Just a Walk

What's a nanny to do with 3 kids under the age of 6 plus a pup on a BEAUTIFUL day when the backyard just won't do?

Well, take them on a walk, of course!

We've done it a million times. They know the drill. We walk. We pick up interesting bugs and leaves and sticks. We terrorize our siblings while staying close to Devyn. We discuss for the 857 millionth time when it's ok to cross a street and when it's not. They've got it down.

So as I'm commanding bathroom attempts from the little ones, locating shoes, and attaching an overexcited boxer pup to his leash, I'm picturing a (relatively) leisurely late afternoon stroll around the neighborhood...

 

My hopes were almost immediately dashed, of course, with the freakishly energetic dog pulling with all his might against the small, old school leash, which as luck would have it, was wrapped around my unsuspecting, slightly weaker wrists. This necessitated me walking at a 45 degree angle for the duration of the walk, with the pup's exertion and mighty pull at the other end of the leash keeping me from toppling to the ground in certain humiliation.

The boys, meanwhile, were both in a highly competitive fancy and were walking at greater and greater speeds so as to pass the other and be "first place" until they were all but running down the road. No plea nor threat nor offer of money and candy would get them to abandon their pursuits of victory and stay near me.

Sis, on the other hand, had chosen fashion over utility and insisted on wearing her plastic Disney princess dress-up heels as her footwear of choice on our trek. After a lengthy debate, I had insisted she bring "back up shoes" of a more sturdy variety on the walk as well, as I was certain the heels would be short-lived. So, outfitted in her own choosings, she clop-clop-clopped behind 45 degree me and the pup, clutching her sneakers and refusing on principle to admit that Miss Devyn was right and heels are from Satan.

We got nearly to the neighborhood pool (slightly less than half a mile, maybe) before Sis could bear the heels no further and wanted to switch out for her sneakers, the boys had fallen victim to the "I WILL CALL YOUR FATHER IF YOU DON'T STOP NOW!" threat I resorted to and stopped half-heartedly at a corner, and my hand was nothing more than a purple and white striped bloodless appendage with a leash wrapped tightly around it.

The pup was still having a large time though.

After Sis's shoes were changed, I announced we were going to walk back in the direction of the house. Since, ya know, pediatric listening ears and adult sanity were running low.

So... Sis marched obediently toward the homestead, clutching her heels and on a mission. Brother took off giggling mischievously around the corner and into oblivion, intent on keeping "first place" and my nerves frazzled. And Buddy, well Buddy inexplicably wrapped himself around the stop sign and began licking it, a la A Christmas Story, for absolutely no logical reason in the world. And the pup, energized anew with All The Agendas, put me instantaneously and painfully back in my 45 degree stance, somehow slicing my hand with the leash in the world's most epic leash-burn. Blood included.




Moral of the story: your mom was right when you were little... If you leave the backyard, it's ridiculously dangerous.

For the nanny too.

Protecting Their Own Anonymity

They're getting good at this...

"Where Do You Live?"

There is a little BYOB (bring your own bottle) water store just over the lake bridge from my boss's house where we fill our giant water bottles for the water dispenser in the kitchen.

I know what you're going to say "So picky... WE just drink OUR water from the TAP..." And to you I say, well done, you win, here's your cookie, but I bet if you tasted the unsettling water that comes to the house from the bowels of the murky, smelly lake nearby you would join me at the water store.

The older man who runs the water store with his daughter is adorable, and sweet, and comes to get the bottles straight from your car when you pull up and then bring them back to you, full. Which is a great service when you're talking about three giant, full bottles, one opinionated 6 year old, two "let's see who can make Devyn's heart stop first" 2 1/2 year olds, and a nanny who unfortunately only possesses two hands and dwindling sanity.

Today, we had our water store errand and, since Mr Water Guy was not as busy as usual, we stood chatting by my car after he brought back our full bottles. We formally introduced ourselves to each other (where I was slightly thrown off by his name NOT actually being Mr Water Guy) and exchanged a few pleasantries while the twins watched the exchange out the open window from their carseats. (Buddy was at school).

"Where 'bouts are y'all from?" He asked kindly.

I gave him the name of our town.

"Oh! Just over the bridge," He remarked conversationally.

"HEY! Hey GUY!!" we heard from inside my car, and we both stooped over to peer through the open, backseat window. We were met by Brother's scowling face. (And when I say "scowling", I mean I'm surprised the flesh didn't melt off Mr Water Guy's unsuspecting face.)

"Yes?" He asked Brother grandfatherly.

Still scowling angrily, Brother answered loudly and defiantly, "Where do I live? I come from AMERICA!!"

The South: producing staunch patriots for... a helluva long time.

Last-Minute School Supplies

August 23, 2012

Buddy's Kindergarten Meet the Teacher Night is tonight, and his school has requested that all school supplies be dropped off tonight as well. School starts Monday.

It's not as if these dates were sprung suddenly on us... But for one reason or another, this morning dawned and Buddy was still missing his required 2 regular-sized containers of Wet Ones hand wipes, and 3 folders, which were to be plastic, pocketed, bradded, and one each of yellow, red, and green.

Picky punks.

Mom-of-the-Kids, having already scoured Walmart with Buddy in tow looking for the required folders, asked me to check out Staples to gather the last few items today. So off we went.

Upon entering the store, I was approached by a male employee who asked if he could help us find our items.

"Sure dude." I said without hesitation, handing over the list.

It was all downhill from there.

Wet Ones? Male employee: "Oh! Here they are! Perfect size too!" (author's note: they were Lysol bathroom/kitchen wipes. 15 count. In a miniature travel bag.)

Yellow plastic, pocketed, bradded folder: "We don't have plastic, pocketed folders, unfortunately. But here's one with Batman!" (author's note: ?????)

Red plastic, pocketed, bradded folder: "Here's a purple project folder! I bet that'll work!" (author's note: no, it won't. And I'm feeling concerned for your reading and comprehension ability, sir.)

Green plastic, pocketed, bradded folder: "well, you can look, but I haven't seen any..." (author's note: good call. I believe I SHALL walk away now, if you'll kindly return my list and leave me alone.)

After a few minutes of leading the three kids around in circles, a female employee approached us and asked if she could assist. Not wanting to surrender my list again should this employee prove as "helpful" as the last, I read off our missing items to her, doubtfully.

Within minutes, our travel-size baggie of Lysol bathroom/kitchen wipes were replaced by the correct 2 containers of Wet Ones for hands, and she had directed us to the folder Mecca, an aisle which the previous employee hadn't thought of at all, where she helped us in quickly acquiring our red and green folders (plastic, pocketed, with brads). Our yellow version, it turns out, is a hot commodity this year, and is sold out almost everywhere in this area. So I learned from the harried, twitching mothers who walked by muttering to themselves as they searched desperately, "brads... Yellow... Pockets... Has to be plastic... Brads... dammit... Yellow..."

So. We bought the yellow one in paper and left.

And I double-dog dare the teacher to say its unacceptable.

Morals of the story:
1) The Woman will be of help. The Man is wondering when his next break is.
2) Teachers are picky. And last minute shopping sucks.
3) Yellow, plastic, pocketed folders with brads are brought to you direct from Satan.

Dog Days of Summer

It was a cool summer day here in north Texas. And by cool, I mean the TEXAN definition of cool for summer: which falls in the unheard-of low-80's.

That being said, I declared it a "park day", packed the kids and the pup in the car, and hit the road. We located a cool little dog/people park less than 10 miles away, parked, and made our way to the enclosed area for dogs so I could tire the energetic pup out first.

Ranger

 Ranger-the-pup was a big talker the whole way to the enclosed dog park: barking in his lowest, toughest register and straining against the leash as if to say to the other dogs watching our approach "if only this girl weren't holding me back...! You'd be TOAST...!"

I undid his leash and set him free once inside as the kids and I made our way to a shaded picnic table to set up camp. Ranger relished the unleashed freedom and immediately took a few joyous victory laps at full-speed around the perimeter, ears flapping and tongue dangling out of his open mouth.

And then THEY came.

His excitement-filled laps around the dog park turned to petrified, run-for-your-life terror as he suddenly realized he was being pursued by the dogs he had, only moments before, been intent on dominating. And, being a dog park novice, how was he to know that they only wanted to play? Perhaps do some no-strings-attached sniffing? In his puppy eyes, certain death by ALL THE DOGS BEHIND HIM was nigh. The time to have his barking bluff called, to (as they say) "nut up or shut up" was at hand, and Ranger--- well, I have never seen that dog reach those speeds before.

It was in that moment that he almost completely took out me and the kids in utter terror.

So although he was never in danger, and the herd of dogs (who DID eventually catch up) only wanted to say hi and play with the new guy, from that moment on he did not trust the situation OR the group of stalker-dogs, and stayed within a 30 foot radius of our group for the rest of our time there. And he spent most of it under the table, eyeing the other dogs warily.

It was an auspicious introduction to the world of dog parks for him, definitely.

Afterward, we traipsed across a grassy area to a playground to let the human children frolic. It amazed me to see how much BETTER they all are at playground-ish things than last time I took them. Given, last time was last spring, when the twins were around 18 months old and needed constant individual adult monitoring as they navigated the play equipment.

So they wouldn't, you know, step off a 2-story ledge.

This time, all three kids let it be known to me that THIS TOWER and it's slide were Buddy's, this OTHER TOWER and slide were Brother and Sister's, and Devyn.... well Devyn, she can just sit at the bench with Ranger if she wants... And they'd tell me if they needed me.

Just as I was thinking how sad it was not to be necessary to their playground adventures anymore, all three kids called down to me to come up to the towers with them, see the view, try the slides, and play "explorers on a pirate ship" with them.

So although I may not be necessary for their playground safety purposes as much as before, I'm still wanted for the games and fun part.

I can live with that.

And the icing on the cake after the fun, park day? All three kids AND the pup napped without a fight when they got home. Amen to THAT.

An ACTUAL Post?!

I wonder if it's possible to put into words just how nuts this week is shaping up to be?

But first, let's start with how awesome this past weekend was! On Friday, I got my storage unit all set up and rented and ready for ALL THE BOXES coming that way after this weekend's move. That part was not fun. That part was moderately pricey. Next, I went home and began "The Great Purge-n-Pack of 2012". That part was also not fun. But moving on...

Saturday was when it started turning around. I picked up my good friend Amy from Love Field for her weekend trip to Dallas. (A 7 a.m. flight. Because she's a masochist. And probably secretly hates me.) But Saturday was filled with getting our nails did, errands, breakfast at Cracker Barrel, Raising Cane's sweet  tea, catching up, and then BABE'S FOR DINNER!

I think Amy wet herself from excitement.

Or wait, that was me.

Needless to say, we ate way too much (a Babe's must), gathered up our leftovers, and waddled ourselves out the door, where we went home and lapsed into lengthy and satisfying food comas.

The next morning, we relaxed for a while before leaving for THE RANGERS GAME. Where WE WON. And where WE WATCHED HAMILTON HIT ANOTHER HOME RUN. And where WE ALMOST DIED FROM SITTING IN DIRECT SUN FOR FOUR HOURS IN 104 DEGREE WEATHER.

 

But the heat was manageable with sun block and tons of water. And we were sitting next to two of the funniest, drunkest guys in the ballpark. So that helped. These guys were so carefree and uninhibited that the boys and Amy and I all made it up onto the screen over the field. I mean, the cameraman had no choice in the matter: One guy was in a sombrero unable to stand up straight, the other was booty dancing, and then there was Amy and I, attempting to dance but really just laughing our asses off at the boys.

Good weekends make the world go 'round.

Left on the agenda (besides work) this week is:

Tuesday- pack, and Dad will come disassemble my bed for the movers so they don't break it, because it is old and held together with spit and duct tape by this point.
Wednesday- pack. Although I really wanted to make it to my home group since we just reconvened after summer break...
Thursday- pack. Because I probably gave myself too many breaks over the last few days which means I'm likely not even close to finished.
Friday- pack. To the tune of "flight of the bumblebee". At this point, my stuff will likely be just thrown into boxes at will, with no regard toward purging, organizing, or bubble wrap.
Saturday morning- the movers come. And then shit really hits the fan.

Because Bullets are Faster

So a few updates:

• Buddy is six now! And starting Kindergarten in just a few weeks! I'm going to be honest: there are days when I'm excited for him to start (the stimulation, meeting new friends, and what I'm hoping will be an 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' attitude toward his wrestling opponent brother), and then again there are days when it hits me how strange it is going to be not having him here with us all day, every day. And that it'll be almost a year before he's back home full-time with us again during the day..... 
• Brother and Sister are a few weeks shy of their third birthday! Oy... How are they that big already? I started when they were not even three months old, and now three YEARS old?! "Snuck up on us" doesn't quite do it justice.
• There is a pup in the mix, as of January (if memory serves). He is an adorable, sweet boxer named Ranger. I would take him home with me in a heart beat, but something tells me The Kids might notice...
• I am praying about possibly going back to school for another degree in the near future. We'll see how it all shakes out though.
• Dating is fun! Well, most of the time. ;)
• The twins are potty training! And rocking at it. But frankly, we're running out of reward Twizzlers for successful toilet attempts. And NOT because I rewarded myself with a Twizzler each time they got one too. Absolutely not. Ahem.

Also, please join me in praying for these two sweet friends of mine, Allyson and Todd

Illness sucks. But God is bigger. And if anyone can bounce back from cancer, it's these two!

It's Gonna Kill Me

If you had driven through the neighborhood about half an hour ago, you may have been treated to the sight of a wild-eyed nanny, shrieking a little girl's name and running back and forth in front of the house, checking every end of the porch and side yards...

This phase the twins are rocking right now has aged me by about 15 years so far. It came about suddenly and has caused about 4 heart attacks so far to myself and I'm sure their parents as well.

It's the hiding-from-adults phase.

It's all well and good most of the time. The child latch remains on the door about 99% of the day, and so if one or both of the twins goes out of sight for a moment or two and doesn't answer when called, logic tells me they're huddled together, giggling that Miss Demmyn can't see them. And eventually they come out. Especially if my voice gets stern or I implement "the countdown".

Today was the exception. And honestly, my heart rate has not returned to normal yet.

It was nap time, and I sent each kid to his or her room to lay down while I finished bringing the heavy water bottles in from my car in the driveway. As I shut the front door, Sis appeared at the top of the stairs and announced she had a dirty diaper and therefore was unable to function until it was changed. I sighed, turned around to go downstairs, and grabbed her wipes from the living room and a pull up from her parents room. When I got up to the nursery, both twins were missing, (but Buddy obeyed!). I quickly found Brother huddled in the closet, grinning like the Cheshire cat, but no Sis.

Playing along for a minute, I searched room to room upstairs calling for her, looking in all her usual spots.

Nothing.

Maybe she snuck downstairs? Not outside the realm of possibilities.

Searched downstairs. Calling her name.

Nothing.

My voice getting more serious, I went back upstairs and re-searched, occasionally calling out a stern "THIS ISN'T FUNNY, TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE!!" to the empty rooms.

Still nothing.

Moving quicker, and calling even more loudly, nothing, nothing, nothing...

Finally I stopped where I was in the center of the house and called out her full name loudly followed by the dreaded "YOU ANSWER ME BY THE COUNT OF THREE!!!!!" that she never gets because she usually pops out by this point. All the kids usually will pop out when I use my stern voice. But not this time.

I reached "3" and could feel my heart beating itself wildly against my ribcage.

"Where's the last place I saw her..." I mumbled to myself, still sprinting around aimlessly, throwing open doors and tossing around blankets and other would-be hiding spots at random. "She was at the top of the stairs. Said she had a dirty diaper. Got diapers.... Water bottles... Wait, were the water bottles before or after...?"

Grasping at straws and panicked, I unlatched the door and hurtled down the driveway, calling her name. Think I scared the crap out of a neighborhood older kid who was coming down the sidewalk on his bike when Crazy Lady came running out of the house, almost foaming at the mouth. He swerved and barely missed ramming the mailbox.

(If I wasn't so singularly focused, I probably would have been quite entertained.)

No Sis on the porch, no Sis in the yard, no Sis anywhere...

I ran back inside, and without holding back, mustered every last ounce of voice and sternness mixed with panic I could and yelled out her full name followed by "YOU COME OUT RIGHT THIS SECOND!!!! NOW!!!" (I don't think I've ever gotten that loud with these kids before...)

This caused Buddy to fling his door open as well and add his worry to his shout of "NOW SIS!!!!"

As I turned to dart back outside out of panic, Buddy suddenly yelled "here she is!!"

And there she was. Top of the stairs. Looking quite proud.

After I got onto her about hiding and not answering when people first use serious voice, she had only this to say: "But... But... I like to hide. And I found a good spot. No one could find me!"

See? I'm not going to survive this phase. I'll be 95 physically before their third birthday, of this I am sure...

Disney+Cough Medicine= ????

Today is a sick day in the house of The Kids. Everyone (including myself) is coughing up a lung, and exhausted, and it's storming to boot.

So today, Disney shall entertain. And the rest of us shall shoot cough medicine at the required intervals. First up is Little Mermaid, and as the kids sit enraptured watching the final battle between the sea witch and the sea-crossed lovers, I can't help but let my mind wander a bit. In this case, I imagined the story from an outsider's perspective, as one of the guests of Eric and Ursula's "wedding" recalls the events of the day.

Wedding Guest-
"I just got back from the Prince's wedding cruise. It was normal at first. Ya know, same old story. Then suddenly seagulls swooped in, flipping out, spraying crap, seals attacked, things got crazy... Then this one mute girl hopped up out of the water and started singing, the groom went to make a move on her, but she turned into a fish. Then the bride turned into an octopus, grabbed the mute-singing-fish-girl and jumped into the sea. Next thing I know, the octopus-lady-bride-thing is like a thousand feet tall, yelling about power all the way up until the prince stabbed her with a random ship. Then we had cake and went home."

I'd think that guest was high.

To Kill A Copperhead

In honor of snake season starting up here in north Texas, I thought I'd share the southern way of getting your point across to snakes. Which happened at work last summer, and which I hope to never happen again.

Step 1: Find a poisonous snake on your front porch.

Which was our case. With the then-18-month-old twins dangerously nearby. It was a copperhead. No señor.

Step 2: Make your decision. Fight or flight.

Mom-of-the-Kids? Flight. I learned in that moment of her deep and abiding phobia of snakes. Add in the shock of finding a poisonous one inches from your hand, and suffice it to say, her face was a little green and her voice at a slightly higher octave than normal.

Myself? Never having had a poisonous snake on my porch before, I halfway expected to also be of the "flight" variety. I was shocked to find myself all Hulked up with righteous hell-to-the-naw vengeance against the creepy little thing.

Step 3: Choose your weapon, and go Marie Antoinette on its venomous ass.

Mine was an ax plucked from the woodpile in the backyard. When the thing saw I was serious, we played a short game of hide and seek amongst the porch's piles of lumber and grills. And in that moment, I suddenly found myself wildly obsessed with the desire to have had thick boots on. Instead of no shoes at all...

Then you chop. When he strikes at you, chop again.

Step 4: Dead does not mean safe.

Don't jack with the body right after its dead. It's jaws can still clamp. And you can still find yourself in the ER with an anti-venom shot in your wherever.

Step 5: Dispose.

Some choose to trash the remains. Us? We had Dad-of-the-Kids toss him over the back fence to the snake-infested creek beyond.

As a warning to the others.

Thankfully, that was our only venomous snake encounter last year. Whether it be because God knew our hearts couldn't take another sudden stop and He had already wiped the years of laughter from His eyes, or ya know, maybe our "warning" to the copperhead brethren was heeded after all.

Probably the former.

The Arm

Mondays don't really bother me. Wait, I lied. Monday ALARM CLOCKS irritate the snot out of me. But Mondays themselves? Not so bad.

Part of the reason is the greeting I always receive when I walk in the door at work. I can always count on Sis's excited squeal of "DEDYN!!!!!!! You came back home to meeeee!!!!!" as she comes barreling through the living room to hug me at the door.

How many people get that kind of greeting from their coworkers every Monday?

But today when I stepped over the threshold, no grinning little girl tackled me hello. Instead she was cuddled up with her momma on the living room recliner, sipping her requisite strawberry milk, clutching her pink blanket, and looking generally pitiful.

Mom-of-The-Kids informed me Sis had been playing a little rough with her dad and brothers the night before (well-- rough for HER, that little dainty thing... The most rough-housing she generally participates in is a piggy-back ride and playing Tickle Monster) and she had began mentioning that her arm was sore shortly after. It wasn't a dramatic thing, just a little girl retreating from bath time and further playing in favor of snuggling up with some cartoons and chill time.

This morning, however, was a different story. The normally-agile Sis laid in bed calling for her momma's help in sitting up and getting out of bed. And since that moment, Sis wouldn't move her arm at all and was very uncomfortable anytime the arm was jostled in any way. She preferred the arm to lay unmoving across her leg and wouldn't allow it to be touched in any capacity.

Poor thing.

We gave her some Tylenol and indulged her every whim for a few hours until she could see the doctor.

She didn't hate it.

Apparently it was something called Nursemaid's Elbow and is fairly common in toddlers... An exam and adjustment at the doctor, and an hour later she was playing like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Now, Mom-of-the-Kids? Seeing her baby hurting that way today, AND being present for the doctor's adjustment? SHE may need some heart medication.

Scratch that. She needs a margarita.

Discount Massage

I have only had two massages in my life. Which puts me in a good place, I think: that's two more than a lot of people, but considerably less than others.

However, 1 of those massages was just plain traumatizing... Which defeats the purpose of a massage altogether.

A little over a year ago, I went to Kentucky to spend a long weekend with one of my best friends, Carrie, who followed her passion for All Things Equestrian to the land of races and ginormous hats.

Someone (I don't remember who, either she or I) suggested we venture out to the nearby massage school for discount massages. I, being uneducated in such things, was reassured by Carrie that only the "senior" students--those soon to graduate-- can take clients and the cost is considerably less, since the masseuses (masseie? Massees?) are not yet fully certified. She went on to assure me that she had always gotten good quality results from such experiences before, and that it would be a fun and relaxing girl's activity for us.

Recap. Relaxing massage + cheap + good quality = I'm in!

After arriving at the massage school and filling out the required paperwork, we were introduced to our masseuses. My guy was in his late twenties, maybe. Smaller stature. Long black pony tail. Facial hair. Creepy small hands-- That he rubbed together nervously (a lot).

But I trusted Carrie.

We began the massage experience awkwardly enough, when I, fairly naked under the sheet, was asked what kind of massage I would like, and if I had any special requests.

Blink blink. "Um, I've never had a massage before so I guess let's just do the basic, no frills. And special requests? Like, I guess my back and shoulders?"

"Well, for instance, some of my clients request special attention to their pecs..." he suggested.

"No. No thanks. Just back and shoulders." I answered quickly, making a mental note to go Chuck-Norris-meets-Kung-Fu-Panda on his ass should he continue to think my pecs needed his special touch.

The massage began. He instructed me to let him know if the pressure was too much or too little, and he'd adjust accordingly. For example, he started out WAY too gentle. My skin felt petted, rather than my muscles massaged. I told him so, so he apologized, "adjusted", and continued.

Except it was the same petting. No change in pressure.

I tried again a few more times to get him to adjust, and he always agreed to, but never changed. Awkward. I caught myself wondering if this guy was legit... Or if perhaps the back door to the school had unknowingly been left unlocked and he had snuck in for a day of fun-filled creepiness.

Let's review: an uncomfortable looking, ponytailed man with nervous twitches, small hands, and an inclination for my pecs had me locked in a small dark room with him for an hour of oily petting.

And he didn't even buy me dinner first.

After the hour was mercifully up, and Carrie and I got back into her car, she stretched out her arms with a relaxed sigh and said "Gah, that was awesome! Didn't I tell you? How was yours?"

"Just dandy."

...And that, folks, is the story of why Carrie is billed for Devyn's therapy.

That's How it Goes...

Some days I'm up and running, fueled by natural energy, excitement on greeting a beautiful morning, and all that...

And then there are mornings like this--- don't get me wrong, I'm no less blessed today than other days, and today is no less beautiful. It's just that the most entrancing and captivating thought on my mind revolves around this---

Take a Picture With Me

Buddy was at school. The twins and I played all day. At one point, I thought it'd be fun to take a picture together!

Ha.

"Say CHEESE!!!"

..........Never mind.

The Art of Spinning

Buddy- "Look at me, Devyn!!! I'm a spinning tornado!!!!!! Watch out!!"

Brother- "Me too!!! Watch me too!!! I a 'pinning tomatoooo!!!!"

Where's the Compassion?

You only have to flip on the news lately to get an update on Lauren "Lo" Scruggs-- online magazine editor and model who was involved in an airplane propeller accident in early December. I've been following her story since the evening it happened, after receiving a prayer request about her the evening of the accident from our mutual friend, Jennefer. While most of the stories have been unbiased and informative, I've been appalled at how quickly reporters and commenters have become toxic. I've seen countless articles on where the blame of the accident should lie, whether her family is lying about her twin sister's sympathy pains for Lauren, speculation on Lauren's future, and on and on.

My question is this: when did Lo stop being a person in the eyes of the world media, and instead become a target?

Yes. She was in an accident. And by the grace of God she is going to be ok! Let's celebrate with her and her family!

Yes. Her life will have adjustments because of her injuries. Let's encourage her and pray for her! Don't dwell on the negative, no one needs that.

Yes. Her family is close-knit and they've been there every day encouraging her and helping her to heal. That's a priceless gift. Not one for the media to question and try to demean.

This is a real person. Not a news story. She's Mr and Mrs Scruggs' little girl, Brittany's sister, a friend, a cousin, a niece, a granddaughter, and (to me) a fellow classmate.

So directly to you, Lo, I wish you a quick recovery, pray for your pain, rejoice with you over your milestones and the love you're receiving through it all, and trusting God that His peace will guard your heart through everything.

Love and hope wins out over blame and doubt. Every time.

Fail-Proof Excuse

Brother has this excuse he uses for getting out of virtually anything (or **trying to** anyway). It's his go-to escape route for all situations involving siblings, vegetable intake, clean-up time, and more...

"Brother, no brownies until you finish your corn!"
"I can't eat corn. I sick."

"Give Sis back her baby doll."
"I can't! I sick."

"Time out. We don't punch people!"
"But!! But!! I sick!"

Clever. Let me try:

Dear IRS, I can't pay my taxes this year. I sick. Sincerely, Devyn.

This could work for me.

The Part Where You Messed Up

Everyone's got those personal chores that suck. Things they'd go out of their way to avoid doing. For some, it's mopping. Others hate laundry. I personally have a vendetta against deep dusting, which is to say, if my Walmart-brand feather duster can't get to it easily, then that dust is to be ignored.

For Buddy, it's wiping his rear.

I get it. I do. It's not a job anyone enjoys, but it's a fact of life. And since Buddy starts kindergarten in a few short months, we'd all cracked down on him bucking up and taking care of business on his own, like it or not.

Then slowly, things happen. You're in a hurry, so you do it for him quick just to get out the door on time. Or you take pity on his tears of frustration over his unpracticed ability. Or my personal downfall: he's been in there for almost half an hour, dang it, I gotta go so he's gotta move!!

But today he slipped. He made the rookie move. The classic mistake. He revealed his master plan.

I was in the living room, wrangling the twins and changing their diapers, while Buddy was on minute 19 in the bathroom.

"It's time to get out of there, Buddy! You're done, quit messing around in there!"

"I really can't do this Devyn! I need you to wipe!"

"Can't dude! Changing diapers!"

"I'll wait..."

"C'mon, man, you're five! You can do it, you've done it before! In kindergarten no one will be able to do it for you. You've got this!"

"DEVYN! I haven't had to do this in a million years. Its not my job to wipe my butt anymore. So I'm gonna wait for you, ok?!"

Ha. Nope.

See what you did there, dude? I'm on to you...