For a brief, tiny moment today, I peeked over the wall of extreme math phobia. For a teensy space in time, I had a glimpse.

For just a second, I gazed at my algebra/finite mathematics homework and it made sense to me.

Thank you, God.

Behold! The final wearing of the dress. THE dress. The dress that she wore until it was filthy, then waited with all the patience of a two year old until it was clean again.

It got short enough to be a tunic to go over pants. But when it was impossible to button around her body, it was time to say farewell.

Goodbye, favorite dress. You will be missed.

The weekly pilgrimages to the Princess’ art class have become a treat. While she learns to sketch and paint, the Bear, Moo, and I hike the miles of trails through the forest around the artist’s home.

It started out grey, but the morning showers were gone, leaving the woods washed clean and smelling lovely.

I love living here. It is honestly the greenest place I have ever known.

Eventually the clouds parted and we emerged on the other side of the trees to a path through a neighboring field. Moo, a typical Washington kid, had the following response to the strange bright ball in the sky:

The path was strewn with slugs and snails. This beauty was only six inches long – comparatively small.

We rounded a corner and came up on a tree struggling to survive on its own, far from any peers.

Then it was time to wander back to the house to snack and wait for class to get done.

Of course, the Bear went ahead to scout for villains.

In an uncertain world, these are life’s constants:

• There should be an age limit for certain foods. Flaky pastry in the hands of a two year old should be against the law.
• Playing the Star Wars theme at full blast in the van makes even a visit to the grocery store feel like a big adventure.
• The relief at having a young person back from camp diminishes in direct proportion to the amount of arguing and whining they unleash in the first four hours they are home.

What are your constants?

I am proud. I am sad. And I am lonesome. I dropped off the Princess to leave on her first camp retreat tonight.

I was the same age when I went to sleep-away camp, and I was just as thrilled leading up to it as she has been. For weeks she has counted down to the moment she would go. She felt a teeny bit nervous for about ten minutes this afternoon, but otherwise she has been all excitement.

And can I say that I am superiorly ready to miss her? Just for a little bit.

She is ready to miss me, too. I was given the briefest of hugs before I was dismissed. It felt very weird to drive away as she joined the gaggle of other kids, her stuff crammed into a backpack that I used for a diaper bag when she was a widgy, pink baby.

And, no, I am not sniffling. Just got something in my contact.

(Note: If you haven’t read the first three legs of the journey, they are here.)

I had survived an unscheduled tour of the seedy side of Gallup, New Mexico, and was more than ready to get back on the road again. It was getting along into the afternoon and I had a lot of ground to cover before reaching Sedona.

I started walking and thumbing the passing cars. It was the quiet part of the day and traffic had thinned, but I had never had a problem catching rides before.

Until now. I waited. And I walked. I took off my jacket and tied it to my pack. And I walked some more.

Wow. Was it ever quiet.

It started to occur to me that I may be stuck camping outside The Forbidden City that night when a little red pickup pulled over. Battered and faded, all it needed was the “YO” on the back to complete the picture. I hustled up to the window.

“Need a ride?” Sitting in the teeny truck were two guys about my age, only a whole lot bigger. They seemed good-natured and wouldn’t have been alarming if I had passed them on the street or seen them playing on the football field, which is what they were built for. But where did they expect me to sit? The two of them pretty much filled up the whole cab.

The guy in the passenger seat smiled. “Where you headed?”

“Sedona, Arizona…” I said uncertainly, trying to assess the situation and size up my chances.

The driver leaned over a little. “We can take you as far as Flagstaff. Throw your stuff in the back and hop in!”

You know that little teeny voice in your head? That feeling that warns you when something is an incredibly bad idea? Even though my mama had taught me to listen to that voice, I had carefully cultivated the ability to ignore it. Or to see it as an invitation to jump headlong into adventure.

But now was not the time for youthful rebellion. “Um, you know guys, I think I’m going to catch the next one. Thanks, though.”

They grinned and assured me that they were safe, but I felt better the minute I turned them down. It was the right choice. So I breathed deep and watched them pull back onto the road and wave goodbye. And I was back to looking for either a ride or a long walk until I found a place to spend the night in the bushes.

As I hiked the shoulder, a white sedan pulled over. “Hey, where you headed?”

Driving the cluttered car was a big Native American man, but at least he was traveling alone. I put my bedroll in the back, climbed in, and shoved my pack down by my feet. The warning feeling was still nagging me, but I brushed it off as leftovers from the jocks in the pickup. After all, I needed to get away from Gallup and here was my chance.

How bad could one guy be?

Oh, happy day! Today my order from Title 9 came and for the first time since I was pregnant with the Bear, my bras will not include access to the milk bar.

The good news: they are fabulous! Comfy right out of the box, and beautifully engineered - everything is back up there where it’s supposed to be despite the carnage wreaked by three hungry babies.

The great news: I had to send my original order back, since my middle has shrunk a bit and required a smaller size.

The bad news: that’s not all that has shrunk. After I tried it on, I could almost yodel into the cups and hear an echo. Thank you, hooligans. I haven’t been this size since middle school.