But if last summer was intoxicating, this one swelters. Last week, I swooned loading children and HEB groceries systematically into my van. It took all my strength to slur brief, vague affirmations to my chatty 5 yr old, and finish the task before the flesh burned off the tops of my feet.

Today following my very lame, still cautious workout for which the calorie burn is laughable, I succumbed to cherry limeade temptations. Because when the sun starts causing thoughts of delirium- like daydreams of winter sports, and positive feelings in my heart for snow- cherry limeades are the only logical treatment! Whether or not it’s Happy Hour. I’m not sorry, either. If I hadn’t acted when I did, I may still be thinking hypothetically about life where things are frozen longer than not, and where words like “powder” are used as glorified euphemisms for freezing wet stuff!

p.s. No, the difference in my attitude toward the heat since last summer does not have more to do with the 30 extra pounds I’m carrying around this year- This heat wave is HOT!

p.p.s  This is what the kids looked like when I was halucinating:

Sometime in the dreariness of winter I realized the baby toddling behind wasn’t such a baby anymore. Eliza spent entire afternoons on all fours- meowing, purring, and pretending to lap milk. My little savage scaled the couch, overcame the bar in her quest for anything-on-the-counter, and unflinchingly declared the toilet her personal toy.  Every turn to find her atop some high place made my heart fold in half. Then just before the cold snapped truly cold, I looked up from pulling weeds to find her conquering the upward slope of the slide!  Yikes!

As the last pieces of her babyhood slipped away, I relished my freedom, and cursed time. For the first time in 3 yrs my body belonged solely to me, but as my ‘Liza toddled less and ran more, I missed that tiny baby born on my bed.  I blogged about the irony.

There were no mixed feelings about my middle child.  No, every hour he grew older I suppressed a sob. All winter (and spring and this summer) he pretended to fall down with loud grunts and dramatic poses.  He called out, “You okay, Mommy? Okay?” if I were out of sight for any length of time.  He put puzzles together like nobody’s business, and his dancing was (still is) the best entertainment I ever experienced- that boy loves him some “Thriller,” a bit of Beatles, a touch of U2, and to my delight, a Dixie Chicks song or two.

Tradition prevailed in February when we hung signs for Matt who got even older, and our Levi who turned 3 against my wishes.

Sometime mid month, we painted pumpkins with Aunt Nae.

The Hogeye Festival, of course, lived up to all our expectations- tons of live music, no lack of hay, and a really, really good time. I love that pig. (And Nae.)

And blissful as visits and festivals are, October was about to get even better.  First came the debut of the Harvest Fair for our neighborhood, an event Matt and I organized, along with an invaluable team of neighbors who planned and manned booths, decked out our gig with swingin’ decor, provided the tunes, and took care of set up/ clean up in record time.  It couldn’t have gone better!  But every time I think of the Harvest Fair, I can’t help remember the panic when we mislaid BOTH our phones the night before, and stalked old friends on Facebook to call them. (We owe a HUGE, long overdue thank you to the facebooking-at-1 am-on-a-school-night teenager who called to help track them down.  And did I already say The Harvest Fair ROCKED!!!   It did.  But as parents we were heels- not one picture of those beauties in their costumes this year. Isn’t that awful? The pictures below come courtesy of Grandpa’s cell phone.

Last but not least, the Primary Program made its debut Halloween day. Our cool Primary counselor organized most of the presentation. Muchos Gracias, Sister T! Almost all the kids stood up to that mic like they’d been itching to speak into it for months. Sister T had 10 of them play chimes to accompany the song, “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” a performance only outdone by certain twin sunbeams who licked each other’s faces while their class said the first Article of Faith.

I can’t WAIT to do it all again very soon!

Maybe every daydreaming girl underestimates the lightning fast reflexes of a savage 1 yr old, the stubborn resistance of the slightly larger middle child, and the exorbitant amount of time one will engage in compulsive swooping to snatch writing utensils and liquids just. in. time.  Still, it was never my heart’s desire to have my mop greet guests at the front porch, or that my kitchen chairs would double as childproof trash can holders.

There are only two principles of design I’ve employed in recent years:

1. toys down low, electronics up high
2. ALWAYS close the bathroom doors

Really, who can be bothered to consider Feng Shui when the routine that ensues after one failed swoop can occupy Mom and toddler for the rest of the day?  Each time I host, I pray my guests will be forgiving, especially those whose feng shui seems to be in full swing.  I’ll ask for their opinion soon enough.  I’m working on improvements…

I’ve been to Ikea.

I now subscribe to the likes of Better Homes and Gardens and Real Simple.

I’m organizing, throwing out, measuring, pricing. I’ve perused color palates, stacks of design books from the library, and salivated on Pinterest. I learned to use the drill- hung curtains and a mirror! (Ikea, baby.)

And as of today… visitors will no longer search in vain for toilet paper which has been strategically placed out of 2 toddlers’ reach!!!

**special thanks to Matt’s mom, who commissioned hanging the holders while I iced my back.  (Did I forget to mention I’m laid up?)

***In other news- Last week I woke up to an older Levi. I wanted to cry. The toddler that was Levi is gone, and this body now walks around answering to his name.

When my new nephew came to my home, he smelled like fresh life. His parents had such a bag filled with things new and sweet, but it made my stomach heave to see it.

I held just such a bag the last time I saw my mother alive, and again when I was handed the belongings that were no longer hers… Ironic, no?

I love the feel of a book in my hand- the way the pages smell, the flutter of paper, the weight of words carefully selected and arranged, then offered like a gift- to little ole’ me…

I’m enamored by language, written and bound; it’s a passion rivals the depth of my love for my husband (and not occasionally).

I can’t help it. I’m addicted.

There’s something about the rhythm, the pace, the patterns of words and symbols that makes my heart go pitter patter. I read with my heart racing, with tears spilling, fists clenched, toes waving.

My book stalks my psyche even when it’s not in hand. Accounts enthrall and entangle me; plots insist on my distraction. I can’t get enough- fiction or non-fiction, poetry or prose, I’m entirely, overwhelmingly dependent on the written word.

Now you understand why I hate that in between place, when the last lines linger in my mind, where the characters chatter beyond others’ ears, disrupting reality. Waiting finds me grouchy, and withdrawing. Before I know it, I’ve wandered from trails of contentment onto a suspension bridge encompassed by eerie silence-into the emptiness, the void of “No Book” land.

Don’t get me wrong, Cjane is fab, and many of you inspire, but words aren’t the same on a screen.

I need to trace my finger along the lines, write in margins with pencil, flag pages with those miraculous tiny sticky note thingies. (Do those things have a name?)

Somewhere in between The Help and Alone Together, it’s happened again. I’m on the waiting list at the library. Ah, me…

Tell me: Did you love your latest read?  What’s your all time fav? Do you reach for it again and again, or is the memory enough?

The week before her birthday, she let out a whistle. A real one. She was so excited, and I just wanted to cry. Because she’s perfect, and already I know she’ll have a life without me, and I just wish I could hang on to four years old just a little longer.

Matt and I took her out for a birthday date- just her and us.  It’s the best date I think I’ve ever had.

Happy birthday, my Sam.

Sam spent her summer entranced with sidewalk chalk- grinding it to powder form, and rubbing out rainbows to grace our back porch.  As one long, particularly sticky day drew to a close, she declared, “I smell like someone’s dog. Can I please take a bath?” To which I responded by grabbing the shampoo from the upstairs bathroom, and passing it out the backdoor for use under the hose.  

At his old age of 31, Matt fell ill in June, and perscribed his first dose of penicillin. It didn’t go over so well. Itchy, itchy scratchy, scratchy, he got hives on his hiney…

Levi arranged frequent battles between himself and his banana slices at breakfast: Ah! Ah! Don’t eat me! Chomp, chomp! (The bananas always lost.) All summer, he considered colors relative (one minute blue was orange, and the next it was green), and he lived to hijack anything Sam was working on:

On summer crept; with languid pace, we passed rhythmic hours outside- welcoming the intoxicating heat of the Texas sun.  We danced through sprinklers, and rewarded ourselves with popsicles.

Eliza finally walked in early July, and I was mesmerized at her toddles with the garden hose. I assure you little in this world is more entirely inspiring than watching a 1 yr old discover the magical power that is water:
 

Family Home Evenings brought homemade flags, and smoothies; lots of smoothies:

One final scrawl I find in my “Sunday Notes” spiral:  “Feeling rested this Monday morning; have concluded that Sunday should be my day of rest, and a day of service opportunities for Matt and the kids- mostly where dinner and dishes were concerned.”  

Goodbye lazy afternoons spent letting the heat wash over us. Goodbye outdoor bathing, and banana wars. Goodbye my toddler with the hose. Will you all really never be this small again? I’m now more certain than ever that this languid pace, that melting away… all happened rather too fast.

Last week’s movie quote was from Tim Burton’s recent version of Alice in Wonderland. 

Erin- it was well worth the Red Box rental fee, but I wouldn’t have paid to see it in the theatre, and you won’t find it in our collection.

I do hear the original tale merits reading.  Anyone know?