The Secret to Beautiful Summer Hair

For those of you in my Day Late Dollar Short club, this week is the week we're getting to our End of School Year to-do lists. Yeah, the rest of the world got to it weeks ago, I know, but we are still in the month of June, so we're good.

As we reach in and tackle those 9-month-long neglected innards of our kids' backpacks, it's not all put your hand in and pull out a green tangerine that your fingers sunk into. There are treasures within those zippered compartments, to be sure.

Treasures like what I found this morning. My backpack haul grew into my Everything I Need To Be Beautiful this summer trove. Not really, but at least Everything I Need To Keep My Hair From Having Its Own Zip Code.

Want to know the secret to summer hair kept tame and free from interfering with your field of vision? Look no further than what you'll find inside your childrens' backpacks.

Here are the Top 5 Hair-Busters that with along with a little Frizz-Ease, came to my rescue:

Shown: The long-forgotten scarf my child took to school in November for a Titanic re-enactment project where he was the Ship Medic and needed bandages. 

Shown: Rainbow Loom wristband slash most awesome ponytail holder for thickest hair imaginable in a Milwaukee summer humidity wave.

Shown: From when son called 1984 and asked for his mom's scrunchy bands back.

Shown: Rubber bands from the secret inside zipper pocket behind the pencil case flap. Why did he need so many? He doesn't want to tell me. But I was in grade school once and I know what a rubber band shooting ammunition cache for the 7th grade looks like.

Shown: Drybar hair courtesy of the school auction gift certificate for the February event that was never turned in for the February event but which was found crushed at the bottom of the backpack and nevertheless had to be used before the expiration date of July 6, 2016.

Happy summer everyone. I wish you hair resourcefulness and smart backpacking unpacking. May the gods of hair hacks smile upon you. 

* * *

There's a Few Things in This House

So many square feet, and a few of them are used wisely. The house we live in is still standing ten+ years after we first inhabited it, and all that we've transported here from where we once were, there, isn't used much anymore.

Over a decade of family life within our home, and the thought of the days spent here brings me to spasmodic cries and hiccups against Father Time as he whacks away at the hourglass, reducing my days of my favorite thing to do: nothing but sit at the kitchen table with Play-Dough and magic markers all day.

But there are a few things in this house, that will always be in this house. And yes they do add to the clutter and diminish the ability to walk freely through without having to side step, but these items are going nowhere until I take them with me in my request to be buried with them.

Let's begin with my computer glasses. These are a thing, people. I learned about them at BlogHer and they reduce glare from the screen and cut down on blue light glare and have minimized my migraines from too much (Ha as if too much online time can even be) Now I don't have to get off the keyboard until I want to get off. So, get thee behind me, eyestrain!

What else will I have clutched in my hand until I'm physically removed from this house? My Jessica Simpson slippers. I don't have the budget for anything from Jessica Simpson which surprisingly is costy costly cost-y, but I have a sister who knows this, and splurges on my behalf. My Jessica Simpson fur lined slippers are on my Dress Me In This For My Funeral list (like you don't have one.)


I will cling to my childhood Golden Encyclopedia of Knowledge books. Googling has spoiled us with its Insta-Answer, but googling has also taken away one of my favorite childhood nerdom activities: being belly down on the living room carpet while turning pages of information on anything you didn't even know that you wanted to know about. From Nefertiri to Fort Knox, it was all there on a weekend afternoon. Google can't get you that. Well, it can, but you need my computer glasses for the hours you need to achieve my childhood nerdom status.



 Little Bear on VHS. My friends Owl, Emily, Hen, Lucy, kind Mother Bear and Father Bear. And my favorite, Duck.  I loved this Nick series more than, Ok, as much as, my kids did. The sweetest cartoon ever made and Mother Bear was the one who gave me my agenda for the day when I had no idea had run out of ideas was desperate for ideas, on what to do with three under seven. When Mother Bear made Birthday Soup, we made birthday soup. When Father Bear decided to hang treats from trees, we hung treats from trees. I needed no brain when Little Bear's family did all my thinking for me, which was perfect because there was a stretch in my life there where I didn't sleep for eight years.

My abuela's wooden spoon set, wooden cutting board, and wooden mortar and pestle. I don't feel lonely in the kitchen when my hands are upon where her hands were.

All three of their baby books. Dates of their well baby visits along with my notes on the doctor's exam, their tiny bitty height and weight recorded with a photo of them on the scale. These books help me ignore Father Time for awhile. Open to any page, and you'll see their first words, their first steps, their first tooth. It was there once, the days I thought would be there forever.

The shoebox of my grandmother's poetry . I see her writing, shaky but still clear though she was in her 80s, and I read the intimacy of her words, I think about how much there is in us that others never know. We are complex, with depth, we share our lives and still remain so much our own. I read her poetry and each time, it means something different.

My one and only Barbie Doll. When my children were little, one of them asked me if I missed playing with Barbies because all the toys we had in our house were cars, fire trucks, Legos, trains. I said no, since I never had a Barbie. That Christmas, with three children hanging around my neck so close I could hear them breathe, I unwrapped my first Barbie.

I hope she's not afraid of the dark and crowded spaces, because she's coming along into that pine box with me. 

* * *

Maybe... Splurge on That Babysitter

I have collections of the once upon a time thought of as perfect examples of child-rearing. Not just two or three sets but shelves of volumes numbered I-X of vintage parenting books filled with Teach-You-A-Lesson-Today- Child. Stories that will make you sh*t your pants with fright if you're a kid. Enticing illustrations set you up, and then before you know it you're assaulted with the 1950's era finger wagging if you do this, my child, you might just lose an eye or finger or be lost forever on a nature trail.

Though the titles were couched in "Suzy's Sunday" or "Johny Makes Jam" these stories might as well all been called "Here's What Will Happen To You If'n You Don't Behave."

I showcase these volumes front and center in the kid’s reading room downstairs. They’re harmless fun and give us all a good laugh.

Or so I thought.

Our house has a big kid in it, a teenager. He babysits for his younger brothers. One of these vintage books has a story in it about Joey, the little boy you see pictured above. Joey has a behavior problem, as children do.

Joey likes to sneak around and satisfy his curiosity when no ones around.

I found out one night that my oldest son used to read about Joey to my then sweet baby four-year-old-boy at the beginning of each babysitting session, like this:

Teen BrotherslashBabysitter: "One day, when Joey’s mom was gone and his big brother was in charge, Joey sneaked away and did sneaky things without telling his brother. That’s not a safe thing to do, is it? Do you know what happened to Joey?” [At this point, my heart seizes as I imagine my wide-eyed four-year-old baby chewing his fingernails to the nub when his brother gets to this part.]

Teen Continues: “Well, here’s what happened to Joey.”

And my teen babysitter presses THIS picture into my baby's face. Then he adds:

Teen: "That's not jelly on Joey, either."
---

Free is free when it doesn't cost you anything. Free is expensive when it comes with therapy bills for a little boy who would hide the jars of raspberry jam in the cupboard because the sight of them had him out cold on the kitchen floor. Suddenly the $8 an hour for a non-free babysitter didn't seem so outrageous.

I could've used that cautionary tale on free babysitting in my vintage collection.

* * *

That One Time I Was Nature Mom

 Exhibit A:

-Black bean and brown rice crackers with sea salt for snacks.
-Gelatin without artificial color for safe jello jigglers.
-Wax paper bags (unbleached, take note) so plastic doesn't touch their 100% whole grain bread.
-An activity book for healthy outdoor play.

I have been feeling so disillusioned and depressed and blueblueblue over the state of our union, that I turned to what helps me heal and feel like I can breathe again. Because we have a long way to go in this election year and I need oxygen.

I turned to decluttering. Productive, visible results from my labor, the peace within of a cleared out shelf. But as I began to pull and shuffle and discard, what I found buried within white cabinets wasn't clutter as much as bearing witness to a woman who once held on to the ideal of the highest level of conscious parenting.

All natural, all chemical free, all healthy and wise and 100 percent in earnest.

Souvenirs of when I was Natural Mom. Natural mom , the one who wouldn't buy anything unless it had the word natural written all over the natural container in soybean-based ink at least five times. Seven if you count the back.

Natural value 100 percent natural waxed paper bags made with all natural ingredients that are natural from a natural environment using a natural process for a natural lifestyle! Great for packing natural snacks! (There's eight here, what a beautiful thing)

Not pictured in the photo above because they didn't fit are the GoGreenMama silicone ice cube trays for freezing home made baby food along with the 25-pound Happy Healthy Baby acid-free pages cookbook for making my own preservative-free baby food, and the baby food mill with BPA-free blades for making the baby food.

I am not poking fun at anyone who chooses this lifestyle. The endeavor and hope comes from a place of sincerity: wanting the healthiest world for our kids but but but... guess who won't go along with it? Guess who spends just one freakin' afternoon at a playdate where they have their first hit of cherry red kool-aid and my friends? THE HEALTHY HOME HEARTH IS OVER.

It's impossible to forget that summer weekday afternoon when my four-year-old son ran in through the front door, fresh with the first mustache of his life: a red one. Still licking the lifetime supply of powdered sugar off his lips, he cried, "I had something delicious at Jeremy's house today and I drank a whole container of it and all I can tell you is I was wishing so hard that Jeremy's mom was you!"

"Oh yeah? Yeah? Well, does Jeremy's mom hand-shred your co-op carrots on a bamboo grater?!"

Pffft. Most assuredly not.

If love can be this easily bought, then why the heckhellheck am I doing this Organic, Non-GMO, Gluten Free, Kosher Vegan Raw Handmade production of your lives? Why am I working two part-time jobs for the sole reason of Trader Joe's? I ask you, where are the brains in that?

So, dear children, if you ever find yourself wondering if your mother ever had any other chef than Chef Boyardee and Little Caesar's Friday into if it's Monday then it must be $5.00 20-piece chicken nugget night, please consult Exhibit A above.

*Also not pictured above: the Essential essential home oil-making kit every mom of a newborn needs.

Living Lavender was my favorite.

* * *

I Never Make Decorating Mistakes

When I walked into the showroom, I knew it was a bad idea. I was alone, as alone as you can be with a 3 month old, a 5 year old, and a 7 year old. It was 11:00 a.m. and I had weeks ago run out of ways to keep my children entertained during the month of January. The Sunday paper circular advertised a huge furniture blow out from a furniture showroom that was 10 acres big and two stories high. They also featured a root beer bar and chocolate chip cookies. While the paper said Super Sale I read Field Trip, so half an hour ago I strapped the three into their safety seats and tucked my hair into a fetching cap so I would at least look like I might buy a piece of furniture. I drove my crew out of my driveway and onto the interstate that would take us to the corner of Hwy 60 and Port Road.

“This will be fun, kids! We're going to a furniture store and you know what they have there? Bunk beds you can look at and pretend bedrooms where you can get ideas for your dream rooms!”

“Can we try the beds?” Their eyes grew wide.

“Absolutely!”

“Yay! Furniture!” A chorus filled the minivan with my voice being the loudest. We were getting out! We were doing something new! We had found a way to kill time until Mark came home!

At this point, you need to be aware that my husband conducts our finances with one goal in mind: to retire with a million bucks and buy an RV. You know what that means as well as I do, there is no way I can decide to just buy furniture. I knew that today was novelty, chocolate chip cookies and root beer through paper straws. And a bit of daydreaming about bunk beds and a leather sectional never hurt nobody.

How hard can it be to not spend money?

Well, four minutes into the store visit and I was already love sick. My first furniture heartbreak and it was over not being able to think about leaving the store without what was in the first showroom. A dark, rich, reclaimed barnwood kitchen table with two black benches (how freakin' Laura Ingalls cute) alongside instead of clumsy chairs that were too hard for kids to push in. I wanted that table so much my neck was starting to itch.

I twisted my hair in anguish. This table, why can't I have this table? I don't ask for much of anything, keep my children fed, warm, and loved and I'm yours for life (hence the wedding ring) BUT this table? Is there a god I can pray to for this table?

The rest of the afternoon clipped along, my kids sat on beds, tried recliners, talked in voices 100 decibels louder than I'd usually allow about who would get the top bunk and where they'd keep their toys. We were having the best daydream of a day. We sat at the pretend '50s diner and munched on free cookies.

“Mom, this is fun!”

“I know, right? Want to come again?”

YES!,” everyone around me agrees. 

 

Monday morning, we were back. It was drizzly and grey, but inside the showroom? Glorious sunshine from heaven above as my table threw out its rays of blazing light. Once more, we stopped and my children patiently understood while I ran my fingers along six feet of sturdy, solid splendor. I chewed on my lip and swallowed hard and my eyes grew misty. Later, my son told me he heard me whispering to it.

“You guys, mom really likes this table."

"Look, mom! You can roll out paper and draw on it it's so long. It seats eight!”

“It could be a birthday party table!"

“Preaching to the choir, my children."
 

“We could have watermelon seed spitting contests it's so long!”

"Yes!”

“And then we could use it for bowling with bottles and baseballs on top because IT'S SO LONG!”

“Yes! YES!”

Before we even took our places at our new favorite cookie counter, that table had a SOLD sign on it in my heart.

“You guys," I said while finishing the cookies they left because leftovers eaten by mothers have no calories. "I want that table.”

“You should get it, mom. It would be fun.”

“I can't just buy something without seeing if your dad says yes. I wouldn't want him to buy something without seeing if I say yes.”

"Is that because he wants to keep as much money as he can?"

 

My kids were no strangers to the budget talks. We left the store once more, but not without a longing look back at our table.

“Bye bowling alley,” said my oldest.

“Bye table!” The rest of us waved. Well, the three of them waved, I cried.

Somehow I had to find a way to get this table. It would be ours for the next 100 years and the kids were still young enough for us to get use out of it for crafts, homeschooling, birthday parties, and my chicken nugget dinners.

Once home, I searched out the measuring tape. This table, this 8-seat with two fold-out leaves at the end would sit just right along the north end of the kitchen wall. I put my hands on my hips and imagined a fiesta red runner down the middle of the boards, a long-necked turquoise blue vase with a solitary daisy standing in the center, and all of us, seated around it. This kitchen could become our nest instead of a place to eat and run as it was now, because of the limited use round oak breakfast nook.

Ten years later, the showroom table sits in our kitchen. Where my youngest sits is speckled with light brushes of yellow from when he was first learning to control a paint brush. My oldest's chair, against the north wall, is gummy and tomato-tacky to the touch from his love of ketchup. The benches have been replaced with high-back chairs as the kids grew into them. This table is the heartbeat of this house, where we have celebrated birthday parties at dawn, slurped July watermelon while sitting in the breeze of open patio doors, and where we have sent one son off to college while its entire surface was edge to edge with congratulatory cards of good wishes. Our last Christmas with my mother was spent here, when she took Auggie's place at the table next to me, since she had become the one I now got up for.

I never did have to plead my case for this table to my husband. He saw the spark in my eyes when we took him along on our next “table field trip” and I told him how he would sit at the west end because he liked the sunrise and four-year-old Auggie would be next to me because I'm the one who gets up for him. The other half of the table would be piled high with paints, papers, monopoly boards, and home-made bowling games that we wouldn't have to move because this table, ahhhhh, the LENGTH of this table.

We bought the table.

“It wasn't even for you,” he later told me. “It was how you wanted it for the kids. The way you always want things through the kids' lives. You told me everything you knew would happen on that table. I looked at it, and I saw it, too.”

 

 

 

* * *

I Can Tell A Story With a Little Help From My Friends/Kids/Same Thing

Me: "I had a dream last night that that one singer, Justin Bieber? No ... the other one ... the one that I like ... but not Justin Bieber, but Justin for sure..."

Them: "Justin Timberlake, Mom."

Me: "Yes! Yes yes. Justin Timberlake. Anyway, Justin Timberlake was breaking and entering into a theater - and I could tell it surprised me in my dream, because in my dream I thought That's not like him but I didn't say it, but knew I thought it. So, Justin is breaking his way into the theater to see that one movie I liked ... Hot Mess? Hot Ones?? It started Hot Something ..."
  

Them: "Heat, Mom."
  

Me: "Right. Heat. Heat. That was it. Well, they were selling Girl Scout cookies there at the theater while he was breaking in, but they had other kinds of cookies on the table too - not just Girl Scout. Like there was a basket already opened of my favorite ones ... the thin crisp ones. With the cranberries. Crisps? Crunchers? Cranberry Crunchers?"
 

Them: "Mom, Cranberry Crisps."
 

Me: "Those are the ones! Cranberry Crisps! So, Justin Bieber, I mean Timberlake, gets the cookies somehow, he has them in his hands, still in the basket, and he HIDES them like a little kid underneath a big car. One of those big cars ... you know like the one we saw the other day that your dad liked. But I think they're too boxy. What was that car called?"

 

Them: "Lincoln Navigator."

 

Me: "Ugh. Yes. That big box of a car. Anyway ..."

 

Them: "Mom, does this dream have an ending?"

 

Me: "Well, that's the funny thing. It almost did, see, it was just like that one series we were watching two summers ago. Remember? When we had Hulu for free? It was - what was that series called? That science fiction one that we all liked ..."

 

* * *

It's Beginning to Sound a Lot like Christmas

Lucky for everyone, I took notes last night as we Christmas house-decorated. I eavesdropped on Laurel and Hardy while they were put in charge of ornamenting the tree. I would have joined in on putting up my lovingly selected tree baubles too but I was a touch busy doing some other things like, vacuuming, dusting, cooking, wrapping, swishing toilets...

Here's what they had to say:  (Try not to envy their holiday spirit)

"We'd better be quiet, you know what mom will say, "The tree is feeling your negative energy and won't glow as much."

 

"I think our ornaments are perfect. She's the one saying it's ugly not me."

"Where's the filler ornaments. Double the beauty in a third of the time. She won't know."
 

"Hey, hey, watch me. I can make this tree go from awful to amazing with these filler ornaments."

"She's getting mad. She's the one who wants to do the tree and makes us do it and she's mad."

"She's acting like it's the Miss Colombia for the beauty pageant for trees."

"I hope you're happy mom I'm now BLIND because of glitter dust ok??!!"

 

"Oh my gosh she is nuts. WHY do we need so many ornaments.?"

 

"Maybe she can't see."

 

"The tree looks fine. Our ornaments look fine. It's an ugly tree we can't mask how it looks."

"How long has she had that star? Since like they got married or something it looks like a flat pancake drooping over but she looooooooooooooooooves it."

 

 "Mom? HEY MOM! Do we have to get the back too?"

"Hey, Hey, look at this one. This swirly one. It looks like it's going to suck your soul out."

"Ugh. These are the ones she keeps from us. They're so ugly they can't even be ornaments  oh my God why does she keep them."

 

"No way. Look at these. They shouldn't even be ornaments."

 

"Mom! Why do you keep these they're construction paper and crayons."

 

"Man, parents eat that stuff up."

 

 "I hope she doesn't plan on saving any of these for me."

"Look at this one. All I did was screw a hole through this cardboard with a pipe cleaner and she loves it."

"She wants more ornaments. She just shouted she wants more ornaments. She IS spamming this tree."

"Isn't this like the third time we're hearing "Little Drummer Boy"?"
 

"Mom? Hey, mom? We love you!"

 

Respect the Loophole

1:25 p.m - 1/4 of an inch of juice left

I drink coffee as the vehicle for the 1,000 calorie flavored creamer. I eat bread for delivery of the fat-laden butter. The only reason I walk on the treadmill is because it makes it Ok for me to listen to Eminem even though I'm older than his mother.

I eat Raisin Bran for the raisins in milk and Lucky Charms for the cute baby marshmallows. (most people get the Lucky Charms one, but tell me the Raisin Bran one is just dumb because why not just eat raisins. Duh. Because I love raisins in milk but raisins in milk as a snack would call too much attention.)

Life is full of loopholes.

You can say you're doing research while you Youtube ThugLife cat videos. “I have to do this. It keeps my hand on the pulse of America's humor, kids!”

In summer's muggy haze, there is no easier time for a dinner loophole than quartering up a chilled head of iceberg lettuce to cool everyone off. Who wants real food anyway?

All you need for a loophole to present itself is a good set of brains, both hemispheres, one for sound reason, the other for downright conviction.

My children are masters of the loophole. They can slip in a cuss if they turn it into a reminder of how my hearing isn't what it used to be. "Mom, I know you think you heard me tell my brother he was going to get his ass destroyed, what I actually said was 'I wonder about tonight's asteroid storm.' You know you need to ask the Dr. about your hearing." True enough, my child.

You can loophole making faces at your brother because your mother says Don't say anything mean to your brother and you're not saying anything. Saying "Don't touch him" makes you wish you would have said Touch Him because the almost of a one inch away poking finger is more annoying than the landing of the finger.

Loopholes allow me to visit my kids at work. I can go to the grocery store where one is a bagger and to the pool, where the other one lifeguards. I had to buy groceries anyway, which explains why I'm at the store during his shift, and before one starts huffing and puffing that I'm at the pool spying on him, let me just say that the only reason I am at the pool is to see if the Silver Swimmers were holding a Waterworking Those Bat Wings lap session.

When I see how long my children will make the quarter inch of apple juice that's left, last to the point of them barely pouring enough into a glass to wet a hummingbird's lips, because of my words, "The person I see drink the last drop of juice, has to go to the basement and get a new gallon," we're entering some loophole-ripe ground here.
 

Here we have an empty gallon of juice. With no one responsible for bringing up the replacement, since I didn't see who drank the last drop.

 

  It is impossible for me to get angry in the face of such beautiful circumventing genius.

***

New Hope for Stopping Nagging

Maybe they won't find me in my blanket tent

Summer vacation is nigh, and along with it our houses will soon be feeling as if they lost square footage in the transition from the school year.

When did our homes become so... cramped.

When did they become so... filled with bodies.

When did it start to feel like... there isn't enough air to breathe.

When did we only... have one pitch level to our voice and that of siren.

The answer to that is right about the time you stepped on water bottles left to roll on the ground, popped up Pringles canisters jabbing at the arch of your foot, and plates caked with cinnamon roll frosting discovered the next week when you're vacuuming.

By Day Four of Beautiful Summer Vacation, I am screaming. It's the visual assault of *The Things*, they are everywhere. And I'm not just talking about the kids.

How do I stop my screeching nagging?

There is good news, friends! Researchers at MamaLlama Resource Center (totally made up), also known as the makers of Mama Relax! tea and herbal supplements, have uncovered a new way to sedate reduce that trigger wail response of It's All Too Much.

There is a substance that will coat and soothe those frayed neuron receptors. The very ones that sway back and forth and take over your brain, making you scream Pick that up! And That over there too!

The answer is simple: Want to save your summer? Then...

 Invest in a warehouse size box of chocolate.

The size that requires a teenager to carry it out to your car. This substance will jump-start the relax response and interrupt the connection from eyes to brain to tongue. You won't see the things, you won't be able to scream about the things, you will feel so good while chocolate drool is oozing out of both corners of your mouth that researchers know their work will lead to a new conditioned response.

One that can save summer vacation and be used to develop positive memories of time spent together for every member of the household. *slurp*

For best results, chocolate must be shoved into mouth by the handful so that you can't close your lips. No dainty eating because this is the real deal that needs to go down.

* * *

13 Epiphanies About a Third Child

1 Your third child will survive without a daily bath.

2 Being a third child builds resiliency, self advocacy, and problem solving like nothing else.

3 The brain of a third child will grow just as well from playing with a sheet of wax paper as the brain of your first child did playing with a $175.00 light and sound board.

4 A fever of 100 degrees on a third child is considered low grade, not an emergency.

5 Ignore the I told you so advice of “one child per set of hands”. We all became outnumbered at one kid.

6 Throw the ideal of love and affection given equally, out the door. You give with your full heart and there's no need to divide it – no matter if one or three little people claim a piece of it

7 Three kids are the greatest excuse to let the dust bunnies multiply. A third child needs some of your time so clean less, and play more.

8 If you fall apart from being pulled in three different directions, send everyone to bed early. You included.

9 When the noise, chaos, and endless tasks begin to erupt like Vesuvius, cool the flames with water: a shower, a bath, a pool, a lake.

10 A third child doesn't know that you're not doting on them. They only know the way you are with them. Which means you're different with baby #1 than you were with baby #2 and with baby #3 – because you've blazed this parenting trail before not just once but twice.

11 Three are not any harder than two, than one was any harder than zero. It's all mind blowing hard.

12 Two to three is not the hugest leap. THE BIG LEAP is from none to one. I almost lost my mind with one baby, then nearly again with the two, and then came *this close* with the third.

13 If once a day, during the craziest part of your day, you zen-transport yourself out of your existence and LOOK at your children all together, you'll see that it's not long before a smile slowly takes down that storm cloud on your face.

 

-------------------

If you came to this post because you're wondering about a third child, but you're scared it will be too much - don't let fear be the reason for your decision. It's all hard, because life is hard. No kids, one kid, two kids, three kids – life is work. He who eats, must work, right? So, whether it's one child, or eleven, we're all in over our heads. No matter how many children we have or don't have.

Sometimes, I like to imagine what our blog posts would have been like in biblical times:

Dear Methuselah:
 

We just found out we're pregnant with twins! I'm 62 and my husband is 114. Though we're over the moon with the news, we'll be going from 76 kids to 78 and I'm scared. What advice can you give me?

Signed,
Pondering #77 and 78

Dear Pondering Another(s):
 

If your heart feels it has the room, fill it. I am as old as the trees, (older, actually) and I've seen a thing or two during my one thousand years on this planet. And one of them is that we parents have been doing what we do best since Noah built the ark.

Hanging on and riding the storm out.

You'll do fine.

Signed,
Methuselah

 

* * *