I really think that God breaks us in to kids gently.

I am not a supermom or even close to one.

I remember when Kaitlyn was born and I stood there watching the nurse bathe her because I was too scared. She was so fragile and small and I was so terrified.

I was afraid to change her diaper and had the nurse watch to make sure I did it right, and then we had to take her home. Home!? Out of the safe clean hospital with all the doctors who knew how to care for babies. I was shaking as we walked in the door to our house and promptly sat there staring at her to make sure she was breathing.

After a few weeks we fell into a routine and my confidence grew. I started thinking this whole mom thing was pretty easy. I mean, hello, I have a kid and can get stuff done, I must be superwoman. Look at me!

We got pregnant again. (I miscounted my days and it happened.) I was fine with it. After all, how hard could it be? So far one was a cinch!

Then my three-month-old little girl started getting more active (turning into a terror). By the time Ethan was ready to pop out I was freaking and spent many nights praying that he would just stay in there for a while. How the heck was I supposed to give birth again when it felt like I had just given birth, and then take care of another baby?

Turns out babies start out pretty easy and become more work as they get older. Who knew? Someone could have told me! I really thought I had it all together! If I had known that I would have two little people only 12 months apart fighting over who gets the biggest bowl of cheezies and then together deciding that dumping them and grinding them into the carpet was more fun, I might have thought a bit harder about spacing my kids.

This must be why God doesn’t let us give birth to terrible two-year-olds. We probably wouldn’t take them home with us and if we did would give up in the first few weeks and book ourselves into the loony bin. I totally admire people who adopt children or have multiples or foster for this reason. They are my heroes!

I remember when Ethan was first born I would haul him around in his car seat and carry Kaitlyn on the other hip. I would think about the days when they would both walk and in my mind everything would be easier.

Ha, ha!

What was I thinking!? That was easier! Now they can both run whichever way they want and now I dream of those backpack kiddie leashes. My house has never been such a dive but I am sometimes okay with that. Stages.

Turns out God knows us pretty well. He gives us small babies to learn and grow with. They get busier and smarter as we figure out and adjust to caring for them. It is a learning process and as we discover and instill our values in them, it becomes a natural progression.

I used to think that I would just one day sit down with my children and tell them how the world works. This image terrified me and haunted me in my sleep like a monstrous dragon breathing fire.

Turns out they are learning every moment how the world works by watching us and how we react to and treat every situation. It is baby steps the whole way.

Looking back now, I really think that God breaks us in gently to kids. They start out small and quiet and then they grow and learn with us.

I have not come far in this parenting gig yet and I have a feeling that it is not going to be an easy road, but I do hope and pray that I can lead and be the example of what a good citizen should be.

Well, so long as being a good citizen doesn’t include being a good housekeeper.

This post is from Monna from Teacher Meets World. Thank you Monna!

A lot of people are worried about money right now. The economy of North America is shaking in its leaky rubber boots. But I am going to continue to say, “Let’s go to Florence!” Or the Grand Canyon, or the Galapagos Islands off the coast of Ecuador. Even in uncertain times, travel is still worth the money. Here’s why:

1. The world is such a vast place.
(See also, My country is not, in fact, the centre of the universe.)

Many of us live most of our lives in the relatively small world that exists between home, school, work, family and the grocery store. Travel allows us to develop a better understanding of the vastness of the planet and the complexity of the cultures that call it home. I have lived in both Colombia and Mexico but it was not until I moved to Barcelona, Spain (the motherland), that I began to really understand Latin American culture—including the enormous fondness for blowing things up (at close range) at festivals and the culture’s reverence for the Virgin Mary. As a Canadian with Scotch-Irish roots who had not visited Great Britain until this year, I was amazed to see so many Dubliners and Londoners who looked just like me, with those same blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. Travel has helped me understand where I come from and where I fit in as a Canadian living in Europe.

2. Travel helps you get over yourself.

Usually I’m pretty good with directions, but drop me into the metro system in Paris and I want to cry like a baby. I’m accustomed to feeling and being competent. Some of the obstacles I encounter while traveling make me uncomfortable and remind me just how many skills I still need to develop. Necessity is, however, a master teacher. When I decipher the metro map, buy my ticket in creaky high-school French, and finally, emerge in front of the Louvre under my own steam, I feel so proud of my small accomplishment. Plus, the Mona Lisa is inside and I could look at that painting forever. (Yes, I know. It’s smaller than I expected. I like it anyway!) Travel locks us out of our comfort zone, throws out the key, and forces us to adapt. Now!

3. Travel is filled with amazing highs—and many of them are free!

Do you remember how you felt on Christmas morning when you were five years old? You crept down the hallway to the tree and, just as your parents had promised, Santa had been to your house while you were sleeping that deep sleep that only small children seem capable of. Your stocking, hung carefully the night before, was bulging with good stuff and you could hardly breathe you were so excited.

You can experience that magical childhood moment again and again when you travel! For you, it might be the first time you see Michelangelo’s David at the Accademia in Florence or the Pyramid at Chichen Itza in Mexico. Or it could be at the Great Wall of China. Pablo Neruda’s home in Valparaiso, Chile. The Eiffel Tower. The Rocky Mountains. The Mediterranean Sea. Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris. Ayers Rock in Australia. Vegas, baby! The “happy places” are different for each of us but I promise that visiting yours will make you giddy with excitement and grateful to be alive.

4. Your travels don’t end just because your vacation does.

I feel terribly sad when a trip ends; a little grey cloud descends over me as I resume “regular” life. But after a few days, if I don’t dwell too much on my sorry state, I find myself rebounding. I’ll order a cup of café au lait like those I enjoyed during our trip to France, or prepare to make mole for the first time after traveling in Mexico. Maybe I’ll visit the library and come home with a history of the settlement of the American West. We bring the music and food and smells home with us; life spills over into life.

Being home also allows you to share your adventures with others. When we lived in Mexico, friends invited us to a post-vacation party and each person was asked to bring his or her favourite travel photos on a pen drive or computer. We ate potluck, drank good Chilean wine and Corona and Sol with lime, and watched the travel slide show of a lifetime. You should definitely try this one at home!

5. You realize that that people everywhere have a great deal in common.

It can seem, when you are traveling, like you have just landed on Mars. I remember visiting Budapest, Hungary, and being undone by the language. Hungarian is a Uralic language and is unrelated to most other languages in Europe. We had learned a few basic phrases but we couldn’t read the street signs. Then we took a train from Budapest to Prague and sat with a young Hungarian woman who was going to visit her boyfriend in Italy. She talked with us about university and relationships and the future and we exchanged e-mail addresses when she got off the train. The world had suddenly become so small. This young woman was struggling with the same types of issues that my younger sister is dealing with, just halfway around the world and in Hungarian. If we permit it, travel transforms us into more compassionate creatures; travel can bring home just how much the people of the world have in common.

“Let’s go to Florence!” I say.

This post is from my most favorite commenter from the UK! Thank you Lynne.

Growing up in rainy North Wales in the 1980’s I didn’t have any surviving grandparents, but I did start life with almost a football team’s worth of great aunts. Born at the latter end of the Victorian era, these ladies have left me with warm, vague memories of black dresses, piled-up white hair, dark linoleum hallways, jelly babies, weak orange squash and kind faces that were always happy to see me.

My two youngest great aunties were very different in their outlook, and looking back I see they influenced me hugely. Great Aunties Minnie and Winnie (Mary and Winifred) met in the early 1920’s while training as Nurses in a Liverpool Hospital. An unlikely friendship developed between the two. Winifred was tall, dreamy and fond of poetry while Minnie was short, deft in her movements and often had a sharp tongue, always speaking her mind.

Auntie Winnie compared the hospital to boarding school. The Matron was strict and overbearing, reprimanding the trainee nurses for the least little misdemeanor—like having your nurse’s hat a little askew or a smudged apron. Early on in her training, angry at being publicly rebuked, my Auntie Minnie wanted to storm back home. Matron reminded her how much her mother would have spent on her uniform. Auntie Minnie stayed. I’m glad to say that the girls did have some forbidden fun, escaping after lights out through the bathroom window to enjoy the delights of Liverpool’s music halls. I find it hard to believe my conservative Auntie Minnie ever climbed out of the window. Maybe she was the one who let the daring girls back in?

After training, the girls remained friends and became companions throughout their nursing life. Winnie, although not a blood relative, became a much-loved adopted member of our family. She was always a welcome visitor to our family homes both in Liverpool and Wales. Minnie was always helping Winnie out of scrapes, as her vagueness often got her into trouble

One such story is set during wartime blackout. Minnie returned home to find Winnie in a high state of anxiety declaring she had seen a ghost. Minnie being practical-minded knew there must be an earthly explanation and marched Winnie back to place where she has seen “the ghost.” It turned out to be a white statue shaded partly by trees, eerily pointing at my aunties through the pale moonlight.

Another time when Winnie was learning to drive she got caught up in a funeral procession. She thought it would be impolite to overtake the hearse and found herself arriving at the graveyard with the deceased family with everyone wondering who she was. (This might be a family habit as my mother and her sister, to their embarrassment, also unexpectedly found themselves guests at a stranger’s funeral the other week while visiting a church).

Only one quarrel marred their friendship of over 60 years. Minnie had a younger brother, my Uncle Griff: a seafaring, hard drinking, ne’er-do-well sort of man with a pure heart of gold. Unbeknownst to anybody, Winnie and Griff had fallen in love. Nobody knew a thing until one day a telegram arrived saying Winnie and Griff had eloped! Aged 40! Well the story goes that the womenfolk at the Liverpool house had hysterics. My poor Auntie Winnie was denounced as a “scheming woman” who had stolen their baby brother away. Winnie and Minnie did not speak for over a year.

All that was long in the past by the time I made my arrival in the mid 70’s. By then Minnie, Winnie and Griff were all living together in fairly gracious harmony in a spacious two-bedroom bungalow. Every Friday after school I would go and visit them. Minnie ruled the house, still waking at six to start the day’s housework. Uncle Griff tended the garden and sneaked sips of whiskey from various bottles secreted around the house, shed and garden, winking at me to keep his secret as he wasn’t supposed to drink.

Winnie taught me to love poetry. I can still hear her soft voice reading to me while I sat on her knee, the tweed material of her skirt prickling my bare legs. Poems from The Golden Treasury, Greek myths, school stories from her own Edwardian childhood. We would go walking over the fields with a neighbor’s Red Setter for company. I can see her in my mind’s eye, still tall and lithe aged 80, walking over the September fields wearing sensible tweeds and brown brogue shoes, the dog bouncing along at her side.

During the winter she used to delight in making tapioca pudding to warm me up. I hated it. It looked, tasted and had the consistency of frog spawn. But I never let her know as I knew she made it because she loved me and I never wanted to hurt her feelings.

Sitting at their kitchen table they plied me with tea, cake and socialism. Both women had seen the misery that poverty and ignorance wreaked while working as a midwife and children’s welfare nurse with the poor of the city of Manchester before the days of the Welfare State. As a young teen they impressed on me the importance of leaving home and finding my own way in the world, despite the fact my parents wanted me to stay at home where I would be safe.

After long and useful lives, my beloved great-aunts both died by the time I was in my late teens. Auntie Minnie wasn’t sad, she was tired. She said she was ready to go, practical as ever to the last. Auntie Winnie became even vaguer, slowly forgetting who we were. Always pleased to see me, I became my mother who she had known as a child. Sitting by her side, I read to her the poetry she once loved as she no longer had the memory to remember storylines.

Don’t be sad though, as they taught me so much. Old age can be gracious, friendships can develop between people of different age groups, a good book is an excellent companion, walking through fields in September sunshine makes you feel glad to be alive, and most importantly, have the self-confidence to go out into the world and make it your own.

I still miss them but I am very blessed to have known them.

Orange squash – orange drink with added water
Jelly babies – gummy sweets shaped like babies
Wartime blackout – when all the lights were switched off after dark so enemy bombers couldn’t see a target
Tweed – scratchy, hardwearing woolen material
Red setter – a breed of dog with a beautiful red coat

This post is from my good friend Angella from Dutch Blitz. Thank you Angella!

I am a woman in her mid-thirties. A wife of one and a mother of three. Some days I do not know how I arrived to this place. To this Thing Called Life that I am living.

I remember being a teenager. Full of pimples, plump with fat, ensconced with glasses. I daydreamed about Boys, talked about Boys with my girlfriends, wondered if I would ever have a Boy to call my own.

This same scenario continued into my twenties. I was a Girl. Hoping for a Boy. So that we could make Kids.

I wondered if it would really happen. If I would Find The One. My friends seemed to have no problem finding their Boy.

I remember talking to God and telling Him that I was totally fine with having no Boy, if that is what The Plan was. All I asked was that He take the desire for The Boy from my heart.

It was only fair.

Shortly thereafter, I met THE BOY. We had two weeks of dates, and four weeks later we were engaged. Five months later we were married.

I KNOW.

Fast forward eight years and we have somehow arrived to this Thing Called Life. Three kids under the age of six. Two boys, one girl. People stop me in the street, many times over. They make the comment, “Three kids! You must be busy”.

Sherlock. You are on to something.

Yes. We are busy.

Yes. It is crazy.

Yes. I lose my temper more than I should.

Yes. I have three of the most amazing children that Earth has ever seen.

Yes. I somehow managed to marry the most perfect match that I could have ever hoped for.

Yes. My laundry is a little behind.

Don’t even get me started on my bathrooms.

I often look in the rearview mirror at my three children and am sideswiped by the enormity of it all.

I am a WIFE.

I am a MOM.

I have THREE KIDS.

HOW DID I GET HERE?

I am baffled. Amazed. Tired. Astounded. Crazy. Awestruck.

I would not have it any other way.

This post is from my good friend Nicole from deliajude who I coincidentally know from back in the cringe-worthy years. Thank you Nicole!

I love parcels in the mail.
Even expected packages, you know, the kind you order yourself.
(I love the unexpected ones even more.)
This particular box was the kind of parcel I handpicked from Amazon.
A little indulgence.
A just because I deserve a new book…or two.
I knew what was coming.
Books I had heard a many great things about.
But how could I know just how amazing the books would be.

The Gentle Art of Domesticity and Cringe.
Patiently, I awaited the US release of Gentle Art,
as I was not willing to pay shipping costs from the UK.
Well worth the wait.
A lovely little, or as the case may be, not-so-little book.
I did the initial flip-through, stopping occasionally to read an excerpt and soak in the photographs…I definitely want to try my hand at making “rock cakes.”
I cannot wait to dive in…curled up on a cozy sofa with a cuppa joe in hand.
…
When I flipped open Cringe the first thing I noticed was inside the book flap.
What are those called?
The compiler, Sarah Brown, had a list from her teenage years of everything she wore to school for the school year 90/91.
I started chuckling because somewhere is stashed a box full of my teenage journals and somewhere in that box is a journal, on yellow paper is written every thing I wore for in grade 10.
Yeah, call me super vain!
Or super insecure. I suspect the latter.
…
I was inspired to pull out my old journals and notebooks and spend a couple of hours gasping at what I thought were huge life decisions…turns out I was a vain, selfish teenager who thought far too much about clothes, boys and death.

Also, it appears I have since tossed a couple of teenage-angst-filled diaries and what remains are many journals from my twenties, clipping notebooks (articles and photographs), and prayer journals. I thought about giving you a wee sampling but instead I challenge you to unearth the journals of your youth and take a good look at your younger self.

Entertaining I suspect.

Or go out and buy Cringe, which by the by is the perfect name for such a book, and be entertained.

Better yet, do both.

Here is another post from my Dad! Thank you, Dad!

I really enjoyed reading all of the comments on my last post! Thank you! Yes, we do go through Columbus Ohio. On Thursday morning around 7:00AM and then again Friday afternoon around 4:00PM. I will be happy to answer any other questions you have. For now I thought I would write about the Interstate.

Most people have driven the Interstate system at one time or another, but I wonder how many people really understand the Interstate system? To be a successful truck driver, understanding the Interstate system is a requirement.

When I worked for a year at our Fontana (California) Terminal, I was privileged to conduct a Map class as part of the two-day Orientation program. Even though I had driven a truck for more than ten years before that, I found I didn’t fully understand the Interstate system. There were several things I learned when I taught the Map class for the first time.

The Interstate as we know it today was built during the 1960’s, but the planning started with the Eisenhower administration during the 1950’s. However, the need for a nationwide road system was realized as far back as World War I, when then-Lieutenant Dwight D. Eisenhower was assigned to lead a convoy of war machinery and supplies from New York to San Francisco in 1919.

Eisenhower was embarrassed to find that the powerful United States of America had no road system in place to move military equipment from one side of our country to the other. Sure, there were roads linking one city to another but that was the extent of the planning! No one had considered the need to build a single road from one side of the country to the other.

Can you imagine the frustration Eisenhower felt when he looked at the zigzag route he would have to take just to get from one city to another? In 1919 there was probably little in the way of road signs, or even printed maps showing where roads would lead. The cross-country trip took over a month! Eisenhower saw this as a serious national security issue and vowed if he was ever in a position of influence, he would do something about it.

When President Eisenhower took office in 1953, the railroad system was well-established. Moving military equipment around by train had been fine when the only alternative was travel by horse, but Eisenhower recognized that modern trucks and cars would allow much faster movement of men and equipment than the railroads if only there were a better system of highways. One of Eisenhower’s first tasks as President was to create the committees that would oversee the creation of a national road system capable of moving men and equipment quickly and efficiently around the country.

It was a monumental task, designing a road system that would not only lead from a major city to another major city but would be able to convey a vehicle from New York to San Francisco or San Antonio to Minneapolis. Nobody envisioned the Interstate would become the backbone of our economy, moving goods from factories to local stores. The number of trucks on the Interstate today is almost mind-boggling.

One of Eisenhower’s problems as he made his way across America with that military convoy was that there was no consistent highway numbering system. When a motorist today drives on, say, I-80 they know that they could go all the way from San Francisco to New York, and all they have to do is stay on I-80. In 1919, that was not the case.

Which is why one of the most important features of our Interstates is the numbering system. It was recognized early on that a numbering system must be well-designed in order to have consistency throughout the country. I am amazed at the insight the planners had when they planned it out. If you know the system, it will help you travel around this country.

All cross-country Interstates are numbered with a single digit (I-5) or two digits (I-80). If the Interstate has three digits the highway is always associated with a metropolitan area, like I-270 around Columbus, Ohio; I-635 around Dallas; or the I-695 around Baltimore. (More about that later.)

All East/West Interstates are even numbers: I-40, I-70, I-80, etc. All North/South interstates are odd numbers: I-15, I-35, I-95. There are a few diagonal Interstates like I-74 from Walcott, Iowa, to Cincinnati. The planners judged, I guess, that these highways were more East/West than North/South so they gave them even numbers.

The East/West (even-numbered) Interstates start with the lowest number in the south and get higher as you go North: I-10 from Jacksonville, Florida, to Los Angeles; I-20 through Texas; I-40 through Oklahoma City; I-70 through Denver and Kansas City; and I-80, which starts at San Francisco and ends in New York, passing through Chicago, Omaha, and Salt Lake City. North of that we have I-90 from Seattle to Boston, and I-94 from just east of Billings, Montana, to Detroit, Michigan. North/South (odd-numbered) Interstates start with the lowest number in the west (I-5 from San Diego to Blaine, Washington, on the U.S.-Canada border) and get higher as you go east (I-95 from Maine to Florida).

Now let’s talk a little about the three-digit Interstates. As I mentioned earlier, a three-digit Interstate will always be associated with a major city. When an Interstate arrives at a major city, almost always there will be a loop around the city. All loops start with an even number. When there is a section of Interstate that connects a suburb with the city center, that is called a spur. Spurs always start with an odd number. The last two digits of the three-digit Interstate number are determined by the cross-country Interstate the loop or spur intersects with. I-70 runs though Columbus, Ohio, so the loop around Columbus is called I-270.

Atlanta is an interesting city. There are three major Interstates intersecting Atlanta: I-20 runs East/West through the city; I-75 runs Northwest/Southeast; and I-85 runs Southwest/Northeast. The planners arbitrarily called the loop I-285.

Mile markers are another interesting feature of the Interstate. Did you know that federal regulations require Interstate exit numbers match the nearest mile marker? Until a few years ago, Pennsylvania and Georgia and maybe a few other states numbered their exits in order. The first exit was Exit 1, the second exit was Exit 2, etc. California is the last state to comply with federal regulations requiring exits to have an exit number that reflects the mile marker. Except that California doesn’t have mile markers! Oh, we have Mickey-Mouse county mile markers that number from one county to the next county, but that is totally confusing for even a seasoned truck driver. All the other states have mile-marker exit numbers. We all wonder if California will ever have actual mile markers.

Next time you drive on an Interstate, you might know a little bit more about it. I hope this has been informative and not boring!

This post is from Anna (or Beachmama as most of us know her) from Life is Good at the Beach. Thank you, Anna!

We had a celebration at our house recently. It wasn’t just that J was turning five—I mean, five years old?!? Where on earth has the time gone?—it was also that he had been introduced to school-enhanced birthday parties. In the past our parties had consisted of family and close friends. But this year we had to compete with a whole year’s worth of parties. Ever since J went to his first one in February for his best bud, all I have heard is, “When I am five, I get to have a party and it is going to be like….” J would change the details often.

As July was halfway over, we really needed to nail down the plan for the party. Up until now, all his friends’ parties had been at some sort of play place. The one that J actually liked was moving and changing format just before his birthday. It changed from a gym-type place to a place with tunnels, not J’s strongest suit. He did not want a tunnel party. We went back and forth on what to do. Finally I came up with the suggestion of having Ray’s Reptiles Zoo come to our house to put on an hour-long display of reptiles for him and his friends. J was over the moon.

Towards the end of July we started working on the guest list. J gave me a list from the top of his head. It included a bunch of friends from school, his cousins and a couple of friends not from school. We went through the list for about a week, discussing how many people we should and could have, and how many would possibly be away on holiday. Most of his cousins live far away, so they were scratched. His friends from school changed once or twice, but for the most part were consistent and the ones not from school changed a bit too. J was worried they wouldn’t know anybody and I was worried about a house full of kids on a rainy day.

After we finalized the list, I started to think about invitations. Since I cannot draw, I decided against making my own. I downloaded some invites from the Ray’s Reptiles site and got a little creative with Photoshop so they were customized for our house. I printed them on cardstock and put them in envelopes that J decorated with stickers. I got the list ready with all the addresses, prepared to start dropping them off with plenty of time for responses. Then my uncle passed away in Delaware. We had already been down for a visit and knew that he wasn’t doing well, so we were waiting for the call. With only two days to get us packed up and ready to go, I decided it would be so much easier just to mail the invitations. That and I know how much J loves getting his own mail, so his friends would probably love it too.

We were gone for a week and a day. One night while we were away, Apple woke me up and I lay awake for almost three hours in the middle of the night panicking about how I was going to pull this party together on my return. The next morning I wrote a list of what I needed to do when we got home. That was a start.

We got home and I instantly went into planning mode, checking the messages and emails to see who was coming, sorting my lists by store and necessity. I ordered one cake for the grown-ups and decided on a Rice Krispies cake for the kids. I picked up all the party food, some chips, some cheezies, and some healthy choices too, like carrots, grapes, and cheese. It was noon on Friday and I had accomplished a lot. On to the game-planning.

At first I was thinking of old-fashioned games like pin the tail on the donkey and potato-sack races, but then I remembered I had a Martha Stewart Kids Magazine that had a carnival-themed party in it. And since we had just been at our favorite beach with rides and games I knew J would love it. I copied all of her games: Clothespin Drop, Ball Toss, Spray Away (spray ping pong balls off of gold tees with water guns), and a fishing game. I was still going to do pin the tail on the donkey, but couldn’t draw a donkey to save my life so I switched it to tug of war.

Saturday came around and it was time to start setting up. We borrowed a canopy and outdoor chairs from my parents and set them up in the backyard. The weatherman was still calling for possible afternoon showers, but I was determined to have the party outside. I prepared the loot bags and painted signs for the games.

Sunday morning was bright and sunny. We were up at 7am and the kids were coming at 2pm. I got to work inside first, cleaning and preparing the snacks for the kids. Then we set up outside. I was done at 1pm, and had an hour to spare. This, for me, was a miracle. I never get everything done with an hour to spare. Apple was asleep and Hubby and J went out to pick up the stuff I ordered for the adults. I sat down for a few minutes and prayed that all would go well. There were going to be 13 five-year-olds and two kids under three. My mom was taking Apple and none of the parents were planning to stay. In the end we had one mom stay and A (my 16-year-old stepson) was geared up to help.

The doorbell rang and the party began. The kids headed outside and went straight for the play structure. After a few minutes of fun they headed to the games. All the games were a hit. The kids tried them all and loved that they got a little prize at each station. I got a bunch of stuff from the local dollar store, so each child got a little something for his efforts. About a half-hour in, one of the boys started with the water guns. I tried to keep them from shooting others and telling them they were for the games, but somehow J had found his stash and had his Dad and Brother filling them from the pool. We had a full fledged water fight on our hands. It worked out great because it was getting hot and the kids needed to cool off. Fifteen minutes of water guns was just enough time before the lady from Ray’s Reptiles arrived. She did a great job of quieting down the kids and keeping them watching for a full hour. J, who is not always so brave, was touching scorpions, snakes, tortoises and caymans. He even wore a snake as a belt.

We were originally going to have the snacks and cake outside, but the sun had stayed strong, so we thought it best to bring the kids inside. We had a few minutes of chaos while we tried to set up the table inside and get them all seated. But they filled up and had cake and freezies and then it was off to open presents. I seriously don’t know how the teachers keep them all quiet in school. I could not even keep them settled for that twenty minutes. J got a good variety of toys from all his friends who were just so excited to watch him open them all up.

After the presents were all opened, we quickly sent the kids back outside to wait for their parents. They went straight for the water guns and the play structure. And the parents all arrived by 5pm to collect their worn-out, happy kids. And it was great for them to get together again right before school started up. Truthfully, it hardly seemed that they had been away from each other for six weeks already.

That was the first, but most likely not the last, party at our home with all the kids from school.

This post is from Abby from Babbling Abby. Thank you, Abby!

My husband and I had not yet been married a year when I decided that we needed to expand our family by adopting an animal of the canine persuasion. After much pestering and pleading, my husband relented, and with a not-so-subtle rolling of the eyes he permitted me to frequent the local animal shelters in search of a fine-furred friend.

He only had a couple of restrictions—the dog must be male and he must be under 30 pounds. Naturally I came home with a behemoth of a female that would eventually top out at 80 pounds. “But the super-intelligent 16-year-old surely-must-be-a-future-veterinarian said this was as big as she was going to get,” I explained after he surveyed her ginormous paws. He was less than amused.

Anyway. We named her Leland after our favorite vacation spot in northern Michigan, and I fell instantly in love with her dark eyes, goofy smile, and gentle nature. She didn’t even bark! I was convinced she was the perfect dog, despite my husband’s insistence that I totally went against his wishes when I didn’t bring home a small male breed.

Little did I know, she was stricken with a horrendous case of kennel cough. She was running a fever within 24 hours of becoming a Mullins, which was probably why she was so subdued. It. Was. Awful. She coughed up phlegm-filled snot globules as she lazed lifelessly in our 8X10 apartment (well, maybe it wasn’t quite that small—but you could totally see the kitchen, living room, and front door in one straight shot if you were sitting on the toilet). One vet visit and pricey antibiotic later, she was back to her chipper mutt-ish self. Having visited an animal professional, we were informed that she was likely part Afghan Hound and part Golden Retriever.

Afghan Hound, huh? Isn’t that the hippie-looking dog with the long, straight hair? As a matter of fact, it is! Oh, and according to Fetch Magazine, it is also one of the dumbest breeds. Awesome. The husband was now basking in his I-told-you-so-glory. While he thought I had brought home an enormous female nincompoop, I still believed she was perfect.

Like all things perfect, she was innately flawed—or innately stupid according to dumbest-dog-breed lists). What neither the vet nor the intelligent 16-year-old shelter worker (who, come to find out, was likely serving his community service with the SPCA) told us was that Leland had a penchant for shoes…expensive shoes…expensive shoes that belonged to ME. And now the story takes a drastic turn in the opposite direction of all-encompassing love and affection.

After falling asleep in bed one night, I awoke around 2am to find that my beloved had yet to join me. It was typical for the husband to fall asleep on the couch, so I trudged sleepily to the living room. (If you can really call it trudging—it was more like mother-may-I-take-two-giant-steps-forward to get from the bedroom to the living room.) Aw, the husband and man’s-best-friend had fallen asleep together on the couch. It was all darling and picturesque and everything until I noticed that something had been strewn in small bits about the carpet.

It took all of 0.2 seconds to realize that no, it wasn’t snowing suede scraps and boot-liner fluff. THE DOG ATE MY UGGS! After dropping dramatically to my knees to further examine the massacre that had befallen my coveted boots, I awoke my husband and startled the dog who looked bemused from her perch on the couch. She cocked her head and looked at me as if to say, “What? They were UGG-ly anyway, and I was hungry. The kibble just wasn’t cutting it around here.”

I expected my husband to rouse and discipline the offending culprit, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and headed to bed without even offering to help clean up the Ugg wasteland. But you know what he was really thinking? No male dog I know would ever be into shoes. Must be a girl thing.

For the only time in our marriage, I actually think he was right. But don’t tell him I said that.

Though I truly wanted to return the dog to the shelter after her midnight snack, she’s still around. She has since destroyed both mine and my husband’s Crocs sandals, chewed the edges of my husband’s Rainbow flip-flops, and the gnawed the heels of some dress shoes of mine. Yes, I guess we’re actually the dumber breed for leaving any shoes out in the first place. Sigh.

When I was in college, my roommate Erin used to get letters from her friend Aspen in handmade envelopes. Aspen created them from magazine pages, and Erin and I thought it was so cool we started making them ourselves.

Back when I used to send real mail to people, I made these envelopes all the time. If I noticed an interesting full-page ad in a magazine I’d tear it out and save it for future use. I don’t make them as often as I used to, but every now and then I need an odd-sized envelope or am feeling crafty. I’ve made them from wrapping paper, scrapbook paper, and old calendars too. It’s a fun way to make mail special. Of course it’s also environmentally friendly if you’re using old magazines or calendars, so yay for reusing and reducing!

Today, I’m going to use a page from an old Forces of Nature wall calendar. I suggest you read the whole post before attempting your own envelope because it’s a little confusing at first, but once you figure it out it’s easy-peasy.

First gather your supplies:

Step 1: Choose a pretty picture, and figure out which portion of the picture you want to be the front of your envelope. Just be sure to leave about an inch of space for the side flaps and enough space for the top and bottom flaps so that when you fold them in they will overlap. (Yes, I know that’s confusing. It will become clearer as you read, I hope.)

Step 2a: Flip the page over and trace around the envelope in roughly the same area. Or you can use a ruler to measure and draw a rectangle in the size you want.

Step 2b: To create the flaps, draw lines from the corners of your rectangle as shown in the photo above. I like to color in the corners to show that those are the pieces I am going to cut off. Whenever I forget to color in those corners, I inevitably cut along the wrong line. See?

Don’t do this! I cut along the wrong line!

Step 3: Emphasize the lines you want to cut by drawing curly lines on them, or marking them with a red pen, or something. You can skip this step if you’re not a ditz like I am.

Step 4: Cut on those curly lines so the colored-in corners are snipped all the way off. See?

You can trim some length off your flaps if they’re irregular.

Step 5: Fold all the flaps in and crease along the lines you traced around the envelope (or drew with a ruler) in Step 2a. Leave the side flaps folded in.

Step 6: Spread some glue on the bottom flap where it will come into contact with the side flaps, being careful not to leave glue where it will stick to the main part of the envelope. Or—and this would make more sense and I don’t know why I didn’t do this—on the side flaps.

Step 7: Fold the bottom flap up and press on the glued parts for a few seconds.

Voila! A beautiful handmade envelope.

When you’re ready to use your envelope, just stick the letter inside and either glue the flap shut or tape it with strong tape. If the envelope is light-colored, you can address it with a black Sharpie. If it’s dark-colored, you can write the address on a printer label. Stick on a stamp, drop it in the mail, and make someone’s day!