Rough Draft

As I look back over my spotty record of bloging, I am shocked! Shocked and appalled at my inability to blog regularly and consistently. Well, no more! No more, I say! I shall sit here and type until my fingers are nothing but bloody stumps. Or until I finish a blog entry. Whichever comes first. And I'm not getting up until I'm done!

After I sort the laundry, that is. I can take short laundry duty breaks. And potty breaks, of course. And food breaks. To recap: laundry, potty, eat and blog. That's it for the day.

I had a vision the other day. A beautiful vision that filled me with happiness, contentment and...

What? No, we're not out of juice. Look in the.... No, no, next to the.... Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll be right there.

So, as I was saying. I was zipping along the interstate when I saw...

Clean shorts? They're in the dryer. No one will see you if you run downstairs in your undies. Haven't you ever seen "Risky Business?" Of course not. Just a minute, I'll get them.

... the most beautiful thing! At first I thought it was a mirage, a trick of the morning sun reflecting off a dip in my caffeine level.

Speaking of caffeine, maybe a little sum-sum would be a good "perk" me up about now. Heh, heh, heh. A little coffee humor there. I crack me up sometimes. Can't type and drink hot coffee at the same time, so maybe I'll check my email quick.

But there it was, shimmering up ahead in the distant traffic. Well, not really shimmering, because it was brown...

Crappity crap crap! I forgot all about finishing up those reports for the church!

...a brown beacon calling to me from...

What do you mean the file's too big to email? I don't have time to drive to the church, fire up that computer and download everything to a flash drive. "Computers will make your life easier" my fanny!

... just up ahead. I put on my best NASCAR moves and pulled up right behind...

Of course we can have lunch now. What would you like? No, we're not going to Olive Garden. Let me rephrase that: What would you like that we have in the kitchen?

... a big, beautiful, 18-wheeler. Emblazoned across the back was...

Oh, jeez! I forgot to call the Queen Mother this morning. She should be back from lunch by now, but not completely in nap mode yet.

... the single most enticing word in the English language.

EEEEP!!! You're dripping all over the floor! Get a towel! NO! NO! Not with those muddy feet! Stay right there! I'll get it! Don't move!

Coffee.

If it takes the kids 10 minutes to get every bucket, pail, squirt gun and shovel out of the garage, why does it take so much longer to pick them up?

Forget the Porsche. Forget the Mini Cooper. I want my own, personal semi-tanker filled with coffee.

Dinner? Didn't we just eat lunch?

For a brief, blissful moment I just cruised behind the Holy Grail of coffeedom, fantasizing about driving my own tanker truck of coffee. Just me, my rig and an endless supply of java, making our way 'cross the U.S. of A.

Holy Crap! That's the smoke alarm!

It would be WAY better than those dinky, drink-holder hats. I mean, they only hold two cans. A mere 24-ounces. This would be an entire tanker-full!

Could someone please get the phone?

Yeah, I'd have to work out the whole freshness thing.

Hellooo. Phone's ringing.

And I'd probably have to hit every rest stop along the way.

Hey! Ya' phone's ringin'!

Plus a few gas station restrooms in between.

Oh, for the luva... Yes. No. No. Hmmm, Culver or Branstad? I'm waiting for door number three. The biggest problem facing Iowans today? Too many friggin' political calls! Hello? Anyone there?

Then I pulled close enough to read the fine-ish print.

Bed time! Bedtime, bedtimebedtimebedtime! Bed. Time. Now!

It wasn't actually a tanker full of coffee. It was a gas station tanker advertising...

Of course I'll tuck you in. Yes, and tell you a story. And rub your back.

... "best coffee on the..."

Oh well. Maybe tomorrow.

Yellowstone Light

I usually try not to give parents advice on how to raise their kids, because I figure my track record is not quite perfect yet (close, but not quite). However, I do have one suggestion I think is excellent:

If at all possible, have your child win a trip to Yellowstone that allows you to tag along.

I don't mean as a chaperon. Ohhh no, that involves way too much work. I mean "tag along" as in enjoy all the benefits and none of the responsibilities. It's nice work if you can get it. And, thanks to the nice corporate sponsors-- but most of all to the Little Princess, her three fellow Princesses and their Queenly moms -- I got it.

We had a wonderful time, riding on the coattails of our Siemen's "We Can Change The World" Challenge second-place winning daughters. I'm afraid this might be the Little Princess' "Get Out of Juvie Free" card for a little while. The subtle, yet effective rebuff will go something like this:

Me: "Little Princess! I told you to clean up your room! I mean now, missy!"
LP: "Hmm, do you remember the Grilled Organic Chicken Breast with Artichokes, Olives and Pine Nuts we had at Yellowstone? Or what about those Honey Whole Wheat Blueberry Pancakes?"
Me: "Uh...yeah..well. Um, whenever you get around to it, darling."

Of course, it wasn't all catered meals, expertly guided tours and Phillipe Cousteau (such a cutie!). There was airline travel involved, after all. Our initial flight out of Cedar Rapids International was canceled, meaning we would miss the first of only two daily flights our airline had from Minneapolis to Bozeman, Montana. We had a choice of waiting nine hours in CR, or in Minneapolis. It was a tough choice -- the cities being so much alike and all -- but we decided to head north ASAP.

If you have to be stuck in an airport with four pre-teen girls for nine hours, the four Little Princesses are a good group to be stuck with. We probably could have spent all our time just wandering around Minneapolis-St. Paul International, but we opted to hop the light rail for a quick trip to the Mall of America. The trip organizers told us to be prepared to do a lot of hiking. We just didn't realize it would all take place before we even got to Yellowstone.

My last flight was pre-9-11, but I had been coaching myself for several weeks to suppress my natural tendency to make flippant (some would say "smart-ass") remarks. Apparently air-line security scanners are now so sensitive that they can actually pick up errant thoughts. How else to explain the fact that I was pulled aside for a pat-down? Twice. Once on the initial flight out of Cedar Rapids (while I was biting my tongue so hard it nearly bled) and on the return flight out of Bozeman.

OK, so I might have whispered some subversive comments to the Little Princess the second time. It's not my fault the TSA needs to read their postings for content. I mean, they tell you the name on your ID and boarding pass must match, but they never say it has to be your name. And requesting we "treat security personnel with the respect they deserve" is just asking for trouble. Granted, if I worked in that little closet they call a security checkpoint in Bozeman, my behavior probably wouldn't deserve much respect either.

It's a tough job, and better them than me, but come on now, getting pulled aside for a pat-down twice? If they tried it a third time I was going to demand they buy me dinner and flowers first.

I was just surprised I didn't get hauled into any of the many security checkpoints we walked by on our return through MSP International. Sometime after the second pat-down and re-packaging the 3-oz. liquids I foolishly didn't cram into my checked bag, I developed a massive traveler's zit. I was fairly certain I would have to pay for a second seat just for my blemish. I swear the security guys looked at it like they were considering waving their magic wands over it. Who knows what I could have concealed in there! If we had to make an emergency landing, they could have deployed my zit to cushion the crash.

The Yellowstone portion of the trip more than made up for the travel troubles. In addition to learning about the wildlife, ecosystem and geology of the world's first National Park, we learned a few other more practical tips for Yellowstone visitors:

• Don't hike across a cactus-strewn field wearing flip-flops.
• Don't walk through sagebrush wearing shorts.
• Do always watch were you walk. There's a lot of poop in "them thar hills."

But most of all, I learned to be quiet and listen. To look and marvel at the splendor of nature. And to laugh and enjoy life with the ebullience of a pre-teen Princess.

Thank you, Little Princess. All four of you. For an experience I'll never forget.

Celebration Blog Dance

The following was written in Dolby Digital Surround. To maximize your reading experience, you are encouraged to break into spontaneous cheering, singing, fist-pumping and random dancing. Warning: you may want to close the door and pull the curtains first.

O.M.G! Woo Hoo! Woo Hoo! Woohoowoohoowoohoo! WOO HOO!

In the immortal words of Mister Parker in "A Christmas Story," I have won a Major Award! And yes, I am considering hanging the framed certificate in my front window.

I do not see this as bragging or boasting. I am sharing my excitement over good -- GREAT -- news with friends. Come join the celebration folks. It may be noisy, because I'm tooting my own horn.

You know how I hate to cut to the chase. So let me tell you the story behind the winning.

Sometime back in the dark, dreary days of the last Iowa winter, I was feeling the need to confirm that I was, indeed, a semi-productive member of society (it had been a particularly difficult day of herding kindergarteners – I mean substitute teaching). I decided that in lieu of finding a cure for the common cold, I would finally enter a writing contest I found on-line.

After months of planning my entry, (Actually a year and months. It was a biennial contest.) I waited until the last minute to write my story. By “last minute,” I mean the email had to be sent by midnight and I finished it at 12:01 a.m. The entry form had two classifications, “local” and “national.” I figured people are people, but my little musings may not be of interest to someone living in California (heck, they may not be of interest to my next door neighbor) so I checked the box marked “local.”

As I clicked “send,” (at 12:03 a.m.) it occurred to me that Ohio (where the entry was being sent) is on Eastern time. This would make my entry one hour and three minutes late, not just three minutes late. A quick check of the contest web site confirmed my fear. It also revealed that “local” referred to Dayton, Ohio, not “local” in the sense of “limited scope of interest.” I figure my entry went directly into the file marked “DUH” for “slack-jawed mouth breathers too stupid to follow directions.”

Chagrined, but not disheartened, I found a link to another contest: the National Society of Newspaper Columnists was adding a blog category. After much consideration and input from the Little Princess, I selected three blog entries from the past year, printed them off and managed to get them to the post office before closing time. Then I sat back and waited. And promptly forgot about the whole thing.

When I received the first email stating my entry had been selected as one of the top three, I looked for the fine print that would tell me where to send the wire-transfer for my “cozin in Niarobi” to help "make speeding the red of the will."

There was no fine print. I started to do a little happy dance.

I was caught between a bump and a grind when I started to wonder how many entries there were. This was the first year for the "blog" category. Maybe no one else knew about it. Was there really much to celebrate if mine was the only entry? What if I got third place out of three entries? I decided I really didn't care and went back to my happy dance.

It was a deadly combination of Midwestern modesty and low self-esteem that kept me nervously checking my email. Every day I expected to find the message "Ooops. Sorry. We were trying to contact the author of 'Sandwich Mom on Bly,' a fan-blog for the poet Robert Bly." Or "Ooops, sorry. We're looking for a blogger named 'Ju Ann'." (To which I could reply, Dude! That is so totally me! The lawn care people have addressed our bill to Ju Ann for the last three years! I've thought about not paying it, but I'm afraid they'll come reposes our lawn.)

Finally, finally, finally the official announcement was made at the NSNC conference, and the official announcement email sent out and received. (Get ready to dance) Yes, indeed, your's truly did receive third place in the blog category! And there were two honorable mentions, so there were at least five entries! And all the other winners work for name-brand publications! First place even went to Roger Ebert -- the Roger Ebert, movie critic, not Roger Ebert, alligator wrassler (although I'm sure he'd write a fine blog, too).

The judge's comments were so nice I had to check to make sure that I wasn't related to him, or that the King hadn't recently written him a very large check. No and no. What followed next was a world-class session of happy dancing, hooting and hollering that rattled the windows and shook the walls. It also caught the attention of the Little Prince and Princess.

"What are you doing?" the Little Prince asked, looking confused and a little frightened.
"I'm dancing!" I said, stating the obvious.
"Don't," he said.
"Ever," the Little Princess added.

Thank goodness I have them around to keep me grounded.

Grounded, but still dancing.

Stifling Safety Mom

One of the best things about being a stay-at-home mom is the chance to have fun like a kid again.

One of the hardest things about being a stay-at-home mom is convincing my inner "Safety Mom" to relax long enough for me to have fun like a kid again. And getting her to let the kids have fun like kids again.

Last week I took the Little Prince and Princess to the Coralville Dam to witness the awesome power of nature uncorked by flood control. I knew from experience (having had fun as a kid) that when they've cranked open the dam to maximum outflow, it looks really cool.

Fun Mom thought standing next to the outflow chute watching all that water rushing past just a few yards away -- roiling and splashing and bubbling -- was amazing.

Safety Mom thought it was loud, stinky, and a little too splashy for comfort. Safety Mom worried that a rogue wave would somehow suck the children over, under or through the 4-foot high chain link fence. She suspected that at the very least the Little Angels would become completely soaked with the farm-chemical and fish-poo laden river water. And they would still expect to ride home in her car. Wetter and stinkier than usual.

Fun Mom thought climbing up the rip-rap retaining wall to get a better look at the outflow and to search for fossils would be exciting.

Safety Mom worried someone would twist an ankle climbing on the rocks. Or that the rocks would give way and we would all be caught in an avalanche and crushed to death. Or that the children would disturb a rock-dwelling rattle snake. Even if the snake didn't bite them, we would still be crushed in an avalanche started by heaving a boulder at the snake.

Fun Mom thought it would be cool to climb to the top of the spillway and see how much of the beach on the other side was under water.

Safety Mom worried someone would fall over the top of the spillway and drown. Never mind that we were at the far western edge of the spillway, which is only about 6-feet above the beach and the water was only about a foot deep there. It goes without saying that we did not walk along the (3-foot wide) top of the spillway.

Fun Mom thought it would be neat to feed the ducks at City Park.

Safety Mom wondered if ducks have teeth. And do ducks get rabies? And should we really be feeding Rice Krispie Treats to the ducks?

Currently, the Little Prince bears the brunt of Safety Mom's nervous warnings. Fun Mom knows that to a 9-year-old on a skateboard, scooter or bike, every bump in the road or sidewalk is a ramp to be jumped. Safety Mom scans the area for splint-making supplies and a clearing for the emergency AirCare landing pad.

Turning the Little Prince loose to ride his bike down Orange Street Hill -- the steepest hill in town -- requires no less than four admonitions to be careful:

Safety Mom: "Be careful."

Little Prince: "I will."

SM: "No, really. Be careful."

LP: "I will."

SM: "OK, now, just be careful. And tie your shoe. You don't want your shoelace to get caught in the chain."

LP: (Sigh)" I know. What do you think is going to happen?"

SM: "If your shoelace gets caught, your chain will jam, your bike will stop and you'll go flying over the handlebars and do a face plant in the middle of the road. Try to land on your helmet. And remember you have to stop at the bottom of the hill. And there are cars parked along side the road. Be careful!"

But he is already down the hill and has stopped at the stop sign. Safely.

The best part of the best day was hearing the Little Prince breathlessly tell his father (the minute he walked in the door) "...and we stood by the fence... and the wave were at least 10 ft. tall... and we found fossils... and we climbed... and it was steep...." Because all I heard was "...do we have to... when can we... what are we doing next... and what's after that...."

I can only hope that when I say "Be careful," what they hear is "I love you."

Kicking Butt and Loosing Mine

I think I may have finally found the perfect workout for me. The "15-minute Butt-Kicking Workout."

I have been remiss in butt-kicking lately. I have a lot of stored-up butt-kicking energy. I could really, well, kick butt at butt-kicking.

It helped that I had to drive in Iowa City/Coralville on a Saturday. Apparently Saturday is another way of saying "Morons Out Driving Around With the Sole Purpose of Pissing Me Off Day." Everyone has their little auto-pilot, cow-trail that they drive to and from work all week, then the weekend comes and they are overwhelmed by driving options. Should they drive faster? Slower? Drive in this lane or that one? Maybe right between the two. Run the red light? Well, duh, of course. Take up two parking spaces? Hell, why not go two-wide, and pull so far forward you take up four?

Those drivers needed a little butt-kicking.

On the off chance they actually have a destination in mind, they don't leave that inability to make a decision in the parking lot. Hellooo Ladies, decide which handbag you want to buy before you get to the check out. Do not ask the cashier for her advice. Do not model them for her and do not ask her to model them for you. Do not make me fantasize about 36 ways to strangle you with the strap of the purse you may or may not purchase.

You need your butt kicked. And I am just the person to do it.

Because apparently by kicking your butt, I will be making my butt smaller.
I had never heard of this particular work out before I saw it mentioned on the cover of "Get Fit and Look Like This Pencil Thin 16-Year Old Model (When Pigs Fly)*" magazine (*name has been changed to protect me from lawsuits).

It was the "Walk-Off the Weight" headline that first grabbed my attention. I wondered if this WOW would be somehow different from the WOW article in the magazine by my bed. Or the one by the couch. Or the one in the bathroom. Or the two that I've dog-eared and tossed in the "to be looked at some time in the future when I have time" magazine pile.

'Cause I gotta tell you, I've been a little disappointed in those workouts. I'm walking up and down the stairs doing laundry, walking around the kitchen making dinner, walking from the couch to the fridge, walking from the house to the car, from the car to the church or school or the mall or the grocery store, and I'm just not seeing any results.

Yeah, sure, maybe I'm not exactly following the workouts to the letter. Maybe I'm not really following them at all. But I have read them. OK, skimmed is probably more accurate. At least I bought the magazine and thought about reading it.

I thought mental exercise was supposed to be good for you. Let me tell you, in my mind I have exercised the hell out of those workouts. I've thought about walking. I've thought about getting up early to walk. I've thought about doing the "lunge step" and the "tick-tock walk" and the....

Well, OK, those last two I mostly thought about how I wouldn't be caught dead doing them. I mean really. They want me to swing my leg out to the side then back to the front, like a pendulum, for each step? In public? The last time I did something like that we had just closed down the bar and we called it "staggering." I'm pretty sure there were no calories burned off that night. And we were just lucky that no one got their butts kicked.

Which brings me back to the butt-kicking workout. I think someone at that magazine needs to have their butt kicked. Because when I found the article about that workout, it never mentioned anything about kicking anyone's butt. It was the same old lunges and squeezes and squats and leg lifts. Nothing about kickin' butt and taking names. Nada.

Which could mean that I have just stumbled upon The. Greatest. Fitness Craze. Ever. Forget Pilates and Tae Bo and Jazzercise. "Kick Butt Butt-Kicking' " will -- you guessed it -- kick butt.

Imagine rows of exercisers standing behind foam-butted mannequins. The instructor calls out: "With your right leg now, 'You stupid, (kick), moron, (kick), you cut me, (kick), off! (kick)
"And your left leg, 'The sign, (kick), says 10, (kick), items, (kick), or less! (kick)"

You can work out your aggressions and your glutes. I will be mellow, and I will have no butt.
But not so mellow that I quit feeling the need to kick butt. Which is another reason why this is the perfect work out: There is a never-ending supply of people who really, really need to have their butt kicked.

And I'm just the person to do it.

Parking Lots and Ship Wrecks

Wow. The Nocember doldrums were a little more severe than I had anticipated. I set blogging sail when the gales of Nocember came early. I might have cracked up, or I might have hit a deep writer's block. But if I'd put 15 more blogs behind me, I wouldn't be making pointless allusions to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."

Then again, maybe I would. It's kind of fun. There I was, cast upon the shoals of too little sleep and too much to do. The big blog they call Gitche Gumee never gives up inspiration to the tired and cranky.

Or maybe people have just run out of new ways to annoy me. Maybe I've built up a tolerance to stupidity. Maybe I'm mellowing.

Ask the Princess. We met a car going the wrong way up a parking lot aisle the other day and I was uncharacteristically gracious. I didn't stake out the middle of the lane, stop and glare at him while traffic backed up behind me. I thought about it, but I didn't do it. No, I pulled to the right and crept past him, looking down at his puny little 2-door, which I could have squashed like up bug if I had chosen to.

Ditto for the second moron I met while I was driving down -- the correct direction -- the next aisle. She was totally oblivious to the fact that she was this far away from becoming my hood ornament. I usually only cut slack to one person per day.

I mean, Hello, people! That giant arrow painted on the road? It's pointing the opposite direction you are going. All these parked cars? They are parked going the opposite direction you are going. All the cars you are meeting in this extremely narrow lane? They're all going the opposite way you are. Yes, there's a chance they're all wrong and you are right. But you forgot one thing. I'm one of them, and I'm never wrong. Even when I'm not right.

To be fair, I met these idiots while driving through the parking lot of the Coralville HyVee, without a doubt the most screwed up parking lot on the face of the earth. I met moron number two in the mysterious, off-pattern "out" aisle, which ends at -- in a stroke of shear genius -- the "in" aisle for the attached strip mall lot.

You would think the entire strip mall could adopt a uniform, alternating "up, down, up, down" pattern of parking aisle, beginning on one end and "up, down, up, down"-ing all the way to the other end. But NOOOO! Some sick, parking lot painting, psychopath went and threw in one extra, single-sided "down" row -- just to mess with people's minds!

This is the same parking lot pervert that put in a random stop sign at the other end of the lot so that the occasional person exiting the drive-thru dry cleaners can have a clear shot at messing up the main in-out traffic flow. The strategy here, I believe, is to make more work for the dry cleaner. Typically if you stop at this stop sign you run the risk of being rear ended. Not all the skid marks left here are on the road, if you know what I mean.

I think if Gordon Lightfoot had dug a little deeper, he may have found the captain of the Edmund Fitzgerald was following shipping lanes set up by the same person who designed this parking lot.

Snow Dazed

Dear Diary,

4 a.m. It's snowing! Not much yet, but the weather man says more is on the way, followed by blizzard conditions. Ominous outlook, but for now Eastern Iowa has been transformed into a Winter Wonderland! It's so peaceful and calm. Except for the ear-splitting scrape of the snowplow. Hope we still have a road left.

6:05 a.m. Must have snowed more than I thought. No school today. The district's new automated calling system gives a much earlier alert than the radio. The kids don't have to get up, so maybe I can get a little more REM sleep. Prince Charming was just about to kiss me....

7 a.m. Kids are up already! Hmm, they never get themselves out of bed this early when they do have school. Oh well, who needs Prince Charming, when you have a charming husband? The sooner we get up, the sooner we can start our fun-filled snow day! I can hardly wait!

7:30 a.m. It must be magic snow! The kids made their own breakfasts and are downstairs eating, watching cartoons and making plans for a snow fort. Maybe later we can have hot chocolate and make cookies! Good thing I ran errands and picked up groceries yesterday. This is really going to be a such a relaxing, fun-filled snow day!

8:30 a.m. Kids are gearing up to go outside. There is some disagreement about which hat belongs to which kid. I'm pulling dual duty as referee and seeker of lost snow gear. I know I labeled that tote full of snow pants and boots. It's got to be here somewhere! I can't wait to get started on our first-of-the- season, fun-filled snow day!

8:45 a.m. The kids managed to get outside without killing each other. Note to self: forget the cutesy hats and the tough guy hats, buy identical hats from now on. I'm left behind to pick up the trail of discarded single mittens and gloves. Why did I pack away singles? Maybe the mates are in the other -- also missing -- tote. It might be a little tough to make a snowball with two mismatched, left-handed gloves, but kids adapt. You don't have to be able to use your thumb to have a fun-filled snow day!

9 a.m. Found breakfast dishes under a pile of Legos under a pile of discarded snow gear. Hmmm, the little scamps must have forgotten them in their hurry to enjoy their fun-filled snow day. Oh well, as long as they're having fun. Now I can sit down and enjoy a nice cup of coffee. There's more than one way to enjoy a fun-filled snow day!

9:10 a.m. Kids are back in already. Coffee will have to wait while I supervise hanging of wet snow gear.

9:20 a.m. Kids are going back outside. Have to lay down trail of throw rugs to laundry room.

9:30 a.m. Kids are inside. Remind them to stay on throw rug trail.

9:40 a.m. Kids going outside. Aarg! Stay on the trail!

9:50 a.m. Kids inside. Puddles forming on the trail!

10 a.m. Kids outside. I've locked the doors, microwaved my coffee and stuffed my ears with cotton. I swear I'll call them in after I finish this one cup. Please. Just. One. Cup!

10:20 a.m. How did they get back in? Not dirty enough to have come down the chimney.

10:25 a.m. They're hungry. How could I have gone to the store and not picked up snacky things? It's not supposed to snow and blow until later this afternoon, and the forecast is bleak for tomorrow as well. I'll never survive two fun-filled snow days without sweets. Emergency trip to the grocery store!

10:30 a.m. While all the other Moms are grabbing milk, bread and peanut butter, my cart is filled with cookies, ice cream, pop, chips, dip, Totino's Pizza Rolls, and candy. The other Moms are giving me the stink eye. The other kids stare at my kids with envy.

11 a.m. I shoo the kids outside one more time while I try to hide my own personal stash of HoHo's and licorice. Just assuring everyone's safety in case of a snacking emergency. Maybe after lunch we can play some board games and bake cookies. This is going to be such a fun-filled snow day!

1:00 p.m. We've played every board game, card game and dice game in the closet. We've made crafts, colored pictures and sculpted a replica of Michelangelo's "Pieta" out of Velveeta. We've read the Bible. Aloud. Twice. They're bored. They say this is a boring-filled snow day!

1:15 p.m. I've shut them in the TV room with snacks and a stack of DVDs. I'm locking myself in my room with the HoHo's and a bottle of wine.

4:00 p.m. They've converted a cardboard box into Santa's sleigh and built reindeer out of Legos. They're playing together quietly. More or less. They say this has been the best, fun-filled snow day ever!

8:00 p.m. Everyone is showered, jammied and ready for bed. Enjoying a little quiet reading time together before turning in. A peaceful ending to a fun-fill, snow day.

9:30 p.m. School has been canceled for tomorrow. Another fun... filled... snow...day. I can hardly wait.