Sleep over...

The kids have been wanting to have a sleep over together since I changed their room set up. Previously, Lorien and Wyatt shared a room while Clare was on her own. Now Lorien and Clare are in the "girls room" and Wyatt has his own "boy space". Anyway, they miss being together (Lorien and Wyatt) so a few weekends ago we let them all sleep together on the fold out couch in the office/garage/laundry/exercise/guess room/mini storage unit. I wish I took a picture of the whole room--that was the best part--seeing our kids squashed together on a bed surrounded by office equipment, holiday decorations, weights, gym mats, office chairs, boxes and piles of laundry. I guess a shot of them sleeping will have to do.

(Notice the box nearly falling onto Wyatt in the upper left corner.)

I love Anne, yes I do! I love Anne, how 'bout you?

Happy Birthday My Dearest Anne!

Let me tell you why I love Anne and why, if you are not friends already, you should befriend this lady. She is so kind and compassionate. She understands every situation and has advice for every complication. No one throws a better party and no one lends a better shoulder to cry or laugh on. Happy Birthday, Anne (again) and thanks for being such a great friend.

Love him...

Wyatt is growing into what I believe is a "typical boy". He loves video games and super heroes. He acts very silly around all of Lorien's friends and he does not want his Mother to kiss him any more--not even at bed time. But every once in a while he lets his tough-guy act slip and his sweet side shows:

He and I were walking back to the car this morning after dropping Lorien off at school. Wyatt looked around and observed: "There's nobody else outside right now. Just you and me." "Yep," I began "we are two lone people on the side walk." "We aren't alone," he corrected "we have each other."

Tug-tug (the sound from my heart strings) sniff-sniff (the sound from my tear-induced runny nose).

Ouch...

I am no athlete...not by a long shot. In high school my "sport" of choice was Cheer leading. I know there are die-hard girls out there who will insist that yelling, jumping, dancing and clapping in unison is a sport but I am not one of them. I'd call my high school cheering squad more of a social group than a sport. Sure, every so often we'd hoist the smallest of our squad up on to our shoulders or hands in an amazing feat of pubescent athleticism but really-we were just a group of peppy dancers in short blue skirts. (I've included a very old photo for proof--or laughs, your choice).

(I am the smiling brunette on one knee to the right--laugh all you want.) I am well aware of my low athletic threshold. I am also well aware of my deep and unstoppable love affair with ice cream, cheese burgers, milk shakes and chocolate. In (yet another) attempt to ward off heart disease I started "working out" this week. It is not going well. I posted that picture of me as a high school cheerleader because, believe it or not, it is waaaaaay less embarrassing than a photo of me trying to run down our street. My butt hurts, my legs hurt, my arms hurt and my abs hurt. Heaven help me...