Down Time

I'm in a frenzy of unwashed laundry, trying to push it through the system before we leave on vacation tomorrow. I am finding that there are few things that I treasure more than those quiet moments on vacation with my family. Like the quiet when my honey and I have our reading lights on, going blind trying to read because we couldn't possibly sleep because it's so early, while the kids toss and turn and slowly go to sleep. Or the quiet hug that happens because one kid is cold with blue lips and the other two aren't ready to get out yet.

I'm trying to take it all in, because I know that when I blink it will be over. They'll be jumping in cars with their friends, moving into apartments and going to the beach with their own families. In the meantime, better wash me some more swimsuits.

And You Think You Have Pet Hair Issues!

It's at least 90 degrees out. Russell's brushing dogs this afternoon and this is what my porch looks like at the moment. The collies are dropping their winter coats. Pretty awesome, isn't it? And this is just from the first two. There are seven more to go!

Don't have much to say about this - I think in this case the picture is worth at least 10,000 words. Just looking at it makes me hot. I'm going to get a glass of ice water now.

The Freedom of the Big Fail

I made an incredibly ugly shed this week. I didn't mean to – it was supposed to be fabulous. In fact, I secretly pride myself on having an incredible color sense. On my mom's side there were generations of Scottish weavers, and I imagine myself to be the beneficiary of their collective artistic magic. I don't announce this to people, but I think it, when I'm all alone.

So we have this shed in our backyard. A standard wooden shed, which doesn't have to be painted, but had weathered to kind of an ugly blackish brown. I followed Martha's advice and picked out colors after lots of deliberation. I painted swatches to see them in all kinds of light. I looked at it for days, soliciting opinions and only listening to the ones I liked. (Isn't that always the way?) Then I painted and I got help from a variety of inexperienced young painters.

Check out my ugly shed! Everyone's been really quiet about it - a sure sign that it's ugly. Finally today I got a comment that I think kind of sums it up. My friend had called me artistic a few minutes before. Then I showed him the shed.

"Wow! What are you going to paint it?" he said.

"I just painted it. I think I don't like it," I replied – to give him room to say he liked it.

"It's awful – someone else picked the colors?"

"Nope – all me - and you just called me artistic, remember?"

"Yeah...well your artistry is really with words, you know?"

I don't always give myself permission to have the big ugly failure. I'm worried about what people will think of me and hate to draw attention to myself. I make the small quiet tidy choice, instead of the bold, potentially horrific one. And I'd like to thank my sweet husband for being pretty nice about the ugly shed. I am trying to fix it, it just might take me a while to figure out how. Now that I'm properly humbled, I'd love your suggestions.

I Love the Name Stephen Hawking, Don't You?

You never know what you're going to hear when you're driving kids in the car. As you turn the key, you become magically invisible and they talk as if they are alone. And it starts young – even toddlers are not immune.

This was the conversation that I got to overhear as we went to school recently:

"I love the name Stephen Hawking, don't you?" says one first grade twin to his sister.

"Is that what you're going to name your baby?"

"Maybe. Especially if it's a boy. He has ALS, so he is in a wheelchair. He talks with a machine."

"I'm not going to name my baby Stephen Hawking."

"That's ok."

Life Off the A-List

Someone tracked dog doo on the carpet and up the stairs yesterday. I scrubbed up that mess, and followed it up with a few more minutes cleaning up cat yorp. This is my life. All the while I mused about something my friend told me at lunchtime – my town has an A-list.

My life has been spent pretty much off the A-list. I was the kid everyone fought to have on the other team in kick ball. Never a cheerleader, didn't make homecoming queen, passed over for a sorority. Don't get me wrong - I've had my share of friends - good ones. I'm quite happy and I think pretty well-adjusted. But I find myself being envious of the people who are invited to all the right everything, and yet I'm a little uncomfortable once I'm actually in the room.

In my imagination, A-listers never have to deal with mundane matters like bodily fluids. They have people calling them for intimate dinners, cocktail parties and weekends away. Their children get invited to all the nice birthday parties and their houses are always clean, with fabulous furniture.

I have a lot of ambition too, but the social kind, or maybe it's just social savvy, got left out of my DNA. I'm left with my own day dreams about becoming a back-up singer, what I'd make to win a Project Runway challenge, and my Nobel Prize acceptance speech. Like my bathrobe?

The Reign of Terror Is Ended

I have located the talking toy. It is a tiny veterinary establishment, complete with x-ray machine and examining table. When you touch the x-ray viewing module, it says in a British accent, "There, aren't you feeling better now?"

I think the cat was getting an x-ray. It was either that or some kind of haunting.

I have disabled the toy by removing its power source. Be silent, cheerful British woman!

Lessons From the Field

It's baseball season. In the Junior Farm League, we play at least twice a week, usually in back of the school, but sometimes behind the rod and gun club. I know they're safe, but those gun club games just seem wrong. You've got guys shooting guns on the other side of a hedge behind the outfield. Other guys ride ATV's on a road that goes off into the woods. Some of us parents are collectively freaking, but the boys don't seem to notice.

Corralling first grade boys on to the field is a lot like herding cats. They can't figure out their positions and often end up a few on one side, none on the other. Some kid hit a beautiful pop fly last night and five kids ran into each other trying to make the catch at third base. Right after that, the first baseman, who likes catching balls, tried to run to third because there were more hits there. Makes sense to me.

My sweet boy is the team goofball. He smiles and laughs through almost the entire game. When he gets tired, he sits. When he squats in "baseball position," he often falls down. And yesterday he had three hits.