
I ain't going to lie. I cannot wait for this year to be over. 
I ain't going to lie. I cannot wait for this year to be over. 


Our only mechanic in the car couldn't read english, so we patiently waited some more.
Grandma Mikey and the Flake girls laughed at the sight of us, then loaded us into the truck headed for home.
Jace called me after work to let me know he found the abandoned Ford on the side of the road. He also let me know that when the key was put back into the ignition and then turned, the engined hummed to life and then purred like a kitten all the way back to Heber.
I might have said a cuss word then.









I spend an awful lot of my grown up life here, at this job. My mac isn't nearly as cute as that green, vintage typewritter and I would bet she has her heels on, with apron tied around her waist, and that she just put her 1st batch of bread in the oven.
Remember when you thought that was what grown up life was going to be like?
Macy started gymnastics.
The coach told her wearing a leotard was optional. Optional? Right. You try telling the 7 year old girl that she does not need to wear her pink leotard every single week. I watched her prance/shimi into class today in her pink leotard.
Remember when you used to feel beautiful in only a pink leotard? Remember when you used to walk with your hands out at your hips as you pranced into a room?
Those were the days.
Then we all grow up.
MY PRIVACY CLAUSE: I love to talk to people. I love to drill them about their lives. So, I assume that you want to talk and question me in return, so instead of waiting for you to do so, I go ahead and spill my beans. All my beans. All the time. And lately, just every once in awhile, I'll be spilling about my life to a relative, friend of a friend, stranger, ect. and soon their head is nodding, they are smiling and I have this feeling like - crap! I already told them this story. I hate when I do that. But then the person will just say - "I read it on your blog." Oh. So technically, I am that person that repeats the same stories over and over. Crap. Are you tired of hearing my stories over and over? Are you politely nodding and waiting for this story to be over right now? Crap. We are going private. But you like the taste of my beans? And you have not left your email address for me here? Leave me a comment. Leave me your email address. Leave both if you like. Just don't say I didn't invite you to partake of our beans - our left over - repeated beans.
I finished a book. Titled, The Poisonwood Bible. Read it. Then I want to talk about it.
I had 14 house guests. I'm not even making up that number. I loved every single one of them. Come again. And again.

House guest number 13 and 14.
Jace worked a lot. I'm slowly losing my mind about it.
This is Jace not at work. Just in case you forgot what that looked like.
I asked Ezra 4,671 times if he needed to go potty. I might be making up that number. Ezra did beautifully. My plan of us becoming best friends this year is slowly going down the toilet. The child needs some discipline. But in his defense, he lost his playmates, his diapers, and was assigned a big boy bed--one that doesn't include Noah--all in one week.

E for Ezra. Shorter bed for the shorter brother.
I participated in the 117th school fundraiser since the beginning of school.
I made Jace come to a ballroom dancing lesson. It was a flop. Awkward. Stinky. And awkward.
I vacuumed.

I wear my stretchy pants he hates. I eat frozen pizza for dinner. I lay awake all night in my lonely, big bed thinking, plotting, and listening for the next intruder. I cry when my sister emails me youtube videos about funny, happy people in love. I study my ginormous mirror, like she did, and contemplate about all the tlc I'm giving and missing.




Ezra.


Have I mentioned the Flakes are back? We couldn't be more thrilled.
Papa and Sailor. She lived up to her name. She was a doll.
Max. Oh Max.
Who is in for next year? I can hardly wait.