Sitting on the porch during a summer storm is the closest I like to get to roughing it. For the record, I have camped. Tents, campfires, sleeping bags, bugs, the whole megillah. I appreciate the appeal. I can understand the attraction to connecting with nature, breathing fresh air and pounding chests after hiking off-road and proving ourselves capable of surviving a few days in the wilderness. I get it. Really, I do.
I appreciate more, however, a flushing toilet located in a room of its own, an 1875 watt, ionic hair dryer and sleeping in a climate controlled room as opposed to shivering next to a pit of dying embers.
Deborah: Hey Gabriella! There’s that fly!
Asher: Don’t kill it!
Deborah: You’re right, Asher. We shouldn’t kill it.
Gabriella: But its house is outside, and it has now flown into OUR house, and it’s a dirty, germ carrying menace, and we need to protect ourselves. Hence . . . SMAK
Deborah: We had to do what we had to do.
Gabriella often uses words like “hence” in casual conversation. She’s foreign, you know. Where was I? Oh yes. I don’t camp. I do holiday. Last year, we managed to do a fair share of road-tripping during Gabriella’s sabbatical. This year, we still managed to squeeze in a couple of getaways in between income-earning endeavors.
I won’t torture you with endless photos of our family trips, and I still haven’t figured out how to use flickr. So, I’m providing you with a couple of select photos and videos from our trip to Vermont and our week in Northern Michigan. If you are reading via email or Google Reader or some other such thingy that prevents you from viewing videos, you might want to skip on over to Peaches & Coconuts. As the rug-hawkers in Marrakech say, appreciate please:
That’s right, Zuzu! Every time a bell rings, another sucker kissed a stuffed moose named Randolph at Sleder’s.
Hammie on the rocks. Thanks to Vikki for our holiday companion and subject of many a photo.
Suddenly nursing our two boys seemed like a walk in the park.
Now that we’ve been home for the entirety of one full day, I am suffering from a severe case of Post Holiday Stress Disorder aka I want to twist my kids’ heads off. For such occasions, I have a special term that provides me a bit of comic relief. They will come to understand this term only after they have kids of their own or when they’re able to hack into this blog. Out loud, I endearingly call my boys, mamba jambas. In my head, mamba jambas translates to “mother fuckers”. “Time to go to the store, mamba jambas!” “Stop hitting your brother, mamba-jamba.” “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t throw bits of food onto the floor, my little mamba-jamba.” It’s kind of catchy, no?
…and she was never nominated for Mother of the Year again. The End.
Voice over: “Just a minute. I thought you had never been nominated for Mother of the Year ever?”
Deborah: Why, that’s correct, Dear. I haven’t ever been nominated for Mother of the Year, my sweet mamba jamba. Now be a good voice over, and run along.
Everyone’s a critic.
My cute little mamba jambas.