the pieces of my life

I sent Adam off to the pool with the kids so I can get a grip on the disarray in this house. I got some awesome birthday gifts, but they’re scattered all over the house. Doodles came home with packets of papers that are piled in precarious pyramids all over our counter. Adam found shelves that fit the stairways! So they are sitting empty in Doodles’s room. This is my get-things-done morning.

I’ll do a shopping trip at some point, so I asked the kids what they’ll want in their camp lunches.

Pie: What can I have?

Me: Well, this is dance camp. So no peanut butter.

For three years now, Pie has been at a Jewish preschool and camp (which she’ll attend in a couple of weeks), which for reasons of kashrut (kosher) require a vegetarian lunch. In deference to the restrictions placed on the lunches, they do allow peanut products, as long as they are labeled. The kids with peanut products sit away from those with allergies. Most other places around here other ban or “strongly discourage” peanut products in lunches.

Pie: So this isn’t a Jewish camp?

Me: No.

Pie: Then I want meat! Every day! Meat, meat, meat! Give me lots of meat in my lunch!

My slow introduction of vegetarian ways seems to be making little headway here….

The girl, this morning: Mommy! Happy birthday! I’m going to be extra nice to you today! And we can do whatever you want. What do you want to do?

Me: Well–

The girl: I’ll even go to the Res [the town Reservoir] with you!

Me: I’m not sure about that. I promised your brother he could skateboard at the park this morning. And then we need to wait for the piano to be delivered [a friend very kindly gave us their old piano]. Then we’ll see.

The girl: Then we’ll go to the Res?

Me: Then we’ll see.

—–

A couple of hours later.

The girl: Do you want to go to the Res now?

Me: No.

—–

The girl: So… What do you want to do today.

Me: I’d love to take a nap.

The girl: Or… we could go to the Res!

—–

Fifteen minutes later. A complete meltdown over the fact that her apples were slightly red.

Me: I thought you were going to be extra nice to me today.

The girl: I never said that!

—–

Fifteen minutes later.

Me: I need to run to the drugstore to get something.

The girl: We could walk! And then we could just go to the Res!

Me: It’s too hot to walk and we need to get back for your brother.

—-

The girl, with a deep sigh: I really wish I could go to the Res today.

—-

Driving back home.

The girl: Wow, it’s hot. We really should do something to cool off. Hey! Do you know what? The Res can cool you off! A nice cool swim in the Res!

Me: You know what else will cool you off? Our air-conditioned home. It’s nice and cool.

The girl: Or the Res! Which would you rather do?

Me: Air-conditioned home.

—–

At home.

The girl: So… what do you want to do today?

Me: I know where you’re going with this. And it’s not going to work.

At that moment the phone rings. It’s Adam.

Me: Here, tell Daddy what you want.

The girl: No. I’m not going to say it.

—–

The girl: I’m okay that if we go to the Res, Doodles will get to swim twice today and I only go once. So, Mommy, what do you want to do today?

—–

Sigh. I’m going to put on my bathing suit. Happy freakin’ birthday to me.

I’m forcing my kids to take swimming lessons. Actually, I’m bribing them. With Zhu Zhu pet crap. If they both take the class willingly, they get some cage or maze or Richard Gere lookalike to use with their weird robotic gerbils that make no sense to me. If Pie consistently puts her face in the water by the end of class, then she gets a second Zhu Zhu pet toy.  It’s working. She put her face under the water four times today. Progress. He needs to learn to swim with his arms out of the water. In order to pass the deep end test at our pool, he has to swim the length of the pool with a proper arms-out-of-water crawl stroke. He’s working on it.

Our Y has what we call “the mat room,” which is a room designed for little kids with lots of mats and climbing toys. There’s a big kid climbing room, but the rock wall was recalled and it hasn’t been replaced yet. It’ll be another six to eight weeks. Which means the big kids end up on the mat room more often than not.

I used to feel safe leaving my kids in there while I ran out–to get water or go to the bathroom–but not anymore. Not with those big kids. Today there was this boy in there absolutely wreaking havoc. The kid’s mother must have yelled at him five times to stop jumping from the towering pile of gymnastics blocks to the mat below, where he came precariously close to the little people. He blatantly ignored her every time, flashing her this annoying “What me? I’m sorry!” look as he kept right on causing trouble. He’d yell, “Fire!” hurling balls across the room. He recruited younger boys to chase the girls and pelt them with said “cannon balls.” He’d jump off the top of the slide. It was horrendous. And the worst part? That obnoxious kid left when I did. Had the nerve to get into my car and come home with me.

I remember not too long ago that I was petrified in that room, because the big kids ran my kids scared. Now my kids are the big kids. That boy of mine has morphed from this easygoing, happy kid sitting in a corner of the room daydreaming, to this creature who must be in motion at all time. Kicking a soccer ball, throwing baseballs, climbing atop the trapeze bar on our climber in order to swing high, hopping down the stairs, dancing in the living room, jumping up and down when he should be sitting for dinner. He’s in constant motion.

This summer, the boy has minimal camp. I fear for the house. I fear for his bruised and scraped knees. I fear for my sanity. It’s going to be a looooooong summer.

The preschool videos are done, the teacher cards are made. Two dozen cupcakes and one cake have been made and decorated for the end-of-year picnic cake walk and cupcake spin. Class gift for other child has just been sent off for completion. Relatives have come and gone and getting ready to come again. Adam is cursing the Celtics and I’m eating spoonfuls of leftover of chocolate frosting.

Summer is about to begin….

We had the invasion of family, which began when the forty-foot RV pulled into our driveway. You haven’t seen so many folks slow down and stare since Adam did his naked dance in the front yard after getting his MBA.* Doodles loved it. Pie felt a little shy and refused to go into it for a few days but then couldn’t stop bragging about how she got a private tour.

In the meantime, little Pie has been on a roller coaster ride. Preschool has officially ended. And she’s really not sure how she feels about it. She vacillates wildly in her “Yea! I can’t wait!” and “Waaaa! I want to go back to preschool!” Last week she had her kindergarten visit. But the night before she lay in bed and wailed, “I don’t want to go to kindergarten! I want you to come with me! I want you stay with me all the time! But I don’t want to go to homeschool!” But we solved one of the major problems. She was worried that she wouldn’t be able to turn on the faucets in her new school (they are the push down kind and she sometimes has trouble reaching them), but we were at the school for Doodles’s art show and Pie’s teacher-to-be took her into the bathroom and showed her how to use them. She also promised that Pie could ask her for help if she couldn’t do it herself and I think that relieved a lot of worries.

Pie did great in her preschool end-of-year celebration. But we had to make a quick exit, as she started getting teary eyed (and, okay, I did, too). She was happy today when I had my last volunteer session in Doodles’s room and she came, and his (her future) teacher announced to everyone that Pie had graduated from preschool yesterday and she had them all applaud her. Pie loved that. And today was a meet-up for the kids in her kindergarten and she had a blast. I find it hard, though, because I look at her and all I can still see is “little.” How can she be heading into elementary school? Of course, as good as the day went, the night was rocky with her crying in her sleep. She made her way to our bed and then demanded, half asleep, that Adam leave as she only wanted me.

Meanwhile, Doodles has mere days of first grade left. It seems as if his school should have been done long ago–I’m ready for summer to be here in full swing. But yesterday was “the best day ever” for the boy. At his school’s fundraiser this year, I bought him the honor of being “principal for the day.” And that day was yesterday. The kid was in heaven. He got to deliver mail. He went into every classroom to “assess the learning.” He got to make announcements, including decreeing extra recess for the entire school. He was allowed to choose two friends to have a lunch of pepperoni pizza with him and the “other” principal. When I went to pick him up, kids were still calling him principal, even though he finished in time to change back into shorts and go to music class.  When I was at workboard today, Mimi and Pie were in deep conversation when Mimi said, “Oh my God. Doodles was so handsome yesterday!” And Pie responded, “I know! Didn’t he look so cute?” And Mimi said, “His hair was really nice and he looked so good!” And then I shut the conversation down because it was just too strange for me.

And I now have to go to bed. Not so much because I’m tired but because Adam’s jumping and twitching over this basketball game has me jittery. And it’s also weirding me out that he’s watching TV with his eyes open. That never happens. Adam + couch + TV = sleep. The universe feels off. So goodnight. Maybe tomorrow things will be right again.

*Okay, so maybe there was no naked dance. But I was really struggling with a way to finish that sentence and that seemed to work so well.

Doodles is in that in-between stage. He’s well beyond little kid. But he’s not yet fully a big kid. And his room reflects this shambles. Books teeter precariously on his bedside shelf. Robotic pieces pile on the table, next to a motorized dog and his now-neglected Bakugan. His closet is still brimming with dress-up clothes but his magic set and Star Wars figures are in frequent rotation. I decided his room needed help. We had to organize. To start, he needs a bookshelf. A real bookshelf.

Adam: Shall we go to Ikea and get one?

Me: Those are crap. They fall apart so quickly. He needs a quality shelf that will last him a while.

Adam does some research. He finds a place nearby that has nice quality unfinished bookshelves.

Adam: What size should we get him?

Me: I dunno. What will work.

Adam measures the space. He jots down notes. He looks at the space again.

Adam: Do you want to get him a six foot one or a five foot one?

Me: Six feet seems too big. Will a five foot fit? I think we should do that.

Adam: Yeah, that will fit.

Me: Are you sure? Five feet seems really big.

Adam: No, it’ll be fine.

Me: I dunno. Maybe measure again?

Adam: It’ll fit. I promise you, it’ll work.

Me: Okay. Go for it.

Adam calls. The five foot one is not available. They’ll order it. It’ll take five long weeks. When I get my head wrapped around a project, I want it to happen now. But now is not possible. But this is one of the many reasons I’m in therapy so I agree to wait the five weeks.

Finally, it arrives at the store!

Me: How will you get it home?

Adam: In the van.

Me: It won’t fit in the van.

Adam: Of course it’ll fit in the van.

Beetle was nearby. I say to her: Adam thinks it’s going to fit in the van.

Beetle: Oh, it totally will. You won’t believe how much will fit in those things.

Adam and the kids go to pick up the bookshelf. He comes home. With the bookshelf on top of the van.

Adam: It didn’t fit.

My cousins come to town. I have my strapping young seventeen-year-old cousin help Adam carry the bookshelf up the stairs. Up our narrow stairs. Up our not-up-to-code unbelievably tight stairs. Because Doodles’s room is upstairs.

I’m not saying a word. Not a peep. I won’t mention a thing. But I will mention that our expensive, not-Ikea bookshelf looks highly okay in the basement. And Adam is now supposed to be researching bookshelves. Narrow bookshelves. And the books in Doodles’s room are still teetering.

We subscribe to Boston Organics (is subscribe the right word? I guess so, but it sounds funny to subscribe to veggies). Every week a box appears on our front porch full of organic goodies. For a long time we had a CSA, but I found myself overwhelmed. I love eggplant, but I finally lost it on the fourth week of getting five eggplants. Need I say I’m the only one who likes eggplant in this house? With Boston Organics, I have a “no” list (as in NEVER send me cauliflower because we will never, ever eat it) and they send reasonable amounts of each food. We get 2/3 veggie and 1/3 fruit. It works. Well. Except for those times when I leave town for a weekend. Or when Adam has a lot of nights working late or Doodles has Cub Scouts or track and field or Pie simply melts down early and we don’t have family dinners. Which has been happening a lot lately. So the veggies have been piling up. I had three bunches of asparagus in the fridge and six beets and a whole lot of yellow squash. I was determined to use some of this stuff up.

Asparagus? Easy. Roasted for Shabbat dinner tonight. That’s the best way: a smidgen of olive oil, a bit o’ time in the oven, and we’re all happy. Beets? A little more challenging. Adam loves beets. I think I could even call them his favorite vegetable. But he likes them really simple. Roasted. And that’s about it. I dressed them up tonight with a little lemon, onion, and olive oil. Myself, I prefer them with oranges and goat cheese, but my man is a simple man so plain beets it is.

But I refuse to prepare all six beets “plain,” as Adam won’t eat leftovers, which means I spend days eating boring beets until they get slimy and tossed and I feel guilty about wasting food. So today I had a brainstorm. Red Velvet Cake. I was going to make Red Velvet Cupcakes. With the beets. (Which, by the way, is one of the traditional ways of making it. None of that “two bottles of red dye #40.”) Genius.

I roast the beets. I puree the beets. Pie comes into the kitchen. “What are those?”

“Pureed beets,” I tell her.

“Ewww!”

“No, they’re good!”

Her nose wrinkles. “They look gross.”

She goes off to play. I bake hallah. I roast potatoes. I make Red Velvet Cupcakes. Pie returns when the cupcakes are done.

“Cupcakes!” she exclaims.

“Yep!” I say, frosting them with a cream cheese frosting.

“What kind?” she asks.

I hesitate. “They’re chocolate cupcakes. The name of them is Red Velvet Cupcakes.”

“Red Velvet?” Pie asks. And she gets right to it. “Are they called Red Velvet because of beets? Did you put the beets in the cupcakes!”

Luckily, I have the other three beets prepared to make Adam’s plain Jane salad. So I evade the question. “The beets are here in the sink.”

“Oh,” she says. And went back to play.

At dinner tonight, she pronounced the cupcakes “delicious!”

And the boy? He’s nobody’s fool and you’re not going to sneak a veggie past him, even in a cupcake. My Red Velvet Cupcake, which by the way, didn’t have a smidgen of red in them by the end, were pronounced “not for me,” and left half eaten.

You can fool some of the Pies some of the time and all of the Doodles… never.

I took a train to NYC before the rest of my friends in order to see my folks before they headed out of town. I hung with the ‘rents, the Tweedle Twirp came up, and we chilled till the haus fraus made it to Manhattan. Our first stop? Pedis. Down to Dashing Divas where the treatment is a bit different when you don’t come with a four year old in tow. For starters, I had time for the “all out diva” treatment. Second, they don’t bring you cosmos when you have a preschooler with you. We sipped and pampered and laughed and enjoyed ourselves. After, we went by the Strand, walked through the Limelight Marketplace, and headed back to the apartment where the HF all changed clothes. “Seriously?” I asked them. They’d been in town for mere hours. The clothes were fresh. But apparently they went to the Pie School of Fashion, which requires a change of clothes for every new thought. Once they were all decked out, we headed to Bar Pitti in the West Village, where the gracious host managed to find us all a table outside within 15 minutes.

Back story: A high school friend of mine is now a big-time DJ and I found out he was going to be [playing? spinning? performing? what’s the correct terminology?] in Brooklyn while we were in town. But the club he was playing… well, it was a bit out there. I e-mailed the haus fraus ahead of time about the show, including a couple of links to reviews of the club (this is probably the most accurate) and a note from my friend from the club that included the instructions about “not pissing all over the sidewalk as soon as you get around the corner – which, incidentally, does attract the police and they will write you a summons.” I think it was “naked” that pushed things over the edge for them: “Not for me.” “Think I’ll pass.” “Yikes!” But I was intrigued and the Tweedle Twirp had agreed to accompany me.

So at the end of dinner at Bar Pitti, HF1 and HF2 ordered cups of decaf. I turned to Tweeds and asked, “We still going?” “Sure!” she said, so I ordered a regular coffee.

“Where are you going?” HF2 demanded.

“Brooklyn.”

“To the naked club? Without us??” No biggie, I assured them. They had keys. I’d be quiet when I came in. But I wanted to check it out.

“Well,” HF2 said in a huff, “if you’re going, I’m going!”

Next thing I know, four haus fraus are accompanying me on a train to Marcy Ave. in Brooklyn. The walk from the subway to the club is not-quite a mile. But it’s an odd walk, passing through an ultra-Orthodox neighborhood in Brooklyn, one where the street postings are all in Yiddish, the school buses have Hebrew on them, and we pass men in shtreimels. It’s Shabbat. We’re wearing little dresses. I just had a cream and bacon dinner. I’m feeling a little “going to hell”-ish. But after a few “are we going the right ways?” we make it. We see a few folks standing on a street besides a random building. Suddenly a door opens. “Why are you here?” the bouncer asks.

“For Ursula 1000,” I say. We are let in to this cavern of… well, you’ll have to use your imagination. There are multiple rooms and crazy art on the walls and cheap booze and music everywhere and movies on the rooftop and couples making out and….

The haus fraus made it till about 12:15 or so. Tweeds and I stuck it out till Ursula 1000 came on. It was well worth it. But the whole night, I kept thinking I was approximately twenty years too late to the club. How much more fun could I have had then. I can only imagine….

22-year-old self: Hey, come to the bathroom with me!

41-year-old self: What the hell are those three people doing in that one single-person bathroom?

22-year-old self: I love how disorienting the decor is. You can’t tell a door from a wall from a ceiling…

41-year-old self: Where the hell is the Exit? Why isn’t it marked? Isn’t that a safety violation? Does anyone else remember that Rhode Island club?

22-year-old self: Cool! I can smoke in here! I so hate the “no smoking in bars” rule. I love  that this place flaunts that.

41-year-old self: [cough, cough]

22-year-old self: Wow, a rooftop! Showing movies! Chill!

41-year-old self: Are you serious? One rickety ladder to get up and… oh shit, an even more rickety ladder to get down? If there is a fire….

22-year-old self: Hee hee! My dress is totally billowing as I climb down this ladder!

41-year-old self: Oh shit. My dress is totally billowing as I climb down this ladder!

22-year-old self: Absinthe! I’ve always wanted to try absinthe!

41-year-old self: Dear, lord, what are those two people doing out there? Is either of them carrying condoms?

22-year-old self, upon hearing a guy exclaim that he got a cast for whacking off too much: Ha ha ha ha ha!

41-year-old self, upon hearing a guy exclaim that he got a cast for whacking off to much: [silent eye rolls]

22-year-old self, after getting “advice on ice”–italian ice that comes with a dose of advice… from a 23 year old: Yeah, you’re totally right! Only do what your passionate about! Working a job you’re not excited about is just a waste of time. And seriously, if you’re not have wild sex every night, it’s just not worth living!

41-year-old self, after getting “advice on ice”–italian ice that comes with a dose of advice… from a 23 year old: [muttering about how I, the Jewish mother, should be giving the advice, accented with plenty of eye rolls]

22-year-old self: Wow! Two vodka tonics, one rum and coke, one whiskey on the rocks, two beers, one juice, three waters for $34 in a New York club? Amazing!

41-year-old self: Wow! Two vodka tonics, one rum and coke, one whiskey on the rocks, two beers, one juice, three waters for $34 in a New York club? Amazing! [Because, really, that is amazing, no matter how old you are!]

Made it home just after 2. And I’m glad I went. Even if I wasn’t sure about it on Saturday morning’s run, it was definitely worth it. Yes, I’m almost 42 years old. But, damn. I can still party like I’m 39!

You all know that I watch most of those silly reality shows, things like The Real Housewives of Schenectady, where when they go away on vacation, they bring their entire closets with them? It’s all so exaggerated, the five bathing suits, the fourteen pairs of shoes, the thirty-seven tops for a weekend getaway.

Or so I thought, before this past two-night trip to NYC with a few haus frau girlfriends (who shall henceforth be referred to as HF1 (who is L., for those of you playing along at home), HF2 (D.), HF3 (A.), and HF4 (N.)). We went for a shopping trip. God knows why. I have never seen anyone bring so many clothes for such a short time away. Not a one of them needed more clothes. HF4 and I shared a room. She had a full suitcase and a garment bag with about a dozen hangers of outfits. The other three changed outfits multiple times a day. And here I thought this was a trait Pie would grow out of; I had no idea it would only grow worse as she aged.

And me? I brought one dress that I wear as a skirt; one short-sleeved black shirt to wear with the skirt… which turned out to be actually long-sleeved (it looks just like my short-sleeved one and I didn’t look closely enough when I packed), which means I didn’t really have a shirt, as the weather was too sweltering to wear it; one pair of jeans; one top to go with the jeans; one cardigan in case it was chilly; and one tank top to wear with the skirt… which it turns out I forgot to pack. I did, of course, bring running clothes. Because running clothes are essential.

And the shopping? We all scored. They bought dresses and flip flops and jewelry and shirts. I bought two necklaces, a bunch of cookie cutters, and books. Lots of books. Enough books to keep me reading all summer (HF2 wrote on my Facebook page, “The NY Times book review is not meant to serve as a shopping list,” although that’s exactly what it did and it was perfect!). I got home and delivered a mountain of presents to my children and Pie said to me, “I want to see the clothes you bought!”

“I didn’t buy any,” I told her.

Her face fell. “But I thought this was a shopping trip!”

“It was,” I said. “Didn’t you see how many books I bought?”

She was so disappointed. “That’s not shopping.” She was so meant to be HF1’s daughter.

Anyway, I’m back and trying to re-enter life. I asked Doodles, “Did you miss me?” to which I got a big hug and a “Yes!” I asked Pie, “Did you miss me?” She cocked her head at me and said, “No. But you can put me to bed anyway.”

Over the next couple of days, I’ll try to retrace my steps in New York and see if I can come up with some explanations for you guys for those incomprehensible tweets (explanations, I should say, other than “gin” or “whiskey” or “wine”).

But for now, I need to make up for the two nights of only five hours sleep (each night, people. I’m not a monster, you know!).

I love the fluidity of summer. How everyone just moves in and out of the house and just lets the mood of the day take them. Yes, I know, it’s not technically summer, as Pie likes to remind me (“Is it really summer yet? How many more days till my birthday?”). But it feels like it. This is the year my kids are old enough to come and go on their own more or less, coming and going being defined as allowed to head out the backyard by themselves or go across the street to play with Tab. Doodles is allowed to ride his bike as long as he has a buddy with him. It’s the first year I’ve ever had to ask, “Where are the kids?” and really not known. I’ll call to the neighbor, “Have you seen my kids?” and generally the answer is, “They’re down the street” or “In my backyard.” It’s a relaxing feeling.

We’re definitely slipping into summer mode–kids up later, less TV (yea!), lots of popsicles. Kindergarten Connections for Pie–where she starts to meet other kids who will be in her grade–starts this coming Saturday, although I personally will miss it as I’ll be on a girls’ trip to NYC. School year is winding down, which means I’m making the preschool class video, trying to finalize camp plans, floundering at making vacation plans (we cannot get our act together to figure out where to go).

Of course this also means I’ve slipped into summer dress. Which pretty much involves leaving my shorts on the floor and then the next morning evaluating if they’re clean enough to make it another day. Usually they are, except for those days when I’ve been gardening (I’m so into gardening! I have three types of tomatoes plants; lettuce, carrots, onions, and squash that are all growing from seed; red peppers; basil; cucumbers; eggplant; and I’m trying potatoes in a garbage bag, and they are growing like crazy!). Except that I now have the fashion police living in the house. I put on my shorts. For only the second day in a row, I might add. And that little girl came in after I was fully dressed, rubbed her eyes from sleep, took one look at me, and exclaimed, horrified, “Mommy! You wore those yesterday!” Why, yes. Yes, I did. What’s the point of being a suburban haus frau if you can’t wear your clothes multiple days in a row?

In general, Memorial Day Weekend was a big success. I had an uber-relaxing weekend. It’s what happens when you self-medicate. On Sunday, I had a BBQ that I was very much looking forward to, but I had the nigglings of a headache and my foot was hurting, so I popped a couple of Advil. Only about three minutes after I took them, I thought, “Hey! I don’t remember our Advil being blue.” I checked. They’re not blue. They’re orange. Those blue pills? Tylenol P.M. My state of mind? A happy place. Turns out you can fight the Tylenol P.M. for a good many hours (might even be longer if you’re not drinking) before finally having to cave to the goodness of a bed. I don’t know which was better: that gooey feeling or not hearing even the slightest peep of Adam putting the kids to bed.

The joys of summer. Bring it on!

Why is it my son who would go an entire week in the same underwear needs to be constantly reminded that he can wear the same pajamas a couple of nights in a row? Not that that’s the point right now. It’s a genuine question. I simply don’t understand. And why can he remember every level of card-jitsu in Club Penguin but can’t remember what he did in school five minutes after the bell rings?

My kids are in a mood today. Both of them. Pie had a complete meltdown on the way home from walking the boy to school because I mentioned we might go swimming this weekend. It’s supposed to be 80 on Sunday. Pie has been begging to swim. We can go. But I happened to mention that the outdoor pool at the Y was opening, and that sent her off into convulsions. She doesn’t want to swim outside. She only wants to swim inside. And only now. Not on Sunday. Thirty minutes of tears commenced.

My son, meanwhile, spends all his time locked up in his room, rereading Diary of a Wimpy Kid (books 1 through 4) or his new discovery, Calvin and Hobbes comics. I forced him outside. Harumph. Given their mood, I thought we should have a nice mellow family night. How about a movie? We can all watch the first Shrek. He hates Shrek. No, he’s never seen it. No, he doesn’t know what it’s about. He hates it. He’ll watch a different movie on his iPod. Okay, then, I say, no movie night. “Oh, oh-kay. I’ll watch Shrek!” Thanks for the favor.

The best part about all of this? It’s a three-day weekend. I get three days of loveliness from my children. And even better? Only two and a half more weeks of school for Pie and three and a half for Doodles. And then there all mine! Whaa haa haa haa ha! Thank goodness drinking white wine or sangrias at noon in the summer is acceptable. It is right? Right?