We're never gonna make it to the lightening round

Stephen: "Dad, I got a question. What is your favorite thing to do?"
Monte: "I dunno. Uh, maybe, watching College Basketball on TV?"
Stephen, making a loud buzzer sound: "INCORRECT! I'm sorry, but your favorite thing to do is play with me."
Monte: "Ah, I knew it was something like that!"

I'm dreaming of white space

I enjoy scrapbooking. I enjoy looking at professionally designed scrapbook pages. I often am overheard saying to myself, "Why, the sample scrapbook page in this picture is beautiful. I can do that! I'll just copy what they did, and then I will have the very same page myself. Simple!"

That's pretty much the exact moment it all goes wrong.

I probably should mention I've never been to art school or design college or even drawn one of those mice out of the magazines that promise lessons by correspondence, but I do know a little about layout and design from reading up on the subject and spending 18 years in the home of an elementary school art teacher. Just enough knowledge to be dangerous, really. From this painfully limited amount of knowledge comes my understanding of the concept of white space. Although it seems counter intuitive (we'll get to that later) having a good deal of white space (or blank place) in your design is actually necessary in encouraging the viewer's eye to focus on the other part that isn't blank. The design part. White space is sort of a reverse eye magnet. It also works to frame the design, and makes the whole thing look clean and beautiful, not cluttered or busy. Logically I completely get it--white space is attractive and useful, and you'd think it would be simple to employ. Basically, you just have to leave a part of your page blank. I mean when you boil white space down to its most basic argument, what could be easier than not doing something?

Unfortunately when it comes to real life application, my brain gets a little fuzzy. I look at the page and I inexorably start throwing every element but the kitchen sink in there, because more is more is more, right? RIGHT? I let the wave of "extra pretties" wash over me like I've got some terrible addiction to 'one more brad, one more flower, one more sticker' and I only stop when I'm out of breath and the page is ruined.

Once I come down from the momentary high I step back and look at my well intentioned page now looking like a Hobby Lobby threw up on it and I think, "but my page is ugly. It doesn't look like the page in the picture. How can that be?" knowing full well it is because the lady who designed the original page didn't cover hers in $600 worth of ephemera.

The good news is since I'm leaning digitally right now, there's plenty of latitude in taking out the excess without having to completely start over. The bad news is, I'm me, and it take several efforts before I'm able to stop being me and control the crazy. The page below took three days to put together,  and after eliminating half the original layers even I know it's still too full. The design I was attempting to copy mocks me with its vastly reduced clutter and conspicuous white space. That ever elusive white space. The holy white space grail. Someday I'll pull it off . . . maybe.Or probably I'll just start buying quick pages and have done with it!

Kristi

PS For those of you curious at home, there are nearly 40 layers in the CS2 version of this file. Somebody get me some help.

Merry Christmas from all the boys!

Things we don't deserve

Unless you're highly unlucky or have the personality of a pregnant yak, you have friends. Most of the time friendships are give and take, and if an accountant with a ton of time on his hands were to examine that give and take, he'd find it pretty balanced at the end of a lifetime.

Most of the time.

Then there are those people who just seem to give and give and give, and eventually it becomes apparent you are in a position where you'd have to have the resources of Warren Buffet and Mother Theresa to pay all the love, support, gifts and favors back.

We got us a couple of those.

First, there's Rickey and Susie. Rickey builds things like spare bedrooms, and fixes things like broken walls, on his own precious spare time (because he's got a day job too, like I don't have enough to feel guilty about). He always shows up when we're in a jam, like Batman or Iron Man--somebody who isn't just a superhero, but who brings his own tools. And he never says "you know, just once I'd like to be home watching HGTV and eating a chili cheese dog, instead of in your basement discovering which of my joints hurts worse when overworked." And Susie? She tells me I'm doing a good job and everything is going to work out splendidly, when anyone with eyes can see I'm not and it won't. And I always believe her--seriously, everyone needs someone who will lie to your face, and then help you clean up the mess. I can't tell you how much I love her and have grown to depend on her. Know what I do to earn all that? Yeah, I don't either.

Then, there's Michael and Alicia. They show up every Christmas without fail, with a beautiful tray of food you know they spent hours on, that I always hope I'm gonna get and am never worthy of. That food is like a Christmas bonus for stay at home "non-revenue generating" moms. It's a "job well done" platter. Know what I do in return? Eat it. Every year. Just consume it like I haven't eaten in a week. (This year was particularly yummy as you can see.)

So for those of you out there grappling with inequitable friendships this Christmas, I feel your pain. I guess it's the whole underlying theme of the season, isn't it? Gifts given, undeserved? I suppose the best we, the unworthy, can do is to be as ridiculously grateful as possible, and remind those people in our lives how much they mean to us every chance we get, because dang it, Christmas 2010 is only 13 months away, and we're about to be reminded once again how unfair it all is. As we stuff our mouths with delicious cookies.

Kristi

PS While I'm on the subject of being thankful, the funniest thank you card I ever saw was one of those Hallmark jobs that said "Muchas Gracias" on the front, and then inside, it read "That's Spanish for 'if I were any more thankful, I'd give you my car!'" I don't know why, but that always makes me laugh.

All aboard the Santa Train!

The Kansas City Southern "Holiday Express" (better known to the locals as the Santa Train) was in Slater, MO yesterday. I grew up near there and my parents still live in the area, so they knew all about this wonderful event. I had never heard of it before yesterday at 10 a.m. Here's how the telephone call from my mom went:

MOM: "Hey, you should take the kids out of school, call Karen, and all of you should come to Slater and see the Santa Train. Elaine and Clyde are going."

ME: "Wait a minute. You want me to take the kids out of school, in the freezing cold, pick up my sister in law and her two kids, pack up the strollers, car seats, snacks, diaper bags and play station portables, drive an hour to Slater (which is a town of what, 200 people and no Starbucks,) to see a train? Really? A train that my 70 year old aunt and uncle find interesting enough to go to? Are you kidding me?"

MOM: "It's supposed to be really neat. You should come."

ME: "Are they giving away free televisions or babysitting services? Will Bono be there, or some form of massage therapy be offered?"

MOM: "Um, I think the kids will like it. They'll see Santa--wont that be nice?"

ME: "Fine, but there had better be irreplacable childhood memories I get out of this, that I can throw back at them when they tell me what a substandard parent I was."

MOM: "I'm sure there will be. It's the only reason your father and I took you kids to Disneyland."

The phone call didn't quite go like that, but the gist was that no, in fact, she was not kidding, and as an even bigger surprise, it turned out to be a great time. Those Slater people know what they're doing getting the Santa Train to come to their sleepy little burg whose only other claim to fame is being the boyhood home of Steve McQueen. (Seriously. There are signs everywhere. They're really proud of Steve. Uh, Mr. McQueen.) Once we arrived and secured a good parking space next to the Dollar General Store (in case of a snack or drink or diaper emergency) we swaddled the kids up in forty layers of clothing and stood in line outside to get into the train. The line moved pretty quickly and once inside the cars, we were treated to the heated and dazzlingly decorated interior looking for all the world like Macy's and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir had been shoved inside it. Apparently, the employees of Kansas City Southern Railroad donate their time to deck it out, and they do an incredible job. Every bit of wall and ceiling was ornamented. One of the train cars even had two model trains running inside it (trains within a train--cute, KCSI). The whole thing was well worth it, (don't tell my mom I said that) and as any good scrapbooker would, I got one or two decent shots for the books (more on the Holiday Express can be found here: http://www.kcsi.com/en-us/GeneralPublic/Pages/HolidayExpress.aspx and the actual Slater, MO stop is mentioned here: http://www.cityofslater.com/Santa%20Train%20-%20Holiday%20Express.html)

Here are some photos of our awesome train filled 22 degree, day:

Karen, Megan and Noah in front of the train engine. Noah refused to look anywhere but at the trains.

Once we got inside, the first thing you get to do is sit on Santa's lap. I thought Santa and Peyton made a cute couple, but he was more interested in what was coming in the next train car . . .

Where we got to see the model trains. He LOVES trains, and it was tough to get him away from the little one and out of the big one.

This shot doesn't do the model train justice--let's just say I was very impressed at the detail and effort that must have gone into this thing.

I suppose the moral of this story is, if your mother calls you on the phone and seems to be out of her mind and begins telling you to drive to Slater, MO to see a train in 22 degree weather with small children, you should do it, whether you suspect her to be completely unhinged or not. Merry Christmas everybody!

For the Love of all that is good and holy, MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!

I just wish Ben would assert himself more. He's such a shrinking violet.

Maya Kisses, Benny and Sid-a-nee.

One drink, two straws

Funny

I turned around, and the boys had put on Monte's shirt, with Mason coming out of the left side and Stephen coming out of the right--they're the two headed Ellis! Hilarious, aren't they? It's all about the funny.

Monte-isms

In our many years together, I've found there are very specific and misappropriated phrases Monte makes up that can only be described as Monte-isms. A Monte-ism is a phrase that doesn't make sense on its face, but when you delve deeper into the phrase and really look hard at the circumstances in which the phrase was used and the person making the phrase up, you are forced to admit that it still doesn't make sense.

Not sure what I mean? Need some examples? I thought you'd never ask.

I suggested Mason might like to go shopping with me. Monte said "Shopping?!? Enjoy shopping?!?! He doesn't enjoy doing stuff he LIKES!!!"

Or, there's the example from early on in our marriage when I asked if a particular activity was romantic or not. His reply? "Well it doesn't start the engine, but that doesn't meant it doesn't open the car door."

I don't think Monte is related to Yogi Berra, but I do think he is a great, albeit misunderstood, philosopher and someday, someone will discover a Rosetta stone that will translate all of these Monte-isms into phrases that we mere mortals can understand. Until then, I live lost in translation.

Sad News

About six weeks ago, Stephen went through a period of desperately wanting a pet. We already had a dog we had to give away (nobody had time to play with her, and I'm not a dog person), and some goldfish that got flushed because, again, nobody really paid any attention to them. Clearly, we're not pet people.

I attribute some of my "pet desensitization" to growing up on a farm and watching pet after pet die under tractor wheels and inside farm machinery. Monte grew up with pets in the house, but they for the most part were cared for by his mom. Since I'm not so good in that role, the question of having a pet has rested largely in the "stalemate" pile. He wants them inside, I'll tolerate them outside, so nobody wins. This system of mutually assured destruction has worked for a long time for our family.

Over the last year or so though, Stephen has really pressed us hard to get a pet. I blame the public school system and their class turtles, guinea pigs, frogs, baby chicks and the like. Clearly, they are attempting to teach science with a little psychology thrown in, but I've been out of school for years, and I think I'm the only person this lesson is aimed at. So, after Stephen's repeated begging we got a guinea pig. She was a pretty little calico thing, and Stephen named her "Sam" although everyone called her "Puppy" because that's what Peyton called her. She was doing well and growing and things were looking good . . . for a while.

Then, once the honeymoon period was over, she didn't get a whole lot of attention. Nobody had much time for her and it looked like she was going to live the life of an island--solitude in the midst of activity. This time though there was a new wrinkle--after a week of acting lethargic and strange, Puppy died. She started her downward when we noticed she had stopped eating. Then came the lying very still, even when someone was near her cage, and finally, all she did was put her head down in the grass and breathe very fast, with a little whine thrown in. You don't have to grow up on a farm to know what was going down, but my country education didn't fail me. I figured we were headed for the big Timothy Hay pile in the sky.

What I didn't count on was Stephen's reaction. He cried and cried, and asked if we would see Puppy again in heaven, and why Puppy had to die and and so on. I was really surprised. Yesterday he didn't have time to play with Puppy, and today he was shocked and saddened to hear Puppy was gone. Monte decided we'd have a little funeral for Puppy and I was so touched when Stephen said a prayer over his pet's lifeless body, wishing her new happiness and health in heaven (we didn't argue with his theology). This scene moved even my dried up remote practical cranky heartless heart.

Monte is already saying we should wait at least a week before we get Puppy's replacement. I nearly choked on my shaken iced tea lemonade. We really don't deserve another pet, Stephen's big blue eyes notwithstanding.

Separated at egg, uh, birth

Baby Ben got glasses, and it touched off a firestorm of controversy. IS he the true and uncontested twin brother, NOT of Sydney, but instead of Egghead Junior of the Warner Brothers Foghorn Leghorn cartoons? Perhaps of Chicken Little? You have the photographic evidence before you. You be the judge!

Freedom, baby

Peyton has been developing such a funny little personality. He likes to say "Hi" to total strangers. We're a family of introverts, so this part is new to us. The thing is, he's choosy. He doesn't go after the grandmotherly types who fawn all over him, or even motherly types who tell him how cute he is. He likes a challenge. He only says "Hi" to the cranky man or woman with the downward gaze and averted eyes of a person on a mission of great importance for, let's say, the government. Or Gene Simmons (he strikes me as somebody you don't want to do a poor job for.) Know what I mean? The W.C. Fields types who have "I hate kids" tattooed on themselves somewhere, or who clearly think the effort of returning a 19 month old's "Hi" is beneath them. That's when P-dog goes to work. "Hi!" "Hi!" "Hi!" over and over, each greeting working harder than the last. (Yeah, that's right. W.C. Fields. I said it. Google him.)

I'm such a sap, because it always bothers me that the people he's "Hi"ing never ever turn around and throw him a bone. Ever. So I end up saying hi to him for them, as a sort of a "they suck, but don't worry, I'll always be here to say Hi to" consolation prize. I seriously doubt he notices the difference, but I'm in there, plugging away at the positive language reinforcement, so that I can regret it later when he turns 9 and recites for me all in one breath the entire L.A. Lakers roster, complete with alternates and coaching staff. (I have one of those already.)

He's also big into independence. This is fine for his overall development, but frankly it stinks when I have to go to the bathroom, or take groceries in, or pull the laundry out of the washer . . . basically when I have to do something that requires both hands, both eyes and most of my brain. It's a given these are things I can't hold a baby while doing, but things that I am negatively reinforced in if I put them off (see the bathroom entry). Again, this is when Peyton springs into action. Today, I had to bring in the groceries. I had frozen food in there, so I couldn't put it off. Peyton was in the yard in a safe location, next to the car, looking at a leaf.

See? There he is. Just fine. Enjoying nature. The kitchen is only about 20 steps away, to and from. I'll just take a bag of groceries in to the kitchen. I mean, it's not far at all. Ten seconds, tops. Maybe less at a light jog. He'll be just fine right where he is, long enough for me to get this bag of melting food inside.

Yeah, right.

When I came back out, he was past the circle drive and nearly three houses down, running at full crazy-happy-drunk toddler speed. This is a picture of him coming back after finally heeding my impassioned pleas, smiling all the way. "Looooookit me!"

Freedom, baby.

A Firm Foundation

Monte's latest trick is turning carpet into hard wood flooring. We replaced our computer room floor, and although I was worried some or all of our crazy computer connections wouldn't go back, everything seems to be up and running.

The only drawback is, with carpet, the dust settles in it to be [eventually] vacuumed out. Hardwood says, "Hey, world, I'm dusty, and the people living here walk RIGHT over me and do nothing at all about it." Dang it, now I really really really need to mop more.

Captain Underpants

For the last two weeks or so, Monte has been reading to Stephen at night to help fulfill a homework requirement. They started out with some Dr. Seuss stuff, and Junie B. books (which I personally loathe beyond all reasonable understanding), but lately, they've progressed into the "Captain Underpants" series by Dav Pilkey. At first it was just Monte and Stephen. But they laughed and laughed so much, it lured Mason in to the room to pile into the big purple chair with two other people just to see what all the hubbub was about. Now Mason reads with his dad and brother every night, even though Captain Underpants really isn't 4th grade reading material (it's more like 4th grade writing material! I kid, it's actually funny.)

So like moths to a flame, everyone wants to read with daddy now. Even Peyton stops by during his endless walkabouts around the house to find out why even the big guy is giggling.



He is giggling, because the name of the book is Captain UNDERPANTS! UNDERPANTS!!!!!!! Apparently, if you are a boy there is no law of diminishing comedic returns when it comes to saying the word underpants. It's funny every. single. time.

My Sweet Little Boy

Stephen: "Mom, when can I marry you?"
Mom: "Marry me?"
Stephen: "Yeah, you know, when I get bigger."
Mom: "That sounds great, but you'll probably want to marry some other girl when you get bigger."
Stephen: "No I wont. I want to stay here and live with you when I get bigger. Me and daddy and Mason and Peyton should all stay here with you."

What started out as a cute and sweet mom and boy moment turned into visions of adult children living with me forever in my basement. Aaaaaaahhhhh!

Nah, it was still cute. Until some little girl flounces in and takes his heart away from me. Forever.

Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

Tasty Kitchen Indeed

CLICK HERE --> Molten Chocolate Cake – Tasty Kitchen
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Ree Drummond (a.k.a. Pioneer Woman) has just launched a recipe website called Tasty Kitchen. I know, right? With a billion recipe sharing websites out there (okay, maybe not that many, but there are several, trust me), why, oh why, does Pioneer Woman take time from her insanely busy life to start one?

Molten Chocolate Cake, baby, that's why. Apparently her deal with the devil that allows for raising and homeschooling four kids, participating in a working cattle ranch, taking pictures of everything that moves and some stuff that doesn't, and publishing her own cookbook available on Amazon, WITHOUT an Oprah sized team of underlings or super powers (that we've been able to detect) . . . also gives her inside access to recipe conveyed heaven like the one I've shared above.

It took me a couple of tries to get this Chocolate personification of pure joy to turn out okay, and even then I don't always do it just right, but seriously, they taste good enough I don't even care and I end up eating the over toasted ones. My sister had me make them three times for her while she was here, and my friend Susie said they were really good, and Susie knows her really good food, being married to and being herself also, an amazingly great cook.

If you're feeling blue, give these a shot. I swear after you eat one, whatever was bothering you will be shoved so far to the back of your mind you wont be able to find it again for at least an hour, maybe more.

Getting an Education

When family comes to town, keeping up with your own life gets a little problematic. You want to put the rest of the world on pause so that you can focus on your guests, but unfortunately, the earth abjectly refuses to stop spinning. Case in point, the Fairview Elementary 2009 Back To School Night. It was scheduled for August 20, which was not only during my sister's visit, but also at a time when Monte would be in Arizona helping my sister's husband drive their two cars back to Missouri.

You wouldn't think Monte's absence from BTSN would matter much. I mean, after all, I didn't have to take Peyton, so each absence balances out the other, right? And I had prepared in advance. I filled out all the forms. I pre-ordered my school supplies from the school itself--no fighting the retail crowds on August 19 for this mom. But once I got there and cheerfully produced my paper work, it turned out each school age son had to have additional paper work filled out and turned in to their new teacher. Once I got to the room, new forms I had never seen before had to be carefully considered and completed, and the easy peasy school supplies, which again, were pre-ordered from the school itself back in May, had to be tracked down and placed in desks.

Big deal, right? Wrong. It suddenly became apparent Monte is not just a Peyton carrier at these kinds of events. He also fields questions from the audience while I concentrate on the information I'm providing. Mason and Stephen both had things they urgently needed to say to me at all times, which meant I couldn't really focus on meeting the teacher or her pesky forms. Confusion growing all around me, I finished the forms, grabbed the school supplies, dumped them out of the box into the desk and struggled to insure I had done enough of what I was supposed to do for the state to accept the children I ejected from my vehicle come Monday morning. I then fled the scene.

The first clue that I am not together as a single parent came Monday when the boys came home. Stephen said, "Mom, my desk was empty." I said, "What do you mean your desk was empty?" He said, "The school supplies weren't there." I called and left a voice message for his teacher, but it was pretty half hearted. After all, these are boys that call to me complaining they can't find their shirt or their backpack or their right foot, only to have me walk over and point out that the object in question is eighteen inches from their left foot. Surely the supplies were there. I put them there. Heck, I dumped them with extreme force there.

They weren't there. Naturally Stephen hadn't told his teacher, and I guess in all the craziness of the first few days of school she hadn't gotten my voice mail--so when I asked her about it she was completely baffled. After realizing that in my haste I didn't stop to label any of the supplies, we admitted that even with a crack CSI team and several days of leg work we were never going to know what happened to them. At the heart of the matter was the inescapable fact that Stephen still needed his stuff. So I resolved to go out after dinner and get him everything he needed. Again.

Remember the ten plagues in the bible? Famine, locusts, frogs, flies, and so on. There was a little known 11th one--the school supply availability plague. We had to go to four different stores in order to get glue, scissors, erasers, pencils, crayons, markers, notebooks, a pencil case, post it notes and plastic folders. Four stores. Wal-mart was out of erasers, but they had plastic folders. Target didn't have folders made of any material, but they did have post it notes. Nobody had pencil cases. We had to settle for a plastic box of approximately the same dimensions at Michael's, which by the way is the only place in town you can get those otherwise ubiquitous pink erasers on the second day of school. Oh, and you also have to crawl over cranky last minute college students and their frazzled parents just to get the stuff. At one point, Monte had to go around to the back of an aisle and reach over the top just to get to the plastic folders that were being blocked by an angry mother daughter team bent on denying access to anything that might hold paper.

I can't decide if I was overly dependent on my preparedness or underestimated the distractions my sons can be or if, baby, we just got robbed. I have learned one thing though. If I have to do another BTSN on my own, then it really will be on my own, because all the boys will be duct taped to chairs in my basement.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree

When family comes to town, it's showoff time. See what new tricks the babies can do. Here is just a small sampling of how that went.

Mom: "Peyton, what does a doggie say?"
Peyton: "Moo"
Mom: "Noooo, a doggie says woof. What does a cat say?"
Peyton: "Moo"
Mom: "No, no, a cat says meow. What does a COW say?"
Peyton, sensing dinner time was near: "Chee?" (Which loosely translated means I'm hungry and I want six or eight pieces of cheese.)

So there you have it. Shauna's kids know all their letters, numbers, colors, algebraic equations and a little string theory. My kids are interested in the position of class clown, if they can get it. Nature, 1, Nurture, 0.

Been Farmin' Long?

Peyton and new BFF Hunter rode Hunter's Peg Perego John Deere Gator all over Hunter's farm today. The property is pretty extensive. Three year old H-dog drove 20 month old P-dog over hills, up the sides of valleys, down into ravines and out again all without too many near misses. And nobody worried. All the adults stood around and laughed and laughed without a care in the world like it was 1973 and seatbelts, helmets and knee pads were still a pipe dream. We probably should have feigned some concern, but hey, my parents let me ride farm machinery and such at their ages, not to mention all my childhood winter sledding memories involve a 20 foot length of rope and an international pickup truck. It's a miracle I made it to 40!

Man Pretty

I was making some bows for Sydney, and I needed to see if they looked okay. Sydney is at the farm, so I found some other, more convenient models.

Now before you judge, look at those eyes! He's a beautiful baby. He would have made such a cute little girl if the DNA wheel had gone the other way. He can't help it if he has beautiful eyes and sweet little lips . . . he's man pretty. I mean he's got a wii controller to balance it all out, right? Right?

Okay, okay, I was out of control, but aren't they cute? I think I read somewhere cinema tough guy Charles Bronson wore dresses when he was a baby and had ringlets until he was like three or something . . . Clint Eastwood did too probably. And look at those guys . . .

I think Sydney needs to come back.

Reunion

There aren't words for how happy this picture makes me. These are some of the people I love best in the world, assembled together at my parent's farm. They were there to eat burgers and talk, and maybe ride the 4-wheeler. Nothing else. Just to be, and do it next to each other.

Some of the memories that keep me above water on a daily basis are of just hanging out with one or more of these guys. Doing stuff, or nothing, but having some sort of connection all the same. Really, if you get right down to it, the person I am is a direct result of the effect all the people in this picture have had on, well, the person I am. That was a bit circular, but you get the gist.

This post doesn't have a moral or a grand point or anything, but I would advise any reader who doesn't presently have a big extended family, to run out and get one right away. They're worth what they cost, every penny. But not this one, because it's mine, and I'm keeping it.

I love Cracker Barrel

GeoTagged, [N38.96086, E92.28708]

Is it the sweet tea or the hashbrown casserole or the sweet potato casserole or the strawberry short cake that keeps me coming back time and again to my neighborhood Cracker Barrel? Is it the candle selection or the seasonal items or the old fashioned candy or the toys? Maybe it's the audiobooks or the bluegrass music? Nope. Those things are great, don't get me wrong, but I think its something else. The checkers. Yep, definately the checkers.

Trading Spaces

It finally came down to the boys bathroom. We had avoided the boys bathroom for a time because, well, that's the bathroom the boys use and they need a space uninterrupted for bathing, teeth brushing and peeing near the toilet. But eventually all things change and so here we are with the BEFORE picture:


Another BEFORE with the happy home owner documenting his project. One backache, creaky knees and many nicks and cuts later . . .


Our AFTER picture. We've already moved the boys back in. They were peeing near the toilet in my bathroom, and that was not to be tolerated for long.


We have the painting left and then carpet and then we're done, and we can go back to watching TV and taking our ease. My Tivo will thank me. He's full and would like it very much if I'd watch some of those shows he's been good enough to record.

Comic Con

This is a comic book store in Chandler, Arizona. In July 2006, my sister and her husband moved to Chandler (Phoenix) so that he could work at Intel. There was a 20+ hour road trip involving video cameras and small marital disagreements specific to traveling that were ironed out over large fries. Oh yeah, and me--I went too, to "help." (I basically helped myself to Chinese food, American food, fast food, etc.) My sister and her husband were beginning a new life, a new adventure, and I documented it all with a camera in one hand and a cheeseburger in the other. While they lived there, the Ellis family went to visit them a few times in the spirit of the "stay with relatives who live in paradise and save on hotel costs" vacation. We swam in their bathtub water warm pool, which was conveniently located adjacent to their palatial house and surrounded by beautiful plant life and a few dancing geckos. Unmitigated joy was to be had by all. Even the geckos.

Alas, it was not to be.

Fast forward to August 2009. My sister and her husband are moving away from Chandler to Dayton. Ohio. The Midwest. The heartland. Where people routinely carry guns and bibles under the seats of their cars (at least that's where I keep mine.) No red rocks, no sun worshipers, no new age anything. Just corn. Rows and rows and rows of it. And you know what? I'm thrilled. Phoenix was too dang far away and the plane rides too long and too expensive. And once you make it TO Phoenix, this idyllic place, this utopia known for shorts weather year round, reveals an underbelly of 115 degree in the shade summers and absolutely NO bakeries. None. Okay, maybe one, but you had to drive 20 miles in intense 115 degree traffic with your tires melting out from under you to get a tiny loaf of Ciabatta bread, for which you drove back thankfully and nibbled carefully, lest you have to get back out into flaming Hades to get another one. That, my friend, was NOT in the travel brochure.

But truthfully, they could build bakeries upon bakeries and it wouldn't matter. The simple fact is Phoenix is farther from Missouri than the moon, and finally, FINALLY, my sister is leaving there and moving to a state where her kids wont cry when it snows and start screaming "Mommy the sky is falling! Mommytheskyisfallinggggggggggggg!!!!"

So what does all that have to do with a comic book store in the middle of Chandler? When they first moved to paradise, I took this picture of Atomic Comics with my camera phone thinking that when I got back to the greater Phoenix area with one of my superhero worshiping boys, we'd go inside. But we never did. They were there three years and we never made it to the interior of the comic book store that was less than five minutes from their house. Sad, really.

Unless, maybe they have comic book stores in Dayton? Ha! Silver lining achieved!

Spy Kids

Regardless of how tightly packed your summer is with camps, vacations, projects, activities and events, eventually the whole darn thing melts down into a stay at home mom with learned helplessness and children plugged into video games. So in order to stop the insanity (and the incessant discussion of various game levels and what was gained or lost on them) I ordered the boys to do something using ONLY their imaginations. This lasted eight seconds. They came up with a Spy scenario involving missions and such, but they needed gadgets. Absolutely required them, no getting around it. It started innocently enough, with a couple of paper towel rolls and the discussion of what spy telescopes should look like, but that snowballed into the need for electronic equipment--I mean what James Bond film depends utterly on cardboard? With the argument made and accepted, I agreed to get them walkie-talkies from Dick's Sporting Goods.

Rookie mistake.

Now, instead of hearing about video game levels, I'm stuck in one of those Verizon wireless commercials. Mason: "Stephen, can you hear me now? I'm on the stairs." Stephen: " I can hear you. Can you hear me? I am in the back yard." And on and on it goes. I'm not sure how the mission is going, but one thing is crystal clear. If the element of surprise is necessary to thwart the enemy, we'd better craft our little white flags now. Out of paper towels. Lots of them. How do you think I got to the rolls so quickly?

Home Improvement

Monte is a mad genius. Just don't tell him I said so. In the 18 years we've been married, he's gone from this adorably geeky kid to a Renaissance man. In the home improvement category, he spent one weekend watching our uberbuilder friend Rickey tile the downstairs bathroom, and suddenly he not only had the urge to tile other bathrooms but he how has the wherewithal to do it all by himself. It's like watching the brain plug in scenes from the Matrix films. Can't tile? Wait a second, I watched somebody or asked a couple of questions or watched a video, plugged in my brain, had a little rapid eye movement and bippety-boppety-boo, I CAN tile. And fly helicopters. Ridiculous.

Here is evidence of some of his recent work. The tile you see here took him three days. (If I had done it, after the three days I would have had two pieces of tile glued to each other and the rest broken into little jagged pieces. You would then find me downstairs eating an entire chocolate cake and crying.)


The kitchen is still in progress. He's doing it at night after work. Well, ONE night after work. Night two is for grout, and presumably, for him to rest and survey his handiwork and call it "good."


Since none of the appliances have a home while the tiles goes up, Peyton got to examine my green mixer, that would have been red if I hadn't listened to my sister when I was ordering it from QVC in 2001. I doubt the red would have made the food taste like fine cuisine, but I would have liked looking at it better for the 100s of years I'll own the dumb thing. Stupid Kitchenaid and their Toyota like durability.


In the space of three seconds, he got the front circle part off (the part that, if I really could cook, would accommodate lovely life simplifying attachments) and was running down the hall with it. I finally pried it from his clenched fist, and then got front row seats to the most amazing tantrum you've ever seen.


Terrible twos, six months early. Ah well, at least I'll have several lovely tiled living spaces from which to watch the meltdowns. It's all about perspective.

Say cheese

Ever eaten shredded cheese with a fork?

No?

It's probably just as well.

Have you seen this kid?

We've had a wild few weeks. We got back from Cancun last Sunday, and by the time I had unpacked and washed everything it was time to take Mason to his first ever week of Ne-o-tez church camp. He looked pretty shy and quiet standing there with all the other boys who can't stand still (the girls were off in a group of their own, and it didn't look like they were quite ready to have anything to do with the boys. Lucky for me. I would hate to pick him up in a week and find out there's a . . . girlfriend. Ack.) Monte went back to check on him twice before he finally agreed to get in the car and go. He is worried Mason will not have the time of his life and that he might be sad for a week. I am worried his clothes will come back irrevokably stained and grimy. Monte is worried Mason wont get what he likes to eat at camp, and that he might be hungry. I am worried he wont brush his teeth all week long. Monte is worried his little boy will be lonely without his daddy. I am worried his mother will get used to peace and quiet and then be jolted violently back to reality when his mouth comes home.

I hope my little boy isn't lonely, and that he's having a good time. Goodnight sweet boy. We miss you terribly already, and it has only been six hours. Good grief!

Mason's Crazy Hair

GeoTagged, [N38.93428, E92.38937]

Happy whateverth of July

The problem with traditions are that you have to have the wherewithal and the focus to keep them in the same way every single year to have any lasting or meaningful effect on collective memory. Sometimes our little family of five celebrates American Independence by spending hundreds of dollars setting off fireworks at the farm. Sometimes we go and see someone else's fireworks (the upside here being that you save tons of money and (probably) eat someone else's food), and then sometimes we hit a movie or go to the store and skip fireworks altogether. And then there are my personal favorite years where Monte says, "When is the 4th anyway?" on the 5th. We just don't have the dedication to scheduling and planning that it takes to do the same thing at the same time every year except in very specific cases (Halloween trick or treating, and being home on Christmas day are the only two I can think of.) Frankly, tradition takes too much concentration, and besides, the little boy audience barely notices the holiday itself, except to be grateful for school cancellation. Maybe if I had daughters there would be some sort of expectation or something, but boys can't remember what they did yesterday--and unless it has to do with video game levels, they don't care.

So from our house to yours we extend our most sincere and happy non-traditional 4th of July wishes, complete with everything or nothing, as you choose to celebrate it, in your own way. Or not. Go Lakers!

It's Official

Taken at Senior Frogs, Cancun, Quintana Roo, Mexico. Hence the balloon hat. (At least it's not red and purple yet!)

Circus People

You guys HAVE to see this.

This is Ben, my sister Shauna's baby. He was 18 months when they shot this video. In my opinion, he is a freakin' genius!



I KNOW, right?

Less Trouble in Paradise

Sometimes less is more. And sometimes the less that is more is bad.

We head out to Cancun on Monday. Peyton is spending the week with Grandma in Oklahoma City. We met the grandparents in Joplin and Peyton got in their car and left, with me standing there in the Bob Evans parking lot trying not to cry. Having never ever been away from him all night before, this evening has been a challenge. Monte kept bringing me chocolate and iced tea lemonades this week to soften the eventual blow, but I guess I'll have to work through tonight's bedtime all on my own.

There is an upside to having one less kid though. Suddenly, I feel like I can do anything. Really. Like, we went into a Best Buy just now and I actually shopped. I saw what they had in the way of retail merchandise, considered options and was able to thoughtfully select some items based on those options. My two older children played docilely in the video game aisle without moving from the general gaming vicinity, which was easily observable from most areas of the sales floor. I didn't need a cart, I didn't have to corral anyone, I was able to thoroughly consider what I was about to do before I did it, the whole time. I didn't have to talk over anyone, there was no yelling, I didn't have to wipe anyone, I didn't have to soothe or comfort anyone while trying to find someone else. And most of all, when I left, I knew what was in my bag and where my purse was. The amount of physical stress in my life if you're just going off today, has been greatly reduced. Emotional stress? Off the charts. We'll see what Monday and the airport brings.

(I'll bet that Michelle Duggar lady in Arkansas says stuff like that when she only has to look after six kids instead of 18. I'm such a wimp.)

Goodnight, punk-y punk, out there under the Oklahoma sky. I miss your little face so bad. Sleep well. Have good dreams. And tomorrow, go through all the kitchen drawers and find each and every one of grandma's measuring cups and big spoons, and spread them all over the living room and bathroom floors. Just to make it home.

Spanglish

Aunt Shauna speaks Spanish. We're going to Cancun in a week and a half. You'd think this would be the ideal time for Shauna to teach us some of what she knows. You would be very very wrong. The following e-mail is what I got when I asked for some handy Spanish phrases for the monolingual traveler. Shauna clearly does not have our best interests at heart, although she did throw in phonetic phrasing so we'd be able to pronounce our doom clearly.
********************************************************
Handy Spanish Phrases

1. Get out of here! I’m watching TV! (Mason’s request)
Salga de aqui! Estoy mirando la tele! [Sal guh day ah key! Es toy meer ahn doe lah tay lay!]

2. Let’s go to the beach! Vamos a la playa! [Vah moes ah la plie ah!]

3. I think the maid stole my money. Creo que la criada me robo de mi dinero. [Cray oh kay la kree ah dah may row bow day me dee nare oh.]

4. That stuff looks cheap and I don’t want to buy it. Sus cosas se me parece barato y no quiero comprarlas. [Soose koe sahs say may pah ray say bah rah toe E no key air oh comb prahr lahs.]

5. Come on in. I’m naked in the shower. Usted puede entrar. Estoy desnudo/desnuda (depending on if you’re a boy or girl saying it—a for girl, o for boy) en la ducha. [Ooh stead pway day in trar. Es toy dace nood ah in la doocha.]

6. Where is the bathroom? The food was not very good. It’s an emergency! Donde esta el bano? La comida estaba mal. Es una emergencia! [Dohn day es tah el banyo? La coe mee dah ace tah bah mahl. Ace oonah ah mare hence E ah!]

7. I brought lots of money and I’m ready to spend it! Traje mucho dinero y estoy listo/lista (depending on boy or girl) para gastarlo! [Trah hay moo cho dee nare oh E es toy leese toe pah rah gas tar low!]

8. I’m an American. You should treat me like royalty! Estoy Americano/Americana (boy or girl). Debe tratarme como derechos. [Es toy Ah mare E kahn O. Day bay trah tar may coe moe day ray chos!]

9. I want another room. This one smells like a dead animal. Quiero otro cuarto. Este cuarto huele como un animal muerto. [Key air oh oh troh kwahr toe. Ace tay kwahr toe hway lay coe moe oon ahn E mahl mwair toe.]

10. I lost my wallet and I will do anything for 50 dollars. Se me perdio mi dinero y hare qualquier cosa para cincuenta dolares. [Say may pear dee oh me dee nair oh E R ay kwal key air coe suh pah rah sin kwin tah doe lair ace.]
*********************************************************************
The subject line in this e-mail said "Let me know if there are any others you want to know." Why yes, Shauna, how about, "My sister is a complete dork and gave me these phrases because she is secretly jealous of my brains and beauty. Also my sister is beginning to act just like her madre." Ha, that last one'll get her!

Camp Half-Mud

This is beautiful Camp NeOTez in scenic DeSoto, Missouri. It's a picturesque setting with lovely accommodations, and the locals are all kinds of friendly. As it is the rainy season in beautiful DeSoto, each and every single thing within the confines of camp is covered in mud. This includes, but is not limited to, clothes, towels, shoes, children, motor vehicles and unused toothbrushes.
Speaking of the locals, here they are in all their finery. This is some sort of tribal custom called a camp sing a long. It is used to lull parents of small children into accepting offerings of hot dogs and punch, and to distract them from exclaiming "what have you done with my child, and what is that large mud covered thing you are giving me instead?!?!" Do not be alarmed. The mud covered thing is indeed your child.
This is Marco. I think he was the upper bunk to Stephen's lower bunk, although I'm not entirely sure. I'm not convinced they slept in their bunks, although the beds had mud in them, so I guess the children at least laid down. As I said, it was very stormy and muddy, and at one point all of the children were covered in shaving cream. And mud. There is still some mud on Stephen's face. You can see it in the photo. Marco's face is clean. Sigh.
These are the good natured counsellors at Camp NeOTez, cabin 4. Stephen got to know them very very well. They are blood brothers. One for all and all for one. If one is captured, the other one goes back for him, because you never leave a man behind, and so on. When I asked Stephen about this picture, he pointed to the kid behind him and said "That's uh, Jimmy." Then he pointed to the other guy and said "I don't remember his name." That's six year old loyalty for you.

I was worried when we dropped Stephen off Sunday night, he might get nervous or be concerned. This was his first overnight camp. He's only six. He was there for 48 whole hours. What if he got scared or needed his mom? After a tense three hour return drive down to pick him up I rushed up to him and said "Hey, little guy, with all that scary rain, did you miss me?" He said "Uh, yeah, I guess" and took off toward the ice cream sandwiches being served in the mess hall. Again, six year old loyalty. Absence makes the heart look instead, for ice cream sandwiches.

Mason will attend NeOTez in July. Hopefully they will have one or two dry days this time, during which they can wash off some of the mud.
*****************************
P.S. Sorry for the Percy Jackson and the Olympians rip off in the title post (Camp Half-Blood). We just finished book five (The Last Olympian), and they tell me there are to be no more. Curse you Rick Riordan, and J.K. Rowling before you for getting us all wrapped up in your characters and then deciding to stop writing about them. I guess we'll have to look elsewhere for entertainment. If you have a kid and would like to read to him and are interested even a little bit in Greek Mythology, pick up Riordan's work. It'll have you googling Hecate and Hephaestus in no time! www.rickriordan.com

Photoshop for (me) Dummies

I took this with my point and shoot camera, and even though the noise (grain) is extremely high in the photograph, (flash didn't fire for some reason) I still liked the subject well enough to hang on to it. I decided it probably could use a few PS actions, just to jazz it up, although the resolution on the P&S isn't that high, and you have to have pretty high res images for most actions I've come across to work properly. Still I figured it didn't hurt to give a few of these lower ones a whirl, just to see.

The two actions I used are free and in my opinion, indispensable. The first, Touch of Light/Touch of Darkness, can be downloaded off Jodi Freedman's website, MCPActions.com, under the "Try It" section (you have to scroll down, but it's down there, trust me.) I ran TOLTOD, and then selected the paintbrush, and "painted" a touch of light on Stephen's face, to take out the shadow. I flattened the image by right clicking on it and selecting "flatten" (whoa, Kristi, slow down, you're too technical), and then ran Pioneer Woman's Define and Sharpen action, which can be downloaded from thepoineerwoman.com (just search her site). It brings out the color a bit better, improves clarity, etc.

Again, this shot would have been better with the 5D, but most pictures are better out of an SLR. However, gigantor and it's ridiculously phallic lens wont fit in my purse, and with the purse, baby, stroller, Starbucks Iced Tea Lemonade and diaper bag in my twelve hands I had to minimize something.

Yeah, yeah, I know the photo is still grainy, but I rather like the little guy in it. Sue me.

Lost in Translation

Monte bought Stephen some new white shorts with sailboats on them. Not a look for everyone, but Stephen makes them work. On the way out of the house, Monte said, "What do you think of the shorts?" I said "Yeah, he really pulls them off." Monte said, "Oh? He did?" I clarified, "No, no, I mean they look nice." Monte said, "Oh good. For a second there, I thought you meant he was flashing the neighbors."

I'll bet parents of girls never EVER have this kind of misunderstanding.

It's not date night unless somebody calls the cops

This weekend was our 18th anniversary (18 years is the Garnet anniversary--we looked it up. Apparently 11 years is Steel, and if you make it past that you start getting better symbols to work with.) We did the usual thing, got a sitter, went to see a movie, ate dinner.

Except.

Except my mom served as our babysitter. There are distinct differences in our lifestyle and hers, including the fact that we recycle, we have central heat and air, our TVs are controlled by Tivos, we have high speed internet, we live on a cul-de-sac with unique parking implications, and so on. Most of the time the differences in our lifestyles only end up in a diaper in the recycle bin or our neighbor asking us if we'd please move the extra car so he can back out of his driveway. But Saturday, the crazy good luck streak we were unaware we were in, flat ran out.

We left the boys with mom and went to eat at C.C.'s City Broiler. Midway though dinner, Mom called Monte, and after she asked a few questions, he asked to speak to Mason. He then explained to Mason how to put the DVD in the Tivo and watch it. Thinking "crisis averted" we finished our meal and went to see Star Trek. I had already seen it, so in the middle I decided to go to the bathroom. I told Monte that the part coming up was a big plot point, and many things would be explained, and that he should sit tight until I got back.

I came back from the bathroom and found him in the hallway talking on his cell phone. Puzzled, I said "you were supposed to stay in there. You're missing the plot . . . " He told me to "shhhh" and said "I'm on the phone with the Brinks Home Security people." Now, I can't imagine why he's on the phone with Brinks, since we didn't set the alarm before we left, what with four people running in and out of the place, unless maybe something caught fire. So I stand there freaking out, while he finishes his call, and he said "your mom hit the burglar alarm."

We have been using our attic fan because the days haven't been all that hot yet. Before we left on our date I turned on the air conditioning, but I guess it wasn't doing its job, because mom decided she was warm. She called dad, and told him she was warm, and he said "well, just hit the blue button." There were three things vitally wrong with his advice. One, our thermostat is upstairs between the bedrooms, and she was downstairs next to the front door. Two, we have a touch screen thermostat. No blue button. No buttons at all. Three, she had told him she wasn't wearing her glasses and she couldn't read the buttons she was pressing, so she missed the fact that the blue button she was hitting was actually a picture of a blue police shield and the keypad she was hitting it on was marked "Brinks Home Security."

The good news is, if you have a security alarm installed by Brinks, they do call each and every number in an effort to get hold of you, the cops do come right away and it all works just like its supposed to. The bad news is, we have to find a new babysitter option before our neighborhood association writes us a strongly worded letter about our excessive use of law enforcement.

Waiting for the tooth fairy

Stephen lost his first tooth on Monday. We noticed it had gotten really loose over the weekend in Branson, and when we got home, Monte got a bit of string around it and, after three tries, got it out. It was great. Our six year old Kindergartner became a man. Or at least he joined the lost tooth club.

And then that night we forgot to put it under Stephen's pillow.

Utterly completely totally forgot. When Mason FINALLY lost his first tooth at age 8 last summer, you'd have thought we were celebrating his acceptance into Harvard or something. Speeches were made, backs were patted and a huge deal was made out of putting it under his pillow that night. The surprises left the next morning were a sight to behold. A few weeks later we had to come clean about certain facts regarding the Tooth Fairy, (he was about to enter the Third grade after all,) but for a brief moment, teeth were magical. Since then, however, the magic of lost teeth has tarnished a little. Gotten a tad stale. Poor Stephen just had the bad luck of not losing his first tooth before Mason, which frankly, Mason gave him more than ample time and opportunity to do. So anyway, after we completely forgot Stephen had lost his tooth and should get a visit from the TF, we did our best to make up for it the next night. Monte wrapped a pretend tooth in a bit of paper towel (the real tooth is already affixed on a scrapbook page downstairs--don't judge me) and put it carefully under Stephen's pillow, and in the morning, there was a little bucket with stuff to make s'mores in it. Quite a thing, right? Pageantry and all.

Except that he lost another tooth on Wednesday. And again, we forgot to put it under his pillow.

I know, right? Twice? Having three kids has kind of redefined our family limits, especially when it comes to making a big deal out of stuff the second and third time. Or frankly, just remembering it happened. But, after hanging our heads and explaining we could make it right because we have a hotline straight to the Tooth Fairy's booking agent (he's only six, so I have more time before some kid in his class contradicts my carefully constructed reality), we again wrapped a "tooth" in a paper towel, and put him to bed.

And then, around 11 p.m., plans were set in motion in to replace the paper towel with something more substantial. As the covers were lifted, a shaft of light from the hallway illuminated our sweet little spiderman boy . . . and he was clutching the tooth in his sleep.

It was so precious I can't even tell you. He probably wanted to catch the tooth fairy making the switch, so he could get a good look at her. Or him. Whatever, you know what I mean. So I took his picture, because these are the moments I live for, while I'm cleaning up dried urine from behind the back of the toilet.

Unfortunately, Stephen never got to catch the Tooth Fairy. He is afflicted with his mother's ability to sleep though gale force winds and category F5 tornadoes and nuclear testing and such. Tragic, really. Adorable, but tragic.

PS And his index finger isn't broken. It's double jointed. THAT he inherited from his dad's freaky side of the family.

Branson Landing

We went down to Branson Landing on Saturday night, to eat at Shorty Smalls. There was a 30 minute wait, so we went down to look at the water, and as we did, fog rolled in. Like, within ten minutes, there was fog where there had been no fog before. Speedy acting insta-fog, the kind Americans would make if they commercially produced fog, and the kind Europeans would sneer at in some sort of accented snobbery, as if to say, "fog made zhat quickly is inferior! You ridiculous Americans and your microwaves and drive thrus and immediate fog. You know noth-zing. NOTH-ZING!"

Anyway.

It was cool. Neat foggy type fog, and it accented the area perfectly, and made for such a pretty picture, and it would all have been just right.

Except.

The water smelled really really fishy. Pee-yew!

Run out of town on a rail

This is a true story of four men and one woman, living in a hotel room in Branson, Missouri, who are having their lives photographed, to see what happens when people stop being polite and start being real. The REAL world, Branson! (It wouldn't last a whole season.)

Here are my four guys on the Branson Senic Railway trip. We traveled an hour south into Arkansas, and then stopped on this very very very high train tresle, sat there a minute to let the fact that we were very very very high up sink in (I have a fear of heights and bridges and open windows and so on), and then the train reversed itself and we traveled back the way we came, to Branson Landing. All in all it was around a 2 hour trip, which wasn't too bad, although if it had been much longer, Peyton would have registered several complaints, or pooped on something. Or someone.

I gave the boys some disposible cameras to see what they would take pictures of. Stephen took lots of grainy underexposed pictures of price tags and knick knacks at the Branson IMAX Mall. Mason took lots of pictures of himself and his brothers doing dorky stuff. I paid to have these things developed. You see the fly in the ointment, don't you?

I think now that we're home and eveyrone has had a good night's sleep, I should be kinder and gentler in my Branson vacation review. I mean, it was full of nice stuff, and the sleep loss and rough housing and perpetual motion and constant complaining are things we put up with at home . . . it's just that, at home, I can send perpetual motion complainers off to different parts of the house so that they can fine tune their argument, leaving me to do my job of not hearing them or seeing them. So, next vacation, we're just going to have to rent a house to stay in. Or a department store. Or the Mall of America.

Labor and pain

I planned a trip for my family in Branson, MO, this past Memorial Day weekend. We saw the Irish Tenors, which was nice, and rode the Senic Railway, also nice. Unfortunately, I learned many many lessons during this trip, including:

1. Peyton is too little and the other two are too rowdy to share a hotel room with. This means no meaningful family vacation until 2015.
2. by 2015, none of us will be speaking to each other.
3. I must never ever plan a vacation, as I get a little emotionally imvolved when it doesn't go as planned.

It was a tough weekend.

Stephen Ells, MD

Stephen was covered with poision ivy (again) and I was putting some medicine on it, when he said, "Mom, I think I'm allergic to all these bug bites." I said, "Oh, really? You're allergic to bug bites?" He said, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

Then there was this long pause

And then he said, "Or maybe cheese."

Stephen is not allergic to cheese. He's allergic to being serious.

Kaleidoscope, Crown Center, Kansas City, Missouri, USA, Earth

The four Fairview Third Grade classes (all 100 kids) enjoyed a trip to Crown Center, and Kaleidoscope, in Kansas City. Monte and I went, along with other parents and teacher helpers, to herd the herd. It was a pretty good time. Mason made several things, although I didn't get to see him much, since I had to man the "gold and silver paper on a roll" station. I had to cut the paper off for each kid, because the scissors chained to the station for cutting purposes were dull and didn't work very well. Monte didn't fare much better--he was in charge of the "glue a bunch of stuff together your parents would consider trash, and then call it art" station. There were empty tape spools, all sorts of plastic pieces and parts, and crazy ribbon. He looked so bewildered, like he was thinking, "but I just threw a bunch of stuff just like this away at work, and now you are all climbing over me to get to it, and glue it together. Maybe later you can get my hamburger wrapper from lunch out of the garbage and make a hat out of it."

Ah, childhood!