Photos! Of Cheese! And Toast! Together!

I have to admit I was taken a little bit off-guard by the many people who've never once in their entire existence partaken of cheese toast.

After a some very intense of research and consulting many knowledgeable Cheese Toast Sources, it's my conclusion that cheese toast is a decidedly southern cuisine.

Therefore, I've constructed a tutorial about cheese toast so that your life may be enhanced by its goodness.

(At least no one can accuse me of focusing on the unimportant things in life.)

The people-pleaser in me wants to apologize in advance for all of the photos because they are terrible. I'm not trying to be P-Dub or anything, but I am just trying to be helpful.

Unfortunately, "helpful" takes horrible pictures. AND, I should add, cheese is really hard to photograph. Any sharp cheddar-loving girl can tell you how amazing perfectly melted cheese looks right out of the oven. That beauty, however, was lost on my mad photo skillz.

So tie on your apron and let's go!

First of all, turn on that broiler to high. Whoo hoo! Go broilers! If you have a toaster oven, by all means, use it. But please don't use your regular ol' toaster. Trust me.

Ok, start with two pieces of bread (if you're trying to cut back on grease and carbs. If not, you may want more.)

Now, I know many grilled-cheese lovers enjoy a slice of buttery white bread with their grilled cheese, but this is your warning that white bread isn't the best companion of cheese toast. And we're not making grilled cheese. This is his fun-loving cousin.

Go with a grainy (but not too grainy), sturdy, whole wheat.

Next, the cheese.

This is key.

There are two ingredients in cheese toast, y'all, so it is extra-important not to mess them up.

DO NOT, in the name of all that's cheesy, use American cheese. 

NO NO NO NO NO.

You need something that can be sliced.  And nothing too fancy. Save your goat cheese with fig for another occasion.

The Cheddar Family & Kin are best suited for this type of work. Since I wasn't prepared to give a full-on Cheese Toast Tutorial, my fridge wasn't adequately equipped with the ideal cheese. But I didn't let that get the cheese toast down.

You know those ginormous blocks of cheese in the refrigerator case that look breathtaking and nauseating all at the same time? Call in those dogs for cheese toast because the slicing of the cheese is a secret to the amazing taste.

Look, I'll demonstrate:

(No, there isn't mold on the cheese. I had just dropped it in some flour I had out on the counter from baking pumpkin bread.)

By my best estimations, that cheese is about one-quarter of an inch thick. And honestly, you could go thicker.

Next, lay the cheese out on the bread.

I know that if you're new to this, you're wondering how something with  a 2.0 degree of difficulty could be so tasty? Well, trust me, it can.

Cheese Formation is critical at this juncture. I worked with the skill and precision of a dairy engineer to fit those slices perfectly on the bread. If there are spots where too much bread is exposed or the cheese is too thin, you will have dire consequences.

And if you have to take a bite of cheese amdist the engineering, go right ahead.

(By the way, are those pieces of bread mocking me? Why do they remind me of my deceased Mickey Mouse toaster?)

Next, pop those beauties under the broiler.

This next step is very important for those of you who, LIKE ME, have incredibly short attention spans: DO NOT WALK AWAY FROM THE BROILER.

I know that is hard not to forget (trust me, I've burned my share of cheese toast), but don't do it.

It only takes around 2 minutes for the cheese toast to reach it's broily perfection.

I understand that you could unload the top rack of the dishwasher, transfer the laundry from washer to dryer, rearrange the pillows on the couch, and save a child from choking in that amount of time.

BUT DON'T because your cheese toast will be lost.

(I risked melting my mascara to get that photo so you'd better enlarge it to fully appreciate the temperature and wondrous powers of the broiler.)

After your entire life has flashed before your eyes in two minutes (or whenever the cheese is melted (but NOT bubbly...that is too long), take it out right away and go save that choking baby.

Look at those deliciously lumpy gobs of sharp cheddar cheese. It started to run over the edge, but didn't evacuate too much.

The cheese performed splendidly and melded together just like it's supposed to.

There are some days I feel led to eat it with a fork, and other days I need to pick it up and eat it like a slice of pizza. Today I felt forkish.

Have. Mercy.

Colorado: America's Dairyland

I just want to thank y'all for all the help with my toaster.

I haven't made the purchase just yet, but I think tomorrow will be El Dia de Toaster Nuevo. 

Instead of the toaster/torturer, I've been using the broiler to do some toasting and melting duties while Mickey is down and out.

For as much as I like to cook, I didn't have a working knowledge of The Broiler and it's many capabilities until a few years ago, when a friend who actually doesn't like to cook introduced me to her.

It sounds crazy, but it had never dawned on me to push that little "broil" button and just watched what happened.

That's because I had no memories of my mom ever broiling anything. We were a Toaster Oven Family and that is where my love of small (large) appliances began.

When I mentioned this to her, she died laughing.

Apparently, she and my dad had a somewhat ugly fusing of toaster/broiler preferences at the onset of their marriage and he and his dinky toaster won out.

My Gran (her mom) was an avid broiler-user and created all kinds of deliciousness with its high heat and super melty powers. However, the love of the broiler didn't join my parents' marriage almost 40 years ago.

So then my mom and I started talking about our favorite broiler recipes.

Which brings me to one of the best broiler sensations of all times: Cheese Toast.

Have you had cheese toast lately?

It is one of my favorite snacks this side of a spoonful of peanut butter. In fact, my college roommates and I used to alternate between chile con queso and cheese toast as our favorite dinner options.

(Health, wellness, and costumes were our top priorities.)

Anyway, it seems cheese toast is a lost art these days.

As part of our daily after-school ritual, the neighborhood kids have somehow roped me into making dozens of chocolate chip cookies everyday for a snack.

Initially, when we decided the Black Horn Posse could walk home by themselves, I bribed them (to ensure their safe arrival) with cookies.

Ever since then, around nine of them tromp through the front yard and into my kitchen, slinging their backpacks all over the place, politely requesting (they're working on the charm thing) chocolate-chip cookies.

And here's the kicker: not just cookies. Hot cookies. Freshly baked. Warm cookies. On the one day I didn't have them coming out of the oven, the kids made me microwave the cookies so the chips would be gooey.

So today I had the audacity(!) to suggest cheese toast as a (questionably) healthier snack alternative. 

You would've thought I suggested pad thai noodles the way they scrunched up their faces and asked, "What in the heck is cheese toast?!"

"Where are your mothers and what have they been teaching you?!" I demanded.

Seriously.

I always thought cheese toast was a staple in every child's diet.

It is like eating cake on your birthday or black-eyed peas on New Year's Day. (Don't even tell me if you don't do that.)

Do I have a point to this blog? A theme? A thesis?

Of course not.

Except to say that I am nominating Cheese Toast for President with Diet Dr. Pepper as its running mate.

Amen.

The Smell of Burnt Toast is Wafting Through My House

Ok, internets, I need some serious help.

We're having a major problem with our toaster. Or should I say "toaster."

A more accurate descriptor is a "burner and torturer of formerly edible bread."

I am a HUGE fan of the toaster, and more specifically, the toaster oven. However, I am not a fan of small appliances and the space they require.

I like the activities small appliances perform (you know, brewing, blending, chopping), but I am categorically opposed to them sitting on my counter.

The exception, of course, is my coffee pot. It is beautiful, used daily, and part of my soul.

I love blenders, food processors (big and small), mixers, and toasters. Electric can openers and elaborate juicing machines that allow you to create beverages(?) out of celery and carrots aren't so high on the list.

Nothing makes me happier than a clean, crumb-free, countertop. It's like the universal signal to moms that it is okay to sit down (unless there is a large pile of laundry on the couch.)

(Theoretically.)

To give you more information on our Personal Toaster History than you've ever desired, let me just say that for years, we SWORE by the toaster oven.

I appreciate that it not only toasts bread, but it reheats pizza perfectly and makes a fine tuna melt, all without turning on the big oven.

However, the toaster oven? LARGE. UGLY. LARGE.

And if y'all think I have room to store one under my cabinets, than you haven't seen my organizational "system" that has plenty of room for odd-shaped and precariously stacked casserole dishes, but no room for the 9x13 pans I actually use.

(Someday when my self-esteem is soaring, I will take pictures of the inside of my cabinets then wait by the phone while Dr. Phil calls to stage an intervention.)

So anyway, when we put the house on the market awhile back, it became obvious that the toaster oven had to go. It was also shorting out more often than not, so we chucked it.

Being that Jackson has eaten approximately 7 million Eggo waffles since birth (give or take), it didn't seem possible to go without any toasting system for a month.

So Holly stepped in and donated her Mickey Mouse toaster that (allegedly) imprinted a Mickey Mouse face on each piece of bread.

I agree that the idea of marrying Mickey Mouse and a waffle is charming, but let me just say that the image of Mickey wasn't exactly precise. Or clear. Or visible.

I'm not sure if you can tell, but that is smoke that accompanies each and every piece of toast that dares to enter the toaster.

Do you know how long we've been carrying on like this?

ONE AND A HALF YEARS.

I am a fool (or optimist?) because each morning I think that it might not smoke.

But it does.

And here is the picture of Mickey on the clear side:

Now here is a picture of Mickey on the side I flip over so the kids will still eat it after I slather on enough butter to conceal the burned taste:

Doesn't that just make you hungry for breakfast?

Truthfully, it only burns like that when you let the toaster run it's full session and the toast pops up.

I've avoided the smoky outcome several times by manually popping the toast before the cycle is over. 

Of course, the waffles are still icy or the bread is still bread, but hey, NO SMOKE!

This morning, the straw that broke the Mickey Toaster's back was when I toasted the chocolate chip zucchini bread before spreading on a thin (ok...thick) layer of peanut butter.

(I like a light and healthy breakfast.)

Well, the zucchini bread was too big to fit and broke into a several chunks that I had to pry out like I was playing a game of Operation.

(No worries...I still drowned each and every crumb of the chocolate chip zucchini bread in peanut butter and ate them. All of them. And had seconds.)

So clearly, we have a toaster problem.

Which is why I need you to tell me what kind of toaster I should buy?

Of course, I'd like this one, but if I had $319 sitting around, I'd be out shopping at Nordstrom instead of blogging about toasters.

I need some insight, opinions, and help. 

Soon. 

Because I will be toasting that zucchini bread again tomorrow.

They Don't Teach You This Stuff in College

This past weekend was full of sporting merriment, which in my opinion, is some of the best kind of merriment there is. I mean, what is better than the start of college football, pro football, and the U7 soccer league?

I'll tell you what: junior golf.

A few months ago, Brad stopped by Play-It-Again Sports in search of some kid-sized irons. Our goal, of course, is to begin Jackson and Lilly's illustrious golf career by chipping some balls over at the park across our from house. It is just like a real fairway except that the houses along it haven't signed up to have their windows broken by shanked balls.

Brad called home, all excited about the prospect of millions of dollars (Jackson) and adorable golf outfits (Lilly). (Or me.) (Or all of us.)

Anyway, he pulled into the driveway (waving the clubs out the window for emphasis) and called the kids over to see Their Future.

Unfortunately, the clubs were a little long. We were only $2 into this venture (apparently we're going to invest in quality clubs just as soon as they start making contact with the ball) so Brad took matters into his own hands.

Now if there's one thing I simultaneously love and hate about Brad, it's his handiness and love for do-it-yourself projects.

Good things have come of it, like the amazing custom shelves for our playroom, my PBK knock-off changing table, and basement shelves strong enough to hold the 1985 Bears defensive line.

However, there are some drawbacks, like the fact that we've lived in this house for over a year and have no prospects of having any sort of backyard before the grandchildren arrive in a couple of decades.

(I am seizing this as my opportunity to love him for who he is.)

Well, Brad decided that before the golf careers of our Mini Me's could take off, he must cut the golf clubs down to size.

This involved several steps:

1. Watch YouTube videos to see how other people have cut down their clubs.

2. Believe YouTube is a reliable source of information.

3. Convince me that he should use several power tools to imitate the "brilliance" of complete strangers featured in YouTube videos.

By now, you may understand that I don't believe YouTube to be a credible DIY resource.

A few months ago, Brad decided we should try E-85 (you know, the corn fuel) in our cars. His source for this epiphany?

Watching YouTube videos featuring other Chevy Suburbans that didn't blow up. That is hardly the standard of excellence we strive for.

Or so I thought.

We filled that tank with E-85 and haven't looked back.

Nor have we blown up the car, so I suppose those lunatics are on to something.

Well, the "golf club cutting experts" on YouTube beautifully demonstrated that we should get out our air compressor and blow the grips right off those clubs.

I was skeptical, especially considering our Barry Bonds of Air Compressors is strong enough to inflate an innertube just by looking at it.

Not about to witness the clubs blasting through the front yard and hurting a small child, I waited inside while Tim-The-Toolman-Taylor cranked up the compressor and went to work.

A few seconds later (I told you it was strong), Brad came in with the grips successfully peeled down.

The next step was to go in the basement and use some sawing device to trim about six inches off the clubs.

I honestly wasn't aware that we had power tools with metal-cutting capabilities, but I will keep that in mind next time I am trying to wrestle the wire-cutters to separate the stems from my Hobby Lobby floral bunch. 

Like a kid in the power tool aisle, Brad literally came bounding up the stairs (picture Santa's enthusiasm, but thinner, and carrying golf clubs) with the irons successfully shorn down about half a foot.

Somehow, he sealed the grip back on, then took Tiger and Tigress over to the park to start printing money.

So all this to say, maybe YouTube is a fantastic news source that I've been denouncing all this time. 

And I am prouder of Tim-the-Toolman than I let on.

But when I start looking to YouTube for fashion advice, somebody PLEASE stop me.

Here's the Deal

To continue a summer-long theme, there has not been much blogging from these parts.

For June and July, I blamed it on the extreme amount of time I spent outside at the pool and lifeguarding the front yard sprinkler situation.

It doesn't sound dangerous, but when there are approximately 4 million children in your neighborhood and most of them try to use the sprinkler simultaneously, things can get a little dicey.

Plus, I was busy keeping The Cabana clean. When I wasn't picking up wet towels and swimsuits off the wood floors (as I repeated "Earthly treasures. Rot and decay."), I was busy removing our weapons cache from the powder room sink.

(It's a good thing they don't give you the full range of responsibilities when you enter motherhood, isn't it?)

And when I wasn't uncovering panties in the junk drawer, I was scrambling to remove them from under the stepstool before company came over.

Then came August, a few trips in different directions across the country, back to school hoopla, and the realization that I hadn't actually unpacked all of our moving boxes from over one year ago.

Now don't get me wrong, there's nothing I'd rather do than organize miscellaneous childhood memorabilia and come to terms with eight large bins of Christmas decor, but really.

Also in August came the Olympics.

No one told me when 2008 began that I had a very intense, emotional, TWO WEEK COMMITMENT, during which time I would sleep very little, eat very much, and consider a career in kayaking.

Or truly, if I'm running on Dara Torres' biological clock, I have a good decade of training before I begin my career as a swimmer.

As an aside, you all can have Michael Phelps and his eight shiny medals.

Has he ever had ANOTHER HUMAN LIVE INSIDE HIM for 9 months and then beat the French?

He is so overrated.

Well, kind of.

During the past few weeks, I've started to fantasize about what my life would be like when the children go back to school and I have a few moments to think. 

In peace. And quiet.

And talk. Or not talk.

And go someplace. Or stay home.

And clean. Or throw things in the laundry room and shut the door quickly.

I envisioned myself at Panera, laptop open, iPod humming, typing calmly away. Of course, I'd be savoring a latte and debating between a turkey panini and chicken salad sandwich for lunch.

(My daydream is currently interrupted by watching the 4 million children ride their scooters down our large hill in the middle of the street at top speed WHILE DOING STUNTS, with no thought to the fact that a bloody accident could cause death, or more gravely, postpone my Panera Dream by a week or more.)

(Excuse me for a minute.)

I'm so excited to be all alone and perhaps write, and far more exciting, read a blog or twenty. 

It sounds so heavenly to relax for just an hour without answering questions about poisonous deadly creatures and talking sassy and Barack Obama.

But then you know what?

I will miss those very things.

And the very people that ask those questions.

And I will wonder what those people are doing. And if they're smiling? Or scared? Or wanting to hold my hand? 

And if their friends are being kind? And if they're being obedient?

And I will wonder if his teachers see his tenderness? And need for approval?

And I will wonder if her teachers know she has an intuitive sense of humor? And tries to be quiet, but it's just hard.

I look outside again and there are My Two--amidst the 4 million.

The voices and squeals that can be heard through windows are riding bikes, riding Jeeps, and riding scooters. Their hair is flying, their clothes are dirty, and lunch is still on their faces.

And soon?

Soon it will be quiet. And calm. And still.

I can't decide if I'll like that or not.

But I'll let you know while I'm drinking my mocha.

Back-to-School Retrospective, Complete with Excessive Photos of the Kids

Oh, I love a good retrospective.

Especially when it is set to touching music and includes a segment that will make me cry.

I am a sucker for emotional pain, which is why I've compiled some pictures of the kids and in all of their back-to-school glory.

Lilly's first day came and went this morning. I shocked myself by NOT crying. If tears are really anti-freeze for the soul, then I am in big trouble.

Although (and this is a tip for those of you out there with younger kids), I like to watch a lovely iPhoto montage of my babies growing up--complete with sappy music--a few days before school starts. 

That way, when it's actually Go-Time, I have gotten the weepies out of my system and can focus on things like feeding them donuts for breakfast and reminding them not to talk about topics like farting at school.

Maybe it's a little crazy for me to reminisce over the past few years, seeing has Lilly hasn't even begun her formal public education yet. However, she is in her senior year of preschool, so that counts for something.

I've contemplated explaining to the blogging audience-at-large why my child is a preschool veteran at four, but instead, I'm hoping you'll choose to believe I did what I thought best each year.

It was either preschool or a large cage, so hopefully that will paint me in a more humane light.

Here we go...

Freshman Year, 2005

As you can tell from that first photo op, Lilly wasn't too excited for the back-to-school picture opportunity.

But on day two... 
...she got all giddy and posed pretty well. Considering she was a baby. A baby with a lunchbox half her size.

And a mullet. (I'm sorry, baby.)

From then on, she and Jackson made me take their pictures each day before school. 

For real.

I probably have 20 pictures from the fall of 2005. Thank goodness it finally snowed in November, at which point I successfully convinced the kids that we couldn't be found frozen to death on our own doorstep in the name of Before-School Photography.

Sophomore Year, 2006

I think Lilly's biggest accomplishment this year was growing her hair into a cute bob.

Or maybe it was that she wore metallic sandals on the first day. I can scarcely remember life in the Pre-Sock Obsession Era, but these photos are evidence that such times were both real and beautiful.

I sure hope you noticed the Spiderman band-aid that Lilly so gracefully sported on that sweet knee.

To this day she prefers Batman or Spiderman over any girly band-aids. I practically dropped to the ground while begging her to buy a Care Bears or Strawberry Shortcake set of band-aids last time we were at Target.

She would not have any of it and chose Scooby Doo. 

I really can't complain because I wasn't exactly ruffles and lace growing up, either. 

Junior Year, 2007

This was a big year of transition because we had just moved and Jackson started kindergarten.

He was busy never going to school thanks to the year-round system, and Lilly was left to forge the scary halls of preschool alone for the first time.

But she survived.

Did y'all notice that sweet little pink backpack that faithfully stood the test of time? It is from The Gap over FOUR years ago and still going strong.

And that is one of the many reasons I feel it blesses my family when I shop there.

Senior Year, 2008

Jackson is just a stand-in since his big day isn't for another 8 days, 8 hours, 36 minutes, and 17 seconds.

Also, I had to take their picture today because his new elementary school is FORCING them to wear a t-shirt with a picture of a golden retriever on it for the first day.

Help. Me.

(Look! The Gap backpack and lunch box! I am so thrifty and stretch my dollar(s) soooo far!) 

(Be sure and mention this to Brad.)

Somehow my sweet little baby has sprouted into a bigger sweet little baby.

I would mention that she is only a few months away from turning 5, but then I might break into the Ugly Cry all over my keyboard and wreck it.

And I hear computers aren't cheap. (But with all the money I've saved on backpacks...)

We had fun celebrating the first day, but perhaps the greatest moment caught me by surprise.

One of my dearest and wildest Fashion Fantasies came true when UNKNOWINGLY(!), Lilly and her two best buddies arrived at the first day in color coordinated outfits.

Be still my beating heart.

Have you seen The Gap's fall line? Well if not, here it is:

A key to academic success is the First Day Outfit. That is pretty undisputed. And these chickies pulled it off quite well.

The only thing better would've been to have the entire class coordinating with their Pottery Barn Kids room decor, but that is probably best left to the catalog professionals.

But I am nothing if not filled with ambition.

Just when I thought it was a slow news day...

...I came home from the grocery store and saw this:

Is it me or is that a tornado?

Um, funnel cloud? 

Check.
Dirt flying?

Check.

Let me remind you at this point that these pictures were taken from my driveway without so much as the zoom.

Yowzers.

Lilly started to reprise her Academy Award winning airplane performance by screaming, "We're all going to die!"

We would've gone inside, but at this point, the whole neighborhood was out to see the sight.

Well, make that everyone except our neighbor, Joel, who was LOCKED DOWN in the Wal-Mart.

He and his daughter missed all of the drama due to mandatory duck-and-cover in the soft drink section.

Just to give some perspective, those leaves are from the tree in our front yard.

Jackson and Chancey decided that they were going to die together.

Luckily, this twister missed the brand new school that is eleven days from completion. 

If the start of school is prolonged for ANY REASON WHATSOEVER at this point, I will cry. And a building ravaged by a tornado is no excuse. I will march Jackson up there and leave him to practice math by counting a pile of 2x4's if that's what it takes.

Whew, we made it.

Now that the Olympics are over, we're going to power down the TV for the first time in 2 weeks and trying to converse with each other without talking about Michael Phelps.

I'll let you know how that goes.

As Usual, She Oozes Sincerity

I'm not going to sugar-coat this.

Today was one of those days when I'd rather deal with toddlers and their many demands and poopy diapers rather than handle the fragile (and sinful) heart of a 6 year-old.

Some blatant disobedience occurred despite warnings, practice-dialogs, and threats.

This was followed by pleas for grace and promises that he "just forgot."

After I explained that forgetting the law is never an excuse and praying desperately for wisdom to govern the situation, I issued the severest loss-of-privileges Jackson's received in his short life.

Moments after he began serving a near life-sentence for the wrong-doing, Lilly seized the moment to shine.

I mean, "shine."

We were headed out the door to run errands and I was on the verge of losing my patience over her shoe selection. 

(I can be okay--after many deep breaths--with the shoes not matching the outfit, but when she selects two shoes that don't even belong together, I feel led to intervene.)

Me: "Lilly, which shoes are you going to wear? The gold ones or the white ones? One of each is not an option."

Lilly: "The gold ones." 

Me: "Great."

I walk away, assuming the discussion has ended.

Lilly: "Mommy, I chose the gold shoes because they remind me of the streets of heaven and Jesus and how he forgives us and how he is preparing a place for us even when we do so many wrong things, like Jackson did."

Me: "Then maybe you should wear your white shoes instead."

Only five days till she goes back to school...

You'd Think This Would Be Journalistic Gold After All That Time

After recounting the story of our turbulent plane ride from San Antonio to Denver to a few friends, I've become convinced that the masses would be missing out without a blow-by-blow  of the story.

Also, I am in the car driving to Michigan and 17 hours of sitting gets a little monotonous.

We both win!

I've tried to figure a few times how many times Jackson and Lilly have flown the friendly skies, but it is beyond my calculations.

All I know for sure is that when I try to get them excited about taking off and landing, they look over at me with totally bored expressions and resume watching the TV.

I've even wondered how the kids know each and every one of Frontier's wing tail names and I hardly even know what species we're talking about.

For example:

Me: "LOOK! We get to fly on the cheetah! HOW COOL! I bet his name is Spot!"

Jackson: "Mom, it's a female leopard."

Lilly: "And her name is Maya."

J&L in chorus with eye-rolling: "And we've flown on her before."

Apparently I am somewhat out of the loop.

After we boarded Maya, we dropped off (The Former) Mr. Frequent Flyer, Brad, in row 2.

The kids and I made our way back to steerage in row 17. I was prepared for the kids to pass out from swimming enough to constitute crossing the English Channel and I was going to finish my book in "peace."

I do not think it'll ruin the story at all to tell you that exactly nothing went according to plan.

Starting right from the takeoff, something on the plane just wasn't quite right. It kind of felt like a large chicken was caught in the engine--the ride was extra bumpy and turbulent enough to prevent me from doing anything.

The kids started complaining before all three tires were off the runway that they were scared and were "going to die."

After we took off and the pilot dared to dip the wing in order to point the plane to Colorado, Lilly started LOUDLY carrying on about "the plane doing a big crash landing into the earth."

Initially, I chalked all of this up to some lingering rollercoaster phobia.

At Sea World, we (ok, I) pushed the cherubs a little out of their comfort zone with some overly aggressive roller coasters.

I am a roller coaster LOVER and was determined that at the tender ages of 4 1/2 and 6, that the kids would enjoy being jostled around upside down and brought to the brink of puking over and over again.

Then after repeatedly feeling their stomachs drop from their throat to their knees, they would scream, "AGAIN, Mommy! We have tasted death and want to ride the Texas Splashdown ONE MORE TIME!"

Hindsight is 20/20.

After we disembarked the Journey to the Atlantis at SeaWorld, I immediately made the turn for another round of fun.

The kids, however, were pale, trembling, and begging Grammy and Papa to permanently adopt them for fear that I might try that again.

Weenies.

So with recent imagery of actual altitude drops and general bumpiness, Jackson and Lilly continued the SHOUTING about the scariness of the flight and death's impending appearance.

I kept waiting for Brad to turn around in row 2 wondering why I didn't have these two under control.

But as the increasing game of Clouds vs. Plane progressed, Lilly screamed even louder: "Mommy! GO UP THERE RIGHT NOW and tell that pilot to land this plane!

We are going to have a CRASH LANDING!"

Now, had this been a movie, Lilly (played by Dakota Fanning) would be sitting timidly in her seat, clutching a blanket, looking lovingly up at me (played by Reese Witherspoon) with a single tear trickling down her cheek.

"Mommy?" she would whisper, so quietly that I lean my freshly highlighted head down to hear her tender words, "I'm afraid."

Cut to Jackson (played by a young Zac Efron) who reaches for Lilly's hand and says:

"Lilly, I know you're scared, but I'll take care of you. Don't worry."

He reaches over and wipes her tear. "Everything will be alright."

(He didn't get any lines, but Matthew McCoughney glances lovingly over his shoulder from Row 2 and mouths, "I'll always love you.")

Instead, all of the shrill screaming got to be so much that I clamped my hand over Lilly's mouth to prevent further alarming other passengers.

Which is when she threw out AT MAXIMUM VOLUME, "You're just embarrassed of me because I'm crying and screaming so much!"

Which was true.

But did she have to point that out to every single person on board?

At this point, the elderly lady sitting diagonally in front of us gave up trying to discreetly listen to the scene. She angled her body so that she was turned around and unashamedly watching our every move.

No pressure.

Despite the glowing seat belt sign and several warnings from the pilot, Lilly defiantly unbuckled her seatbelt and sat in my lap.

In her defense, I could actually feel her insides trembling.

Another signal that things were a smidge off kilter was when the girl next to me pushed the stewardess (I still like to call them that) call-button while the flight attendants were in their jump-seats and strapped in.

"Passenger in Row 17, if you still need help, push the call-button again."

At which time she began pressing the button with the fierceness of a Morse-code expert and the stewardess came running to our row, thinking we were the ones in distress.

(Perhaps the screaming, crying, and death threats threw her off).

Girl NEXT TO ME in Row 17: "I need a barf bag. NOW!"

And then I turned my head away because I saw small chunks flying.

I situated Lilly so she wouldn't witness this (confirming her loudly broadcast fears) and focused on trying to shut off as many of my senses as possible to avoid joining the party.

The worst part of the "adventure" was that much of the plane was also afflicted with the Stomach Horribleness.

So much so that as we exited the plane, an entire Haz-mat Team (WEARING MASKS AND GLOVES) boarded with some ominous-looking cleaning products.

That, my friends, is a bad sign.

We had a lovely reunion with Brad once we reached the 2nd row.

And it took every fiber of my being to not attack him when he asked, "How was your flight?"

I Lied

I would just like to say that Papa is good at a lot of things.

Like being the Master of Fun at Sea World.

And helping Jackson be brave on "Journey to the Atlantis." 

And showing Lilly proper alligator-petting technique.

And watching Pirates in 4-D until the fake pirates get too scary.

But y'all, Papa is not a pro in all areas of grandparenting.

He is most definitely disallowed from applying sunscreen. 

Ever.

Because his technique is more "Goth Halloween Costume" than "Effective UV Protection."

I'm so thankful God has uniquely gifted each of us. Let's stick to our strengths, people.

Just a Smidge Busy

I should probably mention that we're in the midst of a largeish vacation. 

Actually, we're home for 2 days between trips. 

Which means I am eating and sleeping in the laundry room.

In general, I love being an adult. But when it comes to preparing for vacation...not so much.

I mean, I know it blesses the socks off of my family when they arrive at our Vacay Destination with everything they need (and more!), but it sure is a lot of work for The Mom.

Also, it was minorly stressful when The 4 Year-Old started screaming things like, "We're going to crash!" and "I am so scared!" on the turbulent flight today.

At which point I clamped my hand over her mouth.

At which point she screamed, "You're just embarrassed that I'm screaming and crying on the plane!"

There were several other choice lines that deserve a blog post unto themselves.

But I'll be honest: It probably won't happen.

I would love to share about our amazing weekend in San Antonio, but folks, I AM SO DANG TIRED.

I mean, Tiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrreeed.

Beat. Sleepy. Exhausted.

Fun does have a price. 

Don't get me wrong, I am willing to pay the price, but The Tired renders me unable to blog or speak in complete sentences.

But mostly, I'm trying to say that there will not be much blogging coming from these parts.

For awhile.

It's fun to blog about All The Fun, but I don't want to miss out on All The Fun because I'm thinking about blogging. 

I am just ready to enjoy.

If I feel divinely nudged, I'll post some pictures from our trip.

But if not, I'll be back in a fortnight or so.

LYMI!