Badofiuaweoijfdals

Crap. The birds are chirping and I haven't been to bed yet.

I can't believe I've made it this far since I had my last caffeine booster drink at 11-ish. On top of that, as cliche' as it sounds, I'm red as a lobster from being outside for so many hours doing this:

... in over 50 mph gusts. My face feels how I imagine stone-washed jeans must feel. Beaten.

So my face looks like a shiny red hemorrhoid, just in time for our garage sale tomorrow today.

This is just the clothing table.

Look at all those farkin' shoes!

That contraption is what my brain settles on when I ask the question: How do I have my sale in the garage (since we're expecting bad weather) and I have a whole shit-ton of lumber in the way?

A couple of bike hooks and an old shower curtain rod and you've got yourself a compact clothing display case.

See the anal retentiveness? I color coded the hangers so people can find the sizes more easily.

Not only did I put that all together, I had to tag all of Stephie and Mom's crap plus clean the whole flipping garage of tools and stray lumber and bike stuff and garbage and etcetera etcetera.

Mike is starting his long off tomorrow, and since he fell asleep immediately after going out to dinner with these people and some cleavage:

I nominate him to pull the first round of garage sale duty while I sleep.

Yaaaawn.......

I swear if anyone comes banging on the door before 8, I'm gonna end up on the news, and it won't be for a charitable act.

Titillating Tuesday: Not dead yet

Me: What day is it???

Mike: Wednesday.

Really? Ugh. Who keeps track of that crap every single day?

Um... most people. Yeah, I'm pretty sure most people keep track of that crap.

---

I drove past La Camelia (a fun Mexican restaurant) yesterday and had the urge to pull into the parking lot. But I'm pretty sure they would have frowned on the three children watching me get plowed on margaritas.

Although I might have been able to pass them off as my midget driving team.

---

Speaking of children, the neighbor girl Emily (4) came over yesterday to play in the mud puddle with my girls. The whole herd of children galloped all over our yard. I suddenly became worried about leaving my kids alone with a poor innocent...

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Me: Mike! Did you hear that Betty White is hosting SNL...

Mike: Yes, yes, yes for the 500th time.

I'm sorry, I'm just excited. Can you tell? I'm gonna record it. And make you watch it over and over while masturbating until you cry.

(long pause)

Mike: Mas-tur-ma-baaaaate...

---

It was my sister's birthday yesterday. Turned the big 3 3. So of course I asked her if she felt any closer to death.

---

My fence is turning out quite nicely. Unfortunately for me, I needed another set of hands and had to drag Mike off the couch to hold a board for me.

It's times like this I wish I could duplicate myself. One person to help me hold the boards, and one person to beat the crap outta Mike.

---

I was told yesterday that I'm making the other neighborhood ladies look bad because of all the work I'm doing by myself. (She was teasing.) I should have told her I could make them look much more attractive by doing my work in a bikini from now on. That should even things up...

---

In speaking to another neighbor, it seems that someone reported them to the city for their small addition because they hadn't received their permit yet (it was paid for but the inspector never brought it over). So it seems we might have a nosey Nellie in our neighborhood... Hmmm... Everyone's a suspect!

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone. Er, Thursday!!!

Slow night

I am such a terrible and miserable load tonight. I didn't do anything. Well, except finish reading my latest endeavor: American on Purpose. Laaaaazy.

Wait! What the hell am I talking about?! I did a ton of stuff today to deserve a break.

First off there were those five minutes of humiliatingly butchering my first fencepost with a reciprocating saw (and then I got the hang of it and buzzed off quite a few more like butta...)

Then there were the mud puddles. Oh, the mud puddles.

The girls discovered that water + dirt = pure squishy fun.

Alison, my dearest Alison. I think she has a job with public works in her future, don't you think? You don't get that level of underwear showin' with lack of talent.

It only took her about ten minutes before she was covered in goop and wanted to go inside. After I told her NO, she protested by staring at me from her plastic chair on the sidewalk and drawing mud circles with her dirt-crusted shoes.

Emma wasn't too worried about getting dirty. Kristin spent most of her time showing off her new earthworm pet to the neighbor girl. I heard them both squealing and giggling over it, so it seems as though the girl was impressed.

I had to negotiate enough time to finish two more posts out of Alison. Here's where we're at, after a weekend of soul-sucking rain storms. My dandelion crop is coming up nicely... looks like it's time to pull out some chemical death weed killer.

Then it was onto supper. I threw the girls into what would soon become the muddy Mississippi in the way of baths while I made Carne Guisada tacos.

Dishes, dry and dress the kids, snuggle with Mike, and here we are... at the point of the evening when I'm normally cleaning and instead am now ignoring my self-imposed guilt trip for not.

Ugh.

At least my mommy's coming to visit tomorrow. Maybe I can rope her into tagging some garage sale stuff (heh heh... perhaps this is why they never visit me anymore.....)

Leaving the dorm life behind

Notice my absence yesterday? I have been a busy, busy girl.

Mostly doing laundry because my children were out of clothes and I was playing the sniff-my-jeans-to-see-which-pair-is-least-dirty game. Supa classy, fo sho.

I've also been continuously gutting our house in preparation for this Friday / Saturday's garage sale. Yes, YOU are invited. As long as you buy something.

You should hear inside my head. It always gets to a scary place before and all through garage sales. (I have been known to rummage through my house as my wares dwindle, just to bring up even more crap.)

We have TWO TVs in the basement I could sell...

and all these picture frames I don't use, but I'll have to take the kids' pictures out first...

and Mike has WAY too many pairs of shoes (six is too many for a guy, right?)...

and do you think someone would buy a half-opened pack of Pull-Ups? Oh hell, just put them in the FREE bin...

I wasn't always a minimalist. I think that happens when you have kids and have to clean up all their shit for years and years, day after day. You kinda get sick of THINGS. Like seeing that set of Polly Pockets for the 500th time, hidden under your couch because they're "on a camping trip." Or anything that Kristin can get her hands on to stuff into her Strawberry Shortcake backpack which Mike had purchased to satiate her hoarding tendencies.

Besides that, I was growing tired of looking at our DVD collection. It had spilled over its DVD tower borders years ago. I spent a good day moving about half of our 500-600* DVDs into cute leather books, then moving the towers to the garage sale pile and our bookshelves back into the livingroom.

*While this is a lot of DVDs, half of them were either $3-5 or came in 4-pack movie collections. Plus Mike and I have no public life and substitute having real dates with buying a movie and falling asleep on the couch.

With the DVDs gone, Mike said he no longer feels like he lives in a dorm.

Ironically, as I was looking over all my books including Vonnegut and Hillary Clinton, Lama Surya Das and Augusten Burroughs, sliding them onto the shelves, I was thinking: If someone was to judge me according to the books I read, they'd think I'm some kind of tree-hugging, peace-loving, psych-babbling, educated-woman type liberal college student. Oh wait...

So we've just traded a normal guy's dorm room for a dorky chick's.

Also on my list for our livingroom makeover:

Hello, chair. I bought you at Pier One for 75% off. It is your destiny to be painted cerulean. You're welcome.

I'm on a roll. If you stand still too long in my house, you will be painted, pitched or sold. Here are about half of my victims. (Some furniture is in the basement.)

I had been hoping to ditch the couch and the ugly couch cover, but I don't know if that'll happen. I just spent another $400 on lumber yesterday. Ugh. Mike said, I bet you'd never paid so much for wood in your life. Which of course is an innuendo. Little does he know I'd sell my soul for a hot Puerto Rican servant right now. So that probably means I won't get my too-expensive couch with the queen-sized fold out mattress for all those guests who never come for overnights.

On a side note, my child, Alison, bit the dust while going on a walk yesterday with Grandma. Check out that lip.

(Emma scooted into the frame as soon as she realized a picture was being taken.) Also note: they're using cat toys for crowns.

I'm not sure what today will hold for me. I'm glad Mike's back at work because there's something about home improvement that gets him all wriled up. I've been beating him back with a stick. BACK! Don't make me bring out the taser...

I'll probably end up chopping down my fenceposts to near-code height and hauling up as much garage sale fodder from the basement as I can until I pop out my colon. Lifting heavy things tends to do that to me.

Have a good Monday, and please say a prayer that I don't lose any fingers this week.

All praise Jeebus and having ten fingers...

The injustice of being a mother

Thank goodness for rain.

I spent the whole day cleaning and reorganizing the house yesterday, adding to my garage sale pile anything that got in my way, while the kids made even more crafts and messes.

I was frequently interrupted by requests to view their art projects. Emma told me that Christmas is just around the corner, so she felt compelled to make a Christmas tree.

That looks happy, right? It's not about the mess... it's about how much FUN they had while making the mess. That's what I tell myself when I'm rocking in the fetal position while wishing the cleaning fairy would pay me a visit.

I hope they appreciate me.

They sure don't appreciate my cleaning up after them.

Alison's favorite thing to tell me is that I need to clean up her room. Ummm? Wrong, my dear. She even starts it out with a "honey" for good measure.

Honey, our room is a mess. Mommy needs to clean it up.

So then I have to hold back my slapping hand maniacal laughter while I explain that that's not exactly how it works.

But sometimes it does.

Last night was my exception. I needed to get their room clean so that I could trap them in it for long periods of time. If it's clean, I can bring out a bucket of toys. (Amazing how messy a room can get even without the majority of their toys. Most recently, they found strips of paper and shredded them into tiny bits on their floor and stuffed the chunks into backpacks and socks.)

So after about 30 minutes of cleaning, Mike took a break from eating and came in to see how it was going. I was already wiped out. Mike sympathetically bent down and grabbed two walking-talking dinosaurs and put them on their shelf.

Kristin sat up and - I shit you not - said in her cheeriest voice and best Vanna White hands, Thank you, Daddy, for picking up our toys!

Mike was laughing so hard he was crying, then he came over to hug me. I think I was curled up in that fetal position I'd mentioned earlier...

If that wasn't enough, the first bucket of toys they played with (once the room was finished) was the Mr. Potato Head collection.

Emma told me, from left to right that this is:

"My sisters, my daddy, and my MOMMY."

I'm really diggin' my Chester the Molester 'stache.

Oh, and notice Mike's really buff arms? Pfffft. (I'm assuming the little one is Kristin and the one with "bendy arms" is Alison...)

What did I do to deserve this kind of treatment?

---

On a completely unrelated note, I finally understand men.

The inspector came over to drop off my permit today, and while I know he's a really nice guy, I couldn't stop staring at his boobs.

And I kinda wanted to touch them.

MeoooowBARF

I keep having nightmares about projectile vomiting cats.

Stress much?

I need to get my house clean. I can't take it anymore. Last night I was so tired I became an armchair supervisor, pointing to things and asking the girls to put them where they belong. About 20 minutes of cleaning cost me three DumPops.

And my fence is taking forever to finish. I picked up 21 fencepost caps for $7/each yesterday... that's only $160. For stupid fencepost caps. Should I concede defeat yet?

My indoor plants are outgrowing their plastic covers since it's taking me forever to get my gardens in the ground. I saw they're selling TALL plastic covers for a mere $5 each. Erm, no thank you. My plants will just have to learn to bend.

Then I got a stack of letters this morning - all at once - from my student loans. I'm supposed to be in deferment, but that has ended and they want their money. Now. I called them and asked what the hell was going on, but when I realized the person on the other end of the line was a robot, I said fuck it and signed up for another $200/month in bills.

Barf.

But I had some really cute moments, too.

I saw Michaela's (not spelled the way I've been spelling it) mom and we chatted. Without saying a word, Michaela and Alison stood about a foot apart, gave each other a high five, then my daughter - the child who hugs no one - leaned in and gave Michaela a HUGE HUG. That girl looks so much like my kids that people are going to think I have quads. Can I just borrow her for a day to see what comments I get?

And Emma was flipping through a book on the sun, moon and stars, and she was telling me where we live and about night and day and oh, look! a crescent moon! It's amazing how they absorb the things I tell them, even when I don't think they're paying attention.

The girls are now running through the livingroom playing with their paper airplanes that I threw together (and they decorated) all while singing one of their favorite songs - incorrectly, of course - I wiggle my airplane...

(It's supposed to be Awake on my airplane, but I'm no Buzz Killington.)

Next? We're putting together a 125 piece puzzle. You see, it's pouring rain outside. So we're all trapped here together.

I told Mike to plan on a movie night tonight. I need to de-stress. He bought me two CUBES of Pepsi Crack. 48 cans of heart-bursting goodness. He also picked up dill pickle chips and a movie.

Avatar.

It'd better be good or all you assholes who told me it was are goin' down.

More like a cutter than an axe murderer

Is there something about my appearance that screams: Your children will be safe with me!!!*

I have now signed up to watch another 5-year-old every morning until the end of school. And I have no idea when that is. My plan is to keep showing up and dropping them off until they refuse to accept my children.

I figure there's about a month or so left. McKayla is in class with Alison and when I asked her if she like this little girl, Alison smiled and nodded (and then she went on to tell me she likes her but that Noah is her favorite - surprise, surprise NOT... that girl is boy crazy). McKayla's mom talked about paying me, but I'm wondering now if it would be a better idea to get paid in Pepsi Crack...

I figured it was about time I started getting them together on a regular basis with non-sibling children, so Alison, when you're 10-years-old and have friends, you can thank your mother for sacrificing her mornings.

As I spoke to McKayla's father outside of class this morning, he was really laid back and joking around, so I told him I'm warning you that I'm not exactly what some might call a "morning person"... if I'm half in a coma when you drop her off, that's normal for me. When he laughed and said he feels the same way about mornings, I decided this would probably be okay.

(There are two levels of parents when it comes to daycare: 1) Entertain my child and teach them stuff, and then there's 2) Keep my child alive. I think they're from the 2nd group.)

Anyway... I'm so glad I have another little life to tend to since I'm having problems keeping myself in one piece lately.

I was playing "off with her head" with my flowering bushes out front of my house and almost took the top of my middle finger completely off. And let me add that that is one of the worst places for an injury. Try running your hands through your hair, or digging in your purse, or typing, or playing piano with the tip of your finger playing Flappy McChunkitoff. Plus there are four or five more wounded spots on my hands that happened in the same motion (the mini-handsaw got jammed and I was trying to close it back into its handle) making my fingers ache even when I'm not moving them.

So while I thought it would be the skill saw doing a bloody number on my fingers, it was a $5 handtool that little old ladies use to prune their flowers and trees which chunked off half of my hand flesh in less than a second.

I know I've mentioned this before, but we tease my dad relentlessly about his nubby middle finger (I can't remember if that's the one he shaved off in the planer or the one that he dropped a camper/trailer on... I should ask). Is there any chance this is karma? Or maybe we're not as genetically handy as we thought? No pun intended.

Bring me your youth, your children... I promise to bring them back with 99% of their body parts still attached.

*I've learned from the mom that McKayla has diabetes and an insulin pump, so she thought (since I had multiples and triplets usuall = preemies) that I might have experience with medical problems. So now I'm off to Google "insulin pump in children" to find out a few things ahead of time...

My To Do list makes War & Peace look like a short story

I'm on project overload, and the children are not cooperating.

The kids know when I'm trying to finish something up because last night, I swear to God, I could have buried them in the ground with the fence posts.

Just a clue as to how badly last night went: we didn't eat supper. We completely skipped it, although the kids didn't seem to mind because they were busy eating my soul.

Two fence posts.

That's how many I told them I had to set and then we could go on a "bike walk." Do you think that could happen in a timely manner? Of course not.

I wish I was kidding, but every 2 minutes for TWO HOURS I was dealing with crying and bleeding and "I'm sad because Alison left me alone" and "make Alison get away from me" and disappearing children, etc, etc.

From where I was working, my voice echoed. I'm sure the neighbors were impressed by my blasphemous outbursts after the third time that Alison took the "wrong color chair." I finally made all three sit, in their shorts, on the cold damp grass while I set the last post. TWO HOURS. For two posts. That's horrific.

It was a grand finale of shit from yesterday's tour through hell.

It started yesterday with Emma waking up claiming that she felt better after a night of crying and nightmares. Kristin was passed out on the couch from I-don't-know-what, so I only took Alison and Emma to school.

An hour later, I received a phone call letting me know that Emma was pale and had white crap coming out of her ear. (For whatever reason, that seems to be normal with her when she gets an ear infection. Today, she seems to feel better.) Also, she kept crying during the songs. I swung through and picked her up, and I conned Mike into making the third trip to school that day. That's over an hour of driving total.

As soon as they were together at home, Kristin and Emma frolicked off into the sunset.

I gave them movies and snacks and a whole bunch of art supplies while I tried to organize our several hundred DVDs into books according to genre. Please. Shoot. Me. At one point I held up a movie and said to myself, What is Atonement doing in "Romantic Comedy"? Mike started cracking up. (We have also decided that any movie I may have missed will now go in the kids' movies, regardless of violence or nudity.)

So imagine about ten 2-1/2 foot tall stacks of DVD boxes in my livingroom when the neighbor girl came over for her piano lesson... to cancel. I was slightly relieved.

The house was full of paper bits and DVDs and running children. I was losing my mind.

That's when I decided it would be better to get them outside. *snort*

I should have stayed inside and drank instead.

(To Do: Add "buy alcohol" to To Do list.)

Titillating Tuesday: Finding my happy place

After that big freakin' mess from Sunday - the mess where the city inspector called about my fence - I was pretty peeved off. I was imagining waiting a month just to find out I had to a) build my fence really really late, 2) fight their decision, or B) dig my posts out, concrete and all.

I took a deep breath, envisioned my little cottage by the creek, and I feel better now...

...thanks to our awesome treasurer, Chris Justice. (He is seriously adorable regardless of his sweater vest. I even put makeup on to go see him.)

I went down and asked him for the paperwork for the variance. He said there wasn't really any "paperwork," but that he would have to call the building board members for a meeting.

There was one problem: this board hasn't met in 3 or 4 years. Chris told me No one has asked for a variance in that time.

Oh, GREAT. Do you even understand how BAD that is??? People aren't happy when they have to meet over a stupid fence that's already in the stupid ground.

Then we talked about what the variance was for, and he got a confused look on his face. He pointed at the paperwork and asked how tall the fence was going to be. When I told him 3 or 4 feet, he said if I kept it at 36" or below, there is no variance and the inspector and whoever reported me "were mistaken." My new favorite two words.

When could I start work again?

Immediately.

I freakin' love this guy. Um yeah, so next election season, vote Chris Justice for Most Likely to be Made of Pure Awesome. Or Treasurer...

I would like to add that I could have made my fence 42" tall, if I had made it out of a material like chicken wire or chain link. Seriously??? Because THAT is more attractive than pickets. He said I could have asked for a variance for a taller fence, but I took my signed paperwork and RAN.

---

Last night was pure hell. Emma cried on and off all night, claiming she had a monster living in her ear.

I gave her a vitamin and told her it had anti-monster powers, and then I used a Q-tip to pretend to "capture" her ear invader. Then I fed it to "a lion."

It worked for all of an hour.

At least Mike got up with the girls at 6 so I could sleep in until garbage time. I swear Mike is allergic to chores.

---

Wanna know how anal retentive I am?

I ordered leather DVD storage books two weeks ago, and I've been counting down to their arrival, possibly sometime this afternoon.

It's been the highlight of my week.

---

Last time we visited my parents, the girls brought stuffed animals with them. For whatever reason, we couldn't find Kristin's "baby pink kitty." It's the kind that meows when you press its stomach.

We turned that place upside-down for an hour. And Kristin looooves to stash things (part of the reason we call her Squirrel) in weird places. We never found it.

Yesterday my mom called and asked to speak to Kristin.

Suddenly a loud meow!! meow!! meow!! came over the phone. Kristin smirked and shyly looked away... she was so excited. As soon as I hung up, she asked to skip school and drive 25 minutes just to pick up "baby pink kitty."

Apparently the cat was hiding underneath the Barbie house. We were so busy searching the beds and refrigerators in that pink monstrosity that no one caught how crooked it was sitting on the floor.

Or should I say: on the baby pink kitty.

---

This is typically how my marriage works:

- Mike asks to do something. I say Sure and just ask that he come home at a reasonable time.

- Mike then promises to be home by X o'clock.

- X o'clock comes and goes. I call him to see if he's on his way or if we've moved on to the next portion of this game: renegotiation.

- Mike tells me he's picking something up for me or doing some errand that didn't exist until he invented it to stay away longer.

- He comes home at around X+4 o'clock.

Yesterday, he asked to go golfing and said he'd be home by early afternoon. Then it turned into drinks at a friend's house. And buying a pizza at Zoey's to bring home, even though I'd told him we were having chicken on the grill. All before he had to go pick up his bike from the shop and come home.

He doesn't lie. He's just in serious, serious denial about his time management skills.

But that pizza was damn delicious, so all was forgiven... for now...

Stop, in the name of neighbor* consternation!

I think I have the right number... are you putting up a fence?

This can't be good. Yeah.

Uhh... I don't normally call on Sunday mornings, but I wanted to get ahold of you before you did anymore work that needed to be torn out.

That's when the universe cracked in two. *BLAM!* My apologies if you like your universes in one piece.

The city inspector went on to tell me that even though we're putting the fence on our side yard, our driveway comes out that way on a corner lot, making it front yard as well. What does that matter, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

Fences have to be set back a certain distance off the curb on front yards. Side and back yards? Not.

I wondered, in our small town, how the inspector just happened to come across our fence and notice that it was 17' from the curb instead of 25'. Then he kind of gave me my answer: And that type of fence probably wouldn't get an okay for a variance. (To receive a variance, you have to get an okay from the neighbors.)

I knew what he was getting at. He thought we were putting up a privacy fence because of how tall the posts are sticking out of the ground. And it's my personal belief that one of my neighbors* did also, which is why I think they called it in.

I laughed. Oh, it's not gonna be that tall... we're trimming down the posts for a short decorative garden fence.

(sigh of relief) How tall is it going to be?

Less than four foot.

(another sigh and a nervous laugh)

So now some asshole called us in and I have to wait until the next city council meeting to find out if I can continue to build or pull the fenceposts out and move it back eight fucking feet.

This has been a total buzzkill. And I'm considering continuing construction on the rest of the fence so I have pictures to show the neighbors and council on how a-goddamn-dorable it's gonna be. That poor inspector. I've spoken to him a few times and he's really swell, but he sounds like he absolutely hates having to be tough on violations.

As a bonus, Alison was complaining about an earache all yesterday. Then I heard her calling from the computer room, My blanket is dirrrty, Mom.

I walked in to find her wiping orange vomit off her blanket with a Kleenex.

Until now, I hadn't been able to place what was so off about the taste of Flinstone vitamins. I figured it out. They taste just a tiny bit like vomit. It was the smell on her blanket that tipped me off.

I scrubbed her down and when she was feeling better, we made bread together.

Until I smelled that aweful Flinstone vitamin smell again and Alison started to cry. She didn't throw up, but I think we were close to having Italian Herb Orange Vitamin Bread.

We stayed inside to watch movies the rest of that gorgeous, 60-something-degree day.

I was cooking supper and noticed out the kitchen window that dozens of people were smiling and waving at our house as they walked down the street. Not to be left out of the neighborhood action, the girls had thrown on their winter hats and mittens with their pajamas and were heckling people and their dogs out our livingroom window and were waving to every passerby.

At least they made lemonade on a shitty shitty day.

On today's agenda? Kicking ass.

That's how I roll.

To start things off, the girls are pretending to potty train their stuffed animals. Barkers just crapped his rainbow underpants and Alison gave him candy.

I'm guessing potty training traumatized them, too...

*I no longer believe it was one of my neighbors who called it in (and that never made sense anyway, since most of my neighbors are pretty upstanding, laid back people).

I had thought it would be awfully ballsy of someone to get that irked and hunt down the city codes to find out if I'd violated them, all over a stupid little fence. I had wondered if it was someone who already had a firm grasp on city code... a city employee or perhaps someone who builds houses.... And then I looked outside and happened to see the guy who built OUR house, working on a project right across the street. (He doesn't like us very well because I questioned if the basement was supposed to be gushing water down the walls.)

Hmmmm.... it doesn't take a genius. This is all just speculation, but he's definitely at the top of the suspect list.

Jack of SOME Trades?

You sure are one busy lady! My neighbor passed by - walking his girlfriend's dog (I swear this guy is old and is rarely single, please explain it to me) - for the third consecutive day while the fence was going up, and he commented on my ability to do anything. I can't disagree.

And today, I had the rugrats occupied (temporarily) with a homemade obstacle course created from chalk and 2x4 chunks on the driveway. I even made a gas station and carwash! Because I am an awesome frickin' mom when it comes to neglecting my children.

All that "ingenuity" so I could free up a little fence time.

Whattaya think so far? Only four more to go!

There are two posts in the mix that are completely and insanely twisted. I was rolling them on the ground trying to find the straightest stretch of wood.

And while I was cursing at the board, I thought of the contrite face Mike made while pulling them from the Suburban and realizing he had just purchased corkscrew planks: Oh, JESUS. I'm sorry.....

So at least I knew he knew.

I did my little exercise in leveling un-straight things. (Okay, I actually lucked out and plopped them in almost entirely level... the home improvement gods smiled on me today.)

I made it until 2 before the kids started sneaking into the house. They were hiding in the basement eating peanut butter cookies.

I spent the rest of the day cleaning and purging.

These cupboards:

used to have all this crap:

mixed in.

Buh. BYE. Forget the binge. Purge purge purge!!!

I hope someone will take my huge ziploc bag of nipples. Free nipples, come and get your free nipples here...

Don't stand still too long in my house or you'll end up in a garage sale tote.

I'm smuggling out our Magic Bullet blender and Mike's George Foreman grill... it's his punishment for the warped boards. Mwahahahaha.

I need to form a union to demand warmer weather

It's 4:50 AM, and I could hang myself for going to bed at 10 last night. Because I am officially up for the day.

And I've spent the morning trying not to drink Pepsi Crack or kill the cat. (I swear Moochie has a death wish. She pounces on my plastic planter covers - smooshing my plants - and then runs downstairs, knowing if she stayed near me I would filet her and make her my supper.)

So anyway...

I didn't lose any fingers to the skill saw yesterday, which by now I'm sure is obvious since I can still type my Ss and Ps, and I'm wondering why they call it a skill saw when it obviously takes very little actual skill to run it.

It does take some skill, however, to do this:

by one's self. In the wind and cold.

This is all I got done all day. Partly because I took a break every 45 minutes, just like a real construction worker, and partly because I had to run in town for supplies and prep all the materials as well as chisel dirt out of some of the holes. I also spent a good deal of time standing, looking, and cursing.

(That board, second from the right along the front row, received most of my f-bombs today. She was a bitch.)

Since Mike made fun of me for wearing my tall-waisted "mom" jeans the other day, I decided to show off my hole-in-the-crotch low-waisted jeans. It got a little breezy, since it was in the 50s all morning and the sustained winds were up to 25 mph.

I hope the neighbors enjoyed the view.

I'm not sure how I'm going to keep working today since I'll have the kids and I am completely out of crotchless jeans...

The girls had spent the night at my parents' house on Thursday and all day yesterday. My mom spoiled them and walked them down to Walgreen's so they could "push the crosswalk buttons."

The girls got some snacks, and Kristin told Mom she wanted these:

because "they look like the lawnmower mommy used to dig holes."

Then she made twisty-swirly fingers to imitate the power auger.

Speaking of lawnmowers, my dad was mowing and the girls decided to play Grandpa Monster... a game where they run around the house away from the mowing Grandpa. And then my mom blew bubbles for over an hour while the girls used their fly swatters to pop them. Then they baked peanut butter cookies.

It was funny when mom said the girls watched Lady & the Tramp three times already. I bet those kids wore her out - they wear me out - and I'm glad to hear she used the TV babysitter a little. Sometimes I think, Watch whatever you want, just leave me alone.

I'm glad they're home. I missed them.

Time to get this day jumpstarted. I need to do some laundry.

Where's my Pepsi Crack?

Apologies to my dear blog readers,

Please excuse my absence of late. You see, I'm preparing to spend a day using these:

and these:

to create 19 more of these:

In the last decade, I have used a band saw, a table saw, a planer, an enormous floor buffer, a drill press, a high-powered nail gun, a jigsaw, (and now a power auger) etc, etc... but I have never used a skill saw.

And I'm about to do just that, while I'm home alone.

Can you see what I'm envisioning? Me, driving down the highway with most of my fingers gripping the steering wheel on the way to the ER? It hasn't happened. Yet.

Because I wouldn't be my father's child unless I systematically removed body parts - namely fingers - during home improvement projects.

This is what makes life interesting.

I'm either about to cut a couple 2x4 braces, OR I'm about to perform a hasty amputation.

Wish me luck!

(Oh, and while it would be nice to have help from Mike today, I'm kinda glad he's gone. He had me laughing so hard yesterday I could barely swing a hammer. It started with him saying, fuuuck, every time I did anything. Mind you, I'm the one who planned this project out. I'm the one who is figuring out measurements and methods. Then he'd start laughing at how I was standing or holding the level or moving the 60-pound bag of concrete. As I cut open the last bag, I had a bit of trouble getting it to pour. Mike responded by laughing and sighing, fuuuck. To which I scolded, Don't you 'fuck' me! Yeah. I'm sure the neighbors were wondering what we were doing out there. We both were pretty useless after that, with all the laughing and teasing that Mike brought down on me. So yep. Glad I'm alone today!)

I have fallen down the rabbit hole. Or post hole.

Look at that machine!

I'm talking about my husband, of course...

And then look at that power auger. Holy hell. We "powered" through 19 three-foot holes and what felt like at least a dozen boulders today in less than 40 minutes.

By the end of it, I felt like a pro. And had all my limbs and essential body parts intact.

Although it felt like my fingers were going to pop out of their skins from being vibrated to oblivion. While the power auger is a thousand times less painful than digging post holes by hand, I highly recommend you avoid the task altogether.

After hole #19, Mike left for Home Depot and I then took the girls for a "bike walk." By the time we got back, I was reeeally dizzy. Probably from all the yelling through my hand megaphone when Kristin and Alison went careening down a hill and blew through a stop sign. In front of Alison's teacher who happened to be outside grilling supper.

Kristin! KRISTIN!!! Use your BRAKES. Stop. I said STOP! At the STOP SIGN! Alison, you'd better stop your bike NOW. Kristin, did you hear me??? I told you to stop. It's you're own fault you crashed. You are in SO MUCH TROUBLE. Oh, HI... Mrs. S! How are YOU? I swear these two are gonna get hit by a car. Okay, see ya later. (walking away quickly...)

(Got a good picture of the crane while we were out walking, too. Don't be fooled... it's waaaaay in the distance.)

One last one for the night... Kristin drawing Mat Man juggling pudding, NOW with a banana!

She and her sisters had Mike laughing all night.

Kristin: I have a yellow ball in my classroom!

Alison (sadly): My teacher doesn't have any balls...

Mike: I should hope not.

Poor Mrs. S and her lack of testicles.

Well, I need some rest. We're spending the day tomorrow filling the holes with posts and concrete. Bob Vila's got nuttin' on me.

Titillating Tuesday: UNDERWEAR!!! (*boom-TISH*)

I'm adding to my project list. We have to repaint the livingroom. I was sitting out in the car, waiting for my sister to return with our pizzas when I noticed how much I liked the neutral colors on the outside of the pizzeria.

Is that green? gray? maybe some kind of diarrhea tan? I couldn't decide so I took a picture.

I wonder if Glidden makes "vomit gray"...

Also on my project list: finish painting the girls' Peter Pan/Pirate and Fairy themed bedroom. My mom has already planned a sleep-over day so I can work in peace. I am really excited!

---

Several weeks ago, Emma had an "accident" at school. The teacher let her borrow a pair of the school's pants and underwear they keep for just such an occasion.

We washed the pants and sent them back a few days later. The underwear were in another load, so two days after that, I sent them along with Emma and forgot all about them.

It wasn't until a week later that Emma unpacked her bag and pulled out those very same underwear. I figured the teachers just didn't see them in the bag, so the next day I stuffed them into the top of the binder.

They were still there after school.

I did the same the next day.

They were still there.

I pulled Emma aside the next morning. Please tell your teacher that these underwear (waving them in front of her) are hers and that she needs to take them. Can you do that? Emma nodded.

They were still there.

Emma is my "shy" child (I say "shy" because all three are very quiet around adults, but Emma is by far the quietest). I knew the teacher must not be getting the message.

Every morning I forgot to write a note to the teacher, so every morning I quizzed Emma on what to say.

Last week, Mike dropped them off. I scolded Mike out the door to make sure he reminded Emma. When he came back, I asked if he'd remembered. He said, Yes... I reminded her all the way up the ramp. "What are you going to give your teacher when you get inside?" "The underwear!"

So imagine how irritated I was to see those stupid, blue/green, cotton, taunting underwear staring back at me that afternoon. I wondered why Emma wasn't telling them or remembering to hand the underwear in. She couldn't be that shy, could she???

Well, yesterday I dropped the girls off and pulled my car up to the doorway to ask Emma's teacher about a fruit project. As we chatted and laughed, the teacher's aid came out holding the blue and green underwear between her forefingers like a questionable science project.

Are these OURS?

I smiled and was relieved. Yes!

Oh! Well, every morning for WEEKS Emma has been bringing them up to me, frantically waving them and asking me to take them! I wondered why she was doing that. I've been saying, "No honey, put those in your backpack."

Come to find out, Emma had finally gotten another teacher's aid to take them last week (I can only imagine Emma's relief) but after the aid asked the teacher if they were doing the letter U and she said no, the aid snuck them into Emma's backpack again.

I can't imagine how confused Emma was, and how obsessed with underwear her teacher had to think she was. Now I know why Emma smirked at me every morning when I held the underwear in front of her and quizzed her mercilessly.

Parent of the Year, indeed.

---

I watch the real world edition of Lego Mania yesterday. A crew pieced together a giant red crane that now towers about 4 stories above our homes.

Have I ever mentioned I have an irrational fear of objects (ie: planes, meteors, cranes...) crashing through my ceiling?

Here she is, only half finished:

So pretty. The only thing that would make it more awesome is if it was made entirely of actual Legos.

---

The girls were using their unsharpened pencils as they were meant to be used: as pretend cooking utensils.

Kristin was using one pencil to "chop" three other pencils carrots.

She looked up at me and with her best sassy voice said, Mommy... watch and learn!

---

I hate spending money. When Mike brought up the idea of buying a riding lawn mower, I snickered. Yeah, that's gonna happen.

Then his carpool buddy dropped off his zero-point turn commercial grade mower so we could "roll" our lawn. Oh. My. God. Our lawn is so bumpy and big that it takes over an hour to push mow it if you're booking. This thing knocked it out in about 15 minutes.

We have reopened negotiations on mowers. Mike is pleased.

---

The girls' small bookshelf has officially been removed.

I was tired of finding all the books on the floor and in their place a small child lying on the shelf with a blanket and pillow as if it was a bunkbed for midgets.

So far I've moved it into the hallway on its way to the garage.

Last night, guess what I found sleeping in it.

I'll give you a hint. It wasn't Mike or the cat.

I saved all this crap for your Monday morning

We have been spending crazy amounts of time at Home Depot and Menards. I can be pretty handy with a hammer or a table saw, but I feel completely out of my element there. I literally wander the aisles and leave with only half of what I need.

Maybe I should ask the A-Team for help.

Yes, I actually whipped out my camera while driving. (Bad me! But at least I was driving Dad's truck, and Mike was encouraging me. And before you criticize, Mike did warn me not to "run over any pedestrians.")

It would have been worth it. I am so jealous and if I ever see a van like that for sale, I'm putting in an offer.

The same day we took that picture, we headed to a small restaurant we very rarely frequent in Marion called Naso's. I'm not sure what their "type" of food is. Let's call it: miscellaneous. Their pizza is delicious.

First, though, I need to mention that my mother gave Alison a leaf from one of her plants just ten minutes before. It's called a Lamb's Ear, and it's just as soft and fuzzy as it sounds. Alison carried it clamped between her palms, refusing to leave it behind in the truck when we went into the restaurant.

She placed it on the table, and no sooner did she turn her back to it to scoot onto the chair did the hostess snap it up and haul it away and in that split second my brain told me not to intervene. And then it was too late. Alison turned and immediately noticed it was gone.

Oh MY GOD, the crying.

My children - who are almost always mute midgets in restaurants - were now getting stares from all the surrounding tables. We finally got her settled down by promising another Lamb's Ear from grandma's house. I figured hers was in the garbage and covered by nastiness by now.

The waitress came over and after ten minutes of back and forth guessing, we figured out that she was the waitress who served us at another restaurant the day we found out we were having triplets. This is also the restaurant where my mother and sister gave probably THE BEST reactions to the "triplet news."

It was a reunion of sorts.

I apologized for Alison's crying and explained what happened - that it was just an accident.

The hostess must have overheard because she zipped over with the Lamb's Ear in hand... she had wondered what on Earth that weird thing was so she was standing at the bar petting it. I still laugh just visualizing it because that's exactly what the girls do... pet it.

The waitress came back at the end and gave our girls (possibly their first) Oreo cookies. They had no idea what to do with that frosting stuff in the middle.

Bad mommy? (Also bad mommy... Emma pointed to a box of Pop Tarts a few weeks ago at the grocery store and said, What are those??? They look delicious! Yeah.)

Once we got home, I asked them to clean their room. I walked in to find this:

Kristin stuffed into a storage tote filled with all kinds of crap. Here are the other two trying to explain why this is considered "cleaning."

I apparently left a few things out while raising my kids. Like Oreos and Pop Tarts and how to clean their room properly. Most damning, though, involves ice cream.

Before bed last night, my mother told the girls she would take them to Dairy Queen. The girls gave no reaction. They stared at her like she was speaking a foreign language.

They had no idea what a Dairy Queen was.

Mom rephrased it: the "ice cream shop."

Kristin grinned and nodded her head. And the first words out of her mouth this morning were Are we going to the ice cream shop now?

My mom and I were rolling laughing at Kristin who looked like she was completely intoxicated while licking the chocolate from that sundae.

Speaking of food, I came home to see that my plants are coming in nicely. Hello, tomatoes!

I used to be a plantless cat owner. Moochie keeps using my planters as her personal window perch, and if she keeps it up, I'm going to be a catless gardener.

See what I mean, Mom, about not having to water them? They are crazy humid!

Last, but certainly not least, I sent the kids downstairs to play while I made supper. I snuck down and peeked in on them.

Alison and Emma were drawing pictures of cats, and Kristin was sitting in a chair by herself. She found a book we haven't gotten around to looking at/reading/coloring.

And she was reading it. Book number two.

I swear I have done nothing in the way of teaching her to read. I read to them every day, but she's picking this all up on her own. (Note the Michael Jackson-esque "reading glove.")

She amazes me.

I tell them I love them all the time, but they have only once or twice said it back to me. And then, out of the blue, she told me tonight: Mommy? I love you so very much.

I love you, too, Squirrel. So very very much.

Scrub-a-dub-dub, Let's get our drink on

There are things a person forgets with time.

The pain of pregnancy and childbirth. The amazing feeling of sleeping past 8 in the morning.

Add another to the list: how long it takes to clean my parents' house. (Imagine a gorgeous, three story, 15-room Victorian. Then fill it with tchotchkes and antiques and miles of woodwork.)

My sister and I brought the kids over to clean for my mom since she's supposed to be off her feet recovering from surgery. Of course that means she spent the entire day playing hide-n-seek and "camp" with the four kids. Leave it to my mother to figure out a child can hide under a sandbox cover.

As I moved from bathroom to livingrooms to play room to sun room, scrubbing from ceiling to floor and everything in between, Stephie had the good luck of cleaning the kitchen. That is sarcasm, folks.

I had myself a good laugh at her expense. We've been talking a lot with Mom and Dad about inheritance since they had their will drawn up this week, and we've joked about who gets mom's kitchen baubles. I told Stephie to get used to scrubbing all of those goodies since it would eventually be hers. All hers.

I cackled and continued to defy my fear of heights at three feet off the ground while wiping down my parents' collector Packer beer cans. Because nothing says class like beer cans on display! (I'm not judging. I hope that in lieu of receiving the kitchen decor, I can inherit the beer cans. Please, oh please, let me inherit the beer cans!!! Make sure there's some beer in them, too.)

Six hours later.

I know Mom says she can tell it's clean, but her house looks exactly the same to me. I didn't let that stop me from celebrating via beer margarita.

I suppose it might be worth it if my mom doesn't have to struggle to clean for a while. And if they let me sleep past 8 tomorrow morning...

Stray animals and children will be sold

I had plans for so many activities this week! Mostly building my fence and starting my gardens.

We took a tiny detour.

Mike had his own home improvement check-off list, so he put up some insulation in the garage and added a light fixture.

We put up a shelf - waaaaaay up high - in the laundry room so the girls could no longer taste test our detergents.

Mike cleared out a bunch of crap from our garage and took it to the dump. (When Kristin relayed the message to her sisters, she told them Daddy is taking a dump. Close enough!)

We got a new propane tank, put up two new light fixtures in the hallway, and replaced the sprayer at our kitchen sink.

That doesn't include the laundry I sorted and we washed and folded, and the hours I spent writing Mike's resumes.

Oh yeah, remember my garden? We planted my two trees. And picked up the power auger tonight.

I'm a little bummed out, but I'll deal. I'm really glad we got so much accomplished in just a week. And we kinda had fun. When I wasn't pissy at Mike for spending money on non-garden stuff and when Mike wasn't busy trying to kill the ladder with his flashlight after the light fixtures proved to be some kind of Chinese torture device.

In his defense, those hall light fixtures had the stupidest design I've ever seen. Second only to the wheelbarrow instructions (told me to attach a handle, and the next instruction was "okay, now that you know it fits, DETACH IT"). I'd get more into detail, but every time I've started writing it, it sounds like a dirty joke about blind finger thrusting.

I knew how to handle the situation. I made fun of him.

I told him he was the equivalence of the Home Improvement Hulk.

You wouldn't like me when I'm angry at your light fixtures.

But we made it. And I made a mental note to be in charge of all home improvement projects in the future. Unless it involves oil. Or anything really heavy. Or I'm too tired and don't want to do it.

I also named Mike: Sir Chucks-A-Lot. And not for a vomit reference. I have been fighting with him all month. Don't throw that away! I can sell that at the garage sale. I swear someone will buy it.

So I hope all this crap sells. I put an ad in the paper. If I'm left with anything, he's not gonna let me live it down. I can hear it now: You should have let me throw it away.

Weirdest thing on the sales list?

Probably hair scrunchies Mike found in a bin, still attached to the store display cards.

I fought him to save them, even if it was only for the FREE bin.

But now I'm thinking I could get at least a dime.

Or maybe a quarter...

Poor Mikey.

My children eat dirt (among other things)

It's true.

I'm sure I ate more than just dirt as a child, and look how I turned out.

I read an interesting article by the CDC on the dangers of eating dirt, and while I took the dangers of dog poop seriously, I was mostly interested in this last paragraph:

That bacteria cause so many human diseases is not astounding. It is astounding that so few bacteria cause human disease. Pathogenic bacteria are merely the microscopic tip of the largest of all biologic icebergs. How fortunate, we imagine. But fortune may have little or nothing to do with our survival. Billions of years of confrontation rather than luck were likely our benefactor. Through those confrontations and those eons, nearly all of us learned to coexist peacefully. Neither humans nor microorganisms benefit from fully destroying the other. Fatal infections seem, biologically at least, shortsighted. And even a brief course of antibiotics is enough to remind us that a world without bacteria would be a poorer world.

This is not a war, as it has often been described, even though we have mustered an impressive array of weapons—bactericidal cribs and mattresses, toilet cleaners and counter tops, blankets, deodorants, shampoos, hand soaps, mouthwashes, toothpastes.

This is not a war at all. If it were, we would have lost long ago, overpowered by sheer numbers and evolutionary speed. This is something else, something like a lichen, something like a waltz. This waltz will last for all of human history. We must hold our partners carefully and dance well.

I've never been one of those people who worried about germs. I eat things after they fall on the floor (although I'll take a moment to wipe off cat hair). I haven't used bleach on my cupboards in months, even though Mike fights me incessantly to buy Clorox wipes. I clean, I just don't use chemicals. (Pine Sol is my one bugaboo... I love that smell!)

Over the last week of gorgeous (finally!) weather, we've been outside a lot, working on planting trees and preparing for our fence and garden. The girls have spent that time with buckets, collecting dead spiders and relocating mounds of earth to the sidewalks. It's been fun letting them have some freedom, and I figure eating a little dirt couldn't hurt.

You know what can hurt them if they eat it? Laundry detergent.

We spent the entire evening last night inside because of storms. More importantly, this sort of storm:

We almost never allow the girls to play in the basement unsupervised, but last night, they played down there for almost four hours. We checked on them and had almost no problems.

When it was time to call it a night, we called the girls upstairs. It was then I started smelling a "cleaner" smell. (My nose is the first witness to a crime.) I got on my hands and knees and smelled that it seemed to be on our kitchen floor. Weird, I thought.

About ten minutes later, Mike said I smell it, too... and took off down the stairs. As I heard him moaning in the basement about what I assume was a puddle of flowery liquid on the floor, Emma came up to me and told me, I drank the juice.

WHAT juice?

The BLUE juice.

Oh hell.

We have an economy, bucket-sized Tide with that goo-covered plastic cup. The goo was now missing.

And in the corner? A puddle of stain remover.

Kristin told me she drank the "bubbly juice out of the green container."

After interrogation, it appears Alison and Emma tasted the blue goo and Kristin had planned on taking a swig of the stain remover until it tasted like arse and she spit it out.

Good lord.

Apparently they needed balance: eat a little dirt, eat a little detergent.

Parasites and dog poop are the least of my problems if my children think laundry detergent looks/smells/tastes edible.

Titillating Tuesday: You never forget your first hail

First things first. Mom may really have kicked this cancer's ass ninja-style after all.

She got her pathology reports yesterday and everything came back completely clear. Even the peritoneum wash came back completely clean of cancer cells. The doctors have put her in a lifetime recurrence rate of FIVE PERCENT.

Mom's not completely out of harm's way, but this news is definitely great news.

---

Spring has arrived.

I got my first blister. As I was shoveling a clay and rock mud hole to plop our trees in, all I could hear in my head was an obnoxious Keith Richards saying I've got blistas on my sistas.

We had to take a break from planting when a quick thunderstorm rolled through.

Right after the second tree was planted, the rain started again.

---

Rain, rain, go away...

Okay, how about HAIL.

For all you folks who live in regions other than the Midwest, have you ever seen so much hail in your life??? This is NOT rain:

The girls came out of their room with blankets over their ears "to keep the Funderstorms out," begging to go to the basement. Two minutes later it was done.

I'm so glad we got our trees in just in time to get pelted.

It's the one and only time I'm grateful for the clay soil... I waited anxiously until the storm stopped, then peeked to see if the trees were still upright. There they were, intrepid and content.

I feel like Bob Ross. Put a happy little tree over here...

---

This weather is wreaking havoc on my hair. Curly hair and humidity does not for pretty make.

I look a bit like Gallagher.

---

Mike's putting in for a promotion, which means it's Resume Season once again.

Usually we spend the entire time trying not to strangle each other. This time, I kicked his ass outta the room.

It was the generous thing to do.

My resumes have become a running joke at the mill. I know most of the people there (my father has worked there for something like 15 years or more... 10 years before Mike ever got in) so I kind of expected it.

Nina, the HR lady, is so incredibly nice. Which is why it was even more funny to find out she was teasing Mike that surely HE didn't write that last resume. When people thought Mike was in trouble, she told them "he just used his resources... which happened to be his wife." It was held up in front of a discussion on how to properly write a resume. A few of Mike's coworkers borrowed a copy while writing their own. That resume got passed around the mill like a cheerleader at a frat party.

So now I'm feeling the pressure. I can't get away with handing in a near-copy of the last resume, since there will be a lot of people watching. But what I can do is use words that I know Mike can't spell or pronounce. Just for fun.

Camaraderie... I can work that in there somehow...

---

I'm out of Pepsi Crack.

I'm holding Mike's internal resume hostage until he gets more for me. Is that wrong? Or am I "using my resources"?

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone! Let's hope we all survive the next round of Funderstorms which should be arriving in 9, 8, 7....

SUGAR - Driving parents insane since 800 BC

We went to Wal-Mart Saturday evening.

After the kids had just spent a few hours with my parents, being pampered with sweets and snacks and juice... I'd bought a huge pack of cherry Twizzlers for my dad, and he fed half of them to the kids.

By the time we got the kids out of the truck at Wally World, Alison was singing a made-up tune with no particular theme and Emma was galloping and pulling me toward the store. I lost my mind for a moment - thinking about that 81-year-old woman who recently killed a young father with her car at that very Wal-Mart parking lot a week ago - and warned Mike about a truck heading our way (and when it seemed as though he didn't hear me and Emma was going to get shmucked, I warned him about a "big-ass truck right behind us").

Alison worked that one right into her tune... Big aaaasss truck... D'oh. Little ears, Loren, little ears.

We had no whining - a small victory - but the entire shopping trip was filled with noise and singing and laughing and playing and yelling to the other cart... I couldn't get them to be quiet. Plus I was trying to secretly shop for the girls' Easter baskets, so every five minutes I was shouting "Look at the ceiling! What is that???" and stuffing something in the cart while they looked, fascinated, at the ceiling tiles. I told Mike I was done at least FOUR TIMES. Time to go.

By the time we got in the car, Mike had added up how much more sugar the girls had eaten that afternoon than usual. His thoughts: No wonder some people can't stand their kids. Could you imagine if we fed our kids that crap every single day?!?

The horror, Mikey. The horror. Note to my dad: Mike told me to tell you that next time our kids leave your house acting like sugar-crazed ninjas, he's bringing them back for an overnight with "Scooter McGee." He might actually be serious. It was that bad.

So what did we do the following day? Took them back to my parents' house for more sugar, of course!

Even fear of sugar-crazed ninjas couldn't keep us away from our annual family Easter egg hunt.

My plea to my mom this year: For the love of all that is sacred and holy, if you must spend money on my children, please limit the amount of sugar you get them.

She listened. (Secretly, I think that was her plan all along, but I'm putting a check in the WIN column regardless.)

Emma was so excited about the hunt that she trudged right through her precious "campfire" the girls' had built the day before.

Elliott showing me his treasures:

Alison pointing out the carrot that Kristin had missed:

Attempt #1. Note the placement of Alison's pinwheel.

Attempt #2. Note the placement of Alison's pinwheel. Oh, and the dog.

The only smiling child in Attempt #3, Emma. She's such a little lady. Until she gets ahold of anything resembling a sword, at which point she becomes a nasty little bugger of a pirate.

Attempt #4. I quit.

Mom goes in for her pathology report tomorrow. We're hoping for good news, but we're also hoping they can help her with her new problem: Easter egg eyes. We hear it can be very serious and very contagious.

Kristin is already showing signs...

Because an Easter egg hunt, watching two movies and several hours of eating sugar isn't enough, my mom made an Easter lunch of ham sandwiches and sides. Mmmm... (I swear going to their house is like going grocery shopping; not only did we leave with a full ham meal, we got a bag full of fruit and fruit dip.)

We also colored and decorated hard-boiled eggs.

Alison and Emma decorated the back row, and Kristin spent her entire time meticulously placing Easter stickers on her single egg.

It took several attempts, but we finally managed to pull the kids away from my parents' house in order to visit Mike's mom and wish her a Happy Easter.

She wasn't home.

So we visited her dog and took pictures as proof that we did, in fact, stop by.

Ta-DA.

Attempt #5.

I stink at this group photo game.

Hope you enjoyed your sugar-rush weekend as much as we did! Happy Easter once again!!!