1m2aSandbox

Don’t have time to talk today
– we’re shoe-horning ourselves in the car and hitting
the road for a cross-country trip at 4 a.m. Saturday morning. Yes,
that’s for ANNO DOMINI, or a.m., or in the morning. Call us
ambitious, call us organized, call us cheap – we’re
getting in the car and not stopping until we seen some white dang
sand.


Do I have lots of excellent tips on preparing for road trips with
your kids? You betcha. Do I have lots of sagacious words of wisdom
on how to pack light, and travel organized? Absolutely. But I
don’t have time to share – I’m too busy
over-packing and ignoring all my own advice, cramming the car with
absolutely every stupid Ariel doll and crossword puzzle book I can
think of in a desperate effort to stave off the inevitable
meltdown. And the question isn’t IF, but WHEN the meltdown
will occur.


Who has money on Louisiana?


So yes, we’re off for a blissful week at the beach on
Saturday. Which means don’t expect to hear much from me for
the next seven days: I’m too busy soaking up my kids.


And preparing to cram it all back in the car next Saturday to come
home.

I have a standing Wednesday morning pool
play date with a group of neighborhood church friends; last
Wednesday I took Maddie while Cora was in ballet camp, and
yesterday I told Cora I’d take her while Maddie studied Swan
Lake. “Shall we have some just-Mommy-and-Cora time?” I
asked Cora, hoping she wouldn’t miss Maddie at the pool too
much. Cora nodded happily, and we packed up our gear and headed
out, me looking forward to seeing my friends and having a chance to
re-connect.


Cora and I got there early and spent a good half-hour in the pool
all by ourselves. We swam and laughed and giggled and had splashing
contests, having a fantastic time in our own private pool. As our
friends started showing up the pool began to fill, and within
twenty minutes Cora was surrounded by almost a dozen of her church
friends.

Air-conditioning: fixed.


Cat: calmly resting. And no, that's not a euphemism. She's still
here.


Chiggers: Driving me up the $#@#$ wall.


But two out of three ain't bad. And it could be worse: one of my
friends from our Saturday creek walk has chiggers AND poison ivy.


Though as soon as I hear the words "poison ivy" I imagine more
itchy spots sprouting up on me. Lord, deliver me from my itchies.
And thanks for fixing our air-conditioning.

Our house seems to be a converging point
for several occurrences of bad luck these days, and I have to say I
feel like whining a bit.


First off, our cat’s having a tough time. Not Maddie’s
new kitten, but our 16-year-old, as-old-as-our-marriage cat. Her
teeth aren’t doing great, so we made an appointment for her
to go in and get them cleaned under anesthesia yesterday. Because
it’s general anesthesia, she wasn’t allowed any food or
drink the night before, so she spent the evening rather miserable.


And she was more miserable than she otherwise would have been,
because we came home from church Sunday to a stiflingly hot
upstairs. Yes, our upstairs air conditioner decided to go on
strike. On a Sunday. In June. In Texas.

While our side yard has been a veritable
nursery this year, with the caterpillar-cum-butterfly and the dove
nest, our larger neighborhood has caught baby fever as well; for
the past couple of weeks the yard in front of our neighborhood pool
has hosted a duck nest, replete with eggs and an anxious mama.


A few days ago, the eggs hatched, and the neighborhood’s been
a-flutter with kids and parents alike all trying to catch a glimpse
of the two babies. Alas, natural selection prevailed and one of the
babies was eaten by some animal larger than a duck, but so far the
second baby is hale and hearty.


And as of Friday morning, taking a nice swim in our neighborhood
pool.

Last night Maddie and I had a run-in, and
it wasn’t pretty. The episode occurred at the very end of the
night; it started with her usual prayer time and ended with sobbing
and crying.


The details of the stuff in the middle aren’t important;
suffice it to say that she’s had a hard time recently with me
telling her “no” – as in, I’ll tell her
“no” and she’ll try to argue or bargain down to a
lesser sentence – and I’ve warned her that if it
continues the consequences would be more severe. And last night, it
continued, and ended with me having to put several of her favorite
stuffed animals in her closet for the night.

I was busy doing something in the kitchen
yesterday when I noticed Cora looking stranded in the living room,
as if she were adrift and not quite sure where to land.


“Are you ok, Cora?” I asked.


Cora blinked, coming back to reality. “Yeah, I’m
fine.” And then she turned back to her unfocused look,
clearly working on solving some logistical puzzle in her head.