Last night I blogged a bit about Lowes. Today, that store gets my full attention.
I seem to be finding myself in Lowe’s with my three four-year-old boys quite a lot lately. In my efforts to build the perfect lemonade stand as well as outfit our new music room with important items like mirrored disco balls (!) that must be installed in the ceiling, I have been frequenting the home improvement store. Saturday was no exception. That time, I brought the entire family with me, for it was the day for the Lowe’s Build and Grow program’s fire truck-building project. I was as excited as my four men. We scrambled into the van nearly giddy with anticipation thanks to all the fun we had building buses and drums, but little did we know what was in store for us Read More…
I bet it would hurt to have one’s hamstring impaled by an 18-foot length of 3/4-inch PVC pipe. Or at least, that’s what I was thinking last week as my three small men marched through Lowe’s home improvement store carrying the materials for my 
It’s not easy to talk to three people at once. And yet, over the past 4.5 years, I’ve come as close as one might get to perfecting that ability. Much like typing, wherein my fingers move at the speed of my thoughts without me even considering which letter key is where, I can field the questions, comments, complaints, and demands of three little men simultaneously without giving the act any conscious thought. It’s only when we are around another adult who is under simultaneous assault by the Smurfy voices of my little men that I am conscious of just how good I’ve gotten at it. A lady on the bus in Lowestoft, England, comes to mind. ASDA Kelly, we called her, after the Walmart-like store ASDA where we met her. The first time we shared a bus ride with ASDA Kelly, the boys bombarded her with stories and questions as she sat next to them, each little man talking and questioning right over his brothers. I watched from my seat across the aisle as Kelly’s head turned left, right, center, left, right, center, leftrightcenterleftrightcenter…. and as her eyes flicked left, right, center, left, right, center, leftrightcenterleftrightcenter…. Those eyes and that head were not in sync, which was quite entertaining for me, so I must admit 
Today was national ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day.’ I was reminded of that when a 3-foot-tall pirate walked up to our 
You are? Well then, how about a cup of pink lemonade? San Diego is heading into another heat wave, after all, and there’s no sweeter way to cool off. Best of all, as you down that cold cup of pink sweetness, you will be sticking it to cancer, big time.
I have a long, nasty red welt on my left hip. I have a matching one on my right. And I’m not sure, but I think I’ve got several on my hind end. The thing is, I inflicted them all myself—while jumping rope. Not that it’s always my fault. Okay, yes, sometimes I do trip up on the rope, snapping it against my lower extremities like a taught rubber band. But four separate times in the last four months my speed ropes have literally snapped in two while I was mid-jump, and the nylon ends whiplashed my thighs. Pwap! Jumpin Jehosophat! Talk about pain.
I’m sitting in a room with three four-year-olds who are playing peacefully with each other. I’ve got misbehaving grownups on my mind.
If my kids end up with really weird senses of humor, can I be held legally responsible? Can they sue me for that when they grow up? Can their spouses? I am their primary adult contact during the day, after all, so a lawyer might have a valid argument in pinning that crime on me.
