J, T, and Theo B.

Saturday, September 1st, was an absolutely perfect day for us.

We woke up in Amelia Island to a new month and a drastic drop in the humidity. You could feel fall coming, and it made us happy. Very happy. Of course, coupling this ever-so-slight crispness in the air with College Football Gameday made Russ even happier.

We headed out to the beach for the morning. We all had a happy hop in our steps.

The water was refreshing, the scent of Coppertone hovered around us, and some of our favorite tunes wafted from our bag because I’d finally remembered to bring a portable iPod speaker.

Theo and I gathered shells and dug holes while Russ and the boys played in the water.

Tucker worked on his new skill: the headstand. This is all we’ve been seeing around our house for the past few weeks. Tuck can now also do one on his boogie-board. The boy’s core strength is phenomenal.

By now it was nearly noon–a respectable time, no doubt. So we broke out our next-to-the-last bottle of Caldwell Rose’.

And a great day got even better. (Thank you, John Caldwell. That’s some mighty fine juice you’ve got there.)

After lunch at the pool and a bit of swimming, we headed in for a rest and to watch Russ–the Bulldog, not the husband–in his official debut as UGa IX. Later that afternoon, Jack, Tuck and I headed back out to the beach for some more wave catching.

We made our way out to a sand-bar, holding hands and riding up and down the waves the entire way. The water was warm, the air salty and my boys giggly. Solid stuff, indeed.

When we stopped to rinse off on the way back to the house, I realized Tucker was wearing Theo’s swimsuit. Tucker the 6 year old can somehow still fit into size 2T swimtrunks.

Doing a happy dance on the boardwalk…

How did we know we were experiencing the perfect day? Someone’s even cut a real path for us! No more jumping and hopping and squealing through a ditch filled with briars and long-legged insects to forge a short-cut to the boardwalk. When you’re 6 and 8, this is pretty much the icing on the cake…

…until it’s outdoor shower time.

After dinner, we headed back out to the beach yet again.

Buckley-Dog joined us even though you can’t see him here; he was too busy sniffing for turtles.

Sunset on the beach. Happy, happy boys. Even happier parents.

The only way to bring a perfect day to a close?

Fireworks.

(That thing looks sorta scary, doesn’t it? There wasn’t that much fire actually blazing out of the end, I assure you…)

Buck wasn’t so thrilled with the way we closed out the day, but the rest of us couldn’t wipe the smiles off our faces as we shuffled back to the house, shook the sand off us and curled up in beds to read and fall asleep.

It’s pretty hard to rank one’s days, especially when so many are so good. We are a fortunate crew to say the least. But for us, for our cozy little family of 5, a fifth date has come out of nowhere to join the Top 5:

(1) February 1, 2003.

(2) May 19, 2004.

(2) January 4, 2006.

(2) July 30, 2008.

and now (5) September 1, 2012.

Welcome to the club, September 1st. You were the perfect way to close out our summer and for that, we thank you.

I’m not quite sure why the crafty get such a bad rap. Frankly, I am pretty amazed at the creativity some people can spew at the drop of a hat. Of course, if I’m going to be dead honest, I’m probably about 2 Hobby Lobby trips away from being lumped into the category of crafters. While I draw the line at Devil’s Dandruff (glitter) and scrapbooking materials, we do have a stash of crafty things like glow-sticks and cardstock and science experiment books.  Crafty, creative. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

this child is thrilled with our crafty stash of science experiment supplies…Elmer’s glue, Borax, Ivory soap–the stuff of mini-labs everywhere.

Regardless of what you want to call it, this character trait of mine comes busting out for my sons’ birthday parties. My husband mocks me relentlessly. (It’s ok, Honey; I deserve it.) Our youngest son just turned 4, and he requested a party with water slides, fireworks and snowcones (the son, that is, not the husband).

Since we aren’t operating on a budget like Mariah Carey has for her children’s birthday parties, that was out of the question. But with a little creativity (and, ok, I’ll just say it:  “craftiness”), a Splashing/Sparkling/Snowcone party is a breeze to pull off in late July.

an example of our fine and festive decorations…small inflatable fish and red, white, and blue stars hanging from the trees in our front yard…take that, Mariah.

I ordered the invitations from Tiny Prints, and after googling “tiny prints coupon,” was able to track down a way to get 20% off and free shipping. Does searching for deals count as crafty?

The party was for a pot-full of 4-year olds, so we kept it short–an hour and a half (though they ended up staying longer). I am also a firm believer in not opening gifts at the party; we’re already asking a lot from the 4-year olds; having to sit still and watch someone else open a bunch of gifts must as torturous for little kids as it is for grown-ups (Remember opening gifts in front of everyone at your baby shower? Enough said.).

We don’t wanna watch anyone open a present; we’d rather pour water. Any day.

Theo’s favorite color is red, so I aimed for making everything red and blue (as “firework-y” as possible). Plus, it was past the 4th of July. Do you know what all you can get that’s red and blue for next to nothing on the 5th of July? The decorations were ours for the picking. After again searching the internet for coupons, we hit up the Crafter’s Mecca:  Hobby Lobby and Michael’s. Most everything was 60-75% off and with our added coupons, they were giving the stuff away.

And since many stores seem to think it’s time to put out the Halloween decor already, summertime items like slip-n-slides, water slinging caterpillars, small floats, sand buckets, and water toys are a steal. Again, a quick internet search will land you a Toys-R-Us coupon, knocking down the price on that $5.99 slip-n-slide even more.

Next, we planned the menu. I wasn’t serving a meal (trust me; we’ve gone the meal route before, and everyone else’s kids are just as picky as mine. It’s tough to know how much food to cook or order, so you’ll likely wind up eating the leftovers for a few days. Ugh.) We had strawberries (Theo’s favorite fruit), watermelon (scooped into melon balls), pretzels, and popcorn.

The boys gave my husband a snowcone machine for Father’s Day, a gift that has been worth every penny. We broke that puppy out for the party, giving the littles 2 choices of flavors: Lemon-Lime or Raspberry (these are the same bottles of syrup we’ve had since Father’s Day, by the way; a little goes a long, long way, and they are HFCS and dye-free.)
I made cupcakes, too, because singing “Happy Birthday” is a requirement for me. It’s pretty much a given that I’ll start to cry at this point in the party. Every. Single. Year.

A few hours before the party started, I put out the slip-n-slide and set up a bubble machine. The boys had helped me make a banner out of cardstock and plastic thread. We printed “THEO IS 4!” in 650 font (yes, really; one letter to a page) and then cut those out, glue gunned them to alternating blue and red pieces of cardstock, punched holes in the tops, and threaded it all together with the plastic thread. It’s still hanging from a tree in our front yard. (In hindsight, that does make me sound awfully crafty–owning a glue gun and a hole-puncher and a pile of cardstock…)

Goody-bags are the blight of birthday parties these days, to me at least. This is where I admittedly go all out and put some thought into creating them (since my suggestion of punting them results in eyes being rolled at me each time). For the Splashing Party, each guest took home a sand bucket with the following things in it: a hand-made bubble wand tied to a recipe card for the Greatest Bubbles Ever, a small bottle of bubble solution, a few glow-sticks and a cd full of summery, firework-y songs (for the listener’s personal enjoyment only, you know; that’s my legal disclaimer.).

For the record, there is a learning curve to making these bubble wands. You need beads with holes big enough to thread both sides of the 18 gauge wire through (which I didn’t have), and you need a steady hand to make a perfectly circular bubble-making part. They were worth the effort, nonetheless.

FYI, here’s the cd playlist:

“It’s Your Birthday” (Justin Roberts)
“The Greatest Day on Earth Day” (Roger Day)
“Oh, How Happy” (Shades of Blue–I’ve sung this song to Theo since the day we brought him home)
“Firework” (Katy Perry–Theo’s request)
“Party Rock Anthem” (LMFAO)
“Holiday Road” (Lindsey Buckingham)
“Hot Fun in the Summertime” (Sly & The Family Stone)
“In the Summertime” (Mungo Jerry)
“A Summer Song” (Chad & Jeremy)
“Saturday in the Park” (Chicago)
“Boys of Summer” (Don Henley)
“Vacation” (The Go-Go’s)
“Island in the Sun” (Emma Roberts)
“Theodore, You’re Special” (off a personalized cd given to Theo when he was born)
“Blue’s Clues Theme Song”
“Elmo’s Song”
“Play Blue’s Clues” (from a Blues Clues cd)
“Chugga Chugga Choo Choo” (Choo Choo Soul)
“The Duck Song” (Bryant Oden–Listener beware; song will stick in your head, and you’ll still be singing it next week)
“Bad Blue Jay” (Caspar Babypants)
“Snuggle Puppy” (Eric Stoltz–yes, of Mask fame, here putting a Sandra Boynton book to a tune)
“Life’s a Happy Song” (from The Muppets)
“Red Balloon” (Frances England–this may be the sweetest song about a child growing up that you’ll ever hear)
“You & Me” (Frances England)
“I Sing You a Song” (Curtis King).
Our little party goers spent the first 30 minutes on the slip-n-slide. Then we took a quick snowcone break while my husband changed out the slip-n-slide for the even more fantastic “Splash Balls Sprinkler”. Seriously, I had no idea 4-year olds could be this in to such a ridiculous looking gizmo. We also had a few giant buckets filled with water and a few water squirters and, believe it or not, plastic measuring cups with which the kids had a blast.

Jack and Tucker were both in this bucket at the same time. They’ve spent the entire summer stuck to each other like this…

Tucker with the Splash-Balls Sprinkler…

Theo wanted to have a macaroni-necklace-making-table again; thankfully, the dog hasn’t eaten Theo’s creation this year (yet).

We took another break for singing “Happy Birthday” and then the pièce de résistance: fireworks.

Well, sort of.

I used up a few leftover Roman Candles and spinner/screamer thingies (technical description, no?) leftover from the 4th of July. But you’d have thought we were on National Mall with the oohs and ahhs and giggles that came from the littles. And the Birthday Boy was right there in the middle of it all, with a smile from here to Texas plastered across his face.

So, truth be known, I guess I might be just a tad bit crafty; please don’t hold it against me or I’ll have to come beat you down with my stack of cardstock and my iTunes account. I’m giving myself a break and acknowledging my inner control-freak–at least when it comes to hosting birthday parties. At the end of the day, it’s all worth it.

Jack, already thinking about his next birthday party…

You only turn 4 once, you know…

We went from this…

to this…

in nothing flat. My stars.

Last week, our doorbell rang and I found a large badge pushed up to my face which didn’t belong to your run-of-the-mill police officer. Oh no. The badge came attached to the arm of an agent in the FBI. The Eff Bee Eye, people.

I was in the process of loading up my 2 younger boys, so we could fetch the oldest boy from basketball camp. As I had no back-up for carpooling, I had to explain to the very large FBI agent who was sporting a very visible gun that, no, I actually wasn’t available for a discussion at this moment.

To be fair, I knew this was coming. A dear friend of mine, whom we’ll call Ms. M., is in line for a pretty nifty job up in DC, and she needs federal security clearance. My friend listed me as one of her myriad contacts who could vouch that she doesn’t secretly run a puppy mill or moonlight as an exotic dancer. So I had it on my radar that I might be contacted by the FBI, but I did not expect the sneak attack. If I’d known, I’d have taken a shower and made the boys disassemble their blanket-and-sofa-cushion fort which currently took up 1/2 of the living room. And we would have taken down the lemonade stand that incorporated our mailbox as a distribution center. The feds get a little ticky about the mail, you know.

“When do you expect to return?” the agent asked. I stuttered a bit as I answered her. “Great. I’ll wait for you in the cul-de-sac.” Ok, then.

A bit later, my oldest son, Jack, climbed into the car and before he could put down his basketball, Tucker immediately announced “there’s a police officer at the house, waiting for Mama!” I realized right then that I needed to prep the boys, if for no other reason than to explain to them some critical behavioral expectations.

“Really? A police officer? What did you do, Mom?” Jack asked, perking up.

“Guys, she’s not a police officer. She’s actually an FBI Agent,” I replied.

“She has a badge! And a gun!” Tucker offered.

“FBI?” said Jack. “You must be in big trouble.”

I explained to them about Ms. M., whom they know and love dearly, and that I wasn’t in trouble. The conversation then proceeded as follows:

Jack: Can you lie to them?

me: No. I’ll be under oath. Why would I lie? You know we don’t lie.

Tucker: So you have to tell her about all the bad things you’ve done?

me: Huh? I haven’t done any bad things…

Tucker: Well, you like to drink wine. And you yell at us sometimes.

me: Seriously?

Jack: Ooh, I know another name for steroids: GYM CANDY!

Theo: I want some gym candy!!

Tucker: What’s gym candy?

me: Illegal drugs.

Tucker: Like Popster selling drugs?

[Popster is their grandfather who is a pharmacist.]

me: Yes. But Popster sells medicine legally.

Jack: So what’s the difference between a promise and an oath?

me: An oath is a promise you take under the law, so you can get in big trouble if you lie.

Tucker: So are you going to lie about Popster selling drugs?

me: Popster is a pharmacist, Tucker. It’s his job to sell medicine.

Theo: Give me some gym candy, Jack.

Jack: Is Ms. M. going to be a security guard?

Tucker: Maybe the FBI lady will buy some lemonade from me.

me: You will not try to sell the FBI agent any lemonade.

Tucker: How about a bird call? Or some gerbil art? I bet she’d like to buy some gerbil art.

Jack: So why is gym candy illegal?

At this point, we were closing in on our house, and I could see the FBI lady waiting for me, perched like a clove on a baked ham in her nondescript vehicle next to our driveway. I also had the giggles in a bad way, what with all that gerbil art and gym candy talk. What was intended as a simple confirmation interview was on the way to making me look like I had something to hide.

I’d barely closed the door behind me when the agent was ringing our front door bell again. Theo ran to answer it while I shooed our dogs outside. She walked in and all 3 boys stared up at her like she had 3 heads. Please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything, I mentally begged my sons.

Spylady and I went in to the living room, stepping around critical parts of the blanket fort, where she proceeded to ask me question after question about Ms. M., which I bungled again and again. If I’d been the agent, I would have ditched the inquisition on Ms. M. and cut to the chase. It looked like I had multiple things I was hiding, including possible bodies in the basement.

I forgot the word “acronym”. I had no idea where my friend had gone to college. I could not remember when she moved. I blanked on our other neighbor’s last name. I stuttered like Mel Tillis. I cut my eyes from left to right repeatedly, though this was more to make sure a child wasn’t headed our way with his piggybank and a cup of lemonade than out of actual shadiness.

Whenever I stopped to think about how conspicuous I was looking, I started to giggle because thoughts like “gym candy” would drift through my brain. All in all, I’d say I looked like a class A idiot. I could have been starring in Fletch vs. Austin Powers.

Spylady, to her credit, did not break form even when Theo came in without his shirt on and when one of the other children began throwing stuffed animals over the stair railing. She kept saying, “take your time. Just take your time.” That’s what they say to all suspects, right? She had several folders with her and a few times she flipped through a folder after I’d given an answer and would say, “hmmm. Why don’t you try again?” in a voice barely masking her irritation.

In the end, I doubt I wound up helping my friend out one bit. The agent stuck around for a little over half an hour, likely just to avoid rush-hour traffic. I’m sure I was providing her with an interesting study on maniacs. I’ve never been a very good test taker; maybe I should have warned her about that right out of the gate. At least Tucker didn’t try to make a profit off her. I doubt FBI Agents are down with day-old lemonade or gerbils (even if they are of the non-biting variety). That “F” doesn’t stand for “funny,” you know.

The Feds haven’t shown back up at our house yet. Thank goodness.

Last week, our doorbell rang and I found a large badge pushed up to my face which didn’t belong to your run-of-the-mill police officer. Oh no. The badge came attached to the arm of an agent in the FBI. The Eff Bee Eye, people.
I was in the process of loading up my 2 younger boys, so we could fetch the oldest boy from basketball camp. As I had no back-up for carpooling, I had to explain to the very large FBI agent who was sporting a very visible gun that, no, I actually wasn’t available for a discussion at this moment.
To be fair, I knew this was coming. A dear friend of mine, whom we’ll call Ms. M., is in line for a pretty nifty job up in DC, and she needs federal security clearance. My friend listed me as one of her myriad contacts who could vouch that she doesn’t secretly run a puppy mill or moonlight as an exotic dancer. So I had it on my radar that I might be contacted by the FBI, but I did not expect the sneak attack. If I’d known, I’d have taken a shower and made the boys disassemble their blanket-and-sofa-cushion fort which currently took up 1/2 of the living room. And we would have taken down the lemonade stand that incorporated our mailbox as a distribution center. The feds get a little ticky about the mail, you know.
“When do you expect to return?” the agent asked. I stuttered a bit as I answered her. “Great. I’ll wait for you in the cul-de-sac.” Ok, then.
A bit later, my oldest son, Jack, climbed into the car and before he could put down his basketball, Tucker immediately announced “there’s a police officer at the house, waiting for Mama!” I realized right then that I needed to prep the boys, if for no other reason than to explain to them some critical behavioral expectations.
“Really? A police officer? What did you do, Mom?” Jack asked, perking up.
“Guys, she’s not a police officer. She’s actually an FBI Agent,” I replied.
“She has a badge! And a gun!” Tucker offered.
“FBI?” said Jack. “You must be in big trouble.”
I explained to them about Ms. M., whom they know and love dearly, and that I wasn’t in trouble. The conversation then proceeded as follows:
Jack: Can you lie to them?
me: No. I’ll be under oath. Why would I lie? You know we don’t lie.
Tucker: So you have to tell her about all the bad things you’ve done?
me: Huh? I haven’t done any bad things…
Tucker: Well, you like to drink wine. And you yell at us sometimes.
me: Seriously?
Jack: Ooh, I know another name for steroids: GYM CANDY!
Theo: I want some gym candy!!
Tucker: What’s gym candy?
me: Illegal drugs.
Tucker: Like Popster selling drugs?
[Popster is their grandfather who is a pharmacist.]
me: Yes. But Popster sells medicine legally.
Jack: So what’s the difference between a promise and an oath?
me: An oath is a promise you take under the law, so you can get in big trouble if you lie.
Tucker: So are you going to lie about Popster selling drugs?
me: Popster is a pharmacist, Tucker. It’s his job to sell medicine.
Theo: Give me some gym candy, Jack.
Jack: Is Ms. M. going to be a security guard?
Tucker: Maybe the FBI lady will buy some lemonade from me.
me: You will not try to sell the FBI agent any lemonade.
Tucker: How about a bird call? Or some gerbil art? I bet she’d like to buy some gerbil art.
Jack: So why is gym candy illegal?
At this point, we were closing in on our house, and I could see the FBI lady waiting for me, perched like a clove on a baked ham in her nondescript vehicle next to our driveway. I also had the giggles in a bad way, what with all that gerbil art and gym candy talk. What was intended as a simple confirmation interview was on the way to making me look like I had something to hide.
I’d barely closed the door behind me when the agent was ringing our front door bell again. Theo ran to answer it while I shooed our dogs outside. She walked in and all 3 boys stared up at her like she had 3 heads. Please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything, I mentally begged my sons.
Spylady and I went in to the living room, stepping around critical parts of the blanket fort, where she proceeded to ask me question after question about Ms. M., which I bungled again and again. If I’d been the agent, I would have ditched the inquisition on Ms. M. and cut to the chase. It looked like I had multiple things I was hiding, including possible bodies in the basement.
I forgot the word “acronym”. I had no idea where my friend had gone to college. I could not remember when she moved. I blanked on our other neighbor’s last name. I stuttered like Mel Tillis. I cut my eyes from left to right repeatedly, though this was more to make sure a child wasn’t headed our way with his piggybank and a cup of lemonade than out of actual shadiness.
Whenever I stopped to think about how conspicuous I was looking, I started to giggle because thoughts like “gym candy” would drift through my brain. All in all, I’d say I looked like a class A idiot. I could have been starring in Fletch vs. Austin Powers.
Spylady, to her credit, did not break form even when Theo came in without his shirt on and when one of the other children began throwing stuffed animals over the stair railing. She kept saying, “take your time. Just take your time.” That’s what they say to all suspects, right? She had several folders with her and a few times she flipped through a folder after I’d given an answer and would say, “hmmm. Why don’t you try again?” in a voice barely masking her irritation.
In the end, I doubt I wound up helping my friend out one bit. The agent stuck around for a little over half an hour, likely just to avoid rush-hour traffic. I’m sure I was providing her with an interesting study on maniacs. I’ve never been a very good test taker; maybe I should have warned her about that right out of the gate. At least Tucker didn’t try to make a profit off her. I doubt FBI Agents are down with day-old lemonade or gerbils (even if they are of the non-biting variety). That “F” doesn’t stand for “funny,” you know.

Every single semester in school, once the finals were turned in, and it was all over but the crying, I would wind up sick. I’d get so worn down from the work, the stress, the anticipation of finals (the Reading Day parties…whatever…) that I’d turn in the last test and crash into bed for 3 days, fever raging and tonsils on fire.

[Stupid tonsils. Should have had those puppies yanked out years ago.]

Maybe it’s the anticipation of a break from the city life or maybe it’s the great wind-down from co-chairing VBS and being a 2nd grade room mom and a baseball team mom and whatever else it was that I did all Spring, but we all slid in here to the beach this past Thursday sideways and sick. Jack and I both.

And then lovely Tropical Storm Debby punched in last night, too. The winds and rain were crazy; Theo wound up crawling in bed with me around 5 a.m. but mercifully he crashed back out for a few hours. That saved us all.

We spent today practicing the Couch Potato Olympics, and I can tell you straight-off that I have no idea how people sit around all day doing nothing. When we could not possibly endure one more dance party or round of playing with Digger, the rain finally gave us a break, so we loaded up and headed out to our favorite place on the island, Drummond Point.

Without fail, we explore Drummond Point during every visit and without fail, I have to post photos of it. Sorry. But Drummond Point is even better with a big old nasty gray storm hugging her edges.

the fiddler crabs were a little bit bolder today…

Oh, that dimple. I’m pretty sure I spotted one this past week on my sweet cousin’s tiny new daughter Chloe, too (on her right cheek, when she yawns).  Dimples kill me.

Spend a day cooped up in the house at the beach, and you realize a little rain never hurt anybody.

Jack wanted me to photograph him eating 5 grapes at one time.

He thought his cheeks were abnormally large and funny.

Hate to break it to him; he’s always had some rocking chipmunk cheeks (here he is at age 3, no grapes in mouth).

Profile view of his still squeezable cheeks at age 8. Who needs a stinking dimple when you have cheeks like these?

Drummond Point, thanks for the rejuvenation today. You were just what we needed to shake the lead out. So even though the rain is pouring down again and the thunder is booming and the lights are flickering and the wind is whipping and Jim Cantore might possibly be standing outside in our cul-de-sac going toe-to-toe with Mother Nature, our Old Faithful lifted us out of the housebound doldrums for at least an hour.

So Debby, you can go on your merry little way any time now…

That is all.

Yes, you read that correctly. Gerbil Art.

“Diamond” by Digger
you can’t say the little dude ain’t got some skills…

Let me back up a bit. A few weeks ago, the boys and I spent an unGodly amount of time in the PetsMart, scouting rodents. Seriously. We were there close to 3 hours–through 2 shifts of “small animal experts”. I could have worked there by the end of it. Jack could have worked there. We were all small animal experts after 3 hours of pamphlet reading, critter observation, habitat comparison and critical interviews with the, um, staff.

In the end, we picked a light gray Mongolian gerbil who has tons of personality. He caught our eye when he kept popping up out of his nest with pieces of Aspen shavings still hanging from his head. He also had been deemed by every employee at PetsMart as “the non-biter”. Crucial.

To its credit, PetsMart gave us a New Pet Contract which required that we would be kind to our new pet and treat him with dignity. In return, PetsMart said they’d re-po the pet if we decided (within 2 weeks) that he wasn’t for us; they’d also replace him if he kicked the bucket within those two weeks.

[Side note: this is one of the strangest policies I’ve ever encountered. I’m familiar with it because I was once fish-sitting for a friend and one of the swimmers went belly-up so I had to get a replacement. The replacement keeled over in a day and since it wasn’t a $2 beta fish (more like an $18 exotic salt-water something-or-other), I called up PetsMart to grumble. They told me to bring the fish in and they’d replace it. So I tossed him in a ziploc and off we went for fish #2. Who also died. And who also sat in my freezer in a ziploc for a few months before I finally gave up. And the friend whose fish I was watching? Never even realized one was missing.]

Moving on.

I had all 3 boys sign the contract while sitting on the floor of the store. Then we loaded up our new gerbil and his 10 gallon tank and headed home.

The tiny bit of personality Digger displayed at PetsMart was just the tip of the iceberg. This little critter rocks. He’s cute as anything, very sweet and generally well behaved. He has a clear ball we put him in and he runs through the house, bouncing off the walls and smashing into the dogs, who don’t even get out of the way. They are so old that they just don’t even care that a small, fuzzy, moving thing inside a ball has crashed into them.

And while he’s not a biter (the good folk at the ‘Mart were right on that one), he does love him some chewing. He sounds like a mini typewriter as he goes to town on a cardboard paper towel roll or toilet paper roll. He’ll chew up paper in no time, shredding it to confetti which he thens kicks around to one side of his habitat for his impressive nest.

So the Digs made his inaugural trip down to the beach with us this week. And the boys realized a money-making scheme. Designs by Digger.

They fold up a sheet of paper and hold it out for Digger, who just cannot let it sit there unchewed. Digger’s creative juices get to flowing; he pops up and chews and nibbles on the edges for a few minutes and then jumps back into his log house. The boys deem the artist’s work complete, and remove the paper and unfold it. Voila! Gerbil Art.

preparing the canvas…

presenting the canvas to the artist…

The Artiste at work…
(note the delicate yet deliberate placement of his hands to steady the paper…)

eat your heart out, Picasso…

The masterpiece is complete!

But wait! They’ve taken it to the next level and are currently conducting a Gerbil Art sale on our driveway. When the throngs of customers failed to show up, Tucker decided he needed to do some advertising.

A piece of coveted Gerbil Art will only set you back $.30 (a strategically calculated price assuring all 3 boys each make one thin dime on each sale).

Art sale works on the honor system. We’ve had no takers yet (which only means the selection still rocks).

Tucker has also branched out and created his line of Gerbil Stationery. These cards are the perfect way to say whatever it is that you couldn’t say yourself and felt the need to buy a card to say for you. When in doubt, let a small rodent tackle your communication issues, I say. One-of-a-kind, to say the least.

We’ve been rewarding the artist by putting him in his ball and letting him go wild.

And our little friend has proven just how creative he is.

We heard a bunch of commotion in the living room, and Jack came running into the room to tell us that Digger was indeed an artist…

…an escape artist.

That turkey has figured out how to ram his exercise ball into the wall at full force to pop the top off and go free-range Digger. (He does come back when you call him, though. See, we told you he was a good gerbil.)

And just in case you’re worried that we have completely lost it, I’ll close with some pretty terrific beach photos.

Sans gerbil.

Two weekends ago, we climbed a mountain.

Well, sort of. Stone Mountain isn’t exactly a mountain; it’s actually one gigantic rock, the world’s largest hunk of exposed granite, to be exact. It’s 300 million years old and features some of the greatest people watching on the planet. My stars. But I digress.

I remember going to Stone Mountain when I was a little kid. The sky-tram–a sketchy, rocking trolley car you can ride to the top–still looks as dangerous as ever.

Of course, Tucker has been begging to ride it. Even Russ was spooked by the sky-tram, so we’ve never taken the boys to the top…until a few weeks ago when Atlanta gave us an unbelievably gorgeous June day. We rallied up the boys and decided to make the hike up.

I remember attempting to hike up Stone Mountain with my parents when I was apparently a tiny, scrawny kid. Here’s the memory, in its entirety: Laura walks forever, uphill, sweating and crying until Popster puts her on his back. Then we finally get to the Pharmacy School picnic area, it starts raining, and I don’t understand why my Dad won’t let me enter the “Best Looking Legs” contest.

Best Looking Legs contest? Someone had hung a shower curtain from the rafters of the picnic pavillion and the judge stood behind it, feeling up whatever leg was shoved behind the curtain. Seriously. School picnics have definitely gotten a little tamer since the mid 70’s.

Anyway, my memory of that day jumped into our backpack and had me convinced that there was no way on earth our older boys–much less Theo–could make it all the way to the top.

The hike started out innocently enough.

Our rock-climber Tucker was in heaven.

We walked up for maybe 20 minutes and hit the famed picnic pavillion from my youth. I must have been a mega-wimp as a child because it wasn’t that far nor was it that steep to get to the resting area. So, Popster, I apologize for being such a pain on that day way back in 1974.

Jack was determined to be the first Herakovich up the mountain. He actually tried to jog up it. We’d trek along for 10 minutes without seeing him and then we’d come upon him sitting on a boulder waiting for us. In the end, he was the first one to reach the summit, which isn’t exactly a summit but more like a flat top.

The high altitude had his bird-nest going in full force. (Stone Mountain tops out at [ahem] 825 feet, so obviously, it was the altitude, not the fact that his mother had neglected to get his hair cut, that caused his mop to go bananas like this.)

Tucker found this little hidey-hole and climbed over the railing (“Safety Last” is Tuck’s motto, you know) to go explore.

Russ and Theo attacked the most technically difficult section of the climb with the skills of alpine trekkers. The second half of the hike has this one stretch where the good folk at Stone Mountain (and their attorneys) have installed a handrail to assist you in walking up the slope which is not much steeper than a set of stairs. Ah, litigious Americans.

Theo made it all the way up and all the way back down; this shot above is the only time one of us held him. My child is way tougher than I was at age 3.5, that’s for sure.

Theo’s train obsession is still going in full force, by the way.

When we got back to the bottom, Tucker announced that he was the youngest person ever to climb a mountain (he apparently forgot that his younger brother was also with us). Then Tuck declared that the next mountain we climb should be Everest.

Now that we know we can handle an 825 foot summit, a 29,028 foot one should be a piece of cake.