some items for your consideration

1. My hips are more cooperative than they were at this time last week. Thanks so much for your kind words and emails. The Internet People are so lovely.

2. I have developed a new marketing strategy for the Diva Cup, and it is called OCCUPY MY VAGINA. If the Diva Cup people aren't interested, I may pitch the p.0.r.n people. Those guys need at least one new idea. Or so I hear from the guy that does lights for The Mister.

3. I am not actually going to pitch any of my ideas, clever or otherwise, to the p.0.rn people. Just for the record. Real live people who live their real lives near me have been confrontational regarding my beliefs lately, and I would hate to cause any more disruption to them. And to me. But I will totally tweet this post tomorrow and I will @DivaCup because at the very least they should send me a spare to keep in my glove box JUST IN CASE.

4. Henry turned five. This is the first time in my life that only 25% of my short people are preschool-aged, and fortunately for me, I have 2.25 more years to enjoy it.

5. On Thursday, The Mister and I will celebrate our tenth anniversary. I use the word 'celebrate' loosely. What I really mean is that he will go to work before I get up, and I will likely disrupt him at work by phoning him four times to ask inordinately stupid questions highlighted only by my complete inability to form a cohesive sentence with my mouth and my surprising ability to completely forget every single word in my working vocabulary. After which time he will find himself working very late because it's Advent and he works for the Wesleyans and they are quite the overachievers. And then I will go to bed because it is very late and he will go to bed when he gets home.

And perhaps there will be a snacky treat for me when I get up the next day after he has gone to work, and perhaps I will only phone him three times instead of four. Because if I have learned anything in the last ten years, it is that The Mister's Love Language is NOT CALLING WHEN HE'S AT WORK FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS SACRED. (That Language applied when he did not even work for Jesus in an official capacity, too.)

6. I have decided that when we are enormously wealthy and before the short people go away to be Responsible For Themselves, I will consider it mandatory that I have my own dedicated employee who will anticipate my wants regarding coffee, handle all of the laundry, and mop and vacuum every single day in addition to every time the people maliciously drop crunchy food items on the floor and crunch the items into a bajillion pieces with their feet. I would also like a giant-sized ironing board so I can iron enormous pieces of fabric without having to deal with the stupid pointy end of the ironing board.

7. Happy Tuesday, y'all.

wishbone

My hips are on strike this week, along with my right thumb and a tiny, but crucial place in my lower back. Most of the time I can stand up straight like a normal person, but sometimes I just cannot.

I am easily embarrassed, which might come as a surprise to some; I am horribly self-conscious. I use smart-ass comments and self-deprication to diffuse and hide. But this. There is no witty anything that will make me forget that my body doesn't work right. There is no joke here, nothing humourous whatsoever. There is no hiding.

I cleaned part of my living room today, removed the toys, reclaimed flat surfaces, filled the giveaway bag and a trash bag. It was less than an hour's worth of work, and I couldn't do any more. Didn't vacuum, didn't dust, didn't even take the trash outside.

In everything, give thanks.

Oh God, I am having a hard time giving thanks. I am sad that I am not able to do my job well, I resent the pain and the hindrances and the exhaustion. I want to do and serve and be able. I want to be able. I want to be able-bodied, to do and walk and work and play. I want to see the point of my current state; how do I use my pain for good?

I am thankful for my husband and our short people, for dear ones that lend an ear or a sponge and elbow grease. I am thankful for our home and the food we eat and that The Mister has secured his dream job and is happier than I've seen him in the ten years we have been married.

I have so much to be thankful for, I know this in my deepest spirit. I rejoice in these things, but even in the midst of that I feel weighed down by this frustrating disease. I want there to be something good to come from this. It doesn't need to be a big or important or revolutionary, a tiny quiet something would be just as lovely. Please. And thank you.

so that's new.

check this out.

i like to call it proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

i'll be posting on odd-numbered days.

why? because i can.

today.

Today Jon starts his new-new job, and he has the day off. Pretty sweet, if you ask me. He was hired by a big church in the Buffalo area and is their audio engineer. And he is playing a part in the Christmas movie. The church makes a Christmas movie. BECAUSE IT'S EASIER.

Today we will school, and I will watch as other people rake my lawn.

Today I will launder things, and I will fold and put away one load at a time. I may only do one load of laundry, but drawers will be in drawers.

Today I will not make dinner. I will make coffee and bread.

Today I will think about knitting and checking things off my Sewing List of Doom. I should probably rename it so I am able to actually check items off the list.

some items for your consideration, part does anybody even keep track anymore?

1. You know when short people pretend they're not sick? Well, maybe they're not really faking, more like they're not entirely convinced they're sick? Elliott is trying his hand at that, poor lad. But on the plus side, he's a really great cuddler.

2. Elliott is also fascinated with eyebrows now, too, which means he's a fabulous Eye Poker-Outer. Big fun.

3. This week is my least favorite week of the year. And no, not because of Halloween, although I will admit that I am not a fan. The Mister always has a week-long gig, on top of working a normal full-time gig, so he is gone like the wind. I like to think of it as Single-parenting Appreciation Week, because I have a renewed perspective by, say, Monday evening, of how good I have it. All of you who take care of your babies and your homes and your jobs and never get a break? I have so much respect for what you do. And I get that you just have to do your life because it's your life, but it doesn't make what you do any less spectacular because you have to do it.

4. Speaking of Halloween, I am praying that it snows so that I do not have to take the short people Begging Door To Door For Candy They Will Not Eat Because I Got To It First.

5. I don't think there is such a thing as Too Much Rice. This is because I love me some rice. I would claim to be the Bubba Gump of Rice if I were into hyperbole, but my friend Rebecca already claimed that title and would probably tell you an embarrassing story about how I stood in her kitchen, eating a container of her adobo mayonnaise, one fingerful at a time, while making weird noises and faces. OH WAIT. (There's a freebie for you, Beccy.)

6. One of the short people has arrived at the stage where he or she finds it necessary to point out every detail of an experience and label it according to its value, which is a completely arbitrary measure. This is extremely irritating, and also, I have no idea where said short person acquired said skill. AHEM.

7. I would like to tell you about how I am feeling as if I have finally gotten the hang of homeschooling for the first time, but I wouldn't want to jinx it, so draw your own conclusions but do it quietly and not on my blog.  Please.

8.  I finished a superty adorable cardigan on Saturday, the first of a pretty large custom order, and it has cables and bobbles on it, which makes me feel kind of like Big Shot Knitter Pants.  Now I'm halfway through a bright yellow pullover for Henry.  Dude loves him some yellow.  I'll probably finish it this week.  He's all antsy.

9.  What are you up to these days?  I'm all out of the loop and stuff.  

lesson of the week: in which i tell you that ginormous bugs are grotey

We caught an enormous insect at the Farmers' Market on Friday. Seriously huge. The thing is about three inches long and has super humongo legs. I never knew we had such horrific things in New York, and I  honestly believe that things like that should live in the jungle where they belong.

The Googles tell me it's a Giant Water Bug, and that it is CARNIVOROUS. The short people put it in a canning jar that was in the back of my minicoopervan, and I figured that we'd figure out what it was and then bring it home and feed it to the chickens because they are super grateful when we bring them tasty treats like bugs as big as their heads.

AND THIS IS WHY YOU SHOULD ALWAYS CONSULT THE GOOGLES, PEOPLE. Because if the Giant Water Bug were to bite one of my chickens before the chicken killed it, THE CHICKEN WOULD DIE. Pretty much instantly. I'm pretty sure the bug is a distant cousin to the honey badger. There was a story of a human adult who was bit on the hand by the Giant Water Bug and they couldn't use their hand for two weeks. That is MESSED UP, y'all. New York bugs should not be that intense.

So. We decided to let the bug die, except it was taking a really LONG time to kick it, so Henry decided to put it in the freezer so that it would die more quickly. The people want to give it to their besties at homeschool group this week, and we promised to deliver it dead. The Besties are five brothers who are pretty excited about this bug.

The Mister inquired after the bug this morning, and was not impressed with the Death By Freezing Method, because he thinks the bug will only go dormant and hibernate in the freezer instead of dying properly, as any well-mannered carnivorous bug would do, or, as I like to call it FACILITATING THE SCIENCE PROJECT.

Either way, the bug is in the jar, and it will remain in my freezer until homeschool group day, at which time it will be removed from the freezer and given to The Besties, who have been forewarned of the bug's carnivorous nature, and will not let it attack them, their dogs, or their mother. Or their chickens.

it is quiet, and i can hear the rain bouncing off the beech tree, the roof, the sidewalk.
i can hear myself think.
but i would rather listen to the rain.
rain hurts less.

got a phone call yesterday from somebody i haven't heard from in quite some time.
she called about something i posted on the effbooks; wanted to make sure i wasn't giving away the super important thing she thought i was giving away.
thanks for calling to check on the super important people that live in my house.

the rain washes.
and the rain makes mud.
six of one, half dozen of the other.
i prefer the cleansing.

got a letter yesterday from somebody i haven't heard from in quite some time.
a real, actual postal service letter in an envelope with a stamp.
it was chock full to the brim, and then some.

rain is good.

place holder

There is schooling, there is play.
There is a dadda who works long hours, and a mama who does, too.
There isn't much canning this year.
There are books and snuggles on the sofa.
There are things unfinished, and it is possible that there are too many popcorn dinners.
But then again, maybe not.
There is life happening behind this quiet space.

flush.

I have been sitting on the sofa all afternoon with a (shameless plug) hotsy-coldsy bag on my left eye.  You might think a lot of things about how this came to be, but I will just tell you straight away:  It was my own stupid fault.  

Really, it was.  

I put the contact in my left eye this morning, and it felt uncomfortable, and instead of just taking it right back out of my eye and giving it a good old rinse-off, I left it there.  Uncomfortable became more uncomfortable became sting-y became scratchy became white-knuckled pain.  And by that time?  I was not at home.  In fact, I was at an outdoor picnic in the bright! blazing! sunshine!   Completely useless tears were pouring down the left side of my face.  

A person with more sense and a less horrible prescription would have removed her contact before it got this far.  But NOT ME!  I am a stick-er-out-er.  That dead horse over there?  Yep, that was me, and I have the souvenir beater stick to prove it.

I do this sticking-it-out-keep-on-trying thing all of the time.  The Mister will verify this for you.  It's not pretty, and it's not rational.  But I persist.  I make mistakes and I try to fix and fix and fix and all I accomplish in the end is epic levels of awkward and ick.  I notice something heading south (no offense, Southerners) and I figure it will rectify itself as if things actually do that on their own.   It's a whole other kind of awesome that leaves a spectacular pit in my stomach, or a spectacular pit in my eyeball, as is the case today.  Just keep blinking, just keep blinking, just keep blinking...

So I ask you:  how do you learn to stop, to put on the brakes and to lay down the beater stick?  And do any of you suffer from this same bout of nonsense as me?  

open letter to lydia and bill

Dear Lydia and Bill, but mostly Lydia,

A little birdie told me that you were name-dropping on your show today.  And that the name was mine.  I know, I should have expected that, what with the whole Commenting On Your Effbook Page and whatnot.  But I just couldn't help myself.  

See, you said, "I'm asking: Would you let your 12 yr old participate in ‘Occupy Wall Street protests?' I didn't think so...", which is *so* not very 99% of you.  Just saying.

The thing is?  I would let my 12 year old participate in a protest, pretty much any protest, and including the Occupy Wall Street protests.  I don't actually have a twelve year old child at the moment, but if you were to add up the ages of Miss O and the H-Bomb, I would have a 12 year old.

And since I know you're just gripping the edge of your seat, wishing I'd tell you why, I'm going to tell you why.

First and foremost, my job as a parent is to teach my short people to be hard-working, purposeful, contributing members of society who think for themselves.  While it is true that there are days when seriously inappropriate hours of Wii are played, my people know how to work.  The oldest three (ages 8, 6, and 4) do their own laundry.  Sure, they're not good at folding, but they put it in the laundry bag, drag it down the stairs, put it in the washer, add the detergent, press start, move it to the dryer, press start and move it to the green sofa for safekeeping folding area.  Then they take it upstairs and put it away.  My people can cook meals with little input from me.  They feed the cats and the chickens.  They help each other.  They load and unload the dishwasher.  They understand that in the Dayton Family, everybody helps, and that it is important to be kind.

Another part of my job is to be sure that my children understand that most people in the world do not live in the same situation as our family.  We talk about Important Things.  My daughter is 8, and she knows that there are people in the world who do not eat a bowl of rice in a week.  She knows that there are innocent children and orphans locked up in prisons in Uganda.  She understands that there are places where millions of people do not have clean, safe drinking water.  She knows that people do bad things to animals (and I'm sorry, but I just can't link up to one of those Sarah MacLachlan SPCA videos because you'll be weeping and unable to finish reading my post).

That is a lot of information for a young child.  You're totally right if that's what you're thinking right now.  But here's the thing:  we don't just talk about the problems, about the suffering, about the injustice of it all. We talk about solutions, and the people who are making it the work of their lives to accomplish change.

We hosted a Cupcake Kids event to benefit Sixty Feet, a not-for-profit that provides clean water, education and medical care for imprisoned youth in Uganda... we made 15 dozen cupcakes and raised $1400.  For Christmas, we have purchased "gifts" from World Vision and have made donations to The Buffalo City Mission in my mother's name, and Habitat for Humanity of Genesee County in honour of my father-in-law, who helped to found the organization in Genesee County.

Solutions, each and every one of them, and believe me when I say we talk about what $1400 will purchase for imprisoned children, or how the City Mission will feed the homeless and hungry with our $100.

We are empowering our children to make a difference in this world.

How does this relate to a bunch of people camping out in public parks in New York City and hundreds of cities across the US, including Buffalo and Rochester?  We talk about what is going on.  Why are those people sleeping in a park?  Do they have homes?  Do they have jobs? What do the signs say?  What is the point?  

We watch the videos, and we talk about that.  What are they saying?  What does that mean?  Why did that police man bash that guy's head into a parked car and take his camera away?  Is it illegal to take pictures of police?  What do you imagine a person would have to do or say in order to get beaten unconscious with a nightstick?  Will the police near us beat us up?

These are serious conversations, and I'll be honest, it's hard to explain Wall Street and financial corruption to an 8 year old.  She totally understands corporate greed ~ she tells me that when I keep all the fruity tootsie rolls for myself, even though fruity tootsie rolls are intended for children, that I am Doing Corporate Greed.  No lie.  And really, it's a pretty good analogy for an eight year old.

So if, after all of these conversations, my darling daughter came to me and said, Mama, I've been thinking about these protests, and I think that some people aren't following the rules in the Constitution.  I agree that banks should take care of people's money, and I think the government should not give the banks money for screwing up people's money.  I think the death penalty is wrong; I'd like to make a sign and go walk with the protesters on Saturday. 

You can bet that I'd be getting her some poster-board and a Sharpie, and we would be at that protest without an ounce of hesitation.  And note that I said WE, because as her parent, I need to protect her, and not only be available to explain what is going on, but also to be the adult and pull her out if the situation became volatile or dangerous.

It is a very small world that is our home, and it is very important to my husband and me to raise children who feel connected to the people around them.  I want my children to be considerate and conscious and caring, and to really think about the things that are happening, not only in our tiny town, but in tiny towns across the world.  I want them to see that their actions matter, that their inactions matter, too.  And if my conscious, thinking, little beings have formed reasons and plans of action, it is my responsibility to help them reach their goals.

So there you go.  A super long, unrequested commentary just for you, because nothing says, Gee, thanks for mentioning my opinion on your show, like an open letter blog post.  But if you have a minute, maybe let me know why you wouldn't let your hypothetical 12 year old rock Wall Street.  I'd love to know.

Sincerely,

Pamela

P.S.  One last thing.  The WGRZ website is totally giving you and your show the shaft, which is totally unfair even considering Bill's Face For The Airwaves.  If all the protesters weren't so gosh-darned busy this week, I'd suggest they swing by headquarters and give the muckity-mucks The Business.  

seeking justice

Two men were executed yesterday; neither death brought closure or justice or made anything better.  It is a sad time for our country when lives are thrown away, and the very throwing away is cheered and casually joked about.   Murdering a murderer is just as wrong as murdering an innocent man.  

Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your deeds from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression; bring justice to the fatherless, plead the widow's cause.  ~Isaiah 1:16-17, English Standard Version

sometimes i can't even believe it myself... and now, with updates!

I just finished knitting a super adorable capelet for a friend of mine to wear to a wedding this weekend.  Unfortunately there were no super adorable, yet super grown-up looking buttons to attach to make it totally complete.  And because I am the Sort Of Person that I am, I bought boring buttons and knit slipcovers for them.  And now they look like FABULOUS! CUSTOM! BUTTONS!!!

So I was sitting on the sofa, feeling just a teensy bit clever and smug about my fabulous custom button slipcover nonsense, watching completely ridiculous things on the Netflixes, and also feeling a little smug.  Did I mention I was thinking that I was a bit great?

THAT'S WHEN BAD THINGS HAPPEN, people.

Our old-ish and somewhat sickly cat, Sebby-Sebastian, jumped up from a sound, snoring sleep, and knocked over a lamp.  That was odd.  He's not really into jumping, see, and this was pretty spectacular.  A minute of scuffling and scratching ensued, follwed by one of my most unfavorite noises in the world:  THE I AM THE SAVIOUR OF THE WORLD AND KILLER OF PESTILENCE MEOW.

It makes my tummy hurt.  Especially and also for example, when I am curled up in the corner of my sofa in the corner of the living room and there is no room for escape.

Sebby-Sebastian jumped up on the huge pile of laundry on the  other sofa, and shook his cousin-to-a-lion pretend mane.  The recently deceased mouse in his mouth flopped merrily.  Or something.  Sebby-Sebastian walked across the huge pile of laundry on  the sofa, meowing the Killer of Pestilence meow, and every muscle in my body cringed and clenched with every step he took, because I knew.

He was coming for me. 

Getting up from the sofa would only put me closer to Mr. Awesome and his Floppy Dead Mouse.  There was no escape.  He jumped from the other couch to the comfy chair.  The Floppy Dead Mouse was less than six feet away from me.  I curled up into the fetal position.  Sebby-Sebastian hopped off the comfy chair and onto the floor.  Five feet.  He dropped the Floppy Dead Mouse next to my clogs.  I threw up a little.  And all the while?  He meowed the Conquering Hero meow that sends the grotey-induced chills down my spine.

He jumped up next to me.  Floppy Dead Mouse was still on the floor, THANK GOD.  I told Sebby-Sebastian that he was a good, marvelous, wonderful kitty and that he was the bestest kitty in the world and that if he loved me he would take the mouse outside and dispose of it properly.  Sebby-Sebastian meowed knowingly, as if he understood that while I was terribly proud of him for saving our lives, I was also horribly skeeved out by Floppy Dead Mouse.

He jumped back down to the floor, and crouched next to Floppy Dead Mouse.  And just to prove that indeed, he was a cat, and that also he does not actually speak English, he loudly ate Floppy Dead Mouse.  Crunch.  Squish.  Crunchy-crunch.

And then?  Because the whole Floppy Dead Mouse crunchy-crunchy-squishy-crunch wasn't enough?  He leaped onto the other sofa and barfed Super Messy Floppy Dead Mouse onto the arm of the sofa.  And because regurgitated mouse bits is STILL NOT ENOUGH?  He jumped to my comfy chair and barfed a whole bunch of other unidentifiable schmuckus on the arm of the comfy chair.

So instead of going to bed feeling quite satisfied with myself, I went to bed feeling squeaky clean after sanitizing my furniture.  

*Please know that I do recognize the cat probably has an actual medical condition and I did call the vet. 


Update:  Sebby-Sebastian did not eat the tail. And also?  Thanks be to God for boy-children.

i'm just going to skip to the interesting part.

Day Two of the second camping trip of the year.  Everyone had swum (what? is that even right?) until they could swim no more.  Each had eaten his or her fill of whatever hot dog/marshmallow/snackity things he or she could put his or her grubby mitts on.  

It was time for bed.

The Mister slept in the tent with us the previous night, but he had an appointment in the morning, and needed to go home.  The five of us snuggled down in our respective sleeping bags, and The Mister kissed each of us goodnight, said goodbye and hit the road.

A couple of hours later, I heard the sound of unfolding tarps next to my head, outside of the tent.  It had been threatening to rain, so we stacked our firewood on tarps and covered it all up so it would light.  Honest to goodness, I thought someone was stealing our firewood.  Why would I think that?  WHO KNOWS.  It was after midnight, and I'd been sound asleep.  So I just laid there, because if somebody needed to have my firewood that bad, they could have it. 

BUT THEN.  That somebody sneaked into the screened-in area of my tent.  And started going through my things.  I reached for my flashlight, and as luck would have it, the windows on the doors between the screened-in area and the sleeping area were not zipped up, and I could see what was going on.

I did not like what I saw.

A skunk was eating cookies.  Cookies that I made.  I do not like to make cookies, people, I really don't.  Cake? Yes.  Cookies?  NO.  I made a lot of cookies for this trip, and I stored them in a Tipperware container that clearly was left uncovered.

I slowly zipped the windows closed and laid back down on the air mattress.  I tried to go to sleep, really I did, but as it happens, the cookies were crunchy, and skunks are noisy eaters.  

FINALLY.   I heard the rustle of tarps, and the skunk was gone.  Peace and quiet had returned.  I think I dozed, but only for a moment, and for no reason at all I opened my eyes.

Something was moving inside the tent.  Except that I was laying very still, and the short people were all sound asleep, so really nothing should have been moving around the tent. 

I saw it clearly as it walked between Jack and Miss O.  THE SKUNK WAS INSIDE THE TENT AND IT WAS WALKING NEXT TO MY BABIES' FACES.  Precisely twelve million gazillion thoughts blazed through my brain.  I know this because I was laying very still and counting my thoughts because I needed something to do so I didn't FREAK OUT LIKE AN INSANE PERSON BECAUSE A SKUNK WAS WALKING AROUND IN MY TENT AND PLEASE, JESUS, DON'T LET THE CHILDREN ROLL OVER OR SNORE OR SNEEZE OR FART OR ANYTHING THAT WOULD CAUSE THE SKUNK TO SPRAY AND THEN WE WOULD GO BLIND AND DIE.

And because I was exceedingly awake by this time, I listened to the skunk exit the tent through the door that wasn't zipped closed when A Certain Someone exited the tent earlier on his way home.

When I was convinced the skunk was really gone, and my heart had started beating again, and I could, you know, STAND UP, I gingerly stepped over my babies and zipped the tent closed.  Then I texted That Certain Someone a message that isn't actually suitable for print.  He didn't respond.  Just like a man.

it's been a while.

So.  It was summer.  And now, it's still technically summer, but summer is actually over.  I'll tell you how I know:  I had to wear socks last week.  Three days.  I never wear socks in the summer.

The Mister was home all! summer! long! because he had an emergency back surgery situation that rendered him lump-like and unable to do things like LISTEN TO HIS BOSSES MICROMANAGE THINGS and WEAR A TOOL BELT.  Doctor's note and everything, y'all.  He did take the short people to swimming lessons every day, and after a while he started wiping keisters again, which was nice.  But mostly he cringed when the short people ran in his general direction and beat them off with a cane used an actual cane to define his personal space bubble.  It was very effective.

We took up camping, which means I spent many moons laying on an air mattress in a tent away from my veryown bathroom.  Most of the time it didn't suck, but when it did suck?  It really, really, really sucked.  I know, spoilerish alert.  Believe me, I didn't ruin the story at all by letting you know it sucked.

Jack turned six, and he's quite old and tall and he does Boy Things.  For example, Henry says to Jack, I think you should drop this croquet ball on my head.  And Jack says, That's the single most brilliant idea you've had all day, old chap, I'm happy to oblige.  And then DROPS THE CROQUET BALL ON HIS LITTLE BROTHER'S HEAD and also WONDERS WHY I'M NOT HAPPY ABOUT THE SITUATION.

And since I'm ratting out the short people, one of my children approached her father at a party and said, Pops, I have a string that's bothering me.  Be a dear and allow me to borrow your Swiss Army knife to remove it.  To which Pops replies, Sure, darling, anything for you! and opens the Swiss Army Knife to the itty-bitty scissors, hands it to the short person, and stops paying attention.  Short Person sneaks off and GIVES HERSELF A HAIRCUT.  And then THROWS A FIT WHEN I MAKE HER A RECTIFYING-THIS-GOD-AWFUL-MESS APPOINTMENT at an actual salon and also WONDERS WHY I'M NOT HAPPY ABOUT THE SITUATION.

We are making a solar system out of balloons for our next astronomy lesson.  I'm not sure how that is going to work seeing as how balloons aren't actually shaped like planets.  

Remember this?  I think I can top it.

more about the camping trip. because i know you care.

As I mentioned, we are going camping.  It's pretty much giving me major amounts of stress, not for any particular reason or set of reasons, but just because.  Just because I'm awesome.  Heh.

My phone was dinging off the hook with text messages about the BIG! CAMPING! TRIP! the other day.  A lot of it was funny, except for this:  everybody has to plan an activity or game for the Short People Collective.

Wha?

In the first place, NEVER BEEN CAMPING BEFORE.  In the second place, PLAY GAMES? WHILE CAMPING?  Who does this?  Don't the short people just run amok and climb trees and start fires and stub their toes and stuff and then pass out at the end of the day?

Apparently not.

So I consulted the googles, because that's just What You Do when you're clueless.  Thank God for the googles, and for the gazillions of people who know things about what to do with short people for fun when you're clueless and camping.

A scavenger hunt, that's what you do.  Heather from the Creative Homemaker Blog posted her ideas, and I totally used her intellectual property.  But I did make my own sheet.  Honest.

Here's a printable scavenger hunt, just for you.  Check it out.

i'm outta here.

Just wanted to pop in to let you know I'm guest posting at Hip Homeschool Moms today.

I know I just heard somebody ask me why I'm posting over there.

*sigh*

Because I'm a hip homeschool mom, that's why, even in the summer.

we are going camping

Some of my pals take their short people on a humongo group camping trip every summer.  I think they're insane.  There's something like nine BILLION children and 5 parents.  Who does that?

Nine billion is an estimate.  Also estimated is the number of parents.  

But still.

Every year, they say, "Oh, you should go! It's SO! MUCH! FUN!"  And every year, I look at them with the "you're on crack" face and say no.  Except this year?  I succumbed to the peer pressure.  And the short people pressure, too, because most of them are old enough to promise me shiny baubles and unlimited vats of hot coffee.

You should understand something before I go any further:  Nothing about camping appeals to me.  Not a thing.  Sleeping on the ground?   NO.  Hiking?  NO.  Bugs?  Not so much.  S'mores?  I can make s'mores at home, thankyouverymuch.  Add to that, the Other People's Children Element.  Yes, I like my friends, and I mostly like their kids. (And don't look like that. You know you mostly like other people's kids, too.)  Also?  I turn into an evil, murderous crabbyface when I pack the minicoopervan for a trip.  It is NOT PRETTY.  

I called my girl Heather, who is The Boss of Things for the trip, and she told me ninety-eleven thousand things to pack.  I must have sounded a little bit hesitant, because she said, "Don't worry.  It's so fun."  I started to stammer something, and without missing a beat, she finished, "Everybody cries at least twice when we're camping."

Thank you for that RINGING ENDORSEMENT.  I feel so much better.

Because I didn't actually feel much better, I turned to the effbooks.  going camping for the first time. what should i pack? and don't let me down, people, i'm counting on you.  They are some helpful people, those effbook types.  Here's the recommended packing list from the effbooks. 

• bug spray. extra socks, shoes
• an RV
• wipes
• toilet paper, binoculars (so I can watch the short people hike?)
• a broom, blankets, anti-depressant/anti-anxiety meds (check and check)
• first aid kit, tylenol, soap and shampoo
• the phone number of a hotel (it's in my phone)
• air mattress, battery powered fan
• flashlights, lanterns, benadryl, burn cream
• a crisco can so that we can go potty during the night
• bug spray, towels and twizzlers
• tabasco sauce, matches, ziplock bags
• camera, sketchbook, hatchet, spade, extra-medium sense of adventure, extra-large helping of patience, a dash of silence

So this is what I'm packing.  Plus some food, and a big cooler and bathing suits, and a clothes line, and the short people.  Oh, and knitting, and a chair, and my pillow, and...

it's all so fleeting

My eight year old went on a Road Scholars' trip with her grandma.  For a week.  Away from my house.  As they drove away the strings of my heart were stretched in an entirely new way.  Oh, the ache, the one-sided ache.  

You know how it is, right?  Your heart aches so much that it bleeds down into your stomach, and all the while your beloved darling dances! and skips! and everything is PINK HAPPY UNICORNS AND I'M HAVING SO MUCH FUN!!!!!!

I don't think I'm ready for all of this growing up nonsense.

My six year old son weeps loudly, mourning the unfortunate crumpling of his beloved tricycle, vehicle of his babyhood.  The only thing that could have been louder than my six year old son weeping loudly was, in fact, the world's loudest and most obnoxious vintage orange tricycle that had just been rendered useless by a white Chevy 5000 van.

Half of me mourned with Wee Man, half of me celebrated quietly that the roadside score of five years ago had finally died.  

You know how it is, right?  Six of one, half dozen of another.

My two year old seizes every opportunity to shout, READY!  DET!  GO!  Because now, after two and a half years, he is finally starting to get ready to walk away from my shadow.  I say finally not because I've been waiting and waiting for him to discover independence, but because I have been watching babies younger than him do crazy things like (gasp) not sit on their mama's laps twenty hours a day, and (gasp, gasp) play in a room where the mama is not.   I have wondered if he will be sitting on my lap while waiting to take his driver's test.

Suddenly he is a dervish, running around with the Big Boys, shouting and playing and instigating and fighting back.  

And so it goes.

total amateur.

sunset at nana's

you will thank me for this one

I am not a fan of wearing shorts. They are fine for other people, except for excessive thongishness, visible coin slot, or epic brevity. They are not fine for me.

I prefer skirts. Long ones, knee-length, even (gasp!) a teensy bit above the knee. Skirts are cool, they are feminine, they are pretty... Everything that shorts are not.

However.

It's hot. And in my area of the world, we have The Humidity. The Humidity causes a girl to have sticky skin. Everywhere. And this can make the wearing of the skirt a little bit uncomfortable. I have the body of a mama who has birthed four babies in a relatively short amount of time, and that is fine with me.

It's fine with me EXCEPT FOR WHEN MY THIGHS STICK TOGETHER LIKE... WELL... ummm... They just stick together, okay? And it's gross. I don't like it, not one little bit.

But people, I am pleased to announce that despite the heat and humidity and the thigh bounty I possess, I am free of The Thigh Stickies. I can tell from the stunned silence and the slightly cringing looks you are wearing that you are hesitant to hear the solution. Never fear, my dear ones. It's safe, easy to administer, and I'm positive that you already have this valuable item in your possession.

Deodorant.

It's not really the no-odor ingredient you need, but the antiperspirant one. Just take your Dove or your Arm and Hammer or the homemade stuff your crunchy pal made you, and slather your thighs with it. (wondering if the pervs are going to arrive thanks to that last sentence.)

Don't let your thigh chub get you down.  Slap some deodorant on your gams and head out the door.  Happy summer, and also?  You're welcome.

what I've been eating while i am not writing posts

Pesto with toasted almonds and a little more grated Parmesan than the recipe required.
Peach-pear Italian soda with ice and gin, and then a little more gin.
Bread fresh from the oven, spread thick with red currant-rhubarb preserves.
Blackberries by the handful, still hot from the sun.
The daily ice cream.
Iced coffee, cold-brewed, with heavy cream and sweetened condensed milk.
Tiny balls of just-made mozzarella, quick-chilling in an ice water bath.
Hard-boiled eggs with their oh.so.creamy yolks, on the same day they were laid.
Bucketfuls (bucketsful? Bucketsfuls?) of buttery, salty popcorn.
Mostly ice ice-water, splashed with essential oils of lemon, orange, and grapefruit.
Chicken salad sandwiches (tarragon, green onions and mayo).
Lettuce salad with green onion, blackberries and raspberries, and chevre, dressed with cassis and red wine vinegar.
Raspberries and red currants.


(pardon the scant posting, but it's summer, and I'm enjoying the seasonal eating.)

some items for your consideration

1. New Sewing Machine. I love her. A whole freaking lot. Her name is Nina Bernina.

2. Another Busted Disc. This time, it's mine. Same one The Mister had surgery on. Some people wear matching shirts or share a hobby, but not us! We get matching boo-boos.

3. Narcotics. See item #2.

4. There is a super nice New York State Park near our house, and we got a season pass, so we go to the beach a whole lot. Last week, one of the lifeguards had to rescue a little boy. I was frightening and awesome at the same time, and I have never seen anybody move as fast as that guard did. Major thumbs up to the New York State Parks for hiring good people, training them well, and for keeping the parks open when many other states are not.

5. Fowl. We own ducks. And I'm sure this statement is going to result in more effbook mockery from that one guy who mocks us for having chickens and thinking about other unconventional pets, but whatever.

6. New Babies And Pregnancies. Four darling babies were born this month, and in the past two days I have learned that two of my friends will be having babies next spring. And before you get all crazy and start suggesting that we make us another wee Dayton, let me remind you that the likelihood that I even get to have a practice run at baby making is... Well... Dude just had surgery and My back is messed and there ain't gonna be no getting some 'round these parts.

7. Swimming Lessons. My town has a wonderful summer rec program with sports and crafty things and swimming lessons for the short people. On Wednesday, the woman who runs the pool approached me and said that more thN six people had complained to her the previous day because I had breastfed Elliott while the other kids were having their lesson. She handled the situation beautifully, and told the complainers that in NY, women have the right to breastfeed their children anywhere they want, and that she wasn't going to ask me to stop or to leave. How awesome is that? It's so rare to hear a story about breastfeeding in public where people know the law and do the right thing. And as an added bonus, I met a lovely mama who is just finishing her Lactation Consultant training. Super cool.

summer's shaping up

It has been a strange couple of weeks. The last time I posted, The Mister was in an Emergency Room somewhere in Western New York, being treated for an undisclosed injury or some sort.

It was not until 12 hours after I had posted that I knew where he was. That's a little bit scary to not know where your Mister is, let me tell you. As it happens, he had ruptured a disc in his spine (L4-L5) and needed to have emergency surgery. The hospital was about an hour from our home, and I spent a lot of time driving back and forth. My mother-in-law kept my children for almost three days straight, and my sweet MOPS mamas brought us wonderful meals for a really long time. We are so blessed to have loving arms to surround our family when we need to be helped and comforted.

The Mister's surgery went very well, and he was up walking and discharged from the hospital, if you'll believe such a thing, less than twelve hours after his surgery. He was a very nice patient, and the superty good pain meds they gave him caused him to be extraspecially sweet and appreciative of me, so much so that I'm wondering if we could just set him up with a little mainlining action.

It has been so ridiculously wonderful to have him home with us. The short people had been having some really horrible behaviour things going on, and almost all of it has disappeared since Jon has been stuck at home with us. And the good news is that he will be here all stinking summer long. Yes, it is not good that he hurt his back, but there have been so many blessings that have come from this, like a whole summer spent together, instead of a whole summer when our Daddy works a bajillion hours a week.

My favorite moment of the week happened one afternoon, when all six of us were sitting under the enormous beech tree in our front yard. Pitting cherries was the task at hand, and everyone was helping except Jack who instead was cramming cherries into his mouth like a human cherry cramming person. Thing. Whatever. The sun was streaming through the leaves and everybody was chattering happily. Well, not Jack. He was chewing and spitting the cherry pits at his siblings.

It was pretty much perfect.

waiting to hear

The Mister is in the hospital tonight, getting big doses of drugs and being MRI-ed and other sorts of exciting Things and Stuffs. I am home with the Short People, all of whom are tucked into their beds. Well, Henry is tucked into my bed, because he doesn't like to sleep in his bed at night or on days that end in Y.

It is very late, and it seems I will just have to wait until morning for the official news about how broken he is.

Sad face.

i do not intentionally slack.

Congrats to Hanna for winning the $25 Wendy's gift card, courtesy of Wendy's and The Motherhood.  I utilized a very scientific method for selecting the winner, and it goes like this: 

Me:  Olivia, pick a number between 1 and 23.

O:  Why?

Me:  The blog.  Just pick.

O:  Ummm, uh,  hmmmm..... uh, ummmm.... 15? 

Me:  Perfect.  Good work.

So, Hanna, email me at thedaytontime(at)gmail(dot)com and let me know where to send your gift card.  And if I don't hear from Hanna in 48 hours, I'll utilize the same scientific method to select another winner.

it was hot and i wanted ice cream

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I do things that cause me to be really tired and out-of-sorts.  Aaaaaaand possibly cause my short people to be tired and out of sorts.  Which, in turn, causes me to become a little bit more sassy than I am on any given Tuesday.

There was a field trip.  A never-ending, self-inflicted field trip.  And it was after dinner time and I was starving and hot and I wanted ice cream so SURPRISE!!! ICE CREAM FOR DINNER!!!

We pulled into the Blondie's parking lot, and everybody piled out of the supercool minicoopervan, and into the store.  I told the short people they could order anything they wanted, but that we would be not eating ice cream in cones because we are not eating gluten this month. 

Four short people did not care about The Cone Restrictions.  One short person did.  There's a reason why his nickname is the H-Bomb.  The H-Bomb exploded into a million screaming minions.  The boy at the counter was not impressed, despite my gentle parenting attempts (read: talking slowly and methodically whilst holding something that is bolted to the floor so as not to beat the ever-living out of a child).  The 79th WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY CAN'T I HAVE A CONE?!?!?!?! pushed me right off my rocker.

My response? BECAUSE YOU'RE ANNOYING!!!!!!! Shouted in the exact same tone of voice and volume as the H-Bomb.

I'm not saying it was the right thing to do.  But.  He stopped shouting, I win, the end.  And you know you've been there.  (Unless you don't have short people of your own, in which case, PREPARE YOURSELF, BECAUSE YOU WILL, MOST ASSUREDLY, BE THERE.)  Also, the boy behind the counter about fell down laughing, and that was a teensy bit awesome.

H-Bomb then took the road less traveled in the Dayton culture, and that is Passive-Aggressive Avenue.  We will not discuss this, and will pretend that it did not happen for 40 minutes.  Why?  Because that is how you deal with the Passive-Aggressive, or else you will kill them.

And because my luck had run out completely by that time, everybody decided they needed to pee.  Does Blondie's the sit-down ice cream place have a bathroom?  NO.  But really?  They do, and the nice people that work there will let you take a little girl to the bathroom when she has to pee, especially when you're outnumbered 5 to 1.  

Me: My girls need to pee.  I know you don't normally allow people to use the bathroom, but it's not like I can send them outside to the bushes.

Him: No.

Me:  Please? 

Him: No.

Me:  Really?  Let me explain the effort, and the length of time it will take to get all these people to a place with a bathroom.

Him:  I don't care. You can't use the bathroom.

Jack:  I'll just go pee in the weeds.

Him:  The girls can pee in the weeds, too.

Me: Yeah, except they can't.  We try to avoid peeing in the weeds, you know, that little POISON IVY-slash-VA.G.INA combination?  NOT GOOD.

Him:  ::Blank.freaking.stare.::

Me:  Can you even imagine what it's like to have poison ivy on your va.gi.na?

Him:  Uh, I don't *have* a v.agi.na, so I can't relate.

Me:  You don't?  I bet you could find it if you looked for it.  It's probably under your bed in your mom's house, right next to your soul.

And then he walked away from me.  I'm pretty sure he's not going anywhere near anybody's v.agi.na anytime soon... unless he locates his, which is likely filled with crabs.

how would you like a side of confrontation with that?

It started off a somewhat disappointing day.  We piled into the supercool minivan and headed to the Farmers' Market; it was opening day, and the short people just couldn't wait to get there.  The weather didn't cooperate, 55 degrees, windy, rain-ish.  There was asparagus and some really expensive strawberries.

Maybe next week.

We ran a few more errands and decided to visit the library.  It's been a REALLY long time since we've been there, thank God for multiple renewals, and the short people chattered and chirped as short people always do.  Except Elliott.  He's been a little on the shriek-y side lately, and I made a point of shushing him as I put the books in the return slot, while watching the top three make their way to the elevator, magic portal to the Children's Room.

I didn't want to put all of the library books in the return bin, we are using some for school, and they needed to be renewed.  While I was sorting and watching and returning and shushing, a man got up from his computer station and walked over to me.

Him:  Did you know your children are playing in the elevator?  He was sneering at me.

Me:  I did know that.  Thank you.  I continued to sort and watch and return and shush.

Him:  Your children are obnoxious.  Even my three year old knows to be quiet in a library.

Me:  Well.  Good for your kid.  And to be clear, I did not say that.  I thought it.

I'm not sure if it was the lack of response that flipped his switch, but the man WENT. OFF.  I can't remember what he said exactly, but he was up in my face and screaming about calling Child Protective Services and having my kids taken away.  

I was really scared.  Never in my adult life has a large man wanted to fight me in a library.  Or anywhere.  And also, nobody's really ever picked a fight with me before, which is good, because I think I'm kind of a chicken.  

But.

I was also furious.  How dare he tell me I am an unfit mother because my kids talked in a library?  Who is he to call the authorities and report me?  He was being threatening and intimidating and a general crazy-ass jerk, and there were at least 25 people watching him rip me a new one.

I did a very, very bad thing.  People, I shouted in a library.  LOUDLY.

How about you practice a little bit of grace, hmmm???  Maybe a little kindness and understanding for a mama who is CLEARLY on top of things, and who does nothing but parent these small people 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, with NO.BREAK.EVER.  And how about you pull that stick out of your ass, sit down and leave me alone.

Oh dear... I did two bad things.  I shouted really loudly in a library, and I also shouted ASS in a library, in a very superty loud voice.

He continued on with his rant, and his promises to call CPS.   I happen to know the number, because I've called it before, so I shouted it to him.  Twice.  Maybe three times.  And I backed away from him.  His last comment was something about how that day was the last day I'd see my children.  

Really?  Tell them my name is Pamela Dayton, and I say BRING IT.

And then I threw up a little.  Thank God my children were playing in the elevator.

Not one of those 25 people said a word.  Not the library staff, not anybody.  Well, one of the library staff mouthed, "Sorry" to me.  But they did not remind him of the rules, they did not ask him to leave, they did not call him out for being a menacing bully.  Epic fail, library.  Epic.

Thank God that I am friends with the Children's Room librarians, and that one of them was there when I walked downstairs.  The director of the library came to the Children's Room to apologize to me for his behaviour, which was a nice thought, I guess, but really?  Not enough.  Not nearly enough. 

It is never alright to allow a bully to be a bully.  It doesn't matter if the bully is 5, 18, or a 40-something 6-foot-plus man weighing over 200 pounds.  It is not okay.

 

we have these things that we do.

The Mister has this thing that he does all the time, and it's called WORK.  This does lend an element of stress to things, but since I do not like to give stress any sort of power in my life, I like to think of it in a different way.  Meaning this:  I call that The Mister works all the time NORMAL, and I just deal.

I do admit, I throw the occasional temper tantrum about taking out the garbage, and sometimes I don't do the dishes because I need to get through the day and doing the dishes will push me over the precipice.  Dishes give me the stress, for real, people.  Clean ones in the dishwasher, dirty ones in the sink, it's all the same to me.

This is not about dishes.

This is about the thing that I do all the time, and it's called OVER-DO-ING, or, in smaller words, DOING TOO MUCH. 

For example.

On the morning of the fourth day (possibly the fourth day, I honestly don't keep track) of being alone with the short people, I got the MOST! BRILLIANT! IDEA!!! EVER!!! to go to the Genesee Country Village & Museum.  With the short people.  And an additional short person.

The INSANITY. It killeth. Or maimeth. Or causeth the alcoholism.

I will spare you the icky details, like the incessant screaming, and the superty fast running (I do not.run.ever.), and the superty slow walking, and the humitidy, and how it didn't thunderstorm despite the 80% chance of thunderstorming that was going to cause the trip to last only 2 hours, when in reality we were there for like 6.  Or six hundred.  But I will say that the additional short person gave rave reviews of the trip to anybody who would listen to her, so points for me.

The second most brilliant thing I did that day was to take all the short people for an ice cream dinner.  Which is a post all on its own. 

The third most brilliant thing I did that day was to take all the short people to Target after running them ragged, feeding them ice cream for dinner, and stopping along the way to watch a parade.  

It's a disorder.  I can't even HELP IT.

i am really tired

The past three days have been insane.  So nutso-whack-job-crazy that I am having a hard time remembering specifics from these days, and they're starting to all roll into one, and combine with last Monday.  Which, may I point out, was NOT THREE DAYS AGO.

Anyway.

Two things, and then I'm going to go outside and get the box of little chicklets and bring them to the porch, and then I'm going to bed, to sleep for approximately three days.  

Thing Number One:  I am giving away a $25 gift card to Wendy's.  I was going to close comments on Friday (I think, but remember what I said up there about being confused and blendy-ish.).  I haven't closed comments or chosen a winner yet, so if you're a slacker busy person like me who has a life outside of The Interwebs, go ahead and leave a comment.  

Thing Number Two:  I can't remember.

It's hard to be *this* awesome. 

multi-tasker.

photo by Rebecca from Foodie With Family

some items for your consideration: tenth-ish edition

1. The Brain Pain Situation: I had no migraines for 22 days. And then I have had one 3 of the last four days. I'm choosing to be happy and grateful for the 22 pain-free days.  Coincidentally, my body pain is way up these past few days, too.  Trying to figure that out. Meh.
2. The Chicken Situation:  I have caused no chicken deaths in the past 15 days.  Neither purposefully nor inadvertently. Yay, me.
3. The Cat Situation:  I find myself really hating our cats.  I really cannot get rid of our cats.  Advice, please.
4. The Wendy's Gift Card Situation:  I am surprised that so few of you have left a comment HERE. Do you not have a Wendy's near you?  Do you not know about the Double Stack?  You could totally purchase 25 Double Stacks if you lived near me and won the gift card.  I could eat 25 Double Stacks, that's for sure.
5. The Beach Situation:  The short people have been asking about going to the beach for, well, since around Christmas.  It opens June 18th.  You'd think I told them it was not ever going to reopen.  They have all torn their clothes and adorned themselves with ashes.
6. The Disgusting Expression of Displeasure:  Henry has decided to expel air through his nose with extreme force whenever we tell him something he does not like.  And sometimes, for extra beauty, boogers come out.  Kids are awesome.
7. The Sad Boy Situation:  Elliott has decided that one minute without me is entirely too much for him.  I have decided that this is entirely too much for me.   
8. The "Borrowed" Baby Situation:  I have a new friend (well, new to YOU), and she has a tiny baby (well, new-tiny, not tiny-tiny) and yesterday Tiny Baby A was not being kind to the mama, so I taught New Friend about the beauty of the stretchy wrap, and now Tiny Baby A is being kind to the mama.  BUT!!!  New Friend was super stressed by the days of incessant screaming, so I put Tiny Baby A in my stretchy wrap and took her home with me.  When we arrived home (we walked, for the record, just to be clear), I sat down for a minute.  Henry marched up to me, put his hands on his hips, and scolded, WHO SAID YOU COULD TAKE THAT BABY HOME? YOU DON'T TAKE PEOPLE'S BABIES!!! It was kind of awesome.  And yes, I did give Tiny Baby A back.
9. The Sun Situation:  We have some. I like it.

So what's up with you?  Talk to me.

free food, y'all.

I have the good fortune to be in like Flynn with The Motherhood, and when The Motherhood wants to take you out to lunch?  Of course you go!  The short people and I met up with some lovely blogger mamas and their short people.  

All the mamas ordered the new Berry Almond Chicken Salad, named quite cleverly after the berries, almonds, and chicken that sit on top of the salad.  

The salad was alright.  I need to come clean with you, I don't order salads from fast food restaurants.  I just don't, mostly because I don't like store-bought salad dressing.  However.  The chicken and almond combination was good; the chicken was moist and the almonds were salty and crunchy, which are two of my favorite qualities in a food item.  And the green part of the salad was good, too.  Wendy's uses real! actual! dark green lettuces, which are three of my favorite qualities in a lettuce leaf.  There was a generous handful of blueberries, and one pathetic strawberry cut into quarters.  The strawberry was but an overripe shadow of its former self, and Henry pecked it off my plate faster than, ummm, something that pecks things really fast.  

For a salad that comes with fat free dressing, it packed a lot of fat - 16 grams and 150 calories, also 31 grams of sugar, and a whopping 1300 milligrams of sodium.

I had a superty fancy Wild Berry Tea, which rolls in at 140 calories, 15 milligrams of sodium and 28 grams of sugar, which really makes it Wild Berry Non-Carbonated Soda, or Wild Berry High Fructose Tea-ish.

My meal cost about $10, which is way more than I'd normally spend on lunch out.  I'm a burger and fries girl, and after checking with the nutrition information on the Wendy's website, I think I'll stick with a double stack and a root beer.  Link to Wendy's nutrition information

Want to win a $25 gift card to Wendy's?  Leave me a comment.  You can tell me what you'd order if you win, who you'd take to lunch, or what you were thinking about when you woke up this morning.  There have been some commenting issues with Blogger lately, so if you can't post here, please friend me on the effbooks and leave me a note there, and you'll be entered.  Or leave me a comment both places, and I'll give you two entries.  (It'd be superty helpful if you could leave your effbook comment on the link to this post that I put on my wall.)  Comments will be closed  Friday, June 10, sometime around noonish.  

If you are an overachiever and would like to get even more chances to win, visit Andrea at My CNY Mommy, Rebecca at CNY Mamas, Lauren at I am THAT Lady, Wendy at Journey to Ezer, Teresa at Fitness2aT  and Yona at My Name is Yona Williams and I Write.  The ending dates are all different, so head over quickly!

Aaaaaand because The Man has his hand on teh bloggamamas, I'm telling you that Wendy's and The Motherhood provided me with two $25 gift cards, one that we used for lunch, and one that I'm giving away.  I am also being compensated for my time and the clearly honest opinion I've given.

this is the plan.

1. I will sweep and vacuum the downstairs.
2. I will hang a load of laundry.
3. I will not beat the short people for being outrageously loud.
4. I will pasture the chicks in the back yard.
5. I will not beat the short people for being outrageously loud.
6. I will put some snacks in a basket.
7. I will not beat the short people for being outrageously loud.
8. I will put my children in the super minicoopervan.
9. I will drive them to the spray park.
10. I will sit on a blanket in the shade and knit whilst the short people run in the sprays and are outrageously loud.