Paparazzi and Mr. Hot

I neglected to post pictures of my birthday dinner.  At the kids' favorite place to eat:  Red Robin.
Lexee attended cleverly disguised as Adult-Friendly Drinks and Ice Cold Beer.  A more discreet Shilo came as Wraps, Sandwiches, and Salads.

Mauri, not yet afraid of parental paparazzi, came to the party as herself.

I came as Taylor Swift.  A much, much older version.

We thought about having cake afterwards, but, per the birthday girl's wishes, chose not to.  

(The whole story involves fatherly nudging of children to bake a cake, which was done hastily, producing deflated, dense angel food cake that looked more like pound cake.  Did I mention that the batter seeped through the bottom of the cake pan, leaving a permeating odor of burnt sugar throughout the house, as it turned black and smoked on the floor of my newly cleaned oven?  No worries, though.  Bill re-cleaned the oven, then carefully, so as not to damage my thrift-store angel-food cake pan, pried apart the bottom of the pan, shellacked by melted sugar, from the top, with a butter knife.  All of this occurred prior to the party, so on our way home, Bill was determined to purchase another cake.  But when the birthday girl insists that she is full, tired, and really not interested in blowing out candles this year, lest she be reminded that she is way, way older than Taylor Swift, she is usually granted her request.)

Now back to the present.

Today, after attending Stake Choir practice, I headed across the street from the church to the stadium to catch the beginnings of the track season, a scrimmage hosted by LHS.

Lexee had to squeeze into last year's spikes, since we waited until the last minute to purchase some, and found the style and size selection extremely limited.  We arranged to have the pair she wanted, in the size she wanted, shipped in from another store, leaving her stuck for today with last year's model.  

She still did awesome.

 I was reminded that most track meets are cold.

Bill did his parental support duty in concessions.  I was going to call him Mr. Hot Chocolate, since that was his primary function, but thought Mr. Hot was more fitting.

Afterwards, Mr. Hot had an eye exam, and ordered some new glasses.  He's had his current ones for a long, long time, and, according to his stylist, is in desperate need of a change.
Stay tuned for forthcoming glamour shots.

S-T-R-E-T-C-H

We have the particular curse blessing of long legs in our family.  I believe it comes down the genetic line from my dad, to me, to each (and every one) of my children.  Bill and I only differ in height by an inch or two (depending on what shoes we each wear), but I find it quite annoying humorous that every time I go to drive any car after Bill has driven it, I have to do a complete adjustment of the seat and mirrors.  I have determined that this is because, even though we are fairly even height-wise, I have longer legs (which means I'm short-waisted too... another curse blessing).

So how do 5 (FIVE) children all inherit this wonderful trait?  Shouldn't there be some kind of 50/50 ratio or something?  But don't worry, Bill hasn't been left out of the genetic swimming pool... all five kids inherited his teeth.  

But we're talking legs today.

Not only do we have to hunt high and low for jeans with tiny waists (for the children, not me -- I also have the curse blessing of age, and a genetic disposition for a thick middle), but they must be unusually long.  Like XXL in most cases.  I have rarely (if ever) found jeans long enough at a discount store, so a hefty price is often paid to acquire a sufficient inseam.  

Even with diligent searching and occasional finding, after a few rounds in the dryer on laundry day, some of those expensive long legged jeans start shrinking (or could it be that the girls keep growing?).  So this is what a typical jean load on laundry day looks like around here:

We call it "stretching."  

Once the jeans are removed from the washer, I painstakingly stretch each leg (done by stepping on the hem, then pulling upward), then hang them to dry.  To the dismay of my children, who perhaps need to appreciate my efforts more, the jeans do not have a Downy-soft feel, due to missing the dryer stage of the laundry process.  They are a little scratchy, but after about 10 minutes, they loosen up and feel fine.  How do I know?  Because I have to stretch my unusually-long-legged jeans too.  

Just to make it clear, this is not my favorite laundry-day activity.  It is a necessary evil, lest we all look ridiculous in our floods.  (I love that Bill just needs the regular lengths, and I can toss his jeans in the dryer any ol' day.)

God, forgive me when I whine.  

I have two legs (make that 8 that I currently "stretch" for), the world is mine.