Category: Kids, kids, kids

. . . and I’m not talking about baby goats.

The Fair

All through the night and pre-dawn darkness Monday, I heard steady rain.  How much do I love to sleep to the sound of rain?  And yet, I fretted in that fuzzy space between consciousness and unconsciousness because we planned to go to the fair first thing Monday morning.

We loaded up our four kids, plus an extra two year old and a spare four year old.  We were on the road by 9:45 a.m. and arrived at the fair shortly after it opened.

By then, only drizzle fell from the cloudy skies.  All the rides were wet, of course, but the ride operators wiped them off and so little bottoms only got a bit wet.  The best part about our early arrival on this damp day was that the kids didn’t have to wait in any lines.  In fact, the ride operators waited for us to approach. 

My husband and I split up–he took the big kids and I took the small kids.  My daughter turns out to be just like me–she loved every single ride, only refusing those which spun high into the air (comparatively speaking–they were all little-kid rides).  She rode with her buddy while the two-year old was content to watch from his stroller. 

The only happening of note was when a particular ride operator and I both buckled in my daughter–our hands touched.  No big deal except then while my daughter spun in circles, the ride operating woman began to share too much information:  “My better half went and got me a coffee.” 

Me:  (Nod, smile tightly)  That’s nice.

Her:  Yeah, I have a really sore throat but hot liquids help.

Me:  (ACK!  WE TOUCHED HANDS!)  Oh. 

Her:  Yeah, I made an appointment for Friday at 10:40, but I’ll have to take off some time.

Me:  (NEED TO WASH HANDS!  MUST FIND SINK!)  I hope you feel better soon.

Then, I promptly forgot all about it and didn’t wash  my hands.  I’m a sorry excuse for a germaphobe.  We did later use the bathroom and wash afterwards, so I can only hope I didn’t transfer any of sick-ride-lady’s germs to myself.   

After meeting up with my husband again and eating lunch (again, no lines), we headed toward the animal barns and saw horses, llamas, chicks, ducks, turkeys, goats, sheep and pigs.  (We did wash our hands after touching animals.)

And the sun came out!  The crowds began to build, too, and I congratulated myself on our early arrival.

We would have greeted Dora the Explorer (live, in a gigantic fuzzy costume), but I refused to stand in such a long line with my daughter who would probably not have let Dora touch her long enough for a picture to be snapped.  Plus, they were trying to get us to pay big money for a photograph and I wasn’t about to play along.

I did not see anything that I would have seen if I didn’t have children.  No retail booths.  No quilt displays.  No 4-H demonstrations.  No produce.  I didn’t even eat any fair food, nor did I ride a roller coaster.  I had no time to sit and study people.

But boy, the new Sillyville area of the fair, created just for children was quite delightful.

And we were home by 2:00 p.m.  (My husband took my 8-year old son back for the afternoon and evening.  Now, that is a boy after my own heart, a kid who wants to ride all the rides, see all the stuff and stay at the fair until the last light flickers off.)

This is the real, true official end of summer for me.  Blink.  All gone.

Weekend Update

Saturday morning found me in the kitchen, preparing two dishes to take to a church potluck.  I suppose people exist in the world who have never experienced the joy of a church potluck, but I am not one of them.  I chopped and chopped vegetables for a salad and then created a lasagna-kind of crock-pot dish.

Then I left home.  I headed for the church to decorate my Sunday School classroom.  I’m teaching the preschoolers again this year, mainly because my daughter will not go to a Sunday School class unless I’m the teacher.  For years and years, I’ve taught preschoolers about Adam and Eve and about Noah and his ark and about Zacchaeus, the wee little man who climbed a tree to see Jesus.  I’ve introduced dozens of children to Bibles stories and this year will be no different.

I spent a few hours decorating (using left-over VBS materials, mostly) and finally, at 1:20 p.m., fled the church for the anonymity of Value Village.  I’ve mentioned before how the meditation of sorting through other people’s cast-offs soothes my mind and yesterday was no different.  (Alas, I didn’t find any Pampered Chef items this time.)

The potluck was well-attended.  My daughter exclaimed with glee over going to church for dinner. 

She asked, “Will we listen to the music?” and I said, “No, not tonight.  We’ll just eat.”  And she replied, “Good, because the music is boring!”  (On Sunday mornings, we strive to stay in the service until the sermon starts.  I tell her, “First, we’ll listen to the music.”)

That reminded of the time my 4-year old son explained to me why he didn’t like Sunday School:  “Because all they talk about is Jesus and Jesus is no fun!”

When we left the potluck, my daughter asked, “Are we coming to church tomorrow?” 

I said, “Yes.”

She said, “I don’t want to go to church!”  (She normally loves going.)

I said, “Well, we’re going.”

Then she launched into a fit, the specialized variety of four year old girls.  Tears ran down her cheeks and she wailed her displeasure.

We all buckled up and I drove the van home while she cried and cried.  When we entered the house, she immediately began stripping, even though she still wept.  “What are you doing?” I asked and she said, “I’m taking a bath!”

So, I ran the bathwater.  She watched a show and soon, was in bed.

She woke three times in the night, once at midnight (my husband got up) and twice in the pre-dawn darkness.  The last time, I didn’t even touch her, I just hissed, “Lay down and go to sleep!” and she mumbled something about a bad dream and I said (with no pity), “Just think happy thoughts and go to sleep!”

I returned to bed, grateful that my husband had suggested we stay home from church.  (He said so after I described her dismay and tears–he wasn’t home during the fit.)  The horrible night of interrupted sleep convinced me of the wisdom of staying home.  Plus, this would be our last chance to play hooky before Sunday School starts next week.

And my daughter?  I said, “Do you want to go to church?” and she said, “No!” followed by “Yes!” 

We went to church and as usual, I was glad we went.  The children are growing up with a sense that they belong to something bigger than just our family.  They belong to the family of God, a place where adults know their names and don’t even blink when they take four pieces of dessert at a potluck.  (Well, maybe they blink, but they find my children amusing, I like to think.)

Tomorrow, we’re going to the Western Washington Fair.  I am eager to show the draft horses and the piglets and the bunnies to my daughter.  My 8-year old will dream tonight of riding the fastest rides while my teenagers will try to decide which delectable fried food they should eat. 

I will wish I had more time to study the quilts and 4-H displays and I’ll take as many pictures as I can while balancing my desire to photograph the moment with my longing to participate in it.  

My husband will rush us along because that’s what he does, but we will slow him down.  For one day, we will all slow down, even as we hurry to the roller coaster line.

Locked Out!

Last night, at 9:00 p.m., I headed out to the grocery store for milk (and whatever else I realized we needed while strolling the aisles).  In the driveway, I looked at the set of keys in my  hand and realized that I’d grabbed my husband’s set of keys, which include an ignition key to our van, but not a door key.  I was too lazy to go back inside to get our set of van keys, so I said to myself, “Self, just don’t lock the door.” 

You see where this is going, right?

I shopped until my cart was sort of full.  I stood in line for quite some time because some lady needed a price check.  Finally, yawning, I paid for my groceries, reached into my purse to get my keys and said to myself, “Self, uh, you didn’t lock the door, did you?”

Surely not, right?  Is my attention span so short that I forget during the ten minute drive from my house to Albertson’s? 

I strode to the van, hoping against hope that my brain had overruled habit.  Alas, it did not.  I was locked out of my van.  I called my husband, not that he could help me because we only have one vehicle.  But while on the telephone with him, I came up with a plan:  I called my mother.

It was 9:42 p.m.

My mother was home, and around 10:00 p.m., I was loading groceries into the back of my van. 

So much for a quick trip to the store.  By the time I was home and the groceries were unloaded, it was past 10:30 p.m.

*  *  *

After my depiction of household school-at-home harmony, we had an unpleasant day today.  My Reluctant Student chose to skim his pre-algebra chapter review and then grew indignant, pouty and angry with me when I informed him he would have to actually complete the lesson.  I am so unreasonable.

Later, after the shouting, he began picking up toys and straightening up the family room.  I said, “What are you doing?” 

He said, “Cleaning up.” 

I said, “Are you doing penance?” 

Both boys said, “What’s that?”  I explained penance and thus, we turn even a difficult situation into a learning experience.  Ha.

Tonight, the same Reluctant Student helped me make quiche for dinner.  He can be so helpful . . . if only we could do something about the fits.

School-at-home

So, you ask, how’s school-at-home going these days?  (Yeah, I know.  No one asked, but I can’t think of a single thing to talk about tonight.)

Much to my shock, my boys have become somewhat self-motivated.  They are on their computer, starting their lessons and doing their pre-algebra problems before I’ve even eaten my bowl of old-fashioned oatmeal.  Finally, they seem to understand that the sooner they start, the sooner they’ll be done.

Obviously, I still check their work and oversee their progress, but they are handling the bulk of their assignments on their own.  I can’t rave enough about K12.com’s curriculum.  I love everything about it, with the possible exception of science projects, but so far, we haven’t had to do any major ones.

We’re getting into a routine, all of us.  I’m still nostalgic about summer . . . the darkness comes so much earlier at night.  Before we know it, Christmas will take us by surprise and then we’ll be in the gloom of January and then crocuses will spring up.  Time doesn’t march; it sprints.

Reminder to self:  Plant more daffodils.  Can you ever really have enough?

The Dinner Dishes

I woke at 6:30 a.m.–a full hour before necessary–because my daughter woke me.  Why?  Why?  No reason.  She watched a show while I dozed, then she came to wriggle between my husband and me.  I began my day in earnest at 7:30 a.m. by facing a sink full of dirty dinner dishes.

If I had any sense, I’d do the dishes right after dinner.

But I don’t.  Tonight, the second we finished eating, I took my daughter to the park “with red swings.”  Even though summer has ended unofficially, the temperatures hovered in the high seventies, maybe the eighties.  The pool is closed (alas), but it still feels like summer.

So, she skipped and dangled from monkey bars and slid down the pole with only a little help from me.  I pushed her on the swing (“but not too fast, Mommy”) and she flew down the slides. 

When we got home, she had a bath.  The phone rang.  Some friends wanted to bring over a birthday present for my daughter, so I rushed her out of the bath and into pajamas and we waited for our friends to come.

I was grateful for the advance warning.  I cleared out the living room which is visible from the front door.  I picked up a cup, two pairs of shoes, a pair of yellow boots, two dress-up gowns, one fancy shoe, a stick horse, a novel, two diapers, two cardboard boxes destined for the recycling bin, and a bag full of envelopes ready to mail.  I relocated most of these items and hoped that our unexpected guests would stay in the living room where the night’s darkness would hide dust.

They arrived at about 8 p.m., just as the show I wanted to watch began.  (Drat!)  But my daughter delighted in opening the gifts and we had a lovely little chat until 8:30 p.m. when they left.

I sent my husband out with my daughter to walk our guests to their car and to view the moon.  Meanwhile, I raced upstairs, turned on the t.v. and began riding my exercise bike.

And the dinner dishes?  Still in the sink where I’ll hate to find them in the morning, but I’d hate to do them tonight even more.

Some things never change. 

Letter to the Birthday Girl

Dear Daughter,

Friday night, you wake up three times:  2 a.m., 4 a.m. and 6 a.m.  Each time, your cry (“Mommy!  Mommy!”) rouses me from a deep, confused sleep.  I hurry into your room and find you standing in your crib.  The overhead light you’ve switched on blinds me.  I lift you up and say, “What’s the matter?” and you say, “I want to rock you.”  

And so I flip off the light-switch (blessed darkness) and rock you for two minutes, maybe three.  Your arms and legs are so long now that they dangle off my lap.  I wrap my arms around your sweaty little body and you snuggle into me.

I return you to your crib and say, “Night-night” and worry that maybe you’re getting sick.  You normally sleep from 8:30 p.m. to 7:30 a.m. without waking.  I worry this each time you wake.

But at 7:00 a.m., you’re awake for the day.  “Today is my birthday?” you say.  I say, “Yes!  Today is your birthday!”  And you are content to watch a t.v. show while I stumble back to bed.

By 10 a.m., we are in the van, you and me.  We’re running errands.  First stop:  the bank.  You are determined to close the van door without help.  Every single time you slam the door, I hold my breath in terror that you will slam your little fingers in the door.  You never do.

You will not hold my hand while we cross the bank parking lot.  You are independent.  You refuse to make small talk with the bank teller, and I can’t blame you.  I’m not big on small talk, either.

I finish my transaction and we detour through the other bank doors so we can throw a penny into the fountain.  You toss it hard but wildly, and it lands on the sidewalk.  You try again.  I haven’t told you about wishes and fountains.  You just like throwing the penny.  (You do, however, believe in the power of dandelions–in fact, you call the dandelions “wishes.”)

You climb into the van, but refuse to buckle your own seat belt.  Sometimes you insist on doing it yourself.  Not today.

Next, we drop off film at Costco.  You hold the Costco card as we go in, waving it at the card-checker.  I drop off film and then relinquish my perfect parking spot to another lucky shopper.  We’re off to get donuts.

You love donuts, especially Krispy Kreme.  While you pick out two donuts (chocolate frosting, with sprinkles), I see apple fritters coming down the conveyor belt, glaze still wet.  But I refrain from donuts.  It’s my job. 

You pick out a seat and dig into your first donut.  Instead of being distracted, I watch you eat.  I concentrate.  I study you on this first day of your fourth year.  Your blue eyes stare out the window, mostly, watching traffic on I-5, I guess. 

Your blond hair has never been cut, yet it barely reaches your collar–it’s grown longer, but you’d never know because the more it grows, the curlier it gets.  You have one curl that swoops down into an eye and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

Do we talk?  I’ve already forgotten.  We probably chat about your birthday party.  You want it to happen immediately, but first, we have to shop.

In the car, you tell me you want to buy “bunny underpants” and “teddy bear pants.”  I warn you that we probably won’t find that.  I’m always trying to soften the blow, preparing you for the worst case scenario. 

We return to Costco to pick up the film and buy fruit and snacks a jumbo sized box of Zip-loc freezer bags I hadn’t realized we needed until I saw it.  

You spot a pink outfit, pants and jacket, with a castle logo on the chest.  “I want the Dora castle shirt!”, you say.  Since it is your birthday, I agree.  (You will change into this outfit the second we get home.)

You get a Go-Gurt sample and love it so much, I buy a gigantic box of Go-Gurts.  On the way home, you eat one, which gives me a moment of silence.  You talk a lot and I answer a lot, but most of the time, I must not be paying attention because I can’t remember the content of our conversations.

As soon as we get home, you change clothes and disappear upstairs.  I’m grateful because I have another batch of cupcakes to bake.  I baked two dozen the night before, but now I worry I won’t have enough.  While two dozen more bake, I cream the butter, add powdered sugar, vanilla, milk and pink food coloring.  I use a whole stick of butter to make a big bowl of frosting and almost have enough.  Four cupcakes end up without frosting.

You wear a hot pink swimsuit, the kind with a little ruffle around the bottom.  The weather is hot, so the pool is crowded with people.  While I set up the half of the pavilion we rented, you shadow me.  You stumbled and skinned your knee (barely) as soon as we got to the pool and have a spot of blood on your knee.  We ask the lifeguard for a Band-aid, which then worries you.  Will it come off in the water?  Will it hurt? 

Daddy has to go back home to get the four helium balloons and underwater camera I’d forgotten.  While he’s gone, I hang up a “Happy Birthday” banner and spread out the snacks.  I put a yellow tablecloth on the picnic table and anchor the four corners with balloon weights. 

Our friends start to arrive, bearing gifts.  First Baby Luke and his mommy and daddy, then Ruby with her friend, Ben, and her mommy.  You finally get into the pool with Baby Luke and his dad and I am relieved to see you relax. 

Grandma comes and then Hope, Nat, Toby and their parents.  (The last time we saw them was at the beach, the day you fell and cut your hand on the barnacle.)  Your Aunt Becca and Uncle Dennis and your cousins arrive. 

You have learned to dog-paddle.  You submerge your head under the water, but always pop up quickly, rubbing your eyes and pulling at your ears.  You’ve come a long way from the baby who screamed if her toes were dipped into the pool.  You love to swim.

Later, when everyone finishes eating hot pink cupcakes with pink sprinkles, I place a present in front of you.  You finger it cautiously and I say, “Just rip it!  Go ahead!” and you pull at the paper shyly.  You weren’t expecting presents.

The first gift is a pink-clad dolly, one that makes baby-noises.  Then you open a highchair for dolly.  Next comes a dolly diaper bag, complete with dolly diapers and bottles.  One of the moms says, “This is just like a baby shower!”  I have an unsettling flash to twenty (thirty?) years in the future when it will be a baby shower and know that I will remember this foreshadowing.  The years blink by.  

But first, you will be four years old for a whole, glorious year.

You unwrap a Curious George monkey that giggles, a fluffy ball, an Olivia book, a bumblebee purse, a colorful necklace, a fancy tiara and boa-adorned dress-up shoes.  The boy, Ben, narrates the unwrapping of gifts, concluding with “And now, you have to go hug everyone.”

We laugh at him and you do not hug everyone.  You are not a hugger.  That’s okay.  I’m not either.

Everyone swims some more then, soaking up this late summer sunshine. 

And when we return home, you change into your pink “Dora castle” clothes, your fancy shoes and your sparkly tiara (you wanted to wear the earrings, but I said, “They’ll pinch” and ever since you say, “Will they pinch?”  You want to wear them but you are afraid of the pinch.  I will finally hide them to stop your obsession.).

Then you pack up your dolly diaper bag, fling it over your shoulder like a messenger bag, and cradle your dolly.  You look exactly four years old, both plastic high-heeled shoes firmly planted in girlhood.  I cannot stand how cute you look and think, “I need to take a picture,” but I do not.  

But I will remember this day when you told someone, “I am thirteen years old,” even though you are just four.  I will remember your curls, the donut frosting and sprinkles on your cheeks, your devotion to your newest dolly (named “Alda” you said).  I will remember your head held out of the water while your hands and feet paddled madly. 

I will remember because you will not, probably.  But on this day when you turned four, you were happy, innocent, beautiful. 

The next morning, you woke and said, “I want to have my birthday again.”  But, you only get to turn four once. 

Happy birthday, Grace.

Written with a Yawn

I muddled through half the day before I realized today was Thursday, not Wednesday.  Independence Day completely threw me off schedule.  Add to that my evenings at the church painting foam insulation with latex paint and you  have one confused blogger.

I fully intended to be in bed, half-asleep by now, but when you decorate the church from 5:30 p.m. to 8:30 p.m., then go to Target and return home at 9:30 p.m., the leftover night is abbreviated.  And I had to watch “Big Brother” (I videotaped it).

I have been writing in my other blog.  (I am contractually obligated, you know, to write over there.  Not that I wouldn’t want to anyway, of course, but you know.  When the night is late and my brain is limping, I write over there before I write here.)

Um, what else?  That’s all for tonight.  Though I should mention that the children all played so cooperatively in the back yard today that I only shook my head and rolled my eyes when I realized they were intent on creating a moat or a pond or something muddy back by the fence.  They shoveled and sprayed and dug until they were all coated with dirt and drops of water. 

My husband said, “Well, if you can’t dig around when you are a kid, when can you?” 

Indeed.

Almost Coherent

Well, apparently God loves me after all, because I managed to fill the vital leadership roles for Vacation Bible School. 

Next up?  Telephone calls to beg people to be crew leaders.

After that?  I’m going to turn refrigerator boxes into a Mexican village.  Ha! 

Not only am I distracted by VBS, but I have also fallen headfirst into a novel by John Irving and I spend all my supposed free time reading.  I’m nearly done with it, though, so then I can focus my attention on the things that need my concentration.  Like the disgusting kitchen floor.  And the ironing.  And reading all the neglected blogs on my Bloglines account. 

I am being buried one detail at a time.  If you emailed me recently, please note that I intend to answer my emails tomorrow, too.  Right after I solve the problem of world hunger.  (Can I just say that I think Warren Buffet and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation rock?  Wow!)

One final note.  My daughter, who is almost 4, occasionally says, “Mom, I am so boring!”  She practically rolls her eyes from the fatigue of being just exactly that “boring.”  She means, of course, “bored,” but I find her error charming and more exact than she could ever know.  Aren’t those who claim to be bored just excruciatingly boring people at heart?  (Have I just inadvertently offended someone?  If so, let me hasten to add . . .except for you.)

No More Pencils! No More Books!

Yesterday, we celebrated the last day of school by going to a movie.  (“Cars.”)  Tickets for five children and me cost somewhere around $40.00.  (I could buy two DVDs at that price! I said to myself as we hurried toward the theater.)   

I have recently become devoted to Fandango.com so I purchased my tickets online before we left for the theater.  No line to wait in!  I had no idea if the theater would be crowded at 1:30 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, so we arrived at 1:00 p.m. 

Lucky us!  The concession stand had no line, so we bellied up to the bar and I ordered:  a combo (large popcorn/large drink), a small Sprite (for the two little ones to share) and a second large popcorn.  My twin 13-year olds ordered and paid for their own drinks.  (They love to spend their money.)

Large popcorns come with one free refill, so after paying, we traipsed over to the salt and butter-dispenser.  I pulled out five brown lunchbags from my purse and divided the popcorn five ways.  Then I sent one of my boys back to get the empty popcorn bag refilled. 

I smuggled a bottle of water into the theater for my 8-year old who prefers water to pop.  So now, everyone had a snack and a drink–and I only spent $18.00 on snacks, which was something of a thrifty miracle.

Unfortunately, we had to wait a solid fifteen minutes before the movie started.  My three boys sat three rows ahead of me–one of the boy’s glasses were destroyed by a dog and he can’t see that well, so they wanted to be very close to the screen.  I sat between two almost-four year olds; my daughter, who has never been to a movie, other than “Finding Nemo” when she was a year old, but that doesn’t count because I spent almost the whole movie chasing her as she toddled in the hallways outside the darkened theater and freaking out about germs.

The other three and a half year old is a movie-veteran, having seen pretty much every kid’s movie as it was released in theaters over the past two years.  He sat entranced, methodically placing popcorn in his mouth and chewing without moving his eyes from the screen.

My daughter said, “I don’t want that,” and gave me her popcorn bag.  She scooted back in the theater-seat and due to her small size, the bottom of the seat flipped up, bending her in half.  This became her primary occupation during the whole movie.  She appeared to be doing some type of weird ab exercise, the kind you see on late-night informercials. Open, closed, open, closed, open, closed, the seat flipped and flapped, back and forth, up, down, up, down.

Five minutes before the movie started, she leaned over and said, “I want to go home.”  Flip, flap, flip, flap, flip, flap went her legs.

When the movie finally started, so did a baby two rows behind us.  The baby squalled and I turned and scanned the rows, but didn’t spot the baby.  The crying continued and I turned again and this time, I stared straight into the grim eyes of the screamer’s mother.  She had a hand clamped over the unhappy baby’s hollering mouth.

My annoyance instantly turned into sympathy.  I felt sorry that I had turned to shoot her a look.  (My look said, “Hey, I paid fifty-eight bucks for this–get that crying kid out of here!”)

A few minutes later, I heard the weeping recede into the distance at that mother left the theater.  I have no idea if she came back.

My daughter did watch the movie with interest, though her legs only sporadically stopped flapping the seat bottom up and down.  She ate popcorn, she laughed at funny parts.  Then, finally, she grew bored and said, “I have to pee.”  I said, “No, wait.”  She insisted, so I had to gather my purse and the hands of both three-year olds and crawl over two people.

She did pee and so did the little boy.  We washed hands and returned to the theater, crawled over two people and settled into our seats.  Then she wanted to switch seats with her little buddy.  Then she wanted to sit on the other side of him.  Flip, flap, flip, flap, flip.  Whisper, whisper.

“I want to go home.”

She called the name of her friend over and over.  He didn’t hear her, completely engrossed in the movie.  I can see why his parents take him to movies all the time.  He, the boy who cannot walk without leaping and kicking, sat immobile, except for one hand bringing popcorn to his mouth.  I think he blinked, too.   

Finally, she got his attention and had nothing to say.  Flip, flap, flip.

“Mommy!  I need to poop.” 

I told her she did NOT, and she gave up asking.  She has realized that declaring her need to vacate her bowels is a Get Out of Anywhere Free card.  For instance, when she whispers that in a stage-whisper at church, I hurry her out of the pew.  Because . . . well, just because.  But in the movies?

I really did like the movie.  I did not particularly like my movie-companion, however!  She will not go to another movie anytime soon.  This is a child who can barely be convinced to watch an entire television show.  I won’t be paying five bucks again for her to fidget and exercise her already taut abs.

*  *  * 

Today my 8-year old played in the final baseball tournament of the season.  (Hooray!)  His team took third place.  This was the first game I’d seen this year–my husband normally takes him, but today, my husband took my older boys to a Mariner’s game at Safeco Field.  (My husband tried to make me feel guilty about missing all the other games by launching into a chorus of “The Cat’s in the Cradle,” but I am not easily guilted.)

The funny thing is that my 8-year old could have gone to the Mariner’s game, too, but he was invited to a birthday party and he chose the party.  So, I went to his baseball game and took my daughter with me.

They won the first game, and played in a second one, so he was at the field from 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.  When he went to the birthday party at 3:30 p.m., I took my daughter to Costco to drop off film and shop (mainly for a roast for dinner tomorrow).

She had been begging to go to “the dolly store” to get another dolly (because you can never have enough dollies when you are almost four years old).  I took her to Goodwill where the doll bins were stuffed full of rejected and neglected dolls.  She picked out two, played in the toy aisle as long as I could stand it and then finally, we returned home.

And that, my friends, is about as much fun as I can stand to have in one weekend.  (And it’s not over yet!) 

(Oh, and we aren’t quite finished with school yet–we have to wrap up History and my Reluctant Student managed to leave himself a generous helping of Spelling over the summer.)