Need something to do today?

Pop into Roswell for the Nalley Criterium and cheer on Wes as he races.


Hopefully, this year he didn't crack any ribs in the Twilight yesterday-- or drink too many beers afterwards-- so he can have an awesome race today.

He races at 2:30.

Good luck!

PS. Paul I don't know if you are racing or not too--but good luck to you too if you are!

So I was thinking. . .

As a child my 3 favorite shows were: Captain Kangaroo, Sesame Street and The Lawrence Welk show.

And I was thinking, you know, for Pookie's wedding it might be worthwhile to look at some clips of those old shows so we could brush up on our dance skills.

I also think, most definitely, that we should get an accordion player.
Every DJ does it . . .

Who doesn't love a Polka?

Finally a reason for it!
We can put to use our elementary school PE class acquired Square Dancing skills. Disco Square Dance--this makes me giggle so much.

And I think--instead of a toast, it would be really cool if the bride's maids did something like this. Surely Pam can play the piano but it might be cool with a flute too:

Yeah, still high on something. . .

High on something . . .

My cold is coming along. No thanks to the crystal meth addicts. Thank you so much for ruining the ease of the OTC purchase of Sudafed for everyone. And for the record, the Sudafed PE stuff doesn't work for crap. In the past I have mistakenly bought that stuff before I found out that they pulled the good shit off the shelves.

I spent yesterday morning driving around in search of an open pharmacy that would sell me some psuedoephedrine. Publix's pharmacy wasn't open until nine, same with Eckerd. Finally after driving around it was 8'o'clock and I was able to purchase some from CVS--along with some Guaifenesin. All the while I had Beau with me who was freaking out because he thought he was going to miss his ride with Parker's mom and wanted to know exactly what was wrong with me: You sick? You have fever? Are you going to throw up?

Actually, I am surprised the lady at CVS even sold me the illicit Sudafed since I was a dead ringer for a meth addict-- zoned out and zombie like with stringy, unwashed and unbrushed hair, wrinkled mismatched clothes, hoarse whispery voice, black circles under red eyes, unruly child with obvious behavior issues most likely the result of years of parental neglect . . .

So yeah, I skipped my run yesterday and spent all day dosing myself around the clock with psuedoephdrine and guafenesin. It makes me a little loopy but in the middle of the night I woke up and was finally able to cough a good bit of the yummy brown mucus that was coating my throat and lungs.

Once I reach the point of loose cough it becomes easier to breathe and I am usually able to run. The soreness that was at my collar bone has moved down to the top part of my chest but it is all on the right side--I still have full breathing capacity on my left side.

As interesting as this must be I'll get to the point. My plan was to go running today. I really had no expectations of recouping my lost long run but I figured a 10 miler would work and I should be able to finish the week at my base line goal of 40 mpw (I had already banked 20 miles this week). By the time I got both kids off to school it was raining. Resigned to the weather and my cold I decided to clean the house and possibly go to the gym later or pray for a sitter on Saturday. At 10 am my house was clean (enough) and the rain had stopped. So I headed out for a run.

My plan was my regular 10 mile course as it was all I really had time for if I wanted to shower (yes) and eat lunch (yes) before I had to pick up Beau and Parker -- they were having a play date at my house so I wouldn't be able to do either with the 2 of them torturing, I mean fighting, wait, I mean irritating the shit out of each other and not sharing and arguing over whatever toy the other one has--I mean, no really, playing nicely with each other and not bothering me for a single thing all afternoon. A girl can dream right. . .

The run started out okay. The first mile is uphill for the first 1/4 mile, flat for the next 1/4 mile, down hill for the next half mile. Then it is all a slow uphill climb for the next 4 miles. Then rolling up and down the final five and ending on a slow uphill. By the time I hit the downhill in that first mile I was already making deals with myself: okay just six and then go to the gym later for a 4 mile speed workout. Really you don't have to run 40 mpw. Where the hell did you come up with that number anyway? Remember the days when you were happy with 30 mpw? My lungs were heavy, my head swimming and my calves felt like tight lead weights. I worried maybe I wasn't getting enough oxygen. And as I started into the 2nd mile it began to rain.

And out of no where I had new found energy. I have no idea where it came from but I started breathing better, my head cleared and my muscles loosened up. I found myself feeling lighter and by the end of the 3rd mile as I ran up a steep incline in the now steady rain I found myself singing this:
Make no mistake. I am not a good singer. At all. I don't even pretend to think I am but I still like to sing and often do when I run. I can't help it. It just happens. I forget myself and just sing. Normally this is not a problem since I run alone most times but during the Ga ING I totally embarrassed myself as I rounded the corner by the Carter Center in the 18th mile. I was listening to "Whisky in the Jar" and although the lyric is this:

whack for the daddy 'ol
There's whiskey in the jar

I sang this, out loud, very loudly, right as some man happened to run up alongside me:

Whack off the Daddy'O!
There's whiskey in the jar!

The man and I made eye contact and he looked more embarrassed than I felt. Oh well, I thought, picking up the pace and figuring he would forget me in a few miles anyway. I ran on not singing.

Today though I hit repeat and sang along again. I found that the run had turned into one of those rare and surprising runs where I find myself not only singing but skipping down the sidewalk and leaping over puddles like a ballerina (which I am not but I can do a pretty graceful split leap).

So anyone who was driving around metro Atlanta today and happened upon a woman running in the rain in a drenched gray skirt and camo baseball cap with a long wet pony tail swinging wildly around her head as she did leaps down the side walk. . .well, that was me. What can I say? Sometimes it is fun to be the fool.

10 miles in an hour 22--not bad for a sicky.

aNATomy of a cold

Sigh, it is the middle of the night and I can't sleep.
I have the beginnings of a chest cold and/or sinus infection.
It is from post nasal drip. I can feel exactly where the mucus from my sinuses has drained and formed a gross and sticky pool of congestion right at the bottom of my throat, right where I imagine my bronchial tubes begin. See the picture?
See the bottom part of my neck?
Right there, right above my collar bone.
No, over there, on the right side, behind all that skin.
That is where the goopey mucus is.

And I know it could go either way and there is nothing I can do to stop it. It might sink further in my lungs and become bronchitis or it might make it's way back up into my head so I can look like someone punched me in the face and feel like my head is a stuffed with cotton and then I am all dizzy and have a full on sinus infection. Or it could do both or it could just stay like this for a few days and keep coming back until June. I am not, in fact, an ENT specialist, but that is how it has gone in the past.

I guess grass is blooming. I am allergic to 7 kinds or grass--or something like that--and whole bunch of other stuff too. I got to have that really fun allergy test when I was 18 where they stick trays of needles filled with allergens in your back and then once your back is all bubbly from the wheals--that you are not allowed to scratch-- they then inject into your arms more allergens. It is a really fun and delightful test and you get to be really itchy for several hours with bumps all over you. I highly recommend you doing it so that you can know exactly what you are allergic to. Because it is important to torture yourself to find out what you pretty much already knew since for the most part you had already figured out through real life trial and error what you are allergic to.

Last month when everyone else suffering because of the ridiculously high pollen count I was not because that was trees. I am not allergic to trees--just grass, mold, dust mites, cats, dogs, horses, fin fish, codeine and penicillin. But I knew I would get mine come April or May so I was not smug at all and doled out sympathy for Ryan, Carmella and Beau and everyone else who was all miserable because of the the yellow dusting that coated all of metro Atlanta.

And I know I could some what avoid this if I would not run outside as much as I do--as has been recommended to me by several doctors-- or maybe even if I hadn't spent all day laying and playing and sitting in the actual grass at the park on Sunday. You know, looking back, when Meme offered to share her blanket with me and I declined saying I was fine laying in the grass reading my magazine maybe I should have used a little more common sense and taken her up on her offer. Oh well, at least the kids had fun (and are not sick)--especially Beau and his kite. He flew that kite for almost 4 hours straight. There was almost no wind, so when I say "flew"; I mean he ran in circles for 4 hours.
Carmella flew hers too, for oh, about 5 minutes and decided it was way too much work. She is more of the stand there and hold the kite string type.Ryan is like that too. Me? I'm not so into kiting. All the damn stings getting tangled piss me off--not to mention the kite fetching.

Carmella decided to stick with climbing on the playground and baseball with Daddy and Uncle Pat and baby Pat.

Though baby Pat more just carried the bat and chased the ball.
Beau tried his hand at the bat too.
But decided that the kite was really more his thing.
So anyway, I am on my way to having a cold. I can't wait til I start coughing up all this thick and goopey mucus. Seriously, because it hurts like hell just sitting here clogging up my throat. Not to mention it makes it rather difficult to breathe properly and comfortably. And I guess that my long run isn't going to happen tomorrow. I mean it could but seeing how I have no idea when I will get back to sleep and I already can't breathe very well running 20 miles doesn't seem like the smartest thing to do. Though, I think we all know by now that I don't always do very smart things.

Defining the hood

That is Beau's latest parlor trick. It creeps me out every time he does it but it also sends me into fits of giggles. It is just so wrong. It hurts to look at him.

So this morning as Beau and I waited for Wendy (Parker's mom) to pick him up for school we had this conversation:

Beau: pointing to our neighbor who just came out of his house, waved, and got in his car That's our neighbor?

Me: Yes.

Beau: Because his house is next to ours? to really drive the point home he uses his hands; miming for me exactly what next to is.

Me: Yes.

Beau: pointing to house on the other side and again doing his sign language for house next doorAnd that is our neighbor too?

Me: Yes.

Beau: showing with his fingers, arranging them before he speaks and points up the street: Chase and Sage live 3 houses up so they are not our neighbor but our neighbor's neighbor?

Me: Uhm, well. . . . I hesitate but then decide to just agree so that I don't have to expand on what qualifies one as a neighbor. Mostly though I just agree so I don't have to spend the rest of the morning going over if in each and every house on our street is a neighbor and why they are neighbor because he might not get in Wendy's car until we have thoroughly discussed all of the 20 or so houses on the street and surrounding streets to determine if the people who live there are a neighbor or not and if not exactly whose neighbor they are.
Beau: pointing again to neighbor-- who is still sitting in his car, possibly because he is eavesdropping on this riveting conversation. On Halloween I went to the neighbor's house.

Me: Yes.

Beau: further expounding, in case I don't understand what he means by "Halloween"' again, using hands to show I wore my Darth Vader costume. I had my life saber and my pumpkin. I knocked on the door and said 'trick or treat'. They gave me candy.

Me: Yes, I know.

Beau: I like candy.

Water Polo

Yesterday I gave an Art's Alive instruction to Carmella's class. This is was our last artist of the year and all the kids were sad because they have loved the Art's Alive lessons. Me too. I'll sign up to do it again next year too. The artist we focused on was Ralph Lauren.

At first the kids were a little less than enthusiastic when I told them that we were going to talk fashion--well, mostly just the boys. But then I explained how cool fashion is, how inspiring and defining it can be--pointing out to Robert his Batman fashions, and to Cooper his surfer chic and complimenting him on his apropos shark's tooth accessory. Then when I told them the artist we were going to talk about was Ralph Lauren they looked at me with blank faces. Not a single one of them knew who Ralph Lauren was but then, when I asked who had a shirt with a little horse with a man holding a stick on it: every single kid raised their hand.

I know Mr. Lauren-- nor his medium-- fits into the stereotype of what an artist or art is and without going into a huge debate about how he and fashion do fit; let's just agree to use this definition of art:

Art is that which is made with the intention of stimulating the human senses as well as the human mind and or spirit.

I know what you are thinking--Striped ties and golf shirts stimulate the human mind and spirit? I see you laughing at me and allow me to prove my point and let you laugh a little bit harder.

See this picture. That's me.
I am 10 or 11--5th or 6th grade school picture.
It is the early 80's--the rise of the label and all things Preppy. See the little Polo on my shirt? The alligator, horse, and swan dominate the fashion world.

And what you don't see is my designer jeans or that at home I have a closet crammed with Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and polo shirts.

Why did I have those things and why did I have more than some of my friends?

I can promise you that it wasn't because my parents were richer or more generous or understood the importance of the label or being preppy. Because they weren't and they didn't.

Okay, wait here is a picture of my parents in the early 80's. Clearly you can see that fashion did not loom larger in their lives:
First, Lala would like you to notice how skinny her arms are. That is because she weighs like 110lbs and she weighs that because she did aerobics twice a day and ran. (See, I'm not exercise anorexic--I come by this mania naturally. It is genetic.) She also made gross stuff for us to eat like lamb wrapped in grape leaves. That is part of the reason why I was a skinny kid. I'll get to the other reason why I was skinny kid in a minute.

Pop is skinny too and not just because of the gross food. He is skinny because he was doing triathlons, hiking, canoeing and stuff like that-- All. The. Time. He even ran the Atlanta marathon. And guess what? My time for the Atlanta marathon is one minute faster. Yes, I will compete with anyone--even my Dad.
My point is that my parents didn't care about fashion. They cared a lot about being fit. Being very fit.I care about that too now but I did not as a kid. I cared about fitting in with my friends and being popular. In the 80's the way to do that was to have the biggest hair ever and the trendy label clothes.

Unfortunately for me my parents didn't understand this. They were from south Georgia. And to worsen this my Dad was a rambling wreck from GA Tech and one helluva of an engineer. It is like he defined the engineer look of short sleeve dress shirts and Ted Kaczynski square glasses and beard. He is still sporting this look today.

You see my dad was the type of dad who would buy his little girl the top of the line North Face parka, backpack and mummy bag or the very best coast guard issue white-water life jacket you could buy a 10 year old. And you see I was the type of daughter who would pack her curling iron in her expensive North Face back pack--you know just in case the Cohutta happened to have outlets on the trees-- and would argue incessantly about how the super duper life vest was messing with my tan lines and not to mention no one could see my cute high-cut one piece. Well, that is argue until inevitably our canoe flipped-- as it did every time we navigated the falls at Horseshoe Bend. Then I became the daughter who laughed at my dad who cussed up a storm because he lost his Redman'swhile promising not to tell mom about the cussing or chewing tobacco only if he would buy me candy on the way home.

So when I was 9. I desperately wanted the designer jeans and Polo shirts that all my friends had. But Pop laughed at me and made all sorts of hysterical jokes about sewing horses on my shirts and swans on my Sears catalog ordered jeans. Finally, I appealed to his athletic inclinations and we struck a deal.

And here is how Ralph Lauren was able to inspire the human spirit. Pop agreed to buy me 2 pairs of designer jeans and 2 Polo shirts if I could swim 150 laps.

This was a ridiculous bet on his part as I probably swam easily a 100 laps at swim practice everyday and was already a ridiculously stronger swimmer. Coach Jones was forever having to punish me for insubordination with "Bratalie get in and give me fifty laps of fly!"

So 150 laps--of whatever stroke, in however much time-- was easy peasy for me. And Pop, to say the least, wasn't too happy that I did do it with such ease but he shelled out the bucks week later at Rich's-- no less--for something as frivolous as designer jeans and Polo shirts for his fashionwise tweener. And I wore those skin tight designer jeans with pride the first day of school.

So the next year before school started I of course wanted more jeans and more Polo shirts. This time Pop upped the anty to 3 miles and $300. In 1981 $300 would get you a lot of Gloria and Polo. I agreed. I had just finished off a summer of daily swim practices and dive practices. Not to mention Swim Atlanta had recently recruited me for their team and their practices were even longer and harder than my summer team's practices. I was, at that point, more fish than girl.

See this picture.
That is me--shirt and jeans I am sporting are the schwag from my bet-- on the left with my best friend Catherine in the center--yes, she is that goofy-- and friend Amy-- who sometimes felt that Catherine and I were a "little too intense" for her. Notice though, that both girls are redheads--told you I had a thing for the redheads.

Catherine, whose Dad would just buy her clothes without her having to swim 3 miles still to this day laughs at how I "swam for fashion." This is what she tells people when she introduces me to them right after she gives my name:"and this is my friend Natalie--she swam 3 miles for designer jeans . . ."

Even though she makes fun of me, she did come and cheer me on while I was in the pool for hours. And I have to say, she was a little jealous of all my new clothes when I invited her over a few weeks later to admire my spoils from the pool.

However, that swim nearly killed me. I remember when I got out I could barely walk and my mom made my dad promise right then to never make bets with me again.
So Dad and I never made bets again and he just started giving me a clothing allowance. We really never butted heads again about fashion until it came to my Amsale wedding gown and I think he just finally caved on that because he knew I would be Ryan's problem. Well, that, and it was probably horrifying to see that your 26 year old daughter could still throw a tantrum exactly like she did when she was 2.

So yesterday in Carmella's class as I watched yet another generation be inspired by Ralph Lauren, I too was moved to get back into that pool. Not for jeans or shirts but to pay homage to my memory. I swam steadily, freestyle, for a mile. After 70 laps though, I was done. And though physically I could have gone a lot longer I just wasn't inspired. I mean, without the promise of a cute new outfit--what was the point, why swim?

So uhm, Dad, I've been coveting this dress and I have been eyeing these shoes that would look great with it. I was thinking . . . let's say I do a half ironman . . .

For the week: 50 miles running, 1 mile swimming (just over 30 minutes), 35 minutes cross training on the ellipitical, 2 weight training sessions--upper body. All and all, not a bad week for the wayward marathoner.

My Friend Carrie

She leaves messages on my voice mail. Not messages like: "Hey Nat! It's Carrie! Call me." But messages that are more like random blog posts that she is too lazy to write about--especially since she doesn't have a blog.

Carrie and I have been friends since we were 13. I moved one street over from her and she decided that I had cool enough clothes that I could be her friend. I liked her because she has red curly hair. As a kid I tended to gravitate to the red headed girls as my friends. Just call me Charlie Brown.

Wait, ready for some shits and giggles?

Here is a picture of Carrie and I all dressed to go to our 8th grade dance. No we didn't have dates. We were 13 but had we been old enough to date? Well you know that the boys would have been beating down our doors. I think Carrie's mom made her dress. Mine was my mom's dress from a dance she went to in the 60's. Look me in my vintage southern belle couture.

There are more pictures of us dancing and acting like we are in love but I think just these outfits alone are embarrassing enough. Seeing us swoon at each other might be enough to make you poo a little in your pants or at least snort whatever you're drinking out of your nose. I mean, seriously, look at my hair. I naturally have stick straight hair. I have no idea how I was able to get it do that. I must have been some sort of hair genius. That is some talent. But mostly I can't believe my parents were willing to shell out that much money for hairspray as it must have taken a lot to achieve that look.

Anyway, so that is Carrie. Now that you have a picture all in your head I will go on with my story.

Last week, after I finished running I saw that I had a message on my phone. I do take my cell phone with me when I run but I don't always answer it. Especially if it is Carrie since for some reason she finds it particularly absurd that I will run down the road while chatting on the phone. It is hard enough to run much less when someone is making fun of you.

So I was sitting in my car listening to the message she left. She doesn't say "Hi Nat this is Carrie" or anything normal like that but instead it sounds like maybe she accidentally called me or maybe her one year old Luke has her phone and called me because all I hear is her singing. She is singing Blister in the Sun.

She sings for whole first verse:
When I'm out walking I strut my stuff yeah I'm so strung out
I'm high as a kite I just might stop to check you out
Let me go on like I blister in the sun
Let me go on big hands I know your the one
Body and beats I stain my sheets I don't even know why
My girlfriend shes at the end she is starting to cry
Let me go on like a blister in the sun
Let me go on big hands I know your the one...

Oh Hey, yeah, I'm just listening to the radio. I'm listening to the Violent Femmes--you know their song about masturbation. Actually, it isn't the song but a Wendy's commercial and I am having a hard time trying to find the connection between Wendy's hamburgers and a song about masturbation. The big hands are making the hamburgers? The hamburgers are as good as maturbation? What? I don't know but it isn't encouraging me to want to go get a hamburger from Wendy's anytime soon.

And that was it. That was the message. I didn't call her back. I didn't really know what to say. But I definitely haven't gone to Wendy's lately.

On Wednesday I got this message:

Er, Natly, Dis is CarREI and I don now quit my job. I er, guess I'll be needing to come o'er and see you and get some welfare stamps since I all unemployed now. Okay, hey seriously this is Carrie and I have resigned from my position. Sigh. I guess you are probably running. Or thinking about running. Or about to go running. Or wanting to go running or maybe you are shopping for running clothes or running hair things or something running.

Again, no bye, give me a call or anything like that.

I did call her back and she actually had a question. She wanted to know how to run. I told her all about how you put one foot in front of the other much more quickly than when you walk. She has called me everyday since to update me on her running progress. Yay, another convert!

And to all my other friends. Be warned. I have pictures of you too.

Quick! Hurry and look

Before I come to my senses and take these pictures down.

I was at Lala's yesterday looking for different pictures when I came across this one:

I am about 7 months pregnant with Beau and I am running on my Dad's treadmill in my parent's creepy basement. I remember when my sister took this picture.It was a hot day and I was resigned to the dungeon. Normally I ran outside with Carmella in the jogger. Oh the double takes and looks I got. Anyway, it is a hideous picture--as are all pictures of me preggers but it is still funny. Here is one of the belly and not running or sweaty. Also around 7 months.
From da side:
I know, I am shameless. And God. I am so glad not to be pregnant. But congratulations to my good friend Stacie who is! Best wishes and I hope #3 is an easy one for you!

The Untraining Log

I feel so wayward without a marathon to train for. It is the only race I have ever really trained for. Running 35 miles a week has always kept me in shape for half marathons and any shorter distances. Sigh, I guess I am a little sad. The only races I have slated is a 5K and the Peachtree in July. I am planning on trying to get in a few other 10ks but no long races until October.

I guess though that I am pretending to be training because those long runs? They are sneaking their way back into my week. Here is my untraining efforts this week:

Sunday: Nothing. I was so sick on Saturday--fever, aches, chills etc and so I thought I should take another day off. I did finish last week out at 39 mpw, 30 minutes cross training and 3 days of weights. So not bad.

Monday: 10 easy. Didn't pay attention to pace.

Tuesday: 10 easy again and no attention to pace. Both days felt great. Love the 10 mile run.

Wednesday: 6 easy in the morning--no attention to pace. 30 minutes cross train and 15 minutes weights in the evening.

Thursday: 17 miles (really it was longer but I turned off Garmin and slowed the pace once it hit 17) at an 8:32 pace. It was hot today but the run felt pretty good.

I plan to do a speed work out on the treadmill on Saturday for 7 miles. Not sure about tomorrow: either an easy 5K or 4 mile run or maybe I'll go crazy and get in the pool and see what I can do. . .

Good luck Bruce and Angie in your half marathon.

Poo-tee-weet?

And so it goes. Too many times over. And me, we--life?-- just goes on. And on?

Really, I just don't know why this is so hard for me to understand, but it is. I'm not getting it.

Last week we lost one of my favorite novelists, Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Which is why the repetitive quote "so it goes" kept running through my mind on Monday while I flipped the remote back and forth between watching Cheruiyot and Grigoryeva triumphantly press the finish line tape and the VA Tech tragedy unfold on Fox News. I honestly can't say if the tears I wiped from my face were from watching the marathoners triumph over adversity or from the horror of the VA Tech tragedy. I do know that I don't even cry when I am the one finishing a marathon.

I know that those touched intimately by this tragedy feel like the world has stopped spinning--and for them it has. They are standing in a suffocating fog while just outside of the thick it is all going madly on-- just as it always has and will?

And even though I sit on the other side of that fog I have spent the past few days reaching into it and thinking of those enveloped by it. Yesterday as I went on about my dailies I was boggled at how much it really does just go on. Yeah, maybe I am an idiot-- the slow one-- but it does truly baffle and astound me how things just go on for some while everything is frozen for others. Which, I guess, falls right in line with what my Dad has always told me: "That life isn't fair." And that too has perplexed me since I was 4 years old. And like Beau of late annoyingly says, I too have asked my entire life Why? why?why! why! why.why.why. . . You'd think--at 35-- I would have reconciled that too by now, but no, I still can't quite put my finger on it either.

Really, these are ideas that I just vaguely sort of get. It hurts my head too much if I try and think them all down. I don't know how he did it but I am so thankful to Vonnegut for hashing it all out and putting it in print and making a go of explaining it. That has helped me some and let me try to put it all in its place.

So it goes? Sigh, deep breath, exhale. Wow. Okay. So it goes, he says and yesterday as I went on running, finishing up some work for Ryan, rushing off the get the boys from school, meeting with Beau's speech teacher to discuss next year's therapy plan and watching my sister try on and then buy her wedding gown I was again and again reminded of how gifted my life is right now and how unfair it is for those mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives and husbands to have all lost something so irreplaceable. How inexplicably lucky I am to be on this side of the fog and how frighten I am to know that the edge of that fog is such a perilously thin and permeable layer. My safety net is as thick as a molecule.

On and on and on, wildly it goes.

May those that have lost somehow find some comfort in each other. My heart, prayers and thoughts are with you.

Easter Pictures

A week late . . .

Beau and Carmella on the steps after church. Very cold and very bright outside.
All of us who did the Easter shuffle except Poppy who took the picture.

Taco Mac after church for another type of praying. I insisted the kids wear their art aprons over their church clothes so they wouldn't get them dirty. Beau, who unfortunately I do not have a photo of, had also changed from his bucks to his cowboy boots so he was quite a sight in his pink dress shirt and orange HomeDepot apron and boots. As always he garnered more than his share of attention. The other 2, Carmella and Pat sat still long enough I could get their picture.

Silliness at Bubbles house.




The hunt is ON!




Checking the loot


Max and Carly--BFF

The boys check out Lois's new Benz--as if any of them have a clue what they are looking at.

Kid's table:



Livi's argument as to why she gets to sit next to Carmella.
Beau's counter argument:
And who won:
Big kid's table:



And finally, the ongoing quest to get a picture of all 5 kids looking the same way . ..




Well maybe next time. Happy Easter!