What a weekend . . . my husband was away, hanging out with ten of his college buddies. They went to Pike Place Market, attended a Mariner’s game, golfed, and dug razor clams at the ocean. Isn’t it remarkable that this group of guys still gets together after graduating more than twenty years ago?
What’s strange is seeing someone you haven’t seen for ten years. That person looks aged, gray-haired, wrinkled a bit, which leads me to believe that perhaps I have aged, too, though how can that be possible when I’m still 22 on the inside?
So, while my husband was gallivanting, I took the kids to the Spring Fair on Friday, then took two of my kids and my mother to the Daffodil Parade on Saturday. On Saturday afternoon, I met with someone to plan Vacation Bible School for this upcoming summer. Sunday was church and then my husband returned home with one of his friends in tow. We sat and chatted while a bunch of boys played in the backyard. Since the weather has warmed a bit, swarms of boys prowl in the backyard. The hole they are digging is now big enough to bury a horse or at least a large goat. (This cow does not live in my backyard.)
The other day, my 9-year old son came into the house proclaiming, “Man, I wish I could get paid to dig holes!” His 9-year old buddy chimed in, “Me, too!”
While brushing my 4 and a half-year old’s hair from her eyes today, I noticed a strangely short curl on her forehead. Sure enough, she admitted that she cut her hair a few days ago. I had feared that she would turn her mad-scissor skills upon her own slow-growing hair, but as it turns out, you’d never know that she sheared a bit of hair off. (This picture shows all the hair she’s managed to grow in over four years of life!)
Tomorrow, my twin boys have to be awake, showered, dressed, in their right minds and present at the local middle school where they have to take the WASL (our state test) . . . the fly in this ointment is that they have to arrive at 7:15 a.m. which is agony because they normally wake up at 9:00 a.m. We’ll all be bleary-eyed and crabby tomorrow as a result of that horrifyingly early hour. I hate this particular standardized test for an assortment of reasons, but I might hate it less if it started at 10:30 a.m. instead.
If you don’t hear from me again, you’ll know I have died from lack of sleep.