Merry Christmas!

I hope that this holiday finds everyone healthy and happy and with the ones that they love the most--their horrible families.  Just kidding, family is wonderful.  Especially family that has a great sense of humor and cooking skills, like mine.

Jack is celebrating his first cognitive Christmas this year--he has become well aware of the omniscient Santa Claus and even the religious significance of the holiday.  On the way home from school he wanted to discuss his limited knowledge: "Christmas is when God's baby was born.  What was that baby's name?"  So I had to draw on my years of Sunday school instruction to explain the miracle of Christmas, and how Jesus changed the world.  We aren't a particularly religious family, but I'd like to think that we are very spiritual, and I really wanted to impart the spirit of Christmas to this child, and explain to him that people are willing to make sacrifices to help others, and that we should feel blessed to have the opportunity to do that in our lives.  Especially with younger siblings.

End of the day

Dan:  It's time for bed.
Jack:  I need to stay up for a few huge minutes.
Dan:  Uh, no.
Jack:  BUT I'M TIRED!  I mean, I'M NOT TIRED!
Dan:  That right there is why you need to go to bed.
Jack, whining:  I need to write a book!
Dan, getting angry:  We can do that tomorrow.  Chapter 1:  My Dad was a huge dick.
Jack:  I don't want a huge dick!

Overheard (at 8am)

Dan:  Jack, tell your baby sister a story.
Jack:  ABCDeezEFGHRJKMNMOPQRessyTUVWXYandZ!
Dan:  She likes it.
Jack:  I know.  This is a crazy family.
Dan:  ...OK.
Jack:  Dad, I have to tell you sumpin.  I like apple pie, pumpkin pie, but NOT peach pie.  The baby doesn't like peach pie either.

Conversation

Sydney's...girth, for lack of a better word, is the #1 topic of conversation whenever we're out in public. North Carolina is famous for it's relentless friendliness, and add a baby to that mix and you have a recipe for hours of conversations with strangers about your enormous infant. I have had the following conversation approximately 500 times in the last 2 months...and today it got a little ugly.

Scene: At the pediatrician's office, in the waiting room, two cranky ladies sit waiting for over 40 minutes.

Sydney: Waaahhh! (loosely translated to "What the f*ck is taking so long!?!?")
Receptionist, who has watched us sitting here for 40 minutes: Wow, she is mad!
Me: Yep.
Receptionist: She sure is big!
Me: Mmmhmm.
Receptionist: How old is she?
Me: 10 weeks.
Receptionist: Holy cow! What do you feed her?
Me: Plutonium.
Receptionist: Oh.

They call me the YES man.

We're continually trying to instill some respect for elders into Jack (which is pretty laughable coming from me, but I do try). This includes using "Yes Sir" and "Yes Ma'am." Today after dinner he asked politely to be excused. As I was talking to Dan, I didn't answer him right away, so he continued, a little louder. "Wessman! Can I please get down now?" I replied in the affirmative, but I was a little puzzled over why he was calling me Wessman...do I have some Swedish heritage that I was unaware of?

I finally figured out that he hasn't been saying, "ma'am," but "man." So coupled with his trouble with Y sounds, he thinks he is supposed to call me "Wessman." How confusing (and stupid) life in this house must seem to a 4-year old.

The cries, THE CRIES

We have settled in to parenting another being quite well, despite my increasing gray hairs.  They are multiplying faster than Dan's video-game collection.  But I digress...

Sydney the Giant has developed a sophisticated system of conveying her feelings non-verbally.  She has three distinct cries.  Allow me to elaborate in the form of a list!

• Cry #1:  I'm very tired from not napping ALL DAY.  Please take pity on me and walk around carrying my huge body until I fall asleep.

• Cry #2: (the most frequently heard cry) I'm starving!  This is not melodrama!  I am clearly dying of hunger! I am about to expire!!!  Put something, anything, in my mouth, pronto!

• Cry #3: (mostly heard in the evening, and in the tone of Cruella DeVille) OK, I understand that you guys have forgotten EVERYTHING you know about being parents, but I clearly have an unidentified problem and you need to solve it...IMMEDIATELY!!!  YOU IDIOTS!!!!  YOU IMBECILES!!!  FIX ME!!!  I HATE YOU!!!
  

So This is Christmas

Tonight I asked an obedient Jack to let Dinah (the dog) outside.  As he watched her scamper across the yard, he noticed that the stars were out in the prematurely dark sky (don't get me started on Daylight Savings).

"Oooh, a star!  The only star in the sky!" he crooned.

"Make a wish!" I urged.

What followed can only be described as the most precious and simultaneously weird Christmas sentiment ever.

"Star, star, I wish on you ("woo")," he sang.  "Please give a Merry Christmas to me and my sister."

At this point my eyes were tearing up...mostly because of his innocent sweetness and partly because I was holding a hulking 20-lb. baby over my shoulder.

"...andalsopleaseasnowshovel."  He added under his breath.

I guess my Christmas wish should be for some snow for this child.  PLEASE LET IT SNOW.

Daily Drama

As Dan is on a business trip this week, I am... what can only be described as SADDLED, with two small bamas.  ("Small" only when compared to the size of the sun.)

So I have to hoist/cart/haul Sydney around in her carrier (don't get me started on how THAT word is all wrong for the torturous device that she rides in) when taking Jack to and from school.  Jack loves this because he can show off his sister to his friends, who are not allowed to touch the baby (his rule).  He preens over her like a proud parent in front of his friends, daring them with his baby-cheek pinches and prideful boasting to just try to touch her.  (Do not doubt that he will dole out smacks accordingly.)

This afternoon when I went to retrieve him, some of the children in his class were (smartly) still inside listening to stories told by Ms. Emily (quite possibly the cutest human being ever to live), so she told me, "Jack is playing outside, but you can leave the baby in here!"  Before she had a chance to reconsider that statement, I ran through the classroom to exit to the playground at the rear.  Quickly I plucked Jack from the screaming mass of 4-year olds playing "volcano" and we went to go back to the classroom.

But the door was locked.

And I could hear screaming.

So could Jack.

We watched through the window in the door, me with pity, Jack with debilitating consternation, as Ms. Emily was attempting to comfort the Nugget of Terror while 8 four-year-olds covered their ears.

I rapped on the window, but Sydney is just THAT deafening, and our attempts to get Ms. Emily's attention went unnoticed.

It starts to rain.

Jack throws himself against the door, screaming "MY BABY!!!"

I start to laugh.

He looks at me, prostrate with anxiety, and not a little hysterical, and screams, "OUR BABY IS IN THERE!"  (He will make an excellent mother.)

Finally Ms. Emily notices us at the door and runs over to let us in, and Jack immediately rushes to Sydney's side to inspect her.

"SHE'S OK!" he exclaims with evident relief.  (I wonder if he suspected that maybe someone took a bite out of her.  She is very fat and juicy.)

Crisis averted, we make a hasty exit, and of course Sydney is fine once I am lugging her down the long hall of the school;  this child's happiness is directly proportionate to my discomfort.

Conversations...

In a rare moment of grace and understanding, Dan took me to see the new Twilight: New Moon movie on a rainy afternoon a few weeks ago.  Now, Dan has seen bits and pieces of the first movie and they always make him laugh, so it was quite a feat for him to sit through this movie after promising not to make nasty comments or laugh inappropriately.  I'm sure the huge bag of popcorn helped, and the movie provided lots of new fodder for my derision.

Since we saw the movie, there has been a lot of conversation in our house about it.  Apparently some aspect of it sparked his curiosity, albeit he still does not miss a chance to make jokes, especially about the sparkles.

Dan:  Did something happen to you as a teenager to make you love all of this Twilight junk?
Me:  Yes.
Dan, after a long pause, and a little more seriously:  Did you have those dreams where you woke up screaming like Bella did?
Me:  Not until I got married.

Lingo

In the words of Jack...

• hush puppies = hubbies or hush chubbies
• granola bars = canola bars
• coins = circle money
• paper money = foldin' money
• Sydney Michelle = Cindyshell or CINDY A'SHELL
• potatoes = tatoes or matoes
• noodles = noodoos
• chocolate = chock-o-wit
  
• yeah = weah
• you = woo (as in, "Mommy, WOO do it!" and I'm all, "Who is Woo?!?!?!")
  

The spooky thing is that he can, with unerringly correct pronunciation and enunciation yell at 8pm, "MOM! NO, I AM NOT TIRED AND I DO NOT NEED TO GO TO BED--LET'S STAY UP AND WATCH SEVERAL MOVIES!"

It takes two...

Two hands.  To handle this enormous baby.  16lbs of enormous baby.  SIXTEEN POUNDS.  At the age of 2 months.  I am still reeling from our visit to the doctor, and judging from the nurse's comments, so is she.  There was a brief moment in there that I thought we were going to have to buy a scale.  It literally CREAKED when I laid her on it.  I have no idea what we're going to do when she's 4 months.

We have had/are having a super holiday season with a pretty steady trickle of awesome through this place since September 30.  I've had all sorts of amazing people visit and stay, and I really miss them all already.  I'm thinking turning the house into a very messy (and authentic!) bed and breakfast.  We have lots of beds and cereal.

Last night Jack and I wrote our letter to Santa, and I have to share a few quotes:

"Santa I am sooooo 3."
"This year I was bad.  And good!"
"For Christmas this year I would like a snow shovel."

I don't really know what he is going to do with the shovel, as we get snow maybe once/year here, and even then it's dubiously shovel-able.  Mostly we just wait for it to melt by noon.  But I was really impressed that he limited his Christmas requests to only three items, and bonus, they were all ones I could find for him.

Thank You

Thank you for checking in today!  On Thanksgiving I remind myself that I am so thankful for the many things that I take for granted 365 days of the year:  my safe home, my beautiful, healthy (and LOUD) family, the means to take care of them, and a wonderful job that I love (most of the time).  I'm thankful that I can do so much because of the opportunities that I have access to, which in most part are the benefits of a good education, good health and a wonderful upbringing.  I hope that I am able to give all of this to my kids, and help others in their endeavor to do the same.  (Oh, and I'm also especially thankful for beer, and the inventor of earplugs.)

Happy Thanksgiving everyone, and God bless you and your loved ones today, and every day! 

Family (a four person word)

Jack is in love with his sister.  I can remember feeling that exact sentiment...when they are little and can't talk, or steal (and ruin) your stuff, or rat you out to Mom and Dad.  When they let you hold them and smile at you as opposed to accusing you of hitting them when you're in the next room, or making you watch the My Little Pony movie 269 times, OR getting out of their bed in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve only to vomit the lovely combination of fudge and olives all over your bed (with you in it).  No, all of those things are in Jack's future!  For right now he is content to occasionally hold his sister, to talk to her constantly, and to squeeze her chubby cheeks.  Soon enough he will be complaining about her, and I will empathize, the way that my father did with me, about the pains of having a younger sibling, and attempt to comfort him with the same notion my dad tried: that imitation is the highest form of flattery.  And Jack will undoubtedly say to me what I said to my father, which is... "DON'T GIVE ME THAT BOLOGNA, and WHEN CAN WE GET RID OF HER?"

But when he gets older he will be so glad to have someone who understands exactly what it was like to have parents like us, good and bad.  Someone who he can commiserate with about how we tortured them, and who will agree that we no longer behave like "Mom and Dad" but like two batshit-crazy old people who dress ridiculously and like to embarrass them in front of people that they're trying to impress.  They will watch each other's kids, pay our nursing home bills, and have us over on the holidays to tell funny, exaggerated stories of how ridiculous it was to grow up together under this roof.  And we will yell, "WHAT?" and make them repeat themselves, give them unsolicited parenting advice, and refuse to take our Beano.  I can't wait.

These are all of the things that I think about when I am lying in bed listening to Dan snore, Jack snore, and Sydney do her semi-conscious mating-shed bit.  I remind myself that building a family is like building a house, brick by brick, day by day, into a place that you can live and feel loved forever.  And also have someone painstakingly record your childhood on the internet.  Forever.

Rhetoric

Me:  JACK.  Eat your food.
Jack:  How many bites?
Me:  All of them!
Jack:  So...about three?
Me:  Jack, it is the official policy of this household that we do not negotiate with terrorists.
Jack:  Four?
Me:  I'm leaving.
Jack:  No way.

Poopface

Preface:  Do you remember your parents lovingly telling you, "I can't wait for YOU to have kids, then you'll have to deal with this sh*t!" ??

When Stanley was a puppy, (and I was living my ignorantly blissful life in an apartment with NO BOYS), he pooped everywhere, as puppies do.  I remember telling him loudly, "I can't wait for YOU to have kids, then you'll have to deal with all of this doodie!"  (I'm almost positive that I used the word "doodie.") And then I realized, sadly, that that could never happen... 

Fast-forward 8 years and he finally receives his comeuppance, courtesy of Sydney.

He got too close to the business-end of a very powerfully built infant.  That is what you think it is on his nose, and I finally feel vindicated.  AREN'T WE ALL RELIEVED.  I realize the irony of feeling superior to the dog when I am the one who had to de-poop his nose...its like two degrees of fecal torture.  But as it wasn't MY face, I will laugh.

It is mystery!

Lately Jack has taken to exclaiming, after a huge belch, "'Scuse me!  I burped my cubes out!"  We have yet to determine the origin or meaning of this phrase.  I'm learning that, with boys, sometimes it's better to stay in the dark.

Southern Edification

Jack learns a lot at school, and it's getting hard for me to keep up with his growing knowledge of the world.  We try to talk everyday after school about what he has learned and usually it's pretty enlightening for me as well.  They just finished learning about the five senses.  According to Jack, they are:  "Touchin', Seein', Tastin', Smellin', and Hearin'."

He is also learning a lot about animals, and often reports on what he sees in the backyard.  He came running to me the other day to excitedly explain that he saw a woodpecker in the trees.  "Mama, I saw a woodpecker!  And he had a looooooooong pecker!"

Numerology

Today my life can be summed up by a number: 0. ZERO.
Details, for your reading pleasure, in the form of a list!

• Number of naps this baby has taken !
• Number of thoughts that I have had that do not involve either coffee, chocolate or suicide!
• Number of husbands/fathers in this house this week!
• Number of words that I have been able to spell correctly, even after serious thought.
• Number of molecules in my body that aren't screaming with fatigue.
• Number of times I have reconsidered my crush on Bear Grylls.
• Number of times I could accurately recall the date (and/or day of the week).
  

A Day in the Life...

It is 10:20am on a Saturday. So far today we have had a breakfast of Pillsbury Orange Rolls (Jack ate two!), coffee, and milk; watched two horrible children's shows on PBS Kids; and made paper airplanes. After the careful construction of the paper airplanes, we had a naming ceremony where each plane was inscribed with it's fitting moniker. We each got to choose one and they ended up as: "The Hulk," "The Corn Dawg," and "Star Wars."

Now for some reason Jack has a little trouble with the 'w' in Star Wars, and ends up pronouncing it as 'star whores.' This is fine because usually it remains a topic only discussed in front of the television--AT HOME. We did run into a glitch this year at Jack's Halloween parade at school; his friend Aiden dressed up like a Storm Trooper. When Grandpa (who was visiting for Halloween, and a guest at the parade) asked Jack who Aiden was dressed as, Jack simply replied "Star Whores." Although no one else overheard, Grandpa didn't miss a beat and responded with "I'd like to see that movie!!"

Minor Threat

Dan has been talking about starting his "own blog" lately, to write about our family (wherein he will undoubtedly deny most of the things that I write about him here--THEY ARE ALL TRUE). He has declared that he will call it, "How Can I Keep From Killing Someone?"

Three Little Words...

WARNING: This post is not going to go how you expect it.

Jack hates dinner. We don't know why. He hates not getting to choose his food, and usually puts up quite the drawn-out drama when confronted with a plate full of SOMEONE ELSE'S CHOICES. Last night he excused himself to go to the bathroom (which usually happens mid-meal) and was gone for quite awhile. I didn't notice how long he'd been gone because I was busy gobbling down my food before "that baby" could wake up and ruin my meal. Dan frowningly marched into the bathroom (amazingly, the door wasn't locked--sometimes that happens, to my amusement and Dan's fury) and I heard the three little words that no one wants to hear uttered in the bathroom...

"WHAT HAPPENED HERE?!?!?" Dan asked loudly. Then, silence. I cringed, waiting for the inevitably gory details.

Apparently he had walked in on a semi-nude Jack, on his hands and knees, cleaning the toilet bowl with one of the hand towels. We still don't know what events led to this situation, but eventually everyone made it back to the table, and dinners were finally consumed. Some under duress.

Like mother...

Last night at dinner, while Dan walked around with Porky-Pants, Jack and I ate tacos. He paused mid-bite to ask me, "Hey Mom? Can you give me a favor?"

Immediately curious, and amused by his grown-up parlance, I agreed instantly.

"Could you please shut that cabinet?" he asked, gesturing to the partially open kitchen cabinet that houses our dishes. I shut the cabinet for him, wondering if he was worried (like I was) that Dan would not see it and whack his head on it, or if he is just super-anal and it bothered him that everything wasn't JUST SO. It occurred to me that when everything is JUST SO, there are a lot fewer injuries in our house--a good excuse to give Dan when he groans about cleaning up the house. Thank you Jack, you little Type A.

How Can I Keep From Working?

The date is looming...the go-back-to-work-date. The re-engage-your-brain-date. Ugh. x500. It's not that I don't like my job, I really do love it, but when you have a tiny young infant, you feel like keeping that needy being alive is your job. Mostly because it consumes 140% of your waking (and sleeping) life. So the thought of trying to cram anything else into my constant vigil against this child being hungry/wet/poopy-loop, just seems impossible. And exhausting.

Meanwhile my success story (Jack) actually asked me if he could do chores last night. It's that time of the year again--when his school collects cans of food to donate to the local food bank. His class this year devised various ways that the kids can help out in order to earn money or the rejects from your cupboard. We try to do a little of each: de-canning (sorry chick peas!) and shopping (hello chili!). In order to help out last night Jack fed the dogs. It's his favorite chore (probably because it's the only one that gives him an audience). Now this sounds very simple, but he has managed to turn it into a multi-step process that includes him conveying the kibble into the two dishes in a rather convoluted manner and usually picking up a great deal of dropped kibble and plunking that, piece by piece, into the respective dishes. Luckily the dogs are not impressed with MERE DRY FOOD so they just watch this process instead of knocking him down and eating their dinner like most other dogs in the Universe would. (Silver lining people, silver lining.)

StarDate: Sometime in late 2009

OK so I am slow with the updates. Mostly because the time that my butt has been allowed to touch any sit-able surface these days is pretty much down to less than an hour per day. I knew that prematurely hopeful post a few weeks ago would karmic-ally ruin any possibility that this child, PLEASE LORD THIS ONE, would be nice! Yeah, that all went straight down the pooper. She has her evening fussies, just like Jack, from about 8pm to midnight. This girl likes to party.

On the bright side, Life (yes, capital "L") is starting to resemble some sort of pattern, which always makes you feel better when things are super-chaotic. That is the worst part about infants...you can't rely on them to do anything but poop and eat and cry. None of those things are useful. Unless you're in a big fight with a neighbor. Then you can spray-paint their house yellow.

Sydney is growing increasingly heavy and hungry...girlfriend can eat! During the day she eats every 1-2 hours and can go up to 3 hours at night. She is finally settling herself to sleep (ish) in her co-sleeper which means that Dan and I are sleeping somewhat better. The problem is that this child makes the most ridiculous noises when she sleeps and dreams. It is like listening to a goat have sex with a pig. I don't know if you've ever attempted to sleep in a cross-species-breeding shed, but I can imagine how it would sound. Plus trying to relax and fall asleep during goat-pig relations is really hard. It is LOUD, and it makes you feel kind of dirty. Oink-naaay.

Jack is still hilarious as ever (thank God). He told me that if I kept making him eat all of his dinner that he would grow so big that he wouldn't fit through the door. I told him, no worries, we'll just move your bed into the garage. That shut him right up.

OVERHEARD

Jack, leaning in to smooch his sister, gets a baby-fist to the ear. "OW!" he shouts. "She just honked my horn!!!" (Pronounced "Hor-in" because extra syllables are fun.)

*******

Dan and Jack are showering together: a time for men.

Dan: Now which bottle do we use to wash our hair?
Jack (triumphantly): This one!
Dan: And which one do we use on our bodies?
Jack: I use this one. But you use that one (gesturing to shampoo). You're hairy.

Allow me to introduce myself...

Dan and I struggled with the name of our daughter. There were many names that we liked, but none that we loved; none that seemed worthy of the kind of person that this child was going to have to be to survive in this nuthouse. So as I lay in the delivery room, slowly feeling the effects of the most valuable potion in the world seep into my spine to relieve the pain of my contractions, I thought of Sydney. It seemed like a strong name, but still pretty; a name that would sound good on the cover of a book, on the badge of a journalist, on the door of a district attorney's office. It was just ambiguous enough to let her give unmet people no impression of gender, but rather a blank slate to unexpectedly fill with all of the charm and intelligence that she is sure to have as this child HAS ALREADY ROLLED OVER. I realize that every mother brims with pride over her children and their wonderful abilities, but this "baby" is insanely strong.

So now that she has been introduced, let me share some of her budding personality with you in the form of a list!

THINGS I LIKE:

• EATING!
• Making goat noises
• PUNCHING!
• KICKING!
• Ceiling fans
  
• EATING!

Things that I do NOT like:

• baths
• having my clothes changed
• baths
• waiting to eat
• being hungry
• not eating
  

There are no words.

Finally. There is a word...a word that definitely has new meaning in my life. I have so much to say about my new daughter that I can barely settle on any one thread to explain myself adequately, much less as extensively as I want.

So I will start with this: Sydney Michelle Tarkenton burst into this world at 6:52am on September 30th. She made a swift grand entrance (thankfully!) and it was as easy as I could have hoped for, especially given her stats: 9 lb, 1 oz, 22". I was only in labor for 5 hours and change, and only pushed for 10 minutes! God, you have my sincerest thanks.

She is thus far a magnificent creature who rarely cries, and when she does it is so sheep-like and sweet that it doesn't send me cringing to a heap on the floor like baby Jack's cries did. Instead I can smile and reassure her and she JUST STOPS. I didn't know that they made babies like this. During my entire pregnancy I fervently prayed and hoped that I would be blessed to have a non-colicky child this time; to have a baby that I could coo over and enjoy as opposed to someone who made me flinch and cower with his loud and angry tirades that often lasted over three hours at a time.

Although baby Jack is often maligned in this family, CHILD Jack is so amazing and smart and funny and heartbreakingly cute that he has more than atoned for the mental and emotional reign of terror that he mounted for the first 6 months of his life. He deserves a break after the way that he came into the world--5 days in the NICU, reflux disease, medication, eye-problems, and two new idiot parents. He has earned his stripes.

But this new one...this little, tiny woman-child who grunts like a pig to be fed and sweetly sighs in her sleep as if she's singing her own ongoing lullabye; this tiny bundle of the sweetest smelling fuzz and tender skin who SLEEPS for HOURS at a time; this little extraordinary being is improving my life with her every breath and noise. Her sweet, sweet presence is like a healing balm that rapidly oozes into every crack and fissure that has ever threatened to break my heart. I wonder if there are enough cheesy and sentimental words to explain how I feel about her, how serene and amazing and PLEASANT she is. I feel more than blessed. There are no words.

(PS. I will be sure to come back and read this when she is 13 and surly.)

Mystery Solved!

So this morning Dan noticed, while Jack was watching his usual morning cartoon, Special Agent Oso, that the characters were playing hopscotch. But it was legitimate hopscotch, so we at least know now where Jack learned the word.

On another note I am preparing for my last day with only one child tomorrow. I don't feel particularly sad that Jack will no longer be the only kid, but I do feel sad for everyone who will have to deal with me on limited sleep. I know that EVERYONE is affected when they have a severe lack of sleep, but by far out of all of the things that could possibly affect someone's attitude, sleep is the predominant factor for me. I can put up with LOTS, but only if I get rest in-between.

That being said, there are lots of things that I will not miss about being pregnant! So many people have said, "rest before the baby comes!" and that is so ironic b/c I have had SO much trouble with sleeping this pregnancy. I will not miss being pummeled from the inside, peeing 800 times a day, being constantly hungry while at the same time impossibly nauseated, or the constant sweating, burping and pain. I will not miss throwing up in public like a drunk hobo or the constipation and headaches. I will not miss the crying jags or feeling helpless and incapacitated.

That's not to say that there weren't ANY good things. I will always love how silky and thick my hair became, how my skin never broke out and that all of the pants that I could wear had stretchy waists. I love how pregnancy makes you an amazing floater in the pool/ocean. I'm really lucky that I never swelled or had health issues...in fact I was disgustingly healthy despite all of my discomfort (and eating whatever I wanted). I even like seeing the doctor frequently and feeling like a science project--it is amazing to see yourself grow something and change each day with life. I was blessed to carry everything out front and not look like a huge lard ass, but just a regular pregnant lady. I also kind of like that pregnancy (for some reason) makes me feel like I can blurt out exactly what I think as opposed to my usual more thoughtful self. It's all a trade-off, and I realize that through all of my bitching, 10 months of complaints is a small price to pay for something so amazing and fulfilling and totally worthwhile.

I just wanted to get all of this on the record in case I ever have the urge to have a third child--I can come back and read this and get the HUGE REALITY CHECK that is my body with child. Oh, and don't forget that you had contractions for ONE MONTH STRAIGHT.

We need a new dictionary

Jack's latest craze is a game he calls "hopscotch" but involves batting a balloon around the family room. I think that he just likes the sound of the word "hopscotch," and we're not quite sure where he picked up that term because I certainly have not been playing it, and they don't have any hard, chalk-able surfaces on his school playground...presumably to save face.

Hopscotch can be played with two people, but usually all three of us participate, and it's imperative to squeal and giggle a lot while you try to keep the balloon in the air. ONLY Jack is allowed to catch the balloon (everyone else must only bat it), and if you allow it to touch the ground, Jack wins. Unless he lets it touch the ground, in which case, Jack also wins.

OVERHEARD

Jack: (Flailing around in a small foam chair in the middle of the family room) Somebody help me! I can't get up! Aiyeee!

Dan: Jack, enough with the DRAMA!

Jack: I can't help myself!!!

"Emergency"

I know that pregnancy has side-tracked my life lately (and brain, and stomach, and wardrobe--I'm down to THREE outfits that fit), but there is a lot going on in our house. Mostly EMERGENCIES. In Jack's world, everything is an emergency. He has emergency toys, emergency clothes, emergency cups, an emergency backpack...you name it. He doesn't seem to understand the concept of emergencies, only that to label something as such makes it much more exciting and therefor way better.

All of this emergency-ing doesn't really bother me. You have to remember who I grew up with: someone who watched certain BETAMAX movies 500 times in a row (like My Little Pony: The Movie). Someone who watched these moves SO MANY TIMES that they ceased to have a grip on reality and started to believe that her family members were actually characters from this movie, and, on more than one occasion, called her mother "Scorpan" in public.

But I digress. This drama doesn't bother me, but it does bother Dan (much to my delight). Dan is not a daydreamer, so he cannot yet appreciate Jack's ventures into his imaginary emergency world. Dan is learning to tolerate the constant chatter and inane ramblings of his almost-four-year-old progeny. I, fortunately, am a pro as I already have had lots of practice from the first 7 years of my pre-parenthood relationship with Dan. Ahem.

The fetus who cried wolf...

Sooooo I've started to go into labor three times now. The first time was exciting, and then it stopped after a few hours. It prompted me to pack a bag for the hospital and shave my legs. The second time, a week later, it felt more real, and I actually started telling my "emergency people" to be on red alert. Then....nothing. This last time it felt ALARMINGLY REAL and I actually sent Jack to my Mom's in anticipation of checking into the hospital in the middle of the night. But no dice. It's like my uterus is an old engine that just won't turn over. Or else my daughter is in there going, "SIKE!" like some obnoxious neon-clad 80's version of myself.

I've tried painting my toes different colors thinking that maybe my daughter is holding out for a cuter mom. I've tried lunges, spicy food, you name it. My issue now is that when I actually do go into REAL labor I am not even going to know because I am so used to having contractions that I will be that woman who has her baby in the bathtub. I guess I had better buy some Scrubbing Bubbles.

The Fourth Trimester

So I've decided that my daughter is going to be one of those kids that takes an extra year to finish college. Hopefully because she is double-majoring, and not because she drank a fifth of bourbon every day of her senior year.

The doctor called this morning to schedule my "induction" for October 1st. Now, for you not familiar with the joys of obstetrics, induction does not indicate the day that I will be welcomed into the Guinness Book of World Records for being the pregnant-iest woman in the world. It is the day that they will pump me full of synthetic hormones in an effort to trick my uterus into expelling my child into the world. Actually with Jack they "augmented" my labor (which means that they give you the juice to speed things along) and that worked pretty well, so hopefully this will too. The only foreseeable problem is that October 1st is A WEEK AWAY.

I don't know if you've ever been really uncomfortable, but when you are REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE every other thing that might normally just roll off of your back just doesn't. It becomes ONE MORE ANNOYANCE to your already INCREDIBLY ANNOYING life. Now, I can safely say (as a normally quite cheerful person) that most people should not be allowed to talk to pregnant ladies. Especially pregnant ladies in their 4th trimester. It's right up there with super-fat people wearing too-small jean shorts and really old people still driving (horribly).

Let me just tell you how often I get asked (IN PERSON); "Are you STILL pregnant?" What I can't surmise is exactly what response these idiots are expecting. I'm clearly not carrying an infant, and I am (fortunately) one of those ladies that just looks very pregnant and not supremely fat (at least when I'm not eating). This, for me, is the all-time WTF moment. Along with this particular comment are these: "Haven't you had that baby yet?" and "When are you going to have that baby already?" I personally feel that all three of these questions deserve a punch in the lips. Thus I suggest that all stupid people give me a berth of at least 5 feet at all times. I'm a lunger.

Another really annoying topic of conversation is this baby's name. Now, we've been referring to her as "Cheeto" forever b/c a) my son is a Frito-Lay lover and b) we have NO IDEA what to name her. But trust me, if we did, we would not tell because guess what? People love to dump all over your name of choice. Or suggest an alternative. Like "Peggy." Or they tell you that the name that you've chosen sounds like a stripper name. Lovely! Most of the reason that we have not settled on a name is because I want the option to change my mind at the last minute. I don't know WHO this person is that is squatting illegally in my uterus, so when I finally meet her, in 2010, I would like to reserve the right to spontaneously choose an appropriate name at that very moment...like "Bertha."

And one final issue (understatement of the year). Pregnant ladies do not like to be prodded and touched and especially do not like you to scream into their bellies as if their belly-button is a direct line to the fetus. Guess what, the fetus can already hear you and probably is even more reluctant to come out because there is some nut shouting too loudly. And attempting to jiggle my protruding belly is CERTAINLY not going to dislodge anything except some teeth from your mouth.

Home is where the...heart is.

So Dan has migrated home to help build the nest and stay to raise his second child. No more travelling to VA on a weekly basis for work. Needless to say, we're all extremely happy about this (in theory). I'm sure that once he's been home for weeks on end things will "come up," but for now we are all very excited to be together for good.

One big adjustment will be for Jack to learn how to manipulate another parent. When Dan was only home for the weekends, we all basked in the glow of finally being together again and got along great. But now that Daddy is here to stay, Jack is going to find that the stuff he uses to charm me is not going to work so well on his father. Namely, his smart-assed comments.

Jack was using the bathroom (a common theme?) in my bedroom as I supervised from my bed (another theme?). I called in to him to stop turning the fan on and off, and his response was: "You zip it up Mommy!" Well, Dan was walking into the room at that moment and heard, and quickly assured Jack, "You keep talking to your mother like that and you'll be in big trouble!" to which Jack replied, without missing a beat, "You zip it up too!"

I laughed.

Dan did not.

I foresee a lot of neck-squeezing in Jack's future.

We Are Family

I constantly find myself saying, "he gets that from me," in a proud manner, or, on the other hand, "ARRRGH! YOU'RE JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!" As much as Jack has inherited his parents' combined ridiculousness, he does manage to come up with a lot of weird crap on his own.

We were at my Mom's house last week and apparently Jack needed to use the bathroom while playing upstairs with my Mom. Well, that toilet had been recently plunged (and not because of ME) so there were still some floaty bits of toilet paper swirling around, obfuscating the water in the bowl. Jack was immediately offended and refused to pee in it. So I watched incredulously as the two of them marched passed me (I was in the recliner downstairs, where a pregnant woman should be) with the bucket of toilet cleaning supplies.

"What are you DOING?" I asked them.
"We're cleaning - the toilet!" sung Jack. My Mom just smiled.

So upstairs they went where Jack industriously scrubbed the bowl with the toilet wand and flushed away the offensive debris and (finally) peed happily in his pristine john.

WHO WANTS TO MARRY THIS MAN? I'm taking names.

Anatomy of a Mommy

Usually on school days I get Jack up and bring him into my room to get dressed. We laze around in my bed watching the news for a few minutes before he is motivated to get ready for school. This morning I got him dressed first, and as I was dressing myself I caught him looking at me skeptically.

"You don't have a penis." He remarked with disdain.
"Nope," I said. "I don't need one."
"Ha!" he snorted. "That's funny Mommy."

Loud Daddy

Dan was excitedly explaining to me how a video game was progressing last night, standing in the middle of our room. Now, anyone who knows Dan knows that his exuberance is directly proportional to his volume (by a factor of 19). Since our bedroom door was open, and Jack's room is right next door, I kept trying to gently urge Dan to quiet down.

Finally, as he neared the end of his story, we heard a small, nasal voice grumpily shouting...

"STOP TAAAALKING!!"

Dan peeked into Jack's room but Jack would not turn over in bed or respond to Dan's questions. I guess he was really trying to sleep. As his mother I would advise him to talk to his landlord about those loud neighbors. Hopefully the woman moving in next door on the other side won't keep him up at night. HA.

Oblivious

This morning a very nice, Bruce Willis-looking man held the door to Jack's school open for us. I opened my mouth to say, "Thank you!" and Jack beat me to it. "HEY! THAT GUY HAS NO HAIR!!" he screamed.

Luckily the man, and the surrounding crowd, laughed. As I checked Jack in at the front desk, I leaned down and whispered to him, "You have no inner monologue, do you?"

He replied, loudly in a sing-song voice, "NOOOoooo. I don't have one of those!!!!"

LA Today

Jack just asked me, "How do I get on TV?"

I told him, after thinking about it, that his best bet will be America's Funniest Home Videos. And that he had better save up to pay a camera-man around the clock. And that I get 10% of any winnings.

Inspired

I am 33-weeks pregnant now. NOW. That means 7 more weeks to go. SEVEN MORE. The reason for my conspicuously obvious math is that I am sooooo tired of being pregnant. I have a short torso, so the only place for this baby to go, literally, is out. And apparently in order to balance my hugely protruding belly, my rear has swollen to maintain some sort of equilibrium. Neither of these annexes leaves me feeling anything but bulbous and sore. Rolling over in bed is a hilarious feat not only because of my bizarre shape, that, DESPITE ITS ROTUNDITY, does not roll. I have to oomph over to my side, and hurmph onto my hands and knees and flop down on my other side. Needless to say that this hourly activity all night long does not give me lots of time to rest comfortably, and apparently is starting to affect Dan's sleeping as well. I sincerely do not feel the teensiest bit of guilt over this, because Dan has been snoring FOR YEARS. Face rattling, wake-yourself-up-from-REM-sleep snores that are bewilderingly issued out of his tiny nose.

But...I digress ("MOM! We don't say "butt!"). I saw and read some things today that made me reconsider my whining and remember that I am very thankful to have a pregnancy that has come this far, and been this healthy. I hope that my baby girl continues to grow and eventually make a perfectly-timed, yet hasty exit from my uterus. WITH MINIMAL DAMAGE. I will throw you a sweet-sixteen party for the love of God just don't break anything on your way out. Then we can always compare sweet little you to your bull-in-a-china-shop brother who ruined things for QUITE A WHILE.

An Immovable Object

Jack wanted to sit next to me on the couch. I scooted over a little bit (AS MUCH AS IS PREGNANTLY POSSIBLE) and he informed me, "Mommy, you are too fat." I heard Dan gasp. I looked my beautiful child in the eyes and said, "I hope you get a mean wife."

This Old Child

Jack has reached some major milestones with his style of play. He now makes appropriate sound-effects for all of his toys, and will sit, engrossed in some state of dramatic make-believe, and play for 30-minutes at a time. THIRTY MINUTES. He is also very bossy about the imaginary situations he develops and will explain, to great length, why things are happening, and why you are doing it completely wrong.

He has also developed quite a capacity for bargaining, bartering and charming his way into and out of many situations. I try to see this as evidence of how smart he is, and how quickly he is becoming life-savvy.

He charmed us into taking him to McDonalds this weekend, and after eating, quickly ran to the play area. Unfortunately that day the play area was overrun with kids who were probably way too old and large to be playing there, and they wouldn't let Jack up to the upper-level of the hamster-maze tube farm. He was understandably upset, and we left quickly, explaining to him that some kids are just NOT nice. It was so sad to see his reaction--he could not fathom why someone would be mean to a stranger. He explained to us, through his tears, that when he meets a stranger he says, "hi!" and tries to play with them. "Why those kids not say 'hi!' to me? Why those kids not let me play?" I had no answer for him (at least not one that he would understand, or that didn't contain some choice words about those childrens' parents). I know that these are situations that are a part of growing up, a part of learning from the actions of others about what kind of person you don't want to be, but it was very bittersweet to see him losing a piece of his innocence. I am glad that I was there to provide support and guidance, and to wipe away his tears, but it saddened me nonetheless. C'est la vie: jerks included.

What goes around...

The back story:

I am 3 and sitting at the breakfast table while my pregnant mother hustles around getting ready to get me to the sitter's. She asks, standing at the fridge, if I would like juice or milk with my cereal.

"Um, juice!" I exclaim.

She brings the juice over to the table only to be told (by me) that I changed me mind. "Milk please!"

She goes back and gets the milk, brings it to the table, and I again pipe up, "No, juice!"

So my poor aggravated mother squats down to look me in the eye. "Lauren," she says, struggling to remain calm (and probably also struggling not to choke me), "this is your last chance...do you want juice or milk?"

I look at her, smile and say, "I'll give you a clue..."

-----------

Well, fast forward 27 years and I am standing in the kitchen, trying to get Jack to commit to a drink choice for dinner.

"Jack, do you want juice or milk?" He ignores me.

"JACK!" I yell, "Do you want JUICE or MILK or WHAT!?" (I hate it when he ignores me.)

He finally acknowledges my question and shrugs and says, "OR WHAT!"

Slacker

Me, to Jack, who is army-crawling up the stairs: Can you get up and walk please? This is taking forever.

Jack: My legs are a little bit rusty. I have to go this way.

Happy American Birthday!

Jack had a great time over the 4th of July weekend. We spent a lot of time at the pool where he repeatedly attempted to drown. He will launch himself into the water with no warning, with no fear. It is as if he believes, deep down inside, that his huge bulbous head is a built in flotation device. Needless to say after Dan's hair started visibly falling out I suggested that he let Jack actually go under one time and that might cure him of his dare-devil ways. After plunging in and spluttering to the surface Jack coughed water all over Dan and then said, "I wanna do that again!" Can you say backfire? So this week we purchased a straight-jacket-flotation device which should help Jack learn to swim and keep him above the surface of the water. I can't guarantee he won't still be swallowing half of the pool each visit because the child will NOT keep his mouth shut in the water. He screams, squeals, yells, shouts, talks loudly and laughs the ENTIRE time. He is easily the loudest person at the pool--louder than the lifeguard's whistle, louder than the gang of teenagers trying to to out-bellyflop each other, louder than the group of 11-year old girls playing marco polo. He is still the loudest person in the place EVEN FROM THE BATHROOM where his little voice echos out and floats over the surface of the water: "Look at my poops Daddy!"

Lingo

While watching television this weekend, Jack saw a new cartoon that he really liked and proclaimed, "That is so Bad Ask!" I had to shake my head. I blame Dan.

Jack is learning the basics of cause and effect. For example, how much trouble can he cause before I effectively lose my temper. My parents have drawn a funny parallel to my child-rearing technique: I parent like my father (who, ironically, I can remember intentionally pushing to his limits on a weekly basis) and Dan parents like my Mom (absolutely no B.S.). I feel OK with this because one) no one takes me seriously anyway; two) I learned a lot from both of them; and tres) that's Spanish for "three." I do, however, wonder how much this situation will change when a little girl comes into the picture?

Big Boy

I know that Jack is officially a small man now because of several weird things:

1. He can get a drink from a water fountain all by himself. (It also helps that he is 4' tall at age 3.)
2. If I ask him to remind me of something, he does it. (This might make him smarter than me.)
3. When I give him an ultimatum, he tries to negotiate.
4. He does the fake, I'm-so-cute smile when he wants something.
5. He cries at the sad parts of movies. (F-you Disney.)

It is nice to know that I will soon have a screaming chub-ball to ease me through this transition. I still find it hard to believe that I live with a person as endearing and terrifying as Jack, and that he is about to be TOTALLY ECLIPSED. And who better to do it than a woman!

You know...

Me (screaming): Jack, I'm not telling you again to get over here!
Jack (coming closer): You know...
Me (deep breath): ...what?
Jack (in a patronizing tone): It's not nice to yell at people.

An Open Letter...

I often solve my "problems" by writing letters. Either to the party that I am aggravated with, or to myself (as in, Dear Lauren, stop having kids). This has proven to be very fruitful in the past (with both Roy Rogers and my state legislature) and to encourage Jack to resolve problems with words, I am writing this open letter to him.

Dear Jack,

At (merely) age 3, you have already given me so much experience and knowledge. For example, I already know the difference between battery and assault (I want to be aware of my rights) and how long you are willing to scream before you give up and do things my way (approximately 40 minutes). I know your strengths (eye rolling) and weaknesses (gummy bears) and also that I can survive being sprayed with any bodily fluids that you can produce (although Dinah helped a lot with this one). I can now see the world and note how insignificant most problems are when compared with the daunting task of keeping you alive (despite your siren call of infanticide) and teaching you how to be a nice person. I only hope that a) I succeed, and 2) that if I do, you will help solve some of the world's problems (undoubtedly through video game technology).

Mostly I now know that I want to do this all again, the sleepless nights, the magical baby poop that can escape diapers, and doing 9 times the laundry of a normal human. I am excited to haul around another lump that will eventually share with me the intimate contents of her brain and make me laugh so hard that I have to pull the car over. I am grateful that I got to start off this "experience" with a boy who is sturdy enough to withstand my mistakes and hurt feelings (you get your robot genes from your father) and who might be the most perfect big brother to a sister who hopefully doesn't turn out to be too much like me (or Dan for that matter).

Please don't make me kill you before you go to college.
Love,
Mom-EEE

Return of the Kin

We survived the beach. Barely. My parents' truck broke down both on the way TO the beach and on the way home, necessitating towing both times as well as the fire department on the last time. It was a show...but what else did you expect!?

OTHER than that it was great! The weather was amazing, and the boys played in the sand all day long, which is unbelievable given their past performances. Jack would have stayed in the ocean 24/7 if we didn't keep dragging him out. Dan and I have determined that he needs swim lessons ASAP because his lack of caution is undermined only by his lack of coordination. I would estimate that he swallowed at least 2 gallons of saltwater during the course of the week.

This year the sandbar was lower than usual, so you had to swim through chest-deep water to get to the knee-deep water of the sandbar. This was the hot destination for the boys, who kept screaming, "Let's go to the bar!!!" My sentiments exactly.

One night we took the boys to an arcade where Jack attempted to play ski ball with hilarious results, and I had to resist the strong urge to bring home hermit crabs. I am proud to say that the only person who got sunburned was Big Gary, who is ironically the only person with Native American genes in the group.

On the Clock

So somewhere, somehow, Jack has learned how to tell time. Unfortunately, this does not necessarily include the input of a clock. Today as we were watching our morning cartoons, I told him, "As soon as this show is over, we are leaving for school." (He likes to be told in advance what is next on his itinerary...not unlike Donald Trump.)

"OK Mama, but that is not for 10 minutes." And he was right!! He has this bizarre internal clock that really works. And 9-minutes later he says to me, "Maybe one more show?" Such a finagler. He tries this at bedtime, and he knows when I am too tired to put up a fight. He looks into my eyes and judges the amount of energy I have left in my body to deal with him, and if it's low enough, he turns on the charm. The other night he convinced me that we should watch Futurama in my bed before bedtime, and since it was only 8pm, I agreed...foolishly. Well, we got cozy with the lights off and I immediately fell asleep--leaving him to watch an episode of Futurama and an hour of the news--before he woke me up (by slapping my face repeatedly).

"Mommy!" he said, "it's past my bedtime!"

Fun on the Bun

Jack (from the bathroom, loudly): Stanley's watching me poop!
Me (shouting to the bathroom): Just do it anyway!
Jack (still screaming): Stanley! Look at my shits!
Me: Jack, we do NOT say that word.
Jack (falsetto): Look at my pooooooo-oooops!
Me: That is better!

Also, Jack got a new Batman Batcave toy this weekend, that is equipped with an "elvabator." Hearing him use that word over and over has made it worth all $40.

Beach

The Dolibers will be arrive this week from Colorado to accompany us to the beach in Topsail. (North Carolinians love to pronounce things in a non-phonetic way. This beach is called "top-selle" just in case you want to sound cool when you talk about it.) This is the best beach that I have ever been to in the continental US. The water isn't Carribbean-clear like Florida's, but it is clear enough to see the bottom--and gorgeously blue-green. Plus the actual BEACH part is perfect for everything...it is soft, flat and wide, with a small sandbar that is exposed at low tide, leaving a channel of warmer water that is perfect for kids to play in and adults to float in on rafts without being pulled down-shore by the tide. There are no life-guards, crowds, or seagulls, mostly pelicans and little water-birds that eat the sandcrabs and clams. We take the dogs, who run around like crazy and splash, and also can relax at the house that we rent, right on the beach. As far as I am concerned, this is the only way to vacation. And it's 2-hours from our house.

I am really looking forward to Jack playing in the sand this year. He was not into it last year and got sick as well, so the trip was a little stressful. This year he is very into building and organizing, so I anticipate some glorious sand structures in his future. He is also at the age where I have my first memories of going to the beach with my Dad's family, before Leslie was even born, and they are some of the best. It makes me feel good to know that we are giving him some of the same comforting and fun rememberances that I have from my childhood...back when I was an only-child. Hehe.

Overheard

Dan: Don't punch me in the stomach, Jack!
Jack: Ow, my bowels!

Backfires

I have been trying to teach Jack how to make jokes. He clearly needs a new way to channel his blossoming sense of humor that doesn't involve fists or pulling down pants. As I was helping him into his pajamas, he stood before me in his little underpants.

"Hey Jack, what's under there?" I asked, pointing to his briefs, THINKING that he would reply, "Under where?" and I could explain the joke.

"MY PENIS!" He screamed with glee. "It's just wiggling around in there!"

Sunday Ridiculousness

We are watching an admittedly adult sit-com while Jack plays on the floor. Someone on the television says, '"...he can't even sleep with a woman."

"SLEEP WITH A WOMAN!?!?!" Jack yells at the TV incredulously, "What are you TALKING about?!?"

...

Earlier today Dan and Jack were playing catch with a small kickball on the back staircase. It involved lots of man-giggling from each of them. Dan pitched the ball up the steps and hit Jack in the rump. "OW! Right in my backyard!" Jack yelled. A few minutes later Dan nails him in the head and Jack screams, "Right in my phone book!"

Dr. J

After dinner tonight Jack was administering his particular brand of medicine to everyone, especially my Dad who had come over to eat. After checking all of his vitals, Jack says, "Yep. You're old."

No, I am not Santa.

There is nothing like a burgeoning belly to make you feel isolated...at the top of your body. I can no longer see past my belly. Like a rocky swell before the looming mountain range, my chest is merely a small hill before the rounded peak of my tummy blocks any sight of my southern half. Presumably, this creates some problems...especially for shirts. I have stubbornly been wearing my Life Is Good wardrobe along with running shorts for the majority of this pregnancy. Well, unbeknownst to me, my belly has been peeking out of the bottom of my shirt. Who knows how long this has been occurring...not me---the me who is situated at the north pole of this planet of a body. So I will be purchasing some "cute" tent-like shirts soon. Or else falling back on my nudist whippet farm idea.

Hil-Hil-Hilarious

Jack thinks that cramming a handful of fruit loops down my cleavage is the height of humor. He will make a totally awesome frat dude.

Happy 33%

This weekend Dan and I celebrated our 5-year wedding anniversary, and the fact that we have been together for 10 years. TEN. I told him, "I've wasted, er, spent 1/3 of my life with you!"

We dropped Jack and doggies off with my parents (sorry Mom!) and drove down to Wrightsville to lay on the beach in utter quietude. It was amazing, and it was only 4 hours and 12 minutes into our little vacation before we dropped the J-bomb (a conversation about Jack). You know how people joke about how the minute you get away from your kids you start talking about them? Well that's not funny.

The beach was all of my dreams come true, breezy and warm. There were some little kids running around near the water and squealing, and it was so nice to hear it from far away and know that it required NONE of our attention. Ah bliss.

We checked into an amazing bed and breakfast, The Graystone Inn, and were instantly transported back to 1905 where houses were beautiful and showers were small. Dan and I both used the early 20th century claw-foot tub with trepidation (some of us because we are rounder than usual and some of us because we are round). Then, down the cobble-stone streets of old town Wilmington to the Pilot House where we ate right on the river! It was glorious and the wind blew my hair out of my face all evening with what I imagined to be a romantic effect, and hopefully distracted Dan from my upper-belly crumb-collecting as we ate oysters, low-country seafood and amazing desserts. I would highly recommend both of these places for anyone with taste-buds and a love of comfortable beds.

Then off to tour the 25-some small bars and bistros throughout the town...OR, in reality, back to the B&B for an early bedtime because we were stuffed and old. As we lay on our huge four-poster fancy bed, Dan asked, "Is it even nine o'clock yet??" I cringed as I told him the time...8:28pm! I can't tell you how lovely it was to relax without having to corral children and animals, without having to give baths, feed, clean, clothe and coax to bed the small creatures of my life.

I was up early to give Dan lessons on how to open shades (I'm resisting the urge to make a joke about quick tugs here) and we had breakfast in the enormous dining room of our Clue-mansion-like vacation home. Legitimate French toast stuffed with cream-cheese with a hint of lime. Fresh fruit, fresh pastries, their own brand of coffee and fresh OJ. We sat with a lovely couple from California who couldn't get over how lush and green North Carolina was. It was fun to revel in the things that we take for granted with them.

So we left gorgeous Wilmington with only minor casualties--a sunburned shoulder (me) and a sunburned belly-button (Dan) because WHO DOESN'T PUT SUNSCREEN IN THEIR BELLY-BUTTON? As we made our way home to rescue my parents, Dan couldn't stop talking about Jack. Personally I could have used another day and night of vacation from my critters, but it was killing Dan to be away from them...he clearly needs mental help.

Overheard

My Dad: Here Jack, catch this!

Jack: I'm gonna hit you in your berries!

Her body was shaped like a coke bottle...a 2 liter coke bottle.

Ah the joys of maternity clothes. As if you weren't the most awkward and ridiculous shape, the makers of maternity clothes feel that you might as well have clothes that don't fit correctly either. Now I can imagine that designing clothes for someone shaped like a moose can be quite difficult, but COME ON. Space travel, wireless internet, clones, a BLACK PRESIDENT, it is time for some progress in this department!!! We will be reproducing forever! Unless we somehow manage to develop artificial uteri that can be worn (by men) outside the body, something that I would not hesitate to vote for, maternity clothes are a necessity. On that note, I'm thinking of starting my own nudist colony. You are not invited.

Just so you know that my rant is leading somewhere, I will tell you: it is. I was wearing a pair of "maternity" shorts yesterday that had buttons on the inside of the waist so that you could adjust the tightness. Well, these buttons, having been pressed into my upper-ass flesh all day, had left red button marks on my body.

While I was using the toilet, of course Jack was in the bathroom with me, farting around in the bathtub (fully clothed, no water), he happened to notice the button marks on my ever-growing rump and asked me about them.

"You have a button on one of your heineys!" he exclaimed. "What is that from?"

I explained about the buttons on the inside of my shorts and how they had been mashed into "one of my heineys" all day.

"Oh Mama. OUCH!!" he yelled. I couldn't decide if he had sympathy for my button-marked ass or the fact that I apparently have two of them.

Two For Two

Yesterday heralded the much awaited ultrasound. I was eager to see if I was indeed growing a human baby, and Dan really wanted to verify that it was a boy (because there are 95% men on the Tarkenton side of the family, and you-know-who is in charge of the variable chromosome). We waited together at the OB/GYNs office, a place where every man feels at home. Dan attempted to accompany me into the bathroom, and then in to get my blood pressure checked, and finally when it was really time to go into the exam room, I had to beckon across the waiting room for him to follow. Sheesh.

The tech was a brilliant lady who talked a LOT. I really love this about the South--there is absolutely nothing but warmth. She rambled on explaining the various measurements that she was taking (head=large, heart=2 ventricles, 2 atriums, all functioning, brain=check, spine=long) and our ninja baby obliged everyone by taking a few pot-shots at my liver on screen. Then the baby flipped over like a little monkey to show us a bony behind. I saw what I thought were male-parts and started saying, "It's a boy! I bet it's a boy!" and the tech said, "No, see this? That is a girl's business!!!"

Needless to say Dan had to immediately sit down on the provided chair and I started tearing up. "I am 99% sure!" the tech bubbled, as Dan cradled his head in his hands. When we were finally alone to de-jelly my belly, Dan looked at me and said, "This is it--when we get home I'm cutting my thing off!"

The first person that we called was Dan's Mom (who, when we started seriously dating, implored me to relieve her of the position as the only woman in the family). She had to hear the news three times before she really believed Dan.

When Jack got home I told him that he was going to have a baby sister. "I know Mama," he said, rolling his eyes condescendingly, "Baby Cheeto will play with all of my toys, but she will have her own too."

I'm through with standin' in lines at clubs I'll never get in...

So the bebe started kicking me today hard enough to be felt on my growing exterior. It is quite exciting. Wednesday we find out exactly what sex this crunchy cheese snack will be. I told Jack that if he is right and it is a girl then he can have ice cream everyday for the rest of this week.

Tonight Jack informed me, after telling me that he couldn't go to sleep because it was still light out (I remember using that one on my Dad), that he was a "Rock Star" and was "still busy rockin' the stars." Seriously, where does he get this stuff??

My humble apologies

I am truly sorry for ever making fun of people who have had cavities (especially you Dan). I had to get two teeth drilled on today and it has effectively ruined my life. My perfect enamel record of 17 years has been shattered (and so has my face and jaw). I look like an actor wearing costume makeup from the set of Beetlejuice. If any of you ever have cavities I will bring you soup and facial compresses and sincere apologies.

Random

Jack: Is this pillow for me?? *Gesturing to old pillow sitting on couch*

Me: Uh, sure.

Jack: I love pillows! I love to lay down on it. This is my perfect home.

Wha?

I totally forgot how STOOPID pregnancy makes you. Perhaps not everyone experiences this, or perhaps I am just so magnificently intelligent that....yeah, that's not it at all.

The good news is that it's not permanent: pregnancy hormones have been PROVEN to disrupt your normal neural pathways to make space for new parenting thought processes, and while I'm waiting for this child to arrive, my brain is pretty much devoid of anything I was supposed to remember, EVER. I just go to the grocery store every day now instead of once a week because it is physically impossible for me to get every item that I need in just one trip. I've also been to the library twice this week (and I still have an overdue book sitting here in front of me). I am complaining about all of this, because (on Earth day) I want you to know that one day, when we run out of fossil fuels, it will totally be all my fault. Because I forgot to stop driving places. You will find me in Milwaukee with a newborn because I forgot that I was pregnant and already had a home and family.

Also, what did you ask me again??

DNA doesn't lie...

I went to pick Jack up from school today and two (TWO) different parents stopped me to ask about his birthday party. This is weird because his birthday was in January, but also not weird because HE IS MY CHILD. I assured them that they had not missed their invitations, that his birthday was 4 months ago, and then continued on to his class, where his teacher asked me about his birthday party. "Jack is very imaginative," I explained.

In the car he told me how he is having a Thomas birthday, but girls get to have princess or fairy birthdays.

"You know that your birthday isn't until after Daddy's birthday, the beach, Mommy's birthday, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas, right?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," he said. "But I'm getting ready. It's gonna be a big party. Can we listen to Poker Face?"

Our Frito-Lay Baybay

We dropped the Maldonados off at the airport this morning, and on our way home Jack and I were both dejected. And the car was almost too quiet. So we started talking, and that conversation inevitably turned to the baby.

"How do you know it's a girl baby Jack?" I asked.
"Because of Gob." (Said my son, the pee-wee prophet, which is amazing because he's been to church exactly twice in his life, both times for funerals. I don't know where his heavenly influence comes from...certainly not from DAN.) I didn't know how to reply to this, so I asked him what the baby's name was going to be.
"Cheeto." He announced.
"Tee-toe?" I asked (Jack does not always enunciate).
"NO, I said 'CHEETO.'"
"So we're having a girl baby, and her name is Cheeto?" I asked. "Did God tell you that too?"
"No, Daddy did."

Who's there?

Jack is becoming very...testosterone-y. He likes to punch, hit, wrestle, pinch, slap, bonk and slam every body part of his into every body part of mine. Including the more accessible (and sensitive!) ones. Today as I was helping him put on his shoes to go and play outside, he thumped his head against my head twice and said, "Knock-knock self-help!" WTF?

The other night, much to my father's delight, Jack slipped and grabbed at my shorts as he was falling and successfully pantsed me. Luckily I had on granny panties and all anyone got was a shot of ugly flowers. My father laughed so hard I thought that his head would pop off. My parents get SO much joy out of the torture that that their grandchild imposes on ME. Yeah, the hugs and buying presents are great, but seeing your kids experience the awkward, frustrating, embarrassing and disgusting parts of parenthood for themselves is apparently pure ecstasy. I feel bad that Dan's parents aren't getting a first-hand view of the hell that his son is putting him through--I know that it makes motherhood completely worth it for me!

Supreme Analogy

Everyone who knows me knows that I lurve analogies. LOVE THEM. So today I realized something that made my profound pregnancy discomfort much more tolerable. Being pregnant is like being very drunk: Sometimes you throw up. Sometimes you pass out. Sometimes you wake up with a headache THIS BIG. Sometimes you eat food that you normally would not eat. Sometimes you say mean things and slur your words, sometimes even completely forgetting things that you said altogether. Sometimes you embarrass your spouse/friends in public. Sometimes you blurt out inappropriate thoughts and hurt people's feelings. (Sometimes you laugh about this.) Sometimes you want to take your clothes off (and/or burp and fart) at unsuitable times and places. Sometimes you become intolerably maudlin and cry over asinine things (like Dancing With The Stars). Sometimes you fall down for no reason at all. Sometimes you have to pee a LOT. Sometimes you wake up and can't remember falling asleep.

The only holes in this theory are that being pregnant does not make people look better than they actually are (like beer goggles) and it does not make me plan ridiculous things with way too much enthusiasm.

OVERHEARD

Some of the most rewarding moments of parenthood come with eavesdropping.

Dan: "You need a vacuum cleaner for your face and body."

Jack: "NOOooooOOO! [in a patronizing tone] I need to go poop on the potty."

Crystal

Sometimes in a marriage there are small misunderstandings. Maybe sometimes is a little more like often. Or frequently. I mean at least on a weekly basis. And these "misunderstandings" can be described as one person talking a LOT and one person not really listening, and then later, the non-listener becomes enraged over a previously clearly-explained detail that was NOT LISTENED TO.

I bought Dan some of his favorite, newly available beer at the grocery store. This beer was previously only available West of the Mississippi, but for some random reason, we can now buy it at the Teeter. The World according to Dan is complete. I was specifically instructed to buy ALL of this beer and I dutifully did, all 5 large bottles, and one more in a similar bottle, but of a different variety...which I mentioned to Dan.

Later that night as he went to lovingly retrieve one of his very favorite beers, I could see storm-clouds on the horizon of the future that threatened a downpour of rage if he accidentally selected the not-favorite beer and opened it to discover it's hideous wheat flavor. So I reminded him (again) to check the labels because one of them was NOT his favorite beer. "I just want to you be clear..." I said, looking at him and laughing.

"I just want you to be clear..." he replied with a grin, "that I will kill you." (Clearly this statement is a blantant acknowledgment of his inability to listen to the words coming out of my mouth.)

THOUGHT

I truly respect how British television will put anyone on camera, regardless of their physical appearance. Or else everyone in that country is severely unfortunate looking.

Little Monkeys

While watching Dancing With The Stars tonight (yes, I know, this show will not help my nausea) I noticed that there was an awful lot of bass during the show.

[aside: For a Christmas present last year Dan *gave* us surround sound in our family room. This wonderful and expensive gift frequently causes people to exclaim, "What is wrong with your house!?" when they are visiting our vibrating domicile. Because of this...feature, I often turn off the down-firing bass (or, as my Dad calls it, the bottom-shooter). Dan discovered that I had turned it off this weekend and lectured me about acoustics and turned it back on.]

Figuring that it was the bottom-shooter, I ignored it at first. Then I noticed the bass thumps were happening when I was fast-forwarding the TiVo-ed show. I went upstairs to investigate. What I found was a small child jumping out of his bed. Over and over. When he saw me enter the room, he said to me, "Ahhhh!" (as if he'd been wondering what was taking me so long to come up there). "I'm all finished with this bed, I'm ready for YOUR bed." This prompted me to immediately check for puddles. Finding none, I tried to get the child back to a laying position, and it was then that I discovered every item in his room (except for the dresser) was under his covers. I guess that he meant that he was finished stuffing his bed. I removed all of the junk, and he fell back into bed and yelled, "GOODNIGHT!" which was my cue to leave as quickly as possible.

Trash Sauce

Jack is a wonderful child, but he has not always been a wonderful eater. He will drink milk at the rate of one gallon per hour, but will not consistently eat, or even SAMPLE his dinner.

Lately Dan and I have been taking the tack of ogres. He is not allowed to leave the table without eating at least half of his dinner, and frequently gets time-outs for screwing around. I enjoy this both because a) we can stretch a gallon of milk for two whole days now, and 2) I am no longer throwing away entire plates of food.

In a wonderful turn of events, the other morning he actually cleared his plate, mostly due to the aid of barbeque sauce. We let him dip his eggs and hashbrowns in it, and he loved it. (Thank you Dan for even thinking of trying this because I think that it sounds g-ross and would never have suggested it.) So the lovely barbeque sauce provides the lubrication necessary for a very picky 3-year old to swallow his food. But the BEST part of all of this is that Jack calls it, "garbage-Q" sauce.

Rated R

So my apologies in advance for this post, which is, as you may have suspected, a little on the unsavory side. Unsavory in the sense that if you are a normal (female) human, you may be offended. This is also for anyone who has a son who is not yet 3 (HA HA Megan!)--consider it a preview of coming attractions.

Dan was home to give Jack his bath the other night, and I left them alone to do the deed while I made our bed. (Yes, I was making my bed at 8pm. God does not care when you do it as long as it gets done.) I was innocently listening to their sing-songy conversation as they filled the tub and denuded, when Jack suddenly burst into a little number I happen to know that he made up himself. And the song went something like this: "Penis-hole! Peeeeenisss...hooooooole, little penis hole!" Now, admittedly, this is somewhat funny, but the truly disturbing part came when Dan joined in for the chorus. This is when I contemplated moving to Nebraska. Alone.

Party of Two

So I have been having the most ridiculous cravings lately, for those gross, processed, not-as-good-as-they-used-to-be Hostess Cupcakes. The ones with the white squiggle of "icing" on the top. Well, having never actually purchased a box of these, I just went to the grocery store, where you would think you could purchase this horrible treat, yes? NO. They didn't have them! I tried another grocery store, still NO CUPCAKES. I was getting frenzied. My Dad suggested that I try 7-11, however there are NO 7-11s in North Carolina! Then he suggested a gas station, but warned me, "Make sure they're not old." I have no idea how I was supposed to determine the age of these apocalypse-proof snacks. Finally today I found some sweet Hostess goodness at the Lowe's Food. I also found all sorts of things that I don't usually buy: crunchy Cheetos, creme horns, facial masques, bottled root beer, deli sprinkle cookies, and Rollos. All of this junk prompted the sweet lady checking me out to ask, "Are you having a slumber party honey?" To which I replied, "Yes, and I am the hostess!"

THOUGHT

Non-alcohol related barfing is several degrees less horrible than hung-over barfing. Although if I am barfing I would rather have had a LOT OF FUN the night before, and shockingly, I did NOT.

Another complaint: I was awake for 14 hours today before I was able to successfully ingest solid foods, and I am apparently still pregnant because I'm STILL CRYING at the tv (this time when the cowboy danced on Dancing With The Stars). I am a hot mess.

Digital Child

Jack loves computers. He loves to caress my laptop, ALMOST pressing buttons. And the cutest, most ironically southern thing about his fascination is that he calls it a 'puter. Pronounced, "POOTER." This always makes me laugh, ("Mommy, can I turn your pooter on??") so I haven't really corrected him, but after spending a few weeks with the genius child, I feel that I am not giving Jack a good jump into life by encouraging his hilarious vocabulary instead of makin' thangs raaaht.

So now he says, "COM-pooter."

Laughing Hysterically

As we listen to Jack, sitting on the potty, alone, singing songs in a falsetto voice and slapping his thighs in time to the music.

Calderado

We finally arrived back from our trip to Colorado. The thing that I love most about vacations (especially ones that are longer than one week) is how very strange and delightful it is to return to your own home; to smell it as a stranger smells it; marvel in the high-ceilings of the South, the delicious humidity that keeps your nose lining happy and moisturized (despite the adverse affects it has on frizz-prone hair) and a bathroom that is directly off of your bedroom. I love waking up in a confused state wondering why I am sleeping in a huge room with an actual TV in it. Then it hits me, I am home, sweet home.

We had a great time, especially Jack. He had a lot of firsts: skiing, lo mein, mountains, having a 3-year old twin, sharing a room, and peeing in an airplane bathroom. Most of these went off without a hitch, EXCEPT the room-sharing. Jack, like his parents, LOVES TO SLEEP. Our host-friend (Little Gary) is what I would describe as a party animal. He is uncannily smart, and not a little bit precocious in his tormenting of Jack. (This child is going to be hell on wheels in college.) He devised endless ways to keep Jack awake at night, resulting in a somewhat grumpy mini-Tarkenton who took to ratting his friend out in his over-tired frustration. The week consisted of lots of post-bedtime thumping (Gary), yelling, chastising (Jack) and banging, which the adults took turns addressing (me with rational coaxing, Dan with rational bullying, and Big Gary with "I will chop your feet off and you will walk on pegs for the rest of your life!!! Arrrgggh!") Needless to say that Jack was terrified. It was wonderful. I heard a lot of, "Mommy, I don't want foot-pegs!!! Gary was hiding in the closet, he is being bad!!!"

THOUGHT

There is no stronger indicator of pregnancy (screw you HGC) than crying while watching American Idol. And not over the bad singing.

Man, I Feel Like A Woman!

I've come to a startling conclusion today: There is no one in the world who can make you feel more girly than a 3-year old boy. When I fantasized about my life as a parent, the fantasies always included at least one boy. I was convinced (prior to Jack) that boys are more fun; mostly because I'm not a girly girl. I like video games, playing sports, being outside, fixing things, burping, drinking beer and being competitive--and the biggest thing of all--farts make me laugh. A lot. So I figured that I would feel most at home in in a house of boys.

Well, my house of testosterone came crashing down on me today when Jack proceeded to scream from across the room, "CHOCOLATE PUNCH!" and then run at me full-speed and sock me in the shoulder. HARD. I had to explain: Girl's don't like to be punched. EVER. And as I realized how sexually biased that sounded (sorry Laila Ali!) it really hit me--I am girly! The tendencies in myself that I just assumed were smart (putting my clothes away, always smelling nice, not wrestling 24/7, not picking my nose, not screaming in the house or throwing things in a rage) were really my more feminine traits...I had just, until now, mistaken them for plain old intelligence. I underestimated my innate femininity because I don't wear makeup everyday or always wear "cute" clothes...but that isn't all that makes up a female. Durh. And how ironic that it took several punches to the shoulder and body to make me feel like a natural woman.

Bathroom vs. Gender (or: People Who Know How To Use A Bathroom vs. Men)

It has long been my contention, and the contention of any woman anywhere for that matter, that males and females have very different ways of using the bathroom. And I don't mean the obvious difference, durh. Having lived with a man my entire life (with a brief, and awesome respite for 3 out of 4 years in college plus 1 year post-college with female roommate), I am well versed in their weird bathroom habits. They lock themselves in there and create inhuman smells FOR HOURS. I hate it, and I will never, ever understand it.

[You may wonder why I am suddenly talking about bathrooms--well I spend two people's worth of time in there, and now that I am pregnant again, I'm doing the job of 2.5. And at least one of those is a male, so imagine how much time I have to think about all of this while I am wasting years of my life in the can.]

Anyway...for a man, Jack is remarkably expeditious in the bathroom...when he has to poop. I strongly admire this rare quality. He likes to read something (who doesn't?) but he gets right down to business. HOWEVER, my chief complaint is that when he has to pee he can find any number of things to dilly-dally over, and then can even make the actual act of peeing into an adventure. Do I pee in the center of the bowl? How far can I swivel my hips before I pee on the rim? How many small squirts will it take to empty my bladder? Can I pee in a circle? What does the pee look like coming out of me? Can I pee on my own face?

This ritual is tortuously drawn-out...many times per day. Perhaps with our less sophisticated equipment, women aren't as prone to pee-related fantasies, but I still find this behavior ridiculously inefficient. It's doubly annoying because he still wants me around to supervise even though he's capable of going on his own--don't get me started on how this male quality persists into adulthood. I think that he has a secret goal of trying to make me jealous of his pee-prowess. To that I say, "Whatever dude, I can grow people!"

Eureka!

Jack has recently taken to saying, "Good idea!" whenever I suggest something. He is a verbally encouraging child. He loves to provide positive feedback as I help him with day-to-day tasks--often after wiping him after a poop he will twist around to tell me, "Good job Mommy!" I have to say that I do appreciate his unflagging (so far) enthusiasm for all of my hard work. Now if he would only have a talk with his Dad...

We are heading to Colorado this week for a much needed family vacation and a long-awaited visit with some of our favorite friends, AND some skiing. I am alternately excited (for me, I am a great skier) and nervous (for Dan, he is a beginner), and seriously worried (for Jack, who will be taking his first lessons EVER). It should be a great trip, and probably will provide some great fodder for this blog. Jack will be visiting his first and best friend, Gary, who is older by one month. I am eagerly awaiting their interaction (they haven't seen each other in 9 months, which is like 15 years in toddler-time). I will be sure to take lots of pictures, and hopefully our family will return to North Carolina rested, happy and in one piece (and not sick).

On a Roll

Tonight for dinner Jack insisted on eating a plain hot dog roll. Now, I am quite snobby about rolls and strongly prefer potato rolls. These are also Jack's favorites. I was going to make him a sandwich on the roll, but he insisted, "just plain." While he chewed a large bite, he was idly rolling the bun back and forth on his plate. "Hey!!" he exclaimed, "it works!" I thought that it was so funny that he assumed that the name was indicative of the purpose of the object.

Hits From Your Mom

I'm sure that you have seen the mop commercials on TV where a woman ditches her old sponge mop for a newfangled, cleaner-squirting one. The old sponge mop invariably shows up sneaking behind a delivery man or peeking stalkerishly in a window and they play that Hall & Oats song. You know the one. Jack loooooves this commercial. He loves to sing "Baby come back!" and does it at every appropriate moment. If the dog hops down off of the couch, Jack will yell it. If his shoe falls off while he's running, he will yell it. Sometimes he just sings it over and over while he runs around in circles.

This brings back fond memories of my first favorite song, "Gloria" by Laura Branigan. My Mom would blast the radio for me everytime it came on. I never knew all (or even many) of the lyrics, but yelling "Gloria!" over and over was so much fun...and that awesome synthesizer! One line is "I think they've got the alias that you've been livin' under" and I thought that it was (this was during the height of E.T.'s popularity) "I think they got to Elliot! Can you hear the thunder?!"

Perhaps the reason that kids latch on to particular songs is because they recognize something famliar sounding in the lyrics. They're learning so much and trying so hard to be good listeners, they really do make terrific music critics. I mean, who hasn't continued to sing, "BABY COME BACK!" even after that commercial is over?

Doctor J

I woke up with a cold this morning. Again. I have a terminally sick nose. After watching me use 4 tissues in a row, Jack looked at me with an assessing gaze. "You need a doctor," he proclaimed.

[Aside: Jack turned 3 last week and had his 3-year exam at the doctor's. Since then he has been very clinical.]

He retrieved his doctor's case from the playroom and trotted out to the couch where I was sitting. He dug through his various tools and finally selected the ones he needed. He listened to my ears and asked me to spit in a cup (no joke--and no, I didn't do it). After tapping my knees, giving me a peremptory shot, and making a quick phone call on his pager, he packed his stethoscope and thermometer away. "Well?" I asked him.

"You sick," he told me.

"What is it?" I asked him.

"Foot Stench," he announced and left the room. I guess I am too stinky, even for him.

Red Lobster

Driving Dan to the airport early this morning, we passed the Red Lobster by the highway exit. Jack really likes the sign, as he is very into sea creatures. I didn't realize that he even knew that it was a restaurant (although he is becoming very savvy about any place to get french fries, so perhaps I am not giving him enough credit).

"We need to go there!" he shouted at us. I explained that it was a seafood restaurant---that he would be served clams and shrimp and fish. "Oh yes," he said, rubbing his hands together with shining eyes, "and it will be soooo tasty!!" This was both adorable and misleading as he is undoubtedly the most picky eater on the planet and still won't even touch buttered noodles. Perhaps we should try it, although the last time that I ate at a Red Lobster (under much duress) I was sick for days. That also could have been because I was newly pregnant, but I'm not giving Dan the benefit of the doubt on this one.

Hallelujah!

Today, after we FINALLY got out of our house after a random North Carolina blizzard (6 inches), we decided to go harass my mother. To make up for our obnoxious visit, we took her to dinner at Ruby Tuesday's. This is Jack's favorite restaurant. (He has a lot of favorites these days.) On the way home from dinner, I remarked that Jack was finally going to be back in school tomorrow, and I added a little hallelujah (the drama in our house is contagious). Jack loved the sound of this word. He tried his hardest to repeat me, but mostly sounded Hawaiian---"Hanehuyah." My Mom (who is notorious for singing random songs in an opera voice) started, of course, singing and Jack followed with his best falsetto. I almost drove off of the road laughing. Sometimes I think that my life needs permanent video surveillance.

Jack has also expressed a preference for music lately, which I find extremely interesting. I'm very eager to see what kind of taste he has. I've been playing The Killers latest album a lot lately and there is a song called "A Dustland Fairytale" that Jack loves. He's very into lyrics (I admire this in a man) and I suspect he loves particular song so much because he recognizes some of the words the line "I saw Cinderella in a party dress..." It's a pretty awesome song if you'd like to give it a listen.

Life in Mayberry

Since we moved down here, I have wondered if my son will grow up to be a southerner, and how early I will be able to determine this. Well, as of today I have my answer...approximately age 3. Jack and I have been arguing lately about how to describe the act of interrupting the power supply to a light source. I call it turning the lights OFF, and he prefers to say turning the lights DOWN. Well, I was talking to my neighbor this morning (who is a legitimate Southern Belle) and she was talking about her daughter's bedtime habits and she used the phrase, "turn the lights down." I am sure that my jaw dropped as I came to the realization that Jack had not been incorrect with his phrasing--he is just assimilated!!!