Monthly Archives: May 2010

Bubble-Fest

Here’s a quick riddle for anyone who cares to play along. What’s WAY better than super-clean dishes?

Super-clean dishes AND a clean floor!

Ok, that’s the glass-half-full approach to our evening last night. Here’s what really happened:

Jason: Why is there foam leaking out of our dishwasher?

Me: I don’t know, Honey, what did you do to it?

Jason: I didn’t DO anything. I just started it.

Me: Well, something must have happened. Hey, wait a minute, why is our new bottle of Dawn soap almost completely empty?

Me (again): Jadon Micah! Jadon, what did you do?

Jadon: Jay-Jay make bubbles. (And yes, he actually clapped in glee at his newfound bubble source. He was quite proud of his accomplishment.)

So, half a bottle of Dawn and many, many bubbles later, we had a very clean kitchen floor and squeaky-clean dishes. Wow, hadn’t planned on washing the kitchen floor last night, but thanks, Jadon, for making Mommy get off her rear and do that!

And so life goes with two 3-year-olds and a few other kids running around the house.

Here’s a look at the bubble-fest we had:

Big Boo-Boo

Do you know how many things can cause a big boo-boo? Neither do I, but I can tell you this. It’s a LOT. Just ask Jadon.

He’s been talking a lot lately. You know that old joke about spending the first couple years of a child’s life trying to get them to walk and talk and then spending the rest of the time trying to get them to sit down and shut up? Yeah, that. He has not shut up for approximately the last 3 months, and he’s showing no signs of slowing down now. In fact, every day is filled with more words and hilarious sentences filled with 3-year-old logic.

Logic to Jadon is something like this:

“Hoppers went night-night. Hoppers sleepy. Hoppers need to STAY IN BED.” (Coincidentally done in the same voice that Jason uses when telling Jadon for the 50th time to STAY IN BED.)

or

“Toy break. Jordan break it.” (Logically, if something is broken, it must be his brother’s fault.)

So anyway, back to boo-boos. Did you know that anything and everything can cause a boo-boo? For example:

“It rain. And funder (thunder). Jay-Jay no like funder. Make big boo-boo.” (And the only thing that will help us avoid this big boo-boo is if we remember to plug in the magic rocket ship nightlight, which has powers rivaling any deity you may have heard of. The magic rocket ship can scare away thunder storms, keep him warm at night, and make the loud noises not so scary. And yeah, I know, the ridiculous things we make up in order to barter for sleep from our toddlers!)

or

“Bubba has stick (snake). Stick bite me. No touch stick. Big boo-boo.”

Or

“Daddy spank butt. Big boo-boo.”

Ok, no little dude, there is no boo-boo involved there. As mentioned before, I’m pretty sure you’ve only gotten two little swats—on the diaper—that you could barely feel. But it made that loud boo-boo noise evidently, and that made you think it hurt, even though it didn’t.

Someone in our house is very preoccupied with boo-boos lately, and I’m wondering if we have a closet hypochondriac in our midst. Great. Next, he’s gonna be the kid who wants you to look at some spot on his arm that ‘looks funny.’

He already has invisible boo-boos that must immediately be covered in Band-Aids upon their discovery. And believe me, they are very difficult to discover, especially for the untrained eye—since they are INVISIBLE! Only Jadon knows the exact location and origin of his mystery boo-boos, but if you ask him, they are there. Oh yes, and if you ask the folks at the Band-Aid corporation, they can verify that our purchases have indeed increased exponentially in the last couple of months. Because WOE be unto us if we are confronted with a boo-boo and have no magic adhesive to place over the top of it.

How does one go about buying stock in Band-Aid?

Wetlands

Our backyard is officially a swamp. And you guessed it—I can credit this newest development to our two youngest boys, too. Seems like they are getting the rap for a lot of deeds lately, but trust me, they deserve it.

Last night was actually pretty fun and relaxing, and we enjoyed an extended play time outside. I even let the little stinkers stay up later than usual in the hopes that they might actually sleep better and do less fighting with me when bedtime actually rolled around. (For anyone who is thinking about trying this, I will let you know now that it did not work. My theory was that if I made them even more tired by playing outside longer, then they would collapse in a grateful heap in their beds and not make a peep until morning. Nope, didn’t work.)

Anyway, they have discovered the hose. And they love, love, love the hose. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the highlight of their day is to turn the hose onto full blast fireman-power flow and spray it at anything that moves. This, evidently, is fun. (Ok, and I’ll admit it was pretty funny to see the neighbor’s yippy dog get sprayed. It’s the little things that make life so sweet.)

I bought the boys one of those water play tables for outside on the patio this summer, and it is their new favorite toy. Seriously, if I could put this thing in bed with them to entertain them and make them happy while falling asleep, I totally would.

But I soon discovered that the water table is not enough. Yes, the water in the table is fun, but do you know what’s even more fun? Spraying the water everywhere but in the table! This is what’s fun. So this is what they did for about 45 minutes last night as I ran inside to check dinner and then back outside to turn off the spigot…and then back in…and then out. (And no worries, my little pumpkins were in my sight the entire time.)

As it turns out, these creatures we call children are actually rather intelligent. Every time I would open the door to go and check on dinner, they would both make a sprint toward the spigot, and no sooner would the door shut than I would hear the tell-tale squeak of the spigot turning and water pouring from the hose.

Every time, I would go out and turn the water back off and nicely tell them they had plenty of water in their play table. And every time, they would politely nod and then wait until I went inside the house to turn the water on again.

By the time dinner was done, we had a wetlands in our backyard that would make a Florida gator proud. I’m pretty sure the coolest part of the entire thing is that funny little sound their wet shoes make when they squish on the concrete.

When it was time to go inside, Jadon was shivering, and when I tried to peel him out of his wet clothes, he protested with the usual toddler veracity. But I won. Oh, yes I did. I have no doubt that this afternoon we will go outside, and the boys will nod and tell me they will play with the water in their table, and instead we will add to the swampy yard and fight over the hose once again. Happy Spring!

Be Vewy, Vewy Quiet—We’re Hunting Wabbits

I have determined that the reason Jadon is acting like an absolute lunatic this week is because Jason is gone. Now, mind you, he has been gone before for business trips, but usually they don’t last this long, and I’m now fairly certain that Jadon does not approve. Not in the least.

See, Jadon is sort of a Daddy’s boy, and when Daddy isn’t here, Jadon isn’t happy. And when Jadon isn’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Frankly, after these last few days, I don’t think I approve of Jason being out of town either. Last night’s behavior was, I am sure, a result of Daddy being gone for several days. Jadon was in rare form, and with no particular shortage of adrenalin to fuel his mischievousness. Yeah, me.

Here’s a quick recap of the evening. I put the little boys in bed, turned on the babysitter (All Dogs Go to Heaven in the DVD player). See, usually the babysitter will entertain the boys for a good half hour or so as they wind down and get ready to fall asleep. And yes, I do realize this is yet another glowing example of my mothering skills, but it’s either the movie or Mommy becomes an alcoholic. So I opt for the movie.

Ok, so last night is the night that the dumb, dumb, dumb little television that we have been limping along for weeks now decides to die. Die. Right at the beginning of the movie. Could there be anything worse? (Well, yes, there could be worse things…but at that particular moment, I was fairly sure the sky was falling.)

The broken television set did not exactly make the boys happy, and they decided that instead of watching a movie to wind down that they would turn their beds into trampolines. This, in my humble opinion, is not a good way for 3-year-olds to wind down. In fact, it probably served as foreshadowing of the harrowing evening that was to come.

I made about 8 trips up the stairs to talk to them and explain why Mommy really, really, really needed them to lay down and get some sleep. And do you know what they did? Jadon nodded solemnly, as if he were actually considering this ridiculous request. And Jordan laughed. Laughed! (True, I’m pretty sure he has trouble interpreting facial expressions and tones, so I’ll give the kid a break. Never mind the fact that my face was contorted into some gruesome mixture between snarling bear and Freddy Krueger in order to try to intimidate them into submission.)

So, after 8 trips up the stairs (forget the elliptical…this is WAY better), it finally got quiet. It was nice. It was peaceful. I was watching “Stars” stumble their way across the dance floor on TV. Ahhhh…silence. And then I realized it was too quiet. Impossibly quiet. Like the kind of quiet that makes you think, “3-year-olds are NEVER this quiet.” And it was sort of like one of those delayed reaction moments, when it takes this realization a split second of time to actually reach your brain.

But when it hit me, boy I was off and running for the stairs. Once again, I was visualizing our house going up in flames or any other number of domestic disasters. I took the stairs two at a time and realized that I should really carry my inhaler if I’m going to do such strenuous things, but alas, there was not time to worry about small matters like lung function. My boys were up to no good—I could feel it.

Sure enough, when I reached the top of the stairs, I caught a glimpse of Jadon darting back down the upstairs hallway toward his room. Oh, and it was a guilty dart, too—stealthy like a cat burglar. He knew he was going to be caught.

I did my most intimidating stomp down the hallway toward him and said, “Jadon, what are you doing?”

And he said, “Oppers Owt.”

Now, if you’ve read a few posts back, you’ll know that I learned the hard way what this toddler-speak translated to. Hoppers was out. He had let the rabbit out of the cage…again.

Quickly, I gave up my warrior-mom stomp and instead adopted a sort of panicked dash toward Marissa’s room in a futile attempt to catch the bunny. And do you think I was successful?

Nope. Not in the least. The bunny had long since left Marissa’s room and was now somewhere upstairs, but I wasn’t sure even where to start looking. As I did the mom-stomp back toward Jadon to get him back into bed before I began the search, I happened to see a hop and a little fluff of white tail dart under my bed. Location of rabbit triangulated.

So before I went back down the hall to threaten Jadon once more, I had the presence of mind to close my bedroom door, so that Hoppers would be confined to that one area. Then, knowing that it normally takes two people to corner and capture our fugitive animals, I called for Jacob to help me.

Nothing. No response. No footsteps. Back I went toward his room. I knocked lightly on the door. Still no response. So I opened the door to find him with earbuds jammed in his ears, bobbing his head to some sort of screeching beat and looking at the computer screen. I finally got his attention and told him I needed him to help me rabbit wrangle.

And what do you think the intelligent, 15-year-old kid grabs to aid us in our capturing of the bunny? A bath towel. Yep, a towel. I’m still not sure whether he planned to snap the towel at it to herd him into the cage or whether he planned to drop it over the rabbit’s head like a cartoon coyote trap. Either way, the towel wasn’t going to do the trick.

After several minutes of scouting and army crawling around my room, we managed to herd Hoppers into my walk-in closet. His world was now closing in around him. I felt akin to the Crocodile Hunter. I was slowly and cautiously approaching the wildlife.

Several scratches and rabbit grunts later, I had the feisty little guy in my hands, but he was not going to give up easily. I escaped with several scratches on my hands and arms. Jacob, however, was just fine, as he was protected by the bath towel he was carrying.

Last night was the culminating event that made me realize a couple of things. First of all, we need a lock for the rabbit cage. Secondly, Jason never, ever gets to go out of town again…well, at least until the boys are old enough to go off to summer camp or something.

Shrapnel Dodging 101: A Special Class for Moms

This is the new class I’m going to be teaching. Because I learned everything I need to know from the School of Live & Learn.

So last night, we were having one of our typical relaxing nights that consists of giving baths (complete with bubbles running down the walls), frantically dumping laundry into the washer in the hope that some miracle occurs and we all have clean clothes to wear, cleaning the rabbit cage, and matching the mountain of socks that have accumulated in the basket beside my bed. Nice and calm. Hardly a thing going on.

See, here’s what I do. I wait until the most difficult time possible to try to complete as many tasks as possible. It’s this little game I like to play called When Is Mommy’s Head Actually Going to Explode. This week, I waited until Jason went out of town. Yes, I waited until I had lost my—wait a minute, what’s that guy called that protects the quarterback—yeah, I had lost my offensive lineman. He is the guy that holds the line while I can peacefully do laundry and even FOLD it if I’m extremely lucky. He’s the guy who distracts the attacking 3-year-olds so that I can have that ultra-precious 30 seconds in which Mommy can go potty all by herself. (Yes, I have sunk to the level at which this is one of the major highlights of my day. Laugh if you must.)

Anyway, no problem. I had the situation under control. I have recently learned to delegate, which apparently is a way to get my other children to actually DO something instead of just watching me run up and down the stairs until I have a stroke. And I’m actually afraid to have a stroke with Jason out of town, because I’m sure the kids would make sure I was still alive…right before they asked if I was still making pizza for dinner.

The delegating thing was working well, so well in fact that I had one kid monitoring the bubbly bath tub and another kid vacuuming her carpet and yet another kid monitoring the pizza that was soon to come out of the oven. (Yeah, that’s a LOT of kids, but as it turns out, they are fairly useful when trying to accomplish five gazillion things at once.)

So, little kid number one gets out of the tub, gets thrown into a pair of mismatched PJs (hey, he’s lucky they are clean), and is quietly playing with toys while his brother is finishing up his bath. A well-oiled machine. Pure precision.

Oh, and I should mention that I was in the laundry room overseeing most of this action while I intermittently hung and folded clothes. The thing that should have tipped me off was the quiet, entirely too much quiet.

Turns out that during his quiet time, Jadon decided to find the little jar of coins on the top of my dresser, and thought he would do what seemed most logical to him. He threw them by handfuls into the fan that was oscillating around my room.

The next thing I heard sounded like a machine gun must sound or like or a bomb or well, money flying out of a fan. I heard this noise from the laundry room, which luckily enough, is right next to the room he was in, and I came running with full tactical gear, prepared to drag my family out of the ruins of our house that was evidently smack in the middle of the target zone. But oh, no, it was just Jadon’s newest experiment with how to drive me completely over the edge.

I entered my room and saw him laying on the floor, looking up at the fan, with one hand covering his butt—because he sort of knew he had done something wrong when money started shooting out of the fan. (Now, this kid has probably only had two swats in his life, and neither of those could really be felt due to the padding of his diaper. Have I mentioned that evidently our kids are going to be the only ones going to kindergarten wearing diapers?) He looked like this crazy mixture between scared of the shrapnel and scared for his butt, but as soon as he saw me, he was ready for me to drag him out of the war zone that used to be my bedroom.

I was halfway across the room, dodging from side to side strategically trying to avoid any life-threatening shrapnel injuries, when the last quarter finally made it’s way from the fan and plunked onto the floor, and that’s when Jadon turned to me and said, “Oh, dat loud.”

Yep, dat was loud. Needless to say, I was finished with laundry for the evening, and Jadon was finished with his experiments. A quick piece of pizza and a glass of milk (because if I balance something completely unhealthy with something healthy, they cancel each other out, right?), and it was time for bed.

It was also time for Mommy to have a martini…but I had to settle for the last half-empty can of Coke that my older children had deigned to leave for me. It was in that moment that I also knew it was time for Jason to come home. He’ll be lucky if the house is still standing when he gets here in a couple of days.

Act III – Nefarious Nightlight

We knew it would be a difficult few nights, since Jason is out of town for a loooong and extended leisurely trip to Gatlinburg for “work.” Sure, uh-huh, everybody knows that Gatlinburg is mountain party central, and while I slave away trying to get uncooperative three-year-olds to sleep, he is probably living it up ice skating or flying down some mountain on a slide. Not really, but hey, if he reads this, I want him to think I’m smack in the middle of working toward a really, really good nap next weekend when he’s home.

Any-hoo, we sort of have a process at bedtime, which is good for the little guys, since they would prefer to just have the run of the place until they finally drop from exhaustion at midnight. I say No-Way, José to that! No toddler of mine is going to stay up one minute past 11:30! (I’m kidding, for any of the mommies out there who were horrified to read that.)

So, bedtime. The boys get a drink, get their pants changed (because we still enjoy peeing in them as often as possible), and oh yeah, we pretend to go potty, but not really. Then we head upstairs for a short movie session, during which time the hope is that they will begin to calm down and be ready to sleep. Also, the hope is that if they are watching their movie, Mommy will not lose her mind completely and will have a few minutes of down time.

Up the stairs we marched. And I almost forgot, they both have to “hide” in the exact same closet every night, and I have to spend an acceptable amount of time looking for them and pretending that I can’t find them. When we finally made it to their room, I began to mess with the television/dvd combo that has to be as old as my grandma, and I realized on that first night of Jason being out of town that he left me with a broken-down, limping-along dvd player that has better chances of becoming a step-stool than actually playing a movie. After approximately 20 times of turning the machine on and then off…and then on…and then off, it finally decided to read the dvd that is permanently inside the machine.

Ok, we were off to a decent start! The movie was playing, and all I had to do was tuck them in and turn on the nightlight. That would be the evil nightlight that doesn’t work anymore, yes, that one. Evidently, the boys have decided that the best possible place they could stuff wadded up paper is inside the bulb of the light. Yes, inside the bulb. My mommy brain started screaming STOP! DROP! AND ROLL! and ran through all the various ways we might escape our house when it goes up in flames, but on the outside I remained calm. I made sure there was currently no more paper in the bulb, reassembled the nightlight, plugged it in…only to hear POP! And poof, just like that the one single piece of equipment that would probably have the best hope of promising me a restful night just quit. Broke. Caput. Done. No more nightlight.

But alas, no problem, because I simply explained to the boys that it was broken and that we would have to get a new one tomorrow. I know, a very logical solution, right? Wrong-O. Jadon was not feeling logical in the least and demanded a light. Right now. Jay-Jay scared.

Okay, okay, so in a pinch I came up with the idea of leaving the hallway bathroom light on, which would have worked beautifully, had that not been the one and only night my 15-year-old needed to go to the bathroom half a dozen times. Each time he went in there, he did his business and then turned the light off. And each time he did this, it only took Jadon about 5 minutes to realize that his light was gone and that he had once again been wronged by the entire world.

I marched down the hallway about 6 or 8 times last night because he was scared, and I patted his little head, tucked him back in, and gave that little nightlight a dirty look each and every time I went in there. Had I known I would be on hallway light duty, I would have skipped my evening dose of Nyquil and opted for a stuffy noise, scratchy throat, sniffling, sneezing night.

Tonight on the way home from work, I shall stop and attempt to purchase truly childproof nightlights, you know, like the kind they might issue in prison…if prisoners got nightlights, which I doubt they do. But that kind. And a lot of them.

Act II – Toaster in the Tub

Have you ever seen one of the old cartoons where an electrical appliance ends up in the tub and there are all these waves of exaggerated electricity in the air? (And it’s gotta be one of the older cartoons because we would never dream of tainting our youngsters’ budding little minds with such ideas in this day and age.) Ok, so keep that visual in your mind.

I’m going to digress for a moment just to say that sweet little Jordan has a bit of a problem we are working through. We think he might have a mild autism or possibly ADHD, and we’re in the process of getting him tested. So, he’s got some funny little quirks that are just Jordan, and we love him and wouldn’t change a thing about him, quirks and all.

One of his quirks is that noise bothers him. He doesn’t like noisy things at all, you know, things like the garbage disposal or the hair dryer or mouse farts, those sorts of things. Things that wouldn’t phase most of us. So we try to talk him off the proverbial ledge whenever he is bothered by noise, and so far, our reasoning skills have been sufficient to convince him that his eardrums are not really going to catch on fire if he hears sounds.

That’s the background. Here’s the story. In a fit of mothering genius, I decided that we’d made it home in plenty of time to go straight from the trampoline meet to Aftershock, the venue where Jacob was performing in the Van Halen tribute concert this weekend. I thought, “Hmmm, what better way to show how much we really care? The whole family will be there to cheer him on.” It was a good thought. It really was, but you probably already have an idea where this story is heading.

The girls and I met Jason and the boys at Aftershock, and we were able to have a slice of pizza and a couple sips of coke before all holy chaos began. The lights went low and flashed to some sort of rocker-blue, and the music started. And Jordan became the toaster in the bathtub.

It wasn’t a fit—nothing to be in trouble over. He just started moving and never ever stopped. He dumped the diaper bag, writhed from the bench to the floor to the table to our laps to the floor, mutilated his pizza slice, began jumping up and down and flapping to the beat of whatever song was playing (I had no idea what song it was because I was preoccupied with finding out why my toddler suddenly went from zero to bat-sh*t crazy in 2.4 seconds.) It was like there was this invisible electric force around him that had possessed his little body and commanded it to move, move, move!

‘Cause I’m sort of brilliant like that. Hey, the kid doesn’t like the garbage disposal because it’s too noisy, so I should take him to a concert! Yep, brilliant. I’m thinking the little guy was simply overstimulated, and he had no way of expressing that to us other than to swing from the light fixtures and howl at the moon. Sheesh, okay, okay. Lesson learned. No more concerts for Jordan in the near future, well, unless we’re going to watch something relatively calm, like Barry Manilow.

Needless to say, we ended up leaving the concert after only three songs, and it was alright with Jacob, because he knew we would be back the next day to see him perform again. In fact, he was probably thinking we needed to seek immediate medical attention for his little brother, who was putting on a show similar to, well, the show that was happening onstage.

And what do you know? As soon as we were in the car and the doors were sealed against the offending noise, Jordan sat back in his seat and gave a huge sigh, as if to say, “Man, that was exhausting.” And he was back to his usual everyday self.

So the moral of this story is don’t throw a toaster into a bathtub, and don’t take a child you suspect might be autistic to a loud rock concert. The end.

The Weekend in Three Acts: A Comedy

Act I – Lucky Bra

Anyone who has multiple kid activities occurring at the same time can tell you that it feels very similar to how the horses at the beginning of a race must feel. You built up for the big moment when the race starts, you prepare, you pack, you take your Xanax…all that good stuff. (Not really on the Xanax, but don’t be fooled into thinking it hasn’t crossed my mind at certain times!)

Our schedules were coordinated down to the last minute, our watches were synchronized, and we were off! First thing Saturday morning was the State trampoline meet in Joplin. Both girls were competing, so we packed two of everything we could shove into my little meet bag. Two leos…check. Hair bands…check. Pristine white socks (which are actually sort of hard to find, by the way)…check.

So I was surprised (yeah, I know, I should be past that and not be surprised at anything I hear anymore) to hear Micaela go into a semi-panicked state about half-way to the meet. After I guided the car back onto the road and ascertained that we were not in any immediate danger—her screech made me think otherwise—I tried to get to the root of the real problem. By then, my adrenaline was through the roof because of the formerly mentioned screech/squeel, and I employed every defensive driving technique I’d ever read about to keep us alive and on the road. Steer into the skid. Do not slam on the breaks. All that good stuff.

But we were not in danger of careening off the road. Oh, no. It was better and evidently more life-altering. Here was the emergency:

“Mom! I forgot my bra! I can’t…like…compete without my bra!” The volume was steadily rising, and jumping into full-on hostage-negotiating mode, I tried employing the concept of (gasp!) being reasonable. Big mistake.

I said, “Well, Micaela, we’re right on time, and if we stop now, we might not be right on time, and then your coach might kill us all.” Thinking this would force her to see reason, I settled back into driving mode, cranking up my wild and crazy CNN Talk News channel…until I heard:

“NOOO! You don’t understand! I can’t compete in the bra I am wearing now!”

So, stupidly, I asked why. And here’s what she came up with:

“Because!” (huff and huge roll of eyes—I saw this as I glanced in the rearview mirror, because if you saw a black streak of SUV careening down the highway in a death race toward Joplin, it was not me…really.) “Because I can’t wear a pink sparkly bra under my leotard! It will SHOW THROUGH!”

Hi, my name is Janelle, and I’m an Emergency First Responder. May I help you? Yes, my training kicked in. It may never help me in the scuba diving field, but it definitely helps me diffuse volatile kid situations.

The scene was quickly escalating, and I feared that soon we would have to call on the Navy or National Guard to help us talk her down—except that oops, they are really busy with that whole huge oil spill thing that is destroying our formerly pristine waters (ok, no more political stuff). So, it was up to me.

I calmly told her to stop yelling at me, or my nervously twitching eye might actually pop out of my head. Then I did what any mother in a time crunch might do—I calmly pulled to the side of the road and did a search for the nearest Wal-Mart on our handy-dandy GPS. (Yeah, I’m gonna stick with that story—because once more, it was not our little SUV that was careening, and now weaving, down the highway as I madly typed Wal-Mut…no, wait Wal-Mrs…no wait Wal-Mart at 70 miles per hour. I finally typed it in right on the third try.)

Once we had located a Wal-Mart, we parked and RAN to the bra department, gasping for air, and then Micaela went into shopping mode and decided she needed to survey all her options before choosing. As she slowly meandered through the lingerie department, I grabbed the first white bra I saw that didn’t have DDD anywhere in the sizing and herded my girls toward the checkout. We were finally on our way!

It was only as she was hurriedly changing into her leotard in the gym restroom that she tentatively shouted out to her gasping mother (We had just run up the Mount Everest of stairs, and I was getting over bronchitis.), “Um, Mom? I sort of left my bra in the car.”

Huh? What? I didn’t think I could have possibly heard that correctly. The emergency bra was in the car? And she was half-dressed in the bathroom, which meant that there was only one person who could run outside to get it. Yep, lucky me. So I sprinted the steps another time, took her the bra, and she asked, “Um, did you happen to grab my hair clips?”

Noooo! I did not grab the hair clips, and I sent her happy little rear out to the car to get them.

And all that leads us to the fact that Micaela is the Missouri State Trampoline Champion this year. I think it’s the lucky bra. Way to go, Doodle Bug!