Ah, the fresh smell of Ozone

As you can see from the pictures, the children started out very civilized in their Sunday best, only it was Saturday and we were headed out to go shopping - a sacred family event, of course. Chloe was pondering on, oh, I don't know, things like string theory, wormholes, and just who/what this ultimate observer is anyway. Ya know, your everyday basic ponderings on the theoretical sciences.

Chloe says to herself,

"Hmmm, I wonder if Steven Hawking got that email about my breakthrough on time machines."

Just the night before she said,

"No, I don't want to read Good Night Moon! Gosh mommy, brush up on your conceptual foundations of quantum physics, already!"

Me with eyes open widely and nothing else to say, "Okaaay."

And in the picture below that, Libby is wondering when I'm going to take that damn foo-foo bow off of her head.

Well, we headed off to shop at the all-mighty Sam's Club. (No, there's not a Cosco nearby, darn-it.) Alan and I, in the spirit of Memorial Day weekend, purchased two huge maroon (Gig Em Aggies! whoop!) beach- chair loungers with the ever so crucial drink holders, that are not on one, but on both arms!

We idealized laying side by side, the wind in our hair, the lush trees at our feet and gazing up high in the sky at the exotic birds that fly by our deck. Wow, what a view! Wow, what a margarita! Another? Of course, I'll have another. Got any tiny umbrellas too?

Crack! Here came the dark rolling clouds and we instantly scattered like teenagers at a busted house party.

Well, it did take a little vocal prompting (okay, nagging) to convince Chloe to get off of daddy's lounger that she had stolen earlier after he went to make us more drinks. But Daddy was happy to stand on the deck and let Chloe relax excitedly on the lounger. That is, until this fast-moving, water-producing storm showed up. (Libby was inside napping at this point) (Chloe nap? Never.)

Somewhat giddy at this point, we hurriedly swooped everything up and rushed inside. Thundering loudly. Big heavy rain drops. Ah, the smell.

We went to the lower level and before we knew it, somewhere between the x and y margarita, we had let Chloe get virtually naked and start rain dancing out on the deck. Instantly, her civilized ways went feral . Oh, what a feral exhibit. Little feral one. Our little feral child. Queen to all the docile, cultured domestics turned beastly, savage bruts.

Again, I say feral.