Rachel Callahan

The Grade of Two.

October 16, 2014October 16, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore.

It typically happens that each fall, my blog gets all schooly for a while, as my brain is filled with homeschool thoughts and therefore that’s what comes out.

But for some reason, that hasn’t happened this year. So either I’m not focused enough on educating my child or I’ve just learned to compartmentalize and not bore you all with educational details.

After all, we all graduated and fled school for a reason, right?

But those of you who are homeschool moms have been checking in with me to see what we’ve been doing this year, what curriculum we’re using, and how many times I’ve locked myself in my bedroom so far.

So here’s an update for those of you who care.

We started our year off with a celebration of crepe paper and using up all my color printer ink.

Like last year, Ali got a First Day of School present.

Unlike last year, Noah did not. Sending him to preschool has its perks.

Her present might have been more for me than her,

as I find rainbow looming quite therapeutic after a long day’s school.

She then got to peek at her schoolbooks for the first time – it never hurts to wrap those like a present, too.

We are now eight weeks into the school year, and I’m fairly happy with all of our choices.

Despite a few somewhat annoying stories last year, I decided to go almost entirely with BJU curriculum this year, with the exception of Horizons Spelling and Handwriting Without Tears.

The English is fantastic, covering a lot of gaps in last year’s learning with regards to proper sentence building, as well as teaching a good bit about how to write stories. Reading is the same as last year – the stories are better this year, and the reading comprehension encouraged by the workbook is excellent. History and Science are okay – I don’t know that I’ll ever find an elementary history and science book that I’m really excited about.

Math was my big decision this year. Ali has always been good at math, but super slow. And slow math is tedious math. I wanted to find a happy balance this year – a book that taught her mental strategies without being completely based on manipulatives, because I knew Noah would lose those and I’d get tired of finding them within the first two days.

Plus, my brain just doesn’t work that way.

The BJU Math seemed to hit that balance well, and I have really liked it. It has taught Ali some fantastic mental strategies without relying on visual cues, and it seems to be going much better so far this year.

…although I could do without them over-spiritualizing it.

It’s MATH, people. I love Jesus but let’s not make Him cheesy by inserting Him into our word problems.

After sharing the above picture with my neighbor Renee, she texted back a revised version of the problem:

“Anna handed out 15 tracts. Four of her friends are allowed to watch Glee. Three don’t say swear words but never go to Church. Five were baptized as infants, Four walked the aisle when they turned eight. How many are going to heaven?”

Everyone needs neighbors like mine.

Handwriting is still a struggle, and I am in the process of enrolling Ali with a Handwriting Without Tears expert to help with that – updates to come later. Her spelling, however, has progressed beautifully, giving me hope that she also is a natural speller.

For Geography, we have a few iPad games, and have also really enjoyed United States Top Trumps.

Top Trumps is a simple and fun British card game with dozens of different genres. A blog reader, Jennifer, sent Ali her first Top Trumps cards (they were the Hello Kitty variety), and we got completely addicted to the game. I was pretty excited when I found these on Amazon with all sorts of interesting state facts so I had an excuse to play and call it school.

For bible, we’re doing several different things (NOT including math), but a lot of it revolves around Awanas at our church, as Noah is in Cubbies and Ali is in Sparks this year.

They’re both learning a lot, and as an added bonus, Chris and I have every Wednesday evening to run together while they’re enjoying their classes.

Ignore the bad running selfie – just note the blissful happiness of a couple finding one hour a week alone together.

I’m still using and quite happy with my ever-evolving planning spreadsheet (if you’d like it, email me – I share), and yes – I work really hard to keep my achievement stickers in such tight order.

Also, it should be noted that I always fill out my planner AS we’re doing school, not beforehand. I don’t believe in erasing, and can’t handle the pressure of pre-planned achievement.

Since Noah is going to preschool three days a week, I find myself out of the house more than usual, so Ali has gotten to experience school in alternate locations, such as the Vestavia library,

The downtown library,

And Birmingham’s hippest coffee shop, Urban Standard.

She is a fan. Especially of the chocolate milk.

Also, Ali and I have started running together one day a week, and she’s shocked me at how good she is.

She can run ten minute miles, an entire mile without stopping, and so far up to three miles with a few breaks. And we’re enjoying the activity, as well as the fact that we’re making multiple scientific discoveries along the way, such as this mutant giant caterpillar,

And this mysterious but amazingly in-tact jawbone.

We always research our finds afterward and even take them with us if they’re not alive.

Since we run to a candy store (bribery is powerful, people), we left the jawbone on the trail where we found it to pick up on the way back. The sweet girl at the fancy candy store in Mountain Brook Village didn’t bat an eyelash when I asked “can we have an extra bag? We found a cool jawbone we want to pick up on the way home.”

That find was especially interesting, because who knew that you could identify its animal of origin just by the number of different kinds of teeth?

I didn’t.

I sent a picture of it to a Veterinarian blog reader, Elizabeth, and to our local Science Center, McWane. Both returned the same answer:

Elizabeth even sent us textbook information about animal dentistry so that we could study more deeply, thereby making science way more fun than usual.

And really, I was quite relieved that it was an Opossum. Because the alternatives seemed much more disgusting.

Dog? Gross. Cat? Tragic. Opossum? Awesome.

In conclusion, I’d say the year is going fairly well so far. As would, apparently, Ali.

(I ignore spelling mistakes when surrounded by loving sentiments.)

Oh – and the answer is three. I’ve locked myself in the bedroom three times.

As always, I am open to any and all homeschooling questions. Feel free to ask yours in the comments.

Off to the Races.

October 15, 2014October 14, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Kids: The Experience.

“Hey Eli, would you like for me to tell you where to stick it?”

These are the jewels that you hear when you travel with a three-year-old and a six-year-old boy.

(No, Noah had no idea what he was saying. Yes, he said it in the kindest, sweetest little boy voice ever. Yes, I laughed heartily.)

So. Boys.

If you take them to a Mexican restaurant, there will likely be double dipping.

If you let them loose in a double hotel room with a balloon, it will assuredly feel like you’re trapped in a two-foot box with 563 espresso-hyped hamsters.

But then, if their granddad shows up, they will miraculously become still, tiny little angels.

My sister-in-law Lindsay and I ditched our three daughters and took our two sons to the races in Atlanta. My Dad is a Tech Inspector (i.e. he takes the cars apart before and after the race to check for cheaters) for a series of races formerly known as American Le Mans but recently purchased by NASCAR and given the unfortunate name of Tudor. Unfortunate when two small boys are involved, anyway.

“HA! TOOOOOTER!!”

But regardless of unfortunate naming choices, our sons experienced ecstasy that day.

They got to walk through Pit Row with my Dad,

Where racing teams told them secrets,

Taught them how to cut zip ties,

And in general enthusiastically entertained our children.

There were cars to BEND OVER and look into (you really don’t realize how small race cars are until you see them next to a three and six year old),

Lifts to ride up and down,

Selfies to photo-bomb,

Other people’s selfies to watch happen,

And drivers to avoid.

Dad yanked this driver(?) out and said “stand here with my grandsons.”

Driver(?): “But I’m not important!”

Dad: “I know that, but they don’t know that!”

Poor driver(?). I think he’s important, too.

Noah remembered from last year where our team allegiances lie, though. He even remembered how to copy my sing-song fan-girl voice really well, going super high at the end of, “We’re going to go see Patrick Dempseeeeey!!!”

But, alas. Another year, another lack of Dempsey in our lives. He was there somewhere, though. Just not there with us.

Meanwhile, back at home, Chris was convincing Ali to go running with him on the coldest day of the year so far,

And my brother JC was attempting to figure out how to manage curly hair.

We had the better end of the deal.

We found a place by the fence to sit for a while,

Which really ended up in us doing everything we could to contain our sons.

And get their eyes to rest on the racetrack for at least two seconds together.

Thankfully, there was a bounce-house at which we ended our day.

Which, by the way, my experience at the bounce-house was a highly improved activity with earplugs.

Correction: ALL of life with boys is highly improved with earplugs.

Case Closed: The Mystery of Fred.

October 13, 2014October 13, 2014 Rachel Callahan Mystery Solved

I am not the kind of person that can leave a mystery unsolved.

Uncle Joe had to be found.

Dr. Pepper TEN needed to be explained.

It was an absolute must that I tracked down my twin.

When someone hacked my PayPal account, it wasn’t good enough to just fix it. I needed to find the people who did it. And report them to my Sheriff’s department, their Sheriff’s Department, and the FBI.

Even recently, there was a naked man on the loose in Birmingham…taking selfies at a busy intersection…with a camera on a tripod.

And what did I do? I had to figure out who he was.

And what followed? A really bizarre twitter conversation between me and an extraordinarily strange person.

(He would like to clear up the report that he was using a tripod. It was actually a GoPro Camera on a Monopod. He also didn’t run away into the woods – he had a getaway car. Because these are the important facts of this particular event.)

But it doesn’t matter if the answers are boring or weird – mysteries beg to be solved. And I cannot rest until they are.

And so, the mystery of Fred the Cat has been eating away at me since he showed up at our house in February – no way to be solved, no clues to run on, no tags, or anything else that could bread-crumb me to his secrets.

He comes and goes regularly, visiting other houses where he takes on other identities. Despite the fact that the neighbors that called him Cocoa moved away, leaving him down one food source, he looks healthier than ever, clearly getting fed by who-knows-how-many suckers taken in by his charm and boyish good looks.

And my children adore him. Fred, the friendliest cat that ever lived. Fred, the glorious companion to Ali’s childhood. Fred, the only cat that will climb a tree on command. Fred, a member of our family.

But despite over half a year slowly ticking by, we still had no clues as to where he came from or why he so purposefully chose us as his family. (I know he has many families but he makes us feel like we’re the most important to him. The boy is a charmer.) We even took him to the vet after he had gotten hurt during some spring storms. They treated his wounds and checked him for identity microchips, but still nothing.

Until two weeks ago.

When the neighbor’s nanny, a good friend of mine, casually said, “Oh! I meant to tell you. I know where Fred lives.”

The earth ground to a halt and my heartbeat attacked my ears.

“WHAAAAAT???

How could this be afterthought kind of news? This is groundbreaking!! This is the mystery that has eaten away at my soul for eight long months!!! THIS IS….okay already tell me what you know.”

She has a friend further down the street that has also fed Fred for over a year and a half (calling him by an unknown third alias), and long ago, Fred had a collar, so she knew where he actually lived, a block away.

She has even taken Fred back to his house when he had vet appointments, and because…Fred’s real owner was unhappy with the neighborhood status of Fred’s meal plans, as we are all as a group keeping him from staying home.

(The owner would likely be super-thrilled to know that I also treated her cat to a $200 vet visit, kept him inside for 24 hours to let him heal, and applied antibiotics to his eye for seven days. Oops. Sorry, neighbor.)

The problem is, the other non-owner neighbor will take Fred back home, but by the time she gets back to her house, Fred has beat her there.

Because Fred likes neighbors. Fred likes multiple meals. Fred is clearly an extrovert. And a player.

Oh. And….Fred’s name is Mowgli.

Fred lounged in the monkey grass on the edge of our lawn, indifferently listening to his life story.

We tried yelling the different names in his general direction.

“Hey Fred!”

“Hey Mowgli!”

“Hey Cocoa!”

“Hey Cat!”

He responded to them all identically. Which is not at all. Because he’s a cat.

So he will remain Fred at our house.

The mystery is solved, but the exultation of finally knowing the truth is, I must admit, somewhat overshadowed by the sadness that he is not indeed our cat.

Although I seriously doubt that stops him from acting like it.

The Baby Book of Burning Questions

October 9, 2014October 8, 2014 Rachel Callahan Uncategorized

Today is my birthday. And how should one always celebrate one’s birthday? By looking through one’s baby book, of course.

Wanna look over my shoulder?

Oh goody – I hoped you would.

(Originally shared May 2, 2010.)

When Ali was born, my Mom allowed me to take out a semi-permanent loan of my baby book for comparison purposes.

And I’m quite positive that she is going to promptly cancel my loan after this post.

If not from this post, then in fear that I would one day post “The Bathtub Pic” of baby me, my brother JC, and my Dad.

Don’t worry, Mom. I know that no one wants to see that.

(Including me.)

(Mom, Would you like to come pick that picture up, please?)

Anyway. My baby book:

The poor book looks older than me. It’s missing its cover, the pages are all yellowed and pitiful, and the sticky that’s supposed to be holding the pictures and captions in place destickified years ago.

But I still love looking through it – I don’t remember any of the events pictured, since it stops before I got old enough for memory (really, I’m just impressed that I, as the second child, even HAVE a baby book – so no complaints regarding the longevity of its continuance), but what it does do is bring back memories of looking through it as a kid, and my thoughts about the book at that time.

For instance, my biggest beef as a child was that my brother was ALL up in my baby book, and I wasn’t in his book one. single. time.

When I was young, I just knew that my parents did this simply to spite me as the middle child, but as I’ve matured to the ancient age of 28 33, I do realize that he was around for my baby book, and I was not around for his.

And I can accept that.

And what helps me accept that is that I get to laugh at the way they dressed him. Sure, I was in smock, but he got to wear full German Lederhosen:

Now. Back to me. As a child, I was always confused by the picture on the right:

I just couldn’t understand how I was walking at one month old, but baby books don’t lie. So obviously, I was.

Then there are the hippy photos of my Mom, which coincidentally always had that orange-ish tint to them, something that none of the other pictures had.

It’s almost as if the orange photo tint was some sort of aura that wafted off of hippyish people…

But as I continued through the book, I remembered why I was so upset about JC being in my baby book.There were whole pages of pictures of JUST him.In MY baby book!

Next are the pictures from my first Easter:
Correction. Pictures of my brother and my cousins on my first Easter.

My baby book, people!!!

I was relegated the the bottom corner of the page, not good enough to put in the cute cousins shots with the rest of them, I suppose.

At least JC was in smock. There’s always that.

And at least my little brother isn’t anywhere to be found in my baby book – I can hold onto that small victory, even if he wasn’t born until years after my baby book was yellowing with age.

Oh wait. Unless you skip to the very last page, where he can be found, in a photo taken years after all of the other photos.
It’s almost as if they wanted to make sure I knew I was the middle child or something.

But.

Aside from my Middle Child issues, the most puzzling page in my baby book was from the May after I was born.

I am nowhere to be found on this page, nor is my Mom. We weren’t even in the same state when the shots were taken. The photos are from the Indianapolis 500, and brought unlimited hours of puzzlement and confusion to my childhood years.

There were three pictures:

There was my Dad…

My Dad’s friend’s wife…

And my Dad’s friend.

Or, rather, my Dad’s friend’s shirt, since that’s all I ever noticed.

What does that even mean?!

And what in the WORLD does it have to do with MY baby book?

Some questions, I fear, are best left unanswered.

Life is Weird.

October 7, 2014October 7, 2014 Rachel Callahan Photographical Oddities, Weird Strange and True

I saw an image tweeted by a Twitter friend, Abbey Crain, that I couldn’t believe was real. Surely this was in a list of “The Worst Advice the Internet Ever Offered” or something similar.

So I googled the entire phrase on the “tip” to see for myself what kind of list would disseminate such horrible advice.

And it was a Cosmopolitan article. Written in all seriousness. Filled with other tips and tricks that might actually be considered useful.

This, this, THIS shows what the magazine industry believes is useful information these days.

WHO WOULD DO THAT?!?!

First of all, does the tube really take up that much extra room in your bag? If you compared the square inches needed of four tubes versus a pillbox, which is more inconvenient?

Second of all, YOU’VE JUST RUINED FOUR PERFECTLY GOOD TUBES OF LIPSTICK IN THE NAME OF TRAVEL.

Third, now you have to pack some sort of awkward lipstick brush or worse, get lipstick under your fingernails in the attempt to get the product out of the pillbox and onto your lips.

And finally. WHO WOULD DO THAT?!?!

I have never seen a more blatant case of cosmetic abuse in my life.

——————-

Now that I’ve shared with you the secret life of a blogger’s inbox, I thought you would probably want to see this PR pitch I received last week.

Um…what?

After a few days of mulling over how Cheryl was proposing that if I cleaned more thoroughly I could or could not impact my marriage, I finally broke and clicked on the link out of pure burning curiosity.

Turns out, it’s an weakly-supported yet slightly bitter infographic with one clear intention: to get guys to help out with the chores.

So there you go.

But guys, if cleaning doesn’t help, maybe try these?

Or maybe it’s time to replace your comforter?

Because nothing says romance better than a disembodied dog head watching it all.

——————-

I found this product at Sam’s Club.

So much confusion.

If it’s sugar-free and a spray, what exactly makes this candy?

Toddler lisps are only cute on toddlers. NOT on flavor names. Who approved this decision?

And why is Garfield inexplicably hanging out with a sunglass-wearing blueberry?

——————-

Everyone else gets told nicely, but the Germans must be yelled at.

——————-

I might sometimes show you the weirder sides of living in the south, but I promise,

promise,

PROMISE

that every house does not have one of these.

It makes….realistic shotgun sounds…when you pull the trigger.

I’m not saying there haven’t been times that I’ve wanted to shoot the toilet. But I have an unbendable household rule that bans any product containing the phrase “if it’s brown it’s down”.

——————-

While shipping internationally, I had to fill out a form that included these checkboxes.

Who knew that Day-Old Poultry had its own category?

And who ships Day-Old Poultry…internationally??

And if they’re not shipping overnight, can they still click Day-Old Poultry?

——————-

And finally. I was given a delightful French Press Coffee Maker that especially thrilled my husband.

But not only is it delightful, it is humble.

The Tearing of the Veil.

October 6, 2014October 5, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Blogging: the therapy., Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore., Kids: The Experience.

If you ask Ali what she’s going to be when she grows up, she’ll tell you that she’s going to own a bakery (and that she’s an artist). The bakery is a big deal to her, and we have many urgent conversations as to the particulars of running the business, as she’s deeply consumed with the looming responsibilities.

They happen randomly, in a moment of silence in the car, right before bed, or during dinner.

“Mom, how do I know how much to pay my employees?”

“Well, you research the market, you see what other people are paying bakery employees, and you decide if you want to save money and pay people less but have less loyal employees, or spend more money and pay people more and have more loyal employees.”

“I think I definitely want to pay people more.”

Another day,

“Hey Mom, when are we going to Gramamma and Pop’s house?”

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“Well, I need to talk to Pop about building some of the things I’ll need for my bakery. Like the cases for the cakes and the tables and chairs.”

She’s lucky to have an accountant for a mother, as she’s started discussions about profit and loss, variable and fixed expenses, whether or not she’ll need her Fireman-Aspiring-Brother’s services (hopefully not), what we should name the restaurant (She wanted to go with “Ali’s”, but there’s a bar downtown that we pass regularly that is called “Al’s”, and with the apostrophe it looks a lot like “Alis” and she doesn’t want to copycat so she might go with “Alana’s” instead), how she can incorporate her role as an artist into her bakery, and the fact that she definitely wants to work the cash register and hire people to do the actual baking.

Chris is all in on the bakery plans. We were running down Morris Avenue a couple of weeks ago and he pointed out a beautiful vintage two-story building for sale.

“We could go ahead and buy this for Ali, live in the upstairs, and rent out the downstairs until she’s ready to open her bakery. Morris Avenue is going to be THE place to be in Birmingham in 15 years. Mark my words.”

He’s also trying to convince me that if she keeps on this path, we should sign the kid up for some college business classes in high school (the perks of homeschooling) and then use her college fund to launch her bakery career.

That’s all good and wonderful but I think they’ve both got it wrong.

She’s a writer.

Greatly inspired by reading the series Diary of a Wimpy Kid, her own personal diary, stuffed with illustrations and great emotion, is truly a work of art. I adore getting caught up on it to see how she decided to portray the events of our lives.

(That scribbly pile of crap is definitely an accurate portrayal of “before” in her room.)

Also, she gets really excited when our English book gives tips on story creation, such as when we learned how to make a word web, she insisted on me giving her a new notebook just so she could create word webs every day before composing her version of family happenings in her beloved diary.

Writing is a lovely and flexible thing, though, and can often be done alongside or even about one’s main career. Ask me how I know. So maybe she will own that bakery and maybe she’ll write the stories of interactions with the public, since she’ll be running the cash register. But I am confident that somehow, she’s going to be writing voluminously.

Which is why, when we got to the section in her English book about the process of writing, I told her that I used this very process every day. Then I, for the first time ever, read aloud a blog post to my daughter.

It was so strange since the post was partially about her, and she wasn’t portrayed completely innocently (it was The Runaway Incident, and I didn’t sugarcoat nor did she deny her tattle-taleing tendencies.)

She was, for the first time in a while, really excited by something I had done. She forgot that she was supposed to have an air of unimpressedness when it came to her mother’s ideas, and begged me to start reading her more stories that I’ve written about her.

I agreed – as soon as we finish reading The Last Battle, our next read-aloud “book” will be…my blog.

She was thrilled.

And now I find myself, as if I’m about to read to The Queen of England, under a lot of pressure.

I mean, I knew she would eventually read my blog – I always have. But I unreasonably assumed that it would be after she had kids of her own and therefore could read through the context of motherhood. Instead, I guess she’s going to get a crash-course in motherhood-reality from me.

Then there were other issues.

How many stories should I skip? What am I going to read to her that I don’t even remember writing? Will I have to censor myself to read myself to my daughter? Is there anything I’ve written that she’s going to get mad or embarrassed about the fact that I published it? Will she understand my sarcastic style or hear it as complaining about motherhood?

Should I start in 2008, when my writing was crappy and my stories were poorly thought-out and edited, but I had adorable toddler-Ali stories that she will love? My orderly brain really wants to start at the beginning, but this is an exercise in teaching Ali how to write well.

But the most pressing question is: will she like how I’ve portrayed her childhood?

One positive, though, is that I’m really excited about the opportunity to read my blog aloud with the inflections and tone in which I wrote it. Because who knows what tone you guys are reading it in – maybe you think I’m a motherhood-whiner. And who knows what tone Ali would read it in if I left her to discover it on her own in her angsty tween years when she’s already convinced that I’m the enemy.

It will be an experiment. And it will be interesting to see how long it takes her to get bored with me…and therefore, herself.

One way or the other, we’re going to learn a lot about each other…and ourselves.

When Death Is Stranger than Fiction.

October 2, 2014October 1, 2014 Rachel Callahan Just My Luck, Toddlers: The Experience, Weird Strange and True

It was bath night.

We had been to the playground, we had eaten popsicles and let them drip down our entire being, we had handled with our bare hands an opossum jawbone found in the wild (another story for another time), and, most compellingly, it was technically our twice a week appointed bath night.

There was no escaping it. There was only pushing through it as quickly as possible.

I threw Noah in the tub and started scrubbing his head before he even had a chance to sit down. He wasn’t exactly joyful about my aggressive approach, but complied with my wishes anyway.

Ali came in to prepare for her own bath, when she gave a tiny shriek and said, “A roach!”

There are certain triggers in life to which I cannot be responsible for my feedback. Cockroaches are chief among them. As I’ve mentioned before, Chris knows that if he ever hears me scream like I’m being murdered slowly by butter knife, he simply comes running with a cup.

It didn’t help that the roach was running quite actively down the wall right next to the bathtub, of which my son was in and I was directly on the other side. I jumped out of the way as I let out my sound of fright.

And that’s what did it.

You see, roaches usually like coming out late at night, so Noah rarely hears my war cry, which meant that he didn’t remember ever seeing me truly frightened since roaches are my only nightmare.

Apparently, being three and a half and seeing your mother scared is quite the traumatic experience.

And so, he responded in a completely new-to-him way.

He Mariah’ed the neighborhood.

Seriously. I had no idea he had that note in him. I don’t know what it was but I’m positive it was actually higher than the beginning of any Mariah Carey song and louder than the monthly tornado siren test. And he didn’t stop at just one shriek – he gave five in a row – long, loud, sharp, and exquisitely painful.

My ears. They bled. They rang. They ached. The windows quivered in fear. The judges from America’s Got Talent heard him from their respective corners of the earth and all called at once to beg him to audition.

Then Noah started crying. From overexertion, I’m sure.

Meanwhile, the roach had scampered off of the wall and was on the floor out of eyesight, right behind the Bath Stuff Basket.

Chris heard all the commotion from downstairs and, since I was joined by two other screamers this time, he wasn’t positive of the cause. He came loudly sprinting to see who was throwing us out the window one by one. I pushed through the ringing of my ears to greet him with, “It’s a roach!”, the main purpose in being him not freaking out over us freaking out over nothing.

He told Noah to calm down, told me to move, and then he pushed the basket out of the way.

And there he was.

The villain that had upset the entire balance of our family.

Dead.

Dead as a doorknob dead.

Flipped over on his back dead.

Just twenty seconds ago, that very same roach had been defying gravity, running up and down the wall at Roadrunner speeds, clearly ready and able to participate in a Couch to 5k. And now he was as dead as dead could get.

There was only one explanation, only one possibility as to the cause of death.

My son had killed him with his screech.

And now he’s my favorite forever.

Callaway Gardens, a Photographical Journey.

September 30, 2014September 30, 2014 Rachel Callahan I Play at Photography, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, The Blissfulness of Life

Chris and I wanted to go off for my birthday (early, by the way – you still have time to mark October 9 as a Very Important Date on your calendar), but we didn’t know where to go.

We only had a weekend available, so we needed to go somewhere relatively close, and we wanted to go somewhere new, somewhere pretty, and somewhere flat to be able to run.

So we did what any logical person would do: we asked Twitter. And got about four pages of responses. As we weighed your suggestions against our needs, Callaway Gardens, suggested by Katherine, Giann, and Emily, stood out the most.

Located in South Georgia, it appeared to be just what we needed: miles of trails, beautiful scenery, and a good deal of flatness.

So I dumped the children onto my parents, where they didn’t even look up to say goodbye,

(because who would when there was sand to scoop?), and we skipped town.

As soon as we arrived Friday afternoon, we took off for a run. Because I’m an all or nothing person, and since I’ve discovered the power of a run over my Dysautonomia, it’s kinda all I want to do.

(Sorry, blogging.)

We quickly realized why our fancy suite at the fancy hotel on property had been so shockingly cheap: we were clearly between seasons. Post flower season, pre Fall Foliage season. Our first run felt more like running through the most beautiful campground with lovely amenities and beautiful lakes rather than through the world’s biggest flower garden as we’d expected.

However, we quickly adjusted and enjoyed the views as they were.

And we managed to spot a few glimpses of fall along our way, making the backdrop of our runs even more beautiful.

I’m a nature lover of all sorts, so I was also thrilled to spot deer, all kinds of birds of the large variety, and this guy, who obliged me by becoming my pet for approximately 30 seconds.

And, although I would have rather discovered an actual one, finding this former home of a snake was pretty exciting.

Between the three days, we ran over 18 miles in Callaway Gardens (it’s a big place, y’all!) and walked at least five more. We discovered beautiful sites such as this chapel,

And, even though it said “Wedding in Progress” on the sign out front, we took our cues from the silence and risked entry to see the stunning interior.

It nearly made us want to get married all over again. Except for all the trouble.

Instead, we moved onto Mr. Cason’s Vegetable Garden, which was lovingly flanked with all the gorgeous flowers we’d been missing from our visit.

The flowers grew around and atop the vegetables and herbs to distract the bad bugs and, furthermore, entice the good bugs to come eat the bad bugs. Who knew flowers were so smart? And here I thought they were just a pretty face.

Chris discovered the Analemmatic Sun Dial, where you stand on the proper month, lift your arm, and it tells you what time it is.

I’m positive it works a heck of a lot better when it’s not completely overcast.

We moved on again, this time to the Butterfly garden.

My favorite part of all butterfly exhibits is the chrysalis room. They’re so fascinatingly beautiful, with their blazing jewel-like quality.

The paper kite chrysalides were especially fascinating, because they were bright yellow with iridescent qualities and gold highlights – until the butterfly came out, leaving them mysteriously clear, despite the butterfly not being the least bit yellow.

WHERE DID THE YELLOW GO?

The world will never know.

The chrysalis room was also quite creepy because there were butterflies actively hatching. Watch the black chrysalides closely:

The butterflies themselves were housed in a garden in a greenhouse of sorts,

which itself was surrounded by beautiful gardens,

…which might explain this Blue Morpho’s adolescent angst.

But if only he knew that out there in the real world, nobody’s going to hang him sliced fruit.

Nobody’s going to water his leaves continuously.

And nobody’s going to protect him from butterfly-chasing children.

At times, I did realize how very fascinating this trip would have been for my children and how it would have counted for like a week of school.

But then we would have never gotten to run. Or celebrate our runs quietly with identical books and frozen drinks.

Ultimately I felt no guilt. After all, they were too busy to tell me goodbye.

The gardens had their quirks, too. Chris raved about how they had been careful to build their parking lots around trees, making them shady and preserving nature – he thought that was so great. Until he parked in this extraordinarily un-square spot, perfectly lined up on his side and murdering the line on mine.

He got out.

He inspected. He couldn’t rest until he’d proven that it was clearly the parking space’s fault, not his. (And I had to agree, as much fun as it was to see him perplexed.)

And he moved his car to a more deserving spot.

Building your parking lots around trees can also have other undesirable outcomes, such as root damage. This particularly unfriendly handicapped spot may have made us giggle a little too much.

The hotel we stayed at had a spa, and every time we got in the elevator, we had no choice but to stare at this woman.

Which was completely fine until I told Chris “You know, if you look at the picture just right, it looks like holes all the way through her back instead of rocks on top of her back.”

And then he couldn’t look at her ever again without getting an internal shiver.

Of course, we had to find the best views in the area, and there were plenty from which to pick.

This one was at the garden’s adjoining state park, F.D. Roosevelt State Park, and Chris caught me photographing from atop FDR’s favorite place to think.

I’m pretty sure I could end a war now if I had to.

And then there were the sunsets.

As breathtaking and gorgeous as all of the views were in and outside the park, a straight shot at the sunset was surprisingly hard to find. After fighting my way through cobwebs and underbrush and running down an abandoned trail for half a mile, I finally found my spot.

Chris managed to catch my graceful journey out onto my log…

In my defense, I was carrying a camera and an iPhone, the water was pretty murky, and I was uncharacteristically concerned about a snake slithering by – in my mind, if a snake is in the water, it’s probably poisonous.

Fortunately, I didn’t consider the fact that I was much more likely alligator bait than snake bait – we were, after all, in South Georgia.

But the view was worth every fear.

Every time I thought I’d caught the best of the sunset, I’d run back up on shore to escape any creepy crawlies and the family of mosquitoes that were munching my flesh…and then I’d look back and see that it just got better, and I’d splash back out to my log.

Chris was highly amused to watch my ridiculous back-and-forth and asked why I didn’t just stay out on the log until after dark.

I sneered at him. Was HE out on that log? No. He was safe on shore with nothing to fear but the spiders, who seemed, as they should be, more interested in the skies than him.

On my fourth trip out to the log, I captured my final picture,

then told Chris I was done.

We needed to leave.

Before I looked back and it got even better.

But, like Lot’s Wife, I did look back. And through the thick layer of trees, I could see that the skies were pinker than any neon light ever dreamed of being.

The moral of this story is: always stay on your log until it’s completely dark. Even if an alligator has you for a beautiful sunset dinner, the taxidermist will probably be able to recover the camera card.

Sunsets By the Package.

September 29, 2014September 29, 2014 Rachel Callahan I Love Birmingham, I Play at Photography, Rachel's "Brilliant" Marketing Ideas, Utter Silliness

In two days, I got two emails from different guys that I have zero connections with. (They were real emails from real people, guys!) One wanted advice as to where to take his girlfriend for a special date, and the other wanted advice as to where to propose to his girlfriend.

This might sound extraordinarily random (and it kinda is), but both had been googling for the best sunset locations in Birmingham and had naturally found me.

I gave them both advice on where to take their women, and recommended each a completely different array of locations, as I customized my suggestions to their specific needs and desires.

Because I’m apparently the new Romantic Advice Column of the Birmingham metropolitan area.

Which made me realize: it’s time to create some packages and start selling my services.

You want sunsets? I got sunsets. Choose from the below packages for the correct amount of sunset advice that you would like.

The Crush Package: I tell you where to go to see a sunset. No refunds or exchanges.

The Date Package: If you’re interested in romance and safety, I tell you where to go to see a sunset in a location that you will most likely not get mugged and/or fall off a cliff.

The Sweetheart Package: If you’re interested in romance, safety, and not getting eaten by zombies, I tell you where to see a sunset in a location that does not include a haunted parking deck that you can’t escape from after sunset.

The Memories Package: If you’re interested in romance, safety, not getting trapped, and not regretting your date all week, I tell you where to see a sunset that will not involve chiggers and/or mosquitoes feasting on every inch of your flesh AFTER they completely devour your girlfriend.

The Lovebird Package: If you’re interested in romance, safety, not getting trapped, not getting eaten, and not getting shot by a resident and/or reported to the police and taken into custody for trespassing, I tell you where to see a sunset that doesn’t involve encroachment onto private property.

The Quiet Solitude Package: If you’re interested in romance, safety, not getting trapped, not getting eaten, not getting arrested and/or killed, and a romantic atmosphere, I tell you where to see a sunset and guarantee that I will not show up there to take sunset photos with my tired, hungry, and whining children who will almost certainly fall down, skin their knees, and scream for freaking ever.

The Proposal Package: If you’re interested in romance, safety, not getting trapped, not getting eaten, not getting arrested and/or killed, a romantic atmosphere, and being able to remember your moment forever, I tell you where to see a sunset and I’ll show up without my kids, hide in the bushes on private property*, and subtly take pictures of your perfect sunset proposal**.

* After you sign a waiver promising to bail me out of jail, pay all of my court costs, hire me the best lawyer in town to defend my reputation, and provide Chigarid for the 98 chigger bites that I am guaranteed to procure.

** Even if she says no.

Burning Questions of the Public Restroom.

September 25, 2014September 24, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel

I visit public restrooms more often than I’d prefer.

My preference would be zero times per lifetime, of course, but as I drink 100+ ounces of water a day, that’s just not going to happen, unless I go all Boo Radley on you and never leave the house.

And if I did that my blog would flounder and die and I’d finally leave the house out of desperation to find anything to write about and I’d end up in a public restroom writing this post.

So why fight the pull. I go to a lot of public restrooms.

But every time I’m in one, I leave with SO MANY QUESTIONS.

1. Why do auto-flush toilets have to exist? Just to scare children out of their minds? To turn every bathroom visit into a sobfest? To make mothers have to play Twister to cover the sensor while holding their children onto the commode?

I get the idea – to cut down on the spread of germs – but I guarantee that I acquire more germs from the intricate balancing act I have to do to help my kid on the toilet while covering the sensor and keeping my toddler from licking the floor than I would if I just had to flush the dang toilet.

(For the record I have started making Ali go in a stall alone and get over herself about automatically flushing toilets. If they suck her down she won’t go far and I promise to come get her when I finish hoisting her brother onto the evil toilet next door.)

2. Why do automatic soap, sinks, and paper towel dispensers never sense me? I wave and I wave and I wave. I yell and I dance and I command them to put forth their product.

Yet I am completely invisible to them.

Then another woman walks up and they spit out soap before her hands even reach the spigot and she’s welcomed by pre-warmed flowing water at the sink. The paper towel dispensers bow before her, giving her a double portion of their papery goodness.

It’s as if they all know that I’m a middle child or something.

3. Speaking of paper towels, why do their dispensers have to come in so many forms? It’s like they can’t make up their mind what they want from me.

Wave in front of me!

Wave below me!

Push my button!

Pull my lever!

Use my crank on the side!

Desperately try to yank the sixteenth of an inch of paper towel shooting out the bottom because I refuse to work any other way!

…I spend 40% of my total time in public restrooms trying to figure out what parlor trick the paper towel dispenser requires of me.

4. Do the auto-deodorizers of the world have weekly planning meetings to strategize on how best to be aware of my presence so they can squirt directly above my head as I walk into a stall? Must I always smell like Kiwi-Coconut-Hell after leaving the restroom?

5. WHY DO SO MANY PEOPLE OF EARTH NOT FLUSH THE TOILET.

6. Is there a rule stating that restroom trash cans must be impossible to access without receiving more germs? I do NOT WANT to stick my hand down into your encrusted flappers in order to deposit my used paper towel that I so desperately fought to have.

7. Why can’t we scramble cell phone signals in public restrooms? I despise nothing more than having pee over my stall-neighbor’s mushy conversation with her boyfriend. If we can make a law against texting and driving, then surely we can make a law against calling and urinating. Call while you drive, text while you pee. Everyone’s happy.

8. Why is it always the nicest bathrooms that don’t have purse hooks? I appreciate your spacious 800 square foot stalls, thought-provoking artwork, and the potted plant watching me pee, but having a fern in the room cannot possibly make your floors clean enough for my purse butt to rest upon.

9. Why do automatic paper towel dispensers vary so vastly in the length of product they will supply? I punish short-changers by making them give me triple towel. I’m all for saving the ecosystem but I want to do it with dry hands.

10. And finally, the most puzzling public restroom question of all time. What kind of person uses the hand dryer when there are plenty of paper towels to be had?!

Psychopaths. That’s who.