Here! You do it! Or, how I almost lost my Lego Builder Elite Status.

It started with an ultimate find: the kids were at Fooz's house and she discovered an UNOPENED Lego set, circa 1980-something, under some shelves.  The kids were besides themselves and couldn't wait to show me.

A pull-back race car, support vehicle with trailer, 500 pieces.  No sweat, right?  I mean, these are the kids who are flipping out because a Lego store is supposed to come here and pore over catalogs and the Lego website, trying to decide the sets they want, in order of importance.  Big decisions.

This should have been a walk in the park, blindfolded, and finished in 30 minutes.  It was not. Whatever cars or trucks we've put together have been predominantly brick-based with a couple axles.  Sure, lots of layers and eensy parts, but ultimately no sweat.  These bad boys were crazypants and took a few hours of actual concentration.  John and I helped Ainsley with the first car, John worked on the second, and Gracie and I (and Lizzy a bit) helped with the trailer.  And that's where my coolness factor stumbled a bit.  A lot.  Enough that John was hysterically laughing at me and I was trying not to curse out loud.  It was one of those "It's finished, let's try it out. Why isn't it working? What's the deal? Wha...some of it's upside-down". Frick and Frack!!!

That's when Ainsley walked in and I said "Here. You do it!" and, of course, she did.  Most of it at least, while John just thought the whole gig was hilarious. The can't-tell-if-he's-breathing laughing. Punk.

But I rallied and figured it all out and everyone is happy and The Mommy is still a little cool.  Or maybe it's more that I won't have to hear "Hey, give it to Daddy because you know Mommy can't do it".

I live for the little victories.

We Have Taught Her Well

I realize it's blurry, but that's Bananie, standing on a stool, dressed in nothing but a hairbow, diaper, and socks.  Bon Jovi (Living On A Prayer) was playing and she was waving her taggies and dancing like the polite young lady I am raising her to be.

My work, at least with this one, is finished.

Top Eight Signs I Can No Longer Deny My Decade

Occasionally a run starts and, within 20 yards or so, I can tell it's going to be horrific. By the time I hit the corner today I knew this one might not be worth my time and I was definitely not going to go as far as I had hoped.  The intent was 4+-5 miles, and I forced myself to stagger an even 4.  I ended up having loads of time to think and then park at the conclusion that I can no longer live in denial. 

My name is Kitty/Mom/Mommy/Mama/Honey and I am middle-aged.  The raw numbers can be ignored, but the signs can not.  They are, in order of stream of consciousness:

1. I had my first "Wow, I hope when I'm your age..." a month ago. 

2. I'm not quite sure where to shop for clothes or what to buy when I get somewhere. WAY WAY too young for Coldwater Creek (no offense), REI makes me look tired, too old for J Crew and starting to phase out of Gap. 

3. John and I are watching SNL (right now) and are laughing while we're watching Akroyd and Martin guest the Festrunk Brothers.  

4.  Ibuprofen is critically necessary for me to run around with my kids.

5. All the new neighbors are REALLY REALLY young and cute and not-haggard looking.

6. We realized today we won't have a "fun" car for another 20 years and even then there's no guarantee after 5 college tuitions and 4 weddings. Thank you, Trey. Thank you very much.

7. I don't know why, but I lived in our 20+ year old college sweatshirts this winter.  You know, the grey Champion ones we only bought in size "L".

8. I snart and don't care. Or notice. Look it up.

Meet George

Ever since a friend's son demonstrated this clever clothing configuration, my kids think it's hilarious to be George of the Jungle. The trips jump on their beds and act like monkeys, but so far Bananie is content to just run around and believe herself to be darling.  Which she is.