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Tuesday, June 26, 2012

I Don't Really Know How To Make Jam

So, I get a call at 8:00 am yesterday morning. I didn't answer because I was busy doing nothing on the couch and couldn't find my phone in visual distance. Finally, curiosity gets the best of me and I get off my butt to hunt for my phone.

I finally find it and resume my spot on the couch. When I checked my voicemail I realize it was my mother in law calling to see if we wanted to go strawberry picking. I set down my phone and thought, "Heck yeah! I want to do me some berry pickin"! The hubs and I have done berry picking before and I loved it. Except we were berry picking for wine, not for pies and jam and crap.

When I called her back to say that me and the kiddos were on board with the strawberry picking, I asked her what time she was thinking. She said that the morning would work out the best due to bugs, sun, etc. All that crud I wasn't really thinking about. I glance down at my tweety bird pajamas and half drank coffee and somewhat feel like a failure. I fess up that it may take us a while to meet up with her because we are all still in our pjs. Don't judge me...it was my day off. 

The kiddos are downstairs grinding play doh into every nook and cranny. I bribe them with a promise of doing something really fun if they go mach speed at getting dressed, teeth brushed, and getting in the car. Surprisingly they comply...working on the notion that they would be handsomely rewarded. Yeah, we don't get out of our pjs on days off until at least 10 am unless there is a darn good reason. They were intrigued. 

We make it over to MIL's house and all pile into her car to head out to the strawberry patch. When we get there we are instructed to talk to a man standing in the middle of the patch. The "strawberry keeper" if you will...

He gives us specific instructions on how we are allowed to pick. This involves rows and flags and half this row half that row. I stand there slightly confused. MIL and Little Dude head off down their row. I am still confused because I suck at following directions and paying attention. I ask the "strawberry keeper" to repeat his instructions. I gather that I am allowed to stick to a particular row and to go as far as I can and then put the flag that is at the beginning in the row in the spot where I end up. Okay I got it now. Sheesh, this is technical. For some reason when I thought of strawberry picking, I pictured frolicking carelessly through a strawberry patch. Tasting and giggling were also a part of that delusion.  This seemed like a lot of rules for a berry pickin' outing.

We start picking berries and I realize Sassy Girl is quickly filling up her bucket. The competitive side in me is flaring up and I look in her bucket and realize she is also picking mushy berries. I show her which berries to pick and feel better about my slim pickings. I am being very choosy.

As we go further down our row, I see some perfect strawberries. Except they are in the row next to me. After I pick them, I look around to see if the "strawberry keeper" caught me breaking the rules. I kind of felt guilty. I had specific rules given to me twice...and I broke them. 

While picking, we ran into someone that I knew. She remarked how many strawberries we had picked. I made some comment about jam. In fact, I had been commenting about jam all day. I have no idea how to make jam. I have never made jam in my life. But, it felt right that someone at a strawberry patch should be an expert at making jam. So...I exaggerated my knowledge of what to do with all these fricken berries. 

After we had picked four buckets worth we packed up, and paid for our berries. I opt to take one bucket home and MIL takes the rest. For someone that was so stoked to go strawberry picking, I should have taken into account that I am the ONLY one in my family that likes strawberries. 

My kids will eat strawberries. But in a ratio of one strawberry to 1/4 cup of cool whip. And even then they may just eat around the strawberry. 

MIL gives me tips on how to freeze the berries. Since I will not be making jam, I will heed the advice to freeze these puppies up. 

As I lay my strawberries out flat, I feel a sense of pride. Awww yeah...I picked these. Way better than going to the grocery store. 

Someday I will actually learn how to make jam. I'm sure I could Google it if I really wanted to put the effort into it. 

It will be something I learn to do on my day off. In my pajamas. 

Until then, I will just pretend I fit the role of jam makin', berry pickin', jack of all trades mom... 

PS: What the heck Blogger? Why are you highlighting half my post in white? If anyone has any ideas please let me know!

Friday, June 22, 2012

Mommy's Tantrum

I was rude in public yesterday.

Some of you may say, "Big deal."

This IS a big deal for me. I RARELY let my inner *B* out. I felt liberated and ashamed at the same time. Ashamerated?

OF COURSE this rude behavior takes place at my favorite place on earth.

Walmart. Shudder.

I set myself up for frustration by trying to hurry along this "quick" shopping trip. We had to get a birthday present, sandals for Little Dude, food for our picnic, and shorts for Sassy Girl. I figured we would be "in and out." We had a T-ball game to get to and I didn't want to be late. 

That was my first mistake.

Picking out birthday present: Took well over 20 minutes. Most of which was explaining to my 7 year old why I refuse to spend thirty dollars on something that looks like it will break in a week and lose most of the little pieces within a day.

Sandals for Little Dude: Can't find his size or even an aisle with sandals. Frustration with evil Walmart is slowly building. Finally find an aisle that looks promising and there are "aisle squatters" blocking the path. Seriously, they must have been trying on every single shoe in the place. I grumble under my breath and then get sucked into an argument with Sassy Girl, who seems to think that the ten pairs of shoes she has at home are not sufficient. Cue: "It's NOT fair..."  I say screw it, and forget about the sandals. Sorry Little Dude. Your toes will have to sweat.

Shorts for Sassy Girl: AGAIN, can not find her size. What the heck Walmart? Do you see me coming and put out an alert to hide anything that may be on my list? Do YOU? Yeah...it's a conspiracy. All against me. Cripes.

Food for Picnic: Get all the way over to the grocery aisle and I hear, "I have to go potty!" Sigh. "Can you hold it?" Child holds crotch and raises pitch of voice, "No!!" Back we go in the direction we JUST came. Have to wait 10 minutes when we get to the restroom, because apparently all the elderly women in the store decided to eat prunes at exactly the same time...

Back to picking out food: Another argument resulted as both children were picking out their picnic items out based on the dessert that came with the Lunchable. OK, so you hate ham but you want to get this one because it comes with a Butterfinger...?? Can we not do this now?

FINALLY, we are ready to check out. I glance at the time and realize we will just barely make it to T-ball on time. I load all of my things onto the belt. I start fishing in my never ending purse for my wallet and realize it's not there. Great, I left it in the car. Anxiety/Frustration level growing.

But wait,  I have a checkbook. Sweet.

She runs the check through and then says, "Can I see your ID?"

I sigh excessively and say that I left it in the car and was hoping she wouldn't have needed it. Duh, that's why I had to use a check like a caveman. Psh.

She tells me she needs it. I tell her that my license number is on my check. She tells me she needs to see the license. Again.

Now, in my head I do realize this is all my fault. But, something happened to me that I can't really explain, and I just snapped. Red faced, I gathered up my kids, and shoved the cart to the side with all of my unpurchased items.

"WELL FINE! Guess what kids? We are going to be REALLY late to your game now. We have to walk all the way to TIMBUKTU to get it because that's where we had to park because everyone else without kids is too lazy to walk. FINE. JUST FINE! I will be back."

Well aren't I just a classy gal? While racing the children back to the nether regions of the parking lot I actually start to calm down a bit.

Then I feel really guilty. It wasn't the cashier's fault that my day was turning out so crappy. How dare I take it out on her! My little hissy fit felt good at the time, but seriously, how old am I? I turned into one of those people that I typically just raise my eyebrows at. And my kids just witnessed me throw a tantrum. Lovely.

Back inside, I sheepishly hand over my ID to the cashier and apologize for my behavior, explaining I was just in a rush and took it out on her. She looked at me like I was a bit crazy. I guess I kind of am. Oh well. At least my kid's witnessed me apologize for being a dumbass.

I just don't have the conscience to be a jerk. I don't know how so many people do it on a daily basis.

I won't be going back there anytime soon.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Lyrics Schmerics

Alright. I have to share a little debate I had at work with a co-worker. If by chance he reads this he will just shake his head, I'm sure, because he knows that I don't let things go easily.

Where I work we all share a radio that goes to the speakers in our offices. This is a bit of give and take since we all have varying tastes and ideas of what is good music. Also, there is a good 15 - 20 year age gap between me and everyone else there. Lucky for them I dig the classics over bubble gum pop. That was not an "old person" dig, but let's face it, I'm the "baby" of the crew. 

This day in particular was not my day to choose the station. It was country day. Yee haw.

I can take a bit of country here and there...but all day listening isn't my cup of tea. Halfway through the day I jokingly commented to my co-worker that I couldn't take any more songs about divorce, alcohol, or checking for ticks in intimate places (gross). Yes, I know I am generalizing a whole genre of music...but for the slice of pie I was forced to indulge in that's what I gathered to be the main topics at hand.

He looked up at me in all seriousness and said, "Well, I guess I never really listen to the lyrics. I just listen to the music."

I stopped, cocked my head, and said "What? You NEVER listen to the lyrics?"

He said, "No. Why? Do you?"

I held myself back from saying, "Duh." and said, "Well, yeah. That's kind of the point of music. There's a story to tell. Whether it is crap or not, it still has a story. How can you NOT?"

I was on pretty high horse now.

He shrugs and says, "It's not a big deal. I don't think most people really listen to the lyrics of songs. I know a couple Kid Rock lyrics, I guess."

I'm shaking my head in disbelief now.

Me, being the stubborn woman I am said, "Well, I have to disagree. I know for a fact that many people listen to the lyrics of songs. That is the entire POINT. Yes, I suppose the music alone can tell a story too but when the artist adds lyrics it isn't just for background noise. You are supposed to listen. How do you know that your not jammin' happily with a smile on your face to a song about rape?"  OK, extreme example...but I go big or go home I guess.

He THEN tells me that I am too "deep of a thinker and over analyze things."

I may have gotten "slightly" defensive after that. A wee bit.

After he again said that he was sure I was in the minority of people that actually listens to the lyrics, I was bound and determined to prove that HE was the whacko not I. Perhaps this was not the best way to prove THAT particular point, but...oh well. That's me. Take it, or leave it. 

Every time someone came in the office they were greeted with, "Quick question. When you listen to music do you actually listen to what the lyrics are saying?"

Guess what co-worker? Everyone said "Yes."

And then they looked at me like I was a psycho, but that is beside the point.

Especially when they answered yes, and I responded with "Boo yah!" and  looked pointedly in my co-worker's direction. I may take things a bit far at times...

Feeling satisfied that I proved my point I went back to my office. This whole conversation got me thinking of all the conversations that were prompted between my parents and I because of music. Good and bad.

Cripes. As a teen, one of my first real adult "sex" conversations with my mom was a result of listening to "Take it on the Run" by Reo Speedwagon in the car. Also, a similar conversation took place following a duet with my mom and I in an awesome car karaoke ballad of Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." Okay mom...I have no intentions of wearing the scarlett letter anytime soon. Enough. 

My dad turned me on to Pink Floyd at a very early age. Dear Gawd...don't get me started on analyzing those lyrics. That could be a new blog entirely.

Anyway, because I am stubborn, I felt I had to prove my point that the person involved in the debate was missing out on a whole lot of awesome (or not so awesome) by not paying attention to what he was pumping out on the speakers. Granted, there is a lot of crap out there that is just a catchy chorus with some random sexual references...but it is a story nonetheless. Such as liking big butts. And not being able to lie about it.  Or being a California girl wearing daisy dukes. And bikinis on top. And so on. And so on. But there is a lot of mind blowing lyrics out there that are thought provoking and artistic as well.

I even make it a point to discuss lyrics with my children Appropriate lyrics of course. I have no intentions of dissecting "Milkshake" anytime soon. Or ever. But in church...uh yeah, I explain what we are all singing off key about. Or some of my favorite songs I will explain what they are all about. When my mom passed away, you will see in an earlier post, we listened to "Wildflower" quite a bit. While these lyrics were not necessarily about passing on, they are about "being free." I think this song was written following Petty's divorce, but our own interpretations of "being free" felt right to us.  This is music. Conversation. Art. Emotion.

Damn it. Listen to it!

That's. The. Point.

I win. In my head...I win.

Besides. We are talking about the man that stole my lunch once. Yeah. He ate it.

So I win.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

"She wiped Mosquito Blood on Me! MOM!!!"

It's 6:30 pm and I just put my kids to bed.

The neighbor kids are racing by the window on their bikes as we speak.

 I don't even care.

Today was void of happy, shiny, blissful moments. Today I felt like a Walmart parent. NOT the abusive Walmart parent. That's another post (rant) entirely. More like the one that doesn't know how to control her kids. You know the type I'm talking about. Don't act like you don't.

The afternoon started with a full on, balls to the wall, holy crap who's-kid-are-you type temper tantrum. Let me give you the play by play:

I needed to drop some movies off at Redbox, which is located by a Walgreens near our house. Sassy Girl asks if we can go in and get a snack because they are obviously near starvation. My response was no. We have crap at home.

Little Dude chimes in with a slew of very loud "I'm hungrys" mixed with whining about how I never listen to him. I try to redirect him with, "Look we are almost home! Start counting and let's see how long it takes to get home." Sassy Girl messes with his counting gig by talking over top of him. Little Dude gets pissed and DEMANDS that I stop the car, put it in reverse, and go back to the exact spot where he initially started counting. Are you kidding me, kid?? 

When I didn't comply with his ridiculous demands...full blown tantrum ensued. Little Dude takes anger out on  Sassy Girl by "punching" her in the arm, so she retaliates by wiping "mosquito blood" on him. Classy. 

I can't even say "Don't make me pull over" because that is exactly what Little Dude wanted me to do in the first place.

Pull into the driveway and Little Dude is freaking out about the fact that I didn't go back to his counting starting line. (OCD??) 

I ask him to get out of the car and he proceeds to stand in the driveway and scream his little lungs out in frustration. I leave him outside for a minute and then take pity on our neighbors and go out to try and talk this psycho kid off his tantrum ledge.

This proves unsuccessful, and I pick up the child, who immediately does that jerk move of turning into a limp noodle. Kicking and screaming, somehow we make it inside. My shirt is stretched out and I have a scratch on my cheek. I swear something possessed my child. The "I didn't take a nap Mommy" demon. 

This tantrum is quelled with a time out. But the night is full of bickering between the children and:

I. Can't. Take. Much. More.

Schedule plan now:

4:45: Dinner served

5:20: Baths

6:00: Stories


Sassy Girl can tell time, but she is not at the point yet where it has much of an impact on her. She still goes by the routine rather than the time.

So, while they are still young, my ninja skills of bumping the routine up an hour still work.

Still...This post took an hour and a half to write BECAUSE:

*She's kicking me!

*He's copying me!

*She's being mean!





"Just you wait until your father gets home...."

Monday, June 18, 2012

My House Ate My Remote...Again

We are now going on day 7 of our TV being stuck on the Disney channel.

 We lost the remote. Cue impending doom music. 

Actually, we have now lost two remotes. Yep. This has happened before. Lost remote, couldn't take it being stuck on one channel, and purchased a new one. Then...we found the old one. Of course.

Now, because we are so awesome, we can not find EITHER remote.

Seriously...where could they be? I may not have a home that can be featured in the newest edition of Better Home and Gardens, but we are not flippin' hoarders! So...I've eliminated that picture of several remotes lost under trash, boxes, and 30 cats out of your minds, right? 

I think Remote #1 was actually hidden after Remote #2 was purchased so we would have a back up. Great plan idiots. We should know we aren't smart enough to remember where we hid something over a year ago. Cripes. We don't even have a good track record of remembering where all of the Easter Eggs are. We learned a hard lesson one year to ONLY hide the plastic eggs.... 

Tonight, after the same stupid "tween" show came on during my evening laundry folding extravaganza, I finally couldn't take it anymore. I started tearing cushions off of the couches. When it didn't appear that the couch had ingested either of the remotes, I turned into the Incredible Hulk and started moving furniture frantically. I was red faced, sweaty, and my hair was all crazy.

This, my friends, is quite possibly what rock bottom might look like.

 In fact, I think I am more embarrassed that this is my reaction to not having a REMOTE. A simple device that changes channels on a television. The crazy reaction that I had might be more appropriate for, oh...I don't know...a fricken crack addict? Sheesh.

Needless to say, I did not find either of the remotes. I interrogated the kids under a hot lamp and they did not have information that was useful in any way. But then again, why would they? They are in heaven. The TV is stuck on the Disney channel forever. I can actually picture Sassy Girl praying for this. Would not surprise me. 

I will be taking the walk of shame back into the cable company tomorrow.

"Another remote please. Just put it on my tab."

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Getting Babies out of Bellies

This post is not for the squeamish. Like me. I am a total immature squeamish child about stuff like this. So picture me blushing and typing because that is exactly what is happening.

I was standing in the kitchen minding my business. To be specific I was emptying the dishwasher, making hamburgers, and daydreaming about laying on the beach doing nothing.

All of a sudden a tiny voice rocks my world.

"Hey Mom...how do babies get out of bellies?"

I dropped the spatula and thoughts of how I was going to answer this innocent question were spinning so fast  but in a slow motion sort of way in my brain. No...I'm not ready for this! I figured I had more time! You know what I mean....? 

I stammered and tried to buy some more time.

"Um...what honey?"

"Babies. How. Do. They. Get. OUT?" Little Dude basically could have said, "Did I stutter?"

"Well...sometimes they cut them out."  WHAT? NO! Why would I say that?? 

Little Dude's eyes got HUGE. And he looked very confused.

"Well then they'd be dead...right?"

"Well, um no, because doctors do it with special tools." Oh my GAWD. I NEED TO SHUT UP!

Looking at my child's face twisted in a look of utter horror I mentally slapped myself, took a deep breath, and mustered up some maturity.

"But they only have to do that sometimes. It's like surgery. The way babies are born usually is through the...through the...ahem...vagina. Down there. They come out down there."

By this time Sassy Girl has sauntered out into the living room and appears to be thoroughly enjoying my blatant discomfort.

You have to realize my entire life growing up was pretty darn modest. We had "bottoms" "behinds" and "pee pees." The "V" and the "P" words were nonexistent in my home. Silly really. I don't have any issues with talking about knee caps or spleens...

"So...they come out down there?? A baby comes out where you go potty?? No way. That would hurt."


"And what if you had to go potty...the baby would fall in the toilet."   Sigh. Now they are giggling. 

I respond with: "Yes it hurts, but it is worth it because I love you both so much."  

And then I see that both of them are connecting the dots that both of them were once in my tummy and both of THEM at one point needed to come out via the "V"   My turn to silently giggle.

Phew. Awkward conversation over. Then I hear out of Little Dude, "So when is that baby gonna come out of your tummy?"

"Oh honey, I don't have a baby in my tummy right now."

"Then why does it look so big? I think it's a baby."    Grumble/Scowl/Die-a-little-inside

Damn you Oreos. Damn you to hell. And no dessert for you either Little Dude.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Little White McLie

I lied today. To my own husband. It just spewed out before I even put any thought into it.

He called me to see if he could use my car to go fishing.

I told him I was at the park...

I was not at the park. I was sitting on my ass eating a chicken sandwich at McDonalds.

I guess saying I was at the park sounded so much more "Mom of the Year" than "Yeah, fend for yourself for dinner. I'm loading the kids up on fake meat and I am getting fatter as we speak. Love you."

My sister was even with me when the word vomit came out. She looks at me with an odd expression and all I could do was shrug with just as much confusion at the knee jerk lie I just told.

McDonalds is a place of sanctity for a lot of parents. The kids eat the crap we tell them is food as fast as they possibly can and then they disappear into the maze of twisty bright colored tunnels until it is time to go. Then we have to hunt them down and shout threats until they emerge. Still, it's a fair price for an uninterrupted meal and an adult conversation.

I eventually fessed up that I was, indeed, at the "Fat Pants Kingdom".  Oops...make that "McFat Pants Kingdom."

If I would have let the lie go on it would have messed with me in ways "The Tell Tale Heart" couldn't even come close to describing. I suck at lying...I suppose that is a good quality. 

A positive out of this:  I learned I did not scar my child for life with the ghost story yesterday. Guess what was echoing loudly in the tunnels between all the children in the joint?

"Where is my Golden Arm?!"

Little Dude started a trendy new game.

This no-good-lying mother is pretty proud.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Ghost Stories Should Have Ratings On Them...

Sometimes I make crap parenting decisions. Like tonight when I decided to tell ghost stories to my 7 and 4 year old children. In the middle of a severe thunderstorm. Grand idea. 

The setting was just "oh so right" for spooky stories, and from time to time I forget to be the adult in certain situations.

I begin the night off after dinner by telling them the classic story about the girl with the ribbon around her neck. You know...that age old story about the hitchhiker/prom queen/dead girl. I forget all the variations, but I stick with dead prom girl.

Totally appropriate for a four year old.

They appeared to handle this story okay, so I pull out the big guns. "The Golden Arm."

This story used to scare the pants off of me as a kid. Actually it still does.

Side note: I am a big fat scaredy pants. When I wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom...I typically run back to bed full speed, eyes closed, and take an extreme dive into my bed and under the covers because I convince myself something is following me. I am supposedly a grown up! This is pathetic. 

So, back to "The Golden Arm." I pride myself on awesome story telling and this ghost story is no exception.

 For real...I am the mom that will use a fake British accent in a Dr. Seuss book for one of the characters if I think it suits them. This may prove to be extremely annoying in the years to come for my poor children. For now, I'm a rock star. 

I am pulling out every ounce of theatrics I have in me to make the story seem even more frightening. Because I am an awesome mom that likes to scare the crap out of her kids.

If you are not familiar with "The Golden Arm", let me summarize it for you.

Dude marries a chick with a golden arm. She lost her arm as a child in a horse riding accident and her rich father bought her a golden arm. (Wouldn't this be EXTREMELY heavy???) Chick tells dude repeatedly that  this arm is all that she has left of her father and even when she died she wanted him to promise that she would still have it. Long story short, chick dies, dude runs out of money, digs up dead wife and takes her arm. Chick ghost comes back to haunt him, because she is PISSED! At this point in the story you say in a spooky voice, "Where is my golden arm?" repeatedly and gradually get louder until you stop on one of listeners...go silent.....and then say, "IT WAS YOU!" while grabbing them suddenly.


Except, I chose my youngest to scare the crap out of with this tactic. And he promptly did his "I'm going to repeatedly blink my eyes because I am about to cry and I don't want to" bit.

Shit. I suck at parenting.

I immediately pull him in for a big hug and tell him it was all just pretend. He asks me never to utter the words "Golden Arm" again. I agree this is for the best.

As we get ready for bed, I have two children glued to my side. I tuck them in and reassure them that the story is fake, Scooby Doo is fake, and every other thing involving monsters, zombies, or ghosts is fake. Long conversation that I totally deserved.

I think they are sleeping now. Fingers crossed that I didn't cause my children night terrors...

I am just glad I didn't go with my initial thought of showing them one of those videos that has a demon pop out at you suddenly...



Sweet dreams all. Don't tell stories about ghosts and death to your children. Trust me. You will feel like an ass later.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Amusement Parks and Dog Cones

I have finally recuperated enough from our family trip to Valleyfair to actually sit down and rehash the details. Not that it was a bad trip. It was great. Just utterly exhausting.

For my readers that don't know, Valleyfair is the cat's meow of amusement parks in MN. As a kid I remember being in complete child like AWE of it's splendor. To be honest, I still had a bit of that awe walking through the gates...but it was more of an overwhelmed awe. Not to mention the: "Crap...everything is so expensive" awe. 

We decided to go because it was Girl Scout day which meant Sassy Girl scored us all half off tickets. Who can pass that up?? Not a cheapskate like me that's for sure! 

Several of our friends decided to come along too, which gave the hubs and I a bit more support with the kiddos in the sea of strangers. All hands on deck!

We piled into the car and headed out the night before as were were staying at a friend's house so we could get an early start at the amusement park the next day. 

Picture three adults, two crabby kids, and a dog with a cone around his head (recent neutering) piled into the car. This was our trip. It smelled like dog, peanut butter crackers, and more dog.

 The kids were at each other's throats the whole time and my patience was shredded to threads. Love and Logic parenting went right out the window after the first hour of whining and the phrase, "I'm gonna call Valleyfair and tell them we are NOT coming!" was hollered out at the kids more than once.

Apparently we are THAT important that our absence would cause great upset to the staff of Valleyfair. The phone call is necessary to prepare them for the obvious sadness and tears that would follow when we did not show up. And it will all be on you Little Dude and Sassy Girl. All on you. Be quiet. 

I'm pretty sure the friend that rode with us will never do it again. Ever. Childless folk.

Made it to our friend's house and discovered we needed to do some minor adjustments on the dog's cone as he was still able to lick himself. Where there's a will there's a way.

Vet friend suggests reinforcing cone with cardboard. The only cardboard available is an old Miller High Life case. Redneck solutions= Duck tape + beer case. Sorry dude. 

The next morning the kids are up at 5 am and on kid crack. Today is the DAY! They also got into the doughnuts when no one was looking and had about 3 each if I counted right.
The adults are sleep deprived and groggy. Cone headed dog spent half the night running into shit and waking everyone up. Dog revenge. 

After dealing with unexpected road construction, we finally get to our destination. Adults are hot, tired, and in need of a bathroom after all the coffee we downed. 

We walk through the gates and empty every last cent out of our pockets. Then it's on! Where to? Sassy Girl picks out a ride that turns her excited little face into a look of complete horror. That's my girl, alright.

There is one roller coaster in particular that I had been talking myself into going on for weeks prior. Now was the time to either put my money where my mouth was or run away with my tail between my legs. Normally I am not afraid to choose the latter...but peer pressure is a powerful thing. 

Once I am actually strapped into the thing and ready to willingly defy all laws of gravity...I start to have second thoughts. My friend decides now is the time to say, "Hey, do you remember three years ago when this coaster went off it's tracks?"    Ummm....no....?

 Why are we friends?  Just kidding. I love ya. But seriously...

Coaster starts off and I am feeling very uneasy being at the point of no return. At the top I actually say a prayer because I am a bit overdramatic at times, and I am convinced this is the end for me. 

Chains stop their torturous clinking and you hear the release. HOLY CRAP! A high pitched-blood curdling-scream like noise I have never heard before exits my body. I brace myself for 30 more seconds of this horror I talked myself into. Almost over, almost over, almost over. Phew....done. 

I get out of the torture chamber and my legs feel like jello, my head hurts, and my hands are still shaking. Yep, I paid to do this. What the heck?!

I'm convinced those cameras they have set up to snap a picture at the end of some crazy drop are just for evidence in the event of a death. After seeing my picture I am pretty sure I flat lined at that point. Thank God I said my prayers and was revived shortly after. 

Needless to say, we spent the rest of the day in the kiddie section and water park. I avoided my nemeses, the Tilt a Whirl and Teacups, but everything else was fair game. 

As the sun begins to go down we pile back in the car, go get cone head, and head for home. Our entire carload looks absolutely defeated by the all mighty amusement park. 

The next day. Could barely walk. Thank you Valleyfair for not only reminding me I am getting older, but for giving me that kick in the pants to get my affairs in order "just in case".

(Just so we're clear, I am referring to freak roller coaster accidents. They totally happen.)