Diary Excerpts: The Making of a Christmas Card

November 26, 2009

Dear Diary,

Wow! Where did the month go? I can't believe it's Thanksgiving already, and I haven't started on our Christmas cards. I don't even have a family picture yet. I mean, I guess we could use that one of us at the beach, but none of the kids are looking at the camera and Ella's eyes are all puffy and red from crying and the hubby's smile looks a little forced and... Yeah. It was a bad hair day. Maybe I should give Andrea a call and see if she can shoot our family portrait this weekend. Speaking of which, I should give her another shameless plug on my blog - if I ever actually post again, that is. Man, the holidays are crazy...

November 29, 2009

Dear Diary,

Well, we had our family pictures taken today. Actually, in the interest of expediency, we had our family pictures taken, our 10-year anniversary pictures taken, Ty's 2-year old pictures taken, and the twins' 4-year old pictures taken. Too bad we ran out of time; I really want to get the Halloween pictures taken before the girls ruin their fairy costumes. Although judging by the condition those fairy wings, it's probably too late anyway. (Note to self: Figure out if that is dirt or mold...)

Anyway, the process didn't go as smoothly as one might imagine. For starters, I forgot to do the laundry last night, so the twins' sweaters were dirty. And Ella's sweater was too small. And Ty's outfit didn't match. And neither did mine. And we were totally running late. Which is the only reason we didn't stop at the store to buy new matching outfits for the six of us. Well that, and the fact that my husband was looking at me as if I'd gone certifiably insane. Frankly, I don't think it's insane to want everybody to match exactly, but whatever.

Even with a photographer and two assistants, the shoot was more torturous that an afternoon of waterboarding. Apparently, the phrase "Look at the camera and smile!" is understood in a child's brain as "Look anywhere but here, and tears would be great if you've got 'em". Seriously, someone should do a study...

Of course, it didn't help that there were like ten other families in the park getting their Christmas pictures done at the same time. I'd like to think that they're all just procrastinators like me. But since everybody matched, they'd probably just spent the last two weeks coordinating their outfits. Not looking so insane now, am I Diary?

December 9, 2009

Dear Diary,

Andrea got our family pictures edited and turned around in no time. She's a miracle worker. Apparently children can look away from the camera making odd faces, and a pro can still come up with pictures like these:

The "We've-Been-Married-Almost-10-Years-and-the-Kids-Haven't-Killed-Us-Yet" Shot

Emily and Evie's 4-Year Old Picture

(They turned 4 on December 6, 2009!)

Ty's 2-Year Old Picture

(He turned 2 on December 11, 2009!)

Ella's 5 1/2-Year Old Picture (She turned 5 on July 14, 2009, because once upon a time I actually PLANNED my pregnancies!)

I'm surprised I can say it after that hideous afternoon in the park, but I'm really happy with our family pictures. In fact, I've got one picked out for our Christmas card! I'm taking it in tomorrow to get it printed up.

December 10, 2009

Dear Diary,

In the letters of this texting generation: O... M... G... I'm never going back to that camera store again.

It started out fine. I found a parking spot right out front - though in the interest of keeping the sheriff's department happy, I had to drag everybody out of the car and into the store with me.

Which is when things started to fall apart...

I do not make quick decisions. I'm a perfectionist. You know that, Diary - I write about it all the time. It's just who I am. So chaining me to a computer with 3 of 4 my kids running around, and telling me to pick out my own picture and card design? Stress-FULL. First of all, there were 435 pictures on my disk. And I couldn't remember which one I'd picked. Of course within the first 2 minutes of my hunting and pecking, the kids had knocked over no less than 3 picture frames and a stool. In a panic (and with no sheriff's car in sight), I hauled everybody back out the van, gave them some books to look at, and locked them in. Luckily, my great parking spot kept them in my line of sight.

I ran back in, picked a random picture, and then started flipping through the designs. Would you believe I found a design that matched our brown, red, cream, and light blue attire? Yeah, neither would I - but I actually did! That was the only thing that went right, though, since as I was printing off my order I happened to look outside and notice Evie in the front seat of the car.

Naked.

I grabbed the receipt and ran out the car, where my naked child greeted me with a shriek of, "I HAVE TO GO POTTY!" Why this required her nudity, I have no idea. But her sister was not about to be left behind and started stripping down as well. As soon as everyone was re-clothed, I hauled them back into the camera shop and asked if we could use the bathroom.

It turns out that the bathroom is also their storage closet. Or vice versa. Either way, kill me now.

I HATE public restrooms.

As if all that wasn't enough, Emily needed help getting her seat belt fastened. Or she did until I climbed back there to help her - by then she'd already clipped it. Being the ballerina that I am, though, I tripped over my own feet and fell out of the car, landing on my sciatic nerve. No big deal, though. I just had to lay in a crumpled heap on the parking lot until the feeling came back to my right leg.

(Seriously, kill me now.)

December 11, 2009

Dear Diary,

I had to go back to pick up my pictures today. I hope nobody recognized me.

December 15, 2009

Dear Diary,

It's nearly midnight, but all of my Christmas cards are stuffed, addressed, and stamped. Well actually, I ran out of stamps half-way through, but I'll get around to picking up more. Whew. Feels good to have that done.

December 16, 2009

Dear Diary,

Emily un-stuffed all the envelopes.

December 17, 2009

Dear Diary,

I sent out the stamped half of my cards today. I wish I'd had time to write a letter this year, but the hubby put his foot down and actually said "no". He seems to think this project is is consuming me.

Whatever.

January 4, 2010

Dear Diary,

I found a stack of Christmas cards this morning when I was cleaning out the office. Did I forget to buy stamps?

January 5, 2010

Dear Diary,

I'm posting a blog today if it kills me. If people didn't get a Christmas card from me this year, the least I can do is post a picture.

On second thought, maybe I'll get around to it tomorrow.

Calling Poison Control: The Evolution of Motherhood

Want to know where you are on the evolutionary chain of motherhood?* Read the following descriptions, and choose the one that best describes you as a mother. Then, leave a comment and let me know, "Which mom are you?"

Early Neanderthal Mom: (The evolutionary process has barely even begun.)

You're a first-time mom, and your brand-new bundle of joy knocks over an open container of baby powder. Powder goes flying towards your baby's open mouth and you go into full-on mom panic mode. You grab the baby, the powder, and the portable phone and run to the kitchen, where the Poison Control number is taped to your refrigerator. Hearing the hysteria in your first-time mother's voice, the Poison Control operator quickly assures you that the 1/8 tsp. of cornstarch-based powder that your baby just licked off her lips will not adversely affect her in any way.

Still Neanderthal Mom: (You haven't learned much, but there's hope for you yet.)

You're still a first-time mom, and your newly-mobile 7-month old discovers the kitty's cat food. She dumps it out, stirs it around, and then places the food piece by piece back into the bowl... until she gets hungry and decides to help herself to a snack. You pick up the little darling a few minutes later, smell the faint scent of tuna on her breath, and freak out. You run to the junk drawer and frantically dig out the list of emergency numbers. A Poison Control operator soon assures you that food considered safe for kitty consumption is likewise safe for small children (although it is not recommended by the FDA).

Cromagnon Mom: (A big evolutionary leap, but you've still got a ways to go.)

You're suddenly the overworked, under rested mother of four children 3 and under. The bigger house you were forced to upgrade into is mostly baby-proofed, but lately you're noticing a few places that you overlooked - like the kids' changing table. You walk into the bathroom after nursing Baby #4 and see your other three children brushing their teeth. This is not completely traumatic until you realize that they mistook the diaper rash cream for toothpaste. You race downstairs to find a phone, then dial 4-1-1 to get the Poison Control number. The Poison Control operator asks you a series of questions that make you feel increasingly like a bad mother, and then determines that while the zinc oxide might make them a bit nauseous, your children will be generally unharmed by their oral hygiene experiment.

Early Modern Mom: (You're almost there!)

Baby #4 is now walking, and loves to open all of the drawers in your bathroom. Although technically "baby-proofed," most of the cheap plastic child locks have broken off your cabinets and your adventurous baby is having a free-for-all. He locates a bottle of Dramamine in one of the drawers and quickly dispenses with the child-proof cap. You walk in just in time to find him on the floor surrounded by an empty bottle and seven pills. According to the label, the bottle holds eight. You can't remember if you took a pill on your last cruise or not. The boat was a little rocky, but you can't specifically recall any sea-sickness. You wait 15 minutes until the mother-guilt piles up, then walk downstairs and dig through the pantry for last year's phone book. You finally find the number for Poison Control, answer a series of questions that once again remind you what a lousy parent you are, and listen while the operator instructs you to watch for signs of sleepiness. You are just wrapping up the call when Baby #4 goes sprinting by in a monkey mask, with his three sisters in hot pursuit. You remember now that you probably were a tad sea sick during that last cruise, and decide to ignore the operator's advice about waking up Baby #4 every hour or so through the night.

Modern Mom: (Congratulations... I think.)

You have officially given up on the child-proof locks, and now keep cleaning chemicals like Febreeze out in the open and close on hand - because the smell of your kid's dirty diaper is far more deadly than a whiff of "Clean Scent." Unfortunately, Baby #4 is a climber and can usually get at whatever he wants. Plus, he loves to know how things work. You see it coming, but as fast as you sprint up those stairs, he still manages to shoot himself in the face with air freshener. At this point, you're pretty sure that Big Brother has you on a list somewhere, and that yet another call to Poison Control will result in a visit from DFACS. You read the warning labels on the back of the Febreeze canister, acknowledge that perhaps those warning labels really are there to serve an actual purpose, and dunk your kid in the bathtub to both "flush out the affected eye" and rinse the scent of air freshener from his hair. Then you put him to bed, confident that despite your lack of medical knowledge, his vision will not be affected by this little incident.

So tell me, "Which mom are you?"

*The evolutionary chain of motherhood is actually a hoax. In truth, mothers are created by God. And it is only by His grace that my children remained healthy through all five of the above scenarios...

The Headless Sprinting Chicken

Anybody else out there reading Deadly Viper: Character Assassins byMike Foster and Jud Wilhite?

Anybody out there want to slap me right now for admitting I have time to read?

Well before you hurt me, I should let you know two things:

1. Deadly Viper: Character Assassins is essentially a "bathroom read." You can pick it up during your 30 seconds or so of time in the loo, and get a good couple of pages read. If you have earplugs, you might even get a full minute of privacy - so long as you can't hear the children knocking on the door asking, "Mo-ommy! What are you do-oing?!?" (Or am I just projecting my own experiences?)

2. I've only read two of the six chapters, and the ones I read were in the middle of the book. Yeah, that's just how I roll.

Anyway, one of the two brilliant chapters I had "time" to read a few weeks ago is called The Assassin of the Headless Sprinting Chicken. It's all about how the concept of "balance" is essentially bunk; that we will never be able to have a morning quiet time every morning, eat everything just right, exercise everyday, drink 64 oz. of water before bedtime, create perfectly happy and well-behaved children, and still slip into bed at night looking like a Victoria's Secret model.

OK I took a few liberties with my synopsis, but you get the point: Balance is bunk. Instead of being a healthy - albeit flawed - person who can roll with life's punches, I'm more like a headless sprinting chicken running around trying to achieve perfection through the illusion of a balanced life.

And yes - that about sums up my experiences of late. I have been absolutely CLOBBERED by the Assassin of the Headless Sprinting Chicken. In trying to be all things by doing all things for all of the people around me, I have failed myself miserably. I'm living off daily drive-thru Cokes and the occasional pack of chicken nuggets, but I can't tell you the last time I sat down to eat. I get out of breath cleaning my house, because it seems like every time I turn around all of the stuff that is supposed to be upstairs is downstairs, and all of the stuff that is supposed to be downstairs is upstairs. My 5-year old's pre-K homework has been late for two weeks in a row. (And come to think of it, so has she.) I can't remember the last time I prayed for myself, my husband, or my children. And to save my life, I can't seem to swallow the happy pill we all know I need.

The plane is going down, and every one's wearing an oxygen mask but me.

So what's the answer? According to the Deadly Viper authors, "LEAD YOURSELF. NO ONE ELSE WILL" (93).

Wilhite goes on to spell it out on p. 94: "I am responsible to lead myself, to ensure that I'm resting, learning, growing, and bringing my very best self to the job every day. I'm the only one who knows what my emotional, physical, and spiritual gauges are telling me and I've got to listen to them. I am responsible for my own self-care, growth, and development."

Ouch.

Basically, everybody else is wearing their oxygen mask because I've placed it on them. But the instruction we've heard the flight attendant give a thousand times before is to place the mask on ourselves first. I realized last week that I'm no good to my family right now, because I've been so busy caring for them that I've forgotten to give any thought to myself. All I'm really doing is running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

Of course, I'm writing all of this down "pre-solution." I really don't know what I'm going to do to start taking better care of myself. I know that writing is somehow therapeutic for me, so I suppose this post is a step in the right direction. I'm hoping that the bowl of cereal I'm going to go eat in a second isn't too bad either. Perhaps I'll even get out of the house for a bit on this beautiful day, and just take a few minutes to enjoy the time before it passes me by.

On that note, let me share one final bit of encouragement I heard last night. It's a daily devotional that was once kept in the wallet of a famous Alabama coach that my husband is NOT going to let me mention. So forget I said it, and just read the words:

This is the beginning of a new day.

God has given me this day to use as I will.

I can waste it or use it for good.

What I do today is very important because I am exchanging a day of my life for it.

When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever, leaving something in its place I have traded for it.

I want it to be a gain, not loss - good, not evil.

Success, not failure in order that I shall not forget the price I paid for it.

Blessings to all of you mommies out there today. Make it a good one!

Excuses, Excuses

I know it's been awhile since I've posted anything new, but I have a few good excuses:

1) I'm in the middle of re-modeling the twins' room. Fresh paint, new furniture, etc. It's really coming together, and the girls are loving their new bunk beds. (Fodder for future blogs, I'm sure.) I'll post some before and after pictures soon - for those of you blog-stalkers who enjoy a good make-over!

2) My sister is getting married in less than 2 weeks!!!! Honestly, I think I'm as excited about her wedding as I was about mine. She's waited so long for this day, and we can't wait to share it with her and our soon-to-be new brother / uncle. Plus, my girls are going to be just about the darn cutest flower girls you've ever seen. (Please, God - no fodder there...)

3) Finally, don't hate me, but I just got back yesterday from a week at the beach. (Never mind, I even hate me.) It's a wonderful annual trip we take with my husband's family to Hilton Head every October, and it really is a treat. I am truly blessed that family time - grand kids included - is so important to my in-laws.

And since I'm always getting flack for too many words and not enough pictures, here are just a few snapshots from our time on the South Carolina coast:

Ty (a.k.a. Tommy Bahama) strolling up the beach house. He's a wanderer; he strolled all the way up to this point without ever once looking back. He finally turned around when I said, "Ty, do you want a cookie?" That's my boy.

Ella, we fear, is the whole package. Beautiful, smart, and athletic. That girl never sits down. Here she playing paddle ball on the beach with her daddy.

And here she is - the future cheerleader? - stunting with her Uncle Mac. I don't know whether to say "Bring it on, girl" or "Yikes"!

Emily and Evie really enjoyed the sand and the water. I can't really call them bathing beauties here, but at least they are having fun. They built a giant "drip" castle for Cinderella on our last day at the beach. Poor Cinderelly...

Ty wasn't quite as taken with the ocean as the girls were, so Papa dug a little baby pool for him in the sand, and the girls took turns hauling up water for him. His favorite thing to do was jump in bottom-first. I guess those swim diapers are more padded than I thought.

Evie - my little clown. I'm counting on Nana to have some better pictures of her an her sisters at the beach. I was too busy laughing.

You have NO IDEA what it took to get this photograph. I can't believe all 6 of us made it into one picture and every body's looking happily into the general vicinity of the camera. Whew!

Well, that's all I've got for now. There's a whole list of post ideas sitting on my desk right now, and one of these days I'll start writing. In the meantime, I just heard a crash upstairs. Hope those bunk beds are still intact...

But I'm Not On My Horse!

There's a new Sarah Jessica Parker movie coming out. I don't know when exactly, and I can't look it up because I don't remember what it's called. I also can't recall the name of the lead actor to save my life. In truth, I'm just proud of myself for going to a movie last night, and for making it in time to even see the previews - though sadly not to enjoy the tub of popcorn or giant box of Goobers. But despite my mommy-induced short-term memory loss, I think I want to see this movie... if for nothing else than the scene I saw last night. It's one of those comic distance shots that shows a horse galloping across the screen. Seconds later the camera catches SJP running behind it screaming, "But I'm not on my horse!"

Oh Sarah Jessica, I feel your pain. I don't know why you aren't on your horse; I'll have to pay $10.00 sometime this fall? (winter?) to find out why. But pre-school started a couple of weeks ago in our house, and these days I feel like shouting to anyone who will listen - especially the teachers at carpool - "Just give me a minute! Please! I'm not on my horse!"

Specifically, I'm not on the Young 5's horse. See, Ella - being a July baby and therefore a "young 5" - had the option of going to Kindergarten this year. Which seemed like a bad idea at the time and seems like a worse one now. Thankfully, the church pre-school she's attends offers a special program for kids like her, who are of age but aren't quite ready for the realities of public Kindergarten. (i.e. - listening to and obeying the teacher all day) It's kind of like boot camp for these kids, who are about to enter 18 years of military academic service. At least, that's what I thought the program was all about.

Until Curriculum Night...

"OK parents, we're getting these kids ready for Kindergarten next year, so school begins promptly at 8:30 every morning. We'll be marking tardies, so make sure your little ones aren't late. Also, please don't let them bring their breakfast to class. If they're eating their breakfast, everybody will want a breakfast. And as far as homework is concerned, we will be sending home an assignment every night. It shouldn't take long to complete, but please make sure that your child is the one completing the work."

Oh sweet Lord. This isn't Young 5's Boot Camp. This is Mommy Boot Camp!!! I mean, we're never on time to school. That's why I count on late drop-off! And how else am I going to feed my child breakfast if she's not allowed to bring her baggie of Honey Nut Cheerios to class? And HOMEWORK? What does she mean 'homework'???

Needless to say, I saw my horse galloping off without me. And for two weeks I've been chasing it across the movie screen of my life screaming, "Wait! I'm not on my horse!"

Ella was late to her first 3 days of school.

She hasn't taken her breakfast to class, but I suspect she was hungry more than one morning.

As for homework? Well, all I can tell you is that being a former high school teacher doesn't help when your student is a HARD-HEADED FIVE YEAR OLD. I may need an extra happy pill just to carry me through handwriting practice.

But God bless her, it turns out my daughter loves school. Who knew, after last year's tumult? My little girl actually loves school.

Last weekend, Ella brought home a book report assignment. Her job was to listen to a book, choose her favorite part, and draw a picture of it in her journal. True to the nature of my life, I remembered her book report at 8:00 on Sunday night.

"Oh my goodness Ella, we have to do your book report!"

"No Mommy, I already did it."

"You did? Really? Um, how about you show me."

Ella returned a moment later with her journal, and I flipped it open to the first page. Sure enough, there was a picture there.

"Ella, what book did you do?"

"Cinderella. I read it all by myself and then I drew this picture. See? There's Cinderella and there's the Fairy Godmother."

It was a pretty remarkable resemblance for my artistically-challenged tomboy.

"But what's this red squiggly line around them?" I asked.

"Oh Mommy," Ella replied. "That's the magic."

Oh. The magic. I LOVE the magic. It makes me tear up just thinking about it.

Except that it's Sunday night again, and Ella has another book report due. I don't think the magic is going to help me this time. Page 2 of her journal is blank.

Heaven help me, I've got to catch that horse...

There Once Was a Girl

There once was a girl who had a curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good, she was very, very good.

But when she was bad, she was horrid.

I don't know who wrote this four-line description of my eldest, but I certainly can't take credit for the author's brilliant insight. I suspect it's taken from a children's book though, since both my sister-in-law and my mother-in-law - who are teachers - quote it all the time. Usually while watching Ella doing something naughty.

Not that she's naughty all the time. She's not. Sometimes she's good; indeed "very, very good." And sometimes she just takes after her daddy, who's doesn't score real high on the compassion scale. No, compassion isn't really wired into Ella's personality.

I saw this particular side of her nature revealed last week when my parents came over to give me a hand in the yard. I don't usually mind yard work; it's the landscaping that gives me fits. Mom and Dad graciously offered several hours of manual labor and landscaping insight, and I was pleasantly surprised when they arrived and Darcy bounded out of the truck ahead of them.

Darcy is my sister's sweet-natured, fuzzy black mutt. Practically a daughter, granddaughter, niece, and cousin to our family. She also does phenomenal clean-up work in my car and on my kitchen floor - which were particularly gross that day - so I was very happy to see her.

Darcy was an angel all day long, despite spending much of her time "training" in the front yard. She was tested several times throughout the day by the various dogs who strolled by - and one particularly big dog who lives across the street. But she did great, and by the end of the day none of us were paying much attention to her as she laid resting in the grass.

Then a neighbor came over to say a quick hello, and when she left Darcy was gone. I mean gone. She was absolutely nowhere to be found. The yard work was suspended as three adults and four children embarked on a mission to find my sister's AWOL dog. Nearly an hour in, with Ella sitting in the front seat on her Mimi's lap, my daughter sighed sadly and said, "I sure hope we find Darcy soon."

"Oh honey," I replied, "we'll find her. She's going to be okay."

"That's good," said Ella. "Because I'm getting hungry!"

Oh. "Well, I know we'll find her soon."

But we didn't find her, and soon my mother was in tears. As I threw a quick batch of pancakes together - with Ella looking on - Mom cried on my shoulder: "I just love that dog so much! What if we don't find her? This is all my fault; I shouldn't have brought her over here."

"Mom, it's not your fault," I tried to comfort her. "I mean, really it's all our faults. We were all responsible for watching her."

"It's not my fault," Ella piped up. "I didn't bring her over here!"

Well, so much for comfort.

But as it turns out, we didn't need the comfort. While fixing "dinner," Mom and I started piecing a few clues together and realized that Darcy had probably followed my neighbor home and been accidentally shut into her garage. Sure enough, I went up to the garage door and put my ear near the crack at the bottom. The muffled bark I heard was perfect confirmation, since I know for certain my neighbor does not own a dog. An hour later - once my neighbor returned home - Darcy was safe and sound back at our house.

I don't think Ella noticed. She'd gotten tired of waiting and went to bed.

School Days???

I've been counting down the days until the first day of school since the last day of school last year. No kidding. If you're friends with me on Facebook, you've seen my desperation-tinged status updates: "Only 136 days until the first day of pre-school. Yipee!"

So how, pray tell, did I manage to blow the first day of school?

Well, obviously it didn't sneak up on me. I mean, two weeks ago I was the totally sane and organized mother of three soon-to-be-pre-school students. For two nights in a row I showed up to attend Curriculum Night for all three girls. I met the teachers. I took copious notes. I signed up to help with the Christmas and Easter parties, and volunteered away my entire month of January to help out at the school. I labeled and filed the class lists so I would know just where to find little Susie's mother's phone number when my girls requested a playdate. I took the girls to meet their teachers two days later, and when I did, I arrived laden with every school supply on the list, plus a few extras "just in case."

So what happened? Where did that sane and organized mother go? Apparently, she was replaced by the crazy lady who - at 10 o'clock the night before school started - realized her twins were supposed to turn in their "All About Me" projects in just a few short hours.

What is the "All About Me" project, you ask? Well back when Ella was in this class, I wrongfully assumed that it was a piece of paper she could color, decorate, and paste pictures on to help tell the class all about herself. But it turns out that the "All About Me" project is actually a piece of brightly-colored cardstock that scrapbooking-crazed pre-school mothers use to show off their mad artistic skills, and photographs of their expensive family vacations to Disney World and Hawaii. Needless to say, my husband walked into the bedroom at 11 o'clock, looked at the pile of discarded family photos, gluesticks, markers, and stickers, and asked, "Um, should I sleep on the couch?"

Being the loving wife that I am, I of course responded, "I'M TRYING TO FINISH MY HOMEWORK! JEEZ, I'LL BE DONE IN A MINUTE!"

"Shouldn't the girls be doing their own homework?"

"You would think so, wouldn't you? But I'll let them put some stickers on in the morning."

I really planned to let them do so, but they kept sticking them on crooked. Plus, it turns out that in my rush to finish the "All About Me" projects, I failed to note the lack of clean clothing in our drawers. The first morning of school, I pulled off the girls' wet Pull-Ups, threw on some pants, and hoped the T-shirts they'd slept in didn't look too wrinkled. They didn't.

I'd show you proof, but I forgot to take the obligatory first day of school picture. Since I slept through my alarm clock that morning, I didn't have time to snap that enduring photo. I was too busy with four kids - getting their clothes on, their shoes on, their hair fixed, their teeth brushed, their tummies fed and their seat belts buckled. And yes, we were tardy.

Over a hundred days of counting down... and I still managed to be late.