Niece Hoarder

I'm on High Alert:  Operation Impending Babies right now.  Every text I receive could be from one of my sisters telling me they're in labor.  As I told Kelli a few days ago, I am in a sweet, sweet spot in all this baby business, as I get all the excitement but none of the pain.  Glory hallelujah.

Yes, indeedy-do, each of my two sisters are due to have their third baby girl any time now.  You remember my sisters, right?  Kelli, the middle child, who I once convinced to play chicken on the old highway down the road from our house, where we'd run out in front of passing cars, seeing who could get closest without actually getting hit?  That sister.  (Incidentally, that is the last time I remember getting a spanking from my mother.  Sometimes, when I've been sitting for too long, I believe I can still feel the effects of that particular disciplinary action.  It turns out fear gives mothers divine strength.  Thanks a lot, neighbor who snitched on us- no, but really, thank you, you likely saved our lives.)

Or Stephanie, the youngest, who Kelli and I used to stuff in a sleeping bag and shove down the stairs?  Or shove in a laundry basket and pull around the kitchen, bouncing off the sharp cabinet corners?  Or shove in the dryer, because how else were we supposed to answer the age-old question, "Will our baby sister fit in the dryer?"

Those sisters.


I was worried they were both going to be selfish and deprive me of any more nieces, but thankfully they both managed to get knocked up a third time and now my family and I will have even more little girls to smother with our well-meaning, overly-affectionate love.  We got to see them a month ago, where we did our best to get enough niece/cousin time to last us a while.

Adelaide also made sure to demonstrate to all the little girls that you're never too big to sit in Grandma's lap.

Incidentally, our children still love to sit in our laps.  I love this, too, even if it feels like this most of the time:

Come on, nieces.  You have an aunt ready to smoosh and smooch you, plus I have it on good authority your mothers are perhaps just the teensiest bit uncomfortable right now.  I don't want to point any fingers, but some of you aren't being very careful with your pointy knees and elbows.

The Best Kind of Tough Choice

Last weekend in Kansas, Adelaide, my mom, and my sister Kelli made pies for the crowd mom had invited over.

Mom always invites a crowd.  It's, like, a thing.

I was so glad Adelaide was having a chance to freshen up her pie skills, as we haven't made any in a while, and you know I'm not eating any subpar pie at Thanksgiving.  I just won't have it.

Adelaide was doubly pleased because when she asked to put a lattice crust on the top they said, "Sure."  Adelaide's mother never says, "Sure," when Daughter asks to do a lattice crust because Adelaide's mother is cruel but also because generally when we're making pies we're trying to complete four in a shortened space of time and who the heck has time to make a lattice crust?

Aside from my mom and sister, of course.

Also we don't have one of those zippy-wheely zig-zaggy pie crust lattice cutter thingies (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, well, I'd say that's fair), so that's always been another handy excuse not to make a lattice crust.  Now that Adelaide's made one, however, I might just have to let her try at Thanksgiving.  And speaking of Thanksgiving!

I love this book, because how could you not love a cookbook that, if you were to make a pie chart depicting its contents, would look like this:

Yes, I made a pie chart about a pie cookbook.  There was no way it was not happening.  I don't have that kind of superhuman self control.


In addition to being a professional pie maker (pie artist?  pie-ologist?  baker?), Ms. Howard is a writer, so the essays in between sections are well-written and interesting.  I sat down last night and read the thing like a novel, front to back.  Now I get to go back and decide which ones will make it onto our table; Adelaide's voting for Chess Pie, which I have neither baked nor eaten before, but which the author makes a strong case for.  My front-runners are her Toffee Pecan, Chai-Spiced Pumpkin, Shaker Lemon, Strawberry Margarita, or Banana Cream.  I have no idea how we will ever choose just two of three.

Also in the running is her Apple Pie.  It is classic.  It is simple.  It is delicious.

It has a lattice crust.

Like Grandmother, Like Granddaughter

Last week was a rough week for many in my hometown.  Two dearly, dearly loved people passed away, one of whom was an age (nearly my age, actually) that makes you say, "But he'd barely gotten started on the best part!" and the other was older, yes, but still far too young to say good-bye to, because as far as I'm concerned, no one should ever have to say farewell to the likes of Larry.

[Edited to add:  And now I just found out Anna Dewdney died, the author of the Llama, Llama children's books.  This must be how other people feel when their favorite movie stars overdose, except people who write and illustrate children's books die from things like brain cancer, which feels way more tragic to me.  Getting pretty sick of this whole "people dying" thing.]

One of those hometown-many is my mom.  Last week was hard, and this week will be, too, as she goes through all the rituals that accompany death, and helps those left behind, as she's close to both the grieving families.  So we're going to talk about one of the things that makes my mother happy, which could be quilting or traveling or hand-washing, but will today be her grandchildren.

I could go full-on vain and talk about how amazing the three grandchildren that just so happen to belong to Derek and I are, maybe play a little Carly Simon in the background as inspiration, but instead I simply must show you this picture my mom emailed me a while back, one of herself and her sister Kay.

The back of the photo has a note written by my grandma:  "Dresses are gold checked with organdy aprons.  Lorri [my mom] was mad because she had to wear her bonnet.  I think it's pretty but she doesn't.  Have given Kay's hair a feather cut.  Sure is easier to take care of."    

Now, let's just pass right over the fact that I now feel like a failure for never dressing Adelaide in an organdy apron when I had the chance.  I suppose I could still try, but I have a feeling it would end in a storm of tears and shredded fabric.  Let us also skip over the serious cuteness of Kay's beaming little face, framed by a new feather cut.  

Instead we're going to focus on the my mom, the one year old on the left, who is mad because she had to wear her bonnet, a revelation that I am dying over.  Dying because how many times have mothers of girls dressed them in the most darling of clothing- like bonnets- only to have them pout over it in front of the camera.  She's like a chubby Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I'm also dying because when I look at this and other old photos of my mother, I see the face of our niece, sweet Elliot Ann.

The picture is a little fuzzy because I zoomed in on Ellie's face- the one on my mom's lap, there- so you could get the full effect.  The resemblance is even more striking in person, when you watch Elliot as she goes about her business, her tall, strong build just like my mom's, who infamously stomped the floor out of the playpen my grandmother cruelly placed her in to get something done or maybe catch her breath fifty-something years ago.  It would seem that toddler Lorri had trouble understanding why she was in prison when her two older sisters were not.  Her solution?  Break it to pieces, of course.  

I put that scowling picture up there to mark the resemblance to mom, but I don't want you to think that's all she does, so here are other, smiley-er pictures of her.

Look at how happy she is.  Elliot, I mean.  And yes, my sister Steph is pregnant again, with girl #3, as is my other sister, Kelli. There's a special place in my heart for three-girl families, and now both my sisters will have an estrogen trio!

And now, because I am one of three girls and know better than to go on and on about one of them while leaving the others out, here are some pics of my mom's other granddaughters, our other nieces.

Kelli's family, minus Kelli.  Hang on, let me see if I can find a picture of her.

Well, that's Kelli, all right- around 25 years ago.  Here you see she and I dressing a baby Stephanie for the day.  Notice Steph is not crying, or reacting much at all.  She was used to such loving abuse.  I thought it so charming that my parents were thoughtful enough to get me a living, breathing doll when I was 8 1/2.  This model had overactive tear ducts as an infant, so I got to wipe her eyelids with a warm, wet washcloth until they were once again able to open many mornings because they were sealed shut from so much gunk.  Take that, Baby Alive!  

And, of course, we mustn't forget Vada, Elliot's big sister:

That's her at my grandma and grandpa's house over the weekend, following the Adelaide up a tree.  We were down south celebrating Grandma's 80th birthday.  I now can't wait to become an octogenarian, as when I said, "Grandma, you don't have to do that," she informed me, "I'll do what I want!  You get to do that when you're 80!"  

Only 47 years until that magical day.

Family Photos: It Sounded Like a Good Idea

Every time my family gets together, my mom requests a picture with her and Mark and the grandkids for their Christmas card, a picture of the daughters and her, and picture of whomever is receiving the most recently completed quilt.

The thing about taking pictures with small children, though, is that anything is a distraction.  Not just loud noises and such, but things like pinecones and the sky are distracting.  It's hard to blame them, really; who wants to look at a shrieking adult with a camera when you could look at a cat?

Norah Mae desperately wanted Ed the Cat (that is his full and respectful title, thank you), and the magical powers of The Ed made Charlotte smile.  Kelli and Aaron are just well-trained.

We tried bringing Ed into the shot, to see if it would be less distracting, but the lure of his soft fur proved irresistible to Vada.

I have thirteen photos of Vada petting Ed, who is very tolerant for an elderly cat. 

Ellie was more interested in petting humans, but she's one and hasn't yet grasped the difference between a gentle stroke and a sharp tug.

Char is upset because she just got her hair yanked.  Ellie is upset because she got scolded for yanking.

Aren't pictures fun, children?  Are we having a good time yet?

Because they obviously weren't having a good time, at one point we took a break and the children instantly scattered, darting into the trees.

Eventually we got all the children in one photo with Mom and Mark.  As for everyone all smiling, well...

Let's be honest: I think we all know I'm using this post as an excuse to show you how adorable my family is.

Not to mention these two, who are clearly MFEO. (Made For Each Other.  Name that movie!)

They're also the ones to receive the latest quilted offering from my mother.

It's their wedding quilt.  We won't discuss how long they've been married.  (HINT:  I was 8 1/2 months pregnant with Caedmon at their wedding, and somebody just had a birthday...)  A quilt that size has to take forever, though, and I love how it looks like stained glass.  To me, anyway.

Next time, my mother sports a halo of daughters and we discuss why you should feel sorry for her!

The Good

Good things from our week:

(I just had one of those moments where you type an innocent, innocuous word then stare at it suspiciously:  Is that really a word?  Did I just make that up?  "Good."  Gooood."  I kept pronouncing it like the first syllable in Gouda, as in the cheese, as in my brain is not to be trusted.)

• Yesterday marked eleven years of marriage for Derek and me.  I like the thought of eleven years because it's not the show-off-y, obvious number that ten is, the number you use as an excuse to revisit Charleston (ah, Charleston.  How I miss you.).  If the ten year anniversary is the wedding, eleven is the marriage itself, the everyday celebrations and devotion.  Hurrah for eleven years! 

Dear Charleston,

We

miss

you.

• I've spoken in the past about how I loathe certain magazines, "certain" being just about any of those targeted toward women, because apparently all women care about is losing weight and organization?  (I just spent a solid minute debating whether to put a period or a question mark at the end of the previous sentence:  I leaned toward a full stop because that really is what those magazines seem to believe, but went with the question mark because I don't understand why.  Also, it would appear that this is one of those days that finds me incapable of editing; instead I'm just putting all my extraneous thoughts into parentheses.  You have my condolences.)  A magazine I don't loathe in the least?  This Old House magazine.  Oh my goodness.  My word.  There are no articles about losing weight by using your lungs to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide or the best way to clean the bottles that contain your cleaning products.  People, the cover has zero, ZERO exclamation points on the cover.  What it does have are articles on seed libraries (people bring in seeds they harvested from their plants to a central location- in the article's case, an old card catalog cabinet in an actual library- for other people to "check out" and take home to plant!  It's revitalizing heirloom seeds!  It builds up community!  Aaaah!), a review of this new dry erase board paint (goes on clear and glossy over any existing wall color!  It's a dry erase board painted anywhere you want!  Aaaah!), and tips on planting your own tiny hellstrip garden (that struggling strip of grass between the sidewalk and curb apparently has a variety of names, which I did not know- but what a great idea!  Fill it with low-maintenance flowers!  Aaaah!).  Adelaide, for her part, adores Smithsonian magazine, a copy of which my mom sent home with Daughter last month.  She spent two solid days poring over it and hasn't stopped talking about pneumatic tubes ever since.  Mom promised to send her back issues Adelaide's way soon.  Hallelujah.

• It's the most wonderful tiiime of the yeeeeaaaarrr:

Reason # 1,764 to live in Iowa

The sweet corn stands are up, and the Angels of the Corn (that's my designation, I don't know what they call themselves.  Farmers, maybe?) are out, selling their manna.  Shucking corn is one activity I don't have to force upon Adelaide:  Whatever gets it in her mouth the fastest, she will do.  In this pic she's only four ears into the dozen she prepped for me, and of which I had one for supper that night, one as a bedtime snack the following day, and one each for breakfast the next two days.  They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, so fine:  My name is Kristy, and I am a sweet corn addict.  I regret nothing. 

Elevation Change

Sometimes, the only thing to do after receiving a piece of sad news is to keep busy.  So you clean and clean and clean, all morning, and this is satisfying in the middle and throughout the process, and for right around ten seconds afterward you look around with some level of contentment.

Contentment quickly begins to wane, however, and you travel swiftly from, "My house is clean!" to "My house is clean and my grandma is dead."

This feeling is also short-lived, however, which is fine because you long ago decided that your mood swings are not a sin, especially when you're not forcing anyone on the swing with you.  This up-and-down is largely internal, and pretty well managed by dedicated daily exercise.  So, fine.  Back up we go, because yes, your grandma is dead, but how many people get thirty-two years with a beloved great-grandmother?  And your kids- man, how many get to know a great-great-grandparent?  This is lavish, superfluous blessing, so many decades being so loved by a woman such as Helen Stewart.

Who is now dead.  Back down we go.

But, hang on!  Grandma was 96.  Ninety-six!  She'd lived independently for all but her last few months of life, and these last few years, as her eyesight continued to deteriorate, she'd spoken of how she missed reading and sewing and the faces of her family.  She doesn't have to worry about that anymore!  We'll see her again!  Up and up and up!

But now my family is sad, and my sisters are sad, and that makes me sad.  Down.

The only thing to be done for it is to go outside, look at my flowers, pick the first of my newly-ripened Pink Lady tomatoes, make myself a thick BLT for lunch, and tell our children I love them, because if I learned anything from Grandma, it's that there is no such thing as too many times when it comes to "I love you."  If you want to be like Grandma- and in this case, you do- you won't just say it when you're leaving or hanging up the phone, but as soon as they walk in the door, in any and every lull in conversation.  And you'll say it to all the children, all the grandchildren, all the great- and great-great grandchildren, biological, adopted, married into the family, whatever, because she knew that love is no place to practice scarcity economics.

And back up again, where Grandma is.

Patchwork

My mom and Mark came for a visit over the weekend.

Those are two grandboys and a bunch of quilts skulking around her.  This is not an unusual sight- particularly the quilts. 

In my family, if you get married or have a baby nobody tunes up a brass band or bakes you 1,000 casseroles or performs some ancient blessing.  My grandma, aunts, and mother will, however, attempt to smother you in warm, quilted love.

The three quilts on the left were made by Mom; the three on the right by Aunt Kay.

Those quilts up there are only the baby quilts our children received in thanks for being born.  After Derek and I got married, we received four quilts over the space of around two years, because quilts take time and between my cousins and sisters and I there are eight of us who need a quilt commemorating every major milestone.  And those wedding quilts are no joke:  Big enough to cover a queen-sized bed, in an assortment of color palettes and designs.  At one point Derek wondered aloud if all these quilts were an attempt to pad the walls.  This was not an unreasonable query.

And not to worry:  The men in the family aren't left out of the quilting venture; they're frequently drafted into service building quilt ladders.  I know this because there's one beside me right now, holding all my wedding quilts.  These men are also excellent at not touching the quilts at quilt fairs (touching of the quilts being strictly forbidden at such 'dos- but you knew that) and waiting outside the fabric shop not judging how long it's taking nor how many dollars are flying out of the women folks' hands.  They know that this is all in the name of art and heirlooms, or were perhaps ever so gently made to understand the first time they were foolish enough to challenge their resident quilter.

Never fear, Quilters!   I only opened those blinds all the way for the purposes of this photo; I don't want sunlight fading those colors any sooner than necessary.

I worry, at times, about my lack of quilting ambition.  I come from a robust line of quilters, and am perfectly proficient with needle and thread and sewing machine.  Shouldn't I be doing piecework in my sleep?  Feel the overwhelming urge to peruse quilting patterns when someone announces they're expecting?  Suffer guilt when buying a *gasp* STORE-BOUGHT BLANKET?  

The aforementioned robust line of quilters- at least, the two on the far left; that's a great-grandma and her sister.

Then I remember my fabric hoard (it's just so pretty); The Incident, aka that one time I found Adelaide attempting to use my rotary cutter for a craft project and I went the teeniest tiniest bit Mommy Dearest not because I was worried for her safety but because it was my rotary cutter; plus my mom didn't start quilting in earnest until my sisters and I were old enough to leave her in peace for thirty consecutive minutes.  My time may yet come.

Until then, I'm just going to enjoy the fruits of my mom, my aunts, and my grandma's labors, draped so lovingly around our house and its inhabitants- after all, this is Iowa.  It's cold up here.

Speaking of which, Mom?  I'm pretty sure I never got a quilt for moving to Iowa.  A small oversight, I'm assuming...?

A Hipster, Daughter, and Husband List

• Our nearby big town of Ames was listed as the #2 city for hipsters last week by CBS news.  I already knew this, as our church is chock-full of them.  This doesn't bother me in the least because I can think of very few other groups as a whole who are easier to make fun of, a practice that has brought me... well, maybe not hours, but certainly minutes of entertainment.  Do a Kenickie-inspired run through your gelled hair with your imaginary comb, throw your imaginary scarf over your shoulder, strum your imaginary banjo with a pensive look on your face, and you're there, friend.  I do this all in a spirit of Christian loving-kindness, of course. 

• I talked to my mom yesterday and thankfully she is running with this whole Flat Adelaide thing.  Flat A has been to see a totem pole and attended a funeral and Mom was talking about making her poor On the Job Training student construct tiny defibrillator paddles so they could resurrect Crashing Flat Adelaide when she goes to work with my mom this week.  This is all good news because three-dimensional Adelaide and I spent some of spring break brainstorming for her King Tut costume, during which we discovered a few creative differences in opinion, namely that I think her Egyptian headdress should be constructed from scrap fabric, whereas Adelaide thinks it should be made from paper and is likewise wrong.  The yellow satin I found does seem to be slowly swaying her to my side, however, apparently because her only real problem with my scrap fabric was that "I thought you were going to force that horrendous egg-yolk-puke-colored felt down my throat, when everyone knows King Tut did not wear yellow, he wore gold."  Never one to pass up a chance to make as many of our children unhappy as possible, I also requisitioned Atticus's toy snake for her costume, to be returned to him after this fiasco of a presentation is over.  I believe the only reason he did not throw a fit over this is because he knows there is a good chance I will use this snake to strangle our daughter if she says "Mom, don't you know anything about the ancient Egyptians?" just one more time. 

• Derek was on the radio this morning, being interviewed about his library documentary because he just won a bunch of fancy awards for his work because he's amazing.  I asked him around thirty questions about his appearance on this radio show before it occurred, and he was able to answer right around two of them, brushing off the rest with appalling nonchalance.  He reminded me about the whole thing last night before bed just so that I'd remember that I needed to get the two A's to the bus stop today, and that was it.  This illustrates a fundamental difference between Derek and me:  If it were me going on a radio show for any reason, any reason at all, I would have freaked. the heck. out.  It would have been the de facto topic of conversation in our house for days, whether anyone wanted to hear about it or not.  I would have written posts on here about it.  I would have texted at least four friends and told them to pray for me lest I die immediately.  I would have paced around the house, flapping my hands.  Derek?  "Hey, I've been asked to be on this radio show.  They want to interview me about the library doc."  "OH MY GOSH WHEN?"  "Monday morning, at 7:15.  You'll need to take the kids to the bus stop."  "OH WOW THAT'S SO EXCITING!"  *crickets*

I'm pretty sure this is why Derek kept showing me all these t-shirts when that whole "Keep Calm and..." thing was trending.

From Etsy

From here

Both of the previous slogans could represent my entire psychological outlook with astounding accuracy.

Today We're Going to Talk About Gross Medical Stuff

After three weeks of on-again-off-again high fevers, achey-ness, headaches, and other fun, Adelaide is finally feeling better.

The fact that it took me three weeks to take her the doctor's office should probably cause me more mother-guilt, but the fact is, it takes a whole heck of a lot more to induce said mother-guilt than it did just two short years ago.  Whether this is because I've realized the best mothers I know also screw up constantly or because I've just become astonishingly good at shrugging my shoulders, I don't know.  What I do know is that when I realized Adelaide had been sick for three full weeks, I decided that, sure, I guess, I can take our only daughter in to the see a medical professional.  You know, for a lark.


The diagnosis was one bacterial infection that piggy-backed on top of the initial virus.  Antibiotic prescribed, prescription filled and picked up (say it with me, now:  $4 Rx's are the BEST), and 48 hours later, our daughter stopped her near constant litany of tears and moaning and I don't FEEL well's (what's that, you say?  Sounds like I should have taken her in earlier?  Please see the above paragraph and go ahead and imagine me shrugging my shoulders.  Also building character in our offspring and stuff), is back to constant chatter and charming interrogations.

One of the (many) reasons I didn't take her to the doc sooner is that, see, we were just there a couple weeks ago.  No, it wasn't for Adelaide, and no, it wasn't because someone was sick, but really, I had just been there.  No need to go back for quite some time.  (Please don't try to make sense of this.  There is none to be made.)  That initial trip was because Caedmon had gotten another giant splinter in the sole of his foot, and because this time he was gracious enough to do it on a weekday during our doctor's office's normal operating hours, I was able to take him in to have a medical professional perform the extraction, rather than me rooting around in his skin for an hour and a half while Derek held him down.  This way was much better, as it only took ten sweaty minutes of flesh-digging by the PA while the nurse held his leg and I held the rest of him (don't kid yourself, 4-year-olds are strong).  (Also, sorry to Derek's mom for the words "flesh-digging," I can just see her blanching now, as opposed to my mother, who is probably reading this going, "Mmm, flesh-digging, my favorite."  And now I've managed to further gross Becky out by typing "flesh-digging" four times and made my very nice, excellent nurse-mother sound like Nurse Ratched does Night of the Living Dead.  That one's my bad.)

(Oh, but a quick aside to Becky and anyone else squeamish who might ever be tempted to randomly scroll through the photos on my mom's phone or camera, hoping for cute grandchild photos:  Just Say No.  Well, unless you have a jonesing for pus and boils and inflamed skin and other head-scratchers more suited for a Victorian Oddities Museum.  Or if you're one of those people who continues to harbor the notion that school nurses sit in their offices reading books until some poor poppet stops by with an owie.  Then BY ALL MEANS, look at her phone.  Also ask her for the story about that time a kid sliced their finger off in a locker.  It's a doozy.)


Aaaanyway.  We're all more or less healthy now, although both the boys are now overdue for their yearly check-ups.  Whatever, shrugging my shoulders, I'll get to it when I get to it.  Probably.

 

Now It's Extra-Dirty Laundry

Yesterday my mom asked if she should bring her carpet shampooer when she next comes for a visit here in a few weeks.  She has not yet learned that the answer to this question is always, always "Yes."  Not that I mind finding those surprise crunchy parts of the carpet upstairs- it's like a super fun game that no one wins.

This week's carpet deposits include the puke-fest that inspired a middle of the night half-coherent Christmas song rip-off and our other son's contribution, which we discovered when he came into our room the other night and proudly announced, "I just peed on my dirty clothes basket!"  I investigated this claim, and sure enough:  dirty clothes- soaked.  Hamper- soaked.  Carpet all around the hamper- soaked.  Wall behind the hamper- dripping.  That kid must have been banking his milk all day, looking forward to this little gift.  Three-year-olds are such givers.

He seemed genuinely astonished and not a little disgruntled when he got a spanking for his efforts.  It would seem that his imagination supplied visions of a pat on the back, or perhaps exclamations of wonderment at this new-found masculine ability to pee wherever the heck he wants, all while standing up.

It was my sad duty to disabuse him of this notion.


Yes, Mom.  Please bring the carpet shampooer.

Maybe Nessie's Just Stuck In That Loch

When my mom and Mark were visiting a few weeks ago, Mom and I decided to brave a new (to us) place called Sky Zone with the three kiddos.  It's basically a giant warehouse full of trampolines, so I figured at the very least our visit would exhaust the children, which is, sadly, the primary motivation behind half the stuff I do.  ("Hey, Kristy, wanna go do [insert random activity here]?"  The first and most important question I ask myself:  How likely is it that our children are going to fall asleep after said activity?  A) Not likely at all- "Yeah, sorry, but we're super busy that day,"  B) Somewhat likely- "Maybe... could we somehow involve more running and/or obstacle courses?" or C) Very likely- "WE'D LOVE TO.")

Most of the parent/guardian types I saw there were sitting at the provided tables, enjoying some time away from their little monsters while the children bounced around on the trampolines.  

This was not me.  Nor was it my mom.  We are bouncers, she and I.  This is not to say that we are chirpy, effervescent creatures in our everyday lives; we just seriously enjoy some trampoline time.  She has a big ol' trampoline in her backyard (the first major purchase of my sister Kelli after she got her first job, so I suppose we're a family of bouncers); I have pleaded with Derek to get a similar contraption-o'-fun in our own backyard, but he said the only way we could do that was if I made every single guest to our house sign a waiver before stepping foot on it (something about trampolines being death traps and insurance statistics- I'm not sure if you've gotten this by now, but Derek is the practical one in our marriage, doing things like ensuring we're not sued and making sure we have a house to live in.  I am the one that likes to bounce on trampolines.).  I'm guessing something about the way I said, "Well, of course I'd make everyone sign that piece of paper before going into our backyard, and I definitely wouldn't accidentally/on purpose lose it every time someone came over," didn't inspire a lot of confidence.  

Anyway.  Adelaide jumped.  Atticus jumped.  Caedmon jumped.  My mom jumped.  I jumped.  

Right about here is where I would put a whole bunch of photos of our kids having a blast bouncing around, but I have enough trouble getting decent shots when they're stationary; when they're constantly on the move in a poorly-lit-for-photography (for me that's anything dimmer than sunlight) warehouse, my pictures aren't so hot.

Still, I did get a few, mostly of Mom out-jumping her grandchildren.

"Yes, Grandma sees you've fallen, Children, but I am on a trampoline and thus do not care."  I love making my mom seem more callous than she actually is; for some reason it really tickles my funny bone.  Although she is a nurse.  I'm just saying.

Click to embiggen and see my "Hahaha I want to die" face.

This is the part where I jumped down the trampoline runway and into the foam pit.  Unlike our children, who went before me and intentionally misled me into thinking I'd jump in and just kind of land on top of the cubes of foam, I sank completely down into the pit over my head, perhaps because I weigh just a tiny bit more than our kiddos.  (Physics is hard.)  I thrashed about for around ten thousand years trying to get out before losing the will to live and giving up.  I had made peace with the fact that I would be a foam pit version of Nessie, occasionally grabbing unsuspecting children and making them scream, perhaps lifting my head above the foam for grainy photos and inspiring countless legends in my honor when I noticed the employee manning the foam pit looking at me like "Seriously?  I do not get paid enough to help heavy moms out of this thing.  GET OUT OF MY PIT."  (He had a very communicative if derisive gaze.)  I eventually managed to haul myself out, helped along by my mom's helpless laughter at my predicament.  She's always been a bit of a "Well, you got yourself into this mess, now get yourself out while I laugh at you" kind of parent.

See now, my mom also jumped into the Pit of Foam Despair, but she had little trouble extricating herself, perhaps because she is freakishly strong, which I chalk up to being bred from hardy German peasant stock.

There was also a trampoline-basketball area and a trampoline-dodgeball area.  The kids played basketball for a while but I wouldn't let them go into the dodgeball area because dodgeball is the devil.  I was the kid who got "out" as quickly as possible on those days in PE because some kids play dodgeball like they're in the Hunger Games and I'm not stupid.  

To wrap up:  If you have small children and a trampoline place near you, you should definitely go.  But maybe avoid the foam pit.  And the dodgeball area.  

Exploration Place!

Wichita has this science center-type-thingy called Exploration Place.  They probably call it that because it's Place where kids can Explore different stuff.

What would you guys do if I wasn't here to explain everything?


One of our first stops was this teeter-totter.  It contains little balls that roll back and forth hitting metal posts and producing different musical notes, all overlooking the Arkansas River (say it with me now:  ArKANsas.  Because that's how we do it in Kansas).

By the bye, how do you refer to that little contraption:  a teeter-totter or a see-saw?  Just curious.  We always said teeter-totter.  Because see-saw is wrong.

One of the many rites of passage for a third child involves being left out of everything.  Which is why Cade had to ride the teeter-totter with me.

I was wearing a skirt and tried to be a lady and ride the thing side-saddle, but it turns out it's crazy-hard to ride a teeter-totter side-saddle while taking a picture of your two year old and trying to maintain a steady up-and-down so that he doesn't slip off.  So I threw propriety to the wind and straddled the dang thing.  I heard a decided lack of outraged gasps.




I'm pretty sure our kids' favorite part of the whole place was the castle area.  Caedmon was a blur most of the time.  No, really:

Click to embiggen The Blur.  (Hey, look who just got his superhero name!)

This photo makes me laugh.  Caedmon was so serious about mimicking the knight's stance exactly.  

     

He reminds of those preschooler-ballerinas who are so busy watching their own feet they forget to look out at the audience.  Except I'm pretty sure Derek's happy our son's trying to be a knight and not a ballerina.  I know because I've asked if our boys could take dance lessons.  The answer was pretty definite.

Atticus and Adelaide flying the Vikings plane.  Don't tell me that purple and gold was an accident.

Charlotte was decidedly underwhelmed by the plane.  I'm pretty sure her dad's a Chiefs fan.

Another favorite was the Tornado Simulator:

Kelli and Charlotte inside:

If you embiggen this one you can see Steph and Vada on the left and me taking the picture in the reflection on the door.  

Kelli was having fun.  Char was not so sure.  Looks like sisters do have similar parenting styles.

Adelaide holding Cade, who was clearly terrified.

I had to drag her away from that thing.

Charlotte and Vada loved the river-silt interactive display.  I know this because they kept trying to dive in.

Atticus and Adelaide loved excavating a fake ancient turtle fossil.  I had to drag Adelaide away from this, too.

I didn't take any pictures of it, but this area also contained a small cave you could tour that had displays of nocturnal animals native to Kansas.  They were all neat, but the only one that really stuck with me was the tarantula, in the form of the nightmares I've had since returning home to tarantula-free Iowa.  All I really remember from last night's is the tarantula hiding in the VCR and Adelaide and me screaming. 

 We don't have a VCR.  Or, please God, a tarantula.

Good times.  At Exploration Place, I mean.  Not the nightmares.

We made the mistake of taking this photo right before we left rather than as soon as we arrived, which is why all of the children are CRAZY.