Last Friday I pulled the final remaining pull-up from it's holder on the back of the door. It unceremoniously slipped out with no clue how special a pull-up it was. I had two boys coming out of the tub, one empty hand, and bedtime staring us in the face. Deep breath. We're ready. No, no we're not ready. We'll have to go out tomorrow and restock. We're not ready. Deep breath. Susan, we're ready. They're ready. And I closed my eyes, said a quick prayer, and put the final pull-up on the obvious choice and vowed not to buy any more. Susan, they're ready; you're ready. We can do over night. We can do it. They can do it.
And in a too-loud voice, I announced to the boys, and their father, and the neighbors that one of us was without overnight protection. And I continued to lecture, nearly screaming at them both what big boys they were and that they should be good boys and remember to use the potty and come get me if there was an accident. And the boys and their father stared at me as I grew more shrill.
Saturday morning dawned without incident.
The Saturday evening portent was strong but I didn't recognize it as I bleached out the tub and ran toys through the dishwasher after the girls' bath went horribly, terribly wrong.
Sunday morning, the boys were up at their usual time, but they didn't come straight to our room, and they played for awhile, and we even heard them entertaining the girls in their cribs. We lay in bed until a decadent 7:30. We started the coffee. He went to free the girls; I went to check the boys' beds. Wet. I sounded the alarm that the boy needed changing and that I was stripping the sheets. And a few minutes later, I heard yelling in a general yelling sort of way as I attempted to stuff sheets in the washing machine without actually touching them. I slammed the lid and flipped it on running toward the general yelling, beginning to make out the words: "He's. Not. JUST. Wet!"
We cleaned. We disinfected. We remained firm. Daytime is nearly perfect; certainly nighttime will follow if we give it a chance.
My weekend laundry pile, which had suddenly become that much bigger, called out to me some time in the afternoon. I opened the dryer to pull out the clean and insert the latest wet. And I looked down just as
it flew out, plopped on the floor, and rolled to a stop at my big toe. What is this? What is THIS? WHAT IS THIS?! And in my need to share my experience, I snatched
it up in a Clorox wipe and started marching around the house with
it. Patric! What is this? What is it? He stared at my hand not knowing where on earth I'd been or what I was holding. What is it? What? Ewww, where'd that come from?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!
We cleaned. We disinfected. We did the laundry again. We remained firm. Daytime is nearly perfect; certainly nighttime will follow if we give it a chance.
Firm lectures and stern warnings were meted out on Sunday evening. And Monday morning we were up before the children. I was pouring coffee and he was packing a bag when we heard feet run to the bathroom. Good boy. And we went on about our business until we heard the second child admonishing the first, "Not too much!" Hmm?
It was nearly time to begin the days' care and feeding of children anyway so we went up. Here we discover that "Not too much" refers to toilet paper. However, it is being improperly applied to this particular situation because when you have hit everything in the bathroom but the toilet, including the wall, you can NEVER use too much toilet paper cleaning it up. Nor can you use too many Clorox wipes. Nor can you be any more happy that it is a cleaning day. Nor can you have any harder time smiling at your child and telling him what a good job he did by actually getting out of the bed this time and making an effort to get to the toilet.
We cleaned. We disinfected. We will remain firm. Daytime is nearly perfect; certainly nighttime will follow if we give it a chance. We will add more Clorox to the list.
This morning I was greeted in the kitchen by a bed-headed child well before time to wake up asking for help. That's how it's done.
Now this is interesting.
Me: "Girl. You're not a boy. You don't go potty standing up."
Saturday we picked up our hitch hiker Nancy, who also happens to drive well, and headed North to St. Louis. 
Movies, blowing raspberries, sleeping, and snacking kept us pretty entertained for the trip.
Yes, even a little bit of sleeping. Although not much.
Once there we gave Nancy the weekend off and headed to our friends.
But the girls got to the water play, and there they played, and played, and played.
Jules played with the boys in the Leggo pit after they gave up and left the girls to the water. I love the purse. Nice touch.
Alida, who grew very attached to this skirt, served pizza. 
They waited until we were 20 minutes from home to fall asleep.
And then they slept on the couch. 
Well it is left over from what Elaine was doing while she was not napping at our friend's house.
Friday: We drove. We drove. We drove. We drove.
To get to this.
But it turned out to be this.
But not before making a stop in the bit more lovely Gatlinburg to see some sharks. It was cold out and a group hug was in order as the ticket master demanded military id cards for all five of us huddled there. (Yes, five. Benjamin did not grow another pink arm.) After Patric nearly jumped the desk, Ticket Master let us get away with adult id cards for entry. And I will say, $9 for a family of six to the aquarium is a pretty darn good price.
And we stumbled upon these guys right inside the door.
And more.
And that was awesome. This time Benjamin was the only one willing to participate in my hopefully group of four shot.
Sharks. The highlight for me.
And then we stopped and saw Santa. 
And after saving money on the second night in the hotel, we let the children pick out something in the gift shop. And THAT kept them happy for about five minutes.
They are cute.
But they are a demanding group.
Perhaps the cuteness will remind me,
how very worth it it all really is.
