Merry Kissmas!

We hope that everyone had a wonderful Christmas. We sure did. Jack calls it "Kissmas" and after awhile I got it--he kept kissing me whenever we talked about it. I thought that he was just excited, but it turns out he thought that it was a holiday of kissing (a pretty adorable sentiment) so that's what we've been doing!

Unfortunately Captain Jack (his self-appointed alias) has been a little sick. We've been at the pediatrician's office a few times already this week, and are now the proud owners of a nebulizer. Jack loves it and (thus far) has been extremely patient with sitting through the 10-minute treatments. The medicine makes him a little wacky, so his post-neb diatribes are getting more and more hilarious. I told him today that it was now time for his nap and he asked me, hands extended, "Where do the times go?" I could only shake my head--I truly have no idea where the time goes. I still can't believe this giant is my son.

While reading his nap-time story, I tried to turn a page. "Oh no, I need to talk to this," Jack announced, turning the page back again, and listing everything that he saw on that page. He will do well in a board room. Blah, blah, blah!!!

Are you there Gob?

After successfully instilling a healthy knowledge of God (aka "Gob") in my son, he is now a hot topic of discussion. We were at Aunt Claudia's house to welcome Allison back from Chile and Jack wandered towards Gran's old room (now Uncle Richard's office).

"Oh, we can't go in there, it's Uncle Richard's office--we don't want to mess up his stuff."
"No...Gran's in there!" Jack informed me.
"Oh baby, Gran isn't in there. She is gone." I told him.
"She went to live with Gob?" He asked.
"Yes," I confirmed, "she lives with God."

How did this child get so smart? We have been prepping him for Christmas too, and he's starting to see the whole picture. Perhaps more than most people. He asked me if Santa lives with Gob too. I had to explain about the North Pole and the reindeer. I also had help from the move The Polar Express. I highly recommend that movie, especially for parents of 3 to 55-year olds...it was sooo cool.

Love, True Love

It has been raining for a few days now, and this morning Jack and I slept in (yes, this is a recurring theme) and then lay in my bed listening to thunder and watching cartoons all morning. We finally got ourselves dressed and fed and as we were leaving to go to school, Jack noticed that there were slugs all over the driveway. Baby slugs. Very slow baby slugs. He was so cute squatting in the rain, in his bright-yellow fireman raincoat, watching the slugs squirm across our driveway at the speed of molasses. I finally got him in the car and he started yelling, "Oh no! Oh NO!" and crying. Baffled, I calmed him down and got the story: He was worried that I would squish the slugs when I pulled out of the garage. I looked at his tear-stained face and explained that I would avoid them. "No Mommy, you will squish them!"

And so began my Princess Bride-esque version of motherhood...starring ME as the farmboy. I actually moved not one but three (!!) inch-long slugs from my driveway into my garden. It took me forever--they are like overcooked, cold noodles. Ugh. I made Jack wait in the car as I washed my hands, and then, finally, we got to school. I fear that I am not setting a good precedent, but I was moved by his empathy for those tiny, slow creatures. He will be a great older brother someday.

What is that smell?

Jack is in love with stories. He loves to tell them, hear them, and read them. OVER AND OVER. Usually I try to limit his bedtime story to only one, because once he convinces you to read a second you might as well settle in for the entire night. He is very persuasive. He would do well in politics.

So tonight during our story reading, he chose his 1,000,000 Tractors book. I hate this book. First of all, it wouldn't be so bad if it legitimately listed millions of tractors. But it doesn't. It covers the same material over and over. And over. Right into Yawn-ville. But Jack is a strict listener and won't let you skip a tractor, much less a page, and often (to make sure that you're paying attention) will quiz you to catch you in a repetitive lie.

For whatever reason, both of us were feeling quite punchy tonight as we read Tractormania for the n-th time. We got to the farming section and I was listing the various machines used on the farm. One of them was a manure spreader. Jack asked me, "What's manure?" I paused. I looked at his little face and I could not lie.

"It's cow poop," I told him in a serious voice.
"Oh," he said, nonplussed..."cow poop."

And then we lost it. We giggled hysterically for approximately 10 minutes straight. I have not had a laughing fit like that since the 1st grade. (Well, that is a bold-faced lie. I admittedly had to excuse myself the night after Thanskgiving after losing it in front of my in-laws for some asinine reason. I could barely see through my tears as I ran upstairs. The worst part is that they were completely unfazed...I have a reputation.) But I have not giggled THIS much over something so silly in quite a long time and it felt GREAT. We rolled in his bed laughing and laughing, and when I could I would manage to whisper "manure" and it would start all over again.

To conclude, I have to say that this kid has one amazing sense of humor. Or else mine is really lame and is on par with a 3-year old's. Either way, we are happy and laughing.

Check It Out!

Jack has started speaking in complete sentences. It happened out of the blue. Instead of slowly getting words out and stumbling over the hard ones, he now talks like an actual person. This is alternately hilarious and terrible. Now he has the capacity to tell me what he REALLY thinks, and it is not always something that I want to hear.

For instance, I was making him clean up his toys, and by "clean up" I mean shovel them out of the living room and into the toy room. He was losing steam and I was encouraging him in my sweet, motherly way to hurry up when he stood up and looked at me with his hands on his hips. He pointedly told me, "I want to go to Su-Su's house. And I want YOU to stay here." Luckily I have a fantastic sense of humor so I was able to resist calling him a taxi.

Another day we were eating dinner at my parents house and Jack was drinking milk out of a childhood mug of mine that has a small pink dog in the bottom who peeps up through the liquid when you've drank enough. Jack was slurping away and finally saw the dog. "Hey!" he said, "there is a dog in my cup. Check it out!" And he perilously tipped the cup in my direction so that I could see it. "It's PINK Mommy. Not orange, or red, or white, or blue, OK?" I could only nod in agreement. Maybe he will be an educator...or else it's just that he subscribes to the philosophy of most 3-year olds: parents are idiots.

Thanksgiving

With the impending holiday, I've been talking to Jack about what Thanksgiving means (and what it does NOT mean: presents). I don't know how effectively you can impart the importance of this day to an almost-3-year old, but I'm trying. I explained about the pilgrims and the Indians, and how important food is. This of course sparked a tangent conversation about what we were having for dinner. I tried to steer him back to the topic at hand, and I told him (hoping to hit a nerve) that some people don't have food for dinner. They have no choices because they have nothing. Jack was flabbergasted...I had stunned him into silence. (For those of you who don't know Jack, this is a near-impossible feat and the appropriate response is disbelief and awe.)

After considering this, Jack asked, "We give them food?" I was reduced to tender tears at the thought of my boy thinking about someone besides himself, and I told him that we CAN give them food. He said, "We go to the store? We get them food?" So we decided that Jack would do some chores and I would give him "monies." He picked up all of his books and put them away, swept (ish) the kitchen floor, and made his bed.

We went to the Teeter to pick out some canned goods--Jack chose green beans, pinto beans, okra and corn. Considering his usual smells, these choices are not surprising. I added some tuna and a box of mac and cheese to our pile. We went to check out and Jack proudly presented his $3 to the cashier, and then insisted that I keep his change. "I don't have pockets!" he exclaimed.

Tomorrow we will take the food to his school, where they have a donation box for the local food bank. I am excited to see him leave his very own purchases there in what will probably be his first truly selfless act. I can only hope that there are many more to come.

Hear me Roar!

Jack was climbing all over me the other day, slightly sick and therefore extremely clingy. As he clambered up the front of me, I complained, "You are such a Spider Monkey!" He paused, looked at me and said, "Nooo, I am a little boy. I am a MAN!"

Read My Mind...

On the way to my Mom's house for our weekly dinner, Jack was riding in the back seat barraging me with questions about everything that we passed. "Mommy, why are the leaves orange?" "Why does that cow have horns?" "Why are there clouds in the sky?" "Why do we have birthdays?"

While catching my breath between his interrogations, I marveled at how much he wondered. I can vaguely remember rides in the car with my Mom, watching the world go by out the window, and wondering everything. What exactly happens to us as we get older that takes away our ability to marvel and wonder about every little thing in the world? I think that I've got it--worries. As a child you have no worries...maybe about what Mom's cooking for dinner or if you did your homework, but other than that your uncluttered mind is free to wander, and wonder. I try to do it myself; to push away the worries, the nagging responsibilities, to unfetter my ability to wonder, dust it off and set it free. It is an important question--"WHY?"--and I fear that as adults our whys turn complicated: "Why is this happening to me?" "Why is there so much hate in the world?" instead of the little tiny whys that are so important, so vital to happiness.

Inspired by Jack (and practically hoarse from my explanatory lectures), I vowed to come to his level: to ask my own whys and wonder at the little things. After all, if we can't go back to being a child, we can at least learn from them, and learn to mimic their innocent wonder and unsullied contentment to be in a world where not everything can be explained, but everything is wonderful.

Halloweenie

We had a very fun Halloween here, Jack was dressed as a robot and even stood still long enough for me to get some silvery face paint on him. It was adorable. Unfortunately they had a big party at school that included a lot of junk food and NOT a lot of napping, so he was not as enthusiastic about walking all over the neighborhood. He did a lot of riding on shoulders.

We had a TON of trick-or-treaters come our way, and no one was more excited about that than Stanley. He would have answered the door himself if he could have. He barged out onto the porch before I could even get the door open (every time!) and inspected all of the children and their bags. Then Jack would finally get to the door and insisted on doling out the candy himself. The problem was that I had included in our candy bowl a few bags of Hershey kisses and tiny Reese's cups, so being the anal child that he is, Jack was issuing single pieces of candy to each trick-or-treater. One at a time. I had to follow up with handfuls when he wasn't looking. Add to the mix the whippet with his head in everyone's bag and Dinah darting all over the place (kids make her nervous) it was almost complete chaos.

We got rave reviews of the black lights in our dining room, blinking scary eyes in the windows and seriously ghoulish witch on the front door--all designed by Jack. It was too cute---some of the kids didn't want to scare him with their costumes, so I had to assure them that Jack was unscare-able. The gorier and creepier the better. He LOVES to be scared...I always sneak up on him with the "BOO!" and he laughs and laughs. Dan, not so much, hehe.

Poopalooza

Day 4 of potty training...it's going well, with the usual blips. Of poop. On my carpet. The way I see it, I should give Jack all that is required of a new puppy: I should put down newspaper. Luckily, he is a pretty smart little bugger. He understands what he has to do, he just has to get in touch with his pea pod body. According to Jack's teacher, most of the girls in his class are already potty trained, and she said that that is usually the case--girls are just faster, no one knows why.

I wanted to tell her, "I know why!" From the beginning, girls are in touch with their bodies. It's a fact of nature. Our bodies actually DO things, as opposed to our hunky men with their muscles and armpit hair. Sure they can lift heavy things and scare away predators, but can they house life? Can they produce food for their family? Nope. We have got the game when it comes to life, and it's been a factor of survival and perpetuating the human race since the beginning of time. Females have to stay one step ahead in life in order to survive, and I guess that first step leads into the bathroom!!!

P is for Potty

Potty training has officially started. Over the past few months I have bought several varieties of teeny weeny undies, and I try to keep them out as objects of interest to catch Jack's eye. Until now he has given me the, "EH..." when it comes to undies, but finally today he asked to wear them. I practically swallowed my tongue in my excitement as I explained about not peeing or pooping in them. He nodded along, eager to get his bootie into some Megatron briefs. Two hours later and we're on the third pair, but with unflagging enthusiasm and 5 trips to the toilet. The kid drinks like a fish so he has an endless supply of urine.

Segue: In the bathtub, Jack has these colored foam letters that stick to the tile wall when wet. He loves to arrange them and throw them around. Today I was plucking them out of the water and trying to teach him what they each were. I found a "P" floating by and held it up for Jack and said, "'P' is for Pop-Pop!"

He looked at me and frowned and told me, "Noooo, pee is for the potty!"

Halloween

Jack is very excited for Halloween: he is going to be a robot. He picked out his costume on his own. (I wanted him to be a box of french fries, but that got veto-ed in favor of working electronics.) I am very excited for this year's Halloween because Jack loooooves chocolate, and actually understands what is happening---a huge milestone for any parent. When your child can actually participate in a holiday, as opposed to being cute accessories to dress up but that prevent you from doing any celebrating yourself, the world is just about perfect. We even decorated the house with various crafts and lights, although Dan balked at actually attaching lights TO the house; instead we wove them around the wrought-iron banisters of the front porch. And we have actual, bona fide spiderwebs on our front door, complete with tiny bug carcasses, yep. My laziness is paying off in a scary way!

My Life Goes On, In Endless Song...

Several people have inquired about the name of my blog, which is from an Eva Cassidy song. For those of you who don't know who Eva Cassidy is, I am truly, very sorry. She is the most amazing singer I have ever heard. That's an entirely different story. But back to the subject... (what was it again!?)

The song that I referenced is one of my very favorites, and it is especially poignant today. I thought that I would post the lyrics for you guys. Please don't imagine me singing it---download it for yourself, it's gorgeous.

My life goes on in endless song
above earth's lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear it's music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

While though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness 'round me close,
songs in the night it giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm,
while to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
how can I keep from singing?

When tyrants tremble sick with fear
and hear their death knell ringing,
when friends rejoice both far and near
how can I keep from singing?

No storm can shake my inmost calm,
while to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
how can I keep from singing?

My life goes on in endless song
above earth's lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
How can I keep from singing?

Astronaut Crap

Jack stayed home from school today because we both slept in. By the time we were up and dressed it was 10am and I figured that we were having such a nice morning, why not have a day off together? I had been working like crazy lately and had some comp-time to burn, and Jack, well, he is just rad to spend time with.

This morning Jack and I are watching tv and eating waffles. The program was about Apollo 11 and the first world-wide television broadcast--of the lunar landing--which was sent out with the world's largest radio telescope in Australia. (I know, we are nerds.) Jack loooooves anything to do with rockets, spaceships, etc., so he was just as enthralled as I was. As they showed the launch, the pieces that kind of fall off as it leaves the atmosphere completely fascinated Jack. "What happens? Where do they go?" he asked. "Uh...they fall into the water," I told him, lamely.

Fast-forward 2 hours and we are in Target, walking around and looking at the "scary" Halloween stuff. Jack loves the skulls and witches, so we hung out in that department for a good 20 minutes. Meanwhile, he kept talking about the astronauts we had seen that morning, and their "spaceshit." He is unfortunately in a super-loud phase and asks a million questions a minute, so we're walking through the store and he's demanding: "Mommy! Where are the pieces? The spaceshit? The pieces of spaceshit fell down! Where did they go?" He was getting progressively louder as my (apparently insufficient) answers did not satisfy him. I finally got him off of the subject by racing to the outdoor section so he could peruse the "bikecicles." But definitely not before MANY people (I would estimate in the 100s) heard all about Jack's spaceshit.

Toddler Etiquette

Jack has been getting the hiccups a lot lately, which he (and I) find to be utterly hilarious. But we all know that hiccups are usually accompanied by burps, especially when you're laughing a lot. So Jack was hiccuping and then burping, and since we've been trying to use really good manners, I asked him, after a particularly large belch, "What do we say after we burp?" He replied, "PLEASE! I burped!" So I laughed and said, "No, not 'please'. What do we say after we burp?" and he yelled, "THANK YOU! I burped!"

The Tortoise and the Whippet

Today I let the dogs frolic out in the back yard for a good hour--the weather is amazing and they can always use a good romp. It is very fun to watch especially as Stanley has begun his own campaign of terror---a far cry from the past where he would resolutely stand on the deck despite all of Dinah's egging and urging to play. I guess he's gotten off his high horse (finally), and now he loves to chase her around the yard in big circles until he manages to tackle her.

Well, after I got out of the shower, I could hear Dinah outside, barking like an idiot. The noise continued throughout my getting dressed, so I finally shouted out the window at her to cut it out. She did...for about 5 seconds. So out I went to investigate.

I walked across the yard to find Dinah in her butt-up-in-the-air play stance, barking and barking, and doing little dances. Finally I got down to the woods only to see that the subject of her attention was a medium-sized turtle. I actually identified it as a male Terrapene Carolina (Carolina Box Turtle) only because we had encountered some this weekend at BugFest. Well, this turtle was resolutely ignoring Dinah and trying in his best turtle-y way to tiptoe the heck out of there. There was a smorgasbord of mushrooms that he had been feasting on and I guess Dinah had ruined his lunch and was apparently trying to bark him to death.

I finally shooed her away and let him get on with his business of ridding my yard of mushrooms (sweet!) and went back inside. Later I was out there again and looked around for him, but there was no sign other than partially nibbled mushrooms everywhere. The cool thing is that he is trapped in our yard--there aren't any gaps under the fence, and it made me wonder how long he's been living in here? It's obviously like white-collar-prison between the woods and the compost heap that I augment daily with Jack's unwanted veggies. A little piece of turtle heaven I think!

Things Get Hairy...ish.

Even though he is from pasty, Scottish-Irish-English stock, Jack is very...fuzzy. OK, he is alarmingly fuzzy. Now if we were Italian or Persian, it wouldn't be such a shock. But the kid is HAIRY! Even his shoulders! I am already (self?) pitying the woman who has to look at that pale, hairy back in bed each night...but I'm 25 years ahead of myself.

Anyway, his head-hair grows super-fast. And I love it, it's gorgeous, but he could (conservatively) get his hair cut every 4 weeks. Needless to say, with all that's been going on, we haven't been to the barber's since July and his hair is really shaggy. Sooo I decided to just give him a little trim b/c the shaggy look is quite cute on him (unlike Dan). Armed with the kitchen scissors, I snipped some sideburnage and mullet off and things looked much better. But, as you know, it is hard to STOP once you've started cutting someone's hair. It's a bit like just having a "taste" of cake frosting.

I managed to contain myself, but did give one questionable shear in the back that looks a little wonky. So I told Jack, "Don't ever let me do this to you again." He looked at me with somber eyes and nodded (his new thing).

Well, this morning I noticed that I had missed about 9 hairs over his left ear and they looked ridiculous. I got out the scissors and approached him..."MOMMY NOOoooo!!!" he screamed with glee, so eager to chastise me with my own permission!! I literally dropped the scissors. I didn't think that he'd remember--I had forgotten! This was alternately great and horrible news...I was in awe: he'd followed instructions in the future. I guess I have to stop muttering, "Kill me already," under my breath when I'm changing a doozie of a diaper. Maybe this is the long-awaited last mental step to potty training?!?!?

Holy Guacamole

This is mostly for the relatives who were requesting my recipe last week.

For two servings: Buy an avocado. (It should give a little at the pointy end near the stem when you press on it.) Take it home, let it sit overnight, unrefrigerated. Cut it in half and take out the stone (hack with a knife and twist--bang knife on trashcan to dislodge).

Use a spoon and remove avocado flesh in one piece. Put both pieces hole-side-up in a shallow dish. Into each hole pour lemon juice until the hole is full. Sprinkle a pinch of salt in each and then fill with finely chopped onion. Smash everything with fork. Sprinkle with pepper. Voila! If you want more color add chopped tomato or sour cream or red pepper. I like mine super-zesty (not like that DAD) so I always add extra lemon juice and salt. A lot of people use lime, but I think that lemon is better.

Enjoy!

Dairy Day

So one of Jack's very favorite foods is yogurt. Which he pronounces, "wer-git." It's really funny. He prefers it in the drinkable form, and I always keep a LOT of it in the fridge. (He's been known to plow through 3 bottles in a sitting, which might explain the juicy diapers...ew!) I can't help but acquiesce to his wergit requests, and I often (shamelessly) make him repeat himself just to hear him say it...it's so funny!

Usually he is very docile with the wergit-drinking. I give it to him, to shake up of course, and then I puncture the foil top with a straw and he goes and sits, quietly sipping away, on the couch. Well, today I administered the wergit and went about dumping (yes DUMPING) the dishwasher only to find, after a great deal of suspicious silence, that he had emptied his wergit into a box of tissues on the coffee table and then proceeded to pull out several and drape them over things...one of them being Dinah. (She was in ecstacy, she loves any form of dairy.) So I had to yell about the wergit (and it's very hard to remember to call it "yogurt" after all his wergit-ing) and wash two pillows and a blanket---and spot clean the couch and dog.

Needless to say I am at a loss---do I endlessly patrol his wergit-drinking or can I trust him again? Can you ever really trust a 2 1/2 year old? I suspect that the answer is "definitely NOT."

Reading Between the Lines

My apologies (to anyone who actually reads this) that I have been MIA this week. My Gran passed away on Friday and we have been inundated with MD relatives who were clamoring to get their last goodbyes in. Seeing as there are three of us installed down here now, we can literally house the entire family and only a few visiting friends had to stay in hotels (lucky them!). So now that they have left, leaving me amidst piles of dirty sheets and dishes, I am finding time to mourn my Gran the way that she would want...quietly, hehe. For a woman who had 7 children, she had a great appreciation for peace and tranquility, and I am sure that she is checking in on me from heaven in my solitary moment, telling me how very happy she is that she can silently observe the family without having to actually listen to them (for they are quite loud).


My Gran taught me many things, mostly by example, and had many qualities that I try to embody. She, in her calm and patient way, inobtrusively taught lessons that I will keep with me always. She had a true appreciation for nature, and it's inherent, vital significance to each of us. She tried to see the beauty in each day, and told me that she thought that the sunbeams that sometimes filter through the clouds in their yellow shafts must surely be a sign of God. She taught me to be quiet and listen, to stop moving and see; she gave me my first lessons on how to love animals, whether they be dog or snail. She taught me to press flowers and to love, love, love books. My house will forever be filled with plants and novels, and figurines and flowers, because of my beautiful Gran.

(At Jack's 2nd Birthday party, with daughters Susan and Claudia.)

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Everything remains as it was.
The old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no sorrow in your tone.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.
There is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again.

*** Text from a sermon written by Henry Scott Holland and delivered in St. Paul's (London) on 15 May 1910, at which time the body of King Edward VII was lying in state at Westminster.

Dental Dominance

When I went to pick Jack up from school today, I had to sign a small slip of paper that absolves the school from any lawsuits resulting from an injury. I was wondering how long it would take for this to actually occur: Jack had, not surprisingly, instigated a small scuffle in which he shoved someone and that someone bit him. (The school wisely does not disclose the child's name, but as soon as we got out to the car Jack spilled the beans and totally ratted out the Chomper.)

This particular classmate has an older brother, and knowing first hand that second siblings will often result to biting (Leslie), I felt that the Chomper was probably just reacting to being manhandled by Jack in a tried-and-true manner that gets the fastest results (smart kid).

Luckily Jack must not have tasted so great because the Chomper only got in one small nibble. There is a small bruise of little purple teeth marks on Jack's right bicep. Let it be his scarlet letter (the letter "C," haha) to remind him: Thou shalt not shove thy friends.

Silence of the Bamas

Today's story: Jack has just emerged from the bathtub. He came home from school sweaty, happy, and with goo lodged in his ear and hair. I don't know what the goo is...perhaps some colorless, homemade play dough? I try not to dwell on what exactly it is; for mental health (and digestive) reasons, it's better to ignore the surreptitious and unidentifiable (in origin and name) substances that stick to little boys.

After his bath I was helping him put lotion on. We keep his apres-bath stuff in a wicker basket downstairs where he usually gets pajama-ed. I was lingering over the lotioning-up bit of the post-bath ritual, because I really like the smell (it is such a marked improvement over the pre-bath Jack smell) and it reminds me of babies. Jack was growing very annoyed with how long I was taking to rub the lotion onto his little back and arms so he grabbed the bottle from me and announced that we were finished here and told me to "put the lotion in the basket!" Well, my hands were all slippery so I couldn't even get the bottle shut, AND it was so funny to hear this coming from his mouth that I just started laughing. He tried to stand up, still naked, and kept yelling. "Put the lotion in the basket! Mom-MY! Put the lotion in the basket!" Needless to say, once I've started to laugh that hard, there is no stopping me. Eventually he grew exasperated and just left me there, laying on the rug and gasping.

Le Bon Temps

So I know that I am a grown-up now because I like to watch the news in the morning. After I drop Jack off at school, I make coffee and breakfast and watch the local channel. Now, "news" in North Carolina consists mostly of weather, agriculture, weather, drought conditions (even if there is no drought) and weather. Occasionally there will be a car accident or grisly murder, but for the most part my fellow Carolinians apparently only care about the possibility of no more blue skies. So with Hurricane Hanna supposedly approaching, there is a LOT of news about all of this weather, despite the cloudless skies and 90 degree gorgeousness we are currently experiencing.

I have tried to figure out the obsession--I know that there is a greater amount of agriculture down here than there was in DC, and many more domestic and wild animals (who depend on the weather for grazing obviously--although they have no inhibitions about barging into my house), and lots and lots of lakes, but I do suspect that this obsession with the weather is really based on a pleasant lack of horror and politics (also unlike DC). So with this in mind I can patiently weather (ha ha) the long news reports on rain, lack of rain, sun, lack of sun, etc. Although I remain (for now!) ambivalent about the weather--after all, we don't even get snow-- I won't poo poo my State's fixation. It's better to have fake drama than real drama (Dan's mantra).

Well, the News is encouraging us to stock up on food and water (although this is something else I cannot noodle--water--since we'll be getting torrential rains...?) for the upcoming "storm event." I suppose that everyone just needs some drama in their lives. The Harris Teeter is 1.2 miles from our house. I think that we can swim there if necessary. Actually a disconnect from the local market will actually be good for us--it will force me to cook up some of the unidentifiable frozen lumps in my freezer. I've also been encouraged by this petite urgence to locate my umbrella and raincoat and Jack's, which he calls his "fireman coat" since it is yellow with reflective stripes and up until now has been primarily used as a costume for dress up play.

So I will sit and wait for the rain, which will undoubtedly make my grass grow 2 feet overnight, and pretend that I am in the Amazon (which won't be a stretch given the number of bizarre and rather obnoxiously friendly creatures we have living in our yard). Perhaps the frog who layed her eggs on my back door had a premontion...Hanna is coming!

Labor Day Weekend

The weekend was fabulous. After our house-guests left, we took Jack and the old folks (read Mom and Dad) to Pullen Park to ride the train and boats. It was a time.

So because my Mom's pool is closing for the summer, we decided to have a last-minute Labor Day dinner party--only 3 people showed up, and I bet you can guess who they were! We wanted to have supper under the beautiful NC setting sun, so I fried up bacon and took two big, fat tomatoes to have BLTs. (What I won't mention is that I forgot both lettuce and bread. But I did remember chips, pickles and utensils!)

It was a fabulous evening, and Jack swam (and dove willy-nilly, GOD how much he trusts that I will be there--it's terrifying) all over the pool, ordering everyone around, and then took a 10 minute outdoor shower. I think that the shower is his favorite part. He can stand under the warm water and survey his domain. He happily bathed while we all ate our dinner (Dan ran to the store to get lettuce and bread, and shockingly, beer).

We went back to my Mom's house, soggy and full, and Jack proceeded to play at my Mom's makeup table. I suppose it's called a "vanity" but we don't live in the 1920s and it's basically a desk with a mirror. He loves to play with the brushes and pencils and pots, pretending to organize and make himself beautiful. I am not alarmed by this--I used to pretend to shave my "beard" with my father. Plus I think that it's healthy for Jack to have an early notion of all of the crap that women do to look nice. If he starts shaving his legs, then I will worry.

The day was a success, even Dan was grinningly satisfied. No Labor was done, especially considering my disorganized picnic dinner, and we were all content to be outside, together and demonstrably not working.

Vacuum

So we have out-of-town friends coming to stay this weekend...we do it every Labor Day because my husband's alma mater plays UNC (I use "plays" loosely; more like "gets creamed by") and so a bunch of his college buddies get together and have a great time. Luckily we have cohorts in the area, so we don't have to host the parties, just the family with kids (there is only one besides us so far). I love this because seeing Jack playing with other children is very cute, usually hilarious, and in this case both of the children are younger than him. And after the Baby incident, I'm interested to see how he acts around a legitimate one (Isaac, who is 6-months old, above).

So in preperation for having a crawler around this weekend, I got out our vacuum. I have not had much luck with this particular type of appliance throughout my life. Computers, automobiles, washers and dryers, they all love me. My vacuum does not. I am starting to become convinced that it is a conspiracy...and it sucks. Ha ha.

So this model is a Bissell and it is only 2 years old. I treat it well. I empty it's dust bin, I store it in a nice, quiet, tidy closet. I provide the finest electricity, and I never tangle the cord--I always snake it around the proper nubs. But this thing hates my guts. When it comes across an object larger than a grain of sand, instead of slurping it up with the fuzzies and dust it actually does manage to pick up, it crunches the offending bit into a billion mili-specs and belches the pieces all over my rug. THEN, as if enraged by it's forced-labor, it proceeds to cough up even more detritus--old pieces of yarn, peanuts, unidentifiable clumps of lint, etc. that I know it did not pick up in my house. One time it fired a hard, tan piece of something at my ankles (it can aim quite well) and upon inspection I found it to be a piece of old Zwieback cookie. Jack is almost 3. We haven't bought Zwieback since approximately 2006 (when I owned a different house and vacuum).

I don't know why I bother with using the vacuum at all except that our rug does get desperately crunchy with my eat-in-front-of-the-TV son and husband, not to mention our dogs who, while adorable, are quite snobby about finishing off crumbs. I would be happy to find another method of de-crumbing the carpet, but regrettably I have not as of yet. So I've resorted to using the Dust-Buster on most of the house...it seems to like me. We have a shared emnity of loud, useless, over-sized suckers.

Day 1

Hello and welcome. I decided to start this blog to share with my friends and family (interchangeable) the hilarious and ridiculous daily story of life in the Tarkenhaus. And also because I usually have a lot to say and not a whole lot of audience, so I figured that I'd broaden my broadcasting power.

I actually have a cute story to start: Last night I was showing Jack how to swaddle his "Baby." "Baby" is a Cabbage Patch doll that my Nana gave to Jack when he was still (mercifully) in utero. Jack was holding the swaddled Baby and poked at his eyes, complaining, "His eyes are broken!" I explained that Baby was pretend--just a doll. Jack looked at me (scorn level 3) and gasped, "He is a BABY!" (He would have covered the doll's ears if he had more of Dan's dramatic flair, but luckily this gene was somewhat checked by my rational input.)

"His eyes are broken," Jack continued, "and I need a screwdriver." I went on to explain that we don't usually fix people with screwdrivers (although I can think of some that I'd like to attempt that method on). "He needs a doctor," Jack announced, and whisked the baby from my arms as if in contempt of my dubious parenting skills.