And We're Back

Our family has spent most of the past week traveling. 

Derek was in a wedding in Florida, so the kids and I decided to take a trip down to southern Kansas to visit family- assorted and sundry grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends.  By all accounts, Derek had a terrific time in the Sunshine State, while the rest of us greatly enjoyed the Sunflower State.

But by the time yesterday rolled around, we were ready to be reunited and head for home.

We were all exhausted.

You know you're young when you can sleep like this and your neck doesn't kill you.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's eyelashes.

When Derek and I are apart, for some reason I am visited by an overwhelming compulsion to share every last detail of his time away.  So while the kids slept in the back, Derek got to listen while I regaled him with stories of our time in Kansas- from the conversation I had with my Grandma all the way down to the political cartoon I read in the local paper.

I know what you're thinking:  That Derek's a lucky, lucky guy.

And even though it's almost thirty degrees cooler here than where we were yesterday, I have to admit there's some truth in the line from that old movie.

You know the one.

Yeah, you do.

'"There's no place like home."

I just couldn't resist.



'Member That Time?

'Member that time, my first day at my new part-time job in high school, when I waited on an older gentleman?  'Member how I rang up his purchase and announced the total, $19.23?  'Member how instead of digging out his wallet, as I had expected, he stared off into the middle distance and said, "Ah, 1923... that was a good year."  'Member how I just smiled politely and tried to look as if I agreed, when in reality I was thinking, "Holy guacamole, how old are you?"
'Member how working with the older generations turned out to be one of my favorite parts of working in a drugstore, in no small part because they were always saying stuff like that?

It's 'Member That Time Monday at la casa de Van Voorst.

Photo Shoot

At least once a day,

Adelaide requests to have her picture taken with Caedmon.

A few days ago, I said, "Okay."

She could do this all day.

Caedmon could not.

And he tells her so.

The shoot disintegrates from there.







But a short break is enough to restore his good humor.

Which Do You Want First?

The good news or the bad news?

The good news is that the second level of our house has been scrubbed to within an inch of it's life.  Carpet vacuumed, woodwork polished, toys, furniture, walls, baseboards all wiped down.

The bad news involves the time leading up to this spring cleaning. 

Monday evening, Derek came home from work, and Atticus and Adelaide were upstairs playing.  Supper was ready, but rather than call them down right away, we decided to eat in peace for a few minutes, just Caedmon, Derek, and me.  We were enjoying the fact that we could eat and converse with each other without being interrupted every four seconds when The Informer came downstairs. 

She looked like this:

So we yelled for Atticus to come downstairs.

He looked like this:

I have to admit, we chuckled when we saw him.  It was pretty funny.

We stopped laughing when we got upstairs.

While we had been eating our supper, The Destroyer had gotten into the baby powder and annointed nearly everything within reach.  While Derek bathed our newly albino children, I spent much of Monday evening wiping things down with damp cloths, then woke up Tuesday morning to discover that there was still a white film on nearly everything.  Several hours were subsequently spent re-cleaning.  Our bedrooms now smell like a combination of soap, vinegar, Pledge, and still more baby powder.  I can't seem to fully expunge the carpet, so the kids' clothes become paler and paler shades of pastel as the day wears on.

It's events like these that make me vow never to leave Atticus alone to play again, no matter how enticing the thought of five free minutes becomes.

Then the laundry piles up, dishes crowd my kitchen counters, my other children need my attention, and I break my word.  The lure of a few two-year-old-free minutes always gets the better of me.

Guess who's upstairs by himself right now?

Walkin' In a Winter Wonderland

At 1:40 yesterday afternoon, I laid Caedmon down for his nap.  Atticus was already sleeping, and Derek was halfway there.  So I decided to take advantage of this rare opportunity for some time alone and go for a walk.  It had just started to snow, and I was looking forward to some solitude.  Adelaide was downstairs coloring, and I knew that would keep her busy for at least half an hour. 

As I was preparing to leave, however, I started to feel selfish for hoarding the afternoon to myself and not taking the chance to spend some one-on-one time with my daughter. I decided to ask her if she would like to accompany me on my jaunt.  Obviously not fully ready to relinquish my freedom, however, I phrased my offer in the following fashion:

"Hey, Adelaide, I'm going for a walk.  It's really cold outside, and kind of windy, and it's probably going to be a pretty long walk.  Would you like to go with me?"

Her response was swift and enthusiastic:  "I'd love to go with you!"

So instead of venturing out alone, enjoying a quiet afternoon and thinking deep thoughts about whether to fix chicken noodle soup or mexican lasagna for supper, I spent the next 45 minutes pushing Adelaide in the stroller through a beautiful snowfall.  We discussed bald eagles and what they mean to the American people, the difference between Mexico and New Mexico, and a country versus the country.

I'm not sure what to think about the fact that my conversation with 4-year-old Adelaide was more intelligent than any inner thoughts I would have had alone.

Probably best not to delve too deeply into that particular quagmire.

They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ho-Ho...

I'm worried about Adelaide.

Over the past year or so, I've noticed a certain... development.  This development is both familiar and disturbing.

Any number of times in the recent past, Adelaide and I have been sitting together during the boys' naptime, and we'll hear a sound:  the house settling, a loud clack from a toy in the washer, a large bug hitting the window.  As soon as the sound registers, her head whips around, she whispers, "What was that?" and she gets that look on her face. 

Or we'll get home, shut the door, and she'll immediately remind me to lock it.  I always do, so I ask why she thinks we lock the door.  She responds, "So that bad people can't come in our house," and again, that look on her face. 

I've seen this face many, many times before.

The name of this face is paranoia.

I watched it creep over my sister's childhood face as she carefully peered into our bathroom mirror, perhaps searching for traces of the people that she was sure were behind the glass, watching her.

I've felt it steal across my own face when Derek is gone overnight and I booby-trap the door to the basement.  Because what are the chances an intruder is going to break in through the front or back doors?  No, odds are he'll force his way into the basement, find his way to the rickity stairs, and prey upon us via that route.  I am the first to admit that this could be a lingering remnant of fear left over from hearing "Thump, thump, draaaag," one too many times in my childhood. 
Oh, you're not familiar with it?  Ask me to tell it to you sometime.  It's a delightful confection of a story.

Paranoia and Rational are not synonyms.

Just last week, I was getting the children ready for the day, when I heard my cell phone ring downstairs.  I looked at the clock:  7:30 am.  I knew that it was one of two people calling at that time of day:  either my Grandma, with some question or other, or my neighbor, reporting that she was at that moment watching a suspicious stranger breaking through the gate and into our backyard.

So that he could find the basement entrance, prowl to the stairs, and come up through the middle of the house.

It took a few moments for my mind to concoct this scenario, so I didn't actually get to the phone in time to answer it.  But by the time my phone rang again, signalling I had a voicemail, I was flying down the stairs, anxious to have my fears confirmed.  I keyed in the password to my voicemail account as I ran back up the stairs to begin herding my offspring into the frozen morning and escape the homicidal lunatic currently making his way across the basement floor.  Just as I picked up Caedmon, however, I registered a new sound. 

My Grandma's voice, coming from the receiver of my phone.  She just had a question for me.  Could I please call her back?

Adelaide's only hope is that the overwhelming sanity and rationality of Derek's genetic makeup can compensate for my unbalanced DNA.

Naptime

On Monday, all three of my babies... 

...took naps at the same time.

It was glorious.

To celebrate, I made a barbeque chicken pizza.

It made my kitchen smell like Head Country.

That, too, was glorious.

The End