Today I’m sitting in my bed, but not because I’m sick. Actually I’m hiding. Listening to Snow Patrol and trying to write.

From down the hall and through my locked door, I can hear what I’m hiding from. After exhausting every option for manipulating Mom into entertaining them, my kids have finally decided to go play.

And from what it sounds like, they’re playing racquetball.

In their bedroom.

With a bowling ball.

And quite possibly a small herd of goats.

Conversation with Abby through the door a few minutes ago:

“Mom?”

“Yes…”

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m working.”

“Oh. Well, Scruff wants to come in.”

“He’ll live.”

(Wow. I totally remind me of the old man in the movie “Up.”)

How do I sum up my summer, which ends this week, when all the while this house is being torn apart brick-by-brick by intensely energetic children?

Oh wait. I think I just did.

No, this has actually been a very nice summer break. Nine weeks flew by, which is the best measure that I’ve found for a successful break from school.

In June, we traveled to Missouri to visit my parents and sister and her husband and kids. They live in Springfield, Missouri (hometown of Brad Pitt!), which is a 12-hour drive away from here. Which we did in one day.

Note to self:

Add to gratitude list the following: Portable DVD players. And kids who are all potty-trained and can read.

And the lovely Springfield is only one hour from Branson, Missouri, the Las Vegas of the Ozarks.

(Catch phrase: “What happens in Branson, stays in Branson. Because nobody is desperate enough for entertainment to listen to you talk about it.”)

Did you know that Yakov Smirnov (“I LOVE thees contree!”) is still performing? That he’s still alive? Well, he IS in Branson. AND HE LOOKS EXACTLY THE SAME.

Along with some musician named Shoji Tabuchi, who, if we rely on his billboards, is actually a wax figure from the 1970s.

And no Branson “Strip” is complete without a Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum. Oh, and Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede.

Which is actually pretty cool, if you like horses and trick riding and a hillbilly version of the feast they serve at Medieval Times. (Moonshine extra.)

We only went into Branson once, for a visit to Silver Dollar City (or, as my dad likes to call it, Steal Your Dollar City).

Silver Dollar City is celebrating their 50^th anniversary, so they offered a free annual pass to anyone born or married in 1960.  So guess which Georgia resident now owns a pass to a Missouri attraction (good until 12/31!!!!). Yep, my old man.

Charlie was happy to accept free admission to the park. And he even wore the silly “I’m celebrating my 50^th with SDC!” button. But mostly because we all hoped it’d get us discounts or at least cuts in line for the attractions. No dice. Instead, he just gave people proof that he WAS as old as he looked.

(I kid, Hubbly. You’re still devastatingly handsome. After all, you’ve kept all your hair. And your girlish figure.)

So… we spent the day riding rides and sweating and squinting. Then we barely escaped to the parking lot at closing time before a HUGE thunderstorm rolled in.

And most exciting: we left with overpriced taffy!

Did you see what I just did there? I told you about my trip to Branson. And if you’ve lasted this long, then you really ARE desperate for entertainment.

I think I’ll stop here and write later about the rest of our visit. Including the Great Height-Measurement Caper and the (entirely-unrelated) introduction of a seven-year-old to roller coasters.

Just makes you want to click that “Subscribe” button, huh?

I live to please.

And now I’d better unlock my bedroom door. It’s gotten ominously quiet out there.

GAAA! I abandoned Charlie to fend for himself with them!