Tonight we were playing ice-cream parlor. Cady turned her scooter upside-down, and turned the wheel, then magically, ice cream was produced, and she handed it out, and asked for pretend money. No problem, my real hand gave her pretend money and it was all good.
When I made the ice cream, I told her it would be a dollar fifty,
to which she replied,
"I don't have any money left. I have to go to work and make some"
She then went to her desk, tinkered around a bit, and came back with cards that were used as money,
and announced, "I made this money at work!"
The rest of the evening was full of going to work and "making money".
Then coming back "home" with the counterfeit goods.
It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.

Yesterday Cady sat down in Scott's desk chair and put her hand on his mouse, then announced:
"I wanna go to pbs-kids-dot-org"
"You wanna go where?"
"PBS-KIDS-DOT-ORG" she said again.
WOW! I guess they really do pick up more than we think from TV.
So, we lead her thru the maze that got us to pbskids.org and she worked her way around some fun online games.
My daughter is still amazing to me.

So we had Mother's Day last week, and what did Mama get for her present?


Yeah, a bike for Cady.

To add to the busy week, we had another dance recital on Saturday. Video will come soon, though it isn't as well filmed as last year's Winter dance.

I've taken the time today to finally get pictures up on the site as well. Not just the little pictures that show up right here, but actual pictures in volume. Look for the picture links along the top black bar to see everything missed from Easter of last year up to current.

Thanks, as always, for coming to visit.

Happy Mother's Day!!

Erma Bombeck was a talented and gifted writer. She wrote this piece for her newspaper column on Mother's Day, May 12th, 1974.


When God Created Mothers
When the Good Lord was creating mothers, He was into his sixth day of “overtime” when an angel appeared and said, “You’re doing a lot of fiddling around on this one.”
And the Lord said, “Have you read the specs on this order?

• She has to be completely washable, but not plastic;
• Have 180 movable parts... all replaceable;
• Run on black coffee and leftovers;
• Have a lap that disappears when she stands up;
• A kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair;
• And six pairs of hands.”

The angel shook her head slowly and said, “Six pairs of hands... no way.”
“It’s not the hands that are causing me problems,” said the Lord. “It’s the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have.”
“That’s on the standard model?” asked the angel.
The Lord nodded. “One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks, ’What are you kids doing in there?’ when she already knows. Another here in the back of her head that sees what she shouldn’t but what she has to know, and of course the ones here in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and say, ’I understand and I love you’ without so much as uttering a word.”
“Lord,” said the angel, touching His sleeve gently, “Go to bed. Tomorrow...”
“I can’t,” said the Lord, “I’m so close to creating something so close to myself. Already I have one who heals herself when she is sick... can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger... and can get a nine-year-old to stand under a shower.”
The angel circled the model of a mother very slowly. “It’s too soft,” she sighed.
“But she’s tough!” said the Lord excitedly. “You cannot imagine what this mother can do or endure.”
“Can it think?”
“Not only can it think, but it can reason and compromise,” said the Creator.
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek. “There’s a leak,” she pronounced. “I told You You were trying to push too much into this model.”
“It’s not a leak,” said the Lord. “It’s a tear.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s for joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness, and pride.”
“You are a genius,” said the angel.
The Lord looked somber. “I didn’t put it there,” He said.

This is for the mothers who have sat up
all night with sick toddlers in their arms,
wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer
wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying,
'It's okay honey, Mommy's here.'

Who have sat in rocking chairs
for hours on end soothing crying
babies who can't be comforted.

This is for all the mothers who show up at
work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains
on their blouses and diapers in their purse. 

For all the mothers who run carpools and
make cookies and sew Halloween costumes.
And all the mothers who DON'T. 

This is for the mothers who gave birth to
babies they'll never see. And the mothers
who took those babies and gave them homes.

This is for the mothers whose
priceless art collections are
hanging on their refrigerator doors.

And for all the mothers who froze
their buns on metal bleachers at
baseball and football games instead
of watching from the warmth of their cars. 
And that when their kids asked, 'Did you see me, Mom?'
they could say, 'Of course, I wouldn't
have missed it for the world,' and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids
in the grocery store and swat them in despair
when they stomp their feet and scream for
ice cream before dinner.
And for all the mothers who count to ten instead,
because realize how child abuse happens.

This is for all the mothers who sat down with
their children and explained all about making
babies. And for all the (grand)mothers who
wanted to, but just couldn't find the words. 

This is for all the mothers who go
hungry, so their children can eat. 

For all the mothers who read
'Thumpity-Thump Gets Dressed' ,
twice a night for a year. And then
read it again, 'Just one more time.' 

This is for all the mothers who taught
their children to tie their shoelaces before
they started school. And for all the mothers
who opted for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons
to cook and their daughters to throw a ball. 

This is for every mother whose head turns
automatically when a little voice calls 'Mom?'
in a crowd, even though they know their
own offspring are at home -- or even away
at college -- or have their own families.

This is for all the mothers who sent their kids
to school with stomach aches, assuring them
they'd be just FINE once they got there, only
to get calls from the school nurse an hour later
asking them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for mothers whose children have gone
astray, who can't find the words to reach them.
For all the mothers who bite their lips until they
bleed when their 14 year olds dye their hair green.

For all the mothers of the victims of
recent school shootings, and the mothers
of those who did the shooting. 

For the mothers of the survivors,
and the mothers who sat in front
of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who
just came home from school, safely. 

This is for all the mothers who taught their
children to be peaceful, and now pray
they come home safely from a war. 

What makes a good mother anyway?
Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? 
The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and
sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?

Or is it in her heart? 
Is it the ache she feels when she
watches her son or daughter disappear
down the street, walking to school alone
for the very first time? 

The jolt that takes her from sleep to
dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put
her hand on the back of a sleeping baby? 

The panic, years later, that comes again
at 2 A.M. when she just wants to hear
their key in the door and know they
are safe again in her home?

Or the need to flee from wherever she is
and hug her child when she hears news
of a fire, a car accident, a child dying? 

The emotions of motherhood are
universal and so our thoughts are for
young mothers stumbling through diaper
changes and sleep deprivation...
And for mature mothers learning to let go. 

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. 

Single mothers and married mothers. 

Mothers with money, mothers without. 

This is for you all. For all of us... 

Hang in there. In the end we can
only do the best we can. Tell them
every day that we love them. And pray,
and never stop being a mother...