Exponentially Growing Children

I tried something new this weekend. I took my children back to school shopping. I've seriously never done that before. I've gone shopping with my Ex and his mother and the two girls. I've gone shopping with one girl. I've gone shopping by myself.

This.

Was.

Hell.

For one thing, my kids are no longer in the same department. Since Maren is in the 700th percentile for everything, she moved out of the toddler section when she was 7 days old. (This is all hyperbole. For the record.) So, for years, we've been a one stop shop family. No longer. Brynna is out of girls' clothes. Into juniors. Juniors suck.

So, when we're in the girls' department, there is a bored tween who wants to know why she can't have a shirt like that one with the ruffles. And when we are in the juniors section, there is a bored four year old who wants to know when we are going to SHOP FOR HER! LIKE SERIOUSLY, MOM, IT'S BEEN FIVE MINUTES.

I don't typically believe in back to school shopping. I believe in seasonal shopping. You buy fall/winter clothes and you buy spring/summer clothes. That is all. I try to have something cute for the girls to wear on the first day, then, I'm out. You got all those clothes at the beginning of summer. Wear them.

But this year, alas, no one fits in anything. Brynna especially. I am convinced she grew three inches over the summer. She has no jeans that fit her. None. Not a single pair. And she lives in jeans. At least, she didn't. Then we went shopping. Now she has three pairs of jeans, I have three new gray hairs and Maren has three carpet burns from wallowing on the floor while Brynna tried stuff on.

Also, shoes. Oh the humanity that is the shoe store. Maren kept trying things on without any regard whatsoever to size or style.

"Maren, put the crocs back. We are here for tennies."

"Maren, your sister just tried those on, they are way to big for you. Will you please put these on now?"

"Maren, where did those even come from?"

"Maren, you don't try on socks."

"Maren, no one needs neon purple dress shoes."

I have to admit, I like the shoes she got, but would have acquiesced to anything that was: a. a tennis shoe and b. fit her foot.

Brynna, in the meantime, couldn't tell me what was wrong with anything.

"They feel squicky."

"These feel like a bathing suit on your feet."

"I think they are sort of puffy? Maybe?"

"No, they fit, but the ankles seem tight. Don't the ankles seem tight?"

"I don't know. They just aren't... You know.... It's like..."

This makes it exceptionally hard to find another pair to try. "Are these squicky?"

All in all, it was a successful day. Everyone lived. The girls have shoes and enough clothes to start the school year and to keep them from looking like Oliver Twist Goes Pink. But most importantly, I learned a very important lesson. Shop one at a time. One kid at a time.

Happy Birthday

My Granddaddy

Today, my Granddaddy turns 88 years old. I can tell you that, because he is remarkably and unflinchingly proud of his age. He demands that he will see 100 and the Fates will appease him because he can get downright cantankerous if you push him. This is good news for me, because I'm quite fond of my Granddaddy and that means I have a minimum of twelve more years to try and retain his stories.

He tells stories. Lots of them. And it's sort of hard to not tune them out sometimes, but you always regret it, because he will say something that pulls you back in and you'll think, "How did we get here? I want to hear more about this? Seriously, and there were sharks?" But you can't admit you weren't listening. That's just bad manners, so you'll try to get him to tell the story again on another occasion, but he never will. There are a handful of stories he tells approximately six times a day, and all the others are one shot deals.

His hobby is riding in parades.
This is three generations on Veteran's Day. 

But I'm digressing. I've always fancied myself a storyteller. Even more than I fancy myself a writer. I love the story. I'm all about story. And Daddy (as I grew up calling him) is all story, all the time. I get my love of reading, gypsy apparel and crafting from my mom. I get my love of all things horror and all things Victorian from my Grandmommie. I get my love of loud rock music and Stephen King from Jerry. And I get my love of a good, rambling, sometimes pointless story from my Granddaddy.

So, in honor of his very exciting 88th, I am going to do one thing more than make him a pineapple upside cake*, I'm going to tell you some storylets about my Granddaddy.

A Rose By Any Other Name Will Probably Ask for Money
When I was little, I lived with my Grandmommie, Granddaddy, mom and Aunt Mary. I don't really remember much of this time. My first memory is when Mary moved out. But everyone called him Daddy. So I called him Daddy, too. Everybody called my Grandmommie, Mommy, but I had a Mommy, so I called her Grandmommie. I was a weird kid. I called him Daddy for years and then someone in high school implied that maybe it was creepy to call my Grandpa Daddy. So, I started calling him Grandpa.

My aim was to call him Grandpa at school, and call him Daddy at home, because I thought the whole thing was stupid, but you know how high school is. But, it inevitably bled over.

One night, I bounced into the living room, all ripped jeans and artificially straightened hair and said, "Hey, Daddy?"

He looked at me and said, "How much?"

"Um. What?"

"You only call me Daddy when you want to borrow money. By the way, borrowing implies you're going to give it back. If you want money, just ask if you can have money."

I had never realized that. I've made an effort in the years since to call him Daddy without asking for anything, but I still always call him Grandpa when I'm mad at him. He gave me his gas card with a kiss, though, and wasn't even a little mad. And he always calls my Grandmommie, "Your mother." He also calls my mother, "Your Mother," though, so I often have to ask, "Which mother?" Are you confused yet?

Successive Generations

Granddaddy and Brynna and Loretta

When I was little, I would go to Southern States with Granddaddy. I don't remember what we got there, but I'm assuming everything. It was the only place I remembered getting gas for years. I used to love to wander around inside and run my fingers through the bins of seed. Especially corn. I still don't understand corn, but it was so pretty and felt so weird and powdery. That was where dog food came from, I'm sure and I guess all kinds of things for the cattle and tobacco. I never really paid attention to what went into the truck. So long as I went along.

Often, we would end up around the side at the loading dock. Granddaddy would back the truck up to the dock and we would stand around on the cement while the truck was loaded up. After wandering around in the cool, air conditioned store, this seemed tantamount to torture.

Inevitably, I would tug on Granddaddy's shirt. "I'm thirsty." Granddaddy would dig through his pockets, come out with a shiny quarter and say, "Coke machine's over there."

It wasn't a Coke machine. I think it was maybe RC. It didn't matter. One of those flat, square buttons led directly to a Big Red. Big Red was the finest, most wonderful nectar the gods ever concocted. It tasted like heaven. Sweet and bitter and so very red. I was, of course, forbidden Big Red because it stained my clothes. I'm pretty sure there was a whole summer wardrobe with big red splotches down the front.

But Granddaddy didn't like it when I bought something else. Because he knew that I liked Big Red. He'd always swear that he'd cover for me. I don't think he once came up with a believable story and I'm not sure he even tried. It was our thing.

Mom always said that when she was little, she'd say she was thirsty and Granddaddy would say, "Water Fountain's over there." Nowadays, if my girls are thirsty, Granddaddy goes to make them something. I keep telling him that if they'd keep some cups where the girls can reach them, they could get their own. He keeps not moving the cups. I'm pretty sure I know why, too.

Stormy Weather

You can barely see him there at the end of the table.
But this is important. This family, this big, happy family
was built by my grandparents. Every little bit of it.

The other thing that I got from Granddaddy was a love of storms. My mom hates storms, she is terrified of them. My Grandmommie doesn't love them either, although she's not as bad as mom. When I was little, sometimes I'd look up and Granddaddy would be standing out on the side porch, leaning against one of the columns, just staring. That was when I knew.

A storm was coming.

I never knew what he was looking at, at least not at first. As the clouds started to roll in, I'd go out and stand next to him. I'd feel the wind pick up and whip around us. I especially loved it in the summer. You could feel the cold air and the hot air fighting for dominance. I'd watch the leaves whirl around the yard and feel the first, stinging drops of rain hit my face.

After the rain started, we would drop back and sit in the chairs, well under the cover of the porch. I loved it when it really came down, torrential, so hard the rain seemed to bounce. Daddy liked it when it when the drops were big and fat and seemed to disappear into the hard ground.

We both liked the thunder. If mom was home, she'd make me come inside if there was thunder and lightning, but if she wasn't, we'd sit out there and watch the storm rage. Then, eventually, we'd head into the house. I'd have run out into the rain at some point and would be soaked through.

Grandmommy would have the lights on and the ceiling fan set to gale force winds. I'd sit directly under it and shiver deliciously, reading and listening to the rain pounding on the tin that covered the porch. Sometimes I'd fall asleep like that, curled up on the floor, cold and calm. Sometimes I'd wake up later, blanket over me and pillow under me.

I still love storms. Especially summer storms. Now, I have my own place, with a wide wooden deck that overlooks a valley. I go out and stand on the deck and watch the clouds gather and the storm form. I put my face into the wind and remember standing there with Daddy. When the rain starts, I run to the porch. Eventually, I give up and go inside, wet and cold. I settle down with a blanket and a book and I am eight years old again. Living in a world where nothing mattered but the rain, how much or how little. A world ruled by weather and whether I could be outside. A world where the best books were read by lightning light and thunder music.

A Footnote
There are more Hallmark-ey stories about my Granddaddy. There are funnier stories about my Granddaddy. When I think of him, I think of his watching the basketball game with the TV on mute and the radio blaring. I think of him working cattle. I think of him driving the tractor, teaching me to throw a baseball, getting frustrated when I couldn't ride a bike. But these stories aren't just stories about Granddaddy. They are stories about who he is. About the man that he is. I hope that's what comes through. Happy Birthday, Daddy. And may there be many, many more than twelve more.

*And one storylet about pineapple upside down cake: I had heard of it, but never had it. I went to college. At a friend's house, her mother made something called chocolate cherry upside down cake and I died of bliss. (I've tried a million times to make it since, and never succeeded.) In any case, I was telling Granddaddy about it and he said, "Pineapple upside down cake is is my favorite." I stared at him blankly. It wasn't. Granddaddy loved brownies and rhubarb pie and pecan sandies and pecan pie and fudge and banana pudding. These were the things that Granddaddy liked. Not pineapple upside down cake. Right? He noticed my look and said, "Your mother doesn't like it, so I don't say anything. I like banana pudding, too." Now, I make pineapple upside down cake. Everybody should get their favorite.

Neil Gaiman and the Trouble with Awesome

Thursday afternoon, a calendar alert I had been waiting on for weeks finally popped up on my phone. It said, "Neil Pantsing Gaiman." Only it didn't say pantsing.

I met Neil Gaiman, ya'll.

This is my third book signing and I know this sounds bizarre, but can I please make a hobby of this? Please?

So far, I have met Ree Drummond, Joe Hill and Neil Gaiman. And while one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-others, they are all very much alike in that they are amazingly charming. I love writers. I fancy myself a writer, so that's part of why. But I am definitely a reader and that's the bigger why. These people create the worlds that I love to fall into. They build from nothing an entire universe of magic and grace.

So... Neil. Neil (can I call you Neil) was amazing. For starters, he not only read from the book he is touring (Ocean at the End of the Lane*), but also from his upcoming yet unreleased children's book (Fortunately the Milk). He also answered a slew of questions, going so far as to empty out his pockets. He told the rambling story of how OatEotL came into existence. He talked about Amanda. He made jokes about John Scalzi (who was on hand to introduce him). He was, truly, delightful. I laughed, I teared up, it was better than Cats.**

This was what I went for.

I mean, I like the face to face, one on one with the authors. And I came all this way and waited all this time, I was definitely going to stand in line and get close enough to touch Neil. (Hey, I'm NOT creepy. Really.)

But it's the reading that I love. The line is just liney. It's a queue with a lovely person at the end. It's big smiles and maybe a hug and a scribble. It's not conversation. The readings, though, well... I love to hear author's talk. I love to hear them talk about the way they write or why they write or what their lives are like at home. I am the perpetual Psych 101 student and I want to take all the tidbits of knowledge I can gather and try to figure out why this person writes this thing.

I got lots of that.

But, despite the fact that I've talked a lot about that, that's not really what I want to talk about. I want to talk about meeting Neil. So, here it is: the man deserves the Nobel Prize for Niceness.

There were 1,000 ticket holders, divided into letter groups A through P. I was group M. I was not the tail end of the line, but I was somewhere decidedly close. I was exhausted. Let me say that again: I was so freaking tired. From drinking at the bar and reading the book. I cannot even imagine what it was like for the people working. Neil, yes. But also his staff, the bookstore staff, the event center staff.

So, about 1:30 a.m. (not an exaggeration, at all), I finally came to the front of the line. We had been warned. There were a lot of people. No posed photography, no flash photography, the line keeps moving. I was expecting something much like an assembly line.

What I got was a well-oiled machine, yes, getting the books prepped and ready and to Neil's hand in a smooth, fluid fashion. But then I got a warm smile, a kind word and a bright smile. I got genuine warmth and kindness. And, for the record, I got a doodle. Ha. A doodle.

At 1:30 a.m., I got a doodle and a smile and genuine individual attention from a hero of mine. And after me, the approximately 150 people behind me probably got about the same.

I thought about him after I got home. At 2:00, when I was tumbling through my front door, Taco Bell cup in hand, tired and worn thin; as I was kicking off my shoes and stumbling to bed; as I was debating whether or not I could stay awake long enough to write another 500 words, Neil Freaking Gaiman was still sitting in that event center, smiling and talking and signing his name for what I estimate was the two thousand five hundredth time that day.

And you know, he didn't have to. Neil Freaking Gaiman doesn't have to tour. (And let's face it, we're not talking about bands, I'm not sure any writer has to tour, although I'm sure publishers have some studies about cost benefit analysis.) He didn't have to agree to sign two things for each of 1,000 people. He didn't have to come and talk and make jokes about murdering the obnoxious warm-up band next door. And he certainly didn't have to be so charming and warm. I'm not sure I would have been. By 1:30, I probably would have been a little manic and a lot bleary-eyed-madwoman.

But he gave me a gift. In addition to a doodle that I will see every time I open my Nook, he looked at me. He saw me. He didn't know anything about me, other than I like his work. But he saw me and smiled. When we are talking about the people we want to be when and if we grow up, that is enough.


*Which is wonderful. I finished it the next day, because I just could not keep my eyes open another minute. It is beautiful and haunting and LOVE is not a strong enough word. One of my biggest compliments is when a book so captures me that a single image becomes so burned into my brain that an everyday object always makes me think of that book. Pitchers of lemonade always make me think of Heart-Shaped Box and crave it the way you crave chocolate when you see a commercial. I have a strong feeling that claw footed bathtubs and Ocean at the End of the Lane will always be inextribly linked in my warped little head.

**It should be noted that I don't love Cats. I don't know why. I've tried. I find it... weird. And not in a good way. It's just a saying, ya'll.

On Dressing and Liking and Living with Me

A few months ago, I was surprised to hear that Brynna told someone that she wished I wouldn't diet. Because she liked me the way I was. This didn't surprise me because my daughter said she liked me. She does. That's pretty factual (for the next few years, at least). But because she used to point out every diet plan on the TV like, "See? Huh? Huh? Whaddaya think?"

I let it go.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I said something about how my diet wasn't going particularly well and she said, "Good. I don't want you to lose weight. I like you the way you are." She looked so worried, I felt like I had to address the issue.

See, the thing is that I don't talk about weight much. I don't want my girls to walk away with the same issues (see fat = bad) as I have. And since I have a really hard time talking about it without being down on myself, I tend to avoid the issue altogether.

But when it came down to it, it was something we had to discuss. After going and back and forth for a while so I could figure out what she was thinking, I said this:

I believe that every person's body has a size and shape it wants to be. And you don't have to be that shape. You can work really hard and be a different shape, but if you eat healthy and get a normal, healthy amount of exercise, you're going to be the size and shape you're going to be. People are always trying to change that, but I don't see the point. Everyone's different and that's a good thing. My body is never going to be tiny. It's not going to be movie star little. I'm never going to be skinny. That's who I am. And I'm okay with that. I like my body a little bigger and a little squishier than everyone else's. My problem here is not that I want to be smaller to fit someone's ideal of what's pretty. My problem is that I have not been eating healthy or exercising very much and I am unhappy with certain things. I'm unhappy with my energy level and the way my clothes feel. I am trying to lose a little weight because that's what I think will make me feel better, not because I feel like my body is somehow bad the way it is.

She liked that answer. She was happy with that answer. And I was happy that I was able to say something I wasn't sure I believed. I want to believe all those things, but I struggle, you know. I struggle with liking myself and the way I look. Because I read magazines and I watch TV and I know how I'm supposed to look.

But the last few days, I've realized that I really do believe that more than I thought. I'm going to meet Neil Gaiman tomorrow. Me and about 1000 total strangers, but still. I want to look nice. There aren't even posed pictures allowed, so I don't know why I care, but I do.

I've been analyzing everything in my wardrobe and I finally settled on something. Going through this has really driven home that I don't like my clothes. I've experimented over the years, and especially since becoming a single person, with a lot of different styles. I tend toward the simple. Jeans. Solid tee. In the winter this will involve a sweater. In the summer, capris. I tend toward this because I like easy. And because I feel like you can't screw it up.

I don't want to be the person who makes a big deal of getting dressed in the morning. I don't want to waste my life worrying about what I'm wearing. But I also don't want to be the person whose wardrobe is determined entirely by ease.

I want to look at myself in the mirror and see me. Smiling, vivacious, funny, geeky, annoyingly optimistic me. I don't want to see the list of flaws I scan down to make sure that everything is appropriately draped in extra yardage. I don't want to see the person I think I should be. I don't want to see a big red forehead tattoo reading FAILURE.

In other words, I want to be okay. I want to be okay right now. Not 20 lbs from now or 50 lbs from now. I still want to get in better shape. I want to cook more and exercise more. I want to do those things because I think they will make me feel better. I also think they will make me smaller, because experience tells me they will. But that's not the point.

I want to like me. Because I want to raise girls who like themselves. And because it's so freaking tiring when you have to constantly listen to your biggest critic.

Ridiculous Things My Kids Said to Me This Weekend

Brynna: Okay, so if I promise to clean the cage, buy everything and never teach her to talk, then can I have a Scarlet Macaw?

Maren: I'm going to give you a horsey kiss. Show me how horsies kiss.

Brynna: Can we go to Egypt on Saturday?

Maren: I'm tired and I don't feel good, so I think I should go outside and play instead of cleaning my room.

Brynna: Mommy, I've spent three hours cleaning my room today. How in the world do you expect me to do that during the school year?

Maren: I've lost all hope.

Brynna: Mommy, go and hide your crazy.

Maren: You don't love me because I like Buzzy better than Harry Potter.

Brynna: I think *someone* needs a nap. For like a year.

Maren: I'm tired of picking up clothes. I could just wear a bathing suit every day.

Brynna: I don't think she knows what she's talking about. Maybe ever.

Maren: No, I really liked the movie and the seats were good and the popcorn was yummy. I just didn't have a very good time.

Brynna: Check out my award-winning smile.

Maren: Why can't we just stay in bed and sleep all day long? (Um, because you got up at six? Just a guess.)

Brynna: You are the best mom in the whole world. I don't think you understand how amazing you are.

Maren: You're my favorite.

Just when I think I can't take another minute, they come out with that kind of thing. You know, I think kids have built in pressure gauges, they keep you hot for as long as possible, then diffuse the bomb.

5 Things on Friday - WTH Edition

Seriously, where did my ever-loving week go? How can it possibly be 8 minutes until closing time on Friday? Is there no justice in the world? Argh.

Five Things I Didn't Get Done This Week

1. Laundry - Every stinkin' week since I got my new washer, I have sworn (with the Lord as my witness) that this is the week I catch up on laundry. I can honestly say that all three people living in my house have clean underwear, but caught up - um. No. Not even a little. Like, haven't begun to do sheets. Like, oh, hey, there's a hamper in Maren's room, too. Like, oh pants, why am I only washing shirts. Not caught up. I'd like to throw in the towel on laundry, but I don't have any clean ones.

2. Word Count - I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo, because November sucks, ya'll. Seriously, that was just a bad idea. So far, I'm 4,000 words behind. The very helpful tools at campnanowrimo.com tell me that at this rate, I'll be done August 31. Honestly, if I'm done by August 31, I'm probably gonna go ahead and call this a win, but still. I thought I could make it my first week out.

3. House cleaning - I even had a day off. I just don't... whatever. The house'll be clean when the kids are grown.

4. Blogging - Just like laundry, every freaking week I swear that this week! I will! blog every day!!! (Monday thru Friday, I'm not insane.) Hey, 3 out of 5 ain't bad, right Meatloaf?

5. Clean out the car - We are reaching critical mass. Last night, I had to empty the trunk area of the Jeep into the back seat in the rain so that the kids and I could watch the fireworks. Then, an hour later, I had to move all that crap back into the trunk area so we could go home, like wearing seatbelts and stuff. Today I have to go to the grocery and I have no earthly idea where that stuff is going.

What about you? Did the holiday week throw you for a loop?

Music from 2012

I'm going to attempt to do this memey thing called 30 Days of Song. I will not post this every day, because oh-my-pants-I'm-bored-already. Instead I'll post once or twice a week, as I feel like. So there. I am unrepentantly stealing this from Jen O. at My Tornado Alley. She rocks. I'm not sure if she stole it from somewhere, but here we go. 

Last Day!!!!!!!

A Song from Last Year

And, so, at the very end, it all falls apart. Today is supposed to be my favorite song from this time last year. But since I've been working on this massive, stupid project for a year, you know what I liked last year. It's right down there at the bottom.

So, instead, I googled what was on the Top 40 this day last year and picked my favorite song from the list.

So... Train. A few years back (like a decade plus) a good friend of mine was mocking me for loving Train. Because they don't make any sense. None of it. Their lyrics are ridiculous. I spent probably an hour trying to justify how they totally made sense to me. Because I was stupid. The thing is, "a two-ply, Hefty bag to hold my love," does not make sense. (Also, is not very complimentary, I think.) I don't love them because they make sense to me. I love them because they make no sense at all. And they are rocking that.

Okay, so a year later and you know more about me and my musical tastes than completely necessary. Thanks for reading along. I am closing in on the end of my 34th year and I think this makes a pretty decent attempt at listen to music. Is there anything you think I should be listening to that I am ignoring for the sweet nonsense of Train?



Day 1 - Your Favorite Song - White Blank Page
Day 2 - Your Least Favorite Song - Barbie Girl
Day 3 -  A Song that Makes You Happy - Birdhouse in Your Soul
Day 4 - A Song that Makes You Sad - Anna Begins
Day 5 - A Song that Reminds you of Someone - Friend of the Devil
Day 6 - A Song that Reminds you of Somewhere - Least Complicated
Day 7 - A Song that Reminds You of a Certain Event - Mrs. Potter's Lullaby
Day 8 - A Song that You Know All the Words To  - It's the End of the World as We Know It
Day 9 - A Song that You Can Dance to - Some Nights
Day 10 - A Song that Makes you Fall Asleep  - Ice Cream
Day 11 - A Song from your Favorite Band - Later On 
Day 12 - A Song from a band you Hate - Life is a Highway
Day 13 - A Song that is a Guilty Pleasure  - Loving You is the Dumbest Thing
Day 14 - A Song that No One Would Expect you to Love - Mean
Day 15 - A Song that Describes You - She Don't Want Nobody Near 
Day 16 - A Song that You Used to Love but Now Hate - Drops of Jupiter 
Day 17 - A Song that You Hear Often on the Radio - Little Talks
Day 18 - A Song that You Wish You Heard on the Radio - Grey Ghost 
Day 19 - A Song from your Favorite Album - Normal Like You 
Day 20 - A Song that You Listen to When You're Angry  - Not Ready to Make Nice
Day 21 - A Song that you Listen to when You're Happy - Tonight, Tonight 
Day 22 - A Song that you Listen to when You're Sad  - Angel Mine
Day 23 - A Song that you Want to Play at your Wedding - Friday I'm in Love
Day 24 - A Song that you Want to Play at your Funeral - Good
Day 25 - A Song that Makes you Laugh - Twisting
Day 26 - A Song that you Can Play on an Instrument - God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Day 27 - A Song that you Wish you Could Play - Wagon Wheel
Day 28 - A Song that Makes you Feel Guilty - A Lifetime
Day 29 - A Song from Your Childhood - Jose Cuervo
Day 30 - Your Favorite Song at this Time Last Year - Drive By (today)

And then There was Noise

After a very quiet week, I had a very busy weekend. Friday, I went to the movies with my mom and grandma. (The Heat is hilarious, but less so when you are sitting next to your grandmother when women are screaming about their vaginas. Just sayin'.) I also had book club and a surprise visit from one of my all-time best friends ever. Saturday, I slept late and painted furniture. Sunday was filled with church activities and having my kids home.

Last night, about 7:30, we climbed in my bed, turned on James and the Giant Peach and snuggled for two hours. Maren would not let go of me, occasionally deciding that snuggling against me was not quite enough contact and flopping onto my belly so we were face to face. Brynna, who usually wants to be near, maybe brushing up against me, but not really touching was smooshed so tight to my side, I felt like I might catch fire from the additional body heat.

I smelled their hair approximately 27 times yesterday. This is most disturbing, because they are at the age now, where their hair smells like shampoo instead of babyhead and they've been using someone else's shampoo for a week, so they didn't even smell like they usually do.

I could not get enough of them.

Except when they were fighting with each other and then enough was totally had.

I looked at them, decided they'd each grown a foot and made them stand against the measuring wall. Turned out, they'd each grown a foot. I don't feel so bad about the fact that I can't find any clothes that fit them. It's not my laundry prowess at question, it's their weediness.

Of course, it probably didn't all happen last week, but maybe.

This morning, Maren informed me that they shouldn't have any chores this week because they need a summer vacation. I told her that's what last week was for. I told her that maybe we can have a summer vacation when their rooms are clean. I told her that you have to pick up all the time, no one here has a maid. We fought, in other words. For the whole car ride.

Then, she climbed up on the console, wrapped her arms around my head and whispered, "I love you mommy and I missed you so SO much and I want to stay with you forever." A big smacky kiss, another head hug and 20 blown kisses later and she was out of the car.

Even Brynna gave me a big goodbye kiss and a 10 second hug this morning.

At some points last week, it felt like it was dragging on forever, like I'd never have my kids back. At some points it felt like it was flying by. Like if I just had a few more days I could have the house perfect, have my DVR cleaned off and have baked all the goods. But last night and this morning, all I could think was, "How did I survive that? How did I live a whole week without their arms around my head and their super-serious conversations? Without story times and chore charts and screaming fits about hairbrushes? How did I make it through without their voices and their bright eyes and their dirty hands?

And also, did anyone feed the cats while they were gone? I seriously can't remember.