Dani Stone

I Hear Laugh Tracks


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“Please Don’t Be Such a Creeper” – How My Son Says Good Morning

jakie crib cropThis morning I had to rouse my son early, well, early by summer vacation standards. I sat carefully on the edge of his bed so as not to startle him, then gently shook the lump that was snoring soundly under the blanket.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I chirped. “We need to go shopping for Dadoo’s birthday and maybe pick up a few school supplies, remember?”

He groaned, flipped over on his back and within seconds, the snoring continued.

Instead of waking him up again right away, I sat in the filtered sunlight and looked at the face of my sleeping boy, though at 12 years old, he’s starting to look, and certainly smell like more of a manchild.

His bed sits in the same place his crib sat all those years ago. Instead of stuffed animals, a colorful mobile and small blue blanket, his headboard now contains Lego pieces, an MP3 player, Rick Riordan books and his Nintendo DS, which I suppose late at night is the modern equivalent of a colorful mobile. There might be one tattered stuffed animal hidden in the corner of his bed, just for old time’s sake. But you didn’t hear that from me.

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You Could Eat Off Our Pool, But The Colonel Would Not Approve

A few days ago, I wrote a post where I lamented about my son’s lackadaisical summer attitude, his obsession with Minecraft and how, due to financial burdens, we would be staycationing at Stone Casa this year. Thankfully, now we can add, “frolic in the water” to our list of frivolity options because the pool is UP, people. The pool is up and prepped and Dougie has finally given us the green light to enter.  Isn’t that AWESOME? Wait, I’m sensing you don’t realize what a big deal this is. Clearly, you don’t know what goes into the annual “raising of the pool.” No one does, really, except The Colonel.*

*In case you’re new here, The Colonel is the loving endearment for my husband when he’s being a little extra type-A. It’s okay. He knows it, accepts it and often refers to himself in the third person by using this moniker.

A few days ago I posted this message on Twitter:

If you build it, they will come. . .

If you build it, they will come. . .

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Letting Go. I don’t wanna

On Monday, my husband’s parents swooped in to town and whisked our children away to stay with them for a week in Arkansas. A little stay-cation in paradise. I say paradise because they live in a beautiful home that backs up to Lake Loch Lomond in Bella Vista. Every sunrise and sunset looks like a postcard. As a busy work-at-home mom, you’d think I would’ve been giddy to give them a peck on the head, throw a handful of Teddy Grahams in the car and be floating in the pool by the time they reached the highway. Instead, I held my composure until they were out of sight and then proceeded to cry shoulder-heaving sobs in to my husband’s chest.

You see, this is the first time my children have been away from me for so many days in a row. Letting go, I don’t wanna.

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