Back to School

What better way to celebrate the last weekend before school than with a giant gummi bear?


I found this confectionary-treat-on-steroids at World Market. Connor volunteered to perform the autopsy - only it was too tough to cut with a knife (butter or steak). We finally resorted to kitchen shears . . . .



The boys fought over who got to eat the face. It got ugly from there, the highlight (?) being when Parker called "butt." Here is Parker enjoying his gummi bear cutlet:



YUMMMMMMMMM. (Actually - editorial comment from Mom - yuck. Sticky goo everywhere.) I managed to get one good shot of the fourth-grader on the first day of school, after luring him to the table with chocolate chip waffles . . . .



They look more like brothers in these pictures than usual. Also got some good shots of PJ and his Batman backpack:



Happy back-to-school, everyone!

New Hair for PJ

The boys got new haircuts for back to school, and in recognition of PJ's newly minted status as a "Pre-K 4" boy, we said adios to the chili bowl 'do. He likes his new look, as do Mom and Dad. Connor was not quite as enthused about his cut, whereas Mom was turning backflips - finally, someone figured out how to cover the cowlick on his forehead! Apparently, Connor was himself quite fond of the cowlick, which looks like his head sprung a leak - a lock of hair grows straight up and then curves in the opposite direction of the rest of his hair.

Here are before-and-after photos from "haircut day":

The Saga of the Hostess Gifts

So I sprained my ankle in an incident that did not in any way involve the installation of Christmas lights, and now I own a pair of flats. I owned flats once before - in high school. They were red, and they went with a very specific red belt, which went with a very specific blouse/skirt ensemble. I found them at Sears after much searching for the just-right shade of red, and I remember feeling very, very deceitful every time I wore them and passed them off as something-not-from-Sears. I should mention that I went to a very snotty public high school, where girls were known to send their clothing to resale after one wearing. MUCH pressure to be posh, 24/7, and it took me many years to achieve some semblance of shopping normality.

I also had a pair of Cole-Haan driving moccasins in the mid-'90's. Do those count as flats? I actually don't know the answer to this question, since I. Don't. Wear. Flats. Ever. On account of how, in my mind, I am 5'7", and to achieve my "mental height" it's necessary for me to wear four inch heels - to work, to the pool, in the shower. Okay, not in the shower.

Notwithstanding my Napoleonic issues, I loved those moccasins - wore them until they literally fell apart. But I digress.

I finally broke down and bought some flats, because, while I'm off of crutches, the rational part of my brain recognizes that I still need some rehab time. (The part of me that enjoys being 5'7" is loudly protesting that my ankles don't know from flats, and I would be MUCH MORE COMFORTABLE wearing what my ankles actually know. And there may be some truth in that - but I digress again.) I wore the flats to work today, along with jeans and a cute top, and the upgrade from "frumpy girl with crutches and tennis shoes" to "stylish-if-you-squint, ALBEIT ENTIRELY TOO SHORT, girl, wearing flats and limping" inspired me to do some lunchtime shopping. Texas' back-to-school tax-free long weekend started today, and also I needed to buy hostess gifts, because five very sweet friends are throwing a slumber party in my honor tomorrow night. I won't divulge the overall concept of the hostess swag bags, because some of the recipients will read this before then, but I really wanted to include bags of "Frozen Rose" in them. (For those who are unfamiliar, Frozen Rose is a frozen wine beverage that is available in Texas and Oklahoma, and it's basically awesome. Gives the margarita a run for its money.) Frozen wine in a bag seemed slightly seedy - like something you would drink at a grown-up slumber party - and, also, the packaging is "adolescent girl purple." Win.

I have purchased the stuff at Central Market before, but I was trying to avoid that place (specifically, its nightmarish parking lot) because of my status as "temporarily handicapped person without handicapped tag." I recalled reading that Centennial Liquor also is a Frozen Rose distributor, so I headed down Camp Bowie way and was just about to pull into my local Majestic Liquor store when it occurred to me that the Majestic Liquor is, in fact, A MAJESTIC LIQUOR AND NOT A CENTENNIAL LIQUOR. (Let's refer to this as "Blonde Moment #1.") At this point, I'm at the intersection of Camp Bowie and Hulen, and I'm just a short jog through my neighborhood to Central Market, so I head south . . . and discover the cluster-you-know-what that is the Central Market Hatch Green Chile Fest. Query: Why do so many people feel compelled to stand next to an outdoor chile roaster at lunchtime in 107-degree heat (and after a morning rainshower, so it's a REALLY MUGGY 107-degree heat?). (Answer: The chiles are really, REALLY good.)

After several loops around the parking lot, I realize that this isn't going to work - we're talking Bataan Death March distances between the available remote parking spaces and the front door - so, cursing my ankle, I drive to the World Market in the same shopping center and begin the search for a reasonable substitute for Frozen Rose. After much indecision, I make a selection - then undecide again, call my spouse and tell him that I'm contemplating asking him to make a Central Market run for me, and then talk myself out of the asking while it's taking place. I finally check out - helpful World Market employee puts my bottle-type purchases in a big wine box along with the bottles of Liberty School cabernet that I picked up for myself. ($9.99 a bottle! Ridglea charges me $6 a glass.) I push the cart to my car, and simultaneously discover a couple of things:

1) The Chapel Hill parking lot is, in fact, constructed on a hill. (Blonde Moment #2.)

2) The wine box is (ironically enough, since it was a Cupcake Chardonnay box - maybe it was scratch-and-sniff?) a very powerful bee attractant.

I try orienting the cart several different ways, all of which involve it rolling downhill the minute I let go. I try positioning it so that the back door stops its movement, but that effectively blocks access to the back seat of the car. (Disclaimer: My trunk is always full - of sporting equipment, party centerpieces, outgrown kids' clothes destined for friends with younger children and/or Goodwill, you name it - so the cabin of the car is my de facto trunk. And, no, it never occurred to me that I could open the front door and use IT to block the cart. Blonde Moment #3.) While I am attempting to maneuver the cart, Aggressive Bee is crawling all over (and inside of) the wine box. He stops under one of the top flaps. I consider smashing it down on top of him and determine that the statistical probability of killing him is 99% - but the real-world "Kathryn probability" of bungling and getting stung is also 99%. In the process of trying to shoo the bee away, I let go of the cart, and it begins rolling towards the passenger door of a nearby (brand new) pickup truck. Simultaneously, I lose my grip on the (rather noxious) pomegranate/green tea concoction I am drinking, and the (fortunately plastic) bottle starts rolling downhill at a 90-degree angle to the cart. I run off after the cart, retrieve it, and then like one of Pavlov's freakin' dogs head in the other direction to retrieve the beverage THAT I DON'T EVEN LIKE. And then I remember that I have a sprained ankle, after a delay not unlike the one the networks wish they had during the Janet Jackson "wardrobe malfunction" incident.

In severe pain, I heave the box into the back seat, and at this point I have lost sight of Aggressive Bee (but, given his earlier interest in the interior of the box, odds are pretty good that he's stowed away), so I leave the door to the car open while I PUSH THE CART BACK TO THE WORLD MARKET INSTEAD OF ABANDONING IT ON A NEARBY MEDIAN. (Never made it past Brownies, so what is this Girl Scout-esque thing that I have about following the rules to the letter even when I clearly have a hall - or handicapped - pass?) On the way back to the car, now limping heavily (and quite obviously), a car almost runs me down, and the driver exhibits extreme annoyance that I am taking so long to cross the lane of traffic - and then he pulls into a handicapped space. Grr.

Now I REALLY have no idea where the bee is, so I roll all of the windows down and cruise out of the parking lot, hoopty ride-style, bound for home where I can drop the box off with my spouse who, thankfully, is self-employed and happens to be at the home place. In retrospect, rolling down the windows was Blonde Moment #4, because I live mere blocks from Chapel Hill, and my route to the house consisted of a short jog on the access road followed by a five-block jaunt through my 'hood. At no time did I reach a cruising speed that would create the wind-tunnel effect necessary to suck a stinging insect out of the car.

So, Ashley, Cathy, Melissa, Robyn and Sarah - you were supposed to get Frozen Rose. You ain't getting Frozen Rose. You're getting (in my mind) a pretty pathetic substitute, plus some tchotckes, but hopefully this amusing anecdote amps the gift attempt to eleven!

News Feed: Major Purchase by Nine Year Old Imminent

Gas for trip to and from Guitar Center: $5. Transparent red Ibanez electric bass with Tone Blaster amp: $289. "Headphones for silent practice" printed on the side of the box: priceless.

Home, Sweet Home

I'm finally posting photos of our "rebooted" living and dining room. The good camera's LCD screen is on the fritz (which, I suppose, means it technically isn't the good camera anymore), and I lost the telescoping thingy that attaches to the other camera and reduces the glare from the flash. (No, I'm not a professional photographer; I just play one on TV.) Thus, these are not ideal, and the Mink (dark brown) paint throws a certain glare, courtesy of the oh-so-overpowering flash, but I guess that they give you the general idea. The shots of pale blue walls (three-quarter strength Palladian Blue) mixed in with the Mink are shots of the dining room; the tan walls (Greenbrier Beige) are the attached living room. Rug under the dining room table is new, as is the dark-stained sideboard on the Mink "feature wall." My very creative hubby had the idea of mounting an existing tramp art mirror over the sideboard. It looks like one unified piece, in part because of the medallion details on the mirror that match details on the sideboard. (Of course, I managed to take a picture of the sideboard and the mirror, but not the two together!)

Since I couldn't find a suitable (oversized) plate rack on which to display framed photos, I used various items to create a similar effect. The carved picture rail shelving in both rooms I distressed myself, while the white architectural feature on the blue wall came suitably "shabby chic." We removed the legs from an antique wooden tray to house another photo, and the box above it is an old pipe rack. I'd like to tell you that the wooden chair shelf on the dining room wall was my creation, but I bought it as-is at Chiffoniers in Fort Worth. The flaming tin heart was my addition, though . . . .

I bought the peg shelving that is on the feature wall primarily for the color (sort of beige, but with a little purple showing through, to coordinate with the Mink, which has a dark purple cast to it in some light). After we mounted photos over it, it occurred to me that I could hang some smaller photos from the pegs. One thing led to another, and I have begun festooning the pegs seasonally. (Unsurprising - stand still long enough, and I may decorate you.) "Seasonal" is a flexible concept with me these days. I am SO past Halloween/Christmas/Easter! Currently, we are decorated for "summer," with swim team ribbons and grosgrain nautical flags hung from the pegs, along with a sailor-striped tee with skull and crossbones applique that I stole from PJ's closet. Since Connor has been to (approximately) six thousand, seven hundred ninety four camps this summer (at last count - he has two more weeks before school starts, so the total can and will increase), I have had a steady supply of God's eyes and other camp crafts to work into the summer theme.

I found some great vintage-looking felt "Back to School" mini pennants that will be going up at the end of next week. Come October 1st, the Halloween decorations will come down from the attic, and I am most anxious to experiment with various display schemes for my collection of papier mache candy containers and other vintage and folk art items. With two new display shelves at my disposal, I may even be able to justify some new purchases. (That groan you just heard came from my husband.)

Greggie and Douggie and Some of the Other Hitler Youth

So, if Der Fuhrer ever returns to power, we now know who will be donning a brown shirt along with the other brothers of Omega House . . . .

My dear husband recently came to the realization that regular bedtimes (and actual bedtime routines) are good things, allowing spouses to actually spend time together in the evenings. (Yes, our oldest is about to turn ten; Dad can be a little slow on the uptake.) Usually, I'm the only one policing this sort of thing, whereas "Mister Path of Least Resistance" is okay with the kids falling asleep sprawled in front of the television, laptops still on laps, etc. You see, it takes a lot less effort to get a child to go to sleep that way. Specifically, ZERO effort. Hence the appeal -until summer hits, the alarm clock takes a three-month vacay (well, for the kids; for mom, not so much), the daylight lingers, and the kids are wired and asking what comes on after "The Batman" at 10:30.

So Dad's in the car with both boys, and he announces that, with school just around the corner, it's time to start observing a regular bedtime, etc. The older one (AKA "The Vulcan") begins spouting details of various AMA studies, the gist being that if you wake up spontaneously without an alarm clock and do not feel tired, you are getting enough sleep. (Okay, I've read the studies, and that IS the benchmark for whether a child is getting enough sleep - but totally beside the point, because we're talking about Mom and Dad's sleep opportunities here! I can attest, though - the kid is up at 6:30, if not before, EVERY morning, fully wound and usually wanting to engage me in conversation . . . notwithstanding the fact that I am in bed, face buried in the pillow. He generally is a perceptive kid, but these context clues are ones he tends - well, chooses - to ignore.)

In the midst of the spirited debate, little brother (AKA "Rolf" - you may know him as Liesl's love interest from "The Sound of Music") pipes up with the following:

"Dad, thank you for caring enough about me to put me on a schedule."

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA? Rewind. As an only child, I have to ask: is brown-nosing a nature thing or a nurture thing with younger sibs? Either way, our little guy has got the concept DOWN PAT. Here are some of his other greatest hits:

"Mom, I would love to go to the mall with you while you try on shoes and bras."

"Mom, I am really glad that the kids' buffet only has shrimp tonight." [Note to Ridglea Country Club: SERIOUSLY? It's called a chicken nugget. You buy them in bags, shaped like dinosaurs.]

When I brought up the bedtime conversation with him and asked why he thanked his dad, he just shrugged. Then I asked him, "Parker, do you enjoy getting your brother in trouble?" And the shrug became a smirk . . . .

Eddie Haskell, party of one.

Jen's Party

So I've been working with my friend Jen for several weeks, lending "event planning/general fluffing" services in the days leading up to her parents' fiftieth anniversary party. We had grand plans for elaborate outdoor tents and an overall "poolside, Newport Beach" vibe. And then the rains returned to Tarrant County . . . and hovered. Party started at 7 pm tonight, and as of 4 pm we were still checking the weather radar trying to decide whether to set up outside. Ultimately, given wet grass and mugginess issues, we opted to set up the dining spaces indoors with the hope that cocktail hour before and dessert after could be held al fresco. The last-minute decision meant making some big (and quick!) changes to the house: basically, we relocated half of the living room into a sunroom, threw the other half of the living room into the garage, and pretty much upended the apple cart. Sometimes good things come out of upended apple carts - Jen loved the new look of the sunroon, and at press time the furniture very well may stay where it is, and new furniture may get purchased for the living room. All's well that ends well. Pictures in the slide show below are horrid - the good camera is being returned for warranty service, and the Sony DSC and its strobe-light-from-Hades flash hate me (yeah, yeah, I lost the little telescoping thingy that minimizes the light; I'm sure it's around here somewhere). Plus my batteries ran out at the last minute, and I had to whip out the camera phone. When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade; when life hands me washed-out photos, I experiment with Picasa filters, so forgive the God-awful arthouse quality of these! There was a professional photog in the house, and when I get some good pictures I will add them to this Blog, for those who have been listening to me drone endlessly about fans and candle lanterns.

Jen's Party

Coolest Neighbors Ever

Okay, Debi and Ronnie, our neighbors to the south, give them a run for their money, but no can deny that our "northern neighbors," the Flynns, are mighty cool. We watched their cats while they were out of town (the kids nominally were charged with this task), and when the Flynns returned, they left a sweet card on our doorstop, attached to this adorable cookie bouquet, with appropriate payment for both boys - cash for Connor and a stuffed Spider Man for superhero-obsessed Park.

Here is a shot of PJ eating a pretty darned good replica of the Flynns' cat, Keira. I should mention that everyone on our street has a black and white cat, most from the same source - a very fertile Myrtle who lives on the other side of the middle school. Some neighborhoods have a "Welcome Wagon" program; we requisition you a cat. Keira's littermate, Leni, lives on the other side of us. We, of course, have Max, who looked a little shaggier and bigger than his predecessors when he showed up in the yard one day, and, Maine Coon lovers that we are, we snatched him up in hopes that our suspicions were correct and he was cut from a different feline cloth. We were not disappointed - he is all Coon cat and twice as big as the other black and white kitties on the street (well, only half again as big if you take all of the fur out of the equation). No idea where he came from, but most assuredly it was divine providence that brought him - the third in a line of black and white Maine Coons in the Durham-McGlinchey family line - to our doorstep.



We consider ourselves lucky to live in a real, old school neighborhood - a front porch community, not a backyard-centric suburb - where the felines share bloodlines, people throw dog birthday parties and take turns leaving "Secret Santa" and "Undercover Easter Bunny" gifts on the front stoop for the kids, screen doors are left open when the weather permits, and you can walk into pretty much anyone's carriage house (no one has a functional garage around here) and borrow their rototiller/extension ladder/folding tables and chairs without asking. (We kind of operate like a commune - why buy a fertilizer spreader when you know that the McGlincheys have one? Buy something else and add it to the communal pile.) Our neighbors are like family, and we love our occasionally wacky but incredibly loving and loveable family.

Second IKEA Story

I just realized that the "first IKEA story" (the one that was circulated by e-mail and inspired many "you really ought to have a blog" comments, which led to the creation of this site) has not been memorialized here - I will try to track it down and post it, because it really was terribly amusing. Well, not to us, certainly not then - but, with the passage of time, even we started to see the humor in it. For purposes of this posting, though, you only need to know the short version - after driving a gazillion miles out of our comfort zone to spend the better part of the day in the rat's maze that is the Frisco IKEA, we returned home with a room's worth of furniture for Son #1 . . . and spent the next week in IKEA/room remodel hell. Paint was spilled; hours were spent on the phone with Swedish tech support attempting to describe exactly which of the many nameless rectangular pieces of wood depicted in pen and ink on page X was the one that was warped straight out of the package; my usually sweet husband brought a store manager to tears; hardware disappeared into thin air; and on and on and on . . . .

Thereafter, Parnell remained resolute that it would be a frigid day in Hades before we would have another IKEA "experience" - that is, until this weekend. I've now decided that trips to IKEA are not unlike childbirth or having moles removed. You leave swearing, "No way I'm going through THAT again." But then a certain amount of time passes, and most of the unpleasantness is forgotten. And so it was that we all piled into the ranch truck, this time in search of new bedroom furniture for Son #2. We had high hopes that maybe, just maybe, this trip would be different. But NOOOOOOOO - the McGlinchey IKEA curse continues. Again, I'll stick to the highlights:

1. Departure was delayed due to (a) unscheduled Sunday morning trip to Care Now (office visit $162.00) to attend to Connor's suddenly very infected ear and (b) subsequent trip to pharmacy at Montgomery Plaza Super Target (ear drops $100.62; are they made of gold or something?).

2. Loft bed did not show up anywhere in store directory, notwithstanding fact that IKEA USA Web site (consulted en route to Frisco - mad props to the Google Android phone) showed 45 units in stock.

3. Found bed, bookcase and other oversized items and decided to purchase them first, then spend leisurely (HA!) hour perusing showroom and marketplace while children enjoyed Smaland experience. Spent a good fifteen minutes familiarizing selves with "self-checkout" technology.

4. Got halfway through marketplace and realized had put Blackberry down SOMEWHERE. Had become separated from husband, (obviously) could not call him, so had to swim upstream through marketplace to enlist his help in Great Blackberry Search. Pushed way through marketplace and back to warehouse (lap around IKEA #1). Found Blackberry (break in the cloud cover #1), which had been set down during first attempt to make heads or tails of umpteen thousand mattress options. Burned remaining portion of Smaland hour and had to retrieve children, who were cranky for being expelled from playland paradise.

5. Started shaking from hunger and made detour to cafe, where spouse and oldest child insisted on various menu substitutions that DID NOT COMPUTE in context of European-style cafeteria, confusing and irritating tray line workers and embarrassing yours truly. Despaired at fact that oldest child appears to have learned from the menu substitution master (his father).

6. Younger child insisted on trading PBJ sandwich for Mom's Swedish meatballs with lingonberries, confirming that older child's refusal to eat anything but macaroni and cheese really is a nature, not nurture, thing, and may not be as horrible a mother as suspect may be (break in the cloud cover #2). However, given state of exhaustion and hunger (coupled with fact that I REALLY wanted to eat my meatballs and lingonberries), found myself somewhat embarrassingly tearing up in IKEA cafe at fact that younger child is "adventurous eater." (Admittedly, the bar was set pretty low by the older child - I mean, it's not like Swedish meatballs are on a level with blowfish, but meatballs are a HUGE culinary detour given the precedent set by Son #1.)

7. Spent fifteen minutes reassuring distressed older child that his bunk beds only looked that small on the showroom floor, were MUCH larger and more imposing in real life, and did not need to be immediately replaced for being "too dinky." Finally told him that bunk beds on showroom floor were Bunk Beds 2.0 and NOT same model that exists in bedroom at home.

8. Fought hordes of lookyloos in showroom and marketplace, becoming separated from rest of family (who, let's admit it, fit the IKEA lookyloo description pretty well - easily distracted by bright, shiny objects) roughly EIGHT TRILLION TIMES.

9. Finally figured out what mattress to buy . . . and had to work way out of warehouse and back through showroom to retrieve corresponding, model-specific flat sheet.

10. Had to work way back through marketplace to rejoin family in warehouse (lap around IKEA #33).

11. Back through the self-checkout . . . .

12. EVERYONE had to use the facilities - staggered in five minute shifts.

13. Stood in line to buy lingonberry soda for ride home (having been deprived of lingonberry fix earlier in day). Discovered dispenser was out of ice and lingonberry soda was flat. Got back in line for refund. Cheerful IKEA employee responded, "Oh, yeah - the machine over THERE has ice and un-flat soda." Thanks - information that would have been helpful TEN MINUTES AGO.

14. More trips to the facilities.

15. Pushed three carts to the loading dock, spouse went to retrieve truck - and had to circle parking lot in holding pattern, because rude family backed into loading dock space that CLEARLY had been reserved by us standing there with our three carts. (IKEA rules, people! Learn them, follow them.)

16. White-knuckled the ride home, because spouse had rather precariously wedged (very lightweight) rolled mattress pillowtop under large carton, and - from my perspective riding on the passenger side - pillowtop looked poised to take flight at any second. Head filled with visions of spouse playing Frogger on 121 attempting to retrieve errant pillowtop and getting struck and killed in process (or, worse, having to return to IKEA for new pillowtop).

17. Spent three hours comparing loft bed pieces with various combinations of screw holes to wordless, line-drawn instruction manual. (Fellow IKEA shoppers, forewarned is fair-warned: the deceptively simple-looking Kura loft bed is anything. Each of the 12,647 support pieces has a different pattern of screw holes on each of its four sides. Thus, there are 2,678,943 - I'm using round numbers, of course - possible assembly combinations, and 2,678,942 of them are wrong.)

18. Spent another hour trying to figure out why last piece would not fit. (See parenthetical in 17 above.) Watched spouse literally try to force square peg in round hole.

19. Had to break news to spouse that bed pieces were never going to fit together because he had oriented one side of bed the wrong way. By this time, spouse had already taken apart footboard (for diagnostic purposes). Had to break news that nothing was wrong with footboard as originally constructed.

20. While attempting to break land-speed record to reconstruct unnecessarily deconstructed footboard, spouse lost grip on (very massive, very heavy) side piece to loft bed, which landed on top of my cranium, HARD, resulting in goose egg, possible concussion.

21. After finishing bed and preparing to move it into desired location (against wall, with existing Expedit bookcase turned on side underneath), occupant of room requested that it remain, essentially, in DEAD CENTER OF ROOM so that entire area under loft would be available as fort playspace. Had to redesign floor plan of room on the fly.

Was it worth the hassle? Ask the four year-old, who is over the moon for his tented loft/play fort combination:

Existing Expedit bookcase, with cubbies for toys, runs alongside the back of the fort, but not directly underneath it, for maximum play space. We attached a "home" for small stuffed animals and tap lights to the underside of the bed with adhesive Velcro . . . . These are photos of the fort space under the bed:

Mom likes having additional storage space in the room, courtesy of a second Expedit bookcase, and really likes the fact that the headboard (floating roughly in the middle of the room) will block from view any mess that the boys may make in the fort. Kitty Boy Max likes the repositioned train table, which is now under a big picture window, affording maximum Jimmy Stewart-esque "Rear Window" viewing opportunities for felines.

Big Brother Hosts My E-Mail Account

So I set up a Gmail account in the interest of keeping Junior Club business separate from - well, actual business - and a fair bit of my recent Gmail traffic has centered on Ways & Means merchandising (t-shirts, caps and other products bearing the JWC logo). One of our new items this year is a cooler bag, and I've traded several e-mails with folks about unit costs, initial order and so on. So one day I happen to look up and see a banner ad directing me to a wholesale tote bag business, and I realize - Gmail is profiling me. After that, I started paying attention to the substance of my e-mails and their interrelation to the advertising at the top of the Gmail page. Some of the connections are tenuous at best - a reference to the July 4th weekend generated an ad for a book about Ben Franklin? Others are pretty intuitive - an offer to purchase 3 x 5 grommeted flags in response to an e-mail about a tailgate - and some are just plain hilarious (a discussion about whether a particular event venue would permit alcoholic beverage service generated a link to http://www.dwi.com).

But the best one appears below. Here's the setup - I'm scheduled to be out of pocket most of the day tomorrow on a JWC-related "errand," and my spouse is somewhat less than enthused to be on kid duty for nine straight hours on a Saturday. (The fact that the errand is a fun one is not helping me on the PR front.) I sent an e-mail warning my Saturday partner in crime that I was getting some static from the husband side, and here's what I got from my friends at Gmail:

MARRIAGE WARNING. http://www.keepyourmarriage.com/ - Marriage Crisis? Unhappy Spouse? Here's What To Do Now. Guaranteed.

Gmail, it's so reassuring to know that you have my back. You're like Dr. Phil and Shop.com rolled into one.

Parker Sends an E-Mail

Dearppucfhgjk;loughdex Camden[;p;pl;[;[--[[;/[p9u77y,
Mom and I are reading "Peter Penguin and His Chatter Beak." What are you doing? I will see you tomorrow at school.

kijhkpoiiuh

parker

P.S.: batman

(Note: Parker really, really wanted to type an e-mail to his friend, Camden, but was somewhat handicapped by the fact that (1) he's just now learning to read and write and (2) neither of them has an e-mail account. Hence, this open message to Camden. Mom provided some assistance (but "parker" and "batman" were 100% PJ - typing included).

How I Know It's Summer

1. I spend an inordinate amount of time writing names on things (t-shirt and swimsuit tags, pool toys, etc.) and become apoplectic when I can't lay hands on a Sharpie marker.

2. I spend an inordinate amount of time inflating things (prior to writing on them; see #1 above).

3. My car starts to take on a musty aroma, courtesy of the damp beach towels and sweaty camp clothes that have taken up permanent residence in the backseat.

4. The front porch looks like a parking lot for roller blades, skateboards, Subskates, kickboards, inner tubes, etc., etc.

5. The chili and stew recipes have worked their way to the back of the recipe box, and it's been a week since the oven got any action.

6. Our monthly Ridglea bill triples (all of those poolside grilled cheese sandwiches off of the dollar menu add up!), but the grocery bill has dwindled to nothing.

7. We know when it's 10 pm on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday night, because the dog starts freaking out when the Concerts in the Garden fireworks go off. (This is actually an item from the related list, "When You Know It's Summer on the West Side of Fort Worth.")

You Are Everything I Never Knew I Always Wanted

Parnell is very fond of the above quote from the movie "Fools Rush In" (and I'm pretty fond of it as well). Certainly it sums up our married life together, but to me it also represents those moments that we experience from time to time when, with the benefit of hindsight, we see the big picture come into view and understand how the pieces of our lives were intended to fit together.

A visit to the Cake Wrecks blog this evening took me to the blog site of a family that has lost two children - one at sixteen months and another at fifteen weeks gestation. They are pregnant with number three, and as I pray for a "happy ending" for them I am also struck by their faith - not a blind faith that they will suffer no more but a faithful belief that whatever happens will have a deeper purpose within their own lives and in the lives of others. Reading about their journey made me think about our own (comparatively miniscule) struggles to have our second child. Our first miscarriage (at seven weeks) was terribly sad and disappointing, and also disorienting - after an initial pregnancy experience that was absolutely textbook (well, until the last twenty four hours, when we discovered that our firstborn, stubborn and mischief-filled from the get-go, had flipped when he should have flopped, hit a growth spurt and got his head stuck in my ribcage, necessitating a C section), it honestly had never occurred to us that anything could go wrong.

Our second lost pregnancy (just past the fifteen-week mark) transcended sad, disappointing and disorienting - devastating is the only word that comes to mind. After that experience, our reality did a 180 and we began to wonder if anything could ever go right again. We agreed to take a sabbatical from all things baby; I focused on work, and on getting myself back on an even keel, mentally and physically, and together we focused on Connor. We traveled. We decided that there were worse things than being a threesome. And we decided that we would try one more time, beginning in March 2004. (Practical girl that I am - and 100% certain that we would have another boy - I wanted our boys to be exactly five years apart, so that all of Connor's hand-me-downs would be seasonally appropriate for the little guy.) Of course, I got pregnant a month before our start date - someone's way of taking away some of the anxiety, I suppose. My fourth, and last, pregnancy was not at all textbook - we had a myriad of scares along the way - but each time my precious little boy found a way to reassure me, moving in my belly at just the right moment and letting me know that he wasn't going anywhere until his "birth day."  Because he was a repeat C section, because his brother had been HUGE at 38 weeks, and because our doctor estimated that "Repeat" was even bigger than "Peat" (she was correct), his arrival was scheduled for two weeks before his due date. As the nurse was hooking me up to the monitors, one final wave of panic hit me: we had made it this far, but was it possible that he wasn't ready to join us? I voiced my concern, and the nurse immediately pointed at the monitor and said, "There - your first contraction." Someone - God? Parker? The former working through the latter? - had heard me, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. Well, almost the last piece:  when they placed Parker in my arms, the fog of those two failed pregnancies began to lift, and my perspective forever shifted. A voice in my head uttered what should have been an obvious truth:  had either of those pregnancies succeeded, I would have had my two children. But I would not have had the two children that I was meant to have.

Looking at my two boys, they are such obvious compliments to each other - one towhead blonde, one sandy-headed; one green-eyed, the other brown-eyed; one so scientific and frequently serious, the other prone to being silly and capricious. They balance each other, and they balance our family. I watch them together, when they are playing - and even when they are fighting - and they make perfect sense. I look at Parker as he sleeps, and I think, "You are everything I never knew I always wanted."

Ride 'Em, Cowboy(s)!

Tried to upload these to Facebook, but encountered uploading "issues." These were taken at H3 Ranch in the Stockyards, after dinner with Parnell's mom and my grandmother. (Japanese Palace was our initial Sunday night destination, but then we sampled H3's steak and proprietary "mop sauce" at the Beastro benefit at the Fort Worth Zoo, and we were hooked.)

Needless to say, the saddle barstools were a BIG hit . . . .

The Times, They Are a Changin'

My (first) baby is a fourth grader, and a Webelo Scout. Wow, you blink, and it happens. At the pool today, I got the distinct impression that his choice of deck chair, and his insistence that I have a splash ball catch with him in a particular location (the better to show off his pitching, and over-the-shoulder catching, skills), were fueled by a desire to show off for certain female age contemporaries . . . .

So you will forgive me my nostalgia in sharing with you these, the "greatest hits" of Connor's second grade creative writing assignments:

"The Zoo Letter":

Dear Mr. Manager, I would like to work in your zoo. I could help feed the animals. I could also help heal the animals. I could event help clean the exhibits. Sincerely, Connor McGlinchey P.S. I hate cleaning the exhibits.

"Letter to the Mayor":

Dear Mayor Moncrief, I think we should have a new water/theme park in Ft. Worth. Because it would make the kids happy. Plus it would make a lot of money. I hope you will approve. Sincerely, Connor

(Observations: Most kids would have stopped at "it would make the kids happy" - but, nope, not Mr. Future Business Leaders of America. Also, I was not aware that we were on a first-name basis with the Moncriefs.)

"Street Sign":

(Accompanying a drawing of a Jeep passing a "BUF XING" sign) My sign is important becuase your car may get hit by a buffalo. And I'm sure you don't want that to happen.

"The Adventures of Sherlock Snows":

Once there was a snowman. His name was Sherlock Snows. He was the greatest snow detective. The best of the best. He has even solved epidemics. Once he was a scientist and he found a cure to the worst thing in all of Snow Planet . . . global warming. This just in, Sherlock has just found the missing emerald, diamond and ruby that were stolen by Lefty Calohan [sic]. And he has jailed Lefty himself. Wait it turns out Lefty is a girl. In other news there is a new kind of Slurpee. It is called Banana Swirl.

"My Brother":

It was October 29th, 2005. [Editor's note: Parker was born on October 29, 2004.] I was just about to turn six. [Ed.: Again, a year off.] And I had just started to go to South Hi Mount. [Ed.: Um, no again - but at least we're being consistent.] It was after school. And I was happily riding my bike across the street. And after about two hours of riding [Ed.: Huh? Our attention span stops at the fifteen-minute mark.] my dad came out and got me. And he told me that we had to get to the hospital right away. So we went to the hospital and my mom was there. [Ed.: Wow, what a coincidence!] And my dad told me that my mom was just about to have my baby brother. So we talked to my mom, and then we went home and got pajamas and my dad put me in a Nemo scrub suit. And we went back to the hospital We waited for a long time. And at about midnight my mom's doctor woke us up. And he told [us] my mom just had the baby! [Ed.: Parker was a repeat C-section. He was born at 11:21 am, less than two hours after Parnell and I got to the hospital and 12 minutes after we entered the surgical suite. Connor and my parents arrived at the hospital about an hour after we did. The scrub suit thing is true - he had little doctor's scrubs with Nemo fish all over them. My doctor's name is Adrianne, and she probably would object to being called "he."] And so we went and saw him in the nursery. But he was asleep so we spent the rest of the night at the hospital. And in the morning the rest of my family was there and they gave me presents! And they said it was because I was a big brother! And they had presents for Parker, too! And finally Parker woke up! [Ed.: We know we're in the home stretch of the story! Because we are using exclamation points!] And he was so little and cute! [Ed.: Almost eight and a half pounds, at two weeks premature. The cute part is true.] And he loved his rattle. It might even be the biggest change of my life! [Ed.: Only child for almost five years . . . you THINK it might be the biggest change?]