The "NO!" Zone

A few days ago, my husband and I took the kids to a small water park with his parents and two of our nieces who are visiting from out of state. When I say small water park, I'm talking three slides, a small lazy river, a main pool complete with a diving board, and a couple of nice toddler areas. The park is called "The Splash Zone" and since we're huge fans of any sized body of water, and our home pool is currently fighting an algae problem, my husband took 1/2 day off work and we were ready for a day of fun in the water.

We found lounge chairs to park our towels and headed off in different directions. The older kids ran off to get in line for the slides while my in-laws joined my husband and me with C in her toddler area. I glanced over to check on the older bunch and saw my A with her arms over her head and turning in circles as a lifeguard inspected her. (What in the world?) Then I noticed Z and K heading our way and they were soon joined by A. Their suits had been denied. (You've got to be kidding me.) Z's trunks had a pocket. (Gasp!) And A and K's suits were held together in the back by a tiny plastic clip. They either couldn't ride or had to go to the concession stand and get them cut out of their suits with a pair of scissors. Despite my mother-in-law's ingenious efforts at disguising these 'flaws', my kids suits were denied three more times before we reluctantly headed to the hot dog / scissor stand. By the time the suits were 'acceptable under Splash Zone law', Z's suit looked like he'd been attacked by a small cougar and the girls suits were awkwardly tied behind their necks regardless of the fact that they weren't made to do that. But they passed inspection each and every time the entire day long.....and let me assure you, they were inspected each and every time, the entire day long.

At the top of each hour the kids had to take a break and only adults could swim. At 1pm, while the kids took their break, my husband and I headed to the lazy river with his parents and opted to walk laps rather than ride in a tube. We were the only ones in there and it was great. At 2pm an announcement came over the loud speaker that the use of tubes in the lazy river was mandatory during break. (Wonder who they were talking to?) They also announced at each break that parents needed to check their kids diapers and that was followed with the rule that you have to use the bathrooms because you're not allowed to change their diapers in the public area and they topped it off with the threat to shut the park down for the rest of the day if there were any accidents. (I'm totally serious here.) My husband said, "This park has to be owned by __________ or ___________." (I won't repeat what he said but I have to say I totally agree with his prediction.)

My husband swims in trunks, a tank top, and his baseball cap. He always has, he always will. A couple hours into the day, he was approached by a manager and she asked him what his tank top was made of. After several seconds of awkward silence while he stood there staring at her, she clarified by asking if it was cotton. He answered yes. She then informed him that he would have to remove it before getting in the water. After a short argument that ended with him dramatically rolling his eyes at her and an under the breath mumble that included the word idiot, we added yet another ridiculous rule to their list of ridiculous rules. Cotton tank tops are not allowed.....as opposed to polyester, I guess.

Z and his cousin, a fellow gymnast, got lots of angry tweets from the lifeguard's whistle with their stunts off the diving board but that happens everywhere so we're pretty used to it. That's why he always saves his impressive handstand move till the end of the day when it's pretty useless to kick him out. And seeing as a pocket on his trunks caused such an uproar, a handstand might be grounds for corporal punishment or something.

I saved the best for last. The park has a round pool area. When you enter, a jet stream of water causes a current that pushes everyone around the circle. (Looking at it from above, it looks like a big pot of children at full boil.) It's fun but obviously has some potential for danger and/or injury therefore, a lifeguard is posted right by the pot. Suddenly we heard the Lifeguard stationed there yell at a child, "Hey! Keep your head above the water!" (Now there's a new Lifeguard approach. If you see someone drowning, yell at them. It's called tough love, people.)

So on a scale of 1-10, I rate "The Splash Zone" in Springfield a 4. Why so high, you might ask? Because if you enjoy pissing people off, this is the place for you. All you have to do is wear pockets or cotton, have the nerve to walk around the lazy river, check your child's diaper in public, or heaven forbid not check it at the top of each hour. And you certainly better not drown. But whatever you do, they better not catch you having fun......you might get kicked out for that. But on the upside, it wasn't crowded at all. Gee, I can't imagine why.......

So much time, so little to do.

I suck as a house keeper. That felt good to get off my chest. I'd like to believe that I'm a little better than what I grew up with and more than likely my kids will be a little better than me. (Assuming that clutter falls away little by little with each generation.) Don't get me wrong, I really try, but I get so accustomed to the way something looks that it eventually seems normal. It usually takes me getting burned (aka; embarrassed) by a situation before it gets added to my 'to-do' list.

For example; 3 years ago I had a client show up unexpectedly for a massage because she had the wrong date written down. Not a problem since I almost always have my massage room up and ready for last minute calls. The problem arose when she asked if she could use the bathroom first, (CRAP!!!!), and I found myself racing her down the hallway to get there first. To this day, my bathroom gets completely straightened every morning.

We've had a terrible time getting our satellite service installed properly. The 4th service man was here last week and he informed me that he had to enter the closet in our downstairs level to reach some cables. (Yikes.) When he opened the door he said, "Wow, is this where the other 3 repairmen ended up?" I said, "No. They're under our new concrete patio and I'd suggest you keep your comments to yourself because I could always use another patio."

For the most part, I like a straightened house. My cleaning day is Monday. (It used to be Friday but by Monday mornings my house takes on a 'Frat' look after a weekend with my family so I switched.) What cleaning means to me is a big time straightening of everything, scouring bathroom and kitchen counter tops, the toilet (of course), and dusting & vacuuming. (Not sure why I waste my time with the dusting thing since that returns by Tuesday.)

Wednesday is my laundry day. The kids know to have their baskets downstairs or it doesn't get done until the following Wednesday. (I refuse to live in my laundry room.)

And every other Tuesday I mop and launder the towels & bathmats. You might notice in my little nutshell of a cleaning schedule that washing the sheets wasn't mentioned. Let me assure you that between vomit, urine, un-capped markers, and nose bleeds, everyone's sheets get washed eventually.

My husband, who hardly ever shaves and refuses to keep track of my mopping schedule, has the habit of shaving shortly after I mop, leaving tons of tiny whiskers all over the floor. It never fails. Last month in a fit of rage I yelled, "I MOP EVERY OTHER TUESDAY! PICK A TIME TO SHAVE RIGHT NOW!" He calmly said, "I choose every other Tuesday evening." (I guess I asked for that.) So I've come to accept that my family looks at a freshly mopped floor as an artist looks at an empty canvas.

Don't expect my house to pass a white glove test. There are things I'd love to change but I'm simply not motivated enough to do it. You might find dishes downstairs from where we eat in front of the television. I realize that goes against everything you read in 'the books' but the day C stood up in her high chair, announced that she was done, removed her underwear and tossed them onto my husband's plate , eating at the table became less appealing.

So you might be wondering how I spend my days as a full time stay at home mom. That's easy.....I spend it with my husband and my kids. I try to have dinner ready when my husband gets home from work. I love to date him even if that just means cups of coffee on the patio or a private dinner for 2 upstairs while the kids eat downstairs. We love family time. We swim. We play a ridiculous amount of Cornhole in the backyard. We love to have drive-in movies and bonfires outside at night. In the winter we can be found in front of the fireplace playing board games that have been known to turn violent. In June, I began a tradition of 2am Wii golf tournaments with Z and K and if you can't find me, I'm probably reading with A up in her bed. (And I frequently fall asleep there, too.) In my opinion, all of these things are time well spent. In a home that includes children ranging in age from toddler to teenagers, I realize that kids don't need less attention the older they get. They just need a different kind.

So here I sit on my 'mopping' Tuesday with un-mopped floors. Know why? Because my husband is coming home from work early and we're taking the kids to a water park which means that 'mopping Tuesday' probably won't happen till Wednesday this time and I'm okay with that. Because someday, (hopefully many years from now), when I'm lying on my death bed I don't predict that I'll be wishing that I'd had a cleaner house. I do predict, however, that I won't regret not playing Cornhole with my kids when they ask.....because I always do.

Spare me

Z enrolled our family in the 'Kids Bowl Free' summer program....the idea being, that kids bowl free...just in case you couldn't follow. For an added $25, 4 adults can bowl "free" too. Of course it wasn't until after we signed up and paid on-line that we realized shoe rental wasn't included and with 4 kids this quickly turned into our most expensive free summer program to date.

He found a bowling alley in a neighboring town nearby. (And by 'nearby' I mean 25 minutes because we can't get anywhere in under 25 minutes and we're getting used to that fact.) Yesterday the kids and I headed out for some bowling bonding time on a rainy afternoon. Z drove and with the help of our handy GPS, we found it pretty easily. We pulled up to a tiny windowless building and sat there staring in confusion as to how a bowling alley fit in there. And if this neighboring town has a 'bad part', this bowling alley was in it. Just as I was about to voice my concern Z mentioned that the building reminded him of something out of the holocaust. (He makes occasional holocaust references thanks entirely to the obsession of his screwed up 8th grade Language Arts teacher, but that's another story. We're getting used to it by now.)

We nervously headed inside to find what is probably the cutest bowling alley ever. I think it had 10 lanes, one of which was being used by a group of 4 kids, another by a small family, and an elderly woman working behind the counter. There was even a 'sports bar' in the far corner which consisted of a tiny bar with about 3 stools, complete with a television. Along the far wall was a series of racks full of balls that were organized by color. Nice.

We approached the friendly looking Grandma behind the counter and in an effort to save 2 bucks I gave her my sweetest face and asked if C could just bowl in her socks. She shot me down. When I pointed out that her feet are so little, she magically produced a tiny pair of size 7 that fit C perfectly. (Sigh.) Then she said, "Let me see which lane is open." Confused, I turned to look behind me and it was very obvious to me that 8 of the 10 were 'open' but what do I know? She hooked us up on Lane 7 and we started to bowl. When the family next to us noticed C struggling with the weight of her ball, and the tantrums that would accompany our attempts to help her, the mom tipped me off that 'Grandma behind the counter' has a toddler ball. When I asked about it, 'Grandma' shot me down again and said she doesn't like to get that out. So much for the 'friendly' Grandma. I informed 'Grandma' that C's heavy ball is going to bang pretty hard when she throws it and she recommended that I help her bowl.....hmmm.....maybe if she were allowed to bowl in her socks, that would be an option, but I paid for shoes, damn it. Clearly, Grandma and I were about to butt heads.

We spent the next 3 hours bowling 2 games.....that's right, 3 hours to bowl 2 games. Mainly thanks to C's balls rolling a whopping point 9 miles an hour. (I didn't know a speed under one could even register.) Sometimes her ball would stop part way down and slowly roll back to her, causing her to squeel with delight that she got 'another turn.' Sometimes the ball would stop dead in it's tracks right in the middle of the lane and as it turns out, when I stepped out onto the greased lane to get it, I received more un-wanted one on one attention from Grandma. But occasionally her ball would actually make it to the pins and in one rare moment, she bowled herself a spare. And we loudly cheered in the dead quiet of the tiny bowling alley, causing the one man sitting at the 'sports bar' to turn and glare. No apology, dude, we paid for her shoes. (I can't seem to get past that.....)

But at the end of the day, the kids and I had a blast together and tons of memories were made, and as an added bonus, they got to see the inner workings of a small town bowling alley. In the 3 hours we spent there observing, we realized that Grandma was the Jack of all trades. She not only signed people in and forced their shoes on them, but she was also the cook, (microwaved fries, anyone?), the waitress, (fries were accompanied by a high five from Grandma, for a small fee, I'm sure), she was the DJ and kept the juke box hopping, and she was even the bar maid. (Her creepiest job by far.) Surprisingly, the lanes were automatic and we didn't see Grandma setting the pins back up or rolling our balls back to us. Unfortunately, the little blower to dry my bowling fingers didn't work.....maybe that was Grandma's job too.....um, never mind.

Couch to 5k...and back to the couch....

There's a program out there called 'Couch to 5k.' The general idea seems to be that with the help of this website, you can not only get your butt off the couch, but that you'll soon be able to run a 5k.

A friend recently mentioned that she's utilizing this system to attempt to run one. I didn't know what a 'k' was or why in the world anyone would want to run 5 of them, but as it turns out it's 3 miles. (I guess 5k sounds more impressive than 3m.) She's one of my few friends that lives in our vicinity, which is to say that she also lives out in the middle of nowhere. She asked me if I'd like to join her on a training run around her block. (Her 3-mile block compared to my 5-mile block would probably classify her as living in an actual neighborhood.)

Although I wouldn't say that I'm in shape, I also don't consider myself an exercise virgin. According to a medical chart I could probably stand to lose 30 lbs. According to my standard I would like to lose 20, but in reality I'm only motivated to try to lose 10 and I'm not holding my breath about those.

My routine involves working out 6 days a week. Three of those days are spent circuit training with my elliptical machine and an upper body weight workout. Two days include circuit training with my treadmill and a lower body weight workout. And on Saturday I do some form of cardio and I try to vary that up to keep it interesting. Add onto all of that swimming laps several days a week, occasionally riding my bike, playing for our co-ed softball team, and sometimes when I'm in the mood to completely humiliate myself and my children, I put on my roller blades and push C in her stroller......up and down our driveway.....it's a real treat for passing motorists. Looking at this list of activities and admitting that I still can't lose 10 lbs can bring me to only one conclusion.....I love to eat. I love to eat. I love to eat. Did I mention how much I love to eat?

Anyway, I agreed to train with Mandi one day. She emailed me the Couch to 5k program, but I didn't read it. I'm not a runner, but how hard could it be, right? We began with a 5 minute warm up walk and the plan was to run until we reached the first stop sign. (Approximately 3 minutes.) No problem. Let's go. I immediately became aware of why I don't run. There isn't a sports bra out there that could keep me from bouncing, there just isn't. And do they make a sports bra for your butt cheeks? Not to my knowledge. So I found myself painfully bouncing alongside my very fit friend and the blasted stop sign we were aiming for seemed to get further and further away. I can't imagine what I sounded like clomping along beside her, but at one point she recommended I try breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth which leads me to believe I may have been gasping for air. Probably a safe assumption since my throat was burning after about a minute. In a state of complete embarrassment, I had to go back to walking.

During my second lame attempt at running I realized that my bladder was bouncing as hard as the rest of me and finally admitted to her that I had to pee.....bad. You know you have a true friend when she helps you find a secluded patch of trees and stands watch for cars while you drop trou and relieve yourself. There she was out in the middle of her 5k and stuck with an out-of-shape-bouncy-heavy-breather who couldn't make it from here to there without having to urinate.

We attempted one more run but when she warned me of the on-coming car and I was tempted to dive into it's path, I realized that running wasn't for me and we walked the rest of the way. Now that was enjoyable. We walked pretty fast, or so I think, and we could actually hold a conversation.

When I got home I decided that I could utilize our country block too and began walking each evening with my husband and A and occasionally K and Z join us on bikes with C in her carrier on the back. (There's even a cornfield on the back stretch of secluded country road for those times I have to pee.) I apologized to Mandi for wrecking one of her training days but in the end it motivated us to exercise as a family and spend some wonderful quality time together.

I'm committed to my continued attempt to lose 10 of my pounds, I'm committed to spending time with my family, and most important of all, I'm committed to never never ever ever ever running a 5k......and it's all about commitment, am I right?

Jello. It ain't what it used to be.

A run of the mill July 4th cookout includes an assortment of grilled meats, tons of delicious side dishes, a table full of tempting desserts and Cornhole (a must). Occasionally, but not always, there's a supply of alcohol. Although my husband and I don't drink, we're not offended by the presence of a coolor full of alcoholic beverages. (Okay, I did take up drinking to get through the Marriage Retreat, but that was strictly out of necessity.)

At our first stop of the afternoon, when K ran up and excitedly announced that someone brought jello shots, I explained that it was alcohol and told her not to drink any. No big deal. As the afternoon progressed, most everyone was gathered in lawn chairs outside, except for A, who was sitting inside with C who was asleep on the couch. It was 4:30 and we had to leave around 5:30 to get to our next cookout, so I went inside to relieve her and allow her more time to visit with our family. As I was sitting with C in the cool quiet house, I began eying the desserts, trying desperately to stick to my diet, and failing miserably. Then I noticed 3 colorful plates full of jello jigglers cut into nice big squares. Green, yellow, and red.....mmmm......isn't jello the guilt-free-go-to-dessert of 'The Biggest Loser?' Perfect.

I'm sure you see by now where this is going, so let me justify to you (and myself), why I didn't associate the Jello squares with the Jello shots.......they weren't in little cups, okay?!?!? And who cuts alcoholic jello into fun sized jigglers and leaves them out for the chubby dieter to see?!?!

So I started working my way slowly through the plate of red ones. Funny thing is, the more I ate, the more I wanted. Of course it all makes sense now, hindsight and all. When Z came inside and found me, there were a total of 3 left. (I'd have to guess that means I ate somewhere between 12 and I don't know of them.) I looked at him with my dilated pupils and asked him if he tried the jello. He gave me his best 'Jim Halpert' face and said, "Nooooo, but you tried the jello, didn't you?" It didn't take long to notice the strange way my lips were burning.....or maybe 'felt like they were on fire' would be a more accurate description....and my tongue not only felt huge but fuzzy.

My concern was having to explain to K that I just swallowed the very shots she was forbidden to enjoy. My husband's concern was that our next stop was the church picnic and I was sloshed. Z became my designated driver and ten minutes into the drive to our next stop, I fell asleep. (aka; passed out.) I woke up an hour later in a pile of my own drool to my husband lightly smacking my cheeks and assuring K that "Mommy's okay, she's just drunk." (Must we tell them everything?)

Other than my jittery eyes and occasional mispronouncing of words, I did okay the rest of the evening. I ate and drank plenty of water and had a wonderful time visiting with friends from both past and present and I'd like to think I pulled it off. Until the drive home when I suddenly heaved and my husband yanked the van to the side of the road and practically tossed me out. While I vomited outside my door he used it as a teachable moment for our kids as to the dangers of drinking. (One more memory for our kids to tell their therapist someday.)

I guess I'm just a lightweight and can't hold my jello like I used to. I'm currently experiencing my very first hangover and there's not one thing appealing about it. I came close to posting about this last night, but decided it might be a dangerous combination to drink and blog. Oh well, it's a life experience. Hopefully my kids learned something from this and I know I certainly did.....I now know why those 'Biggest Loser' contestants eat so much $%&# jello.

Fireworks

If I were to play word association this time of year it would go something like this: "July 4th ~ fireworks. Fireworks ~ explosives. Explosives ~ dangerous. Dangerous ~ my husband"......and to be honest, I can't help but cycle through that string of associating words every year as we approach America's Birthday.

It should come as no surprise to learn that my husband has an infatuation with things that carry potential to inflict bodily harm, so why should long wicks on shiny pieces of explosives packaged in brightly colored boxes at Walmart be any different? And those are the legal ones. Our friendly neighboring state is kind enough to sell the illegal variety right off the interstate.

For many years I was able to limit him to the legal, albeit dangerous, assortment from Walmart. With exception of a few minor mishaps, those were pretty uneventful. That is until a 'friend' from work gave him a half a stick of dynamite. The details of that exchange are still unclear. I have no clue why that 'friend' had any dynamite or why the topic was ever brought up in normal conversation. It's not outside the realm of possibility that his eyes lit up at the mention of it, but how that turned into 'gifting' him with some is beyond me. I'm embarrassed to admit that the dynamite lived in one of my kitchen drawers for several months. (I'd like to think I'm smarter now.) I thought he had forgotten about it. Little did I know the plans he had in mind.

Enter July 4th, 2000......He duct taped that dynamite to a bottle rocket from Walmart in the middle of the street in our crowded neighborhood. I have no idea what he thought would happen, but I can tell you what did happen. As expected, his preparations drew a large curious crowd.....red neck, duct tape, dynamite, bottle rocket.....that's a no-brainer. (Another quick word association: "Crowd = witnesses.") Anyhoo, the stage was set and the wicks were lit. Here's a tip: The explosive with the shortest wick will detonate first. That being said, the bottle rocket was the first to go, but instead of going up, the weight of the dynamite pulled it down and straight through a crowd of witnesses, who scattered just as the bottle rocket hit the front porch of a house across the street.....and then the dynamite detonated.....and exploded a perfectly good set of patio furniture. Before the smoke cleared, he ran into the house to hide. When I found him he was repeating, "I'm going to jail, I'm going to jail." I finally convinced him that his only option was to go apologize and pay for the damages. (There were witnesses, after all.) I was the one hiding in the house as he dragged himself across the street and was surprised when he returned just a few minutes later and happily announced, "Great news! They were evicted two weeks ago!"

He was much more careful in the years to follow. There was a small lapse in judgement in 2001 when he threw what he thought were 'duds' into our bonfire pit. Turns out they weren't 'duds' and a few months later we were flying out of our lawn chairs and taking cover as we initially thought someone had opened fire on us while we were roasting hot dogs.

But things went terribly wrong again in 2003 when he decided to go to that friendly neighboring state and load up on 'big ones' for my family get together at my uncle's house. Did you know that there are fireworks that, once lit, shoot off twelve at a time? Did you know that once lit, there's no way to stop the process until it's over? Did you know that if one of those should tip over from the force of the first shot that the force of each shot thereafter would continue to flip it in different directions causing a catastrophic game of 'Firework Russian Roulette?' With all of that in mind, my husband single handedly almost killed off my entire side of the family who stood on my uncle's porch in a state of shock watching each explosion like a deadly tennis match and counting down from twelve. (If not for quick reflexes and military training my cousin wouldn't be here today. My other cousin ran with her baby to the basement as though it were Armageddon.) After the twelfth and final shot, we breathed a collective sigh of relief and for several seconds nobody said anything. My Mamaw Putter finally broke the silence when she said, "Where'd you find the kind that shoot off to the side like that?" (At least someone was impressed and nobody had the heart to tell her that he had just almost killed her and all of her off-spring.)

There is a 'no fireworks' rule at our house. A couple years ago we had to expand that rule to ban him from even 'helping' with fireworks at any house after he assisted our neighbor with his display and a flaming firework landed back into the box of unlit fireworks, detonating them all, and sending our neighbors family flying for shelter.

I'm convinced that God is watching out for us and those who have the misfortune of coming into contact with us. I picture morning 'staff-meetings' with all the guardian angels and God randomly draws a name to see which guardian angel has to cover the Courter Family that day. I can't help but wonder how many have gone into early retirement on July 5th.......

It's a hard knock life.....

It's our goal to be a normal family. We try to be a normal family. I think it's even possible for us to be a normal family. But when things don't go as planned, our efforts at normalcy fall by the wayside, and it causes a domino effect.

We went to see a live production of 'Annie' in the park Friday night. (I've been sworn to secrecy about sharing all the details of that experience, due to the public nature of this blog, so please forgive me.)

On the way to the park there was a little encounter with a guy driving a tree trimming truck. He was sitting in the middle of his lane and we were at a standstill. I made a gesture to him. Not the finger, but more of a questioning shrug. He didn't like that and started screaming toward my closed window. Suddenly my window lowered and I looked over at my husband who was pushing the button and he said, "Get him, babe. I got yer back." (Have I mentioned how much I love that man?) I choose to believe that I overwhelmed that driver with my witty snark and I'm relieved that my husband never had to 'get my back' during the exchange. (He's had to save my butt before.) But as we drove away, Z calmly said, "None of that was necessary" and I had no argument. (Unexpected words of maturity from a teenage boy are annoying.)

When the show began I was sitting on the edge of my lawn chair, giddy with excitement and anticipation of loudly singing along. But I was immediately distracted. There were two women standing up on the stage who were interpreting the show in Sign Language. Let me say right now that Sign Language in itself is not distracting and I'm a huge supporter of what they do. One of the women was perfectly normal as she did her job. And please allow me to clarify what their job is. It is NOT to play the part. It is to interpret what the person playing the part is saying. I wish someone had told the other interpreter that, because from the looks of things, she was convinced she was actually playing the role of Miss Hannigan.....and Mr. Warbucks....and several orphans. I tried desperately to pay attention to the musical, but to be perfectly honest, it wasn't that great. Maybe I had my hopes built up too high or maybe it was Z leaning over asking when it was going to 'get good' and I had no answer for him. But when the distracting interpreter caught the bored eyes of my husband and Z, and they began entertaining themselves (and others) with imitations, I knew I'd lost them and at intermission I whispered, "Now's our chance" and we gathered up our chairs and headed out. Our family obviously isn't cut out for live musicals....or dramatic interpreters.

Next stop; Schulers bakery for Fathers Day donuts. For those who don't know what Schulers is, there are no words to describe it. For those who are familiar with Schulers, enough said. It's the best bakery in the worst part of town. (At least the worst part I've ever experienced.) It was decided beforehand that we would leave with twelve donuts. But we no sooner crossed through the entrance and my husband was begging for one to eat on the ride home, in addition to the two he was getting for Fathers Day. He got that look on his face, started rubbing my back, and repeatedly saying, "You know you want to" and I had flashbacks of our fourth date....and I caved. (On the donuts.) One by one each of my family members told the employee which two donuts they wanted in our box and which one they wanted in their hand and we quickly headed out to the van, trying to avoid being shot at, while holding our fresh donuts and a large white box with blue writing. (The sight of that box alone can make my mouth water immediately.) Mission accomplished and homeward bound.

We passed our neighbor's pitch black house. We didn't notice. We pulled into the driveway of our pitch black house. We didn't notice. We sat in our van and pushed the garage door opener a couple hundred times while pointing the remote closer and closer to the windshield and cursing dead batteries without once suspecting something was amiss. K offered to get out and push the keypad on the garage door even though it was drizzling rain and occasionally lightning. We let her. When that wasn't working we assumed she forgot the code and began yelling out the numbers until she finally gave up and yet still nothing occurred to us. We all got out of the van and took turns with the keypad and finally Z said, "Do you think our electricity is out?" (That makes two smart things he said in a six hour time frame. By our standard, I think that qualifies him as our new leader.) My husband hoisted Z onto his shoulders to unlatch our gate and despite the risk of stepping on baby kittens, we voted daddy the lucky one to make his way through the completely dark and cluttered garage to let us in. We heard him 'find' my mop bucket shortly into his journey and the kids got to hear what daddy says when he's mad. We finally made it into the dark house.

A Massage Therapist is never short on candles. We filled our bedroom with them and chaos ensued when C began making her way around the room blowing them out as we lit them. There we sat around our candle lit room with no Wii golf, no Facebook, no tv, and nothing but idle conversation with each other. The topic of the Amish came up. How could it not? A shared that she would like to be Amish. Z informed her that she couldn't have an Ipod. A changed her mind. C began listing television shows she'd like to watch one by one until we put a stop to that. When we heard the train behind our house I wondered aloud how the train was able to run with no electricity. My husband sighed dramatically and banned all talking. (Add 'idle conversation' to the list of things our family doesn't handle well.) The mention of sleep was followed by the moans of children accustomed to sleeping with the background noise of box fans and therefore can't sleep in silence anymore. We were in for a long night.

Two hours later in the deafening silence, just before I drifted off to sleep, something occurred to me. I woke my husband up and said, "Hey. Don't we have a generator in the garage?" and for the second time in one night, the kids got to hear that word that daddy says when he gets mad.....