Logan had an audition last week and received a “call-back.” That meant the director of the play had narrowed the field of potential actors (predominantly adolescents, 10 – 15) and wanted those select few to audition again.   My husband had accompanied our son to the initial try-out, and I took him for the second round.

Before the Beijing Olympics come to a close, I just wanted to follow up on my two Olympian obsessions:  U. S.

As promised, I’ve come prepared to give you more reasons to put down the dirty laundry and pick up a tall, cool one – lemonade that is!  This Wednesday, August 20, is none other than “Lemonade Day” AND “Stay-at-Home with Your Kids Day” (which may not seem like cause for special celebration to those of us who’ve home-schooled children, but I digress).  And, a heads up to all those tooth fairies out there because August 22 is your national day (one shrew

I LOVE when NBC broadcasts a split-screen that shows U.S. Olympic swimming phenomenon Michael Phelps during his contests for gold and Debbie Phelps, the champion’s mother, in the stands simultaneously.  I honestly don’t know who’s more exciting to watch! 

A moment of reverence, please, for Dara Torres. The 41-year-old mother of daughter Tessa, 2, anchored the American women’s 400-meter freestyle relay team, which captured silver in the 2008 Summer Olympics early today. Torres was already the oldest Olympic female swimming medalist in history; now, she’s the oldest swimming medalist of either gender! (She’s also the first American swimmer to compete in five Olympics!) And did I mention she's a 41-year-old mother? I thought learning to salsa at my age (in my 40s…barely) would be daunting.

Happy National Kid’s Day! Don’t feel too badly if you didn’t get a cake because it happens to be National Fresh Breath Day (just once a year?) and National Sister’s Day, too – I will email mine after I post this very important blog.

Apparently, there are numerous, slightly known, and therefore, rarely celebrated holidays of all kinds. I’m here to inform you that August is Family Fun Month, Family Eye Care Month, Children’s Good Manners Month (only a month?) and most importantly, National Napping Month. After I email my sister, I will lie down.

Every once in awhile, I’m lucky enough to keep all my plates spinning in the air. Last night was one of those times. One of those times when everything seems a-okay and all (or most) is right with the world – at least my familial world.  

I’m not a big joke fan. I guess you could call me a “joke snob.”  (Maybe it’s because I am the WORST joke teller on the planet!). However, I heard a parenting joke recently that I’m going to attempt to share because a) I actually remember it, and b) It made me laugh out loud. Hope you do, too!

My other half and I went to a friend’s wedding last night.  It took place at a lovely venue in Franklin, where after a brief ceremony (it was a second wedding for both bride and groom), two lines quickly formed. The longer line wound around several rooms to the adult buffet; the shorter line (in amount of people and the size of those people) led to the children’s buffet.

1.  You save on cleaning supplies.

2.  Nothing is thrown out by mistake.

3.  Extended carpet life since his/her bedroom is covered with laundry and has never actually been walked on.

4. Benjamin Franklin, Albert Einstein and John Lennon have been described as "messy."

5.  Wrestling with overstuffed drawers and jam-packed closets builds upper-body strength.

6.  "El slobbo" will develop early reasoning and debating skills trying to convince people he/she can locate anything in the pigsty.

Okay. I’ll admit it. My husband and I were walking past Logan’s unoccupied room last night, saw the two guitars abandoned on the floor and had the same idea. Next thing I knew, we were strapping on our “axes” and doing our best rock star impersonations to Guitar Hero III. Had our kids seen us, they would have been hospitalized from laughing so hard.

It was a few years ago at Rocketown’s skateboarding camp where Logan earned his nickname, “Cheeseburger” -- or “Cheese,” for short. That summer, he discovered microwavable cheeseburgers and had one almost everyday for lunch at camp. The name stuck, and as a result, many regulars at Rocketown and Sixth Avenue Skatepark don’t even know his real name. I’ve often had to identify myself as “Cheeseburger’s mom;” then the light of recognition turns on.

Well, we're finally alone.  No swinging from chandeliers or sleeping until noon yet, but my other half and I did take a lovely sunset drive in the convertible yesterday, and had a late dinner at our first-choice restaurant without commentary from the peanut gallery.  

Just back from St. Louis. I had only been there once before, but that doesn’t count since we drove straight from the airport to Effingham, Illinois. I was on a business trip for ‘TEEN Magazine in another lifetime (translation: 1982), and the printer was in the wild and crazy town of Effingham. Anyway, downtown St. Louis is quite nice, but due to the Cubs-Cardinals series and the Fourth of July weekend, it was double the Americana and double the crowds. However, on July 5, we watched round two of fireworks underneath the famous Arch, and it was magnificent! It almost made me forget the purpose of this visit to the Show Me State: to take # 2 son to sleep-away camp for a month.

Getting a kid ready for sleep-away camp is a full-time occupation! My 14-year-old’s camp checklist, the one I received with the 30-page parent handbook, looked like a department store inventory list. When did summer camp get so complicated? What happened to shorts, t-shirts, bug spray and a smile?

I knew it would happen eventually. After all, it does every summer. A few days here or there, give or take, but inevitably the time would arrive. And, today was the day.

At our house, we’ve reached that point in summer when the lack of routine becomes routine. Where the unplanned expanse of an entire day lays before you, yet the effort to fill those hours has become a chore. “Chore? Chore? I’ll give you a chore!” I say in the now imaginary, but inevitable “conversation” I’ll have with my 14-year-old son.