Slacker

I was so proud of myself because I got a Christmas blog up. SO PROUD. I worked on it until 2:30am, and when I finished I was like, "Yay Jen, you rock! You did it! Christmas 2013 will actually be semi-documented! You are so on top of things, GOOD FOR YOU!" I practically gave myself a gold star and put myself on the honor roll of life.

And then, on this New Year's Eve day, I decided to go down the old blog memory lane. I checked out how many posts I had written in 2012: 51. Wow...51. Not bad. And in 2013, I did a whopping 12. TWELVE.

I knew I'd been slacking, but good gravy, I had no idea how much.

So I guess that's one of my (thousands of) promises to myself for 2014...to write more and self-censure less. And honestly, why wait til 2014? No time like the present. So let's start rambling, shall we?

I'm excited for tonight. It's just the four of us. I remember pre-kids I'd feel this pressure about NYE, to do something awesome and fun and spectacular. And if I didn't get invited to a lot of parties, I felt like a loser. Now, it feels more like a relief because it's impossible to find a babysitter and it just means I have less people that I have to disappoint by telling them I can't make it. (Okay, honesty check: 90% of the time, that is true.10% of the time, I still feel like a loser.) The last few years, we've tried inviting people to hang out here with us, but no one was willing or available this year. So...tonight, we are four.

We are going to make our own pizzas and cocktails (virgins for the little roommates) and play board games and watch movies and let the kids stay up til midnight if they can...and try to stay up til midnight with them, if we can. (And by "we" I mean Chris. I am up past midnight every single evening of my life, but my dear husband stays up past 10:00pm approximately three times a year. Barely.) It may not be as cool as party hopping across the city, but ringing in the new year surrounded by the three people I adore most in this world ain't a bad way to pass the time. Besides, I've really never been cool anyway, even in my carefree single days. I've always preferred a quiet evening in to a frenetic evening out.

Chris is still sleeping right now, trying to rest away the last remnants of a cold that's had its claws in him for most of December. The girls are eating toast and discussing the merits of peracord bracelets and duct tape purses. (Is it duct tape or duck tape? Because I always thought duct, but they actually print duck on the tape we bought Emma, which has me so confused. As a spelling purist, these are the things that keep me up at night.)

We watched Miracle on 34th Street last night, and Emma remained unconvinced that the dude was the real Santa Claus, even after the movie ended. She said that getting someone a house and a Dad was something that "anyone" could do, and if he wanted to prove he was Santa Claus then he should have made the reindeer fly in court when the lawyer challenged him to, or done something truly magical like bring someone back from the dead. We discussed that just because Santa is magic, that doesn't mean he can do anything. That I have no doubt there have been children all across time who go to bed on Christmas Eve begging Santa to bring back someone they love and miss, but some things are out of Santa's power. Emma said, "I don't think it's out of his power. I just think he knows that it's something he shouldn't do, because if he made that one big change, then other changes would follow, changes that shouldn't happen, and it opens a door that can't be closed." I told her she just might be right about that. (Yes, my nine-year-old still believes in Santa. Fiercely. She believes in everything fiercely. Our own little Emma the Fierce.)

The girls have already moved on from talk of accessories. I just wandered into the family room and found them doing this:

I'm going to go join them in whatever new escapade they have now undoubtedly undertaken. More rambling in 2014! Happy New Year, everyone.

Christmas...and getting old...and Christmas!

We had a wonderful Christmas this year.

(And yes...I turned 40 as well. Thankfully, with the distraction of Christmas on the same day, my birthdays have never been a very big deal to me. So, yes...I am now 40 years old, it didn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would, and that's really all I have to say about that.)

We hit the road for Indiana on the 23rd, despite a last-minute alert from my sister that my mom and dad were both pretty sick. My poor mother felt so horrible, she missed celebrating Christmas Eve with her family for the first time in...well...40 years. (Do the math.) We still had a great time, but it wasn't the same without her. By Christmas Day, the healthy were still healthy and the sick were less sick, which was a much-appreciated blessing that didn't last long. (Foreshadowing!) Santa went way overboard with the kids (somebody really has to have a talk with this guy), and then we headed over to my Dad's to...yes...open more gifts. Between my family and Chris's family and Santa and friends, the girls have more new things than they know what to do with. (Literally. We are still trying to figure out where in the hell to put it all.) But as always, the most wonderful part was just being together...not just our nuclear four, but with my parents, sisters, brother-in-law, nieces and nephew. Having us all in one room at the same time is becoming an increasingly rare occurrence, which makes it all the more treasured and special.

And then Christmas night hit, and all (flu-induced) hell broke loose.

I believe by the end of the week, the toll of people struck sick in my family included 16? And it was mostly the stomach flu, a particularly brutal kind. It was like being stuck in a tornado of puke. It hit both parents, my sister, my nephew, my gran, aunts, uncles, cousins. Sophie was the only one of us four to escape completely unscathed. I guess one benefit to spending your days around fellow germ-infested kindergarteners is that your immune system gets really strong really fast. (I mean, seriously...5 and 6 year olds are like walking petri dishes.)

We can never seem to get through the holiday season without some kind of illness, and this year was no exception. But despite or because of Pukefest 2013...and turning 40...this particular Christmas felt extra memorable.

And now...pictures! (My major Christmas gift was a new camera. I'm guessing you can spot below which were taken with my awesome present and which were taken with whatever nearby cell phone we could grab. Can't wait to play more with my new toy!)

All duded up for Christmas Eve! 

First thing Christmas morning, checking out the haul from Santa.

Santa brought the girls Nerf bow and arrow sets and holders for their Rainbow Looms, but I think each girl loved their individual gifts best - a unicorn glow pet for Sophie and a blanket with her beloved dolphins for Emma.

I made these! (And yes, I totally AM patting myself on the back right now, thank you.) It was my gift to our family, and I can't wait to find the perfect place to hang them.

This was my gift from the girls...with quite a bit of help from Daddy, I suspect. Every time I look at it, I tear up.

Me and Grifin - recent high school graduate and nephew extraordinaire!

I love kids' faces when they open a gift that really excites them. Plus, I just love these faces because they belong to my awesome nephew and niece.

And speaking of faces...my sister will kill me for putting this photo up. Which, of course, is exactly why I had to put this photo up.

Christmases and birthdays are great, but I'll never get a gift better than these two.

Thanksgiving, per Emma

Us on a Tuesday

The girls and I are hanging out today.

They let me sleep in until 10:00am, which is practically unprecedented. More accurately, Sophie let Emma and me sleep in. She got up about 7:00, crept into my room, grabbed my ipad, and headed to the family room for a three hour marathon of "My Little Pony." Normally I wouldn't let her watch videos on my ipad for that long, but considering I would probably let both girls bungee jump off the roof in exchange for extra sleep (as long as they promised to be quiet), extended screen time seems pretty benign, don't you think?

After I arise (and Emma soon after me...she is a definite non-morning person just like her mother), we eat breakfast and start whittling away at Sophie's birthday gifts that have yet to be opened. Sophie makes duct tape pencils and Lalaloopsy pop bead necklaces while Emma listens to music on her ipod. Em gets distracted more often than not by Sophie's activities and clearly longs to be part of the fun. She is at war with herself, trapped in that weird land of childlike tweendom, torn between "little kid" and "big kid" endeavors. She wears the struggle like a coat, for all to see, although she herself is unaware. Finally, she abandons the ipod and hunkers down on the floor alongside her sister, joining Sophie in dressing Minnie Mouse in gorgeous snap-on ensembles. The struggle usually ends this way, with Emma jumping into her sister's world, as delighted as Sophie to play with dolls and other "babyish" things. I am very aware that soon--tomorrow, next month, next year?--the struggle will end very differently and/or change altogether. But for today, fun has won. My girls are truly enjoying each other, and I listen to their exquisite giggles as I work at the computer.

I ask the girls to get dressed. Emma brushes her hair and wails "Oh my god, it hurts SO MUCH, I can't take it, I CAN'T TAKE IT!" for 10 minutes while Sophie and I pointedly ignore her. The girls help me dye my hair, which is to say that they laugh and tell me I look like a weird alien as I wait for the dye to set. We eat lunch. They play the "He Is Dead" game, which seems to consist of pointing at imaginary bodies on the ground and chanting, "He is dead! He is dead! He has a bullet in his head!" They morph into different games with odd titles like "It's Dead As A Chicken Bone!" (sense a theme?), "The Hug Game," and "Spit Or Don't Spit? You Decide." (Yes, they title all their pretend games.) The games seem to include a lot of running and pushing and wrestling around, punctuated by frequent declarations of "T," which means time-out. Emma is always the leader, although Sophie is often the mastermind. Every game ends the same way--one girl accidentally gets too rough with the other, harsh words are exchanged, tears are shed, and then play resumes before I even have time to intervene.

We move on from pretend games to doing Barbie hair and listening to Ariana Grande. The girls discuss the merits of high ponytails vs. braids, and Emma tells Sophie she is really good at taking care of her dolls. Sophie beams with pleasure at the rare compliment from her big sister. They argue over which of their favorites on "The Voice" (Jaquie or Caroline) should win. Emma suddently screams, "It's so hard to brush her hair when HER HEAD KEEPS MOVING!" while seemingly oblivious to the fact that Barbie's head keeps moving because she keeps moving. Emma hands me a list of 19 songs she wants me to download for her ipod.

We head out for errands. Marshall's for winter coats - Fail. Corner Bakery for monster cookies - Success. (OF COURSE.) Costco for Thanksgiving supplies. Library for movies to see us through the long weekend. Burlington Coat Factory for winter coats - Success, but only after 90 minutes of wading through six rows of coats sized 2T to 20, in absolutely no order. (Come on Burlington...you're better than that. Have some pride, dude.) Sophie is the holdout. After wading through tons of coats for numerous options that are tried and rejected, one coat is declared the winner. We walk to the checkout area at the other side of the store, stand in line for the next available clerk, and approach the register. As the clerk begins to ring us up, Sophie pulls her classic Actually move, as in, "Actually, I don't like this one after all." And she does this twice. TWICE. We go back, look again, go through the same routine, only for her to change her mind at the register a second time. I come very close to screaming right in her face, "I WILL NOT LET YOUR EVIL DEFEAT ME." (I settle for screaming it in my head instead.) Finally, as they say, the third time is the charm. However, of course, the coat she finally settles on is twice the price of Emma's coat and every other coat we have tried. When I complain about this, she shrugs and says, "I'm sorry. I didn't know how much it would cost. I don't know how much being happy costs, Mommy."

Now we are nestled back at home, and they are again listening to Ariana while I finish this post and start to scramble for dinner. I forgot some of the ingredients I need when we were out shopping earlier, so Chris will run to the store for me after work. I will make tilapia, Emma's favorite...complete with a salami sandwich for Sophie, who will not touch fish even under threat of grievous bodily harm. We will gather together after dinner and watch last night's "The Voice," with one girl snuggled on each side of me. (Poor Daddy. The girls adore him, but I get all the snuggles. Doesn't seem fair, does it?) We will do showers and brush teeth and read books and sing lullabies, and after the girls are all tucked into bed, we will Skype our beloved friends in New York for a long overdue check in. I'll make a list before bed of all the packing/organizing/cleaning/etc. that needs to be done tomorrow before we hit the road for St. Louis. And I will fall to sleep thinking of 1) how much I love my family, 2) how blessed I am that they love me back, and 3) how very, very much I have to do in the morning. In that order...I hope.

Days like today, with all the chaos and simplicity, make me so unbelievably grateful. I seem to have accidentally built myself the perfect imperfect life...or at least, the perfect one for me.

Here's Looking At You, SIX

Our baby turned six years old today.

To celebrate, we threw a crazy, chaotic, and loud (oh so loud) birthday party with 18 kids, 2 babies, and a handful of very brave adults. The house was overcrowded with bodies, voices, sounds...and love. Lots of love for our smart, spunky, inquisitive, sweet, mercurial, kindhearted, funny and fascinating Sophie Patrice.

Cookie Cake in My Little Pony colors.

The birthday girl, soaking up the attention.

So many presents! Very generous friends and family.

Miss Sophie and Miss Julie rock it out.

Our six-year-old!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

And a brief video that illustrates the ruling dichotomy of the day...calm (mostly girls, sitting and chatting) on one side, and chaos (mostly boys, annihilating my amazing sport of a husband) on the other. Totally. Awesome.

First Sentence

Warning: this is a brag post.

Sophie is doing so well in kindergarten. When she started, she wasn't really writing words or reading at all. She knew her letters and numbers, and she could write her first name, but that was about it.

Today, this came home with her school work. It might not look like much, but she wrote this entire sentence with absolutely no help from the teacher. She is BRILLIANT! Our little genius. :)

(She spells phonetically, so the sentence says: "I loved this story because Franklin got a present from his Mom and Dad." She even capitalized the names correctly!)

School Photos

Fourth grade and kindergarten. Wow.

Sophie, meet Kindergarten. Kindergarten, meet Sophie.

I'm baaaack!

I know, I know...I've barely posted in months. For the three people that were adversely affected by this, I'm really sorry. Life has been pretty hectic, and this blog has been one of the sacrifices I've made in the name of time management. (When time-constrained, why are the things we do for ourselves, for our own pleasure and satisfaction, often the first to go? Hmmm. Discuss amongst yourselves and let me know what you discover, please.)

Sophie going to kindergarten finally gave me the impetus I needed to post again. Because, you know, in case that first sentence flew right by you: MY YOUNGEST, MY BABY, IS NOW IN KINDERGARTEN!!!!!

Sophie is so flipping excited about going to the "big kid" school, the same place her big sister attends. The administration put a lot of effort into making sure the students felt comfortable, slowly prepping them for what school will be like before expecting them to jump right into a full day. Sophie had three days of kindergarten "orientation" last week, where she went in from 12:30-3:00pm and, from what I can tell, drew a lot of pictures. Then she received her teacher assignment (Hello, Mrs. Doyle!), and Thursday was her official first day. She was nervous initially because, oddly, very few kids from her preschool are attending Covington, and she didn't see any familiar faces during orientation. But then, some good news: we found out that two friends of hers are in her class...including her beloved Willie. The minute she and Willie spotted each other in line, all was well. They just kept looking at each other and grinning like idiots. They even held hands as they walked inside together. Pretty damn cute.

By all accounts, her first day went well. She seems to really love school. (Sixteen more years of the same, please and thank you.) This morning she popped out of bed and asked, "Is today a school day?" This is a potentially loaded question, so I wasn't sure what reaction I would get when I tentatively answered yes. She promptly started jumping on her bed and scream/singing, "Yay! School day, school day, I get to go to school today!" so I suspect she was okay with it.

She's now on the same schedule as Emma, my newly-minted 4th grader. (Yeah. I know. Time flying and all that. Wow.) Having them at the same location is divine. No more driving Emma one place and Sophie another. Our mornings are much more mellow now that I can just walk them both to school and drop them at the same place. And having them both out of the house is nice, too. (Is it bad to admit that? Well then, I guess I'm bad to the bone.) They've been home with me since summer camp ended Aug. 2nd, and we had a great time together. But my to-do list keeps growling at me like a wild animal, and I'm a little tired of staying up til 1:00am every night trying to jam 10 hours of work into 4 hours of time. So being on a regular schedule again is a very, very good thing. So good, in fact, that I'm gonna go bounce on my own bed and scream "Yay for school!" until I lose my voice. What's good for the goose is good for the gander, right?

And now...pictures!

Don't Blink! You Could Lose Nine Years.

Emma turns nine years old today. NINE YEARS OLD!

Wanna see how quickly nine years can go by?

Happy Birthday, Emma Bloom. We love you.

Oh, and please...STOP GROWING. At least for awhile. Please and thank you.

One Happy Mutha

Mother's Day has become my favorite day of the year. I was born on Christmas (as I think maybe I've mentioned once or twice or many, many times before), so until Mother's Day came along, I didn't know what it was like to have a day totally focused on me and nobody else. And I gotta say...I dig it. A lot.

Today marked my tenth Mother's Day. (Hell YES, the "in utero" one counts!) As usual, my family pulled out all the stops. I was greeted with flowers, handmade gifts, a new apron, a digital picture frame, a gift card to my favorite nail place, and lots and lots and lots and lots of love. My girls were actually waiting right outside my bedroom when I first woke up, pouncing on me the minute I emerged and bursting with excitement to give me their gifts. Nothing in the world can match the feeling of knowing that there are people in my life - people that I MADE - who love me so intensely that they literally cannot wait to make me happy.

I am so grateful to my husband for letting me be a lazy bum all day, and for always making me feel like the most amazing mother on the planet. And to all the moms I know - especially to my mommy Christine and mother-in-law Pat - HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

This is the pic on my apron. So cute!

This is Sophie's rendition of me. I think she made me look really beautiful.

This is from Emma. On the far right (partially hidden under a feather) it says, To be the best is good, but love is better. She told me, "I came up with that all by myself, just from thinking of the kind of mommy you are to me." Ha! I'm with Emma - being the "best" anything, especially the best mom, is impossible anyway; I'd definitely rather have love. I'll never stop being fascinated by the way this kid's mind works.

Quote of the day

Sophie: "I love all the peoples in our family, even if they are naughty or weird-looking, just the way they are!"

Well, Don't Get A Big Head About It

The girls started swim lessons today. They both did really well and had a lot of fun. We were sitting pretty far away, so it was hard to get any good shots. I managed a couple of so-so ones.

Sophie (in two-piece) takes the leap.

Emma walks the plank, readying to jump.

I did snag one great action shot of Emma jumping off the diving board...but unfortunately, my husband decided to step right in front of the ipad at the exact moment I hit click.

You can see Emma just to the right of my husband's enormous beautiful head.

Love Makes The World Go Round

We had a great Valentine's Day. Wonderful gifts and cards were exchanged by all. But one kind of stood out from the rest, because it took me by surprise and really touched my heart.

Emma made a card for us that she dubbed "The Family Valentine." Below is the inside. (It cuts off at the end, but you can still make out the words.) Best. Gift. Ever.

I Gotta Be MEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Yesterday, I went to my first therapy session in years. For those who read this blog somewhat regularly, you probably know that I have written a couple of times before about my struggles with depression. You may also remember that said struggles have been going on for quite some time. Therefore, you are certainly within the boundaries of normal reaction if you are thinking to yourself at this moment, "She is just now starting therapy?" I understand, because I am thinking that too. If I ever come up with an explanation that makes any sense, I'll let you know.

But so. My first therapy session. It was at a behavioral health center where I recently started seeing a psychiatrist. I liked the psychiatrist a lot. She was very straightforward and easy to talk to. She recommended a therapist in the practice for me to see, and since I'm held to few choices within the confines of my HMO (another post for another day), I accepted her recommendation and made an appointment.

I knew the first time I locked eyes with Dr. K that we were not going to be a good match. He was in his late sixties with a full head of white hair, spectacles, suit and tie, friendly face and gentle demeanor. He looked like a thinner Barney Frank. He seemed nice enough at first glance, and nothing during our session made me think otherwise. I didn't dislike him; I just knew in my gut that he wasn't the right doctor for me. And bless his heart...he really, really wasn't.

He spent fifteen minutes asking me routine questions about myself, and then the next thirty minutes talking. About anything and everything. His speech patterns reminded me of Jeff Perry; he had a quiet voice with a little hitch to his words, and he ended all of his sentences on an uptick so that every statement sounded like a question. (This caused me to say "uh huh" approximately 87 times in a half-hour period of time because I felt compelled to offer some verbal sound of encouragement after each sentence-that-sounded-like-a-question...even though all I really wanted was for him to Stop. Talking.)

Here are just some of the tidbits gleaned from our conversation:

• I shouldn't feel badly about starting therapy again because depression is like tooth decay; just because you get one tooth taken care of doesn't mean another one won't rot eventually, and no one thinks twice about going to the dentist for upkeep. (Actually, I think twice about going to the dentist ALL THE TIME, but oddly enough, I knew what he was driving at.)
• If I cut out regular soda (which I don't drink), I will consume 100 less calories a day and will therefore lose eight pounds by Christmas. He then proceeded to explain how it becomes harder to lose weight as we get older, so the one-pound-every-35-days ratio will stretch over time to 36 days, 37 days, etc. It was a very complex calculation, but his conclusion was that I can reach my ideal weight at approximately 60 years old if I just stop drinking the soda that I already don't drink. (He literally took out a calculator and did the math for me.)
• There was much talk about the life cycle of birds; something about migrating and moulting and being pushed out of the nest. I zoned out in the middle, so I think I missed whatever lesson the bird analogy was meant to impart.
• A pharmaceutical rep brought in lunch for him and his colleagues that day, and he was so grateful for our appointment because it kept him from overeating, and have I ever thought of just distracting myself from being hungry by going for a walk or taking a bath? (This was after I had already told him that my overeating actually has very little to do with my being hungry, but he was so proud of the solution he had thought up for me that I didn't have the heart to remind him. Also, by this point in our conversation, I was only allowed to utter "uh huh.")
• If I have a job and family and friends that I love, and who love me, then he doesn't understand what I am feeling so sad about. (You and me both, Dr. K. You and me both.)
• And my personal favorite: If he were to stand in a locker room in nothing but his skivvies (his word) with a Chicago Bear who was the same weight and height as him, their bodies would look very different - AND THAT'S OKAY.

He meant well, but OH. MY. GOD. I vacillated between biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing (I am not kidding) and just thinking to myself, "I will never get these 45 minutes back."

We ended the session by promising to meet once a week for the next month. I assured the front desk that I would call soon to schedule my next appointment. Of course, that will never happen.

So, I am now doing what I should have done from the beginning: digging in and doing research on a therapist that is right for me, regardless of the cost. (We are certainly far from rich, and paying for therapy out of pocket will definitely be a financial strain...yet I am acutely aware of how lucky I am that I even have that option when so many others do not. Again...another post for another day.)

I suppose I could have been wrecked by this experience. (I am so emotionally unpredictable lately that any reaction, at any time, is completely within the realm of possibility.) Perhaps it could have even detoured me from continuing to seek treatment. But to me, the whole thing was pretty comical. And it only underscored how rare it is to find a person who listens - really listens - to what you say and seems to have at least a somewhat reasonable understanding of who you are and what you are about. I have certainly found that to be true in every other aspect of my life, so it makes total sense that I'm gonna have to kiss a few frogs until I find my therapeutic prince.

But the other thing I took out of the experience - and a couple other experiences I have had recently, which maybe I'll talk about in future posts - is that I'm sick of pretending I'm not sick. I'm tired of writing about the hilarious things my kids do or my latest frustrating parental dilemma or newest chaotic family adventure, all while leaving out this huge other part of who I am. I often hide my true feelings - my true SELF - either because I don't want the person to know I'm depressed, or because that person already does know and is clearly not interested in hearing about it anymore. And let me tell you - hiding a whole aspect of who you are can be absolutely exhausting.

The truth is this: I am a mom/wife/sister/daughter/friend who is damn good at my job and has a wonderful family and relatively robust social life. I am creative and expressive and full of love. I experience joy and laughter, and I remain curious and awestruck when it comes to this life I live. I am all of those things. And I am also an emotional time bomb, an exposed nerve ending prone to intense anxiety, sadness, anger and/or apathy at the drop of a hat. I am many, many things all rolled into one...and one of those things is that I am clinically depressed.

I've never lied about my illness...but purposely avoiding certain subjects is starting to feel dishonest, and frankly, it takes more energy than I have to do so. So I'm just not going to pretend or deny the depressed part of who I am anymore. As such, the tone of this blog may start changing a bit. Or maybe not; who knows? I don't plan to suddenly post daily entries about the overwhelming amount of energy it sometimes takes just to get myself to shower, or how many milligrams of antidepressant I am taking, or how lonely it feels to show your true self to a friend and be met with grudging tolerance or hostility instead of understanding and compassion. I am just going to start writing about all aspects of my life, no more self-censuring. I can't keep expending precious energy hiding certain aspects of myself because I am embarrassed, or because it makes others feel uncomfortable. The fear of judgment and rejection just isn't a compelling enough reason for me to pretend anymore.

So the search for a therapist, and for stable ground, continues. I may tell you all about it; or not. You may decide you couldn't care less about hearing it; or not. As long as we are both being true to ourselves, it's all good.

These Are Our Demands

Emma and Sophie were upstairs yesterday "cleaning their rooms" (ie, playing/reading/fighting/giggling/procrastinating) when Chris found this note at the foot of the stairs:

(Background: Emma talked Grandma Kitty into buying her a huge stuffed seal from Ikea. She may be the teensiest bit impatient about its arrival.)

Sophie then came downstairs, delivered this note, and solemnly exited the room without a word:

(Background: the kids miss their grandparents, aunt and cousins. A lot.)

They were clearly very serious, so Chris and I were careful to make sure they were both out of sight before cracking up laughing. One thing about kids - one of the BEST things about kids - is that you truly never know what's coming next.