My 14-year old twins chose an unwise action today and their father caught them.  (I’m sparing the details in deference to their privacy.  It’s probably not as bad as you’re thinking.)  After letting them explain themselves and excusing them from the room, their father turned to me and said, “Well, what shall we do?” and I said, “How about grounding for three days, no electronics, no friends.”  He nodded.

Then he called them back in and asked them what punishment they deserved.  They both suggested grounding for a whole week . . . not from electronics, but from friends.

Apparently, I am too lenient.

It’s going to be a long week.

And so life goes on.

Saturday morning my 4-year old’s best buddy came over to play with her.  They spent most of the chilly morning in the back yard.  She shuns shoes and a jacket at all times.  I cannot understand this–I wear slippers during the cold months and can hardly stand to wear shoes without socks during the summer months.  A neighbor boy showed up and the three of them spent a long time collecting pine cones in a plastic bucket.  (Occasionally, the kids decide to have pine cone fights.)

When my husband returned from his Saturday morning meeting (at 2 p.m.), I abandoned the family.  I saw a movie (“Disturbia”) which was entertaining, but the most distracting thing happened during the whole movie . . . the movie was subtitled.  So, instead of just watching the movie, I kept comparing the words the actors spoke and the sound effects (which were all described!) with the white words on the screen.  I’m considering writing a complaint to the theater owners because I hated the experience so much.  Now, if I knew that someone in the theater were hearing impaired, I wouldn’t have minded.  But, I have no idea why that happened and the unexpectedness of it annoyed me.

Also, to the person with the little white car that smelled like cigarettes . . . you’re welcome.  I turned off your lights.  Good thing you don’t lock your car.

Yesterday was a quiet day . . . my only noteworthy accomplishment involved the tangles of leave-stripped ivy in the front yard.  Earlier in the spring, twelve boys played a rowdy game of baseball in my ivy-dominated yard.  The ivy turned brown and appeared dead, but now green shoots have appeared.  I thought it best to untangle as many of the vines as possible and trim it back as much as time (and the yard waste bucket) allowed.

And yes, that is as boring as it sounds.  My yard is a disaster.  And the hole in the backyard continues to grow thanks to the combined effort of every boy in the neighborhood who jumps into it and hacks away at the dirt.  (Me:  “Stop using my garden tools!”)  I’m pretty sure it’s big enough to bury a cow now.

I judged my parents harshly for their failure to attend any of my softball games during the three years I played in an organized league as a child.  I think they slowed down the car and I jumped, rolled into a ditch and then stumbled onto the ball field dragging my mitt behind me.  Or something like that.  But, seriously, they never attended my games.  They were busy.

Tonight, I had the distinct pleasure of driving my 9-year old son twenty-five minutes away to a soggy ball field so he could play baseball.  (My husband had a scheduling conflict.)  I pulled the key out of the ignition and that’s when my son smacked himself on the forehead and said, “I forgot my glove!”  I am pretty sure I rolled my eyes and then said, “You are kidding me.  You didn’t bring your glove to a baseball game?” and then he started to cry.

He and his 4-year old sister trailed behind me as I strode across the newly mown field toward his coach.  I delivered him to the coach, explained that I’d be going back to get the glove and that I’d be back in time for the game.  (I am such an optimist at such random times.)  Then I dragged my daughter back across the field and to the van.  Forty minutes later, we were back, lucky us.  The time was 7:25 p.m. and the other team was up to bat. 

I did a quick count and estimated that about one hundred people were involved in this recreational activity.  We all stood around.  Raindrops kept falling on our heads.  My daughter finished her snack and began to beg to go home, stopping only to inform me that she needed to pee.  Off we went, across the gigantic field, to the restrooms in the community center.  Once inside the building, we followed the trail of grass clumps.  Then, back to the game, which was now being played in semi-darkness and increasing rainfall.

My son never got to bat.  (Fourteen teammates were present, plus on Saturday he opted to skip the “Jamboree” and attend a birthday party instead.  My husband told me in advance that if he were the coach, he’d make our boy sit on the bench for two games as a result of that choice.)  My boy was put in left field for one inning where he missed the one ball hit his direction.  At least he got to touch the ball as he threw it in field.  For this, I drove a combined hour and twenty minutes, maybe a little more.  I stood in the cold rain.  I listened to my daughter whine for at least thirty minutes.  Everyone was late getting to bed.  (The game lasted until 8:30 p.m., which, if you ask me, is late for a school night.  My husband suggested that perhaps I’d like to run for baseball commissioner and I said, no thanks, I’d rather just be Queen of the World and then he wondered aloud if I’d tolerate the dissenters and pointed out that I prefer feedback only if it’s positive.) 

At any rate, I hated the whole baseball in the rain at dusk experience.  I can’t believe we all put ourselves through that in the name of fun.  Now I kind of understand why my parents skipped my games.  (I’m only a little bitter now, instead of a lot.  Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m just kidding.)

Incidentally, my husband wanted a full report.  I told him what I just told you.  Then he said, “Who won?” and I looked at him with incredulity and said, “Who cares?  I have no idea!” because I couldn’t see anyone even keeping score.  Furthermore, they don’t play a particular number of innings, but a certain length of time, I think.  And I was distracted by my whiny daughter.  All I know is that the pitcher on our team seemed to hit about every third player on the opposite team . . . and he had an earring and I just have to wonder what kind of parents let a 9-year old boy pierce his ear.

Fargo movies

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.

First, we went here:

• Say Anything… on dvd

And I stood in line for an hour so I could take this picture:

And now, I am utterly exhausted.

Tuesday night, we took our twin boys to a Mariner’s game at Safeco Field.  I had fun for these reasons:

1)  The tickets were free.

2)  The kids are old enough (14!) to be set free to hunt and gather their own food (with the money I gave them).

3)  My husband was with me.

4)  Two women sitting behind me chatted the whole time.  (They went to high school together in Walla Walla.  One of them has a mother who uses a tanning bed, has fake nails, and never leaves the house without hairspray.)

5)  I love to eavesdrop.

The Mariner’s lost the game, but we had a great time.  (The boys love nothing better than to eat garlic fries at Safeco Field, followed by a giant soft pretzel with a cup of “nacho cheese”–I use that term loosely, as I’m pretty sure that’s not actually cheese.)

Last week, as you know, I was away at a writing conference at Mt. Hermon, California. 

There, I met my good friend and blogging-buddy, Barbara Curtis of Mommylife.net.  Here we are on our last night there, trying our best to look as thin as possible (she’s lost 75 pounds; I’ve lost 58): 

We did spend time sitting side-by-side with our computers, too, because that’s inevitable when you are bloggers hanging out together. 

As it turned out, many of the 450 writers at the conference were also bloggers.  One night, we met together informally and shared our URLs and tips for blogging.  I attempted to leave comments in real-time, but I began to sound like a stalker (“I’m looking at you right now!”) and then I couldn’t keep up. 

But here is a list of bloggers who are also writers, that you may not have heard of (yet).  Check them out.

Real Women Scrap – Tasra Dawson
Relevant Blog – Mary DeMuth
maxgrace.com– Bill Giovannetti
Christian Work at Home Moms – Jill Hart
Larry’s Bible Blog – Larry Wilson
Spaghetti Pie – Tina Howard
Parenting Solo Devotionals and Hackberry – Doug Mead
Moral Movies – Dean Anderson
Laura Christianson
Writebrained – BJ Hamrick
Why didn’t you warn me? and Sometimes I feel like a piece of bologna – Pat Sikora
Happy Feet – Jon VonHof
Goddess Worship – Susy Fiory (who’s doing a Christian investigation of goddess worship)
Mommy Life – Barbara Curtis

(Next post, pictures of the Redwoods.  Stay tuned.)

Tonight is my last night here at Mt. Hermon.  [For details of my adventure last night with Barbara, check out her blog, Mommylife.net.  She wrote about our efforts to find the ocean (go west, young middle-aged women!).]  What fun I’ve had chatting with her and monopolizing her time  spending time with her.  We took a picture together tonight (which I’ll post in a day or two when I get home), but I’m afraid I’m having a bad hair day, so do not expect a Glamour-Shot. 

Aside from the professional networking and workshops, the stretch of days has refreshed me in a way that I hadn’t realized I even needed.  I’ve been able to think without interruption, read without the distraction of FOX News in the background, and jot down ideas in margins of legal pads that may someday work their way into print.  I feel more focused on my goals and on what I hope to achieve as a writer.  I feel a sense of stillness and hope.  And I’m even comfortable now saying, “I’m a writer.”  (After all, I have business cards to prove it.)

Anyway, tomorrow at 5:30 p.m., I’ll be boarding a plane, heading home.  I will be sorry to say good-bye to the towering Redwoods and to the beautiful campus here, but I take home with me a good supply of peace and nourishment, hopefully enough to get me through the pile of laundry I predict awaits me and the stinky kitty litter box which has most likely been forgotten in my absence.

I just hope someone’s been flushing the toilets while I was away.

What a beautiful place this is.  The skies have been blue, the mornings chilly, the afternoons warm.  Dogwoods are in bloom and lilacs are about to burst into scented blossoms.  This morning I woke up at 5:50 a.m.–(Reminder:  I am not a morning person)–to take a hike up to Mt. Hermon where a twenty foot cross stands.  The morning is dark at 6 a.m., (the better to not see those dark circles under your eyes), but by the time we summited the “mountain” (I use that word lightly because there was no year-round snowpack and we all know that a mountain is not really a mountain unless it has a glacier or two) . . . my goodness, what is with all the parentheses?  Anyway, by the time we arrived at the top, the sun was brightening the sky and as we stood in a circle, the thirty of us, praying, the sun rose.

And I wondered why I don’t get outside more at dawn.  (Answer:  Because dawn arrives very very early.) 

The schedule here would be grueling except that compared to being a full-time stay-at-home mother with school-at-home teenagers and a sassy preschooler and and half a dozen neighborhood boys traipsing through my house at all times (“CLOSE THE DOOR!”) it’s a breeze.  I could not be having a better time, unless, of course, I could eat cookies without turning into the Amazing Growing Mom.

I don’t have time to answer email while I’m here, but don’t let that stop you from emailing me.  I’m reading every comment and loving hearing from everyone.  Barbara Curtis is every bit as wonderful in person as you would imagine.  In fact, I’m heading to her workshop now.

And so, now I must sign off and run.  Be good.  Or if you can’t be good, be careful.