My kids know just enough about how babies are made to get their little minds churning, but not enough to stop them from coming up with crazy wild theories. Laylee knows that a baby needs an egg from the mom and a sperm from the dad to get cooking, but has no idea how the two are exchanged. She puts humans and birds in the same category because both are hatched from eggs.

Magoo knows the baby is inside my “tummy” which he thinks of as a huge cavernous region below my mouth somewhere. He thinks it’s hilarious that the baby is swimming around in a sea of all the food I’ve eaten in the last 8 months. He can’t wait to see pictures of her when she comes out with cheese stuck to her face and carrots coming out of her ears. Unparalleled comedy that will be.

For the past two weeks, I've been at my Dad’s house cleaning it out from top to bottom in order for him to sell it. When I say "cleaning from top to bottom," I literally mean every closet, drawer, and cabinet -- including his attic. He and my Mom lived in this house -- my childhood home -- for thirty years. To say that there are thirty years of memories and memorabilia stored in the house is a huge understatement!

When I was a teenager, my dad was strict. He was, I would’ve told you back then, unreasonable, over-protective and stubborn, and I would’ve rolled my eyes to illustrate my point. (Seeing as how those same eyes were thickly be-decked with Clairol Electric Blue Mascara, my moral authority should have been taken with a grain of salt.)

He almost never raised his voice. He was gentle and respectful, but he made himself clear.

It seems like every other month or so my son decides to spend time in the Little Imp Gym, working out his "NO!" muscle and running Escape from Mommy sprints. I don't know what it is -- Grandma Withdrawal Syndrome since coming home from our trip? Just getting back to normal? The full moon? -- but Jack is currently experimenting with every button I have, trying to find out what happens when he pushes them all at the exact same time. I am trying to come up with a counterattack that doesn't bring CPS to my house.

No matter how much they’ve snarked and quarreled during the day, my kids band together at night, the two of them against the two of us, the two of them against sleep, sanity, and reason. They have things to do in the night, games to play, and often, heads to be bonked.

Sometimes the shenanigans are spontaneous, but other times they require more careful planning and accompanying subterfuge.

This morning I flew to Las Vegas with my husband, my kids, and my in-laws. In fact, I am writing this very post from the middle of my king-sized hotel room bed, fifteen feet away from the largest bathtub I have ever seen in my life. This hotel suite is SWANK, people, with seemingly more space than my own HOUSE, and property management may have to drag me out of here by my sopping wet fresh-out-of-the-amazing-pool ponytail. (Although that may have more to do with not wanting to endure what it will take to get myself, my husband, my kids, and my in-laws back to our own homes.)

If you follow me on Twitter you already know there was, shall we say, a slight mishap with our tickets. My father-in-law booked a 7 PM flight thinking it was a 7 AM flight, and the first person to catch this was the nice man at the check-in counter. Surprise!

Have you seen all the cute craft projects people are doing lately using old newspapers, drink-containers, plastic bags, and other trash? I love the creativity that goes into these projects and it’s fun to think that they’re made with items that would otherwise be thrown out or put through the long and resource-intensive process of recycling.

Laylee’s fascinated by this too, always talking about the virtues of the 3-Rs -- reduce, reuse, and recycle. When I was napping this afternoon she went to the recycle bin and got to work, rescuing every item and putting them to use, creating magical and useful items which I came down and found spread throughout the house.

If you follow any West Coast bloggers I'm sure you are sick of hearing about the heat wave. Especially if you live in one of the states from which we Pacific Northwesterners appear to have stolen summer. You're probably thinking to yourself, "Again? Really? Have Pacific Northwesterners any imagination at all?" And I am here to tell you: No. We are captive to our weather, and the doom and gloom of the average forecast is what feeds our art. This sun stuff leaves us stymied.

We’re having the worst heat wave in the Puget Sound region in at least 30 years, and in honor of it I chose to get pregnant 7.5 months ago just to add that extra special something to this frog boiler of summer fun.

Magoo keeps telling me he’s “BOWLING!”

I just returned home from a whirlwind, five-day trip to Chicago. I never have an easy time when I have to leave my family. When I am at home, I honestly do not think of myself as a control freak -- but I must be to some extent. The lists I make for everyone on what to do, how to do it, and when to do it border on obsessive. (No doubt my family throws them away as soon as I leave.) I just want to make sure that everyone is taken care of while I am away. Taken care of my way, that is. But more than that, I worry that my children will miss me and need me while I am away. I make a fuss because I want them to miss me as little as possible.