Time Keeps On Slippin', Slippin', Slippin' . . .

Uh, can anyone tell me what just happened to July? Because I blinked and I missed it.

I could have sworn I had a few more weeks of July left, but the calendar says August, so I guess not. Humph.

Last week was busy, in a "get settled back in and see what went wrong with the house while we were gone" kind of way. Do you have that too?

It never fails that we go away for vacation and we come home to find that our house has been invaded by ants or birds have made a huge nest in the eaves or a major appliance has kicked the bucket.

This year there were no ants; I always check for that first after a particularly heinous experience as a newlywed in Florida. Not a pretty sight. And neither were the ants.

There were also no signs of birds, bats, or other winged creatures trying to come home to roost, and all our major appliances are humming right along. We will have to replace the upstairs toilet, for reasons too numerous and boring to mention, but we were expecting that.

All in all, a good homecoming.

In other news, allow me to introduce you to the whitest boy in America. And possibly the world.

And this is AFTER a week at the beach. Seriously, he is so white he glows. Play that funky music, white boy.

My husband would like me to point out that he could have easily fried up like a little piece of bacon at the beach if it was not for his nearly compulsive sunscreen re-application habits.

Rob has seen some seriously bad skin stuff in his office, so I give him free reign with the sunscreen. He would like you all to know that the key is not the SPF, it's proper and timely application and re-application. If your kid ain't greezed up like a pig at the county fair, then you're not doing it right.

We went through six full bottles of sunscreen, and you can take that to the bank because you know I don't exaggerate. Ever. (Although this time, I'm really not exaggerating.)

Besides finding out that Mr. Alabaster McWhitepants is a HUGE beach bum, we also had his speech evaluated by our county's Early Intervention. (After we got home, of course. But how cool would your job be if you could do speech evals on the beach?)

Guess what? The boy can't talk.

It doesn't come as a surprise at all, considering I told the speech therapist that I knew he was delayed when she walked in the door. I'm sure she wasn't at all annoyed by me telling her what to write in her report.

She was actually very nice, and she knew that we had had experience with delays and therapy in general with Fiver, so I think she was able to see that I knew the ropes already.

Bun is about a year behind his speech milestones, so now he's all set up for speech therapy. Rob and I joke that our house operates under The Law of Conservation of Therapy, which states that as soon as one child is discharged from therapy of any kind, another must take his place.

Ah well, those two weeks of no therapy were really great! Ever onward, my friends . . .

In other news, last week was also Horse Camp Week. It's like Shark Week, but on land and with no carnage. It's a very highly anticipated event around here.

Francie and Dakota, her quarter horse. If by "her" quarter horse, you mean the one we don't own and who lives at the stable. But not for lack of begging on Francie's part.

And last, but not least, this little lady turned four months old this weekend. Whoa, nelly. She's discovered her favorite fingers to suck, her feet, and people's hair. She's chubby and she smiles all the time.

She's also sleeping through the night in her own crib.

Just listen to those angel choirs sing.

Today, while playing with the baby, Fiver turned to Rob and said, "Isn't she the best baby we've ever had?"

Rob replied, "She's definitely in the top five."

I'd agree with that.