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.

Shutting It

My mouth, that is.  I have a wicked tongue and the "is it true, kind, or necessary" stuff is a struggle, especially the "necessary" part. Oh, and the "kind" section too.  Sometimes I have to physically remove myself from a situation to avoid saying something destructive. Not painting a pretty picture, am I? 

Case in point: I had an encounter with a teacher this morning (no, not one anyone knows so rest easy) and it ended up I discovered I was right.  Even if I had been in the wrong, the attitude I was handed was unpleasant and nothing gets me rankled so easily as attitude. But as it turns out, I was right and I really wouldn't care, but I was made to question myself and to feel like a flaky, disorganized and generally clueless parent (all things I am guilty of at times) and I clearly wasn't.  This time.

So I'm having difficulty letting this one go and even came up with a sweet way of making sure she knew I really wasn't being an idiot, but is it necessary to do say something? No, it is not. I have a wise husband who reinforced the idea that to address it would not help, and he is right.

It's so hard.  So very, very hard.

Big deep breath and sigh...

Champagne Problems*

A friend who I wish, wish, wish lived next door used this term during a recent conversation and I have fallen in love with it.  In a humbling sort of way.

These are almost exactly the kinds of problems I've been fortunate to have.  The ones where we have to decide which school district we should live in, which sort of car to purchase, which job to take or career path to follow, and on and on and on.

This doesn't mean I should feel guilty because I usually don't have serious decisions to make, but it does mean that my perspective is usually a little off and that is where the behavior modification needs to kick in. There needn't be any level of agonizing, or hand-wringing, or deep sighing, or the allowing of undergarments getting wadded somewhere. There needs to be more big-picture and contentment and less self-centeredness.  There needs to be more prayer and service and less grumbling.  And prayer. And maybe a beverage to keep it real. 


*Yes, I am very aware I may be the last person on the planet who has heard this phrase.  I know I am not cool or trendy.  I get it. It is unnecessary to remind me.

The Purple House

One of the girls is obsessed with this house.  She simply calls it "The Purple House" and requests a drive-by whenever we're close. I mean, what little girl wouldn't want to live in a purple or pink house? Perfectly normal, right?  Absolutely.

But for her it isn't simply being enamored with a home splendidly painted in her favorite color.  There is also a plan.  And the plan is that she is going to buy this house when she becomes a nurse and works in a children's hospital, and live in it with an assortment of animals whose names are already chosen, as well as some dear friends of ours (Fooz and Dord) so she can take care of them.  There will be a "food garden", and we (the family) will all be invited to come for dinner every night to eat on the balcony, which is not in the picture but, trust me, bears a striking resemblance to a deck. 

Word has it that she has described The Purple House to others as being "as beautiful as a rose petal".  And she means it. This child wears her heart on her sleeve, truly loves this house and has dreams for it. 


Oh to be five and live in a world where dreams and hopes of purple houses and taking care of people will, without question, come true. 

It's times like this when I realize how pragmatic I've become and I don't like it very much.  I used to be more of a dreamer, and while we all need a healthy dose of reality sometimes, maybe I've taken too much in the last few years and have come to depend on it. My children should not have to worry about whether or not the logistics of plans will work out.  There is too much time for that later.