You Gotta Love A Guilty Conscience

We were enjoying a nice family dinner together when Kailey excused herself to go to the bathroom. As soon as she left, Kyra, suddenly overcome by a melancholy funk, set down her fork and grabbed her stomach. Our immediate thought was something along the lines of "SHE'S GONNA BLOW", but it turned out to be something completely different.

"Does your stomach hurt, Sweetie?" Diane asked.

"No, it's just something I pinkie-swore Kailey I wouldn't tell," she mumbled.

Diane and I shot each other that "parental" look. You know the one. The one that says, "Oh brother, here it comes."

"Why did you even bother pinkie-swearing if you're gonna just rat-out your sister?" I asked.

Diane shot me the parental look. Then she turned back to Kyra. "What did you do?" Kyra just whimpered. "Did you girls go into the wash?"

Kyra looked up with big, sad, droopy puppy dog eyes and nodded. "Mmmm hmmm."

Our community was built with a series of washes, or channels meant to collect rainwater. Here in the desert, a decent rain means the washes can fill in an instant. And it doesn't even have to rain in our community for the washes to fill. It can rain in the mountains and that rainwater will drain down into the city. Bottom line: it is not safe to play in the washes, especially for 7 and 9 year-olds.

The problem is that the girls' best friend lives right next to one of the outlets, and she has an older brother who likes to play in the wash. So they go down to play at their friend's house where everyone is playing in the wash that we have strictly forbidden the girls to enter. I have to admit that it would suck to be sitting outside the wash when all of your friends are playing IN the wash, the equivalent of going to Disneyland but denied access to the rides. But it would suck even more to be swept away in a flash flood, so we're sticking to our guns.

It was about this time that Kailey returned to the table, and when she realized that her little sister narked on her, her eyes blazed and practically ballooned out of her head. "Ky-RA!" We reiterated the evils of the wash and I tried my best to scare the hell out them with horror stories of being sucked down the wash by raging floodwaters. A little over-the-top, I know, but sometimes you do what you gotta do.

"At least she has a conscience," Diane reasoned.

True. And I'm choosing to cling to that positive character trait, because the thought of raising a stool pigeon just kills me.

Bucket-Trained

Puke patrol is one of the downsides and necessary evils of parenthood. Kids get sick. Kids hurl. They need to be comforted. And someone to clean up the mess. That's where I come in. I have traditionally been the one to mop up, sop up, and rinse out the barf, because if I didn't do it for the girls, I'd be cleaning up double barf doses after Diane hurled from smelling the hurl. Yay me.

When kids are young, they have no concept of rushing to the bathroom when they're sick. If you're fortunate enough, they'll at least notify you that their tummy's aren't feeling too good, giving you the opportunity to rush them to the can. In the middle of the night? Forget it. You're alerted by their wails after the fact. You rush into their rooms to find their pajamas, sheets, comforters, stuffed animals, walls, and anything else within range soaked with barf. Once you get everything cleaned up and changed, you set out a bucket and put your child back to bed with these specific instructions: "OK, if you feel the need to throw up again, go to the bathroom. If you can't make it to the bathroom, I am placing this bucket (show them the bucket) right next to your bed (show them the placement of the bucket). Please, please, please, please, oh please use it." And an hour later you're changing the sheets again.

This week I think we experienced a major breakthrough in the area of nighttime puke cleanup. Diane had gone to bed and I was up putzing around when Kailey walked out to the family room with tears in her eyes. "Daddy, my tummy hurts," she cried. I escorted her to the bathroom where I asked her if she felt like she had to puke or just go to the bathroom. She said the latter, so I evacuated the premises while she did her business. She felt better afterwards, so I tucked her back in bed before getting ready for bed myself. I was brushing my teeth when I heard all hell breaking loose.

"AHHHHHH! I DON'T WANT TO FEEL LIKE THIS ANYMORE!"

I rushed out of our bathroom and into the girls' to find Kailey hunched over the bowl and Diane violently rubbing her back and willing herself not to join her at the bowl. Kailey was in full freak-out mode, cursing heaven and earth and everything in between. "WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?!! retch. I HATE PUKING!!! cough, cough, sputter. I WANT THIS TO BE OVER RIGHT NOW!!"

She finished up and Diane got her back to bed, puke free, while I went to fish the bucket out of the garage. I returned to her room and gave her the bucket spiel, fully expecting to be rinsing out sheets in the not-too-distant future. I went to bed and, despite my anxiety of impending puke patrol, fell quickly to sleep. I was awakened an hour later.

"AHHHHHHH!"

I shot out of bed and ran into Kailey's room where I found her sitting up in bed clutching the bucket to her chest. I grabbed the bucket and guided her into the bathroom, and she finished emptying out the contents of her stomach. To my amazement (and slight disgust), Kailey had used the bucket. Rinsing out a bucket is SO MUCH EASIER than rinsing out sheets. For the first time ever, we escaped a nighttime barf-o-rama without having to change the sheets, something I consider a major accomplishment. And for once I'm GLAD my girls are growing up.

Sometimes It's Just Too Easy

Last night at dinner the girls engaged in a game of "Can You Read My Mind?"

Kyra: "OK, Kailey. Guess what I'm thinking."

Kailey: "I'm stupid?"

Game. Over.

Bad Dreams

This is the interaction I had with Kyra last night at around 9:30. She does this all the time where she wakes up crying, we take her to the bathroom, she pees, we get her back to bed and coax her back to sleep. And she never remembers any of it. It's kinda freaky.

"What's wrong?"

Kyra, sitting up in bed, holding her stomach, rocking back and forth and crying: "I want you to be in my poster."

"What?"

"I want you to be in my poster."

"You want me to be in your poster?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because then I'll know you're OK and I'll feel better."

"OK. I'll be in your poster."

"Thank you, Daddy."

And with that she settled into her pillow and immediately began snoring. I covered her and crept out of her room, happy to know that in her eyes I am poster-worthy. I also slept with my door locked.

It Only Gets Worse From Here On Out

Diane was in the kitchen one night last week, slaving over the stove preparing dinner for her less than thankful family. Kyra walked in, looked at her and cocked her head to the side.

"Was it bad-hairday-at-work day today, or what?" she asked.

Diane spun around and dropped her jaw. "What?"

"I said, 'Was it bad-hairday-at-work day today, or what?'" Kyra repeated. "What? It's just a joke!"

Yeah, like THAT softened the blow.

Yeah, It's a Natural Reaction

I stopped at the mailboxes after picking the girls up from school Friday where Kailey proceeded with the mail-gathering honors of the day. When I think about it, it's amazing how many daily rituals we have, most of them bizarre. This is just another in a long list: the mail pick-up. I pull up to the mailbox; the girls bicker over whose turn it is to get the mail; the winner exits the car (usually with a smirk at the loser); I roll down my window, turn off the car, and hand the winner the keys; the winner opens the mailbox, collects the mail and hands it to me along with the keys, then bolts like a bat out of hell for the house; I start the car, throw it into drive, and gun it for home, usually passing the giggling runner, but sometimes allowing them to win (which isn't often 'cause I hate to lose) just to keep things interesting; then we all collect our stuff and tumble into the house, usually in a cloud of trash-talk ("you run like a girl"); then it's on to the afternoon ritual of play, homework, and extra-curricular activities. We'll probably continue the mail routine until either a.) the girls outgrow it, or b.) I run one of them down with the car.

As I said earlier, Kailey was the "winner", and after she handed me the mail, I handed it to Kyra because she likes to sort it. In truth, she just wants to see if any of it's for her. She immediately found a letter with her name on it along with mine. "Why is your name on my mail?" she accused as she thrust envelope back at me. I grabbed it as I glanced at Kailey who was leaving us in a trail of dust. I guess this would be a day where she'd be the winner. Damn.

I looked at the envelope and saw that it was from one of our investment management companies. "Oh, these must be our tax statements," I explained.

"What are tax statements?"

Oh boy, here we go. "Well...they're for taxes. Taxes are money that everyone has to give to the government so that the government can misuse it as they see fit (I figured she wasn't going to fully comprehend everything I was trying to explain, so I might as well give it to her straight). Whenever Mommy and I get paid for our work, some of that money goes to the government. Anytime we make money, we have to give some of it to the government."

A look of horror dissolved on Kyra's face as her eyes welled up and her bottom lip curled into full pout mode. "BUT I DON'T WANT TO GIVE MY MONEY TO THE GOVERNMENT!" she bawled. "I...I...I ONLY HAVE THIRTY-SEVEN DOLLARS!"

Welcome to my world, kiddo.

Dirt

Last night we let Kyra play games on the Disney Princesses website, but apparently that wasn't all she was doing. We found this letter laying on the kitchen table later that night:


At first I was amused. He he. Kyra calling Hope's brother a "cumeplanr" is the pot calling the kettle "black". Kyra is the queen of cumeplaning, not to be dethroned anytime in the near or distant future. Although it sounds like he might give her a run for her money.

As I read on, my amusement was replaced by guilt mixed with a dash of horror. A hoosg crush on a coot boy named Wyatt? I suddenly felt like I was invading her privacy, but, hey, she left the paper right there on the kitchen table for the world to see. It's not like I removed her personal diary from under her mattress and broke the lock on it to violate her personal space. But it's weird for me, as a Dad, to hear (or in this case, read) my youngest daughter express her emotions over a boy. I guess I should get used to it. I know Wyatt, and yes, he is coot. He's also a very nice boy, so my feathers weren't horribly ruffled.

Then it occurred to me, this is dirt. I can use this for personal gain! Or at least for manipulative purposes. And she can't even deny it! It's all right here in pink and white! And a Grinch-like smile crept across my face. Oh yes, this could work out quite well...

"Hey Kyra, go clean your room or I'll tell Wyatt you think he's coo-oot!"

"Oh, you don't think you need to listen to me? Well I think your entire class would find it very interesting to discover that you have a hoosg crush on a certain bo-oy."

This one's my personal favorite, and I've already used it. "Hey Kyra, you remember when you said Hope's brother was a cumeplanr? Yeah, you're sounding a lot like him right now." I used that this morning on the way to school, and for the first time in her short life, I rendered Kyra speechless. Utterly. Speechless. Maybe digging into her personal stuff isn't such a bad idea after all?

There's Never A Hole To Crawl Into When You Need One

Kyra's 1st grade teacher came over for a home visit this afternoon. Now there's kind of a neat/weird tension to the teacher home visit. On the one hand, it's cool that the teachers would want to come over and spend time with your child in their home environment. And on the other, you can't help but feel that they're checking up on you, gaging your competence as a parent, host, housekeeper, and digging for any dirt they can find. Well, with blabber-mouth Kyra around, teachers can leave their shovels at home. She'll gladly volunteer any juicy tidbits of information they might secretly crave.

The home visit started innocently enough. Kyra showed her teacher her room, then brought out a couple of games to play. While they played Disney DVD Bingo, I helped Kailey with her homework. When Kailey finished her homework, I let her join them while I sat down with a book and nervously waited for the visit to end.

Kyra gave her teacher the delayed tour of the house, ending in the den where the computer and my guitars are. "My dad plays the guitar. Sometimes he plays and I sing. We're working on a Hannah Montana song. And this one's a ROCKER guitar!" she explained. "Oooh," her teacher responded, feigning interest. I rolled my eyes and prayed for the visit to end. It didn't.

They sat down to play one last game, and the dam opened up: "My Dad likes beer."

My eyes bulged out of their sockets and I almost dropped my book while I simultaneously choked on my own spit. Now what Kyra said is true: I do, in fact, like beer. But I was concerned by how this information might be misconstrued by her teacher. Some people like beer so much that they drink lots, and lots, and lots of it, sometimes in a single sitting. I'm much more of a moderate, one and done type of beer drinker. Sometimes I'll admittedly go a little crazy though, and have two. My attention was now completely focused on the discussion in the other room.

"Yeah, I try to tell him that beer is AL-CA-HOL, but he just tells me that he has ONLY ONE during dinner. But this one time during dinner he said to Mommy, 'Hey, Hon, grab me another beer!'"

Dear Lord, I promise I'll go to church more often if You'd just MAKE THIS STOP RIGHT NOW!

I looked over into the den where Kyra's back was to me. Her teacher was mercifully sitting across from her and out of my line of site. However, as I stared at Kyra's back and mentally willed her to SHUT UP, I saw her teacher's head slowly leaning in to sneak a peak at me in the other room. Thankfully there was a smile spread across her face, and I knew that everything would be OK. I grinned and gave her a nervous wave before she returned to the game with Kyra.

Now if I could only get her out the door before Kyra tells her I shout "BARKING SPIDERS" when I fart.

Thank Goodness I Don't Prance Around the House Naked

This afternoon, Diane took Kyra to Starbuck's to work on her homework while Kailey was at tutoring. The place was fairly busy with many patrons occupying several of the closely spaced tables. They picked a table next to two older women and proceeded with Kyra's homework. The ladies took an interest in Kyra working on her homework, and when one of them went to use the restroom, the other engaged Kyra in conversation. She won't make that mistake again.

"Boy, I wish MY Mommy would've taken ME to Starbuck's to do my homework when I was a little girl." she teased. They continued with a little chit-chat when the lady asked Kyra if she had any brothers. "That's good," the lady said, "'Cause those boys sure can be a lot of trouble."

Without missing a beat, Kyra blurted, "I know. Whenever my Daddy farts, he yells, 'BARKING SPIDERS!!' It's so annoying!"

And with that, Kyra rendered the chatty lady speechless while Diane practically peed her pants laughing. While what Kyra said was probably not socially appropriate, it was true: I do sometimes yell "Barking Spiders" when I fart. I suppose it's time for me to examine some of my other household behavior before it becomes Starbuck's Kyra fodder.

It Pays To Be The Tooth Fairy

I guess Kyra was in a generous mood after loosing her sixth tooth yesterday. Diane snuck into her room last night to make the tooth/exorbitant money exchange when she found this note folded inside Kyra's Tooth Fairy pillow (yes, the girls each have their own Tooth Fairy pillow).



I didn't say it pays WELL to be the Tooth Fairy.

Go Fish...Cutthroat Style

The other day I was engaging the girls in a rousing game of Go Fish, when the game turned decidedly ugly. Kailey apparently felt the game was being played a little too nice, so she took it upon herself to turn up the heat by adding a little smack talk to the conversation. "Say goodbye to yer hopes!" she declared while laying a pair of 7's on the table. A moment of silence followed.

"Say goodbye to your hopes?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Yep." Kailey replied as she stifled a giggle with her remaining cards.

"Don't you think that's a little drastic, saying goodbye to your hopes? And over what? A pair of 7's?"

Kailey held firm. "Yep. SAY GOODBYE TO YER HOPES!" she cackled. She had thrown down the gauntlet. We could either rise to the challenge or slink away, tail tightly tucked between legs. And I wasn't about to cave to an eight year-old.

"Oh yeah? Well say goodbye to YOUR hopes!" I declared after collecting a 2 from Kyra and slamming the pair on the table.

In retrospect, I realize that there's something fundamentally wrong with a father instructing his young children to kiss their hopes goodbye. I mean, they have their whole lives ahead of them. I should be helping them realize their hopes and dreams, encouraging them to pursue them; not dash them to pieces. But in my defense, Kailey started it.

The tone had been set, and that's the way the rest of the game played out, each of us trying to dash the hopes of the others with each play of the game. The girls got creative with their taunts. They weren't limited to the collection of a pair. "No I don't have a Jack," Kyra taunted. "So say goodbye to your hopes and GO FISH!"

This game was beginning to head south and quick, and I was to blame since I had propagated the whole thing, as dads are prone to do. The game ended and I decided to refocus the girls' riotous energy on something a little more productive:

Full contact tiddlywinks.

A Little Tub Music

I was giving Kyra her bath the other night when she decided that she needed to entertain me with her take on a familiar tune. Actually, she was teasing me. You see, I was shirtless while bathing her, which she apparently thought was pretty disgusting. I'm not sure why. I had good reasons for my upper body nudity. I had just finished mowing the lawn, so I was hot, plus I'm always looking for an opportunity to rip off my shirt and show off my hot bod. Kyra had her head tilted back getting it rinsed when she broke into song:

I see London, I see France,
I see Daddy's BOOBS!
Are they brown, are they natural?
I don't know, but they sure are GROSS!

I got her in the end, though. I told her that her little song didn't RHYME and marched my natural brown, gross boobs right out of the bathroom.

No Wonder I'm Going Grey

This morning as we were watching Kyra's softball game, Diane turned to me, grabbed my arm and gasped, "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you..."

Diane just returned from a three-day conference in Scottsdale where she was honored as one of her company's top managers. Her company wines and dines them, books inspirational speakers, and pulls out all the stops to express their appreciation. Diane is amazing at what she does, and it's exciting for me to see her honored in this way. As she was getting her things together and preparing to leave for the conference, Kailey came into our bedroom to present a rather unusual request.

"Mommy, when you go on your trip, can you bring me back something?"

A small grin spread across Diane's face. "Don't I usually bring you and Kyra back something when I go on a trip?"

"Yes, but I was wondering if you could bring me back something different. Like something for big girls."

"Like what?" Diane wondered aloud.

"Like a poster...with a boy on it."

My jaw dropped as Diane recounted their conversation. A POSTER WITH A BOY ON IT? SHE'S EIGHT YEARS OLD? I immediately envisioned a shirtless Enrique Iglesias, his body glistening with sweat, eyeing my daughter from his perch on her wall. OK, that was probably a little too much detail, but as an overprotective dad, that's where...oh, never mind. There's no good way to explain it. Diane seemed to think it was funny. I was looking for someone to kill. Over my dead body will she EV-ER own a poster with a boy on it. What is she going to ask for next, the annual Firefighters Calendar?

Needless to say, Kailey did NOT get a poster with a boy on it. What she got instead was all of her TV viewing privileges revoked because that's the only thing I can think of that might put that cockamamie, NO, er, um, CRAZY request in her head. I need a drink. Anything to get the image of sweaty Enrique out of my head.

Mommy's Movie Preferences

Happy Mother's Day, Moms! I hope you had a great day. This morning, the girls were excited about Mother's Day, and Kailey got up very early, before 6:00, in order to make Diane breakfast in bed, because, in her words, "every Mom should have breakfast in bed on Mother's Day." Breakfast consisted of a cold cinnamon roll, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Later in the morning, we showered Diane with cards and all of the "crafts" the girls made at school in preparation of the momentous occasion that is Mother's Day. One of the last things Diane received was a construction paper flower made by Kyra. The flower consisted of several layers of different colored paper that were folded into "petals", and the whole flower was folded up and held together by a Velcro clasp. When the clasp was opened, the flower unfolded to reveal something about Mommy on each petal. It was actually quite clever. And it's always interesting to see what your young one is going to reveal about you. Here's what Kyra's flower had to say about Diane:

Red Petal #1 had a picture of Diane, Kailey, and Kyra which was taken at a school function.

Red Petal #2: Kyra's response to the phrase, "I love my Mom because..." she loves me. Fair enough.

Red Petal #3: "She is..." 38 years old. One day she'll learn to never reveal a woman's age.

Red Petal #4: "My Mom's Hobby/Favorite thing to do is..." heng out with me! It's true. Diane spends most of her time henging out. Honorable mentions = sleeping, watching reality TV, sunbathing, and drinking margaritas.

Orange Petal #1: "Her job is..." tel peepul whin thay have to go. Though she's been to Diane's workplace hundreds of times, Kyra clearly has no idea what she does. Sounds like she thinks Diane is a bathroom monitor.

Orange Petal #2: "When I am sick my Mom..." give me mesinr. Give her a break. She's six. Besides, given the correct dosage, mesinr can be extremely effective.

Orange Petal #3: "Her favorite food is..." Tie food. Anything that TIES her over till dinner! AR! AR!

Orange Petal #4: "Her eyes are..." brown. Diane has amazing eyes, but they're hard to classify. They're actually a blue-grey.

Which brings us to Yellow Petal #1. Diane opened the flower to Yellow Petal #1. She read it. I read it. We looked at each other and broke out laughing. Here is what it said: "Her favorite TV or movie..." adot movies. No, she's not talking about Arizona Department of Transportation movies...that's ADULT movies. Now Kyra's idea of adult movies are completely different from an adult's. But our thoughts quickly turned to Kyra's teacher who clearly had to do a double take when reading her response. The joke of the day quickly became how Diane likes adult movies, and I tried to cash in on her newfound pleasure, but she wasn't biting. Kyra, being ever the sensitive soul, thought we were making fun of her and ran away crying every time we brought it up, so we had to nip that fun in the bud.

Yellow Petals 2-4...oh, who even cares. Nothing matters after you find out your wife of nearly sixteen years has a newfound appreciation for adult movies! Looks like Father's Day came early this year!

Saving Our Planet

I just had the following conversation with Kyra as we were on our way to school:

"Daddy, yesterday in school we learned we need to save our planet by getting trashed."

Once again I'm questioning our decision to send our girls to public school. "What do you mean by 'getting trashed'?" I laughed.

"We need to pick up our trash and we need to have three different containers: one for paper, one for cans, and one for bottles," she explained.

"Very good, Sweetie, but that's called RECYCLING, not GETTING TRASHED."

Kyra might be on to something though. Getting trashed to save our planet might entice many more people to get with the program.

The Birds & the Bees...and a Dog

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting on the throne, thinking great thoughts when the silence was shattered (as it usually is when I'm sitting on the throne, thinking great thoughts or reading the paper). "DADDY!! DADDY!! BEES!! BEES!! Daddy?"

"I'm in here!"

The door flew open and smacked into the doorstop. It was Kyra. She doesn't knock and I forgot to lock the door. "What are you doing?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Three guesses and the first two don't count," I replied flatly. "Have you forgotten how to knock?" I asked for the millionth time.

Kailey joined her at the door, breathing hard. "Dad. There are bees, lots of them, in the backyard by the rose bushes."

"Can't you see I'm a little indisposed at the moment? I'll be there in a minute."

"What's indisposed?" Kyra asked with that same wrinkly expression. "Does that mean you're pooping?"

"I'LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE."

They got the hint, finally, slammed the door and ran off. Thinking time over.

This week our house has become a wild kingdom of sorts. On Monday, we inherited Rex, my in-law's ten month-old golden retriever, for ten days while they travel to see my sister-in-law's new condo. Rex is a good dog, as far as puppies go, but he's still a pup, and caring for him over the past few days has been like having a newborn again. Especially in the sleep department. He's been going to sleep fine in the evenings, but he wakes up early, especially since Kyra has been waking up early at the butt-crack of dawn. Rex, at the slightest sign of movement within the house, stirs to life, and if he sees you, it's over. He's fully awake and ready for the day. He wakes up the rest of the house as he slams his huge wagging tail against the doors and walls of the house.

Yesterday, Kyra told me the reason for her early mornings. "Stupid birds," she blurted out of the blue.

"Excuse me?"

"Stupid birds have been chirping in the morning and waking me up!" she explained. It's true that we seem to have an inordinately large population of birds nesting around our house this spring. There are nests on three corners of our house as well as in at least two bushes and a tree in the front yard. When I drive up our driveway and open the garage door, the front of the house explodes with the flutter of wings as birds of all shapes and sizes abandon their posts and head for cover. Cowards. Two finches managed to build a nest right outside of our back patio door despite our efforts to discourage them. We managed to drive them away for a couple of days, but they were persistent little buggers, and one morning I opened the shades to see a pair of beady little eyes peering down at me from a fully built nest. Finches 1, Humans 0.

So I've got dogs going nuts for attention, birds building nests and making a racket that's waking up my children, and now, it seems I have a bee problem. I finished my royal duties on the throne and headed out to the backyard. The girls had the house in full lockdown, and I soon found out why. I made a beeline (sorry, couldn't resist) to the rose bushes in the back corner of our yard, but was soon distracted by movement, a lot of movement, by the small fruit tree to my left. A couple dozen bees buzzed in spastic circles around the tree. I slowly and cautiously moved in to investigate. The Southwest is notorious territory for Africanized bees who will attack for no other reason than you're there. I moved to within about ten feet of the tree where I saw a football-sized collection of bees on the lower branches. That's just great. It was late afternoon, and since I knew bee colonies are migratory, I decided to wait until today to see if they would move on on their own.

This morning I went out to check on the bees, and found they had yet to move on. That brown mass in the upper center portion of the picture? Those are bees. Here we go again. So I got on the phone to get some quotes from bee removal specialists. The first call I made, the guy asked me whether or not they had been in the tree for twenty-four hours. I didn't think they had, and he told me to wait until the day warmed up to see if they would leave on their own and become someone else's problem. He said that if they were still there tonight, they were probably making my little fruit tree their home and to give him a call. I said okie-dokie, thanked him and hung up. I just returned from a trip to the back yard, and guess what? No bees. Whew! I'm kind of bummed though because I really wanted to SEE them leave. That would have been scary-cool. The girls would've lost their minds. And, hey, something's actually gone in my favor for a change! Now if I could only get my hands on some bird muzzles life would be perfect.

Locks of "Love"

We're trying to be good parents, we really are. But sometimes our efforts to encourage our girls to become extraordinary people goes unappreciated. We try to do our best to model giving, and have enlisted their help in donating clothes and household items as well as doing things like buying toys for Angel Tree at Christmastime. I should also mention that our efforts in this regard are few and far between, which could explain the girls' underappreciation.

Kyra has a head of long, straight, thick blonde hair that stretches halfway down her back. Other than having the ends of it trimmed, Kyra's hair has never experienced a formal "haircut". I guess Diane had been thinking about getting Kyra's hair cut and styled, so she decided to discuss the option of donating her hair to Locks of Love. Diane explained that sometimes people get sick and the medicine sometimes makes their hair fall out. Locks of Love makes wigs for them to wear until their real hair grows back.

Kyra, normally a very compassionate and giving person by nature, let out a big sigh of disgust. "I already GAVE my clothes to the POOR."

I guess our giving is done for the year.

The Blue WHAT?

Kailey left softball practice last week with an assignment: to brainstorm potential team names that would correspond with their team color, royal blue. They would then gather at the next practice, share their ideas, and take a vote. Kailey's brainstorming took on more of an ethereal bent: Blue Skies, Blue Moon, etc.

The girls huddled at the end of their practice Wednesday night to settle the issue of the team name, and their coach encouraged them to share their ideas.

"Blue Birds!"

"Blue Tigers!"

"Blue Bandits!"

"I know," cried the coach's seven year-old son, a clever young lad, "THE BLUE BALLS!"

After the adults picked themselves up off the ground, the girls took their vote and settled on the Blue Bandits. But we all know what the real, unspoken name of the Blue Bandits is. I can tell you without a doubt what will be going through every parent's head each and every time they hear a "Blue Bandits" cheer:

Gooooooooo BLUE BALLS!!

Out of the Blue...III

"Daddy?"

"Whaddie?"

"What do you call the person who gives you an X-ray?"

"An X-ray Technician?"

"Yeah...I think I need to go see an X-ray technician because my leg hurts."

"I'll get right on that."

Out of the Blue...II

Diane and the girls were having dinner out with her parents one night last week, and one of the keys to enjoying a pleasant dinner in a restaurant, as any parent with young children knows, is keeping the kids occupied. Diane sometimes carries around this gargantuan purse, and on this particular evening was content to allow Kyra to root around in it to give her something to do. They were talking and eating and talking when Kyra spoke up:

"Mommy, what's this?"

Diane turned to see Kyra holding a certain feminine hygiene product. Diane paused, then replied, "I'll explain it to you when you're older."

Kyra contemplated this for a moment. She doesn't like to get blown off. When she believed she had it figured out, she shook the white wrapped product in Diane's face.

"Mommy, are you smoking CIGARETTES?"