Mission complete

"It's gone!.....It's done!"

"Yes, Mr. Frodo.  It's over now."

-Frodo and Sam, The Return of the King

School's out for summer.

The school tables are cleared off.  The kids are sleeping in.  

Only Buck is suffering the loss of his daily excursions from his cage--no more scampering around our ankles as we do school.

This is mixed news for us, as Buck suddenly achieved bunny adulthood a few months ago, abruptly announced by what the kids charmingly call "hugging" our lower legs.

Vigorous hugging.

They've been telling any stranger who'll listen that our bunny hugs our ankles because that's what bunnies do when they love each other.  

He's still cute, even if his rude behavior needs to be occasionally corrected.

Caleb lost his first tooth--as in, LOST his first tooth.  As in, he couldn't find it. 

The tooth fairy faithfully came anyway, albeit a couple days late, after Caleb got around to telling us.  I actually discovered the lost tooth myself when Caleb opened his mouth; he never said anything about it.

I've spent the last six weeks feeling increasingly like a rocket on re-entry:  barely holding it together, about to break apart.  School intensified, Little League was Little League, Lizzy's going to speech twice a week, this and that... all combined to make me think next year I might spend spring break stocking the freezer with meals for myself.

Jed appeared one morning with a big gross abscess on the end of his finger (which he held up to my face just before I was going to enjoy my breakfast), which required a trip to the doctor and twice-daily oral antibiotics for a while, which he remembered to take every time because I told him he was saving the world from superbugs by taking it faithfully.  He loudly announced his heroism at each dose.

I also signed up to bring a few people meals who were in need, due to new babies at their houses.  I always enjoy helping a friend that way, but I was convicted this time that I was managing to provide a robust meal for someone else's family and not so much my own.  Why is it that bringing someone ELSE a meal and cleaning up someone ELSE's home is so much more inspiring than one's own? 

I think it's because the other people appreciate it so much more.  I still vividly remember one friend cleaning my horrendous dining room when I had one of my newborns, and the care it communicated to me, despite the fact that it was probably just as sticky within 24 hours.  

My own family (particularly the youngest members) tends to shrug when I fix dinner, and if I start really cleaning, they ask what's going on, which just adds to my housekeeping shame.

Other people think I'm a hero when I walk in with a casserole, like Jeddy saving us all from superbugs, which feels a lot better than persevering, unseen faithfulness in the mundane.

Other mothers, in particular, appreciate a hand with cleaning.  Children, not so much.  Caleb is overly attached to a certain small pillow that I made years ago, and he drags it around everywhere.  It's besmirched and flat and has a great Frankenstein repaired rip on one side.  Ada complained to me that "Caleb's pillow is going to be the rebirth of the Black Plague."  

I guess tis the season too, but we have zillions of fruit flies (as well as regular flies).  Caleb calls them "fruit bugs."

A piteous critter bedside scene; notice the dissevered cottontail awaiting reattachment.

There is one area about which Caleb cares deeply about cleanliness.  His last tee-ball game ended with a participation-award ceremony.  The coach passed out glow-in-the-dark trophies to each child.  When she handed his to Caleb, he breathlessly said, "I'm going to wash it every day!"