I sit here in my relatively comfortable mattresses on the floor. In the new house, I'm getting a bed frame, doggone it. We had this little Japanesey one that sat super low, but in the process of moving multiple times, it died.

As I was writing this, the children went in the kitchen, opened the fridge, and ate raw cookie dough. We like to live on the edge. Sheesh.

We're moving today, kind of. Our last day in the current house is Thursday, but we've been invited to lead worship at Fascinate in addition to our previously scheduled Teen Camp, so that has become our primary focus, and we got permission to start moving stuff over to the other house today.

We will still be sleeping here, unless something changes. So I think the plan is to move all the big stuff today, and all the packed boxes, and leave our mattresses and food and our dish rations. Me and Han are both kinda confused by the plan, so we just nod and smile.

I will miss this little place, but not that much. One thing I will definitely miss is how easy it is to make it pretty. The new house has a lot of potential, but I think it probably needs a bit more foundation and mascara than this place to make it presentable. So.

R2 has double ear infections and strep throat. We're hitting it with amoxicillin, and he seems to be feeling significantly better. As to if the rest of us have or will get strep? I don't know. The pedi just said call if the toddlers show symptoms and she'll call in a script with no visit, which is nice.

Toby is currently playing drums in the closet. We've been trying to give him space he can play alone if he wants to. It's pretty cute, to put it mildly.



So, here we go. Moving. Kinda.

I'm supposed to write fiction today, but a) I'm not sure what's happening in my story and b) I drove to Chicago yesterday and saw a Broadway play and c) Michael Jackson died. So, no story today.

I want to write about all of those things, but I can't get my brain settled. So, I will just tell you that I am terribly sad about MJ, and the play was the most amazing thing ever.

If I am ever terribly wealthy, I will go to Broadway plays for fun, instead of the thrift store. Well, actually, I will probably go to the thrift store and buy beautiful dresses, and then go to Broadway plays.

In a couple of minutes, Hannah and I will be hitting the road, headed to Chicago. It's very exciting.

Muchas gracias to Han's family, for giving her this trip as a birthday present, to Han for inviting me, and to the MOG for watching the wee folk for two days so I can go!

I'm pretty excited. In fact, Han and I may or may not have danced wildly in the kitchen last night out of sheer joy. Okay, we did.

I'm going to try to make a little roadtrip video, because I imagine it's going to be pretty funny, what with the me and Han factors, and the hyperness, and maybe some caffeine. Oh, and I got a pretty dress. So there you go.

I'm not one for potty stories. I mean, I was raised to not even discuss what happens in the bathroom, and that's fine with me. So I tend to tread lightly on the topic, because, it's gross. And private.

Still, there's a line- and potty training is that line- suddenly a good deal of my time and attention is consumed by bathroom-y things. Like today. Lemme tell you about today.

Actually, let me back up and tell you about the last week. To protect the innocent, I will use a pseudonym for the party in question. Let's just call him "Tony".

"Tony" is pretty well potty-trained. Everything is going along pretty well and then we have this major regression and all of the sudden he is... there is no way to put this delicately- pooping in his pants EVERY day. For like a week. Being a levelheaded and responsible parent, I have tried all my sane, responsible methods,

a) losing my cool and yelling my head off

b) namecalling (not as bad as it sounds- I just say he's acting like a BABY

c) spanking, well after the act and the hose-off

d) threatening

e) pleading, reasoning and begging

Like I said, I am the adult here, and I recognize that something is not working.

As I lay in a fetal position on the couch this morning, bemoaning the smell and the grossness and will-my-hands-ever-stop-smelling-like-this and i-have-to-bleach-the-tub and so on, it occured to me- there is one sane, responsible choice left. The bribe.

I offered "Tony" one chance at a computer game on the condition that his next solid waste made it into the proper receptacle. He has obsessive-gamer tendencies, and so we rarely let him play computer games, and we don't have a game device, nor do we want one. Anyway. He was very, very excited about this plan and immediately went to the bathroom to attempt -

I underestimated my charge- he is determined to poop all the time. After two herculean efforts that produced tiny amounts- (still, successful- so he got the game) I realized I was going to need to rethink this. He then spent 10 minutes on breakfast, and then played for maybe 30 minutes, and then he went back in the bathroom for 15 minutes, and refused to give up. (sigh)

I eventually took the mature choice and dragged him out, kicking and screaming, and made the new rule. The official policy is, "There has to be a lot of poop in the potty to get the game."

This is disgusting. I can't believe I blogged about this.

The thing is, it's not really about the poop. Ugh. It's about the determination and willpower of this little person. I better figure out parenting, quick.

Last night we led worship for ATC, IHOP's youth camp. We have a mixed team of IHOPpers and Radiants, and we did all cover worship songs, except You are Holy. It was good, and weird. For one thing, I am paranoid because IHOP is such a different culture and they have certain ways they do things, which make perfect sense when you are sustaining worship 24 hours a day for the last TEN years. It's just intimidating for me to step in with relatively little knowledge of how it works around here. (the MOG, on the other hand, has learned how to fit his spazzy self into the "model" and has a blast)

The other reason is that we are wearing in-ear monitors, aka "the devil". In-ears are kind of like ear buds, but you have to CRAM THEM WAY DOWN INTO YOUR EARS. Now, I have never been accused of having small ears. In fact, I remember Stevey Ellis clearly asking if I could fly with my ears in third or fourth grade. They stick out. The smallness issue is inside said ears. I don't have a lot of space, and so I have to wedge the hard plastic molds into my whole ear canal, causing pain and suffering and emotional damage. THEN I have to plug it into a monitor control thingy connected to a music stand, and I am forevermore tethered to said music stand with cords hanging down my legs. It's a little distracting, what with the shooting pains in my ears and the cords underfoot and then my monitor got a short. So I would have very, very quiet rock and roll worship followed by a WAVE of sound directly to the brain. Ouch.

I like floor monitors, and amplifiers, and drums with only a little drum shield and not a private cottage. I like STAGE noise and CROWD noise and such. So that was a bit of an obstacle.

(disclaimer: none of this is a criticism of IHOP. It's merely a rocker's lament, my dear KC friends)

It ended up being great, the kids were awesome. I remembered how much I love teenagers.

We have not started packing yet. The end.

This is part of an experimental experimenting with random or continued fiction ideas on fridays. Click here for Part I

---

Well, there she was, bold as brass, right there on my TV, wearing some slinky evening gown and talking fast Spanish. For a second, I thought maybe I was wrong. But really, if you saw your mama on TV, don't you think you'd know her?

I was so surprised, I nearly dumped my Ramen in my lap.

She looked good, real pretty and her fingernails with little diamonds on em and just talking fast as you can imagine. Some guy was over in the corner, listening to her, looking real suspicious-like. That was no surprise, given Mama's taste in men. She was working hard on convincing him of something, but he wasn't buying it, which if you ask me, was the right choice. Then she starts to crying, and he gets all disgusted and looks out the window, real angry.

After a minute, I stopped watching and started getting mad. She run off and left us. We had been comforting ourselves, me and my brother Jimmy, imagining her dead in some ditch somewhere, with the Buick all smashed up and maybe a note or somethin in there sayin she was on her way back to us. 5 years we'd been waiting.

Instead, she'd been livin high on the hog and here we are just gettin by, living in Grandmas old house and working all the time... tell you what, I was getting pretty steamed by the time Jimmy got home. Course, he was drunk off his gourd and wouldn't listen.

I figured I'd try to have to catch him in the morning, maybe make him some eggs before he left for work, sweeten him up a little. I was gonna need his help bad.

Cause, way I figured it, we were due for a little trip to Mexico.

we had R2's belated birthday party at Chuck E Cheese last night. It was just our little family and Daniel and Hannah. I didn't get any pictures of Toby because he was a blur moving from game to game all night.

Fun was had by all the small people. I didn't have that much fun personally, because my kids evidently have sensitive stomachs- I will not elaborate, as I would like to forget.

Anyway, we ate pizza and had cupcakes and used a LOT of tokens and won some little prizes and then we were exhausted and we went home. The end.

Brynn is 2 now. I always hesitate to say "terrible twos", because a)that's kinda cursing the whole YEAR and b)she's awesome when she isn't acting terrible. Also, it feeds into that whole kids-are-an-inconvenience mentality that I really really dislike.

Nonetheless, we have had a couple of terrible days around here, as it relates to Bean and her will.

It's a challenge for me to figure out, because Toby was so logical- I mean, he has always been into everything, and he makes lots of messes, but if I explain "You can't play with knives because you will cut your fingers and bleed," he gets that and stops playing with knives. Brynn does not believe me. In her eyes, I am a one man party crashing bully.

Today, Bean refused to wear a napkin on her shirt during lunch. Now, I let my kids eat. Sometimes, they get covered head-to-toe in spaghetti, and I just roll with it. But when we are out running errands, I want them to only get dirty in washable areas, i.e. not their shirts. (explore: vinyl clothing. Research needed)

It went something like this. I tuck the napkin into her collar. She takes one bite and then pulls the napkin out and throws it on the floor. I tuck it back in, explaining.

"You have to wear this because-"

"I NO WERDIS! NO NO NO!"

Brynn, you have to-

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

"Okay, fine, you don't wear it, you don't eat"

(alarmed glances at nearby tables "Is she starving that child?")

"I WAND MY FOOOOOOOOOOOD! NO I NO WERDIS I WAND FOOD NO I NO!"

"If you want to eat, then you have to wear the napkin."

(wailing, concerned looks)

The MOG tells her, "You have to wear the napkin first."

(wailing, gnashing of teeth, "I NO WERDIS!")

The MOG asks me, "Is this the hill you want to die on?"

Well, no. Not anymore, with the bystanders and the screaming. I crumble and give the nachos back.

"I AW DONE. I GO TRASH." she explains, crumpling up her paper.

I cratered under the pressure. Will she ever believe I am the boss? Maybe we should just stay inside the house until this phase is over so I can spank and threaten to my heart's content. Sheesh.

Spring China is a little storefront Chinese restaurant a couple of miles from my house. All I know is, someone mentioned in passing that there was a good place in that shopping center, and then when I went there on one of my breaks, I saw a Mexican place, a fish place, and a Chinese place. I picked the Chinese place out of curiosity.

Does it show how BURNT I am on Missouri and their "Mexican" food that I would just pass it by- I'm not falling for that one again...

Inside, SC is a little rough. They have one two seater table, about 6 random chairs and two booths, one of which is typically occupied by a sleeping elderly man and a phonebook. He is very, very thin and he wears brown pants that are a mix between velvet and suede, and old brown dress shoes, and a hat with an American military insignia. Sometimes the young guy who works there sits in the booth with the sleeping man and reads the paper.

When I come in, the young guy goes behind the counter and takes my order. He never smiles or appears to recognize me or remember my order, even though I come in about once a week and order the same thing. He and a young girl wear Hollister shirts and apathy.

There's another older man behind the counter. He's heavier set and his hair is all silver. He uses open flames and a giant handheld skillet/wok. My General Tso's takes about 20 seconds to cook, and I'm always disappointed that it's over.

What brought these guys here? How do they stay in business? Are they happy, lonely, bored? Did the old guy fight in Vietnam? I want to know the stories, and sometimes it just makes me a little nuts.

Oh, and the General Tso's is awesome, enough for 2 meals and $5.45. Yessssss.

This morning, the MOG and the babies and I went out to run a few errands and discovered we were out of gas. Lucky for us, the Japanese expect stupid Americans to be over-procrastinators. That means when the little digital screen reads ∅, it actually means we have an hour or so left to drive around, forgetting what we are looking for off the freeway.

Anyways, we pulled over to get gas and I went in to pay, because here in the ghetto where we live, the FastPay is not such a practical option. I was standing in line, evidently looking very cute, when a young guy- like early 20's, asks me, "You grown?"

I was like, "What?"

"You a grown woman? You ain't like a child?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, laughing a little nervously. "I'm 30 years old."

"Dang, girl! You look about 17! You gonna have a long, prosperous and beautiful life!"

By this point I am smiling ear to ear and wondering if this guy is some kind of angel.

"Well, hey, thanks!" I said to the guy.

He walked out to his car, telling his friend, "Dang, she looks good!"

MADE. MY. DAY.

Then the clerk guy, a representative of some Middle Eastern country, (I am not savvy enough to know which one), says, "I like you come in here. You always smiling, happy."

I thanked the guy and then when I am leaving, he says, totally sincerely, "God bless you."

For real.

We need each other, don't we? Tell somebody something good today.

(the MOG was like, did you just get hit on? and I don't really think I did. It was just some kind of joyful affirmation- how very fun)

This is part of an experimental experimenting with random or continued fiction ideas on fridays. this one is random.

---

She was just steppin out for a Coke, she said. Musta been a good one, cause she never did come back. We called the cops, but there was no evidence that Mama's life here had been happy, so they figured it was her choice.

They talked about putting us all in foster care, but Jimmy was nearly 18 and besides, there wasn't a social worker in our little town, ever since she up and run off with the junior high school band director. Now, that was a good story. Nothing much good about ours, just Mama was there and then she was gone. The saddest thing was, it almost didn't matter.

We made it somehow. And now here I am, 19 years old with my job at Family Dollar and my own little baby. Life is going along fine, and then all the sudden, everything changes. Ain't that the way of it, though? Not much changes slow and gradual. Just- bang! and then here's your new life and you just do what you can with it.

Anyways, tonight I was sitting in the old green recliner, watching a little TV, and somehow (I don't even remember how it happened) I saw Mama on one of them Spanish soap operas. Now, what am I supposed to do about that?

Tell you what, I'm tempted just to let her go.

(disclaimer, like steph even reads my blog: we accidentally stole this dress from ruby. it was probably your husband cleaning up.)

I have been a lousy blogger this week. Sorry about that. And actually, I had a pretty moody piece about being in Texas that I planned to post this week, but it's moody. So, no. Maybe I'll make it into some poetry.

Today, I took the babies (they aren't really babies anymore) to Walmart and we replenished our Mother Hubbard cupboards.... it is getting more challenging to shop with them. I thought it would get easier when they could walk, and be threatened by me, and obey. Actually, they are very busy little people and they don't want to be in the basket. They still ride in the basket, but they don't want to be there.

The other element is the helpfulness. Great helpfulness. Like, for example, getting a few extra loaves of bread, hugging them tightly to their chest as they rush through passing carts and narrowly avoid decapitation. "I hode it!" they cry. Or tossing a few cans of cat food in, despite the unlikelihood of us EVER owning a cat under any, any, any circumstances EVER.

I don't make it easy for them. We browse at a leisurely pace, starting with random baby stuff, in hopes that everything will be on clearance for $1. I am usually disappointed. Then we check for dollar shoes, again with the disappointment. And eventually, over to the groceries. By this point, I normally free one captive to "help" as well as to free up some cart space. That makes the grocery portion move pretty briskly, as we have to get through all the aisles before kid 2 demands justice.

After about 3 or 4 years, we make it to the checkout counter, where sadistic corporate types have put all kinds of shiny overpriced toys and sweets. We barter options until we settle on one cookie to share in the van. I then unload our goods onto the conveyor, reassuring two frantic high-pitched questioners that yes, we will have a snack in the carseats. Yes, yes, yes, after we pay, yes after we pay and go outside and watch out for cars and get in the carseat and put on our buckles and then we have a snack, yes. Yes. That, exactly.

Then I pay what seems like a lot for food and diapers, and we head out where we discuss all the way to the van the snacks, coming, in the carseats.

By the time I get home I am too tired to cook the food I bought.

Warning: this is a very long,  sad story. It's okay if you skip it. I wanted to put it all in one post and be done.

---

Pregnant with twins:

I had delivered R2 at 24 weeks, so we were understandably nervous about going into a second pregnancy. Everyone assured us that R2’s early birth was a fluke. I didn’t have an incompetent cervix, and there was no physical, explainable reason for my premature labor. So we set off to have a normal pregnancy.

We had an ultrasound pretty early- about 7 weeks and found out we were having twins. It shouldn’t have been a huge surprise, since my mom and my sister both had fraternal twins, but it was. (some of you are shrieking- and your husband’s a twin! He’s a twin too! And yeah, he is – but he’s an identical twin, which is random and not genetic)

We were blown away, and so excited. I went on the road with the band, and we talked about it at every stop. I had set up my own precautions- not totally taking the doctor’s word for it. I had a bed in the back of the van, and laid down most of the time, except for the concerts. I quit touring at about 14 weeks.

At 20 weeks, the band went to Europe for 2 weeks and I went to my sister’s house. I had had some warning signs, but my doctor was adamant that there was nothing wrong. We had calls in to perinatologists in Houston, but they weren’t getting back to us- so we waited.  I started having lots of contractions, and went to bed. I was with my mom, and she watched R2 and cooked and every day, Richy would call from Switzerland to make sure I was lying down and see how everything was going. It was terrifying. I was doing everything I knew to do and still could not control my body.

The MOG returned to the US and we had an appointment with the high risk doctors finally scheduled for the day after he got back. I knew the amount of contractions I had been having- and I knew they could not be good for my body at such an early stage of pregnancy. I was right. They examined me and I was dilated to 2. They admitted me immediately. I had walked into the clinic, but I was not allowed to walk out. They sent a wheelchair, and I cried across the catwalk to the main hospital. It was the same hospital I had delivered R2 at, and the same gestation, in the SAME WEEK, 5 years later.

Once we were settled in, we decided to make it a long stay. My water was not broken, we figured, and we were in better shape than we had been with R2. So I put myself on strict bedrest, even arguing with nurses who wanted me to get up and walk- by this point I wished I had been following my gut all along and I was not budging.

We made a giant calendar counting to two goals- our “small faith” goal of 32 weeks and our “big faith” goal of all the way. We made the room as cheerful as possible and things improved. I had ultrasounds frequently, and I was kept in wide elastic straps that measured contractions and the babies’ heartbeats, around the clock. I was on heavy doses of magnesium sulfate, which was supposed to work for 48 hours and then they’d have to switch drugs. I also got steroid shots to help the babies’ lungs develop.

I made it 6 days before they were unable to stop labor. It was 2 days after R2’s 5^th birthday, and I was 24 weeks and 0 days. We weighed options, and decided to go with a  c-section, to try to avoid the damage to the blood vessels in the brain R2 had suffered during a natural birth. I knew it was too early- I just hoped and prayed they would be miracles like R2.

I did not get to see them when they were born. They were too sick- they had to get them to the NICU right away. They let R1 hold Evan (the oldest) for a split second and then they were gone. We went to the NICU and met them as soon as they were hooked up, which seems like hours but I don’t know how long it actually was.

Evan Roberts Clark was first, He had a slightly stockier build and a less pointed chin than R2.  They were each 1 lb 8 oz, and again, tiny like little Barbie dolls. Rees Howells Clark was built just like R2 and his daddy, with R2’s chin. They had very distinct personalities, even under the circumstances. We feel like we know them.

Evan was pretty sick, and the doctors were working desperately to try to stabilize him, but babies are not meant to be born 4 months early- and their little bodies can’t keep up. Rees was much stronger. They had him on the most delicate ventilator, and were hopeful that they could wean him to a better one within a day or two. They were born around 8:45 pm on the 7th, and all day on the 8th we would wheel over and see them, then go back to the room and process and cry and pray.

We were back in our room, trying to sleep when they called us around midnight. When I heard the ringing, I knew. I rode down in the wheelchair, and R1 sang over Evan while we said goodbye. I was on a lot of morphine, and my mind was so cloudy. They gave him to me, but he was already gone and I was panicking. I just held him and cried for a minute and then I gave him back. I will regret for the rest of my life letting go so soon.

We went and saw Rees as soon as we left Evan, and he had taken a slight downturn. Someone told us that happens with twins sometimes. We loved on Rees for a while, (from a distance- he was in an incubator) and there was some hope that he would rally and pull through- so we went to sleep. They called me in the middle of the night with an update- he was really heading downhill. That was the darkest moment of my life- when I realized I would be going home with empty arms.

He made it through a lot of the day, but he was fighting so, so hard and we knew something had to give. They called us around 4 in the afternoon to come and say goodbye.  His neonatologist was the same doctor who had helped R2 during his NICU stay, and she was working way past when they would normally give up. We gave them permission to stop, and then we held him and said goodbye. I opened his little blanket and looked at his feet, and recognized them as his daddy’s.

Of course that's not the end of the story, but I don't want to blog the first weeks without them. 

They were born on June 7th and their last day on earth was June 9^th, 2004. Heaven will be such a sweet reunion. 

---

There. I told you it was a sad story, but feel free to ask questions.

Today is R2's 10th birthday.

I am copying and pasting this entry from a few years ago- it's a good one and my brain won't start up today.

---

10 years ago today, I was in a hospital bed in Houston... it was my 4th day of bedrest after my water broke at 23 weeks and 3 days gestation.
At some point in the afternoon, my contractions started coming more regularly. I tried to ignore them... but somebody was ready to come and meet the Yablonskis.
After a little while. it was obvious that they had done everything they could do to stop labor and it just wasn't safe anymore. So off they wheeled me to the delivery room.

It's really a blur. I remember looking up at the ceiling as they wheeled me through the doorway and down the hall.

Then I was in a different room with my mom and Richy I. Richy and I were both so scared. This was our first baby, our first pregnancy and everything had been normal until my water broke...

So I laid there and Mama prayed and came in and out as there was a waiting room FULL of Yablonskis and friends waiting for reports. Richy (the big one) cried and prayed and sang and almost passed out... He ended up out in the hallway for a while. I remember being in the room, just waiting for something to happen. A woman was screaming hysterically next door, and I had various monitors beeping and printing, and Daddy singing in the hall. And through it all, the steady thump thump thump of a very tiny heartbeat.

When he was born, all of us just held our breath for a moment. I remember thinking "Is he alive? Is he alive?" There is just a split second memory in my mind of a tiny gray body being lifted away from me and then the smallest hoarse little cry.

Even in the insanity of the situation, relief flooded us. We just wanted to hear him cry. And then he was being wheeled at high speed down to the NICU, to spend his first hours being intubated and really, kept alive by Jesus and the medical team He worked through.

I saw him hours later, when the epidural wore off. I was so shocked. He was so small and red and I was so scared. I couldn't even talk to him... I just cried and cried. I had Richy wheel me back out in the hallway, where Mama was waiting to comfort me. " You better SNAP out of it!" she said. "That is YOUR baby in there. Now, you go back in there and talk to that baby!". Soothing words, those. So I snapped out of it and went and talked to my baby.

It was a scary day. It was emotional and it was hard. But every minute since he was born, he has blessed us.

He is the most pure, loving child I have ever seen. I don't even deserve the sweetness and trust he has. I am so blessed.

And I am so, so glad beyond what I can express that he cried. And that he fought his way through those 4 months in the NICU and that he is still such a fighter now.

a wee cry
and then beeping
and then more crying
and then you awe holy....
Oh ki gosh!
and singing
and singing
and singing
and praying
and laughing
and telling Buzz what's up
on the phone
banging loudly on the piano
and singing, hands flapping
the sounds of you
what joy

Happy Birthday, Richy.


This was the first picture we took of him. I remember thinking, someday we'll put this one up on a big screen as a testimony. He was 12 inches long and 1 pound 5 ounces.





That's his beanie baby, and Richy's wedding ring fit around his arm. He was a week or 2 old here.

We wrote these Scripture cards and taped them to his incubator to encourage our faith (or denial, some said)

Gosh, I love Texas. On the way in, we stopped and had some barbecue at Woody's. Toby poked around it all and said, "I don't YIKE this food." This is alarming on several levels. I mean, the boy doesn't eat salsa. And now, the disrespect toward barbecue. I have got to get this kid out of Missouri. If we stay, he will probably start showing a preference for hotdish, or start... well, I don't really know Missouri stuff. The threat is real, however.

I have decided to go public with my blog. All that really means is, it becomes searchable by Google. If I start getting hate mail from strangers (as opposed to hatemail from family) or if I have other cause for concern, I will put it back on private. I'm curious, though. I read a lot of blogs, and I think this one is pretty good. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but especially for people with complicated pregnancies....  or you know, righteous husbands or multiple little kids, or just... whoever likes my stories..

So anyhoo. Tomorrow R2 turns 10, and I will probably blog about him and skip Friday Fiction. Y'all just gonna have to wait. 

transcript: "Hey everybody! I wake up, and I paint myself. That's all."

So since Toby has been potty-trained (praise the name of the Viking forever), we have stopped locking him in his room overnight. As a result, the shenanigans. 

One morning, it was the brownies and leftover Coke. Note to self: put food up high, don't leave drinks out. 

Another day, he had the MOG's laptop for some time. Oh, and the day he found the iPhone, opened the ipod app, found Rick Pino and put him on repeat, dancing wildly. Note: secure electronic devices. 

What kind of slackers don't wake up and hear him? maybe you're asking. Don't juuuuuudge me.... he's so, so sneaky. I'm a light sleeper- he does.not.make.a.sound. 

We've gotten pretty good at Toby-proofing. Today, I thought he was probably up because Bean was screeching, "I want OUT" in her crib. But he was quiet, and in my sleep-deprived state I thought, he's probably playing games on the iPhone. Until he was quiet a while longer. I searched the house and found him in the kitchen. "What are you getting into?" "Nothing, I'm not getting anything." "I see food on your f...." and then I notice that his feet are almost BLACK. With nail polish. Also, his fingers and his legs. "I didn't spill!" he cries, aware that the rod is near. Note: Toby has won. Give him the house. 

---

I need to get to work here, packing for our 6 days in Texas. Yesterday, I conquered Laundry Mountain, and now I have to choose clothes.

The challenge: an unbearably hot city that is frigid indoors. I have to pack tank tops and sweaters. Sheesh.

Richy has lined up several clark-ings with various folk at various locations. If you wanna hang with us, contact him- he's the man with a plan. I am the woman with the kids. 

We leave for Texas tomorrow. We'll be in town for 6 days, and if you want to take us to lunch or dinner, get your requests in... The MOG will be doing the scheduling because it stresses me out. So you can email, text, twitter, facebook him or (God forbid) call him on his iPhone. 

During that time, I also hope to have a get together/bday party for R2, maybe Saturday night? All are invited. So there you go.

R2's last day of 4th grade was last week, then he had a couple of days off before summer school started. They offer summer school for the special education students, because 2+ months of vacation can really wreak havoc on a special kid's memory, and routine. Kinda like starting all over the next year. So we signed him up.

So today, I dressed him in a happy little summer outfit of shorts and a red shirt (no uniforms! yay) and we packed his lunch and put his Spiderman backpack over his skinny little arms and went out to wait for the bus. Lately, we've been waiting outside because it's so nice out, and there is so much screaming inside our house. See:Brynn

We waited and waited and waited, but the bus never came. R2 went from jumping excitedly to making little frustrated noises, so we went back inside and called the school- and they said he wasn't enrolled!  I argued a little with the lady- I did all the paperwork, blah blah- but no go.

So I tried to explain it to him, but he kept putting his backpack on and standing by the door. Finally I turned on the TV and he went to watch it. I went in the kitchen and took his frozen stuff out of his lunch and started making breakfast and then R1 heard a honk and it was the bus. Grr. 

So we yelled at each other for a while and held the bus and repacked the lunch and put the backpack back on and whew. Summer school is off to a rousing start. Now we'll skip school for a week.