Today was an otherwise really good day completely wrecked by a bad moment. I went out around 4:45 to buy a gift for Frances that I had a coupon for, and when I got in the store, I realized that my ATM card is gone. What's irritating about this is that this is a multi-times-a-year occurrence. I've lost so many cards that it's obviously my fault. I'm ashamed of my behavior. I broke a whole set of small toy china and also kicked out some slats in the dog gate to our kitchen. And was mean to my kids, since I was feeling so terrible myself. I was deeply angered that the kids would not help, even with a promise of a $100 check if anyone found the card. They wouldn't move from their video game. It was the moment that I realized that I'm such a pathetic case and always have a problem and always have something I need now and can't find, and no one even cares any more. I should be shot and killed. I was seriously thinking about killing myself by the time I had ripped apart my car and house again. I'm sure my family would run much more smoothly with someone more organized in charge.

What's kind of ironic and uncanny is how my driver's license or my ATM card ends up being lost when I've just done major cleaning. And it was gone before I started the cleaning, and i never come across them in my cleaning. This afternoon I thoroughly cleaned my car, and last night, because Ollie wasn't feeling well, I cleared the kitchen, living room, all bathrooms, and Frances's room so I could disinfect and keep things clean in case the rest of us went down with a nasty illness. I have physical evidence that I last used the card at 2:20 yesterday afternoon, and after that, I went home, sat on the bed for more than an hour while Rutledge napped, then gathered children and took them to the play. By the time I got home, Kerry and the boys were back.

When I lost my driver's license a few weeks ago and didn't have it for election day, I beat myself up horribly. Guess where it finally turned up? In a Kleenex box under the Lego table in Rutledge's room, with a bunch of tissues on top of it.

What frightens me most about all of this is that I'm worried that my mind is going. I'm worried that I have early onset dementia or some kind of genuine problem that makes me leave things in unpredictable places and makes it difficult for me to go through my daily routines without problems.

Friday night, I was really torn apart by forgetting to take the canned food for the Thanksgiving basket to the Cub Scout meeting. It was on the counter, but by the time I got all four kids in the car and looked for an extra checkbook (I had only one check left and three checks to write), then ripped apart my room looking for the new Webelos uniform patches for their new uniforms--still missing, I guess I left without the food. Kerry said we didn't have any more checkbooks, but I knew I had seen one somewhere earlier that day or the day before. Somewhere like under a table or beneath a piece of furniture in a pile of dust bunnies. When I had to make my emergency trip back home with Frances and Rutledge, I managed to come across one in a basket on the wall in our home office, but it was the damn darkest night I've ever seen, it was about 25 degrees and windy, and I somehow dropped one of the cans of food out of the plastic bag it was in, so it turns out that the basket is short a can of green beans anyway. I also lost the check I wrote to the Den Leader for their dues, and had to write another one (I found the original one in my car right after the meeting, but it was too late). I can't do anything right.

I am reminded each and every day lately that there is no way that I could work outside my home. I am simply lacking all executive function. Nearly every single day I do something that would be entirely unacceptable if I was working for or responsible to someone else, something egregious enough to get me fired. What matters is getting it *all* right. Today further drove home that no amount of other deeds can counteract the one awful one (losing the card); twenty rights don't make up for a wrong. I started as usual by cleaning up the shoes, socks, bedding and remotes and video game cases that were left all over the living room (the dogs can't come in unless all chewable things are put up). Then I put in a new rug under all of the furniture so it will be more comfortable when we have guests this week, no small task with a 30 pound dog and a 35 pound child standing on it every time I needed to adjust the position. I put 1.5 coats of paint on our end table, turning it from "distressed" off-white with lots of stains and water damage to black. I repainted five of our kitchen cabinets and the side and back facings of the cabinets, which were badly nicked and had lots of dirt and food stains and grease on them and needed some retouching before guests come for the holidays (unfortunately, though I chose to just repaint with the creamier white Duration paint I have, which is supposed to be extremely wipeable, the color is reading pinkish to me, and I don't think I can deal with that and will end up repainting what I've done), and started to steam the carpets upstairs. I bleached and then semi-power-washed the area around our front door, which was really nasty and full of spider webs, bug smears, and mildew. Unfortunately, the hose wasn't doing enough, so I re-bleached and then hand wiped what I could reach from a chair. I also got some of the junk off the porch, like the mail Kerry left there Friday.

One thing I can say: I did not sit down once today after we came home from the potluck at church, not once until I sat for a few minutes while Frances was at "open gym" tonight. I put away lots and lots of other people's things, washed other people's clothes, took down the shower curtain other people have used, did yardwork no one else will do, repaired and reinstalled window mullions that I didn't break, and even ate my dinner standing up with Kerry goading me to go faster, faster, so that he could put Rutledge to sleep. Basically, it was my standard day: wake up and immediately start picking up things I didn't put there. And then end the day by listening to everyone else snore while I walk around and turn off all the lights in everyone's room. I should not complain though--at least the economy of this country and the future of any company or county don't depend on me! What's sad is that this is my chosen job, and I can't expect other people to do my job and the job they get paid for because I'm not competent at mine.

Here's how pathetic I am and how much I want to blame someone other than myself, who really deserves it. I figured that I probably lose my ATM card an average of twice a year, and I most likely use it in an average of 2 transactions per day (withdrawals, gas, purchases, food, etc.)--yesterday I had 4 uses of it. So it's only getting where it isn't supposed to be about 1 time for every 365 times or more that I pull it out. Those odds don't sound so bad, do they?!

"Peacock in Oil Pastels and Sharpie"--Frances, 11/15/08


Though I had this idea in my head all month that our Saturdays are just packed, they're really not. It's been another relaxing day. Rutledge, Frances, and I went to the annual Holiday Bazaar at the Richmond Waldorf School this morning. This has become one of our holiday traditions, and in the past I've bought many of our Christmas gifts there. We met up with our friends Rebecca, David, Mark, and Olivia and had lunch there, the kids both did the cake walk (we didn't win), Frances decorated cookies in the craft room, and I bought a few stocking stuffers and school supplies (drawing books, wool felt, wool roving). I got Walter a fountain pen to give him for Christmas. Oh, and rocks. I always buy rocks.

Every year a woman who calls herself The Stone Goddess has a table there, and she is so very nice and has a great selection. Our plan for the next few weeks is to visit her store on Jeff Davis Highway, which she says is quite different from Walter's current favorite rock store: Packard's Rock Shop, which is a funky and messy little place on Midlothian Turnpike. I picked up a small case of 12 different fossils for Walter, a big chunk of amethyst crystals, a geode, a 4 inch long trilobite, and Frances got some Citrine crystals growing on a chunk of rock.

We're home now, and I'm sure I'm going to pay for this one later tonight when R doesn't go to bed until 11.



Tonight we're going to see South Pacific. At least that's the plan. That was the plan on Thursday when my stomach suddenly became quite angry with me about 20 minutes before the show started. I'm starting to see some patterns here. It seems that water is really the only drink that agrees with me. Coffee? No. Tea? I'm learning that's a no, too. Emergen-C was my staple drink after cutting out coffee, but that's a near 100% problem for me. Juices? Iffy, and they don't have a ton of nutritional value anyway, often have lots of sugar, and just fill you up. So I'm trying to eat slightly right (the Reese's cups I'm taking from our Halloween stash probably are a dumb, dumb, dumb idea) so we'll be in good form this evening.

Today also marked a notable moment: I checked out the maximum number of books from the library--I think it's 75, though that seems like a lot. I don't feel like I have that many, but maybe I do. I'm all over these short books right now--80-130 pages, doable in a night or two. Right now we're doing Bright April, we just listened to _Skylark_, and right now we're listening to the second Penderwicks book, which is as delightful as the first. Ollie and I are going to finish _Pictures of Hollis Woods_, which we both have enjoyed, and Frances is going through Ann Cameron's Gloria and Julian books, which are also well done and right on Franny's interest level. She liked _Bunnicula_ less, as did I. It was a really neat concept for a book, but for me it lacked something in execution. It started with a totally engaging "mystery" and theme, but then didn't take it where it could have gone, so it was a bit disappointing. Frances doesn't want to read the others in the series, and I don't entirely blame her.

Frances wanted to learn to knit this week, and here is her progress so far:


She still needs me to help remind her where to put her hands, but we had a big breakthrough when she could mostly do all the handwork herself and not have my hands on her needles as well to "keep Jack from taking all his friends off with him." I taught her this rhyme:

In through the front door,
Once around the back,
Peek through the window
And off jumps Jack!

Perhaps she will become as addicted to knitting as I am. Speaking of which, here are the three hats I've done so far:

I'm feeling totally off my game lately.

Tonight I took the kids to the Cub Scout Pack Meeting, which if you're familiar with Cub Scouts at all, you can foresee what kind of evening I'll describe. Cub Scout meetings are like ADHD conventions put on by adults who think they can insert a 40 minute business portion to whatever high-parent-involvement task the boys are going to do in the last 20 mintues. My suggestion: handle it over email!!! Anyway, I spent the meeting sitting out in the hallway, starting my fourth elf hat after finishing up one at around 12:30 a.m. Frances, Rutledge, and a bunch of younger girl siblings were running in the halls of the church, playing with Littlest Pet Shop toys, and inventorying Frances's purse.

Whenever I forget my camera when we're on a field trip, I get this suspicion that I can't shake from my head that if I can't document it visually, it didn't really happen. Believe me, Hollywood Cemetery happened today! When I arrived, I realized that my digital SLR camera case was empty (camera at home on my dresser) and then when I turned on my pocket-sized camera, it flashed, "Battery Expired." Okay.

It was a freezing cold day--overcast, snowing a little on the way over, and a bit windy. The chill bit right into you. We had plenty of layers and accessories with us, but it was still a wee bit uncomfortable--it made for whiny accompanying siblings. About 30 minutes into it, I was trying to talk to Ollie and I guess my mouth was so frozen that I was having motor execution issues--it hurt to talk and my mouth and lips were refusing to make the correct movements. Hollywood Cemetery is always a pleasure, though. And though I'm sad I didn't have my camera, you can look plenty of other places to see sights that it is so well known for: 2 U.S. Presidents buried there (Monroe and Tyler), one Confederate President, Ellen Glasgow, thousands of Confederate soldiers...there's a fabulous site that covers the sights at http://www.hollywoodcemetery.org/history.html. I appreciated the chance to see it in a season when we're not normally there--winter (or winter-like fall), when the leaves are off the trees, the James River is stark and dark, and the holly trees for which the place is named are so vibrant and stand out amidst the bare branches of the other tremendous trees that have stood there so long. The red berries against the bright green leaves puts me right in the holiday spirit.

Nonetheless, Rutledge was really awful--lots of crying, probably because he was physically uncomfortable. And then there was a boy there who was aggravating him through our entire multi-mile walk; this didn't help matters at all. He kept taking Rutledges magnolia grenades and engaging him in stick play that went nowhere good. Walter was inattentive and kept wandering and kicking at dead leaves and making noise when others were trying to listen. I followed through on my threat that if I had to talk to him again, he couldn't have a donut from Dunkin Donuts afterwards. I felt a little bad, but I had to talk to him, and a promise is a promise....

Tomorrow the boys and Kerry are going on an overnight trip to Norfolk and Virginia Beach with the Cub Scouts. First they're going to Nauticus and then on the U.S.S. Wisconsin and then out to some barracks at Camp Pendleton. In the evening, the plan is to go to the illumination of Norfolk for the holidays, which includes a parade and other activities. I think they're also going to try to see Kerry's grandmother while they're in town. I've spent the evening trying to pack for them, since the high temperature tomorrow is supposed to be 41 degrees, and since they're staying in a government-run facility, who knows if there's going to be heat.  Of course, having to rush out the door, slightly late, not able to find all the patches I recently spent a lot of money on at the Boy Scout Store and therefore having my children at yet another event in an incomplete uniform, and despite leaving our bag of food for the Thanksgiving basket at home and then having to load up the little ones and go home for it, and despite not being able to find enough checks to cover all the things I needed to write checks for (rechartering dues, admission to the museums tomorrow, space derby rocket kits), made today a little less serene than it could have been.   There was a lot of crying and whining today...from all of us.

Despite it being really, really, really cold and me feeling a bit pulled in ten directions, it still was a memorable and special day.  There's just something sobering and even invigorating about spending a few hours walking through a "rural" cemetery with its rolling hills, mature trees, meandering roads, and sweeping views of the river.  There are so many stories there, and even with a guide, I feel like I only leave with the merest glimpse of what these people were like, what they did in their lives.  A whole life is condensed into two minutes of commentary or one anecdotal story, and yet they were all, as we all are, complex people with complex lives, varied achievements (often what was memorable for them is not necessarily what we remember them for), and subject to being recalled for whatever some possibly distant relative or acquaintance shares.  This is so poignant to me right now because Ollie and I are actively researching our genealogy right now and trying to piece together even a snippet of the story of some of these far-distant people, people that I know had 24 hours in each of their days just like I do now, who are now forgotten names that total strangers to each other are asking about on the internet ("Does anyone know anything about Nancy "Agnes" Renwick?  I have down two children for her, but I don't know her husband's name.")  We can't figure out the relationship between James Renwick, the last Covenanter Martyred for the faith in Scotland, and the Rev. John Renwick who left from Ireland to head for Newberry, South Carolina.  We can't even figure out who is related to who, much less what they were thinking, what their personal life was like, their personalities.  So much is lost so fast, and today, looking at the graves that told even a slight story in their architecture, statuary, symbols, size, or the words on them, this point was just driven even further home.  All those things that we care so much about--our clothes, the state of the economy, our jobs, our achievements in school or in our jobs or our community, the food we eat and what restaurants we have to experience--it all is so ephemeral and most of it will ultimately be forgotten once we are gone.  Even with great achievements, when most people see our graves, perhaps by chance because the place where we are buried is picturesque and a pleasure to visit, we'll get a one paragraph blurb in a guide book (or website!) and a two minute overview by a retired tour guide.  It's humbling, really.

Size does matter. Height, that is. Do you know that song by Kimya Dawson (of the "Juno" soundtrack?) about "Little Monster Babies Destroying My Town?" This Keva creation could have been the inspiration for that ditty.



We tied up a bunch of loose ends tonight. We finished _The Other Side of the Mountain_, which I didn't like quite as much as _My Side of the Mountain_, but which still was an exciting adventure story with a lot of information that I hope won't prove to be useful to me any day soon ;)

We finished _Bunnicula_, which Ollie liked more than any of the others did. Walter offered his criticism of the book by choosing to take a shower instead of listening to the exciting conclusion.

We read one chapter in _Mother West Wind's Children_, a book about animal protagonists of the most egregious kind, and I'm tired of animal protagonists. But it's cute. Has some morals to ponder.

I cut Ollie's hair today. I referred to it as making a deal with the devil: if he let me cut his hair, I'd take him out and let him spend the $15 I would have spent with the barber on a video game. So now we have "Assassin's Creed," which I attempted to justify to myself by noting that it kind of sort of seems to be about medieval people. He hasn't played it yet because he, along with the others, was poorly behaved today and lost privileges. I'm quite done with children screaming in the car, making others cry even though they "didn't do anything," and generally antagonizing their siblings when I need to concentrate on something like keeping us alive.

We made "Chocolate Moose" cookies, which have nothing to do with a frothy, pudding-like dessert and were simply chocolate butter cookies in the shape of a moose. It's going to sound like I'm doing a lot of justifying today, but I justified the purchase of the overpriced mix by appreciating the moose-shaped cookie cutter that came with it and the cute box that I can put one of Walter's Christmas presents in (another "Moosie"--this one is two hugging each other, but I think they can be pulled apart).

We finished our unit on cells. I'm glad to see it go. I'm glad to see any science unit go, to be perfectly honest, and it's not because I don't like science but because at some point, some of these things start to feel like beating a dead horse. We did it, did it well, and it's time to forge ahead into plants.

Frances held a photo shoot with Rutledge this morning. Inspired by Friday's gymnastics pictures, she set up a backdrop (full size Hello Kitty comforter) and then had him practice various "poses." Here's the result: [technical difficulties at the moment: the results are above, with a picture of the Keva creation Frances made last night]. She is an artist through and through.

Vertical Birthing

As I was reading around on Reuters this morning, I came across this article about a medical clinic in Peru that is now promoting and offering "vertical birthing" to indigenous women, who traditionally have given birth standing or squatting. It's sad when it's "news" that birthing is safer and typically goes better when women aren't lying flat on their backs. And yet the article still presented the idea of unmedicated childbirth as horrific, terrifying, excruciatingly painful and the author held it in continual contrast with her Western birth that was "painless." Yes, Cuzco has a maternal death rate that is unacceptable, but less intervention in the birthing process and accepting birth as something a woman's body was designed to do is not the same as a horror. 

The trouble with the article is that the headline was not something like, "Ill-Equipped Birth Clinic in Cuzco Leaves Women Screaming in Pain."  The article instead was about an "Old World Practice in the Modern Age."  

I was mortified by paragraphs like this one:

"On the second day of the story, an obstetrician named Guido told me that this was the night of a full moon, and that there would be many births so I should stay overnight. He was right. I was fortunate to witness four births that night. Just being there was a privilege, as well as an exhausting and hallucinating experience. These births are natural, without anesthesia. The pre-labor room, where the women endure the pains before actually giving birth, is really a chamber of terror in which the women scream out their pain, lying on the floor or pacing. They suffer, endure and survive in spite of not receiving anything for the pain."

Later she wrote this:

"They tried lying her down on a bed to cut her perineum because she wouldn’t dilate enough to allow more than the head to be seen. Amidst an atmosphere of butchery, with the blunt instruments that wouldn’t cut and the lack of anesthesia, there was a blackout. The clinic had neither candles nor flashlights, not to mention a generator. Guido, the obstetrician, very calmly requested a light of any kind, even if it was from a cell phone"

Yes, it's awful that there was a blackout, that it seems their instruments were "blunt," but this is an issue having to do with an underfunded and staffed medical center, not with the safety or efficacy of birthing in a position other than flat on your back.  What this article ends up being about is what happens when you bring "modern" birthing practices into a traditional setting or conclude that traditional birthing as "dangerous" and "excruciating," when in fact it has been thoroughly adulterated by the interventions and "management" of birth that we have come to consider as normal in our culture.

Nancy's Recipe for Pain in Birth:

* Artificially induce labor because the timing works better for the healthcare providers or because the woman is tired of being pregant.

* Remove the woman from any surroundings familiar to her. Put her in a place that is almost universally frightening.

* Hook her up to a variety of machines that require her to lie on her back, remain still, or in a certain position

* Have some knives and other sharp instruments close by, and make sure she knows they're there, in case she "can't do it" or she takes too long

* start the clock running

* Make her start pushing before she is fully dilated or before she feels an urge to push. If the baby doesn't come out or this hurts the mother, make a big slice near her vagina

* Make sure plenty of people come in the room where the mother is birthing. Maybe some medical residents who haven't seen this before, and especially haven't seen someone "doing it naturally," a shift-change of nurses, and, better yet, a reporter from another country with a camera who wants to show how "backwards" persons like yourselves give birth using their indigenous wisdom.

* Remind the mother that there are other women waiting to give birth behind her, and they're getting antsy in the next room. Let her listen to them scream in pain as they are "prepped" to give birth themselves or told that no, they can't push now--it's not their turn because they have to wait for you.

* Be sure that the mother knows that her birth will represent to the world what birth is like using what her family has used for generations. Her birth will prove whether this works or not.

* If "minutes seem like hours" while she's in transition or pushing, concur with her and make her feel like it really it an eternity and that this means something is wrong and you need to cut something.

* Do all of this without medication and call it a "natural childbirth." Hey, you let her stand up, and it didn't work out. See, there's a lot of risk in "going naturally." Natural childbirth hurts!

* Conclude from the trial that "natural practices" used by indigenous people leave women in a lot of pain

Even standing up, you can't push and the baby will not be birthed if the woman is not fully dilated. Episiotomy or other forms of force, cannot make something happen when the body is not yet ready. "Butchery" is what happens when we punish a body for not having the timing that is convenient to the medical staff. And the very normal process of birth is not aided by the stressful atmosphere of a busy and poorly appointed hospital or clinic, with its instruments of torture (the article repeatedly referred to how blunt the scissors and instruments were and how they could not cut) waiting to be used as soon as anything appeared to be going too slowly. In this particular article, the women were described as being lined up in a waiting area, awaiting their turn to for "vertical birth" in the room full of lights, blunt knives, and Western photographers. Women should not be "waiting in line" for birth--I assume they were induced or somehow managed so that the evening would move in an orderly procession, and those left alone "screaming in agony" in the pre-birth room were, alas, left alone to labor in an unfamiliar and hostile environment with nothing to look forward to but a rush and anything but a 'natural' delivery.

Articles like this anger me because they serve only to reconfirm to those who are not familiar with the experience of normal birth that birth without all of our Western medical interventions is horrible, risky, and like being "butchered, " but they fail to see how often well-intentioned medical providers create the very situation they are saying is so horrific. How unlike butchering is it that 30% or more of women in our country give birth in a room filled with knives, scalpels, and the tools of opening flesh? Having your perineum cut because you are not dilated and can't push out your baby when you are told to stand and deliver is butchering wherever it occurs, including in America.

Here is the full text of the article: http://blogs.reuters.com/photo/2008/07/12/old-birthing-in-the-new-world/



There is an alternative! "Vertical birthing" is the best way to work with your body and is safe for your baby. Having had two "vertical" births and one horizontal one, including all that 'wonderful' pain relief, I can hands down say that birth is far more comfortable, faster, and works in harmony with the work your body is doing when you are standing, squatting, or otherwise in a position where gravity is assisting your baby and the action of your muscles. And as Ina May Gaskin so aptly puts it, sphincters don't like to open when other people are watching, shining lights at them, or shouting at them.

The two most incredible moments of my life were the power and strength I felt at the moment when Frances and Rutledge were born. Frances was born in a hospital, and there were lights and monitors and unfamiliar faces. But having been largely left alone, having labored in my own home (and own car...at least it was familiar to me!) with only those people around me who would support my birth, relax me, and give me strength, and having surrounded myself with information and affirmation that birth is normal, intervention is risky, and that I could do this, I was in a strong position to not only have my baby without anesthesia, medication to augment my labor, or IVs, but also to experience the joy that our bodies are designed to feel when we bring forth a new life into the world. There were moments of discomfort, moments when I felt like I couldn't go on another minute, but any "pain" was with a purpose and a result of my body's hard work (I love the phrase "powerful sensations that can not be ignored"), not pain inflicted by another person or object. With Rutledge, I was in my own most comfortable environment, again with the privacy and support of loving people around me and not self-conscious about being with strangers. I knew I would not be pressured to move at any pace other than the one that was happening on its own. When I felt out of control, when I was saying I couldn't do it, I not only had people reminding me that I really could and that it was almost over and I was "doing it," but they offered whatever they had to help me through what I was feeling. I was never left to do it on my own, never left in a "prep" room where I had to wait for someone else to hurry up and finish what they were doing.

What is sad about our culture when it comes to birth is that we are so hasty to form conclusions that match our biases. We are so blind to how our actions and what we consider a "norm" or "progress" contribute to the negative or unpleasant outcomes we see.

Point to ponder for today:

How do you pronounce the name of that most important city of the Aztecs? The other night, I was watching something on History International, and I heard a pronunciation that was just so terribly wrong that I started to seriously doubt my own pronunciation. It was so wrong that I can't remember exactly how wrong it was--wrong in a Mad Gab kind of way.

And then there's "chipotle." Almost everyone I hear pronounces it "chip-ohl-tay," and lacking confidence as I do, I was wondering, in words of Aztec descent, are certain consonant sounds transposed? So I've spent/wasted my Saturday night investigating these matters online. Something has to fill those dead hours.

The most exciting event of the day, without a doubt, was seeing High School Musical 3. What an inspiration! Makes me want to go back and redo high school again because I had no idea that it was supposed to be like *that*! ;) Really, it was a great deal of fun to experience the atmosphere of a theatre full of 7-10 year old girls and to fantasize about how high school might have been if Kempsville had been put on by Disney....

I am heading off to knit while watching the Big O's favorite movie: Child's Play. If you had asked me 8 years ago, or even one year ago whether I'd ever let a child of mine watch this movie, there would have been no question: No way. But here I am, watching the babysitter get hit with a hammer and fall out of a 6th floor window to her doom on the street. Ah, how parenting changes us.

Art comes before everything else at our house. Frances is deeply inspired by Salad People, by Molly Katzen.

Here was today: fewer than 30 minutes at home from 10:30 a.m.-10:30 p.m.

10:30 Out to pick up birthday gift

11:00 Home again because I left the team leotard at home for the pictures at 4

11:30 Birthday Party at CiCi's Pizza

12:45 Locked my keys in the car while fishing for a few quarters for a whining child who wanted more crap from a vending machine

1:10 Chess Club

2:00 Book Club

4:00 Gymnastics Team Pictures

5:30 30 minutes late for Little Company ballet rehearsal

7:00 Party for adults at a friend's house

I'm wiped!

So I'm spending my down time at nearly midnight watching a reenactor pretending to be Teddy Roosevelt sighting the Skunk Ape. I think Walter may have a career after all!