We're leaving for our California vacation in only a couple of weeks. Hubs sent me an e-mail yesterday to remind me that there are a few remaining elements of our trip plans we still need to handle. He suggested we both do some research, and we could sit down later in the evening to discuss what we found.

Okay. Good idea.

But here's what it looks like when I do vacation planning: I sit down at the computer and open up the Disneyland website. And then I remember that it would be fun if we got my daughter a Tinkerbell t-shirt for the trip, so maybe I'll just pop over to the Disney Store website and see if there are any sales. But then that reminds me, wasn't there a big sale at Old Navy this week?

One of the best things about living in this part of the country is that we get to fully experience all four seasons.

One of the worst things about living in this part of the country is that we get to fully experience all four seasons. One of those seasons is called “summer”, though I’m suggesting that, in the name of accuracy, we should rename this season to The Fiery Bowels Of The Hottest Furnace You’ve Ever Seen. While I’m normally pretty tolerant of hot weather, this summer is especially toasty. We’ve even made the national news in recent weeks as part of a “Heat Advisory”. That’s fancy meteorologist talk for “GET YOURSELF BACK INSIDE THE HOUSE.”

We ate a hearty lunch of pizza at the pool today. When we were done, I closed the pizza box and reapplied the sunscreen just as slowly as I could. The natives were restless and wanted me to hurry, but we had to take our time, I explained -- “because if you swim too soon after eating, you’ll get sick.”

Why did I say that? Is this really an epidemic of such proportions that mothers of every generation find it worthy of mention? Are there really ambulance drivers squealing into the pool parking lots all over this nation to pick up little Teddy because he jumped in the water before his corn dog was fully digested?

Recently a new parent asked me for my best parenting advice.

Hmmm, let’s see...Don’t neglect your marriage. Laugh with your kids. Invest in stain-resistant carpet. Many tidbits come to mind, but the one I’m most inclined to share is simple: write it down. Write down the funny things, the little things. You think you’ll remember them, but take it from a mother with a houseful of kids (and a bad memory) -- you won’t.

I was a spotty journal-keeper my whole life, before I became a parent. I’d go through seasons of faithfully writing down my thoughts, and then months (even years) would elapse without an entry. But when my first child was born, the stakes seemed higher. Like most new parents, I had a “Baby’s First Year” calendar hanging on the wall of his nursery, and I planned to record the big things: first tooth, first word, first steps. I was quickly struck by how significant even the smallest event could seem. Almost by instinct, I began scrawling notes on that wall calendar -- not big milestones, but simple observations: Hates peas. Figured out how to splash in bathtub. Church nursery workers call him “Sunshine Boy”.

WHEREAS it has been affirmed that we don’t generally condone violence in this family, and

WHEREAS it has also been acknowledged that in excess of 66% of this family is male, and that’s a lot of testosterone in the backseat, and

WHEREAS your mother knows a thing or two about picking her battles, and

WHEREAS your mother has duly observed her children’s insistence on the playing of this game and has duly worn herself out with the refereeing,

It is herein set forth, on this eighth day of June, Two Thousand and Nine, the official rules of the backseat game of Slug Bug, which shall be fully and legally binding until further notice; in other words, I’m the mom and I said so.