Hallelujah!

I haven't been blogging much lately, due to technical difficulties. I gradually lost the capability to do anything with my blog except embed video and add text. I couldn't even change my background! (sob) Well, my sweet husband surprised me yesterday with a rocking new computer and a beeeeee-utiful huge monitor, so I can once again share my thoughts and pictures to my heart's content. Thanks a million, sweety!

Here is a little something I've been wanting to share with you all for a while.

Our Sundays.

After we're all home from church, and we've stuffed our faces, there's always some delicious down time. I love it, because I'm not running the show. It's the Daddy Hour. Sometimes he reads aloud to us. He has a super power for reading aloud. He kept it up for 6 hours straight one Sunday. Sometimes he'll make up games. I remember one Sunday, I was snoozing on the couch when little Hercules shook me awake and said in a nervous voice,

"Mom. I think you should know, Dad's writing on the floor with a dry erase marker."

I rolled over and mumbled, "Honey, it's okay. He can do whatever he wants." Then I went back to sleep.

When I finally awoke, I found the family playing a game that kind of resembled shuffleboard, except with hotwheel cars instead of shuffleboard discs. The competition was intense. Each little area is worth a certain amount of points. You want to roll your car into the area with the most points and no further. You roll it too hard and it hits the the door, and it's negative points. Each car has its own rolling pattern, so you have to remember to push one really hard, the other to the left, and one you just barely tap. It's quite an art, let me tell you. The next time he used sheet rock tape instead of marker and I remembered to take a picture.

Good times, good times. It's an appropriate Sunday activity, right?

Give a Girl a Brake.

"I'm the biggest loser in the world!" I complained into my cell phone. I was parked in front of the middle school where I'd just dropped off my kids. Stuck. My van wouldn't budge. I watched glumly as other parents in big trucks, SUVs and even little zippy cars dropped their kids off and left again.
"You're not the biggest loser in the world," my neighbor consoled, "have you ever had to explain to the police(insert her embarrassing experience here)?"
"No, you're right, I've never done that. I just don't understand why my van is handling the snow so badly!"
We'd been on and off the phone since I'd begun my carpooling journey this morning. I could barely make it out of my shoveled driveway, and got stuck again on our street. The van was acting so funny, that I made a quick check to see if there were any alarm lights or on or anything. Nothing. It was a slippery ride to school, with many a spinning tire. But we made it. And there I stayed.

Before I even knew I was stuck, I called my trusty husband to tell him how terrible the van was driving on the ice.
"Just come straight here to the dealership. I'll have some snow tires put on." (The tires that I had on weren't snow tires, but they were still pretty new. They shouldn't have been a problem.) My hubby's work was only a couple of miles from where I was. I took a quick peek in the mirror. I still had curlers in. No makeup. I had visiting teaching appointments in 30 minutes.

"I can't! I have a day planned, I don't have time for this. I'll just go home, have someone else drive to our appointments, and think about it tomorrow."

I tried to pull out. And then I knew I was in trouble. None of my "getting out when you're stuck in the snow" tricks worked.(I'm actually an expert at driving in a ditch after I've slid into one. It was a useful tool in high school. There's never any snow here, so I haven't needed that maneuver in a while)

I swallowed my pride. I made some quick calls, pulled out my curlers, and submitted to my husband's superior reasoning.
"Babe, I'm actually stuck here. I can't move. It looks like I'll need some help after all."
He came. He sprinkled some ice melt around the tires. Then he took off the parking brake, and the van sprang to life and left its snowy grave.

The parking brake.

Was set.

I'd driven the entire way with the parking brake on.

"You're lucky there was snow, or your tires might have caught fire and burned up the van."

"Hummph."

In my defense, it's MY van. I never set the parking break unless I'm somewhere on a hill, and then I remember to release it, because I'M the one that set it. HE had driven my van last, and set the parking break out of habit. The light for said brake is on a little console that's blocked from view by the steering wheel. I never think to look there.

"Are you mad? Are you mad at me because I set the parking break?" He asked with a smile in his voice.

I couldn't decide. He explained that he always sets the parking break when he drives the van in case some child climbs in, puts the car in neutral and squishes someone. (Which in our family is a distinct possibility) How can you be mad at someone for that?
At least from now until the end of time, I will remember to check the parking brake. And I'll have a good story to tell. That's something, right?