Sleeping with the crickets

On Saturday night, Greg slept outside in a tent in our backyard. We've lived in our house for 11 years now and the blue spruce trees we planted along our back property line (to block the view out our living room windows of our neighbor's parked boat and camper) are big now. Really big. They were seven feet tall when we planted them and I bet they're well over 20 feet now. When you put a tent in that same area, it's now pretty secluded. They could pretend they were adventurers out in the wild jungle, I suppose.

There are several traditions associated with backyard camping. First is that Mom is a wimp and she does not camp with you (sorry, girls--think of it as kids-Daddy bonding time). Second is that there must be licorice. Third is that your bedtime is well after dark, and that you take a walk around the neighborhood once it gets dark with a flashlight.

This year, Greg told me that the three of them went to the park across the street and checked out the playground equipment, which is out of sight of our house and actually a bit of a walk away across a field (we're closer to the soccer field side). Greg said there were two kids there, one perhaps 19 and one who was short enough and slim enough to be much younger than 19. And he said they were both completely plastered.

I guess you never know what surprises you'll find in a city park after dark. We live in a small city, about 12,500 people, and we know that drinking is a big hobby for high schoolers (and I'm sure, younger kids too). I don't know if our girls noticed or if Greg said anything to our kids. I don't know what I would say.

Maybe a plea. Please, don't someday break your mother's heart by drinking until drunk and then hanging out in a city park in the dark. And don't drive.

I want my kids to have more nights when they think sleeping in a backyard tent is cool, especially with their daddy. Their childhoods are going by so fast.

May flowers

I feel like I need to post something so you all know I'm not dead. Well, I'm not and we're not, we're just busy. You know how that goes, your life takes a detour (in a good way) and you just don't have the time you used to have. Greg is giving a giant HAH! at that last statement and he's not even the slightest bit amused.

Regardless, we're all fine. Julia is sleepwalking a bit. That's an interesting new development. Still no thumb sucking though, so I don't mind the tradeoff. Her future orthodontist probably wishes she'd keep it up but she really seems to have kicked the habit without too much trouble.

Allie has been stressing over learning the 50 state capitals. I told her frankly that her daddy and I never had to learn the state capitals and couldn't probably name half of them--especially the ones that aren't in the biggest cities in the state. I mean seriously, who knew the capital of Nevada is Carson City. Carson City? It's pretty funny listening to Allie try to pronounce Baton Rouge though. Between that and Des Moines--- Hey, it doesn't take much to get a laugh in our household.

The title of this post reminds me of my wonderful grandma Martha, god rest her soul. She and my grandpa retired on a wooded five-acre lot and one of her greatest pleasures of spring was picking what we called May flowers every May. Delicate and pretty. I miss her. It makes me sad that my girls never knew her or my grandpa Elmer. Now there's a couple for you--Elmer and Martha. Aren't old names great?

And so life goes on.