Overheard on the phone. Speed Police chatting with our friend Lynn:

(response to what I assume was the question of the hour, “What are you doing this summer?”)

“Oh… I have volleyball tomorrow… and I’m going to be working at YBC… you know saving money for the car thing.”


“It’s a place where kids go for after school tutoring. They have a summer program for the kids… you know, playing, reading, stuff like that … yeah and a few field trips.”

The words resulted in a smile across my face – for a few reasons. Not only was she leaning into responsibility and steering away from entitlement, she wasn’t complaining. There was no, “Mom is making me work this summer!” moan. No, the response was completely matter of fact. Work with a goal in mind.

The kid wants to be able to drive her own car. Nothing spectacular. Just something that moves. At the moment, she’d like a white Ford Pickup, preferably well worn. I’m not sure where she came up with that idea, or why. Maybe America’s Idol Scottie and his country croning has turned my girl country. I can’t say this West Texas girl minds much. I can see her bouncing down a rural road, manual window down, wind in her hair, singing off-key at the top of her lungs to some Carrie Underwood… until I picture that bench seat and some shirtless hunk looking cute in a cowboy hat taking over the wheel shooting her a “scoot-on-over, Darlin'” look. Nope. She will be driving a practical, non-descript gray Camry with console separated seats.

I’m glad we have a few years!

Until then, let the work begin. Attitudes are surprisingly optimistic. But I still dish out a few inspiring reality talks (deemed lectures by some glass-half-empties in our family … I mean really!) pointing out that work isn’t meant to be “fun”. Work is work. That doesn’t mean it can’t be fun. It’s just a bit more likely that enthusiasm might need to be conjured the first few days (weeks!).

Here’s hoping some fun actually abounds.

Maybe even as much as the fluff bounding across our floor. She’s been so cute and fun and patient waiting for her name. Many were floated. A few almost stuck (Pippa, Lola, Stella, Bella … lots of “uhs”). We couldn’t agree on anything. Finally Speed Police stated the obvious, “We’re never going to agree.” She was right. “Why don’t we let Dad decide. He names her. We accept it and don’t complain.”

Sounds fair enough. I think she had a bit of an ulterior motive… wanting him to fall for her like the rest of us. So Jon christened the dog.

Who knew she would share a name with…

a famous, yet stylishly questionable tie

a trendy rock band

and a favorite Fraggle Rock muppet?

It was the stadium that spurred my man to name her


Our friend who so kindly watched her while we were at the beach found the name lovely, but lacking just a bit, added a little extra class. “Wembley. What a great name. Her Royal Highness, Lady Wembley of Caruth Boulevard”

Jon said we would be leaving it a Wembley… because in our house, we name them what we call them. That is when we FINALLY arrive at a name.

Thanks for walking the road with me.



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