Beware the Ides of April

Tax day, sick day, same thing: death and taxes. Spent last night being thrown up on by Zoey, the three of us moving from bed to bed to couch, too sleepy to change the sheets. Woke up to blood splatter of stomach contents (yogurt, raisins, other), a sharp crick in my neck. Here is a pic of Zoey doing her taxes the other day, mimicking Bryan with pretend receipts in post-it pink and a studied look of concern. Can't write that off. (You know you're a mother when you think photos of your child doing taxes is cute, described vomit simply adorable.)
Saw this the other day and thought of you.

It's called The Insano, a 135ft waterslide in Brazil, the equivalent to sliding down a 14ft building at 60mph, aka I just peeped in my pants a little imagining the woooooshohfuck of it all.

Then this. Personally if I duct taped my seams and filled my jeans with helium I would have picked a nice open field, perhaps a flower bed in which to play Wright sister, but that's just me. (Admittedly, the vid looks a tad fake but I choose to overlook the various camera angles because it's fun and I find myself wondering how terribly difficult it would be to get my hands on a helium tank...)

So that's that kids. Live from a Wednesday afternoon watching Umizoomi on my belly belly belly screen. (Inside joke to those of you who might also be spending the day beneath a fort made of sheets with a tupperware bowl not far away.)

Death and taxes and all the xo's in between,
S