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Well, hello there.

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

We just returned from a ridiculously lovely European vacation.

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

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

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

Eek.

Lots more coming, I promise.

One for the grandparents

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chase laid in bed at home with a broken heart.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, that's it.

Oh shut up.

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

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

And the entire crew after the race:

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

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

What I've been up to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They came and I cried a puddle of grateful tears.

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

What I have learned is this:

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

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

The sin of gluttony is a bad one

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

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

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

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

Not to mention, by this time, extremely hungry.

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

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

Sadly, that WAS our destination.

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

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

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

image via

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

I do have some class.

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

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

Celebrating the important holidays

 

Yesterday was a big day.

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

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

Still clueless?

Then you must be new around here.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

And makes sure that none of us forget it either.



I think it's pretty freaking awesome.

The Va-Jay-Jay Cheerleader

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

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

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

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

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

Cue my introduction to the current lady bits inspector.

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

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

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

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

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

Okay.  Maybe I exaggerate.

But only slightly.

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

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

It's the stupid circle of life.

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

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