So we live in a 120-year-old church-turned-farmhouse, which is not super insulated. In some remodeling genius past the woodstove was removed and replaced with electric heat, which makes for a chilly abode in all but summertime (when it's cooler to sleep in the barn). And just when you'd think (it WAS 80 degrees last Saturday) that it is safe to sleep in just one layer of sweatpants, IT SNOWS AGAIN. In April. In Western Oregon.
Yes, dear readers, we woke up to snow all over the ground again this morning. I didn't take any pictures because it's just not fun anymore.
The other thing we woke up to was not a some*thing*, but some *children* in our bed. Now, I'm all about the family bed, but we have four children now. The oldest two are not of insignificant size. Our bed is a King, but Ryan isn't a little man. Laura needs a buffer zone around her tiny self so she isn't near the quilts or pillows, and I have to police that all night. Throw in a couple more who got chilly in their own beds, preschool- or elementary-age, and someone is not sleeping well. Namely me.