Starry Night

A typical evening exchange...

Tim: Mom, come look at my drawing.

Me: I'm sewing on your Boy Scout patches.

Tim: Where would Van Gogh have been if his mother hadn't put down her knitting to look at his paintings?

Me: Van Gogh wasn't a Boy Scout, was he?

The baby cries. I put down my sewing. Ainsley and I admire Tim's artwork. While he's done a fine job, somehow the life cycle of the mosquito doesn't conjure up the wheat fields of France.

Gushing, Insufferable Mother

She's simply beautiful.

Morning by Morning New Mercies I Need

John melted down at midnight. A bad dream? Who knows. Crying, flailing, inconsolable. I rocked and kissed and finally plopped him in my bed.

There he slept until 5:43 when he climbed out of bed, appeared at my side, and said "Goldfish?"

I'm thinking "Caffeine?"

With a sore throat and burning ears on top of my fatigue, a few other words come to mind - Advil, nap, and mercy top the list.

Jesus, help me through this day.

What's in Your Washer?

We Hear It a Dozen Times a Day...

And it's still cute.

Mom or Dad: Say thank you.

John: Welcome!

Birthday at Jumpin' Beans!

Low Crawl, Ainsley!

Two-year-old John rounds the corner, bazooka in hand, calling to the baby: Pwecious! Where are you?

Only the Mother of Boys ...

Sees a dead roach under the dining room table – moments before 10 little boys arrive for a birthday bash – and debates whether to sweep it up or leave it for a cheap thrill.

From the Backseat

Kolbe: Let’s play use bad grammar. I’m doing good. How are you?

Rattling My Chain

John has discovered the toilet. More specifically, he has discovered that the toilet flushes.

I hear a distant flushing. Knowing that there is presently only one potty-trained Dolin in the house, I investigate.

Me: What did you flush?

John: What!

Me: What is it?

John: It!

Me: Tell Mama what it is.

John: What!

Me: Tell Mama.

John, leaning over the now silent toilet bowl: All gont! All gont!