat down on the plane next to two cute little 21 year old's who were doing vodka shots, I was in trouble.  One was saying she needed to get her nails did (which had yellow tips, by the way), and the other was telling me how great Vegas is because "You can smoke anywhere!"  I wanted to tell her, "Smoking is very bad for you," but I saved my Mommy pep talk for another time.

All the girls arrived at the airport, and the timing could not have been better.  I anxiously waited for my suitcase at the baggage claim.  As more and more passengers from my flight collected their belongings and rolled off to get drunk, or gamble all of their money away, I stood there.  Waiting.  Until I was the last one left.  Of course, this was just my luck!!  My first weekend away in FORever, and my bag was lost.

How, oh how, would all that sequined hooker gear, glitter, and high heels be replaced?  The Southwest assistant, assured me, "As soon as your bag arrives, we will deliver it to your hotel."

I wanted to scream at him, "DO YOU KNOW THAT I STARTED PACKING MY GLITTER AND SHORT DRESSES A WEEK AGO?  DO YOU KNOW HARD IT IS TO FIND COMFORTABLE STILETTOS IN A GOD DAMN SIZE 10?"

But I didn't.  I held back tears, and soldiered on.

And the girls were great about it.  In fact, come to think of it, when we arrived at the hotel, no one dared even unpack their bag because I think they were afraid I would spontaneously combust.  Instead, we went shopping "just in case" I would need a dress for that night.  We were quickly schooled on the symptoms of alcohol poisoning when out of a gaggle of young drunk guys ahead of us, one hit the deck with his HEAD on the marble floor, and then started bleeding.

Again, I wanted to shout out, "THAT is NOT being SAFE!"  But I held back, and just watched in horror, as this guy's "friends" loaded him into a wheelchair to go get more drinks.  "That's not cool," we said to them. WTF?  Crazy!

Just then, my phone rang.  Lo and behold, my bag was found.  Glory and hallelujah on high!  I have never felt so much relief in my life.  I mean, unless you count the time I delivered the twins, and they were finally out of my body.

Anyways, the progression of debauchery basically started from there, and the weekend went somewhat like this:

Thursday night was spend at Studio 54, and Rok; two clubs where ladies get in and drink for free before 12.  There is no mistake.  You read that right.  A man I'll refer to as, The Leprechaun,  tried to spin me on the dance floor.  I had to tell that small little man, "DO NOT spin me, or I will squish you like a bug, thank you."  We got home around 3 o'clock in the morning.

Friday was spent at Walgreen's investing large sums of money in band aids and protective Dr.Scholl's goods.  After one night in heels, most of our feet were toast.  We hung by the pool.  And then rallied for another night out at The Venetian for dinner, and Club Tao.  We met another small little man there named Bruno.  He was nice and let us sit on his couch, because by this point, we could no longer walk, and had resorted to hobbling.  By the time we got home it was 4:30 am, and we thought our Bobcat would need a pinkie toe amputation.  As Ella yelled at us, "WASH YOUR FEET", I stared in horror at Bobcat's little toe.  I had never seen anything so purple, and swollen, and angry.  I wanted to help Bobcat by draining those blisters, but I wasn't strong enough.  Cornell stepped in and took care of business, while French Gulch prepared yummy grilled cheese sandwiches.  If you haven't guessed already, we had all gained a nick name by this point.  However, I still have too much mind fog to remember what mine was.

By the time Saturday rolled around, we decided to start our evening with a show at The Wynn, followed by yet another night of clubbing, at Surrender.  By now, we broke the code, and figured out how to get our names on the guest list.  No line.  No pay.  THAT's what I'm talken about.  We got home by 3 am.

I have never experienced anything like Vegas in all my life.  We rallied.  We owned that town.  We were Cougars on the prowl.  With one Bobcat, to boot.  I spent time with my besties.  And I met two women who I am now honored to call my friends.

I'll never forget that before I left, my girlfriend warning me, "You are going to be out until 4 or 5 in the morning."  I shrugged her off, and said, "No way.  I never even did that in college.  I won't be able to hang."

But you do.  Cause it's Vegas, baby!

The Sisterhood

"Mama, was Charlie a planned baby or a surprise baby?"  Cosette asked between bites of Cheerios, one day this past week.

"Um, she is a bit of both," I answered honestly, "Daddy and I were surprised that we were having her,"
(WHY that came as a shock to Tom or me, while using the Natural Family Planning Method, and after sharing a bottle of wine on DAY 13 -the most fertile day for most women - in my cycle, is beyond any logical comprehension), "But God definitely had a plan for her to join our family,"  I finished up my explanation nice and neat, like.

One must be careful with the info that is given to the siblings... I'm already flashing forward to the near future, as Cosette is screaming at her baby sister for some sort of injustice that has taken place.  Perhaps after Charlotte has ruined a Lego house, stolen a Barbie from her grips, or chucked a rock at her head for some unknown reason, with Cozy yelling frantically, "You weren't even PLANNED!!!  You were just a SURPRISE."

 This in turn, I'm convinced, will lead Charlotte to counseling in her early 20's.

As Abigail was holding Charlie on her lap, I just couldn't get over the resemblance between the two.  Not that I even remember what the hell Abby looked like at that age.  Shit, I don't remember much of the twins early existence.  But there are some pictures floating around, that do indeed prove, they're mine.  And yes, with this picture proof, Abby at six months old, looks a lot like Charlotte.   It's like creepy, eerie, and strange just how much those two in particular, resemble each other.

 After sharing this revelation with Abby, she said, "Well Mom, you know how Bella and I grew inside of you?  This is how I think it goes...we left a little piece for the next baby.  So Emma got it.  And then Em left a little piece for Cosette.  And well," she sighed, looking down empathetically at Charlotte, "Sorry Charlie, I don't think your little piece is gonna work out for another baby."

It was almost enough to make me want to bring life into the world once again.  NOT.

What I've found is this:  when the thought of having another child repulses you/scares the shit out of you, as a woman, you are officially done reproducing.  And that, my fellow readers, is where I'm at.  I can just hear you all applauding right now from the privacy of your own home computers.  Yes, the game is over.  The store is closed.  Nicely put, our family is complete.

And that's a good thing, considering I almost killed Isabella on Monday.  For the second time in the past 6 months, Bella left her glasses in a spot, where the spectacles were smashed into a tangled mess by another person's feet.

 The first time, she got a time out, and a talken to.  The second time, I SAW RED.

"Bella, you need to come up with PLAN of how you will take care of your GLASSES.  And you are not to come out until dinner.  I'm too angry to even discuss it with you rationally right now."

And I wasn't kidding.  I find it somewhat comical though, when after hearing Mama's angry wrath, everyone else who IS NOT in trouble, makes sure to stay the hell out of my way.

Abby, Emma and Cosette played Calico Critters with each other in hushed whispers, like good girls who are scared of  what their mom will do, if hypothetically speaking, they ask for a snack, or something of the sort.  Their eyes, darting up every now and again, to make sure it was safe, for example, to use the bathroom.

After getting the other girls situated with dinner, I decided I was in my right mind to speak with Bella without completely losing it.

"Bella, do you know how much glasses cost?  Do you know how hard Daddy works to pay for them so that you can do your best at school?  What is your plan to take care of them?"  I asked in a somewhat Zen tone.

"Well, I can put them into my case when I'm done wearing them," she answered.

"That's a FABULOUS idea.  But this time, you are going to pay for the damage to the glasses.  You will be responsible for it, because by the looks of them, I'm not sure if they are repairable,"  I was really trying to drive the point home.

Her lip started to quiver, eyes welling up with tears.  "But HOW am I supposed to do that Mom?  I'm just a KID!  I don't have a JOB!  I don't have that kind of money."

Oh please.  She was actually trying the "I'm just a kid" line.

"Your job, Bella,  is to be a good student, sister, and daughter, while being responsible for your things.  You better get resourceful.  Look in your piggy bank and figure it out."

By this time, she was bawling, not knowing how she would move forward with the severity of the spectacle situation.

"Come to the table when you've pulled yourself together.  Dinner is ready,"  and with that, I made my exit out of her room, and onto the couch to nurse Charlie.

Shortly thereafter, Bella joined her sisters at the table, and explained, "Mom said I have to pay to have my glasses fixed," sniffly snot.

Almost immediately, Emma chimed in, "We'll help you Bella.  We can have a Lemonade stand."

"And how about a car wash?"  Abby added.

"Don't worry Bella, we'll help you," Cosette added.

And for a moment, Isabella, stopped crying.  She looked up at her sisters, and understood, that she may have been lost, but now had been found.



And it is my hope and prayer, that when Tom and I meet our maker, and we are now longer here, our girls will love, care, and look out for each other.  I believe deeply, that this is the most valuable gift that can be gained from being in this thing called, "family".

I also believe that if Bella's glasses get smashed ONE more time, you will most likely see me on the 5 o'clock news for homicide.