Last week, we packed up our truck, loaded the kids and headed for Texas. Our drive took us through the length of Illinois, across Missouri, down into Oklahoma and then into Texas. With the exception of the Ozark Mountains that drive is all flat terrain and there isn't much to see unless you count Missouri's miles of churches, firework stores and porn shops. Wait, that's not entirely true, we might have passed a billboard for the world's largest rocking chair. 

That thousand mile drive was made possible by one iPad, two movie players and the shear will to survive. 

Like it or not, driving is the most affordable way to transport a family of five. Before Heidi and Whitney were born we used to fly everywhere. Then the other two came along and we multiplied airfare times five and then we decided that we REALLY LIKE DRIVING!

This is a "working vacation" (details to come) with lots of Oma and Opa time for the kids. So far, the weather has been unbelievably gorgeous and we've tried spending as much time outdoors as possible. The things Texans take for granted, in January, such as sipping a cup of coffee while sitting on the patio, a walk through the park or getting into your car without having to kick five pounds of slush off the bottom of your boots...well, Texas, let me tell you: you need to start yourself a gratitude journal!

As we were pulling out of the Costco parking lot this weekend, Heidi asked if she could have a croissant. Sure, why not? Nothing wrong with a buttery, flaky croissant except I don't make a habit of keeping a croissant on my person. So I told her, "Sorry babe, but I don't have a croissant," and then a blistering rage rolled out of her thirty-five pound body.

The ride home looked something like this:

The whole way home she screamed, and cried, and convulsed, "I WANT A CROISSANT! I WANT A CROISSANT!" Stuff was shooting out of her mouth and her nose. It wasn't until we got home that I realized she hadn't been asking for a croissant, but a Capri-Sun, which I found to be somewhat disappointing. It was bad enough that I'd had to listen to her temper tantrum for ten miles because she couldn't have a fancy, French pastry, but pitching a fit over a bag of juice? It's what the French call malappris, or ill-bred.

I call it: grownin' me some malappris young-ungs.

So I didn’t win the lottery, again. It happens all the time and it’s probably because I never play the lottery and also...because...well....it’s the lottery. No one wins, ever. Except the winner. And how happy for those lottery winners, are we?

One of the grocery store chains here in our town occasionally runs store sponsored scratch-off games. Buy a specific brand of cottage cheese or a minimum amount of groceries and the check-out person presses a thin stack of ‘tickets’ into your hand, along with the grocery receipt.

There’s usually a small pile of those unscratched tickets laying next to my car keys by our front door. Once in a while when I need a non-Internet distraction, I’ll find a quarter and scratch the silver film off the cards to see what I haven’t won.

On Saturday night, I plunked the stack of scratch-off tickets onto the coffee table, gave each of the girls a quarter and showed them how to play a grocery store scratch-off game. (It’s all about education, people.) After we’d scratched off all the losing tickets we piled them into the center of the coffee table and then sat back looking over our heap of failure. After a moment or two, Heidi stood up and walked around the table, collected everyone’s quarters and then headed for her room.

I sat there for another moment and then realized I’d just been pick-pocketed while playing a fixed, carnival game.