You all should know that I have been waking up every morning at 6:20 a.m. to walk for an hour with a friend. I hate this. And love this. I hate it in the two minutes between 6:17 a.m. and 6:20 a.m. when I am awake, still in bed and wondering if there’s any way I can stand up my friend without being rude and embarrassed.

I love it every minute of the day after 6:35 a.m., once I’m underway and after I’m done. Something about early-morning daily exercise makes me feel so virtuous. I am a night person, a middle of the day person, but not at all a morning person. But I like being a morning exerciser, so I make choices.

While the rest of you are melting like an ice cream cone held by a two-year old, I am wearing jeans and a sweatshirt while I sit at the pool and watch the kids swim. It’s been 70 degrees here and a little overcast. (A morning marine layer scoots in from the ocean and it takes until noon before the sun burns it off.) I love this kind of weather, although I’d really like to spend more of these cloudy afternoons swinging in a hammock, reading.

And no, I have no hammock, nor do I ever read in the afternoon unless I’m at the pool and then it’s like this: read one sentence, “Mom, look at this!”, look, smile, nod, reread the same sentence, “No, that wasn’t it! Look at this!”, look, smile, give thumbs-up signal, scan page to figure out where I was, read the same sentence again. This is a very slow way to get through a novel.

My daughter has packed up ten stuffed animals, her CD player, headphones, a Petco Pet Member Card, a rubber band, a dolly, and–who knows?–a partridge in a pear tree because we’re going to visit friends for the weekend. She is very excited about this impending adventure, but the 14-year olds are mad because I “ruined” their weekend. “Thanks a lot, Mom!” (They had planned a sleepover tonight and were going to a sort-of birthday party on Saturday. “Can I just stay home?” one of them asked. “No!” I said. “Why?!” he said. “Because,” I said, “You’re not old enough, you’re not responsible, and because I said so.”) I bring joy and despair wherever I go.

Look out.

I’m loving this show, Flipping Out, but I am concerned about Jeff Lewis’ lips. I think he and Melanie Griffith must go to the same plastic surgeon and I just want to say STOP.

I saw a few episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter tonight while I ironed my husband’s pants. I love that show, too, especially Dog’s hair. How can you not, really? And his wife, Beth, rocks.

I heard about the Beckham’s new fragrance, “Intimately Beckham,” and I have to say that I will never purchase said fragrance. I know nothing about David Beckham, but his wife, Victoria, scares me. Does she ever smile? Is she made of plastic? I am boycotting celebrity fragrances.

You’d think my brain would percolate with all kinds of interesting ideas and riveting thoughts, but no. Just . . . no. For some reason, my brain is as empty as the milk container in the fridge. I do hate it when I’m in the middle of a thought desert, nothing but sand as far as the eye can see.

However, I would very much like to be bogged down in a thought dessert, which I imagine would be a giant swimming pool filled with peanut butter chocolate cream pie. With whipped cream. And chocolate sprinkles.

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Book winner is Tammy from Garden Glimpses.   Tammy, email me your address and I’ll send the book off to you!  Congratulations!

. . . will be announced tomorrow. I’m exhausted from a full day of life. And it wasn’t even that exciting, unless you count washing sweaters you bought from Value Village exciting. (Especially when you can’t put them in the dryer.)

Oh, and glory be! My 9-year old burst into tears when my husband reacted to the 9-year old burning his arm on the oven while broiling cheese on bread. I said, “Let me see the burn!” and he said, “It doesn’t even hurt!” and I said, “Why are you crying then?” and he said, “Because I hate it when Dad overreacts like that!”

Ha. I am not alone in my overreactions! This makes me feel strangely happy.

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If you haven’t already, please stop by my other blog. Every click counts.

What I’d like is two extra daylight hours, preferably sandwiched into each day in a time warp of sorts so that no one realizes I’ve slipped away for two hours. Really, I want my own personal wrinkle in time so that no one looks up and says, “Where’s Mom?” and comes looking for me.

I’m treading water and I’d really like to start swimming, making forward progress with my inelegant breaststroke (I never put my face under water). I have places to go! Things to do! And I’m just splashing around, making waves, but not going anywhere.

I know. What am I talking about? Don’t you hate it when people are vague like this?

Well, the truth is that I wish I had a lot more time to be creative, to be silent and creative. I’d love to sew again, but that’s not what’s nipping at my heels and elbows while I bob around. No, I am trying to write, to create a world with words and it’s really tough when my days are full of interruptions and my nights are short-sheeted by fatigue.

I know we all have twenty-four hours in the day . . . anyone want to hand over two of their daily hours to me so I can have twenty-six?

(By the way, I posted my kids’ favorite Crock-pot meal on the other blog, The Amazing Shrinking Mom.)

The last month has begun. The last month of no school, the last month of having a four-year-old, the last month of summer. We’ve had a four year old or a three year old or a two year old or a baby in our house for the past fourteen years, so this is truly the end of an era. Weirdly, I’m not too sad about it.

I’m nostalgic already and when I look at pictures of the children at younger ages, I can forget how they were whiny and prone to tantrums. I can almost forget how one of the teenagers used to spit his medicine back into my face whenever I dared to medicate him. They were so adorable in those pre-acne days. I used to love that whole bathtime-jammies-in-bed-at-eight thing we had going on. (Teenagers, did you know? They stay up late and sleep in if possible . . . they are so much like hibernating bears.)

My daughter begged me to take her to Target today. “Why?” I said. “What do you want to buy?” She explained, “I need some new summer clothes. I want orange shorts and an orange shirt with a star.”We did not go to Target, much to her chagrin. That child loves to shop and wear cute shoes, even if they hurt her feet.

Blogging about a life featuring laundry and empty milk cartons in the fridge is a challenge some days. Perhaps I could tell you how the boys are still nailing cast-off pieces of wood in the back yard? My son came in, flushed, excited to tell me that Dennis, our neighbor down the street gave them yet more wood. (Dennis has people drop off scrap wood at his house all the time . . . then he burns it in his wood stove all winter. The wood supply is endless, so I had to say, “NO MORE WOOD!”)

Or I could tell you my 9-year old is playing football . . . and they practice every single night. My husband takes him, but still. I find no joy in daily sports practices, having grown up in a household with no interest in sports whatsoever. (I played softball as a girl and my parents never attended my games. I ran track only until seventh grade when I realized all the boys were studying me bounce and jiggle around the track.)

I could mention that I keep making all these plans for my evenings, but after getting up at 6:15 a.m. to walk each morning, by 9 p.m., I’ve got nothing left. I’m like a bicycle with a chain that keeps derailing. Hard to make progress when you can’t pedal!

But that would be boring to blog about.

We drove over a thousand miles in the past two days.  With four kids in the backseat.  The good news?  We’re home.  The bad news?  Our 4-year old got car sick for the first time.  (She called it a “car cold.”)  The good news?  She informed me that she was going to throw up and then very conveniently did so into an empty coffee cup.  By the time we stopped the car for gasoline, she was perky and ready to eat chocolate donuts.
On our journey from Southern California to green Washington state, we passed an onion processing plant . . . we smelled it a mile before we saw it.  We saw many trucks full of tomatoes and one full of peppers.  We saw a truck carting a bunch of dingy white chickens to their fates.  We smelled miles of cows, cows as far at the eye could see.  We saw sheep, horses and miles and miles and miles of tan, desolate hills.  We saw Mt. Shasta swathed in a shawl of white, cotton-batting clouds.  We stopped to pee way more times than we stopped to get gasoline or eat which hardly seems possible if you consider that what goes in must come out . . . how does more come out than goes in?

The most tragic event occurred Friday.  My husband, in his quest to get us out of our hotel room as quickly as possible, failed to notice my beloved pillow on the bed . . . and I didn’t take one last look around because I’d already been shooed out of the room.  I called the hotel as soon as I realized my loss, but had to leave a telephone message.  (I found myself in one of those crazy telephone loops where I didn’t get to talk to a real person about my crisis.)  Tonight, my husband called again and alas, no one has seen my pillow.

Clearly, if I travel with my pillow, I am very attached to it.  Was very attached to it.

Tomorrow, after I sleep in and get a crick in my neck, I’m going pillow shopping.  And grocery shopping.  Alone.  Glory to God in the highest.  It’s good to be home.

The Burning Plain full

Ha.  I emailed the manager of this hotel and at this very moment, as I type, I am the proud inhabitant of adjoining hotel rooms.  And only the boys had to move . . . I stayed put.

Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?

Today, we “did” California Adventures.  The Tower of Terror beckoned twice, as did the Grizzly River Raft, Soarin’ Over California and California Screaming (a roller coaster).  The only bummer was that by the time we rode the roller coaster, I had developed a severe lack-of-food and caffeine headache and my brain rattled around in my head with every curve and swoop of the coaster.  Ouch.

However, after food and Diet Coke, we were mesmerized by the stage show of Aladdin . . . it was truly remarkable.

Tomorrow at 7 a.m., we’ll be back at Disney in an effort to actually ride the Finding Nemo attraction.  The waits in line have been upwards of two hours . . . which is ridiculous.  I hope that if we arrive super early, we can avoid that nonsense.

Since we’ve been here I’ve done laundry three times.  Which is sort of funny to me.  However, my technique is to pack light and wash often, so I only packed enough clothing for three days for each of us.  This hotel has only two washers and two dryers . . . apparently, I’m one of the few who wash clothes while vacationing.

And now I’m rambling, so enough.

Twenty years ago, I was preparing for my wedding. I wore a gown I sewed myself from ivory taffeta. My poor bridesmaids wore purple dresses with bubble skirts . . . which are coming back in style now, which is how you know it was a very long time ago that my wedding occurred.

I would have something profound to say about marriage and generous to say about my husband, but my feet ache and my hair is crazy and my eyes a bit gritty and the fun hasn’t ended yet, for we’re heading to California Adventures today and then Disneyland again tomorrow.

Last night, I took the four kids back to Disney where we rode the monorail, ate expensive food at the Rainforest Cafe’, saw the parade, watched fireworks and then tried to see “Fantasmic,” the amazing show that takes place on the river.

(What a disaster–the viewing was terrible . . . no seating anywhere–unlike Disney World where this show’s in an amphitheater–and then a man six and a half feet tall lifted up the rope and stepped in front of us, apparently feeling no guilt about suddenly blocking our view, which wasn’t good to start with . . .  and then there were the other parents, already in the front, who perched their little ones on their shoulder, thus dooming the people behind them to hopelessness. People are thoughtless, especially when they are in a crowd.)

We returned back to our room at 11:30 p.m. and for once, my kids didn’t wiggle or talk but fell asleep immediately.  Oh, did I mention that the hotel management didn’t put us in adjoining rooms? So, I’m in one room with two kids and my husband of twenty years today is in a room across the hall and down one with the other two.

Yes, it’s very romantic.

So today, my daughter woke up at 7:37 a.m. even though we are on vacation. She wanted a bath. We finally got ourselves together and met (who else?) a blogger for a day of fun and frivolity. And also, sand and sun. The aforementioned blogger, Gina of Just Another Day has been a friend of mine (even though she adores Al Gore) for a long time, since our paths crossed on an AOL pregnancy message boards years ago. Neither of us post on that board anymore, but we are devoted to our blogs. If you aren’t reading her blog, you really should because she posts regularly and amusingly and occasionally, provocatively. (I dare you to write a sentence with more adverbs in it than that!)

Anyway, so the lovely Gina and her darling son, Mr. Personality, met us in the lobby of our hotel at 10:15 a.m. on the dot. She scored a perfect parking spot in front of our hotel, so we transferred beach paraphernalia from her car trunk into my van and off we went, me driving, her giving directions, the kids all plugged into various DVD players to distract them from actually seeing the world here in Southern California. The funny thing about traveling with kids wearing earphones is that they don’t even here you when you say, “Hey, look at that truck carrying hundreds of bunnies in cages!” or “Hey, that’s Mt. Shasta!”

After a stop for Subway sandwiches, we arrived at Corona Del Mar beach. The boys took off with Gina’s boogie board to catch some waves (thankfully, small waves since that beach is protected by a jetty so I didn’t have to worry about my kids being swept to sea because they would have if the disinterested lifeguard had his way . . . where is David Hasselhoff when I need him?). Grace stood in the surf, jumping over waves until one knocked her backwards onto her adorable behind. Her face remained above water, but she was pinned on her back like a wayward turtle for a few terrifying moments and then, she became very cautious. For awhile.

Eventually, she ran to meet the waves, then turned and fled from them while screaming and laughing with glee. Gina and I were able to chat some while we stood with our feet in the wet sand, which I decided feels exactly as I imagine brown sugar would feel if you were to tromp on an acre of it in your bare feet.

The kids were mostly sunscreened . . . but I neglected to protect my neckline so I have a crescent of hot pink skin from chin to . . . uh, well, were the buttons of my shirt begin. It’s quite attractive. The rest of my farmer’s tan is intact, only a bit pinker than before.

The kids frolicked in the ocean for three, maybe four hours, before we rounded them up, tried to remove some of the sand from their feet and headed home. Back here, they all rinsed and dressed and off we went to Red Robin for an early dinner. After that, we put in two loads of laundry (Laundry: Even on Vacation!) and then went back to the pool for another three hours of waterlogged fun. I met another mom from the AOL pregnancy message board and Grace was able to swim with her 4-year old daughter for an hour while Tiffany and I visited. Tiffany is quite a trooper–she brought her not-quite-3-week old son with her, and this despite having a c-section for his breech delivery. (Thanks, Tiffany, for the effort!) I also met her very kind husband.

After all that, the kids were asleep by 9:30 p.m. and I had a little time to plan our day’s adventure in Disneyland tomorrow. Any surprise that I am one of those by-the-book planning types? First stop? Space Mountain, followed closely by the Buzz Lightyear ride. I just hope everyone marches along to the beat of my drum.

When my husband and I were first married almost twenty years ago, we had most of our fights in the car. This was because he refuses to look at maps, he has no natural sense of direction, he does not immediately step on the brakes when brake-lights turn red in front of us, and he occasionally says to me, “Can I get over?” even though I am the passenger, completely not paying attention to the road. (None of this is because I am irrationally sequential, prone to irritability and easily exasperated.)

He says I just don’t trust him, which is not true at all. He reminds me that men and women have different perceptions of distances, which may be true. But it doesn’t make me feel less like we’re going to bash into the cars in front of us when they slow down and we do not.

However, age has mellowed us and I keep my lips zipped more than I used to do. Why have the same argument over and over when you can just avert your eyes and concentrate on your novel?

Here’s the only mini-argument we had. We stopped at a service station because the 4-year old insisted she needed to pee even though we hadn’t driven more than an hour since the last time she peed. So, we stopped at a service station. He parked in what I insisted was a parking spot, but he didn’t believe me, so he stayed in the van to “guard” it while I and the four children went in.

My daughter and I went into the bathroom and when we came out, the boys were gone. I thought that was amazing since there are three of them. How did they pee so fast? So, I let Grace pick out a candy bar, got my husband the Diet Dr. Pepper he’d wanted, selected a Diet Coke for myself and Hot Tamales for him and said to the guy behind the counter, “So, my boys left already?” and he said, “Yes.” Then before I finished paying, he said, “Oh, there they are.” They appeared again and then my husband appeared and I paid for a cup of ice and my husband said, “What are you doing?” there was a brief flurry of confusion and tense words and finally, when the boys peed and picked out a snack I said to them, “I’m going to wait to yell at you until we get outside,” and so I did.

The boys, apparently, discovered the men’s bathroom occupied. So they each bought a drink and went back to the car. Meanwhile, I’m still in the bathroom. The children appear at the van with drinks and my husband says, “Did you pee?” and they admit they did not. So he sends them back inside. He must have thought that I okayed this non-peeing, drink-buying and so he marched in to find out what was going on . . . how was I to know? I’d been peeing! And supervising peeing! And washing my hands without soap and drying them on my jeans because this was a service station.

So, I gave this little lecture to the kids: “When we stop, you pee! Always! And don’t do that again, what you just did because now your dad is mad at me!”

When we were all underway, my daughter piped up and said something like, “Mom said you’re mad at her Dad,” and he said, “No, I’m not mad, but when we stop, you need to pee!”

And then all was well again in the world. Those kind of arguments are the worst because they are based on misunderstanding and magnified when your bladder is full (kind of like how crabby I was tonight with the kids because I was still wearing a wet swimsuit as I was barking orders at them). Forgive, forget, move on.
Then we saw Mt. Shasta.

All told, we were traveling for eleven hours today. We left at 9:15 a.m. and arrived in Red Bluff at 8:30 p.m. And tomorrow, we do this all over again, only in more traffic.