Introducing Cara Grace!

The long, long post is still coming, but it is late and we've had the most overwhelming 48-hours of our lives. I have just enough energy to post some pictures of our new daughter. Who I'm feeling very lonesome for right now.

WE HAVE A BABY!!!!

Long, long post later....throwing things in the suitcase....we have a baby girl....God is so good!

PLEASE HELP!

O.K., as you can see, I'm trying to get a new blog skin. As in the past, I've begged for help. I've offered to pay, to no avail. I got a great lead on a group that was offering blog templates for donations to orphans in Taiwan and China, but just as I e-mailed them, they closed up shop. AGGHH!!!
So now, I'm trying a new approach. Trying to go it alone. The old saying is, "if you want something done right, do it yourself." But I just want something done, period. I'm not a digital scrapbooker, but I ordered a "By the Sea" e-kit from scrapbook.com, with the graphics I want to use, but I don't know how to layer them. I can only get one at a time up on the blog (seen above the torn paper graphic). Am I missing some software? Or is there a standard program on my computer where I can move, arrange, and drop my graphics, until I get the look I want? If I can possibly avoid HTML, I need to, but if that is the only way to get this done, can someone please direct me to a website that can teach me? I need HTML for dummies.
This is me..on my knees, ready to kiss your little bloggy feet.

Worthless

Growing up, my sisters and I were given many fun, silly nicknames by our dad. We rarely heard from his lips our formal names, but answered instead to, "Jessy-Poosey," "Jenny-Gwen-Gwen," and "KK." Over the years, one specific title emerged which referenced all three: "toot." Different adjectives generally proceeded this appellation--"lazy," "good-for-nothin'," and most frequently, "worthless." Not exactly what most would consider a term of endearment, but for us it was. Always spoken with love. Usually accompanied by a hug, or pat, or a stroke of my head. Delivered by the man who provided for all of my needs and most of my wants. In blatant disregard for the definition of terms, I felt cherished, prized, priceless.
And, strictly speaking, Daddy's choice of nomenclature was dead on. We were a pretty worthless lot. Living alone with four women is not for the faint of heart. He had no partner for jobs that involved plumping, or auto-mechanics, or lawn maintenance. Actually, no help with any chore that might possibly lead to sweat, odor, or residue. A high school athlete himself, he tried repeatedly to interest us in competitive sports, but we liked twirling batons and playing horns. He loved to deer hunt and would have happily included his daughters in his passion. And while he was successful in teaching both me and Jen how to handle a pistol, revolver, and a 22, he ran out of luck when it came to buck rifles. Ouch. Besides, hunting meant sitting in either a sweltering or frigid deer stand dressed in unappealing camo and bathed in Deep Woods Off and fox pee. Count us out.
But no man was more adored. If we declined to traipse out to the berry patch on a hot summer afternoon, we dropped whatever we were doing to bake his favorite cobbler from the dewberries he brought in. Straining the berries and using the juice, just the way he liked it. If Daddy had to brave an early Sunday morning trip to the Dollar Store for panty hose, hairspray, or sanitary napkins, he got to chuckle over the jostling and scrapping over who would sit next to him in the pew. And though he never cheered his own daughter on to victory, he and I didn't miss a single girl's basketball game that spring they went to state. There I was at sixteen--an age when most of my friends loathed, disdained, and/or barely tolerated their fathers--proud as punch to walk in on his arm.
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These past few months have been very difficult for me. In addition to what you have read here, there have been other struggles, both inward and outward that I haven't felt I could post about. Rarely in my life have I experienced such self-doubt, worry, and stress. For the first time in my life, I feel worthless. Of no use to anyone. Not to my friends, my family, my husband, my children, my daycare kids, and most of all to God. I know the thoughts I've been having are not from the Lord, but from the Evil One. I know all the scriptures (but feel free to leave me some in comments as encouragement), and have been saying them over and over to myself when these thoughts come over me; but as I said, this has been an extremely trying time, and I'm still struggling. This feeling of worthlessness settles in my heart like a heavy stone.
I'm so thankful for my silly nickname, "Worthless Toot." I'm thankful for an earthly father who daily reminded me that I was loved immeasurably and independently of anything I could do for him. When the deceiver and condemner hurls his darts at me, and I am absolutely convinced that it is true. I have no value. I am good-for-nothing. I am worthless. I seem to hear the Holy Spirit whisper, "Yes, but you are MY worthless toot," with the familiar tone of love and acceptance. Satan cannot call me anything more than what I've heard my whole life from a loving earthly father. And he cannot dissuade me from the faith that my Father's love must be even greater, stronger, deeper, and more steadfast than my daddy's. His love is not based on what I do. He has chosen to love me:

You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit. John 15:16

See how great a love the father has bestowed on us that we should be called children of God, and such we are. I John 3:1

For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, being justified as a gift by His grace, through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus. Romans 3:23-24

How can I not respond with adoration? Isn't my love what He desires the most?

Three Cheers

New leg! New leg! New leg! The master came home from his appointment in Houston yesterday with a brand spankin' new appendage. Woohoo! He will wear this leg for three months and then he will be fitted for his final prosthesis. He is not supposed to bear full weight on it for a week, so that is why he is still on the crutches in the picture. He is standing straighter than he ever has. After he took it off last night, we put it on the coffee table and just stared at it in wonder. It is a beautiful sight, let me tell you. With only the limited time he is allowed to wear the leg (he slowly has to build up time wearing it, so as not to cause blisters/soars), he can tell he will be able to walk better and with no pain. Whew! Sure am glad this whole ordeal is going to be worth it.

Wedding Pics

The lovely couple! They should be holding hands in this picture. You know, make people think they like each other. ;0) Wasn't her dress BEAUTIFUL??!!

We have here a junior bridesmaid and two precious flower girls. The one on the far left is my niece. You may notice that Marina is missing her hair. That post, my friends, will have to wait for another day. I'm finding my happy place....

These two boys will melt your heart. I love the way they are standing in this picture because the body language says it all. K is such a sweetheart and gentleman. In many ways, a grown man in a boy-size body. Ian is a lover boy and more than a little naughty. Seriously. Ladies, lock up your daughters.

And the other lovely couple. Now you see what I meant about the mamaw forearms. I gotta start lifting weights. I so wish we had these pictures for our profile book. The ones I used for the page of just me and the master were pretty old.

Goin' to the Chapel...

Yep. On Saturday my little sister is getting hitched. She will be joined in holy matrimony by her illustrious brother-in-law (you know him as "the master"), and will be preceded down the aisle by her nieces and myself. I think the two older boys have a job, too, because they have been fitted for tuxes. I'm a little sketchy on the details. What with daycare and vending machines, I haven't been able to play the part of your typical sister of the bride/matron of honor. I do know that I will be wearing a green sleeveless dress that will show off my mamaw upper arms, but will thankfully conceal my permanent post-partem pooch. This wedding will mark the end of my bridesmaid career. I've been a bridesmaid five times and a maid/matron of honor twice. I'm turning in the flowers and hanging up the satin.
Jen will tie the knot in the same week that the master and I mark our ten year anniversary. That seems strange to me. She and I are separated by only 16 months. After a seven year struggle with secondary infertility, my mother gave birth to me. Then--surprise!--six months after, she was pregnant again without even trying. We were each others best playmate, rival, enemy, and friend. For the first 10 years of our lives we were regularly mistaken as twins by outsiders and referred to collectively as "the little girls" by family and friends. When I learned to swim, she learned to swim. When I started piano lessons, she did, too. Mom and Dad bought us both cameros when we turned 16, mine was red, hers was blue. I left for home for college, and two falls later, she followed me to the same university. We've been--more or less--a package deal from the start. So it still strikes me as odd that I beat her down the aisle by a decade. I'm sure there have been moments when she wanted what I have: a home with a loving husband and adorable kiddos (though perhaps not so many). And at times, I've envied her peaceful evenings, single girl wardrobe, and--by virtue of her manlessness--keeping Daddy at her beck and call. They've been good years for both of us, but I'm glad we will soon share the title, "happily married."

Welcome to the club, Sis. 'Bout time you showed up!

Feliz Cinco De Mayo!

Ay caramba! Es muy mono, no?

On Hold

The master's stump still has not healed to the point where he can be fitted for a prostheses--and instead of weeks behind schedule, it looks as though we might be months away. There is one small spot at the side of his stump that will not stop bleeding, and until it does, we are stuck. We have days of discouragement and frustration, but things are becoming more bearable. I definitely don't have any less to do, so it must be everyone's prayers. I'm getting used to the pace and sleeplessness, but I wouldn't say I'm a particularly fun person to be around at present. And just let me find out that you are praying for patience for me!!! I will hunt you down. I don't want patience, I want a prostheses.
We've spoken with our agency and told them to not show our book to any birthmothers until they get the go ahead from us. At this point, I wouldn't even be able to take time out of my week to drive to Houston and pick up a newborn, much less parent one! Though perhaps my current level of sleep deprivation is the Lord's way of preparing me for night time feedings?

Accentuate the Positive

I think the Negative Nelly post has been up on top of my blog for long enough. On to better and brighter things. Like how breathtakingly beautiful my children are!

Setbacks and Breakdowns

The master has had some setbacks in healing, but he had a doctor's appointment today that has hopefully rectified the problem. Within a week he should be able to put on the "shrinker" as they call it in the prosthetic world. Something like an industrial strength pantyhose. He still is experiencing a lot of pain and the meds do not seem to help much. Plus, he doesn't like taking them.
Some of you have asked how I am holding up. Not good. I wish I could say otherwise, but honestly, I've never worked harder or put in longer days in my life. Including the two semesters in college when I held two work/study jobs, took 17 hours, and worked the night shift at a motel.
I think I've found my limit. I've wondered how much I could pull off. Well, I've arrived. Officially pulled into the Too Much station. Running a home, a daycare, and a vending machine business is TOO MUCH. Please pray that the master heals quickly from this point on. This is so horribly selfish, but I need him back on his foot. :0)

Four Easter Sweeties and One Terd

Did you spot the terd? Randy played the starring role as this year's picture spoiler. It is something about that age. Marina didn't even make it in the shot two years ago. And two years before that it was Ian, and two years...
Ah, toddlerhood. Gotta love it. Or do we?

Foot Loose and Fancy Free

I know my title is completely off-color, but I promise, the master would have it no other way. He says he is going to have that phrase etched into his prosthesis. The master came through the surgery fine and is in good spirits. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for your prayers!! Here is how we've spent the last few days:
Thursday night, I had trouble sleeping. The master, on the other hand, slept like a baby--only better.
Friday morning we went to be fingerprinted for the adoption, then headed to the hospital. We were joined by twenty friends and family who came to pray and sit with the master and wait with me while he was in surgery. What a blessing! I was able to stay with him right up until the time they wheeled him into the surgical suite. I was teary eyed. He comforted me. The amputation took one hour and thirty minutes. The surgeon came out and said that everything had gone well, that they were able to take it below the knee, and he thought [the master] would be pleased with the outcome.
I go to weight watchers with the recovery nurse, so she let me come back to be with him. Coming out of anesthesia, he was cracking jokes, "L____, I'm starting to get cold foot about this operation." (Notice that he has already learned her name and managed to retain that information though barely cognizant.) I thought she was going to fall off her stool. Just before leaving recovery, the nurse drew the covers back, and I wasn't ready. I think if it had just been the sight of it it, I would have been o.k. But there was an odor, too. A medical, fleshy, fluid smell wafted up at the same time, and for a moment, I thought I might faint dead away. I managed to make it into the nearest bathroom and after a few deep breaths with my head between my knees I was able to return to his side. I hate that about myself. I hate that I'm such a weenie.
A steady stream of visitors came to his bedside Friday night and Saturday. Then Saturday evening the children came to see him. We had said goodbye to them on Friday morning, so they hadn't seen Daddy. The older three did very well. Ian's matter-of-fact comment was, "Daddy. Your leg is gone." Thanks for the update, son. Marina seemed the most troubled by it. Of course, she probably understood little of our prior explanations of what was about to transpire. She did much better today, offering me this synopsis:
"Daddy is in the hospital. The doctors took off his leg. But it is o.k., 'cause it is his bad leg. Now he will get a NEW leg. And he will run fast, fast, fast. And he will chase us. But he will not catch us. 'Cause we will run FASTER."
He is having some phantom pain, which he finds not only physically uncomfortable, but mentally unsettling as well. It is a strange thing for "toes" to itch and an "ankle" to ache that are gone. The physical therapist gave him a long paper tube and told him to gently tap his stump whenever he feels those sensations. He has to retrain his body to recognize where his leg ends now. Truly, we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Anyway, I heard--several times in the night--light thumping and mutterings, "It's not there. It's not there."
Today, I've been in and out of the hospital. They changed his dressing and removed his drain tube. NOT FUN. But necessary for him to come home--which we hope will be tomorrow. I'm spending the night at the house with the babies and Sunnyside Kids re-opens early in the morning, so goodnight all.

Whew!

Homestudy visit is over!!! Overall, things went well. She arrived thirty minutes early and the problem with that was that we had saved the kitchen floor for the very last, so that it would be sparkling when she arrived at 9:30. At 9:00, when she rang the bell, it was gross. Two of the kids weren't dressed yet, but otherwise, it came off without a hitch. The master's surgery will be on Friday and once he is awake and stable, I think I will be able to breath again.

Leg, Adoption, and Daycare Update

The master will have his amputation the third or fourth week of March. Assuming we don't have to change surgeons. If we do, who knows? There are only two hospitals that we will consider going to in our immediate area. The master likes his surgeon, but if he does not operate in either of those two facilities, we will have to find a new one in Houston. Family and friends are wanting us to go to Houston, regardless. They have little faith in our local hospitals. My way of thinking is that this actually is not a complicated procedure. Drastic? Yes. Complicated? No. Maybe my thinking is skewed by one too many Civil War movies, but seems to me like limbs have been removed for hundreds of years in far worse conditions by far less skilled hands.
We went to our adoption seminar yesterday. Since I am posting this, you know that I told my parents. I wasn't really ready to do that, but she called the house yesterday and found that we had both gone to Houston. She knew we weren't there for the master's leg, so it was either fess up or out and out lie, which I'm not willing to do. You can scroll down to see our adoption journey, so far. I've been saving updates as drafts for months now. Mom took it better than I thought....Dad will probably want to have a porch swing talk when next we meet, but I'll survive. Anyway, seminar went great! Very enlightening interviews with birthmoms, adult adoptees, adoptive parents, etc. There is always the uncomfortable part about dealing with the grief of infertility--when I feel as though our presence in the room must be terribly offensive to everyone else. Our worker will come on March 10th for the final part of our homestudy, and for a few exceptions such as the minor detail of having the master's leg amputated and not being at all certain of where the money will come from....we're good to go.
The last part of my updates brings us to a dark day at Sunnyside. On days like yesterday, when I have to be away, I have a sitter that I pay to come and run the daycare. I've only been gone four times since starting in September. Twice for a few hours in the afternoon for doctor's appointments. Once for the master's appointments in Houston. And yesterday. Guess who showed up? Did you guess: your state inspector? You're very good. She wasn't supposed to come until mid March. I was so sure of it. Oh, it wasn't pretty. Were the children being well taken care of? Yes. Were they safe, clean, and supervised? Yes. Geez, my own kids were here. They were in VERY good hands. But that doesn't matter!!!! Because I have an anal retentive ex-IRS auditor for my inspector. She was rude and ugly (her standard manner) to my substitute and had her so rattled that she couldn't remember anything that I've told her such as:
1)where the first aid kit is
2)the four step sanitation process (which in real life is completely unrealistic to perform, but you have to be able to spout it off to her)
3)the location of my files
She quizzed her on stupid stuff that is not even in the state minimum standards like how old each of the children were. She was supposed to call back today with a list of my "deficiencies," but didn't. But she will. I shudder to think of it. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep sucking up to this woman when what I really want is to tell her where I think she should stick her standards.

Don't Freak Out

Please don't. Take a deep breath....

The master is having his lower left leg amputated.

I couldn't think of a fun way to break that news. Sorry. As many of you know, the master was born with an extremely rare bone disease. For most of his childhood and adolescence, the doctor's at Shriner's Hospital in Shreveport LA did everything they could so that the master could walk. Sixteen surgeries later, he could walk, but his left leg was 1 1/2" shorter, and his ankle was fused--making it impossible to walk without a pronounced limp. Nevertheless, he was done. He walked out of that hospital at 16 and didn't look back.
Five minutes after meeting him, you don't notice the limp. I haven't. I remember our first Thanksgiving in Illinois. The master's grandmother approached me and started talking about how proud they were of their little crippled grandson...about how they never thought he would have any life...and how it was amazing that he was now able to walk. Honestly, I started to scan the community center for who in the world she was talking about. It was only after I followed her gaze to my husband that it clicked. She was talking about him. I just don't think of him as crippled or handicapped.
But lately, I've noticed the limp. Because it is much worse. The master realized that the shin bone of his affected limb was bowing out like never before. And he hurts. How badly he hurts, is hard to say. Because he has always hurt and has an extremely high tolerance for the pain. I'm quite certain the pain he describes as a level three would have me writhing in the bed, praying to die. Finally, he agreed to see an orthopedic surgeon. But that was easier said than done. It took months for Shriner's to dig up his old records...weeks for the surgeon to agree to take the master as a patient and a few more weeks before he could get his appointment.
The surgeon gave him three options:
1)Live with the pain for as long as you can bear it
2) Look into a procedure known as Lizeroff.
3) Amputate
Number three was actually what the master was hoping for. I know that sounds strange, but all of his childhood he watched children (his own roommates) have amputations and get prosthesis, and he couldn't help noticing that what they were left with worked a lot better than what he had. He's tired of hurting.
Monday we went to Houston for two appointments: one with the leading Lizeroff expert and one with a prosthetic company. The Lizeroff doctor definitely did not sell us on the procedure. It is an agonizing, drawn out process in which the bone is broken and then a halo is set on the outside of the bone to prevent healing. Infection rates are high. Success rates low. And the expert didn't seem to think that he was a good candidate for success. He told us he would not be able to gain any length (even if the procedure was successful). He couldn't do anything about the ankle. In another 10 to 15 years, the bone might be right back where it is now: horribly twisted and bowed. But if we wanted to give it a try, we should get a MRI and schedule surgery. Uh, thanks, but no thanks.
The master is actually excited. He will be able to run for the first time in his life. He will be able to walk into a Payless and buy a pair of shoes. A pair of tennis shoes! He will be able to sit down at a table without looking to see if he has clearance to swing his leg in and out.
At first, I jumped on the giddy wagon, too. I'm coming down from that. Something of the reality of that word--amputation--is sinking in now. They are going to cut off my husband's leg. I guess that is a heavy thing. But it's our best option. So please pray for us.

A Late Valentine's Post

The Sunnyside Kids did a coloring sheet and on the back I wrote their responses to two questions: 1) Why do you love Daddy? 2) Why do you love Mommy?
Here are Marina's too cute responses

Why do you love Daddy?

"Because he fights with us." (She means he 'wrestles' with them)
"Because he goes to work."
"Because he comes back home."

Excellent reasons, baby girl! Especially the last two. They're tops on my list, as well. I held my breath for the next one. But she came through for me. She really does love me.

Why do you love Mommy?

"Because you cook us dinner."
"Because you take care of babies."
"Because you take me outside."

First Grandbaby

Introducing my first grandchild--K's 'Mike' (AKA 'Floppy Sock') His class is studying measurement and as part of the unit, they each brought bags of rice equal to their own birthweight--in K's case a whopping 9 lbs. 4 0z. The rice was funneled into socks to create rice "babies." They have to care for the rice babies all week, and will receive a grade on Friday based on how clean and well kept their baby is. We did a similar assignment with sacks of flour when I was in school--only it was home economics in the 11th grade. I'm not sure what the social implications are for giving this assignment to eight and nine year olds, or what child care has to do with mastering measurement concepts, but....
At first, K was so proud to have the largest baby of third grade. Later, he decided it was a dubious distinction. He came dragging up the walk, the baby cradled in his arms:
K: Hey, Mom. My arms hurt from carrying Mike-Floppy-Sock. You have no idea how heavy he is.
Oh, no. I wouldn't know anything about that.
I offered to enroll Mike in my daycare. Provided K pay the $85 tuition for infants under 18 months. He decided to pass. It is just as well. I'm already at my maximum capacity. Of course, if the state licensing rep came by, I could stick Mike in the closet. All kidding aside, K takes very good care of his rice baby....thinking of things that I'm sure I would have had no clue about at his age. He retold this conversation from school:
Classmate: Why do you call your baby, "Floppy Sock?"
K: Um. Because it's a sock.
Classmate: Still, you should give it a real baby name. Then it would be like a real baby.
K: Uh, no, it wouldn't. Real babies cry. And poop. And you have to feed them every four hours. A sock is NOTHING like that.
Classmate: You should call him, 'Mike.'
K: O.K., if it makes you happy.
At home, though, he got more into it--asking to dress Mike from the newborn clothes in the shed. And strapping him into a bouncy seat. At one point, he shouted to me from the living room:
K: exasperated MOM! I've got baby trouble in here. M______[8 month old Sunnyside Kid] is trying to eat the CD's and Randy is playing with the radio knobs and I can't do anything about it, because I've got Mike in my arms...." It was his first Calgon-take-me-away moment.
He let Abby babysit for a few minutes while he looked for newborn clothes. She was holding him (properly, with head supported) and cooing at him, saying, "Hello, Mike. I'm your Nana."
Me: No. I'm his nana.
Abby: Then what am I? Oh! I'm his Aunt.
Me: Yes, you are his dad's sister, so you are his aunt.
Abby: Then who is the birthmom?
At this point, I don't really care if K completely flunks the assignment. The comic relief the rice filled sock has brought to our home is priceless. If you have the winter doldrums, you should buy a 10 pound sack of rice and fill an extra large sport sock, call it a baby, and give it to your kids. Talk about some cheap fun!
But the best of them all, was when K came in to the kitchen and with all seriousness stated, "There is just one thing that really dissappoints me." Wondering what on earth could have upset him, the master and I asked, "What's that?"
"That you weren't there for the birth."
That kid kills me.

On the way to Baby #6

Our Ukranian adoption was over before it began. When the 2008 quotas were released in December stating that only 300 children under the age of six years would be made available for adoption by American families (and 100+ dossiers were already waiting in line), we decided to halt all homestudy preparations.
Last April (during the flair up with our first agency), we had attended an orientation for a domestic adoption agency, and were very impressed. We were there, more or less, to see
1) if it was a reputable agency (my sister was looking into a private adoption at the time and I thought that if nothing else, we would get a good or bad feel about this particular agency)
2) whether any agency would speak with us (our old agency rejected us based on our size)
3) and to see if domestic adoption would be a good fit for us.
Even the master was excited--and that is saying something. We decided that at some point, we definitely wanted to complete an adoption with them. BUT....a part (o.k. a big part) of me was still hoping for one more Eastern Europe adoption. I would have liked for Marina to have someone else in the family who shared a similar birth culture. And our hearts--mine and the master's--are always with children who are waiting in institutions around the world. As the list of agencies with Russian accreditation continued to grow, I sent off for many application packets, but the financial and emotional costs for a Russian adoption seemed even greater now that I knew the obligations and requirements for a domestic adoption.
It is so much cheaper! It is so much easier. One document--the homestudy. One time. That's it. And it is in English. I don't need a translator. The U.S. isn't going to shut down. I won't have to hold my breath for two years. And we will meet and know our child's birthmom. I think I am more excited about that than anything else.
The Ukranian adoption would have been significantly less money (about half) than a Russian adoption, but there was little hope that we would be able to get in under the new quotas. It might even be difficult for 2009. It just seemed stupid to invest thousands of dollars, blood, sweat and tears, "competing" for a "spot" sometime in this decade, when there were children right here in the U.S. needing homes NOW!
After the first of the year, I got back in touch with the Houston agency. On Monday we went for our individual meeting. We will have seminar on February 28th and our homestudy will be March 10th. Doesn't sound like very far away, does it? We will take our birthmom letter and picture book with us to the February seminar. Our homestudy should be written up within a week of the visit, and we could get a call at any time thereafter. I want so badly to post on our adoption, but we haven't told our family--nor do we intend to.

Dinner Conversation

Unison: "Fader, God. Tank you for dis food. Dat you have been given' us in the name of JESUS CHRIST. Amen!"

Sunnyside Kid #1: What is this?

Me: Frito Pie

Sunnyside Kid #1: I have a puppy.

Me: Oh? Is his name Frito?

Sunnyside Kid #1: His name Bob.

Me: O....K...?

Sunnyside Kid #2: Miss Jessca, frito pie hurt my bo-bo.

Me: Use your spoon and it won't get in your bo-bo.

Sunnyside Kid #3: We sing song about stars?

Me: No, we didn't sing a song about stars this morning. Would you like to sing a song about stars?

Sunnyside Kid #3: "Twinkle, Twinkle, little star...."

Unison: "how I wonder what you are--"

Me: Well, I meant later. We can sing about stars later. Right now we need to eat. It is bad manners to sing at the table.

Sunnyside Kid #4: loud belch, "Pease may I be 'scused?"

Me: Yes, you may.


Not sure if I am amused or merely going NUTS.