We walked to the park today, a noteworthy event after weeks and weeks of summer hibernation. 

The temperature drops to a cool 88 degrees, and the intrepid humans cautiously poke their noses out of their air-conditioned dens, eager to experience the out-of-doors once again.

Yes, it was a documentary-worthy moment.

We stopped in front of a construction site across the street.  The post-war cottage that once stood on the narrow lot is gone, and workers have quickly laid the foundation for what I can only guess will be a very large, very vertical home.  We looked at the trucks they left behind, talked about who might live there and when the house will be done, and walked on.  Two lots away, another modest home was on the market, and we stopped to peak at the information sheets the realtor left in a basket in the yard.  “To renovate or build.”  Another vertical palace, coming soon.

“I’m going to buy that house,” said Miss D.

“Oh, yeah?” I asked.  “Why?”

“To live in.”

“Wow,” I said.  “We’re going to miss you.  When are you moving out?”

“We’re all going, silly.  When I graduate.”

And then I realized the plot she was hatching.  We’ve told her we will be moving next year, probably soon after she gets her pre-school diploma.

“We can move there,” she said, “and I won’t have to leave my friends.”

And then she told me she still really wants a doggie, because this kid knows how to push all my buttons, all at once.

There was a time when I was far more likely to be lucid at 1 a.m. than at 6 a.m.  I think I could remember those days more clearly if I could have just one more cup of coffee right now.

Today, I have little choice but to be a morning person.

This is my child:

She wants to be a farmer.

So she gets up at the crack of dawn to practice milking cows.

But there are upsides to this quirk of hers.  Like light.  Early morning light is supposed to be better for photography.

So we went out the other morning in the 6 o’clock hour.  We put shoes on with our jammies, left our sippy cups on the stairs, and opened up the sandbox.

We watched the sun rise in the sky and leave dappled light all over our trees and grass and that crummy fence our neighbors don’t quite maintain.

Miss D. joined us at a slightly more reasonable hour, clad in a T-shirt that would make her Red Sox-loving relatives groan with physical pain.

And we all hung out and stared at the sky until the August Alabama sun forced us back into the air-conditioned house.

This post is in response to the You Capture assignment at I Should Be Folding Laundry.  Head on over there to see more photographs of morning.

One of the coolest parts of being named a Blogher Voices of the Year Finalist is having the chance to take part in the art auction Kirtsy organized to benefit The Nature Conservancy, which is helping with the clean up of the Gulf of Mexico after the mess BP made down there.

Artists and photographers created works inspired by the writings of each finalist.  My piece was about writing well in the blogosphere, and Megan Romo created an 18×24-inch graphic representation of that post, which is being auctioned off on eBay.

Between now and September 11, you can head over to eBay and bid on Megan’s creative piece (inspired by my random rant).  She named it “Country-Fried Mantra,” which pretty much guarantees that I will be bidding, as well.

I hope you’ll go check it out and peruse all the other interesting work available.

Is The Belle thinking:

a) I can’t believe she dressed us in matching outfits.  This is embarrassing.

b) I am rocking this denim dress so much better than you, Miss D.

c) Could she have picked a WORSE backdrop for this shot than the ugly garage door?

d) Must we make a big deal out of the first day of pre-school?  I’m 2-years-old, for Pete’s sake.

e) Reader’s choice.  What do you think?

Once upon a time, people had lots of kids so they could send their little indentured servants out into the fields to work hard for the family.

Today, we have kids and become indentured servants ourselves, spending our days driving to gymnastics and soccer and art and playdates and birthday parties.

Which is all fine and good.  We’re not farmers, and we don’t have 40 acres to sow and toil.

I can’t even get a tomato plant to grow.

But I do think kids — even little ones — should have some jobs to do in the house.

Miss D. is in charge of making her bed every morning, clearing her plate after meals and picking up her toys at the end of the day.

I’m trying to give The Belle some little assignments, too.  It’s time we break her in, but I’m starting to fear she will be an unreliable worker.

We started small.

“Little girl,” I said.  “Please put your shoes in your closet.”

And I found them here:

“Little girl,” I said.  “Please put your shoes in your closet.”

And I found them here:

“Little girl,” I said.  “Please put your shoes in your closet.”

And I found them here:

“Little girl,” I said.  “Please put your shoes in your closet.”

And I found them here:

Maybe “housework” just isn’t her thing.

Perhaps I’ll give her a tomato plant and some soil instead and see what happens.

This random assortment of images from my kitchen is in response to this week’s You Capture assignment at I Should Be Folding Laundry.

I really don’t understand people who choose not to subscribe to the local newspaper.

It’s hilarious.

This morning’s edition, for example, had a great article about a local political candidate who decided an endorsement from University of Alabama football coach Nick Saban would make her campaign.  So she found a photo of The Great Saban, erased his wife from the picture, and edited herself in.

Voila! Instant endorsement, no messy permissions required.

This got me thinking.  I would like to go to the Type-A Mom Conference in Asheville next month, but making that happen hinges on finding a corporate sponsor.  Why would a company pick me as its representative at the event and online?

Well, I’d give up some ad space on my blog; write a blog post for my sponsor’s site; include its corporate logo on my business cards, which I will hand out at the conference; and carry a company tote bag while at the event.

Not enough?

This blog has also been endorsed by the president of the United States, which you can clearly see in this picture:

But maybe this photo doesn’t sway corporate America.

I can also tell potential sponsors that I was selected as a Blogher 2010 Voice of the Year finalist in the editorial/opinion category.  I write a monthly column for BirminghamMommy.com and was also a columnist for the now (sadly) defunct Deep South Moms, part of the SiliconValleyMoms family of websites.

And, although I am a lefty leftist, I write mostly about motherhood, which appeals to a wide variety of readers.

Including this one, who says, “Country-Fried Mama? You betcha.”

Perhaps there’s a company out there eager to send me to Type-A Mom, but one that has some concerns about my apparently freakish small head, as seen above.

Would one more endorsement seal the deal?

I think we can all trust the father of our country, right?

George says you should send me to Type-A Mom, and he promises I will represent you well.  Also, that I will attend any and all workshops involving photo editing skills.

Soon enough, back-to-school time will mean setting alarm clocks to wake my early risers even earlier.  It will mean we become slaves to a schedule we cannot control.  It will mean another season in a 12-year churn.

But not this year.

This year, back-to-school season means the big kids have cleared out of the libraries, the zoo, the bowling alley, the parks, the museums and every other place a couple of little girls might want to roam unimpeded by crowds on a weekday morning.

This year, I still love back-to-school time.

The Belle, in a nearly empty children’s museum days after the big kids returned to school.

Someday, sweet girl, you will ask me what you were like as a toddler.  I hope I can remember that just as you hit the age everyone labels as “terrible,” you were anything but.

This is you at age two:

You are fearless. At your birthday party yesterday, you slid down a slide far too steep for me.  You bounced along a trampoline with your Daddy.  You hurled yourself into a pit of foam blocks and rolled around with the big kids.

You are hilarious. I don’t think I have ever heard a more fabulous belly laugh than yours.  It is my mission in life to catch that sound on tape before it becomes grown-up and restrained.  You inspire your Daddy to make ridiculous faces.  You tickle your sister until she doubles over.  When I want to be stern and serious with you, I often find I can’t pull it off.

You are determined. “I do it” is your favorite sentence, and I try to heed your demand whenever possible.

You are focused. I know if you are in your room “reading” your books, I have plenty of time to start dinner or fold a basket of laundry or make a phone call.  I have never seen a two-year-old so entertained by pictures of duckies and ladybugs.

You are loving. When I pick you up, you pat my back.  You search out boo-boos so you can cure them with kisses. You tell Daddy, “Good luck,” everyday when he leaves for work.

You are already your own person. I worry about birth order.  A lot.  I worry that your sister’s huge personality will stunt yours, that her status as “first” will diminish your achievements.  But you are coming into your own.  You know what book you want to read, what song you want to listen to and what game you want to play.  And woe is the sister who tries to dissuade you.

You are two.  We must have blinked.

You might think Twitter is a waste of time.  You might be wrong.

Today’s justification for farting around on Twitter: adorable art project suggestions.

I followed someone’s link the other day to a fingerpainting project that spoke to me.  It said, It’s going to be 90+ degrees from now until the end of time.  Start collecting ideas for indoor activities before you and your children kill each other off in fits of aggravated boredom.

I wish I could tell you who in the Twitterverse came up with this idea.  I would love to give her credit and send you all to follow her, but I don’t remember who she was.  (Update: This came from Impress Your Kids and @oohamanda, whose children are much more accomplished finger painters than mine. Thanks to Rebecca at Toothwhale for the ID assistance.)

In any case, some smart mommy out there decided to have her kids create art for their rooms based on a favorite phrase.  Hers were biblical.  We don’t really roll like that over here, so I picked out some beloved children’s books and went from there.

First, I arranged some felt sticker letters on canvas while the girls screamed impatiently entertained themselves.  Then we sat down and had a lovely time together getting messy.

The Belle proved to us that you can, in fact, make grey by mixing pink, blue and green.

It was at about this time that I reiterated my desire for a kitchen with sloped floors and a drain in the middle.  If we could just hose it all down at the end of the day, life would be easier.  I believe this might be my million-dollar idea.

We smartened up after The Belle painted her whole body.

I took out the brushes for Miss D.’s turn.

After the paint dried, I pulled the stickers up and realized some touch up with a bit of white might be in order.

But I haven’t quite gotten around to it.

I blame the heat.  It’s making me lazy.

One sizzling summer afternoon down, untold scores left to go.