Nails

I have an entire drawer in my house brimming full of nail polish, cotton balls, polish remover, and files. This drawer gets used almost daily. Makenna has actually become quite a master at creating those tiny works of art worn to enhance the manicure. Emery is quickly perfecting the art and spends days performing each step so the end result is perfect.

Then, I happened to glance at Drake's thumb nail.  A deep gouge crossed it, and my stomach churned as  I envisioned what may have been the cause.  I thought that he might have bent it backwards.  Or he might have gotten it caught in one of the machines they use in his tech ed class at school or smashed it in a window.  I was sure it had to have hurt badly, and was surprised that he hadn't told me about it.

"Drake," I asked, dreading the answer, "what happened to your thumb nail?"
"What?" he looked at me blankly.
"Your thumb nail!" I gingerly grabbed his hand and winced at the gouge. "What happened?"
"Oh, that," he smiled. "A while ago I used a knife to saw a line across it, and I have been measuring it everyday to see how fast it grows."

Horrifying or brilliant? Still deciding.

Terrifying Traffic

Driving alongside semi trucks is a bit intimidating. I learned, today, that driving alongside semi trucks in a double turn lane is like asking for death.

Thankfully, my husband was driving. I react.

First of all, double turn lanes freak me out. There are cars beside you and cars coming toward you as you try to perfectly navigate the geometrical challenge. It is terrifying. In our case, though, there were semi trucks next to us and semi trucks coming at us as we attempted to defy death. The truck next to us needed much more room than his lane allowed, so he decided to find that extra space in the lane we happened to be in. He just came right on over smashing us into whatever they call that wide curb in the middle of the road that separates traffic moving in opposite directions.

I did what anyone would have done. I grabbed a fist full of skin from my husband's bicep and screamed, "THIS IS ALARMING!" I blame the next part on the adreneline coursing from my hair follicles to my toenails. I laughed. And I mean I belly laughed. I laughed so hard I couldn't speak and I could barely breathe.

"That huge semi is only mildly frightening compared to your scary reactions," my husband said.

That made me feel powerful.

Thank You, President Bush

I have recently come to grips with the fact that I no longer own my bathrooms. Yes, bathrooms. I have plural. I own neither. And it is all on account of the fact that I have girls.

In my opinion the bathroom, being the smallest room in the house, isn't the logical choice for a lengthy stay. But, I stand corrected. My girls go into the bathroom and conquer it. They use it for showers and make up, which is fairly expected. But then they branch out into new areas of bathroom activity. They blast music from their iPods and write song lyrics on the mirror with markers. They lay across the counter with their head dangling above a sink filled with steamy water for a self administered "Facial." They sing like they are rock stars. Sometimes both at the same time - different songs, different bathrooms. During those episodes, the rest of us are subjected to a conflicting concert nobody should have to endure.

Just to balance things out, though, I have a couple of boys. They live according to a strict code in which the bathroom serves only one purpose - bragging. Since I am the kind of person who finds the bragging disgusting instead of  impressive, they whisper their brags to each other. One will go in, come out later, run to his brother, and whisper something. Then they both go running back in, erupt in violent laughter, flush, and return to us looking highly pleased.

Don't ask, don't tell.

Fuzzy Socks

I love fuzzy socks and I don't care who knows. They make my feet happy. They feel warm and glorious, and they come in so many cute colors. I am addicted.

I know that I am addicted to them because I look forward to wearing them with a level of anticipation that cannot be healthy. I might be shopping and enduring the massive crowd's endless pushing, I MEAN CHRISTMAS CHEER, and I will say to myself, "When I get home I will put on my fuzzy socks and then everything will be better."

So, when I got dressed for church on Sunday, I was sad. It was cold, rainy, and cold. And it was cold. Cold. COLD. I am not speaking to the cold because I hate the cold. But I love church, so I decided to look as presentable as possible and brave the cold. I have a very cute pair of boots that I chose to wear that morning, and, as I grabbed them, I was struck with brilliance.

SINCE NOBODY WILL SEE, WEAR THE FUZZY SOCKS INSIDE OF THE BOOTS!!

I did. I walked around church like my feet were surrounded by clouds. I looked church appropriate AND I was warm and comfy.

I love it when that happens.

Games

My family isn't prone to acting and other such demonstrations of artistic creativity. Therefore, games such as Pictionary and Charades, while a fun challenge to most, leave us confounded. We played Pictionary last week and the only reason anybody made it off of the first square at all is because my two boys were on a team together, and they are linked at the mind in some unnatural way. Drake drew a circle and Josiah immediately said, "Campfire!" Then Josiah drew a dot, and, while the rest of us were still setting the pencil to the paper, Drake cried out, "Spider!" We all gave them the stink-eye, but they won without any real contest.

Next game night we decided on charades. The boys are terrible actors, so the other four members of the family were giddy about this opportunity to avenge themselves. Emery had her cousin, Brooklyn, spending the night, so we put them in charge of organizing the game. They got the kind of excited only ten and eleven year old girls can generate, and spent the next hour cutting paper into squares, giggling, writing on the squares, and giggling more. That should have been a sign.

I first knew that this game was far beyond my acting ability when I drew my paper out of the hat and read, "Meeting a person for the first time who is mean." Half an hour later, with sweat running down my back, I plopped into my chair and caught my breath as Drake drew his paper out of the hat. He tried valiantly to try to get us to guess, "Woody, Toy Story." Comma included. We called it quits after Josiah spent an eternity trying his best to act out, "A person who is learning karate but isn't very good at it yet."

This is why the act of watching movies was invented.

Santa Spotting

I get a thrill out of seeing Santa in unexpected places. I can't explain this. When it happens, part of me wants to run over and tell Santa everything that I want, while part of me wants to laugh, and part of me logically asks, "Why is Santa buying beer?" But, of course, it is for the reindeer.

So when I saw Braveheart Santa wearing a Packers hat at Panera, I had conflicting emotions. First off, I learned that Santa likes bagels. Noted. Also, Santa must be a Packers fan. But, why did Santa have his face painted like a Scottish warrior defending his land against the English? The question plagued me. Surely, Santa is nonviolent. And why the odd combination? Face paint, football gear, bagels, and Santa?

My husband, may he be blessed among men, heard all my questions and said, "I will just go ask him." That is why I love that man. He does things like talk to random people to find out things I want to know. After a lengthy conversation in which my husband joined Santa for tea and they exchanged life stories, Mike came back to me and explained, "He is dressed like that because there was a race this morning." Like that explained everything. A race. Of course. Doesn't everybody want to dress up like Braveheart Football Santa when there is a race on? Maybe because of the contortions my face went through, my husband sensed my disappointment so he quickly showed me something that made me want to dance. He got a picture for me! I love that man.

What Not To Say

I love date nights. I'm always on my best behavior. Well...

It was not good. I'm not going to sugar coat it.

It was a simple dinner and movie kind of date with my husband. After the movie we decided to get a hot apple cider at one of our favorite coffee shops. As we were conversing my husband changed his mind on the issue at hand no less than four times. Always one to laugh at himself, he made the comment, "I am like a man blown in the wind."

There were so many things I could have said in response. A simple nod would have been a brilliant idea. But my mind reached back into the far recesses of long forgotten inside jokes and pulled out a comment that was relevant to absolutely nobody, barely even to me. There is a verse in the Bible that talks about a man who sees his reflection in a mirror and when he walks away, he immediately forgets what he looks like. Years ago Mike joked that this verse was for me because I always have such a hard time sticking with the decisions I make. Then we had babies and all normal conversation was wiped from our minds. Our conversation that night, though, took me back to that long forgotten time, and I was reminded by Mike's indecision that we had a joke about that. So, without explaining my mental gymnastics, what I said to his, "I am like a man blown in the wind," was, "Have you seen yourself  in the mirror lately?" I understand, looking back on it now, there is no way to take that comment except as a fat joke. Which he did. "Are you saying that if I looked at myself in a mirror I would know that I am way too huge to be blown by the wind?"

That is when I pretended to be asleep.