Play date at Brooke's house

Timothy and Micah enjoyed the sprinkler. They also enjoyed chasing each other in huge circles around Brooke's yard, squealing all the while!

Rachel helped the kids blow some bubbles. Well, some blew them, some ate them. Ok, my kid ate the bubbles. But he wasn't completely alone. Layla later used to bubble wand to scoop up fruit dip. You can't blame her. It was delicious! I'd have used a bubble wand, too, if that was all that I had on hand!

I love this action shot of Layla and Jayden. I also love Layla's swimsuit. Is there anything cuter than little tiny swimsuits?

I'm not sure what Timothy is telling Rachel here, but it looks very important.

My son is goofy. He takes after his father. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it! Thanks for a fun time, Brooke!

Why Timothy eats in his birthday suit

I realize that eventually we'll need to break him of this habit and teach him to get more of the food into his mouth, and less everywhere else. It could be awkward later in life. Most girls don't go on a second date with a man who strips to his underpants prior to dinner. Nevertheless, for now it saves me extra laundry. It would save me even more if I'd just let the dog in to lick him off afterwards, instead of using a washcloth to clean him. I haven't stooped that low. Yet.

Are you sitting down?

...Because this announcement is BIG. And shocking. Today...I fixed something! I fixed the washer, to be exact! I admit, when I say "fixed", I mean that Chris walked me through checking the circuit box over the phone, and I figured out that the fuse had tripped the circuit breaker, or whatever it is that happens, and I flipped the switch back, thus "fixing" the washer and garage door opener. Truthfully, I couldn't care less about the garage door opener, but laundry was piling up, and desperation is the mother of invention. Or the mother of nervous break downs.

Hair, there, and everywhere!

I know I'm LOOOOONNNNNG past due on answering the question of what I'm going to do with my hair. The answer is that I got some of it cut off a couple of weeks ago. Spur of the moment, huh? I wanted to take before and after pictures, but I didn't get the chance. Next month, after Amy's wedding is over, there will be a major chop. Right now, nobody can tell I got it cut, even though it was at least a five inch chop. Sometime after June 7th, I'm going to do something drastic. Not a mohawk, though. That would be too drastic, as well as too much work in the morning. I don't have time to iron my clothes, much less my hair! So, thanks for taking the survey, and I'm sorry to be so anti-anticlimactic about the whole thing!

I'm not a mother, I'm a referee!

Why didn't anyone tell me that as a mother of boys, I would spend most of my time as a referee? Also, while we're asking the important questions, can anyone tell me if there's a school for become a better referee? Because at this point, I make a lot of bad calls. For instance, today I've spent the better part of the afternoon breaking up wrestling matches. So just now, when I was trying to shove the boys into the shower (about like trying to bathe a cat, only more dangerous!), I happened to realize that Timothy's hair was sopping wet. The water in the shower had not yet been started, so I found this to be perplexing. "Timothy," I asked, "why is your hair wet?"

"Because it was in the potty gettin' a swirly!" was his innocent answer.

"GAAAAAAAABBBBBBBEEEEEEEEEE!!!" I bellowed, "What is the meaning of this? Why would you do that? What made you think giving your brother a swirly was a good idea???"

Gabe looked up from his disrobing, and calmly said, "Mama, I didn't give him a swirly, he gave himself a swirly. And he had just used the potty and didn't flush!"

See, bad call. And disgusting (but unfortunately true) story. I hope to complete my referee training by the time my sons are grown, and graduate to the UFC. I'm sure they will appreciate my skills at calling fights and kissing owies.

Eccentric?

It has recently been brought to my attention that my children may be a bit...eccentric. They deviate from the standard in so many ways, it's hard to keep track. I was an eccentric child, so this doesn't seem at all strange to me, but I can imagine how it looks from anywhere outside of the family. As Dad recently put it, "Eccentricity doesn't run in our family, it positively gallops!"

This morning on the way to school, I found myself explaining complex economic theory to Gabe. Is this a normal interest for an 8-year-old boy? I'm pretty sure it isn't, but who am I to judge? I kept waiting for his eyes to glaze over so I could stop, but they never did, and I eventually got in over my head. When this happens, I give my standard answer, "I don't know, but I'm sure Daddy does! You should ask him when he gets home!"

Then there's Timothy. I don't even know where to begin when it comes to Timothy. Lately, he has set all requests to song, and they are accompanied by an interpretive dance. As in, "Caaaaan I have some Lu-uh-uh-uh-unch?" over and over again, with strange gyrations. He knows every song on the radio, beginning to end. And the other night in martial arts, when Guru Eric was standing over a couple of kids cuing, "Shake! Shake! Shake!", Timothy felt the need to add, "Senora, shake your body lion!" at the tops of his lungs. I have my ring tone and Harry Belafonte to blame for that one.

We are in the midst of potty training with Timothy. He's gotten down the whole pooping in the potty thing pretty well. The rest, not so much. Being the lazy parent I am, I'm happy to leave it at that. Let's face it, you have to choose your battles. I feel that I have enough battles already. Plus, he's in pull-ups, so he can, for the most part, change his own diaper now. See, told you I'm lazy! Anyway, today he was sitting in the kitchen, playing with his letter magnets while I fixed lunch. Suddenly, he jumped up off the floor and shouted, "Oh, NOOOOO! It's raining in my pants!" I admit, I laughed. Wouldn't you?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways!

I am speaking of spring, of course! Have I mentioned that I love spring? It's as if the world were trying to apologize for all the mean things it did to us during the winter. Believe me, after last winter's ice storm, it owes us one! First: Wild roses. I planted these seven years ago. I've tried for the past six years to get rid of them. They're the spiniest, spikiest things you've ever seen in your life. But they are lovely when the bloom! They grow all over the place in Oklahoma, and supposedly, they were brought in by the early settlers' wives. The rose that is strong enough to survive a covered wagon ride across country isn't going to be discouraged by a little thing like being dug up by me each and every year!

Second: Irises. These were transplanted from my mom's childhood home, on a farm in Missouri. She and my grandma planted them, and years later, went back to dig some up. The farm house is now in a sad state, abandoned and falling to ruin, but the irises will certainly outlive it. Isn't it funny that my family passes down flowers as heirlooms? I'd rather have these than jewels, anyway!

I truly wish I could figure out a way to add smell to my blog. These smell heavenly!

Despite all my complaints about how tiny my house is, it IS a cute little house. It's not a bad little house, Charlie Brown! It just needs a little love! (And maybe an extra thousand square feet!)

Ok, I know this doesn't look like much. These are the seedlings I planted a few weeks back. If you look closely, you'll see...purple basil! Ta Da! Every day when I check on my seedlings, I feel like I'm getting a little present. It's so exciting to watch them grow. I'm such a DORK!

Because I'm weird and a little obsessed with having a wreath for every occasion, I felt the need to come up with a "live" wreath for this spring. Each and every morning finds me watering my front door. I'm not sure whether I should be impressed with myself, or a little scared for my own sanity. I'm pretty sure I know which of these options my neighbors choose when they see me watering my door. I'm assuming you can't see the lettuce growing from the street.

Last, but not least, there are my peonies. This is only the third year that they've bloomed, and I can't help but think they're gorgeous. The bees all agree with me. Right before they bloomed, I was mesmerized by the site of a huge bumblebee hovering patiently over a bud, waiting for it to open. There were other flowers all around him, but he wanted this one. Really, can you blame him?