I love the 4th of July. I remember being a kid spending the day lighting snakes and smoke bombs and jumping rope and waiting for dark so we could light fountains. It’s really kind of funny when you consider that I’ve always been a tad scared of fire. I don’t like matches or candles, or sparklers, for that matter. That’s just a little too close to the fire for me.

Nowadays, I spend 4th of July in the house playing some kind of card game. This is while Curtis is outside cooking all the food. It is amazing to me how relaxing beating someone

The kids are outside all the time now, and we all love that.

I know it looks washed out, but it reminds me of an old picture, or an impossibly wonderful sunny day.
Happy Love Thursday

The babies got a play structure this summer! So I got to use algebra, so that was a good application of my year in math. So that was good. I measured the lot with the play structure, divided by the number the landscaping company gave me, and figured I needed 1 1/2 cubic yards of mulch.

Then I got a bee in my bonnet about my flower beds. When we bought the house, there was a large rectangular space in front of the house full of rocks. I thought it was a flower bed, and being the gardening genius that I was, I stuck a few plants in the rocks. None of

“We eat too much. . .we need to stop.” Daddy said this, or something like this at the family reunion in 2006. He had just buried his wife of 43 years. Ma died of obesity.

You would think fat was harmless enough. It might be unsightly, uncomfortable, maybe. But deadly? I used to joke that fat was bad enough, but couple it with drugs, like John Belushi or Chris Farley, and it would kill you.

It wasn’t funny watching my (drug-free!) mother go down. I didn’t take her breathing problems seriously–not even when she got her own personal oxygen tank.

Ma used to tell us that she was healthy as a horse. When she

With four girls, there’s a lot of sisterly love in the house. These two are best friends.
Happy Love Thursday

You can hear it a mile off from some people. The ingratiating smile. The cursory ‘how cute,” and then, “How’s the baby sleeping?”

How do I answer that? I mean, do I say what’s on my mind? Something I read in The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding? Which said that question doesn’t mean anything to someone who is sleeping with their baby.

And, let me tell you, after the ride Chanya and I have had with our breastfeeding, the last thing I want her to do is sleep through the night.

But since nobody really cares, and it’s just small talk, Curtis’ answer should