ANYway, the powers that be sent us this place called “KidsPark,” where they’ll watch your kids NO QUESTIONS ASKED as long as you leave them your credit card number. You pay through the nose for your freedom, but the fees pale in comparison to the absence of kids who don’t want to sit still during a 90 minute cartoon and, oh yeah, THE ABSENCE OF A CARTOON ALTOGETHER.

So we get to the theater and I buy the tickets to what I think is a movie that starts at 5:30pm, but then we realized that I read the wrong time on Fandango and the movie we were supposed to see actually didn’t start until 7:10. And the LOML was all, “We can’t afford to have the kids at that place any later than 8:30!!” so we changed our tickets out and decided to go see “Inception” instead.

And all I can say about it is longest BEST. MOVIE. EVER. And you hardly realize that the movie is as long as it is because you’re drowning in its awesomeness.

But your BLADDER does.

So there I was, tapping my toes trying to figure out how I could pee into an empty water bottle in the dark run to the bathroom and not miss anything when I remembered (and strangely enough, at the same time, got verbal diarrhea and exclaimed in a theater full of people), “I CAN USE RUNPEE!!”

And the LOML said, “Can you do that some place ELSE?” And I was just so excited to have even REMEMBERED to THINK of runpee that I said, “Shut up or else I won’t tell you when the best time to pee is when it’s YOUR BLADDER that’s burning hole in the side of your stomach.”

So I got to do my thing and had TWO EXTRA MINUTES of pee time left! I felt like a hall-of-fame-urniator. (And YES I DID remember to wash my hands. Freaks.)

1. Benny fell off of the back of the couch ONTO THE TILE FLOOR.
   “Oh, yeah. You may want to keep an eye on him because I didn’t EXACTLY see the fall, but it sounded awful. He could have a concussion, but his eyes look okay and he seems to be playing okay. What’s for dinner?”
2. I got a parking ticket. TWO MONTHS AGO.
   “I’ll just get work to cover it. But we need to pay it by tonight or else we’ll have to pay a penalty. And then I can just turn in the receipt.” (I’m still waiting for the reimbursement…)
3. I kind of, sort of, maybe volunteered you to help with the Jr. Pee Wee website. Why do you ask? I bet you someone said something at practice . . . I was supposed to tell you a couple of weeks ago. My bad.
   “Okay, so they don’t actually HAVE a website. But you built one for the school, right? How hard can it be to do it again? I mean, really?”
4. I found Benny at the sink, washing off your phone.
   “You know, I meant to say something to you when I called you today, but then your phone cut out and I forgot . . .”
5. You don’t have to Febreeze Jake’s (football) pads.
   “What are you doing? You should just be throwing those in the wash. Oh, wait. It was me who said you should take them out before washing them, huh? But then I asked the team mom about it and she said to just throw the pants and girdle in the wash with their pads inside. But you can still Febreeze the shoulder pads. How long you been doing that, anyway?”

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I know, right?

But here’s why I bring all this up:

Today he CALLED ME AT WORK. A rare occasion, which usually means something is wrong or that he has to work late. Just to clarify, HE called ME.

And it wasn’t that he got in a crash or someone died or was on his way to the ER because Benny had finally broken a bone.

“HONEY!!”

“What? Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“I just saw the trailer for the new Resident Evil movie. It looks [sing-songy] SA-WEEEEEET!”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I know, huh?! I didn’t know either. I’m TOTALLY going.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

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Just look at him. How can you stay mad at that face?

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To know him (through his podcasts) is to love him. He’s southern and charming and hilariously funny in his A.D.D./silly ranting kind of way and frankly, the LOML is starting to get jealous of my constant bringing up of his name. But the fact of the matter is that Jimmy is the only photography instructor that I know that totally gets “it.” He doesn’t take himself too seriously, gets his audience/students to relax, and teaches in a way that is both fun and challenging. And I honestly have NO IDEA where I’d be without his classes or podcasts.

ANYWAY, most of you know that I do quite a bit of my podcast listening while driving. And sometimes even while the kids are in the car. (Usually while they are sleeping, or else I get pelted with Cheerios or Cheetos until I tune the dial to Radio Disney. ACK.)

A few weeks ago, I had picked up Jake from day camp and didn’t even get out of the parking lot when noticed that his eyes were getting heavy and he had leaned the seat back a little bit in order to settle in for a nap on the way home. So I decided that as soon as he was “out,” I would plug in my iTouch and listen to one of Professor Jimmy’s podcasts.

And wouldn’t you know, it would be one where Jimmy uses the phrase “Nekkid” flash about 678 times. (“Nekkid” is southern for “Naked.” And a “Nekkid Flash” is what you would call one of those big long flashes you see on professional cameras WITHOUT what you would call “a white thingy” on the end. A “white thingy” is a flash diffuser, which helps soften and spread light evenly.).

And I remember thinking, Holy CRAP it’s a good thing that Jake is asleep or he’d be asking me what the word “nekkid” meant. BECAUSE YOU KNOW HOW INQUISITIVE THIS KID CAN BE.

Fast forward a few days.

I had hopped on to the computer before going to work to check out some recipes I was thinking about trying for dinner. And without remembering to bookmark the page that I’d found, I shut the browser down and turned the computer off.

When I returned home later that evening, I fired up the browser and decided to go to my internet history in order to find the site I’d been on earlier that morning. And this is what I found:

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Yes, you read that right.

There were searches for “NEY KIT FLASH,” “NAY KIT FLASH,” and “Professor Jimmy,” among other things.

Now, if you are slow to get this, bear with me. BECAUSE THIS IS A DAMN FUNNY STORY. (The LOML had me add, “Damn funny to photographers, maybe . . .”)

After discovering the search queries I laughed. HARD. For, like, TWENTY MINUTES.

Then I picked up the phone and called the LOML.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, can I ask you a question?”

“Oh . . . ‘kay. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Just wondering if you happened to be on the computer at lunch, looking for something to buy me for my birthday.”

“WAIT. Wha . . .? HOW’D YOU KNOW THAT?”

And then I was all, REALLY? Have you NOT ever heard of the INTERNET HISTORY BUTTON?

“You’re joking, right? I KNOW EVERYTHING.”

“[Loud silence, and then a long sigh.] Fine. YES, I was looking up stuff I wanted to buy you for your birthday. But I couldn’t find what I was looking for.”

“And what exactly, dear, were you looking for?”

“Well, this morning on the way to drop Jake off at summer camp, I asked him what he thought we should buy you for your birthday next month, and he said, ‘The man on mama’s radio says that you can do just about anything with a nay kit flash, so maybe we should get her one of those.’”

This was Jake at the California State Fair in July:

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Here's Jacob, looking all little and innocent and like he'd never hurt a fly.

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Now, the photo below is Jake over the weekend. He knows nothing of the man named “Mean Joe Green,” but he sure resembles him in miniature stature:

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"Hey kid . . . what the hell you're parents feeding ya, anyway?"

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He had no idea I was photographing him, and I have no idea what he was thinking about. All I know is that Jake, in the picture below, reminded me of Bobby Boucher thinking about something that was pissing him off so he could tackle the hell out of someone.

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"Captain Insano shows no mercy!"

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There’s a story out there about how, when I was little, I would wear a football helmet EVERYWHERE. Once I get the facts together, I’ll write about it. In the mean time, Benzilla now wants a football helmet of his own. Anyone got an extra one lying around?

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Well, if he puts it on backwards, he won't see the hit coming.

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Because more pressing issues have surfaced in the Lancaster household that bear revealing. But first, I need to provide a bit of background.

During the winter that Jake was three, he measured 3′ 4″ tall. And weighed around 50lbs. That December, we had to prove his age at a Chinese buffet, because the woman behind the counter thought he was at least six. Luckily, I was carrying his shot record book, which has his birth date stamped inside it. All that to save $7.

Now, before Jake was even BORN, the LOML and I had conversations about what we hoped our child would accomplish and grow up to be — just like any other new parents. And after he was born, and as we began to realize how big he was going to be, the conversations always turned to sports. “He’ll DEFINITELY be tall enough to play basketball!” or “Holy CRAP this kid will make an awesome middle linebacker some day.” And then the LOML’s eyes would glaze over as he dreamed of his first-born son scoring a game winning touchdown in overtime for Notre Dame.

Anyway, later that week (after the Chinese restaurant visit, just before Christmas, 2006), Jake & I were standing in line at a video store. In front of us was a rather large black man in a track suit, who happened to be holding a baby carrier with a blanket over it to keep out the cold.

I leaned down to Jake and said, “Sweetie, look . . . there’s a baby under that blanket.”

And before I could stop him, he lunged for the carrier and pulled the blanket up.

The guy instinctively pulled the carrier toward him and turned around. Embarrassed, I said, “I am SO SORRY! I told him there was a baby under there and he took it as permission to look under the blanket. He’s only three . . .”

His response was to throw his head back, and say “THREE?!”

And before I could reply, he began to pat around at his chest in an attempt to find a pocket. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he put the carrier down, reached for his wallet, pulled out a card and said, “Ma’am, I’m a youth football coach . . . could you please do me the biggest favor EVER and call me when this boy turns six?”

And I said, “Oh-KAY Jerry Macguire! Just because he’s a big kid doesn’t mean he’ll want to play.”

And he said, “Oh, I can get him to play . . .”

And I smiled and nodded and took the card.

When the guy was done checking out his DVDs, he turned to me and said, “I’m serious. You call me.”

We never called him.

But the LOML sure did get a thrill when I returned home and told him what happened. And he LOVES to tell that story. Because he always dreamed that Jake would play football, and it was validation that a football coach would look at his boy and deem him worthy enough to play AT AGE THREE.

Fast forward to last week, when the LOML gave in to years pressure he’d been receiving from a co-worker (who happens to be a Jr. Pee Wee Football Coach) and took Jake to watch a practice session.

He called me from the field and said, “Hon, you should see him! He looks GOOOOD.”

And I said, “What? I thought he was just going to watch!”

And he said, “I know, but he wanted to get out there and the O-Line coach was all, ‘Dude, your kid needs to PLAY,’ so, I let him run some drills.”

That was seven days, 729 conversations, and several hundred dollars ago.

Tonight, when the boys came home from the field, the LOML was carrying one of those big gear bags that football players use to hold their uniform and pads.

So it was official.

I’ve given birth to a Jr. Knight.

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Please God, let me not turn into a maniacal football mother.

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Up until the time Jake started Kindergarten, I got to enjoy this shindig like all the rest of the festival visitors — at my leisure. I’d stop in on Saturday afternoon for some food, get a few margaritas, go home and sleep, and then go back on Saturday night when the band is loud and the dance floor is hopping and all my friends from elementary and high school look really awesome because I’VE HAD WAY TOO MUCH TO DRINK. Then Sunday I’d get in line for some Menudo and everything would be okay again.

But all that changed in 2008, when I decided that it was MY turn to learn the ropes and see what it was like to prepare food for 2,000 people. It was my turn to take over the reigns that my mom had been holding for the past 5 decades. Talk about some major shoes to fill.

I spent that weekend introducing myself as a new Kindergarten parent and, “Carole’s daughter.” And ever since then, the name (“Carole’s Daughter”) has kind of stuck.

“What’s your name again?”

“I’m Kathleen. Lancaster. Jake’s mom . . .”

“I’m sorry? . . .”

“I’m CAROLE BONILLA’S DAUGHTER.”

“Ohhhhh. I THOUGHT you looked familiar . . .”

Because that’s the kind of reputation my family has with this Parish. I’ll ALWAYS BE A BONILLA. And the “YOUNGEST” Bonilla at that. Even though I’ve been married to a Lancaster for TEN YEARS.

Anyway, I’ll be spending this weekend rolling dough for home-made piroshkis. I’ll fry meat and chop tomatoes and onions and cilantro for the best tacos north of Mexico. And I’ll consume mass quantities of free beer and margaritas because basically, if I’m wearing an apron covered in flour and salsa, and feeding those who pour beer and margaritas, they return the favor quite nicely.

Then on Sunday, we’ll all be thinking of HER.

Sunday is her birthday.

Time still hasn’t healed this wound, especially for my mom and her son.

And my favorite brother.

But being at the festival, and being all together, will help us get through the day a little easier.

She loved that school, and the piroshkis, and the best tacos north of Mexico.

She loved the festival, and the music, and being around her family.

We’ll save a spot at our table for her, and have the band play some of the music that she loved to listen to.

And maybe one of her brothers will jump on stage and steal the mic and sing her a song. And the rest of us will laugh and pee our pants and say, “She would have LOVED this.”

Because that’s what Bonillas do to celebrate the memory of their sister. And daughter. And mother. We party until we pee our pants.

Happy Birthday, Laurie.

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Now, I’m a food eating, ride riding, sweaty HOT MESS of a mother, being dragged through every inch of the fairgrounds by her kids.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

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Yes, I made them wear red shirts on purpose. Red hides ketchup quite nicely.

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"Mama! Do you see the baby goat? Oh my GOD! HE'S SOO SOFFFFT! MAMA! I'MMM PETTTTTING THE BABY GOOOOATT! DO YOU SEE ME? DO YOU?"

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Benny is riding the Mater Truck. But you can't really see Mater, because Benny was stage-directing the composition of this photo. "No mama. Closer! Get CLOSER. MAMA, I RIGHT HERRRE!!"

Growing up and all the way into my adult years, I’ve been a “rocker chick.” I liked my dudes to have longer hair than me. (Until I met the LOML, of course.)

And during those years, I envisioned having a little boy with super cool long hair and a leather jacket and a name like “Dominic” or “Thaddeus.”

I could not have been happier after having Jake — he actually CAME OUT OF THE WOMB WITH LONG HAIR. It was like the metal gods smiled down upon me and said, “Ye shall possess a first-born son with locks that Metallica themselves would be jealous of.”

But then the LOML intervened and Jake got his first haircut at 5 months old. Because the poor kid had hair so long that we had to pin it up “samurai style” to keep it out of his eyes and mouth. It’s been short ever since. And sometimes the LOML goes so far as to shave it all off at the beginning of summer, which irritates the crap out of me because it makes Jake look like “Vern” from Stand By Me.

Then along came Benny. WHO WAS BORN BALD.

It took him three years to get his trademark hair — the hair everyone likens to that of Dolly Madison.

The LOML has been threatening to get his hair cut since Christmas. Then in April, I decided that I thought I’d be ready to go through with it by Benny’s third birthday.

Which came and went with no scissors in sight. I thought I was home free.

Until this past weekend, when the LOML called me on my bet, loaded the car with my camera gear, and said, “Let’s go.”

There were a few moments before we even went in where I thought I might cry or vomit or grab Ben and make a run for it.

But I acquiesced, grabbed my rig, and started to shoot. It was the only thing that kept me from having an out of body experience.

Below is the before picture:

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Benny, ROCKING the Dolly Madison look and waiting patiently for his turn in the chair.

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The noise from the clippers drew Benny’s attention to his older brother. Who HATES getting his hair cut.

Benny looks on as his older brother is subjected to the clipper treatment.

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I probably should have promised him something cool, but all he got after he was done was a root beer sucker.

Seriously. Do I *REALLY* need a caption here?

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Five minutes later, Benny would get in the chair.

I love this image. He sat down in that chair as if we had said, "We'll buy you some ice cream if you sit still." Oh, wait . . .

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I have a photo of the “First Cut,” but I couldn’t bring myself to post it. Here’s what became of the first cut:

Remnants of the "First Cut."

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And finally, the “After” pictures:

This image makes Jake appear to be TWELVE YEARS OLD. Next week kids will start asking him to buy their beer.

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Here's the 'Zilla with his new 'do. His shoulder action reminds me of Schroeder from "Peanuts."

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He seems to think that, now that his hair is shorter, he can run faster. If I had made that argument before going in, the LOML probably would have kept his hair long.

Perhaps the prosecution and defense counsel shared my sentiment: The jury box is no place for a blogger.

A small part of me wanted to be foreman of the jury and eat stale sandwiches.

And, poor little guy, he didn’t get a party or balloons or even a CAKE.

Because he’s the 2nd child. And second children get the shaft until they’re old enough to know better. And, not only that, but he’s ONLY THREE. All he cared about was that someone sang him the birthday song and gave him ice cream and a toy that made lots of noise.

It looks like a tender moment, but what you don't see here is Benny flinging the spoon at his brother 10 seconds later.