Nerf War!

One great thing about being in our family is holidays and birthdays. As much as I enjoy all the hoopla surrounding a good party, I do not enjoy capturing those moments and making them into sweet memories. Good news for me, not only did I marry into the family with good recipes and woman-with-man-hands pictures. I married into a family that has this guy:


Now, if you ever see us on vacation and you wonder to yourself, Hmmm...are they celebrities? The answer is no. Well, maybe we are. If you want to make me feel good. But we should clarify. We do not have a member of the paparazzi following us around. We just have James Glover, amazing photographer and - what? Oh! That's convenient! - family member.

There's been a few birthdays around here lately, and the Nephews' Nerf War was the best. You've heard me rave about brother-in-law's photography, and thankfully, he likes to take pictures of his boys. That means we got crazy good pictures of said Nerf War.

If you haven't met the Nephews yet, here they are.


Aren't they cute? Makes this auntie want to pinch a few cheeks and smack some sloppy wet kissed on their foreheads. Don't they look sweet? They are. And they never fight with one another...

Unless you give them a Nerf gun. (Or take their candy or rip their homework or break their stuff or...well, you get the point. They're pretty normal adolescents.)

When we heard about Mason and the Largest Nerf Party Ever over at That Family, we jumped on that bandwagon real quick. Prayers continue to be raised in this house for Mighty Mason, but we also think it's okay to raise Nerf guns too. Do you agree, Mr. Mason? We hope so! Because it was a doggone good time around here. The only thing that would have made it better is if we could have had THE Mason party-planner-extraordinaire there to share the fun with.

So, happy birthday, Mason! Hope your Nerf Party was as fun as ours!



From,
A Family of Trigger-Happy Nerf-ers

*All photos copyrighted James Glover Photography. Like you didn't know THAT yet.

Real Gil Has a Day Off

Friday was a day off for my man. After a day with the family it was officially Man Time...mini-van style. The testosterone level was elevated for sure, as they loaded up - these 3 toddler boys and brave Grandpa and Gil - and headed to places unknown, people mysterious and somewhat foreign.

Where, you ask?

The Monster Truck Rally.

With light-up shoes and diaper bags and Auntie* along to help with crowd control, the Boys and Men unite in monster truck love. It was a beautiful thing.



Grave Digger became a household word used for anything unbelievably cool. Earplugs are cool too, bright orange ones in particular.

Who knew that this...



...was going to lead to this?



It takes me back to the 20-week appointment where reality narrows to cold jelly, black-white screens, and that ultrasound tech who announces life in a gender.

"Well, there's his little scrotum."

After all girl babies, I looked at Real Gil and panicked. "And what am I supposed to do with that?!!!"

Apparently, take it to the monster truck rallies.

So, they did.

And I rest.

Karen

**Auntie is in fact my skinnier, more refined identical twin sister. (But I'm nicer) If lying wasn't a sin, I would have just said that was me in the picture above.

The Black Box

Do you have a black box?

In our house, it's a serious matter, this average-sized black box with a little clasp on one end. It sits in our bathroom cupboard and only gets taken down once a month. It is not heavy, but its weight is great. For it comes with obligations.

Remember The Meadow picture I told you about? The popcorn recipe I inherited from my dear in-laws? See here if you need a reminder.

As gracious as the Folks are, these things did not come without strings. Oh no, they did not. Not long after I became engaged to the Real Gil, I received the initiation into Life with the Black Box.

Inside, all cute and packaged freshly, were items I had never, ever used before.

Clippers. Attachments. Hair-cutting scissors.

And after the wedding, as I hung my She-man picture in our first home, as I popped our first bowl of kettle corn, I realized the obligation of the Black Box.

At first, it was simple and sweet. Real Gil would have a day off and I'd spend an hour trimming, combing, fingering, studying his head of forgiving curls. Not that difficult, really, especially when you have an amazing husband like I do. To be honest, the real concessions probably came from Real Gil's side of things, considering I was a young and ambitious bride with absolutely no experience with clippers. Real Gil had to put up with some pretty interesting haircuts. There were times, I'll admit, that I wanted to hand the man fifteen bucks and send him to Supercuts. I'm sure he would have kissed me happily and skipped out the door.

But then, I realized something one day as I was getting my own hair cut. The lovely lady eventually got around to the front of my face and as innocent as can be, had to stick her beautiful buxom self right at my eye level. I couldn't help but stare at her voluptuous chest. It was either that or mess up my bangs and I'm far too vain for that. Now, whenever I think of sending Real Gil to the barber, I remember that sweet hairstylist with her unwitting charm (two in particular) and I'm immediately motivated to get out the Box.

Then, the children started coming. And crawling. And spreading those lovingly shorn locks all over my floor. Now, I cut hair with at least two assistants. Real Gil is an amazing sport when it comes to three girls cutting, picking, pulling, and styling.

Today, however, something brilliantly new happened. If I was a feminist, I would be gleeful.

As the Little Guy climbed up to receive his haircut from Mama, Real Gil took the clippers.


See for yourself.

I'm off the hook, at least when it comes to this head of hair. My new job: handing out the lollipops, and taking pictures.


Then, it got downright silly around here. I think someone else just wanted a lollipop.



(Dear Brother-in-law James Glover, the photography superstar: Can you please teach me how to Photoshop that basket of laundry out of my picture? Oh yes, that's what I get to do after typing this insanity. Maybe that's why I'm still typing...)

So, we gave the Pops a lollipop and told him to sit still.


And with the talk of lollipops floating around this house, our next victim took the bait.


Now if only I can get someone to do my highlights for me...

Resting,
Karen