Even though this blog is utterly dead silent (do I hear crickets chirping?), I am writing many hours a day on this TypePad book. Many, many hours–hours I should probably be spending feeding my family something other than hot dogs and chips…again. Deadlines wait for no one, though, so hot dogs it is, and my family has been one big, collective good sport about it. While I can't say I'd be an advocate of operating at such a frenzied pace indefinitely, it's been good for my family to pull together for a common cause. They're pitching in, helping Mom get a job done well (and quickly), and I'm thankful to them. When it's all over, I hope we all have a great sense of accomplishment. And may we never, ever eat another hot dog again.
Speaking of the book, we're officially listed at Amazon now. When I learned that, I did not squeal or freak out or call Melanie because I am much too calm and professional to act that way. Ahem.
Let's see, what else. Ah yes, I almost turned into a pancake this week, driving my kids home from school during a massive thunderstorm. We crept along at a snail's pace (zero visibility, but just enough to see the STRAIGHT-LINE WINDS, which is never good). Suddenly, a giant oak crashed across the road, less than 50 feet from our van.
Branches from other trees started pelting down all around us, and it began to hail. Thankfully, I had watched the movie Twister only days before, so I was fully equipped for a Dramatic Weather Emergency. "LEAN TO THE MIDDLE OF THE CAR!" I shouted over the pelting hail, and the kids did just that. I swung that van around more like Jack Bauer than a happy housewife, and I floored it off that tree-lined street, dodging airborne branches the whole time. I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the 10-year-old hovering protectively his 4-year-old sister, and I thought to myself that since we were surely about to die I was glad I could remember this about him, as opposed to the smell of the soccer cleats he left in my car all day.
We finally got off the Giant Tree-Lined Death Trap and parked in a neighborhood with no trees. I sat there, eyes closed, breathing an overwhelmed prayer of thankfulness. The eight-year-old's quiet voice whispered, "Mom?" I turned to look at him. "That was WICKED cool."
I'm glad I could entertain, son.
Last thing: my friend Scott (my husband's old high school friend, actually, but I've adopted him) is one of the only 3.7 male readers of this blog, and he sent me a link to share with you. It's the Dude Perfect guys, performing some unreal stunts, all in the name of–what else?–Compassion. You've got to see it.