(posted by Aunt Pippy…yes, I hijacked her blog again!)

My oldest counts his money again.  Carefully he weighs the options.  Finally, he chooses his fireworks.  He pays for them with his allowance.  He goes home to run in the yard and wait for the sun to sleep and night to fall.

My middle one is eight.  Normally the one with little to say but today he has lots of questions.  “Why is today a holiday?  What does it mean?  Why do we celebrate?  How long ago was 1776?  How many fireworks can I buy with $1.50?  When will it be dark?  Wasn’t that cool?  Can we do this again next year?

My youngest.  A sweet, cherub 5-year old face.  She twirls and sings in the glow of her sparkler.  Innocence defined.  She doesn’t really understand what July 4th means but she is relishing in the celebration.

It’s late and the last firework was lit.  Everyone is in jammies and teeth are brushed.  On the way to bed each one echoes “Thanks mom and dad for letting us buy fireworks.”

Tonight, I am saying “Thank You”, too.  To all of them from George Washington to the fresh faced boy in our hometown.  To every man or woman who has left home, worked hard, and fought harder for our country and our freedom.  To every lonely spouse fighting at home to go on and raise children while their loved one is deployed.  To every worried parent, friend and neighbor.

When you are no longer respected.  When you’re tired, battered, and homesick.  To those who are permanently scarred in body and soul.  To those who have given their lives.  For all your sacrifices.

THANK YOU!!

Thank you for going when you didn’t want to.  Thank you for fighting when you didn’t have to.

We celebrated today.  We celebrated the freedom we enjoy everyday (and often take for granted).

The freedom to own a bible, sing hymns at the top of our lungs, to pray aloud for you.

The freedom to dream and grow and explore.

The freedom to stay home and school my children.

The freedom to play in the park, visit our friends, and dance under the stars.

The freedom to stand proudly, hand over our heart, tears streaming down my face, and sing with all sincerity, “O say can you see….”

Today was more than hamburgers, watermelon, ice cream, and baseball.

Today when we lit our fireworks and twirled in their glow, we were praying for you and saying, “Thank you.”

We’ll never forget.

This one’s for you.

I enter contests all over the friggin blogosphere. All over! I have never won a camera at PW or a $500 gift certificate to anywhere, and right now I am quite sure I just maybe might not win the Wii Fit at Dooce beings I am one of 42500 people that entered that little ditty. But I did once win a kid’s cookbook from Christine that we love and use alot. I also once won a handmade collage from my girl Joan-Marie. I recently won something Brazilian from a girl from well, Brazil. But I don’t know what it’s gonna be yet and I well, haven’t gotten it yet either. To make any sort of sense of this babbling, I will get to the point…. Pepper Scraps is having an awesome giveaway for a new layout at her site. I have actually grown a little into my pathetic attempt at a bright and colorful blog, but to be severely honest with you, I am really pretty bloggy ignorant. I, for the life of me cannot figure out how to put a button on my blog. Seriously. I also wish I could fill both sides of my blog with fun stuff, but yeah, can’t figure that out either. Something about bandwidth or girth or CSS or CSI, or something or other. So anyhoo. I thought I would enter this contest and if I won, I would rehaul the ‘ole blog. But then I thought…miraculous I know…that I should get a new blog. (It’s super easy with WordPress) and devote it to the coming up of the daycare! (not a new blog altogether just another blog)I am currently filling out paperwork and getting ready to paint, and a blog chronicling (is that a word? help me out Joan-Marie) the daycare from literally day 1. Maybe it will motivate me too. What ya think? So pray, cross your fingers and your toes, send good thoughts out into the universe, whatever you do so that I can win this contest, K? Thanks.

Also, check out her stuff at Uniquehorn Designs. Beautiful stuff.

I saw something this morning that touched me like nothing has touched me in a very long time. I don’t talk about it much on this blog, but my greatest passion in life (other than my kids) is other people’s kids. More importantly the youth of the innercity that live just a hop, skip and a jump over the river from us. I have volunteered for the Inner City Youth Football Collaborative for the past 4 years and it has changed my heart, soul (and body - lots of football game hot dogs.) Seriously, my passion is for these boys.

I have rejoiced in them and worried about them. I have spent endless nights putting together scrapbooks of them and crying and praying for them. Some of them have really hard lives. Some of them are eight years old and are the “man” of the house. Just this past Sunday our pastor talked about “being a Christian and not just talking like one”. I have really been convicted lately because I have never openly prayed with these boys. They don’t know Miss Mandy lays her heart at the alter for them. But they do know Miss Mandy loves them and cheers loud when they win and cries when they lose and I am always always available for a hug (or a buck for a gatorade after the game). I have held one while we were at an out-of-town tournament without his mama and he got really sick. I have wiped away blood and kissed boo-boos. I have given rides and fed them dinner. And please don’t think I am telling this for some sort of admiration. These experiences with these boys bless me far more than I could bless them with a happy meal. I know praying openly and witnessing to them is my own walk, but I hope someday, even just one of them, sees me as a positive Christian influence in their lives. As I watched this video today, I thought of these boys…all of them and what I should be doing as a Christian to be more missional.

If I could just get my hand on this CD, I know it would reach these boys and give them hope. Not everyone likes raps - but this is genius. My prayer is this group blows up, because I KNOW they could reach the masses of some that need him the most!

 Don’t worry -  there are words for you to follow! Please watch - you will get goosebumps!

I posted this a while back, but thought it would be perfect today for WFMW: The Five Ingredients Edition.

My oldest daughter has become increasingly more interested in helping me in the kitchen lately and has been asking me when she can cook dinner for the family. Just like music to my ears! So I tried to think of an easy recipe she could follow that didn’t use too many ingredients. Not that anything I ever cook is very difficult, but still she’s eight. And her mother is paranoid about her use of metal on a hot shiny stove so we are taking baby steps here. One of the girls weekday favorites is Pizza Sticks, which they so cleverly have renamed the “Easy Peesy Cheesy Pizza Sticks”. You must, in my house, also refer to these cheesy little wonders by thier equally cheesy name or you may upset the natives. No shortening. No, “hey hand me your plate and I will get you some pizza sticks.” “Mammmmaaaaa, you mean Easy Peesy Cheesy Pizza Sticks.” “Ok. (sigh) Hand me your plate so I can get you some Easy Peesy Cheesy Pizza Sticks. Please.” Good thing I drew the line there. The first title was “Olivia’s Famous Easy Peesy Cheesy and Pepperoni Pizza Sticks.” Whew. I am tired from just typing it. So anyhoo. Here are the ingredients you need:

We don’t shop for specifics in this family. We go by strictly what is on sale and what we have the best coupon for. The breadsticks obviously don’t have to be garlic, and I once used the pizza dough which worked great, but I enjoy the garlicy taste and the girls do too. Oh, and the boyfriend just loves it when we all smell like garlic. The Ramen noodles? Again not necessary unless you have a picky 5 year old that claims she “is just not in the mood for Pizza Sticks”, I mean not in the mood for Easy Peesy Cheesy Pizza Sticks.

So here goes the tutorial. My first. So be kind. And I must mention, that I did nothing during the making of the Easy Chee oh forget it, dinner. Olivia did it all on her own. I even let her take the pan from the oven. I only made her wear 2 hand mits. And use a towel.

First you just open one package of your garlic breadsticks and spread them out on a sheet of wax paper.  And I know you are all so jealous by the expanse of countertop space we have to work with here, but please control yourself.

You want to smush the seams together to make better use of the breadsticks. You don’t want them to be too skinny.

And don’t worry. Having two different colored chipping nailpolish is not necessary for the making of this meal, but if you wanna go spruce up your fingers a la eight-year-old-girl,  go ahead. We’ll wait.

Next you want to cut your dough into bigger squares. I usually get nine to a package of breadsticks.

The next step will no doubt get you a few giggles if you live in a house with children as do I, because now you must cut the cheese. This one Emma took literally and so we all had to evacuate the kitchen for a few moments but we recovered.

You will want to break up your cheese a little bit by splitting it apart so that you have enough for all the sticks.

Now just place a few pieces of pepporoni and a few pieces of cheese into each square and roll it up tightly, pinching the ends.

Tah-Dah! Dab the rolls with a little bit of the vegetable oil on a papertowel to make them crispy in the oven. Now just place all your rolled up breadstick rolls onto the pan and cook at 35o degrees for 11 to 14 minutes.

You will want to turn your sticks over during baking so they get crispy on both sides.

Yum. Just throw them on a plate and douse them with marinara sauce, or if you prefer like Cori, to get a big dallup of marinara on the side and dip, you can do that too.

Just make sure you get a little sauce on your shirt there. Makes the meal complete.

Or you could just skip the whole Easy Peesy Cheesy Pizza Stick ordeal and eat your Ramen noodles and be happy.

But I’m takin the sticks anyday!

Wanna see more great recipes, go visit Works For Me Wednesday at Rocks in my Dryer! Tons of great ideas!

Hi, this is Aunt Pippy….Mandy’s sister. I hijacked her blog today because this post came barging through my thoughts last night as I tried to sleep. I figured if it was worth interrupting my beauty sleep (which I definitely need), it was worth hijacking her blog and posting about it.

Mandy and I are sisters….though we haven’t always liked it. We are were as different as night and day.

(Mandy is on the left of dad, I’m on the right)

She was the baby and the tomboy. Running, sweating, muddy with a room full of trucks and transformers. In fact the only dress she ever owned was a muted purple with a big, Michael Jackson glitter glove on it! She could sing and dance. She could draw and paint. She could make you laugh until your sides ached and you peed your pants without even trying. She was untouchable–girls hated her because she wasn’t gossipy or giddy and she wouldn’t put up with any “stuff”. Everyone wanted to be her friend and no one wanted to be her enemy. She would push the boundary lines of every rule. Her room was strewn with dirty clothes, smelly shoes, and yesterday’s dishes (complete with leftover mayonnaise which she dipped everything in-from nuggets to potato chips). She graduated from high school and moved the following week to the big city so she could chase dreams and explore the world. She was free, bubbly, funny.

I was the princess, the oldest. The coifed bangs, turned up collars, and matching outfits. I didn’t get dirty or sweaty. I played barbies, school, and treated my cabbage patch like she was real. I took dance but had no rythym. I couldn’t draw or paint (but I could make a mean chocolate chip cookie). I was moody, sensitive, nervous. I worried about things far beyond my years. I was home ten minutes before curfew. My room was pink, frilly, and neat as a pin. I didn’t move out until my wedding day.

But now….

Now we both have three children. We both kiss boo-boo’s, read stories, play pretend, and sweat while playing ball in the backyard. We lie in bed at night and hurt because some mean kid made our baby cry. We worry how we’ll clothe our children, send them to college, and pay for their weddings. We laugh at our kids jokes–the ones we’ve heard every day for a week. We pray for their health, their safety, their future. We can be as gentle as a lamb and growl like a mother bear when necessary. We applaud each other’s accomplishments. We share disappointments. We tell secrets–the ones we don’t want the parents to know because they’ll worry.

I’ve learned to paint. She’s learned to bake. I play trucks and swords with my boys. She plays dolls and dress up with her girls. I can crack a joke. She can clean house. I’ve learned to laugh more and worry less. She’s learned it’s okay to cry and good to be serious sometimes.

We always knew God made us sisters. After 30 years, we’ve chosen to be friends. I love you, Dee.

(Pippy on the left, Mandy on the right)

Our house is all abuzz with excitment right now because the girls are getting ready to go to their very first sleepover camp ever. Five whole days with no mommy. They are way excited. I am way nervous.

I have been list making like crazy. Trying to make sure they have enough clothes and towels and bathing suits and bath products and sunscreen and goggles and ear plugs and by now you may be feeling a tenth of my anxiety.

Not only am I a nervous nelly about sending my three little babies out into the world where they will have to fend for themselves in very large groups of other kids, but I am feeling a little unprepared. While I have been doing laundry like a crazy lady so they could take all their favorite comfortable outfits, I have not started packing a thing. My lists are largely unchecked.

In steps Nana (insert angelic singing and a glow of light here)

She took the girls to Coney Island yesterday to ride the rollercoasters and then called me when it was time for me to leave work and said “Just meet us at Walmart by the house.” “Um, ok.” I responded.

When I arrived at Walmart, I drove around for ten minutes trying to find a parking spot, and then I walked around for 20 minutes trying to find my children. I stumbled on them in the kids’ clothing section after hearing my sweet little Emma gently encouraging her sister to “GET YOUR BUTT OVER HERE.. NANA WANTS YOU TO SEE SOMETHIN”. Ah, nothing like hearing your kids yelling across Walmart to make you feel like a great mommy.

When I got a little closer I noticed the arsenal of camp gear in the back of the cart and I nearly shed a tear. Not only had Nana picked up new toothbrushes, but their was a myriad of tiny toiletries from baby toothpaste to miniature shampoo and conditioner and even a lil deodarant for Liv. There were ear plugs and children’s Tylenol, mouthwash and sunscreen. Emma had a new church-camp-appropriate one piece bathing suit and they all had new shorts to wear to the pool. And lastly, they were meticulously picking out new PJs because “every girl should have new PJs for church camp nana said” Cori informed me.

We carried those bags to the car and the pure excitement in the girls voices when they talked about their new stuff was almost too cute to stand. I remembered the first time I went to camp. How exciting it was!

When we got home I presented the girls with one last surprise:: new bibles I had picked up at the 50% sale at the Family Christian Book Store earlier in the day. I upgraded Cori from her “baby bible” to a kids bible with lots of beautiful pictures and early reader language. Olivia got a New Testament Biblezine, and because Emma can’t read yet, I picked up the Chronicles of Narnia : Prince Caspian for her and I to read together at bedtime.  

After I got the girls settled down and tucked in, I made a quick call to Miss Dawn, their Sunday School teacher and Camp chaperone, to just touch base with her about some paperwork and she coyly mentions to me…”Oh and I talked with Lavonne today and a lady in the church is paying for the girls’ camp so when you bring me the paperwork, don’t worry about the check.” Mouth drops open, tears start comin. Pretty awesome.

Moral of the story: I am thankful today for my mom, THE Nana and I am thankful for the church lady that felt led to pay for my kids to go to church camp. May she be blessed and may my kids be blessed at camp next week for her kindness. I know I am blessed already.

Now I actually have to let them go right?

I have a love-hate relationship with reality TV. While I roll my eyes at almost every stupid reality show I flip past as I am trying to find something to watch, I love me some Chef Ramsey and Ty Pennington. I also once watched our little friend Ty for an entire day during a Trading Spaces marathon. It was like a trainwreck. I could not.stop.watching. I also once got into a screaming match with my cousin Susie over who would win Paradise Hotel. Yes, really. Yes, this occurred while I was a grown adult.

I try to give reality TV shows a chance. I think it gives us a look into other’s lives and can in turn enrich the human experience. Ok, so maybe it’s because I don’t have cable anymore and there ever isn’t anything else on my 5 channels.

I have watched people eat animal testicles, raw fish and large insects. I have watched people scale buildings and ride on moving tractor trailors. I was enamored when they put seven people in a house and taped them 24/7 while “they stopped being nice and started being real” (name that show)

I have watched people swap spouses and sell out family members for money. I have watched people live on a deserted island and sleep in tents in monsoon conditions. I have watched newlyweds and dysfunctional celebrity families. I have watched people compete to become the next top model, chef, dancer and singer. I have watched the brattiest kids in America turn to care bears at the hands of The Nanny, and I have watched as people shed hundreds of pounds.

Now they have added “celebrities” to the phenomenon of reality TV. I use the term “celebrity” loosely see that ’s why I put it in quotes because some of these people have not had work as a “celebrity” since their first Colgate commerical in 1983. I turned on Celebrity Circus last night and the only people I recognized were the chick married to Rod Stewart, or divorced from Rod Stewart or whatever and my sweet Brady boy, Christopher Knight. I have a sweet spot for him. Please don’t make fun.

I also have a sweet spot for this nerd. Again, please no making fun. And he just so happened to turn up on my new favorite game show, Celebrity Password. Which isn’t really reality TV, but more of a game show. But still, I just wanted to google his name really. Turns out he’s gay. Hmm. Why Doogie? Why?

I saw the other night, while watching some other reality show I am sure, that they are coming out with a new show called the Baby Borrowers. Have you heard of this? Well, I for one think it is pure genius and should be played in homeroom of every high school classroom. everyday. daily. each and every.single.day. They give these teenage couples a house and baby and they have to take care of the baby on their own. Like feed it, bathe it, play with it, and hopefully keep it alive and return in to their real parents in tact. Such a simple thought. Such a no-brainer, but so friggin genius! All I know is when I was in high school watching a show like this would have had a much bigger effect on my sexual education than watching my gym teacher put a condom on a banana. And she was gay too. After about 32 minutes, it became pretty clear condoms weren’t her thing.

See, reality TV isn’t all bad.

Well, except for this.

Yesterday my mom was off work and called me to ask me if she could pick the kids up at the babysitter’s and take them to the movies. Of course, I said that was fine. About an hour later she called to tell me that my grandpa had called and asked for her help in the yard. Knowing he is hardheaded and stubborn and will do it himself at 79 years old, three weeks after hernia surgery, she agreed. She asked the girls first and they willingly agreed to give up the movies for a week to spend the afternoon helping mamaw and papaw. Read: Sitting at mamaw and papaws drinking sunkist and choosing two pieces of candy from the bowl that is at all times overflowing on the kitchen counter.

While Cori and Emma sat inside and “kept mamaw company” Olivia got busy. She dug holes, she pulled weeds, she spread mulch and she even helped papaw paint a new handrail on the back deck. And she earned her little self ten bucks in the process. “Nine single dollars and four quarters” she proudly told me over the phone when they called.

About eight thirty my mom called to ask me to meet her at the little market across from the park halfway between her house and mine. When I arrived, Cori and Emma came bounding out, but no Olivia. “Where’s Liv?” I asked. ”That money was burning a hole in her pocket you know” my mom said as she nodded towards the store. I could see Liv’s red pony tail bobbing past the window.

A few minutes later she came from the store with a bag FULL of goodies. Just as I was about to give her a little speech about the importance of not spending her money all in one place, she looked at me and a sweet smile crept across her face. For in that bag she had four little cups of ice cream and a pack of gum. Not only did she buy her little sisters an ice cream after they sucked up air conditioning while she worked hard under the sun, but she bought her mama an ice cream too. A chocolate chip cookie sandwich. My favorite.

So we made the short trip across the street to the park and we ate our ice cream as the sky turned pink and orange and then finally the sun disappeared altogether.

We made it home and got ready for bed and I told my oldest girl how proud I was of her. How Jesus was proud of her too, because even though she could have spent her hard earned money on Hannah Montana lipgloss, or Lee press on nails, or 8 ice cream cones just for herself… she shared, and gave to those who had none.

And let’s face it, when I was eight years old I probably would have told my sister to get off her lazy butt and earn her own money and buy her own dagon ice cream.

I am thankful for my daughter’s giving heart and for days that leave me thinking:: maybe I will survive this ‘raising kids’ thing after all.

So I have only been at this blogging thing for a few months and it brings me immense joy. The friendships, the laughs, the free therapy, and the tips? The tips other mothers share in blogland have changed my life. Ever thought of using a shoe organizer in your kitchen to hold reynolds wrap and what have you? I know! Me neither. But it’s genius. And who knew you could make your own lip gloss from petroleum jelly and crystal light. It’s like living next door to McGyver I tell ya. And before the hate mail starts to pourin in, I know I should have linked and credited and put flashing lights around the blog names of the women with those wonderful ideas. But to be honest with you, I forgot where I read some of the great information I read, Ok? Did that sentence make sense?

Another thing I love about blogging is the little perks in your mood it can give you. You know when you are having a crappy day and you log in and see your little comment box lit up, which means someone new has commented. Because once WordPress recognizes you as a commenter, they stop lighting up my little comment box. That doesn’t mean I don’t love comments just as much from her and her and her and my sister, whom doesn’t have a blog, but should, I like to get new comments too. I once got a comment from Bossy and I swear it made my whole day. Then there are those times that you go to a blog you like and see that they have you listed in their blogroll. I mean how cool is that really? Love.that.

There is this fun little feature in the blog stats that tells you how people found you, but you smart people already knew that. Sometimes I get a little giggle from this and sometimes I just get plain creeped out. I once had someone find me by searching “redneck hillbilly decorating ideas”. Yeah, wasn’t too sure how to take that one. I get alot for this post because people are really looking for my boyfriend, Jake Gyllenhaal.

I sometimes get people that are looking for normal things like kids karate, or peanut butter but on two different occasions I got someone who searched for Mandy Dairy. I immediately got anxious and worried that it wasn’t actually Mandy Dairy they were looking for but Mandy Diary and that it was my dad searching. Because he doesn’t spell that great sometimes and maybe he stumbled on my blog but forgot to save it and so he goes searching for it by looking up Mandy Dairy when he really meant Mandy Diary. Makes perfect sense huh? See my parents don’t even know I have this little blog here. Makes me feel like I am hiding, well, my diary. And I’m 28 years old and live in my own home. And obviously I need therapy.

Moving on…

Once I logged on and saw a little search phrase that stopped me dead in my tracks and had me looking around like someone was going to jump out of a bush and grab me. And once I had a search that was so sexually explicit I literally gasped at the screen and I am quite sure I blushed. Then I wracked my brain for what on earth I have written on this blog for someone to find me with that phrase. You know, for when my dad finds me searching for Mandy Dairy, I want to at least be respectful and not have written something that would offend him.

Then today I got this little ditty and I got so tickled my coworkers probably think I have finally gone over the edge. Again, I could not think for the life of me how they would have found me by searching for that phrase. Immediately I was reminded of a picture I have of Emma and so I am posting that picture here now so at least when people come searching, they will have something to look at.

Could this child look any more pathetic?

She woke up the night before last crying that her ears were sore. She woke up the night before last at 1:15 am, again at 3:22 am, 4:56 am and I finally gave up at 5:45 am and just drug my butt from the bed to fulfill the prophecy that “Mothers must care for their young even when it is really early and they really don’t wanna.” I am sure it is written somewhere. And I fulfilled it. Relunctantly.

I put her in the bathtub with ears full of cotton balls covered in petroleum jelly and was extra careful to make the water stay far, far away from the ears. She sat quietly and winced and whined and then finally as I turned my back to grab a towel she let out a blood curdling wail to rival the cheesiest of horror films. After I finished going into cardiac arrest, I rushed to her side to freak out with her calmly question her what was wrong. She looked at me with an expression that read “Really lady? It’s the ears. They hurt. Bad.”

After promises to make it all better and bake cupcakes or buy a pony or something like that, I wrapped her in a towel and we sat on the bathroom floor together and tried to pray the pain into submission. The crying stopped and soon sniffles turned into snores. After I tried my best to get off the floor while simultaneously holding a rather heavy and slippery dead-weight seven year old, I just rolled her over onto the bathroom rug, covered her with a towel and went to wake up the other two. After I dropped them off at the sitter, Cori and I made a beeline for the ER at the small hospital in our town.

After we waited in the waiting room for 42 hours with the lady on the cell phone telling every one she ever met that she was in the hospital we were finally called back to the ER, where we were upgraded to sitting 5 feet from the lady that did every thing BUT answer the questions the doctor was asking. “You said the pain in your chest is a ten? What kind of pain, burning, stinging, sharp, dull…..” “Yes.” “No, is it sharp OR dull, stinging OR burning?” “Yes.”  Fifteen minutes of that and I was well prepared to draft up a multiple choice test for this woman and slip it under the door.

We waited another 36 hours for the doctor to come in and spend 18 seconds looking in Cori’s ears to come up with a diagnosis. “It’s swimmer’s ear.” “Uh, yeah the yellow pus draining from her head was a pretty good indication doctor, but could we get something for it please? Some drops maybe.” As you can imagine, I was pretty annoyed by then. I am not sure if doctors know this, but if it were up to me there would be a sign in every emergency room that reads: If there is a parent sitting in a waiting room with their child and said child is crying and writhing around in pain, it might not be a good idea to flirt with all the nurses at the nurses station and then take your time perusing through said child’s chart like it is Sports Illustrated and then taking your sweet country time to saunter into the exam room and then forget to get said child a drink of water because you are too high and mighty to do it yourself so you have to go find a nurse even though you walked right past the drink-making station. The end. Or something similar.

I got my baby out of there and we headed home and I nursed her back to health for the rest of the day like it was my job. Oh, wait.

Last night she seemed to be doing a little better. You know, until bed time, at which time the demons of middle ear infections came out to wreak havok on her little head. From about 12:30 am to 6:00 am we played musical beds and filled ears with drops while dispensing pain relief medication. Cori and Emma share a room and Emma wasn’t quite thrilled with getting up every hour or so to the alarm of her sister’s painful cries.  When the real alarm went off at 6AM I was truly hoping I had made some horrible mistake setting it and it was actually only 3AM and we would all get a good laugh at mommy’s silly mistake and lay back down to experience three more hours of drug-induced slumber. Yeah, no such luck.

So I did what any responsible, loving mother would do. I pumped that kid full of antibiotic ear drops and CVS brand pain relief medication and sent her to the sitter with a baggy full of cotton balls. Then I brought myself to work so I could feel like the crappiest mama ever and try to convince myself that taking another sick day would have been irresponsible and not look very good to my boss. When really all I wanted to do was go pick up my baby with the burning ears and hold her til she snored. Or screamed bloody murder in my ears. Whatever.

Eight years ago today my sister gave birth to her second baby, another son. He was a happy, chubby little thing with the most pinchable cheeks you have ever seen. Because they live in another part of the country, I don’t see them as often as we would like. It seems I have watched him grow up in bits and pieces. Each time I see him he has grown a foot and gotten thinner, and it seems, even sweeter.

He is the middle child; calm and quiet for the most part. He has a sweet serenity about him and a giving heart. He will be playing army men one minute and offer to play dollies with his little sister the next. When he speaks to you he looks you right straight in the eye and offers a sincere smile, and if you push just a little, a big hug. Today is the 8 year anniversary of his birth and it has flown by so fast!

Opening his gift from Papaw; a tool bag filled with some of papaw’s old tools (and even some new ones)

New Chronicles of Narnia figures from his sister and brother.

Dear Isaiah,

I hope you have a wonderful day today. I hope you eat your favorite things and play your favorite games. I hope you sleep a little later, walk a little slower, and eat cake! I hope you keep playing army men and being sweet to your little sister. I hope you keep making skits to perform for your mama. I hope you sustain a giving heart and a quiet calmness. I hope you read a book and let your little mind take you to a far away place. I hope that you will stop growing up so fast, though I know there is nothing to do about that. I hope that you may always stay a boy at heart and when some little girl comes along and falls in love with those stunning blue eyes and all that are behind it, that you treat her like a princess and live happily ever after. I know Dee Dee is jumping the gun a little bit, but this is what aunties do on birthdays; they get sentimental and mushy and they wish with all their heart they could be there to hug you on your birthday. And to soak you with a water gun just to hear you giggle. I love and miss you like crazy cakes!

Love,

Auntie Dee Dee

You ever play that little game with yourself trying to figure out why things happen? I believe all things happen for a reason and God has a plan for all of us. I believe all things are mapped out and they happen exactly when they should. I did not, however, say I understood why they happened. Or sometimes why certain things have to happen to me. But sometimes I like to sit and look at photos or think about situations and just wonder a little why they happen. What I can learn from it. What the purpose is.

In November of 2001, both my sister and I were pregnant at the same time with daughters that would be born only five days apart. She was married to a wonderful man and they already had two sons. I was alone and horrified and I already had two daughters. In the months leading to their births, I wondered alot about why it was happening. Why I was having another child when Lord knows I had no business having it.

Sometimes I think up reasons for things. Like Olivia was born when she was because I was 19 and young and stupid and living in Cincinnati with two roommates on the verge of going down the very wrong path and having a baby was the only thing that slowed me down. I imagine the girls’ dad left us for the very reason to make room for the wonderful man I now have in my life.

And sometimes, I look at my daughter playing with her cousin that is so close to her age and I see this kinship they have together. The wonderful way they play with their dollies together. The way that Emma just adores Hannah and hangs on her every word. And then I imagine that one day in her life Emma may experience something and need someone to be there for her. That one someone, that one best friend, you know gets it. And loves you anyway. And I imagine that person must be Hannah. I hope in my heart that they will always have that kinship, that deep friendship, that adoration that they have now.

And I hope they are always this stinkin cute.

Whenever my sister comes to town, the sweetest and most heartwarming thing happens. I watch as my normally very serious and worrisome eight year old (going on twenty five) turns into a kid again. My 12 year old nephew comes around and all of a sudden they are attached at the hip playing cornhole or scrabble or laughing about fart jokes or asking eachother to smell the other’s armpits. There is always a lot of giggling and goofiness and the witness of a special bond that is shared between two cousins. They don’t see eachother but once a year or so, but when they do they pick up right where they left off and for a few short days they are just two kids having fun and enjoying eachother’s company.

And my daughter’s smile comes out of hiding. (By the way, I thought the ‘tude didn’t start til 13 or so??)

On Friday, my sister, her husband their three adorable children made their way to Kentucky on the tailend of a near three week vacation of visiting in-laws, and mamaws and papaws. Since tomorrow is my birthday and Isaiah’s three days after that, we decided to go to dinner together. We went to the same place we went last time they were in town, only this time we took the kids along. My kids have never been and they were as enamored by the experience as I hoped they would. See, we went to the Fuji Steakhouse; a great japanese place where they cook at your table.

Emma split some spring rolls with my sister and she liked them. Well, except for the “seaqueed part”.

It was so cute to watch them eat with their chopsticks.

When dinner was over Isaiah and I were singled out and sung to. Happy Birthday with drums!

And of course, what is a birthday dinner with no dessert?

And setting things on fire, of course.