Here we go again.

In 2006, we moved to Los Angeles. In 2009, we moved to Kentucky. Now it's 2013 and it's California's turn.

I look like shit, but you know what, I was about to explode into tears so that's life.

All this cross country back and forth has made me an expert packer. I've devised the perfect system for packing and labeling the boxes as well as a schedule that allows for getting packed up without leaving yourself without the necessities. Factor in Mack's brute strength and the fact that our house is furnished by cleverly compact Ikea creations, and we can move anywhere with less than 3 days notice.

This time, I told Mack I refused to touch the piano or drive non-stop, and lucky for me, he relented. It only took however many years we've been married and three cross country trips to get through to him.

The trip was pretty typical. Boring on top of boring on top of eating to pass the time on top of boring. Luckily Leigh had sent us off with a bag of popcorn the size of my torso and my mom had made a batch of No Worries muffins for us to nosh along the way. Homer willingly wedged himself between me and the door during my drive shift and propped up my arm, so that was exciting.

These things are amazing. Chock full of love and power and nutrition. We became addicts on our last ride across the country.

Homer. Bought him for $36 when I was 8. I was so little that my arms hurt from carrying him around the store. All I need is Homer and my silky. That's all I need.

We stopped a million places to get gas but the only one I remember was Shamrock, TX. There was a little bar right of the exit so we grabbed a beer and then headed into "town" for dinner. Big Vern's Steakhouse. Just the place for two vegetarians. All I can say is thank god for St. Patrick's Day or else Shamrock would have no purpose.

We left Kentucky on a Monday and made it to LA late Wednesday night/Thursday morning. We had planned to sleep outside of LA on Wednesday night but as we got closer the finish line, the boring took over our brains. We were tired and had been confined in a moving truck for 14 hours already, but we were too close to quit. And coming into LA with a moving truck towing a car is way better at 2am when there aren't any cars on the road.

Well, any cars except the two that collided in front of us on the interstate and were sent into about six spirals. We were far enough behind them that we were able to stop in time, but then we remembered that people were still going 75 mph behind us. Aside from the spinning around, the wreck wasn't that bad, so we excused ourselves from our medical obligations and got a move on.

I was spent before the wreck, stressed out by being in the car 17 hours and tired beyond tired, but seeing that happen made me start grinding my teeth and turning into an emotional wad of unpredictability. We ditched the Penske truck at the rental place, along with the car carrier (they kindly agreed to let us park it there overnight so we didn't have to find a place to park it), and drove to our new apartment. Tom greeted us with blankets and toilet paper and water. It was 4am PST / 7am EST by the time we laid down to go to sleep.

And then I burst into tears. I wasn't really sad as much as I was overwhelmed. I felt like my emotions had been twisted up like a wet towel and then whipped open with a snap. I was... unsure, and it was so unnecessary that when I got up to pee, I even said to Mack, who felt like it was all his fault that I was so upset, "I just need to stop it, just knock it off."

The next day Tom, an angel in a father-in-law outfit, came over and helped us unload the truck. He almost died trying to lift the couch over the balcony rail. We got everything unloaded and unpacked in just a few hours and then walked the 6 blocks to the beach, put our feet in the sand, and let certainty settle over us.

And then I got my period.

These two.

Ben was allowed to write all over himself with marker because Gigi and Dude's House is a sanctuary from rules. As my mom says, "If it feels good, it's not bad," which is why dogs and babies alike masturbate in plain view of everyone. I know, it's weird.

Anyway, Ben is a little obsessed with mustaches lately. His Wii character looks like a little blond Mexican kid. So naturally, he drew one of those on. And then, because he's a real bad ass, he decided to draw himself a tattoo.

Seriously. Only Ben would tattoo himself with "Be Good."

Then there's Renee. I have never seen a kid be so good and then within 4 seconds of her parents walking in turn into a squealing freak out machine. Renee is a glob of sweet and funny and scaredy cat, and I never know if she is going to like me or give me that look that usually is reserved for teenagers that says, "I wish you would die."

Well, Renee has finally lost her top tooth, and since I love when they lose their teeth, I cornered her and shoved my camera in her face to take a picture. One that I love not just because she's missing a tooth, but also because her perfectly wonderful nerdiness is all over it. Big glasses, tangly hair, and a little speck of sweet in those eyes.

They'll probably be 25 in a couple of weeks.

Parked.

Mack and I have been spending a lot of time in parks lately. We're in the final week of limbo before we move, we don't want to spend money, and the weather has been just enough to make us ache for outside.

I'm not well versed on Louisville's parks yet, but I remember always going to Cherokee or Seneca Parks as a kid and something about a big rock next to a creek, so we did some exploring and found Big Rock. It's not nearly as good as I remember it, but there was a trail and we were able to do a little hiking and be outside.

And have a nature boat race.

Mack never finished his so mine won by default, even though as soon as I launched it, it promptly crashed into debris.

I always go to parks with the intention of doing something active, but for some reason the big expanses of grass and fresh air make me want to lay down and take a nap. Mack used to make fun of me for sleeping in the grass, but I think he has finally discovered the joy of outside daytime sleep.

Another park on our visit list is Browns Park, which is about 2 minutes away. It has a short loop trail, an awesome sycamore tree for naps under, and a bunch of ducks and Canadian geese. I don't particularly like those birds, or any birds really, but they are entertaining and they keep the kids concentrated in one area of the park. I don't particularly like whiny kids either and kids seem to get uber whiny when there are animals to feed.

A couple of trips ago, the ducks were all partnered up and sitting in duos on the hill. It was like prom for ducks. Today they were all down by the water, and when we went to cross the bridge, there was a lady duck who was being attacked by about 8 man ducks. At first I thought it was just frisky mating, but then it looked like they were drowning her. I hate to intervene on nature, but drowning AND being raped seemed particularly unfair. Mack agreed and started clapping to get the assholes off of her. It worked for a minute and she started to swim downstream when they started climbing all over her again. Mack shouted and threw things at them and the lady duck swam toward him while the others ran away. She climbed out of the water and onto the bank and practically laid at his feet.

Great. First Miss Kitty and now a damn duck. Bitches please.

I, again, had come to the park with the intention of being active, so I left Mack on the bank standing guard of his new girlfriend and walked the loop a couple of times. When I came back, that poor little duck was laying on the ground with her chin flat out in front of her. I've never seen exhaustion on a duck before, but that was my diagnosis for this one. I had Rascal with me, and she didn't even care that there was a dog close to her.

She eventually seemed to recover and dry out the underside of her feathers, but man, nothing like rape to ruin a perfectly lovely afternoon at the park.

Ktichen reno. Because that's basically where we live.

The kitchen is the heart of our home. The bed is the brain of it. That's how it has been my entire life.

When my family comes together, we don't sit in the living room or go off in groups. We cram into the kitchen, regardless of size, and we chop things. We'd rather be standing in a doorway or sitting on the counter than away from the center of the action in a posh recliner.

Our kitchen habit is especially pronounced at my parents' house, which is not surprising since they do the hosting of get togethers. The condo they moved into a few years ago had a galley-style kitchen, with black tile countertops and a black tile backsplash and black speckled wallpaper with roosters on it. It had an island that sprouted out of a corner by the door to the deck, and it was so crammed that to leave your seat, you had to play musical chairs. Above the island there was a hanging lamp with a punched metal shade. It was at that perfectly annoying height so that whenever you sat at the island, you felt like you were being interrogated. To cook anything, you had to stand in a nook between the refrigerator and the oven, with all of 12" of counter to your right to work on. It was so crammed we had to use stove top space for utensils.

 The cooking nook. Barely able to contain Leiah's pregnant belly and the Thanksgiving stuffing.

A corner of the kitchen cram. We've got no fewer than six projects going on right there.

And here's Renee's 5th birthday because you love my singing voice and need to know about the dining room too, which had floor to ceiling mirrors on one wall.

Well, the coffee pot got fed up with that kitchen. And in protest, it leaked water under the tile counter top and rotted the wood beneath. It did this for several months before we even noticed the damage it was doing. Sure, we noticed you'd put in water for 12 cups of coffee and only get out 10, but we thought that was the angels' share. All the disasters in the world, the angels can probably use some caffeine.

My parents went to see about a new counter or some new counter tiles and then came home and called some architect friends of Shannon's. Apparently you can either spend $1 million on a counter or just redo your kitchen for $1,000,050.

First they knocked everything out and sanded the floors. Then they made the door into a wall and put a sliding door in. Then they painted and the cabinets came. Then my mom and I mocked up a counter top with a giant piece of cardboard, some string, a measuring tape, and a marker. We even rounded the corners so the babies wouldn't go unconscious when they run laps around everything – a favorite pastime at Gigi and Dude's house.

The renovations started in November, and I was in LA off and on for most of the project. There was no kitchen when I was home for a couple of weeks for Thanksgiving, which we managed to pull off in my parents' bedroom with a crock pot, a microwave, and a grill (okay, the grill was on the deck), but when I came home for Christmas there was this.

For Christmas and to christen the kitchen, my mom and I went on a cream puff making bender. Since then, this kitchen has hosted Lilly's second birthday (2 parties for that) and Valentine's Day dinner and Easter brunch. This weekend it will kickoff of birthday season with Leiah's 30th birthday. My dad and I sit at the island and play Mario Kart. My mom and I sit on the chairs and watch Rascal do tricks. Lilly makes us draw buses when she's in her booster seat. Kieron leaves chocolatey fingerprints all over the baby table.

My parents may never be able retire, but we've finally got a kitchen that can really handle being our heart.

ACL in tact. Back not broken. Birthday celebrated. Great success.

Last weekend I woke up and asked Mack if he wanted to go skiing. Although his vocabulary was a little more colorful, his answer was essentially NO. I hadn't been skiing in more than a decade, I have no health insurance, and skiing is a generally a bad idea under those circumstances.

But then my dad walked in with free passes and, hello, DEAL. You can't say NO to a DEAL or the universe stops giving them to you.

One of my favorite people to make bad physical decisions with is Heather. She's conned me into jumping off balconies and walking through drainage tubes and watching tornadoes and doing mud runs. I asked her if she wanted to go skiing and celebrate her birthday, for free thanks to the magic of my dad, and after saying, "I hate skiing, I am constantly terrified by it, I will probably die and leave my children without a mother," she said, "Okay, I'll go." She also can't resist a deal.

Saturday we geared up, including some ibuprofen that we planned to take prophylactically, and headed to Paoli Peaks. We agreed that our goals for the day were to keep our ACLs in tact and not break our backs. I'm proud to report we're both in one piece and have no new medical bills.

I had a great day celebrating Heather's birthday on the slopes, acting half our age and laughing so hard I almost peed my pants on a few occasions. I was also super proud of her for overcoming so many fears, from heading down steep hills to getting off the ski lift to actually going a few feet without the brakes on. We started on the bunny slopes and ended the day, 8 hours and two cocktails later, on a blue slope for moderate skiers.

Accordiongly

Last night we watched Gold Rush and tonight I am doing Valentine's Day crafts while he learns to play the accordion.

I love my life. And as much as I hate his cup gardens and unflushed pee and I-need-it-now tantrums, I love him.

Big News from the Little Sisters

This one was named Student of the Month out of all the kids at her middle school. And then she followed that up by getting a perfect score on a science test and a flawless report card.

And this one bought her first house, a charming place on the knobby hilltops of Louisville complete with hiking trails and a treehouse and a swimming pool. In the words of Ben, "This place is AWESOME!"

I couldn't be more proud of the women these two have become and are becoming, and I feel so lucky to get to be their big sister.