Situation desperate but not serious.

So, it was May Day yesterday.

Which is fitting.

I kind of feel lately that I’m an Ace World War I fighter pilot, and I’m in a plane hiiiiiigh up in the sky, and I’ve been shot down by the Red Baron and WE ARE GOING DOWN. MAY-DAY. MAY-FREAKING-DAY.

Ok, relax, it’s not as serious as it sounds. Desperate, though.

So, a few months back I was all, “Wow, the days pass twenty-four hours at at time and whoa, there goes another one,” and then April came and BOOM time has now decided to fire itself at me and just kind of shut my eyes and try to steer through the shrapnel, all ablaze and screaming a little.

Perhaps I’m exaggerating a little but let me just show you something:

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Ok, when did my son on the left become a middle-aged man in marketing?

Ignore the one on the right. He’s basically been the same since:

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Look. He has my chins.

But wait. No, look at pic above (how can you NOT because holy cuteness. If your ovaries aren’t exploding I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Unless you’re one of my five male readers then, yes, no ovaries. No exploding.)

My goodness people, WHERE, AND I MEAN WHERE EXACTLY, DOES THE TIME GO?

Just last week I was putting away Christmas decor because it was still snowing and now we’re signing them up for summer swim lessons and Blonde, evidently, is now thirty-seven and investing heavily in low-risk stocks (see above pic).

Cue: “Sunrise, Sunset” music.

Also Cue: “Stone Cold Crazy” by Queen. Obviously.

There is something about the month of May that unleashes the hounds of crazy at our house. I mean this is a two-fold way because crazy is nuanced like that and deserves levels.

Crazy, Level One: The calendar is exploding and no one knows how to make it stop.

Between birthdays, my college classes and finals, choir concerts (see above), more birthdays, trying to actually garden something because we are still attempting to keep the whole Martha Stewart vibe/ruse going, feedings, baseball, soccer, baseball AND soccer on the same day, still more feedings, end of the year things for teachers and coaches and my gosh I’m just going to start handing out five dollar bills, and more graduations, and the random “Let’s invite so and so over today!” from the husband, which leads to a bit of muttering on my part but thank YOU frozen Stouffer’s lasagna,(deep breath):

MAY. YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN.

Seriously. Somebody needs to hand May a small snack to try and get its blood sugar under control.

And oh, then there’s also this:

Crazy, Level Two Because This is Me, After All:

My children. They keep doing this thing called growing. And part of me wants it to stop. And then that part realizes what that really would mean, and so we go on and live in reality. But there are times…. when I pass them in the hall and they are so BIG and gangly and when they hug me I don’t even have to bend down at all (which honestly is kind of a bonus) they just fit right in under my chin.

I remember you, sweet older lady in the Walmart line who chirped at me that one time, “Cherish the moments, dearie,” while both boys were whacking each other with some useless artifact that Walmart puts at child eye level just to make them whine and want. I remember you well, sweet lady. At the time I think my eyes kind of shot fire at you while my kids laid on the floor and begggggged for the plastic toy thingie made in China in the Walmart line.

Oh yes, I remember you like it was yesterday. 

I didn’t exactly cherish that moment, sweet lady. But, you meant well. I kind of wished you would get run over by an eighteen-wheeler loaded with plastic toys from China while you were wheeling your cart in the Walmart parking lot, but you know. I got what you were aiming at.

I never cherished the moments enough. But that’s parenting. We do and talk and fix and clean and cook and wipe and wipe again and we forget to stop and LOOK around. Mainly because 50% of the time the wiping involves some sort of bodily fluid and that takes hard core focus, y’all. It takes commitment to clean that stuff up.

And really? Even IF I had stopped and thought, “Right now. I am going to stop and really cherish this moment. LOOK AT ME CHERISHING IT ALL OVER THE PLACE.” I just don’t think I would have done it enough. Because that’s time, for you. And children. Neither of them stand still for very long.

It’s why my phone is full of pictures like this:

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If you look closely, you can see the eye. Just like in Jaws. Only less scary.

And here’s the magic of all of this: The other day, I was in the store, and a tired momma was ahead of me, putting her Gogurts and her GoGo Squeez and her Cuties and all her other kiddie-named food on the grocery treadmill thingie (yes, there’s a term for it but I’m tired and my children make my vocabulary smaller) and she had about four sticky children all smushed up next to her and around her (ok, maybe it was two but they seem to multiply, like rabbits who constantly ask for things) and she just looked so exhausted and I wanted to encourage her. I wanted to tell her to hold onto this time, and just savor it. To really just BE in the moment, you know? So, I smiled at her and said,

“Girl. You really are rocking the top bun today.”

And I left it at that.

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Provide.

Linking up with my favorite Friday people today at Five Minute Friday. The theme?

Setting: the dinner table. AKA the military zone.

The characters:
Blonde – AKA I Think He Eats Air
Red – AKA He Changes His Mind About Things. A Lot.
Momsie – AKA General Momsie

Momsie sets down a cheesy chicken burrito in front of both boys.
And… the first shot was fired.

Blonde: It’s too cheesy.

Me: You don’t like cheese?

Blonde: I do like cheese. But not when it’s gooey.

Me: It’s melted. It’s gooey. You devour pizza so very often, and it has gooey written all over it.

Blonde: I don’t like gooey when it’s mixed with chicken.

Me: So, it’s the chicken. The chicken is the culprit.

Red: I like chicken! But this chicken is too soft.

Me: IT’S SHREDDED CHICKEN. THE CHICKEN HAD NO CHOICE IN THE MATTER.

Red: Can’t I just eat blueberries and six pickles for dinner?

Me: Red, you ate THIS EXACT meal two days ago and you loved it. And yes, readers I am now admitting that I feed them on repeat. They LOVED it two days ago. I was hoping for a return to greatness. And also, the husband has been out of town for a week on a business trip and it’s been pretty basic around here. I did, however, make home made ranch dressing for them to dip their teensy tiny carrots into, so I am winning in some way here, right? Right?

Red: Wow.

Blonde: Our mother feels guilt about a lot of things. Her ranch dressing is a way to absolve that guilt.

Red: Wow.

Blonde: So, can I just eat tortilla chips? There’s corn in there. Healthy.

Red: This chicken and cheesy stuff is too creamy. I don’t like creamy.

Me: I don’t know who you are anymore.

As God is my witness, someday I will make a meal that they both like at the same time.

I provide for my children. Every day, I make horrible, awful, creamy cheesy things. It’s what I do.
It’s what we do.

Let’s face it. I’m tired.

too tired

This is a List of Things That Make me Tired.

By: Momsie

  1. People who just say, “I’m just sayin'” at the end of an obnoxious statement, thinking that somehow “I’m just sayin” makes it not obnoxious. I’m just sayin.
  2. Instagram pictures that involve abs and something called an Acai bowl.
  3. Commercials during football games. Beer and Viagra. On repeat. It confuses my children.
  4. When Kansas City Royals players just LEAVE us for OTHER teams simply because of MONEY I mean where is your LOYALTY. You must STAY WITH US FOREVER.
  5. The fact that the Royals players make so much money and that they are actually in a place where they think like this: “Well, I make fifty kajillion here, but over there I could make sixty kajillion so it’s actually a negotiating point, that last ten kajillion,” where I am thinking my head would explode if one kajillion just sauntered by and just waved at me.
  6. I need to get off my Royals kick. Sorry guys. I love you, Royals. Hugs!

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7. When my student turns in an entire paper he cut and pasted off of the internet and then insists that somehow he had no idea how that could have possibly happened. (True story. Just happened today. I’m still processing.)

8. Those shirts without the shoulders? They just make me feel cold.

9. When my post starts to double-space without permission and now I’m stuck in double-space land for some reason.

10. Whenever I go a little crazy and say something like, “Hey kids! Let’s make these cookies/craft/happy family project together. It’ll be fun!” because then, within about five minutes, it is so not fun. It’s all a conspiracy.

11. Any sort of situation that involves me calling customer service in any capacity for whatever reason. It doesn’t matter how good I’m feeling, how great my hair is, how wonderful the weather is outside, once I start pushing 1-800 on my phone my life loses all meaning and I no longer feel the will to breathe.

12. When anyone, anywhere, says “I am shook.” Only Beyonce can say that. If you learn anything from this post; if there is any sort of takeaway at all, it’s this: Don’t mess with Beyonce.

13. When I take the car into for an oil change and they ask me if I need my fluids flushed. I NEVER KNOW. I NEVER KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS EXACTLY AND IT FEELS TOO PERSONAL FOR THEM TO BE ASKING ME THAT.

14. When I make homemade macaroni and cheese with butter and cream and all sorts of momma’s love and goodness, and my son says he doesn’t like it because it’s “slippery.” I just nod and tell him, “That was what I was going for, son. Slippery.”

15. Moms who bring homemade cake pops in the shape of ALL the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to school for their child’s birthday. I love you, moms. I do. You go, with your baking skills and knowledge of pop culture. I’m just gonna sit over here with a cup of coffee and my Little Debbie.

16. This post. It just goes on and on. It’s tiring.

17. People who say things like: “The trick to getting up at 5 am to work out is to sleep in your workout clothes.” Like somehow, sleeping in a running bra will make me more vigorous in the morning. Instead, I just feel… constrained. And thus, more grumpy. Plus, I slide all around in the sheets because spandex and that is not proper bedtime etiquette. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. Nudge nudge, wink wink.

18. People who actually try to get away with saying, “Nudge nudge wink wink.”

19. When one of my wee children approaches me and says, “Mom? Do you want to discuss Minecraft? I gotta free hour and a powerpoint presentation here. Have a seat.”

20. Nothing about you. Nothing ever ever about any of you poor darlings, my sweet readers, who actually made it through the randomness that is this post.

 

Today’s post was brought to you by:

  1. Not enough coffee.
  2. Grumpiness and kinda a total feeling of disbelief due to #7.
  3. Kate Motaung and her Five Minute Friday wonderfulness. And yes, today’s theme was:

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Ultimate Chicken Horse

 

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So, there’s this game that my kids like to play called Ultimate Chicken Horse.

This is the world we live in. Ultimate Chicken Horse. It’s a thing, people. And as much as I would LIKE to try and explain how this game works to you, gentle reader, I realize two things:

  1. It’s called Ultimate Chicken Horse. Where does one even start with that.
  2. No adult ever really wants anyone to ever explain a game to him or her. I mean, really. Your son wants to discuss Minecraft? That’s your cue to get explosive diarrhea. Every time. I know how this works.

Let’s just say… it involves farm animals and a raccoon and something called a “Party Box.” It sounds like something that would air on late night Showtime, in my opinion. But, let us proceed.

I experienced Ultimate Chicken Horse, in my own household, Sunday night. And so, let me tell you the story. (Please, really, it won’t take long and I haven’t posted in ages and this is the best I’ve got):

Game players:

Blonde: wee one, moaning on couch because he has horrible Chicken Pox virus that he should NOT have because we DID vaccinate him, so don’t email me.

Red: wee one number two. Sucker for all sorts of punishment.

Hubs: Tall, older one who should really know better.

Cat: gray assorted.

Cat: white assorted.

Dog: neurotic type.

Me: angry and tired. But what is new.

 

So, let’s begin the game, shall we?

BLONDE: MOANING.

ME CALLING FROM KITCHEN: WOULD YOU LIKE A SHAKE?

BLONDE: NO.

ME: JUICE?

BLONDE: NO.

ME: SOME WARM MILK, PERHAPS?

BLONDE: NO.

ME: A SMOOTHIE?

BLONDE: NO.

ME: HOW ABOUT A SHOT OF TEQUILA?

RED: MOM. MOOOOOM. MOOMMMM!

ME: RUNNING TO BATHROOM, RIGHT PAST HUSBAND WHO IS “DOING SOMETHING,” ON THE COMPUTER SO IS UNABLE TO HEAR.

ME: WHAT?!

RED: MY WOUND! MY WOUUUUUND! IT HURTS! IT HUUUURTS! (Red is in the bath. Red also has half-inch scrape on tummy and likes to repeat himself when dizzy with pain). THE PAIN! THE HORROR! THE PAIN! THE HORROR!

ME: WELL GET OUT OF THE BATH THEN. OH, BUT I’M SO SORRY YOU ARE HURTING. BUT NOT REALLY BUT I’M JUST SAYING THAT BECAUSE THE PARENTING BOOKS SAY EMPATHY IS THE THING SO YES, SORRY.

RED: I CANNA GET OUT OF THE BATH THE PAIN IS TOO MUCH. MOVEMENT WILL KILL ME. SO WILL SITTIN HERE. AYE.

ME: YOU ARE USING THAT SCOTTISH ACCENT THING YOU DO WHEN YOU ARE FREAKING OUT. SHALL WE PAINT YOUR FACE BLUE?

RED: NO JOKING. THERE IS NO JOKING WHEN THE PAIN IS NIGH.

BLONDE: MOMMMMMMM.

ME: WAT

BLONDE: I COULD PERHAPS HAVE A MOUNTAIN DEW. WITH A TWIST OF LIME.

ME: NO. SODA IS NOT ON THE TABLE UNLESS PUKING.

BLONDE: I COULD PUKE.

ME: YOU NEVER MENTIONED PUKING BEFORE.

BLONDE: I COULD THO.

RED: MOOOOM. I DINNA KNOW IF I CAN TAKE IT MUCH LONGER. BUT HERE I WILL STAY, TO TELL YOU ABOUT IT.

CAT, ASSORTED GRAY: I THINK NOW IS THE TIME TO PEE IN THE CORNER OF THE LIVING ROOM.

CAT, ASSORTED WHITE: I SHALL WATCH.

CAT, ASSORTED GREY: NOW I WILL START SCRATCHING AT THE FLOOR AS IF TO COVER UP THE CAT URINE BECAUSE CLEARLY I AM AN IDIOT.

ME: GOOD GOD WHAT ELSE?

DOG, NEUROTIC TYPE: HERE I AM! I SHALL-

ME: RHETORICAL QUESTION, DOG. GO OUTSIDE.

DOG: I AM NEVER TAKEN SERIOUSLY. THEY WILL RUE THE DAY.*

BLONDE: MOM? MOOOOOOM?

ME: WHAT?

BLONDE: NOTHING. JUST CHECKING THAT YOU WERE STILL LISTENING. MY THROAT IS STILL AWFUL. SO CAN I HAVE SOME HARD POINTY CHIPS AND SALSA?

ME: UH IF YOU HAVE A SORE THROAT THEN SALSA MIGHT- OH JUST FORGET IT. HERE. MAYBE THE CHILIS WILL BURN THE VIRUS OUT OF YOU.

RED: WHY IS HE GETTING CHIPS? I WANNA CHIPS! HE GETS THE BURNING AND I DON’T. IT’S NOT FAIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRR.

ME: GET OUT OF THE $##* TUB. YOU CANNA EAT CHIPS IN THE TUB. NOW I’M DOING THE SCOTTISH THING.

HUBS: HONEY? OH HONEEYYYYYYY?

ME: WHAT.

HUBS: I HAVE THIS FILE FOLDER HERE WITH ALL OUR TAX APPRAISALS FOR THE HOUSE AND I AM DOING OUR TAXES BUT REALLY WHAT I AM DOING FIRST IS INPUTTING THEM ALL IN A SPREADSHEET THAT I WILL THEN FORGET ABOUT BUT BY GOD I HAVE TO DO THIS RIGHT NOW AND SO I AM WONDERING, WE HAVE ALL THE APPRAISALS EXCEPT FOR 2014. WHERE IS THE TAX APPRAISAL FOR 2014? FOR THE HOUSE? BECAUSE IT’S NOT HERE IN THIS FILE AND RIGHT NOW I REALLY NEED THIS. LIKE RIGHT NOW.

ME: YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE TAX APPRAISAL FOR 2014 IS?

HUBS: I NEED TO KNOW. RIGHT NOW.

ME: YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE TAX APPRAISAL FOR 2014 IS? RIGHT NOW?

HUBS:…

ME: IT’S IN YOUR BUM. WHY DON’T YOU GO LOOK FOR IT.

And that is how I won Ultimate Chicken Horse.

 

*DOG HAS SO FAR NOT DONE ANYTHING TO MAKE ME RUE ANYTHING. SWEET BOY.

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Privilege

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today! The theme?

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I’ve been working a lot on gratitude lately.

Do you know what? The thing with gratitude is, if you work it, it really works!

Say that fast five times, I dare you.

Gratitude is a conversation with yourself and God about how blessed you are. Here are some other things I am learning about gratitude:

  1. It’s just like a three pointer – you really can practice it and improve. Or, if you’re like me, you can practice it and get real close to the basket but feel better about it.
  2. It should be a daily thing.
  3. It should be an hourly thing.
  4. It’s really a minute by minute thing. You get the idea.

I think gratitude is my simplest way to worship. And privilege is right in there. I mean “privilege” in a good way, not in the “I’m taking over the world” kind of way.

It’s a privilege – to walk down the street every morning and teach my kids about writing and thinking (hopefully at the same time). It’s something I don’t take lightly. It has strings attached, little 18 year old souls that need more than just teaching. It’s a privilege to be with them and learn who they are and learn their stories.

It’s a privilege to relate with my husband. Notice I didn’t just say, “HAVE a husband” because we’re past that now. I have him. I done had him over ten years ago – snared like a 6 foot rabbit in a trap. A rabbit that was in looooove.

He’s still in love, and it’s a privilege to keep walking that path with him – the one where we figure out how to stay in love and work on it and screw up and keep working and on and on. Marriage, y’all. It’s hard core.

It’s a privilege to have these two boys. Red and Blonde. Don’t even get me started. They are just the sweetest, most intelligent, perfect adorable nuggets of humanity. While, at the same time, they are also frustrating and sometimes they have me at: “I don’t even know what to say here. Go to your room. Stay there for two years.”

It’s a privilege. This whole life is that. I was granted special permission by Christ, about twenty years ago, to have a life with him IN it.

And, it’s also totally not, because he never said anything like, “Well, I’m only going to offer out this relationship to a few folks. The special, super elite ones – with the good hair and a really great grasp on the the Old Testament.”

And thank goodness because I am very often 0 for 2 on the hair and the bible thing.

It’s a privilege to talk to Him every day. I ask him stuff and complain and then remember to thank him and keep on talking, and he actually listens.

I have a lot of blessings in my life – I am a healthy, financially ok, employed, white woman with a lot of perks that a lot of people in our world don’t even get to consider.

Realizing this, I am privileged. Blessed. Made alive with hope and wonder with the daily business that is faith.

Amen.

 

 

Surrender

Linking up with my favorite place today – Five Minute Friday.

Today’s theme?

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When I first decided to walk with Jesus, instead of just waving to him from across the room, I had a few life-changing things that happened.

Ok, that’s a totally wrong. All the life-changing things happened. Like, all OVER the place. But one of  the most immediately obvious was my taste in music.

Dana, Before Walking With Jesus: Christian music on the radio? Isn’t that just Carmen and Amy Grant? It’s dork-city.

Dana After Walking With Jesus: Christian music on the radio? It must be on, all the time, twenty-four seven, dorky or no. I am praising my saviourrrrr all the day lonnnnnnnnnnng!

Still don’t like Amy Grant music though. Sorry, Amy. You are a wonderful person.

Jars of Clay, Chris Tomlin, Watermark, Phil Keaggy… I loved them. Still do. I think I even bought a few of those WOW! ALL CHRISTIAN! cd’s because I needed a bit of variety and their plastic covers were so bright and dorky. I found out something. Walking with Jesus meant I could finally stop trying to be so darn cool about everything and embrace my inner dork, and you know what? The DORK IS STRONG WITH THIS ONE.

And so, one day, I found Sara Groves.

And her music cracked me open, and then put me back together, on a daily basis. I own every one of her albums. We played her song, “Fly” as “our song” at our wedding. I reference her song, “Toy Packaging” every Christmas for those who need to know the struggle is real, with the toy packaging.

I just love her. She is my best-friend musician that I have never met. She writes songs about marriage, and fights with husbands, and family, and the bible, and all of it is threaded throughout with a voice that is strong in faith but still has a lot of questions.

This is me. I have a strong-ish faith. But I have a lot of questions. Like, a LOT.

Long ago, before marriage, before recovery (I am a sober momma, because me and wine broke up long ago and that’s a whole other story), before children, before a lot of things, my heart was broken into a million pieces by life and love that was lost. I am pretty sure that’s a thing that has happened to all of us – heartache so profound it threatens to scoop us up and throw us out with the trash. It’s that hard.

I would lay on my bed, feeling tears drip warm down the sides of my face and pool up by my ears, too tired to wipe them away. Sometimes my dog Norman would jump up there with me and snuffle the tears away. He was such a good pupper.

And I would listen to Sara’s song, Remember Surrender. 

You see, I was walking with Jesus, yes. But I was still hurting. And this song seemed to understand that. And with each listen, I got a little better.

Just so you know, there were ther things helped me get better:

Reading the bible. (Walking with Jesus now, duh)

Prayer. (Double duh)

Reading just about anything by Melody Beattie.

Going on long runs with Norman even when I didn’t want to (He always did, so he would drag me. We made it work).

Talking to friends. DUH.

Crying with those friends. And then praying some more. (Quadruple duh. And thank you, friends, for always listening. And always offering to pray with me. And gripping onto my hands hard while you did so, so hard that it almost kinda hurt but in a good way. I’m looking at you, Katie.)

And so, I would like to share this song with you today. If you walk with Jesus, but your heart is still sore and sad, and you just want something so badly, but it can’t be yours… Listen and get a little better.

This version has some pics with the video. They’re a little dorky. But, as you know, I like the dorky.

Slow Is Smooth and Smooth is… Still Slow.

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I think the military owns that saying, the “Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast” one?

I think they came up with it when they were training the army people to carry big exploding things over bunkers and not drop them on their foot or trip over a shoelace, which is totally something I would do.

You can thank me now, that I never joined the military. You’re welcome, America.

Anyhow.

One of the greatest paradoxes of mankind is a child’s inability to move fast under request, when five minutes ago they were skidding up and down the hall in their underwear and socks, shouting, “I’M COMING FOR YOU, AND YOUR TORTILLAS!”

I know. I really have no idea, either.

Let me break down this paradox for you:

If child is left to own devices: running, shouting, skidding, flying, sometimes the splits, and also loud thudding will occur regularly.

If child is asked to “hurry up” : the sloth cometh.

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This book was a favorite at our house.                              For some reason, that other classic, “Hurry, Hurry, Hurry!” Yelled the Mom, was not as popular.

 

This morning before school, I watched Red push one arm through the sleeve of a jacket. My eyebrow started to twitch. I had to leave the room because it was like watching a sloth try to put one arm through a jacket, which is pretty hard because sloths have those weird claw hands that don’t fit through jackets very well.

I went into the kitchen. Poured a cup of coffee. Added cream. Rinsed off my spoon and put it in the dishwasher, like a boss. Took a breath.

Walked back into the living room. And there was Red, still trying to put THE SAME arm through THE SAME SLEEVE.

The other eye started twitching, so now I have a matching set. And then, there was the talking:

Punctual: “Red, it’s 7:58, you need to take it up a notch here.”

Organized: “Red, why don’t you put on your coat before your backpack?”

Wheedling: “Red, perhaps shoes are a good idea now.”

Military: “RED MOVE. JUST MOVE NOW. MOVE OUT. GO. GO GO GO.”

I know. It’s a sickness. The words just come out of my mouth, all slippery and desperate, because watching my son try to move from one end of the room to the other IS GOING TO KILL ME.

You’ll find me, one day, dead on the floor. Laid out. Done. And all because my son did something like this:

Puts one arm through sleeve (FINALLY THANK YOU SWEET FATHER AND JESUS TOO) and then, he proceeds to bend down and start patting the STUPID DOG ON THE HEAD BECAUSE NOW IS THE TIME TO BOND WITH THE DOG. NOW? NOW. NOW IS THE TIME.

He bent down, with me looming over him like an angry clock, and it was like he had never even noticed we had a dog before. “Oh! Hi Hosmer? Who’s a good doggie? Who is a good pupper? Rub you behind your ear?”

Only one sleeve on, no shoes, and a really sketchy understanding of how to put one foot in front of the other, and he wants to go all Bless the Beasts and the Children on me.

Well, I tell you.

I finally resorted to physically herding (pushing) both boys towards the door. They were chattering away and then, at one point, Blonde STOPPED to TURN to RED to TELL HIM SOMETHING. Like, all of a sudden he was practicing polite cocktail party chit-chat, only it was about Minecraft chickens. Which is a thing. Don’t ask.

I would have none of it. I just wedged myself behind them and kept moving them along, the Mom Barge, saying things like, “Move out. Press on. Westward ho!” and that sort of thing. It was very motivational.

Last I saw, they were both wandering in a serpentine pattern, in the general direction of the school. The serpentine is nice, because they’ll be protected from any sort of siege. Safety first.

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