So we’ve been talking for weeks about our upcoming trip to Florida. It’s exciting, you see, since we haven’t taken a vacation in nearly two years. That’s a lifetime for us. And even though this vacation destination is relative-oriented, it will be so much fun for the kiddo.

The talking has been mainly about how we’re getting to the Land of Sunshine. Scott, for instance, is a big fan of roadtrips. He embarked on many before we ever met, and he’s dragged me along on a few since then. For him, the best kind of getaway would be to strap Devin into his car seat and hit the road. For hours and hours and hours.

My preference? Well, I decided to go along with his idea since I knew it would make him happy. And last night we sat down together and went over maps and routes and timing. We spent nearly and hour and a half segmenting the trip down and back, being sure to include several cool spots for sightseeing.

Then, this morning, as if awakened from a drunken stupor, we both agreed, nearly simultaneously, that flying would be better.

It’s how decision-making happens in our household. Or how it doesn’t.

…tonight’s leftovers.

Well, it’s Valentine’s Day.

My grown-up sweetheart is on the east side of the state, sitting in a conference room and learning about some content management software.

My younger sweetheart graciously accompanied me to dinner last night for a little early celebration of the L-O-V-E holiday. We shared cornbread, he stole mandarin oranges off my salad and I countered by savoring several bites of his mashed potatoes, we colored with orange and green crayons, and then I serenaded him with some rock song that was playing over the speakers. His response was to give me one of his famous Devin air kisses and to say one of my favorite things: “Mommy my friend.”

I definitely have plenty of love in my heart. I hope yours is filled with the same.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

…every day would be ushered out by this golden light.

8th Street Farmers’ Market: Holland, Michigan

There are times when I think my brain has vacated my skull. Too many times really. Does spacey-ness come along with age, or is it just me?

I’m a writer by trade. A huge reader on top of that. Words are some of my favorite things in life. And spelling has always been one of my strong points.

Yet today, as I perused a layout, I came across the word “Tennessee”. It’s a word that you see often enough. I’ve spelled it myself on several occasions. But there was just something about it that didn’t seem right. I actually had the temerity to run it through the Google definition doohickey to see if it was spelled correctly. Of course it was. But why did I doubt it? I’ve found this happening more often than I’d like lately. I call it double-checking to make myself feel better. But my confidence with letters is sputtering. Anyone have one of those books of brain exercises? I think I need one.

The state of things at the moment requires my husband, who’s at home during the week, to handle some of my, um, affairs.

Today that consisted of picking up Lucy from the cat clinic, where she spent the weekend recovering from a vomiting episode.

Yet there was also the matter of dropping off our mortgage payment, which somehow missed the mailbox and was discovered in an odd location miles away from its destination.

He chose to combine the two.

Bad choice on his part since I inadvertently provided incorrect directions to the mortgage office. Which meant a memorable experience traveling up and down East Beltline with a very distressed cat on the seat next to him.

Yes, I feel slightly guilty due to the confusion I created. But I had to stifle a few giggles when he called to inform me that he was lost and I could hear Miss Lucy meowing insistently in the background. I’m so evil.

Do you ever have a day where everything seems to tilt toward the negative? That’s kind of where I’m at right now. It’s actually more like a few days. I know it will end soon. But it’s quite exhausting to have a seemingly endless list of “stuff” to fret about. I need to snap out of this funk, but I’m not getting enough sleep on top of it all. Sure, I could chalk it up to the worrying, but the idiot who sped down my street, hit his brakes too late, flew through the stop sign, and smashed into the curb outside of my bedroom window at 5:00 this morning played a big role as well.

Cloudy and gray, yes, but Tracy and I had a nice time strolling alongside the river yesterday.

Let me start by saying that I lived to be 38 and have never been stung by a bee. You can tell where this is going, can’t you?

The boy and I came home last night and were making our way up the steps. In the usual slow manner of a two-year-old. I put our bags down on the top of the porch and unlocked the front door. Then I waited for him to climb the two steps to reach me. Which he wasn’t doing.

We have spirea bushes along the walk and they’re filled with buzzing bees. I noticed just the other night that they seem to have a hive under our concrete steps. Still, I’ve never given them a second thought because I just leave them to their business. And I’ve heard that’s what you’re supposed to do with bees; you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. Right?

I cautioned Devin not to bother the bees (because two-year-olds don’t know any better), then I reached for his arm to help him up the two stairs. Apparently, that’s a no-no in Bee World, because that @!#*& bee landed on my arm and STUNG ME. Holy cow, man — that hurt! As I realized what was happening, the stupid-ass bee stung me two more times! TWO! So to make up for the 38 years of being stingless, the bee apparently decided I needed a few to make its point.

By the third sting, I was in flailing, whacking mode and I managed to sock one to him/it. He landed on the porch, upside-down, seemingly unconscious or dead.

I was crouched down, gripping my arm and trying not to cry, assuring Devin that, “It’s OK.” Then I started to gather up our bags and usher the boy into the house.

That’s when I saw it. The bee was moving. It was getting up again! That’s when I went from flailing, whacking mode to totally-freaked-out mode. I had a sneaking suspicion that this particular bee was not happy with me at all and had no intention of buzzing off to lick his wounds. He rose into the air and I started screaming at Devin, who was still standing in the same spot, to “GET INSIDE! NOW!” He froze to the spot and I grabbed him and shoved him inside.

Get this…THE BEE FOLLOWED US INTO THE HOUSE!

Do you, dear reader, get the feeling that this particular bee may have had some sort of psychotic issues? Because I sure had that feeling. When I saw it rise off the porch and come after us, I felt like I was reliving the last scenes of “The Terminator”.

So not only did the bee follow us into the house, it went after my kid. And that’s when I went from afraid to very pissed off. He landed on Devin’s neck and began crawling up the back of his head. All the while I’m looking for a swatting tool and screaming in ferocious anger at this stupid bee: “GET OFF MY KID! NOW! GET OFF! GET OFF!” After accidentally striking Devin with a set of car keys (which, by the way, are useless in swatting bees), I got hold of a nearby road atlas (thanks, Scott, for leaving that in the hallway for the past week!) and went after the sucker.

I got him off of Devin, but not fast enough. That stupid jerk of a bee stung my kid on his hand before the road atlas made contact. He landed on the floor and my shoe landed very forcefully on top of him. And then Dev began crying. A lot.

I felt so bad for him. Not only did it hurt, but he had to witness a panicked, shaken mother battle with a two-inch long flying menace. I’m sure he’s scarred for life. His poor little hand swelled up to twice its size. And my swollen arm still aches more than 24 hours later. Stupid, crazy, @!#*& bee!

Thanks for letting me share that trauma. And wish me bee-free dreams tonight.

Do you ever wonder how memories work? Like the things you DO remember contrasted with the things you DON’T. Or the very fact that a simple moment can stick with you forever. That you’ll recall it some day when you’re 80 and you’re relaxing on a spring day and the little helicopters from the nearby oak tree come fluttering down from the blue, blue sky.

I remember sitting in the grass near the fence at the very back of the playground. Lincoln Elementary School. Probably 5th grade, but possibly 4th or 6th.

I remember sitting with my legs crossed with a few of my girlfriends.

I remember picking the green helicopters from the grass and twirling them between my thumb and forefinger.

I remember someone informing us that you could stick them in your mouth, between your tongue and the roof, and position it just right and you’d get a funny little kazoo-ish sound.

I remember all of us sitting there in our semi-circle, with the discards from the oak tree, giving it our all to create that sought-after sound.

I believe I’ll remember the look on my son’s face last evening when I threw a helicopter into the air. I’ll remember that moment when I’m 80 too. The squeal of delight as it came fluttering furiously back to earth. The smile. The laughter. The insistence that I throw another one into the air. And another. And another. “More, Mommy!”

It’s not like I don’t have enough pics of this kid on his own site, but I was testing my new flash diffuser last night and thought I’d spread his own brand of sunshine over here on Mom’s site.