Out and About.

It took a while--and the average daily temperatures reaching 65-plus degrees--but we finally realized that we were wasting the best part of the year up here to do anything besides binge on Netflix.  So we packed up Bertha and officially kicked off our summer by heading down to Anchorage for the Renaissance Faire.  Faires are the one thing we try to do everywhere we go because that's just our brand of nerdy.

The drive down was...well, I'm trying to think of a word besides "stunning," but that about covers it. There were dense forested valleys and blue mountains still tipped with snow.  We passed glaciers and plains and pine-rimmed swamps.  We must have crossed the Nenana River at least three times. 

Tangent: Names everywhere can be a little tricky. I think the most difficult names are found in the Old South--such as Natchitoches being pronounced NACK-ih-tosh--but Alaska runs a close second.  Case in point: Tanana and Nenana.  You'd think that they'd sound similar, right?  Wrong.  Tanana is TAH-nu-naw, with the first syllable sounding like the A in flat, and Nenana is NEE-NAH-nuh. And now back to your original program.

Anyway, we didn't see any critters on the drive. We did, however, pass a Wal-Mike's and Skinny Dick's Halfway Inn, which will tell you everything you need to know about the Alaskan sense of humor.

The trip took about 8 hours (because I drive my giant van slowly around hairpin curves and it is a major event when we all stop to pee) to get to our campsite, a small two-room cabin on the shores of Otter Lake.  We hadn't originally planned to camp.  However, since this is the time of year when Alaska isn't actively trying to kill people, the major cities (i.e. Anchorage) flood with tourists, and prices rise accordingly.  I can't afford $400 a night to stay in a hotel, but I will certainly stuff my family in a cabin smaller than my living room if the price is right.  $50 a night for walls between me and the bears, AND a plug to charge my phone?  Shut up and take my money.

It was a great little cabin.  The kids loved it.  Rick got a wild hair and rented a rowboat.  Again, the girls loved it.  Once we managed to yell the kids to sleep around 11, I couldn't come up with any more reasonable objections, so we locked the sleepers in the cabin and rowed out, just the two of us.  (For all of you judging, my kids sleep like rocks, the door was locked, and we stayed close to the shore.  Get a grip.  Bears were just as likely to eat them when we were all together.)  Anyway, I could see why the girls loved being on the water.  I took a turn rowing, and provided Rick with a couple minutes of amusement while I intentionally went in circles.  It was so quiet on the water.  It was a pretty awesome way to spend our anniversary.

It was neat to see the wildlife.  There were a couple of eagles that lived by the lake.  A goose family with a bunch of fuzzy goslings had breakfast next to us.  We saw plenty of squirrels, a couple of swans, and also received a visit from a porcupine, though we unfortunately didn't get good pictures.  

The next day we made a quick stop by the Anchorage Temple--which is the smallest temple I've ever seen, but still very pretty--and then off to the Three Barons Renaissance Faire!  It was a home-grown fair, meaning that it existed solely because a bunch of enthusiasts and artisans decided to get together and dress up.  It wasn't large, but it was fun.  The food was overpriced, as always, and there were no jousts, but they had quests for the faire-goers to complete.  If you visited the courts of the eponymous three barons, each baron would give you a quest to fulfill; upon completing all three, you were knighted in the final court you visited.  Leah was Knighted in the Court of Dreams, which was modeled on the courts of Saladin, and Rick and Aeryn were Knighted in the Green court.  I got to help stretch wool with several other women, which was a lot of fun and one heck of an arm workout.  Claudia cried the whole time on my chest, which the ladies assured me only added to the authenticity of the moment.

There was this Chinese Unicorn (Kirin), and also a Blacksmith Unicorn wandering around, but I didn't get pictures of him.

Because every Renaissance Faire needs one.

Because Anchorage is by the sea, the temperature stays more temperate--it's warmer in the winter than where we are, but much colder in the summer.  Our second night in the cabin it got so cold that we lit the woodstove.  It was just about perfect, snuggling with a book, the kids unconscious and mostly silent in the other room.  Rick is a master fire builder, which was great when I was freezing, but not so great around 2 a.m. when it was about 90 degrees in the cabin.  I stumbled around trying to pry open windows so that some of the 40 degree evening could come in and make the rest of the night (I use the term loosely since moving to Alaska) more bearable.  Still worth it.

The next day we headed home, having satisfied our cravings for Olive Garden and Arby's a couple of times (Fairbanks is big enough, but a little heavy on the Subways).  Rick plunged into another work-week, and the girls and I took a midweek trip to the Tanana Valley Farmer's Market, which was frankly almost as big as the Faire had been.  It was neat seeing all the local produce and crafts, including a woodworker's stall.  He let each of the girls take a turn stripping bark with a drawknife and answered a ton of questions.  It was hands down the highlight of the day.  The bacon-chocolate crack was close, though, and the homemade marshmallows from local mallow came in third.

When Rick was free the following weekend, we ventured to the Large Animal Research Station (LARS) to visit the musk ox and reindeer.  Here's your useless trivia for the day: Reindeer are just domesticated caribou.  They're totally the same critter.  It also turns out musk oxen are much smaller than you'd think--the big ones are four feet or less at the shoulder...which means their flipping adorable babies are about knee high.  Leah got to braid musk ox hair, Echo got to eat new dirt, and Rick got to point out how caribou and musk ox nasal cavities heat up the air as they breathe it in.  All in all, a good day.

The weekend before the solstice we went to the Midnight Sun Festival. To celebrate the longest day of the year, basically the entire population of Fairbanks and a good deal of the surrounding hill-people throw a twelve-hour block party.  Well, it's only twelve hours officially, but the festivities kick off the night before with a midnight 10k and probably go on a bit after midnight the next day.  Anywho, we took one of Aeryn's friends and ate wood-fired pizza and kettle corn, watched hula and silk dancers, listened to a rock cover band, and went to a petting zoo stocked with goats and Husky puppies, because that's how they do up here.  Rick took a couple whacks at a van for charity.  For the curious, there were two and a half official hours of night, and even less the further north you went. 

What?  Don't your street fairs have Tusken raiders?

The best petting zoo EVER.

The last adventure was Pioneer Park, which was pretty awesome.  During the winter most of it is closed, but during the summer all of the shops and museums open up.  Most of it is made of authentic log cabins built in the late 1800s and early 1900s that were relocated to the park.  There's a train that circles the park and a legit steamboat, the S.S. Nenana, that you can tour.  Aeryn wasn't terribly impressed--she thought it would be more luxurious than functional--but the other girls liked seeing the boiler and machinery that made it all work.  There's also the Salmon Bake, a nightly all-you-can-eat prime rib and salmon meal; we haven't gone yet (much too good for children) but it has potential for date night.

There is still plenty to do.  Golden Days and the local borough fair are coming up, the local Shakespeare troop is putting on King John, and a couple of touristy things still on our agenda.  (Our antics are all technically educational, so that's a homeschool win.)  All the daylight is frankly exhausting, but we are stuffing our summer as full as we can.  The solstice is over, so that means one thing--we have begun the inexorable slide towards cold and darkness.  In other words, winter is coming. 

Carpe Solis!

The Dining

Anyone who has spent any time around two year olds will tell you that two year olds are a special type of hell. Oh, they're adorable, certainly.  There are sweet, whimsical moments like this...

And this...

And even, occasionally, this.

But there are also moments like this...

And this...

And, well, let's face it, this is the natural state of a toddler.

I once read a short story that described kittens as having "exactly two neurons in [their] cute, fluffy little heads.  One neuron to keep the body moving at warp speed, and one neuron to pick out the situation guaranteed to cause the most trouble." (Lackey "SKitty" 1989)  Replace "kittens" with "small children between 2 and 3 years old" and you have found the theme for these super-fun years. 

Of course, knowing this is valuable, but of little practical help, as there is no way you can redirect those neurons; you simply have to wait for more to appear, and pray that the neuron in charge of listening shows up soon.  Accept that, despite your best intentions, you will learn the hard way that there is no such thing as a spill-proof sippy cup.  There will be times when you have half a gallon of vegetable oil on the floor, blocks wedged in the U-bend of the toilet, and permanent marker on the wall as well as the (perpetually naked) child and the cat.  Graham crackers will be crushed to powder and sprinkled over the couch for no good reason.  Diapers will need to be creatively applied (often with duct tape).  Eggs will be lovingly smashed into the flour, and you will be grateful that they weren't squirreled away in the toy room.  There will be kicking, screaming meltdowns because the wrong person dared unbuckle the child from the car seat, and casual dumping of toys because of the delightful sounds they make as they scatter across every square inch of the floor.*

The fun spikes to another level when you take the little beast out to eat.  Now, I'm not one of those people who endorse kid-free restaurants; businesses should operate however they see fit, but I think that if you're going to teach a kid how to behave in public, you actually have to take them in public.  Sometimes, though, I second guess my convictions.

A few weeks ago, Rick got a wild hair and suggested we go out to breakfast.  I'm generally too cheap to pay someone else to make pancakes, but I was feeling exceptionally lazy, so we bundled all six kids into Bertha and headed out for a hole-in-the-wall café Rick had run across a few months before.  We crowded into the tiny building and were shown immediately to the one booth with enough space for our horde.

Echo's moment had come.

Taking advantage of her father's and my preoccupation with ordering sustenance, she promptly started sucking on sugar packets until the paper dissolved and she could get her fix.  She allowed us to extract the soggy paper from the roof of her mouth and to be briefly redirected to the coloring sheet, lulling us into a false sense of security by scribbling and eating crayons.  She accepted her Styrofoam "child's water" with angelic grace and a lisped "dank yoo" that won the heart of our waitress.

Then, still beaming, she started squeezing the cup in her little claws.

"Don't do it," I warned when I heard the squeaky cracking of Styrofoam under pressure.  She just raised an eyebrow.  She squeezed again slowly, tauntingly.  Squuueeeeeak....I dived for the cup, knowing I'd be too late.  Using her powers of super speed, she punched her thumbs through the wafer-thin Styrofoam.  Water gushed over the table.

"All right, you're done with your water," I announced, popping her cup into an empty coffee mug on the opposite side of the table.  Echo looked on for a minute as we swabbed the table with napkins, then, bored, reached for one of her sisters' cups. 

"Nope," I said when I heard the squeal of protest. "That's not yours."

Echo glared at me, then reached for another cup, this one across the table.  I plunked her back in her seat.  She tried again. Again, I retrieved her.  As she tried to think a way around me, she realized her pants had been doused in the earlier deluge.  She started whining about being cold and wet and wanting to go home.  We had already ordered, so I looked around for something to distract her. We don't allow electronics at the table (mostly because there aren't enough to go around--I'm cheap, remember?) so I looked around for something to interest her.  Her coloring page had been soaked by water, so that was a no-go.  Glass salt and pepper shakers, ketchup with a flimsy lid, sugar and carcinogenic but calorie-free sweeteners in super thin paper packets...nope, nope, nope.  Ah, the creamers, those little plastic cups with the "easy peel-off lids" that basically require surgery to open. Perfect.  I scooped up a handful and showed her how to build a tower.

Knocking down the tower was more interesting than building it, but she seemed absorbed.  I took the opportunity to attempt an adult conversation.  Then came the warning cry of my eldest.

"Mo-o-o-o-om...."

I looked over at Echo. She had managed to pry the lid off a creamer and was holding it at eye level.  Whether she was planning to throw it back like a shot or drizzle it over the table like a milky Pollack painting, we'll never know--I snaked it away from her just in time. 

She considered me for a moment.  Then:

"Wadder?"

"You spilled yours, remember?"

"Dirsty.  Wadder."

"No, you need to wait."

Then she played her trump card. "Peeeeeease, Mama?"  *Blink blink blink*  Louder: "Mama, so dirsty."

The folks in the booth next to us were watching, waiting to see if I'd deny life-giving water to the sweet little girl who asked so nicely.

"Fine," I said through gritted teeth, holding the cup. She wrapped her little hands around it.  I held the cup steady and stared directly into her eyes.  "Don't squeeze it."

She took a long pull on the straw, paused, made eye contact with me, and then--as I had known she would--deliberately crushed her cup, sending water spilling over my hand and flooding my lap.

By this point, Rick had realized he would be down a kid by the time everyone was done with their pancakes if he didn't step in, so he took Echo over by him.  They talked and played and she named all of her ocean animals for him. My lap slowly dried.  Things seemed to be going well.

Then I noticed that her systematically assessing the cutlery.  She's a stabby sort of kid, but she needs to learn how to use things herself, so I decided to wait and watch instead of grabbing the silverware out of self preservation.  She was meticulous. Picked up the spoon, run her finger over the rim, pinch the sides, put it down. Picked up the butter knife, touch the tip, measure the sides, put it down, almost disappointed.  Picked up the fork, felt the tines, weighed it carefully in her palm...and stabbed directly, intentionally, at the open creamer I'd taken from her earlier.

By some miracle I managed to snatch the creamer without spilling it or getting forked in the hand.  Rick took away the silverware with only minimal protest.  I hissed at the girls to put their food down their necks.  Echo amused herself by finger-painting on the table with the syrup and demanding bites of my food, squawking like a baby bird whenever she needed another mouthful.  We paid the bill and ran for the van.

Could that have been worse?  Yeah. Was it really that bad?  Probably not, but I was not in a hurry to take her out again.  Over the years I have had my share of "What the hell, WHY?" moments.  The endless ingenuity of kids to make messes and get into trouble I could never think to prep for amazes me.  Somehow, even when I'm fuming as I mop up oil, or untangle a brush that's been lovingly ratted into a sister's hair, or chasing down a giggling toddler with a hammer in one hand and my phone in the other, I can't help but love the freaking kid in question.  It's hard to stay angry when you've punished them and all they want in the depths of their misery is a hug from you.  There's also something admirable about the sheer chutzpah they have about their misdeeds.

I mean, look at that face.  Zero damns given.  Fine, kid.  You can stay.  We'll get through this together somehow, probably with a lot of chocolate.  For me.




*All of the above scenarios are based in real life experiences.  You have been warned.

(Bren wants it noted that she named this post)

Out, out! Everybody out!

We're now well into summer.  Seemingly overnight everything is a brilliant, blazing green, striped with pale birch and stippled with blue and pink flowers.  The days are still getting longer and brighter.  It is impossible to stay inside--and for those of you who know me, who am almost a professional homebody, that's saying something. 

The forest primeval

The girls decided these are "aurora flowers"

These trees look like copper.  I have no idea what they're called but they are so freaking pretty.

Birch bark.  What a cool texture.

The girls are at the park everyday.  I've given them the summer off (sort of) so that they can make the most of it.  They tried camping in our backyard with mixed success (the first night they wouldn't shut up so we brought them in at midnight and made them wait until the weekend to try again).  The picture below was taken at about 11 pm, if you're curious.

Leah, on a whim, decided to teach herself how to ride a bike one afternoon. 

They also had a blast playing in a dust pit with some of our friends' kids--which later became a mud pit thanks to one of the infrequent but unpredictable storms up here.  It took over two hours to get everyone showered.  We've still got lots to do, but I think they've got a good start on enjoying their summer.  They're even--gasp--making friends.

The cleanest of the bunch.  It doesn't look like it, but it took three showers over two days to clean her hair.

A few days ago, I got a wild hair and decided to take them out on a nature walk.  Leah rode her bike, Echo rode in the stroller, Claudia was in the chest-pack, and the rest of us walked. Everything was great until we got about a mile from the house and I realized that it was baby-moose season. Now, most of you are probably going, "Awwww, baby moose, how cute!"  Wrong.  With baby moose come mama moose, and mama moose are not exactly friendly.  They tend to move quietly, stomp first, and not ask questions. I hadn't seen any moose yet this spring, but I'd seen plenty of other wildlife in this same area and gotten the warning emails from housing about moose spotted already on post.   Once I remembered this, it was like being in a horror movie--the beautiful green treeline suddenly seemed ominous, every rustle and sinister whisper of the leaves meant a moose lurking in the shadows.  I was abruptly aware that Jane was lagging behind (it was "too hot"--a whopping 70 degrees--and she wanted to turn around much earlier), and Leah's out of sight around a corner.  I rounded everybody up, and then together--singing to make sure we won't surprise anybody--we set down a shady little foot path that I knew would cut back to the road and get us closer to people-territory, if there is such a thing in Alaska.

Big mistake.  Now, I'm not too familiar with mosquitos, but apparently they prefer darker, cooler places to hang out because that's where animals (aka "lunch") tend to be during the day.  We figured this out the hard way.  I had neither packed bug spray nor applied it before we left, because I'm an idiot, and I'm sure I looked the part as we erupted from the woods onto the side of the road with me dragging a five year old behind me and beating maniacally with a stick around my two-year-old's head while she snapped like a dog at the mosquitos clouding her face.  But we survived.  Mostly.

 A few of our injuries.  Echo also had a huge bite, right between her eyes; she looked like a unicorn.

Our other ventures into the Alaskan summer have been much more successful.  There is so much going on that it's hard to choose what to do!  People really do try to make the most out of the few short months when Alaska isn't actively trying to kill you, and are out literally all day long. 

Homemade ice cream stand--pricey but delicious.  I recommend the Pipeline Swirl.

Roadside produce, Alaska-style.

We visited the Tanana Valley Farmer's market today and it was amazing.  People spend their winters making the coolest things. The girls got to take turns stripping bark at a wood-worker's stall and try home made locally sourced marshmallows.  My favorite was the poet selling original poems written for each customer that she'd type on the spot with an old school typewriter.  (If you were wondering, my least favorite was the balloon animal maker, because the balloons inevitably pop fifteen minutes later because the kids bump them on things.  Worst waste of money ever.)

With all of the hustle and bustle and infernal 24-hour birdsong, I can see why people might not look forward to winter again, and why they play so hard during these months of midnight sun.  I'm just trying to keep up.

Thoughts on Mother's Day

I have started writing this several times, and deleted every one.  It was always too pompous, too wordy, and too far from what I want to say.  Now, I'm going to try being simple.

Being a mother is not just about wiping noses and rumps, diapers and dishes, cooking and cleaning.  These are things that mothers may do, but that does not mean that motherhood is a form of indentured servitude with a side of vomit.  Motherhood is not playdates and soccer practices.  It is not found in an apologetic and slightly defensive mommy-blog.  It isn't some narcissistic desire to replicate.  It isn't a sign of status. It isn't being perfect, or having perfect kids.  It isn't about outdoing Julie down the street.  It doesn't matter if you work or if you don't.  It doesn't matter whether you gave birth vaginally or with a C-section, whether you did it naturally or doped up like a prize-winning racehorse.  It doesn't matter if you adopted or had IVF.  It doesn't even matter if you have kids.

Motherhood is about service.  It's about loving other people enough to want them to do better, to offer support and guidance.  It's about sincerely wanting to help others be their best selves.  It is offering comfort, wiping away tears, speaking encouragement and strength.  It is choosing to focus on others instead of on one's own interests.  Motherhood is a way of life, a set of priorities and choices and intentions, not merely an act of biology.

Many people think of motherhood as simply checking a box on the list of things one is expected to do in this life.  We ask when they're going back to work, what they're planning to do when they're free again, as if the only measure of success and value is found in the number of zeroes on our paycheck, or how many luxuries we can enjoy.  It's an understandable confusion, because how does one measure the value of building up the lives of others?  There's no metric for love and service.  When there is no measure of greatness, of usefulness, of respect, then motherhood is clearly less important, the weaker choice, isn't it?

Years ago, Gordon B. Hinckley, President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, referred to women as "guardians of the hearth." The phrase immediately brings to mind a woman in armor, standing before her home, the last and final defense for those she loves against the weariness and dangers of the world.  It is not the glory of rushing headlong to battle, of earning praise and high honors so that your name is forever remembered; it is sacrifice and humility, of staying behind to make sure the line is held at all cost, ensuring that everything that actually matters is not lost.  In a battle, you do not send all of your strongest warriors to the front and leave the weakest behind; some of your strongest you hold back to protect that which is most precious.

That is what motherhood is.

Happy Mother's Day.

The light...it burns...

So today I was up by 4.  The sun wasn't up yet, but it was still bright enough to trip the toddler's circadian rhythm.  A few attempts to return her to sleep failed, and here we are.  Nobody else is awake yet, so I figured I might as well update the blog.

Excuse the screen.  This was taken at 4 am, when I finally admitted there was no going back to bed.

Taken a few days earlier at sunset, roughly 10 pm.  The sun is strong here.

The melt continues.  A few weekends ago, Rick--who has been busy sharpening his land-nav skills for an upcoming school--decided to share the joy with all of us.  For those of you not in the know, land-nav is basically hiking to several specified coordinates using a topographical map and a horribly complicated square compass with multiple indecipherable tables on it.  There's a real compass involved as well, but--fun fact--we are so far north that the compass actually finds roughly a 20 degree difference between true north and magnetic north.

Anywho, Saturday we dragged the kids out for a lesson in land-nav.  It wasn't the smartest idea.  Echo and Claudia were happy as clams in their carriers, but Jane's little legs couldn't keep up, especially since the walk was more vertical than horizontal. (Fun fact I learned: if you're walking uphill and get tired, it's actually easier to rest if you stand facing uphill and just lean forward a little bit.  That's a Ranger-trick.)  Rick showed everybody how to shoot an azimuth.  Everyone was more interested in the squirrels.  Leah refused to walk on the path and fell into hip-deep snow several times; she was surprised every time.  Bren packed snacks like a responsible adult should have.  Overall, educational for everyone.

That was a few weeks ago, and now the snow has melted in all but the highest hills and forests.  Since then we've added 5 minutes of daylight every day, and will continue to do so until the solstice.  I've put up blackout curtains, but they're not helping much, as evidenced by this morning.  The mud is mostly dried up, too, which happened more quickly than I expected given the sheer amount of snow we had.  The weather is gorgeous, with the mornings still crisp and chill, and the afternoons reaching into the sixties.  There are little explosions of dandelions everywhere.  They're pretty brilliant after the monochrome of winter.

Of course, we've had an explosion of another kind with the arrival of warmer weather. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the state bird.

They are huge, and they are everywhere.  We'd been warned, of course, but we shook it off.  People tend to cry wolf, so you learn not to take their word for it. I still remember when we first arrived and Rick brought home all of his gear, which included mosquito netting, and he just looked at me and shook his head. "I've been issued treated uniforms, but never actual netting, even in Georgia." That was when we started to believe, but decided to withhold judgment until spring.  Well, they were right.  The little mosquito bear traps, collars, and "skinning knives" they sell for tourists don't seem quite so far-fetched and touristy any more.

More and more critters are thawing out, too.  No bears yet.  (I'm not too fussed about that.)  The ravens have been replaced, oddly enough, by seagulls.  Swans, geese, and cranes use our town as a stopover on their way north to their breeding grounds, which is pretty cool.  And we have voles!  Voles are small rodents, like fat mice with short tails, and they are my spirit animal (and my Patronus, for all you Potter-heads in the know).  I don't have pictures (yet) but there are holes all over the yard, and if you're quiet sometimes you can catch one peeking out of the grass.

Dancing in the rain...around 7:30 at "night".

The kids have enjoyed being outside more.  Leah was absurdly happy about our first rainstorm and made it a point to dance in it; she has also been whittling wands out of fallen birch branches.  Aeryn is delighted that she can wear her fancy shoes again instead of just snow boots; Jane doesn't wear shoes at all, and Echo tries to bolt continuously in various stages of undressed.  Even Bren takes her books outside.  All of this is good, because now that the weather's not lethal I can throw them outside instead of listening to one more fricking-fracking episode of Octonauts or Naruto.  And I have.  And it was wonderful.

We're walking, we're walking...got to make up for winter.

Well, it's almost breakfast, so I suppose I should get started with my day or something.  With any luck there will be a nap involved.

Breaking up is hard to do...

(This post was originally written in April.  Better late than never, right?)

I spent today packing up winter.  Literally.  I matched gloves, counted hats, rolled scarves, sized puffy jackets, folded up snowpants, and stuffed everything into a plastic bag that is currently wedged on a shelf in the closet.  Snowboots are currently enjoying their last hurrah.

Breakup's underway, you see, and that means summer is on its way.  Tiny birds have thawed in the trees and are terrorizing the squirrels that have likewise materialized.  The snow continues to melt--yes, it may refreeze every night, but each day the snow-hills are smaller and the icy puddles larger.  The days are longer... 

Seriously, like ridiculously longer.  Some of you may remember my posts about the winter, when at the height of the glorious darkness, the sun rose around 11 and set by 2:30.  A lot of people complain about the darkness, and I will admit that I, native lower 48-er that I am, was prepared for a long, miserable hole of a winter.  However, initial apprehension at the shrinking days in October turned to delight by Thanksgiving.  Between the extreme cold and the dark, I finally had a legitimate reason to hibernate.  I Netflixed my way through winter, no Vitamin D necessary.

These days, though, the sun starts peeking around 5:00 am; right now, it's 10:05, and the last bit of sunset is still clinging to the horizon.  It is seriously still bright enough to read outside.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

It's only part-way through April; the days are just going to get longer and brighter until the summer solstice in June.  The days already seem incredibly long, and I promise it's not because I now have six minions stuck in the house with me.  They're affected by it, too.  During the winter, they easily slept until 9:30; I fondly remember putting them to bed at 7 and having hours upon hours to myself.  Now, even with blackout curtains, they are up by 6 and it is nearly impossible to get them to bed, much less asleep, by 10.

Don't even get me started on the toddler. 

You don't realize how much the daylight affects your schedule until it goes all wonky.  Even something as simple as dinner gets hosed up because 5 o'clock sneaks up on you.  Looking out the window, you're like, "Oh, it can't be that late, look how bright it is," and then you glance at the microwave as you're getting a snack and see 6:37 glowing in smug little blue numbers.  As a result, we may or may not have eaten a lot of sandwiches and cereal for dinner lately.

If the documentaries are to be believed, the summers here are supposed to be flipping incredible.  Plants grow like the Hulk because of the near constant light.  Animals and people alike party basically nonstop for four months to make up for the rest of the year spent running from warm place to warm place.  I figure if I stock up on Benadryl, and set alarms on my phone for meals and bedtime, I just might survive.

Goodbye, winter and real night time. I'll miss you.