I am delighted

When you scornfully make fun of me for wearing fake eyelashes and I get to say, "THESE ARE MY REAL EYELASHES BITCH! In yo face!"

When you scrape my windshield for me at 12:30am.

When you tell yourself knock-knock jokes and then laugh hysterically for 10 minutes.

When you call Dan "Bananaface."

When you instantly forgive me for punching your car in the face with my car.

When you move home from SC and I am already looking forward to 2011 with you here.

When my 9th grade best friend comes to visit me after 10 years and it's exactly like it was in 1993; neither of us has changed.

When you send me pictures of your lunch.

Notes to self (or Resolutions I)

• Turn the bathroom light on before you put on your makeup. The "flattering, natural light" of your bathroom does not occur anywhere else in the outside world. You need to wear more.
  
  
• Stop believing that THIS will be the time that the ice-dispenser does not shoot ice-shards all over the floor/your bare feet. It isn't, no matter how snugly you hold your cup against the dispensing tube. Open the freakin' door to get your ice.
  
  
• Stop muttering, "Someone blah blah blah" while cleaning up other people's messes. You sound like an old woman. The people you live with are little pigs. Deal with it.
  
  
• Stop shrieking when you see a silverfish. They are harmless, despite the fact that they look like creepy, Pan's-Labyrinth, made-of-devil-dust creatures...that move to fast for human eyes...and magically reproduce...*gag*
  
  
• Take the Pearl Jam off of your iPod already and quit moaning every time one of their songs comes on...YOUR iPOD.
  
  
• Stop telling the story about how you had food poisoning in college...too many people have heard that already. You're getting an unfortunate reputation.
  
  
• Limit your use of the word "legit." I know that it's fun, but it's also legit overused.
  
  

...and I quote...

These are all from Jack:

"My family is the worst!"

"I love my family!"

"Happy Christmas everybody! Did you hear me?! I SAID HAPPY CHRISTMAS!"

"You gotta come see this thing--it's in the toilet."

"I'm re-decorating my play room. With stickers."

"I did not draw on that window with crayon...I think maybe a spider did it."

Hate Mail

• Dear "10-Day Top Coat": YOU ARE A LIAR. If anything you should call yourself "4-Hour Top Coat." Thanks for nothing, Dicknose. Love, Lauren
  
  
• Dear Lonely People: Have some kids. You will never be alone again, not even to poop. Love, Lauren
  
  
• Dear Tom Cruise: Your teeth do not line up with the rest of your face. Please stay off of my tv. Love, Lauren
  
  
• Dear Living Room Carpet: Your weird colors wreak havoc with my poor ability to distinguish colors, and therefor are the perfect camoflauge for unpleasant carpet mines (like raisins, and poop, and every small, sharp toy my son owns). Thanks for NOTHING! Love, Lauren
  
  
• Dear Lauren, please ease up on the CAPS. You are already too shouty. And quit saying "thanks for nothing"...it has lost all meaning at this point. Love, Yourself
  
  
• Dear Self: THANKS FOR NOTHING! Love, Lauren
  
  

Genes

When one of our children does something brilliant, Dan and I try to determine who contributed the genes responsible for it, and invariably do not agree. When the kids do something stupid or annoying, we argue over who's lame genes are responsible for that behavior, and usually end up agreeing way faster than you would imagine. For instance, tonight the baby wanted to get out of her high chair while we were eating dinner, and rather than gesture or communicate clearly that she had had enough wonderful family-togetherness-over-a-meal, she just waved her arms repetitively and made awkward squawking noises for about 20 minutes without faltering until we finally let her out of her TERRIBLE FOOD PRISON.

I commented pretty much that exact sentiment to Dan, who sarcastically remarked that only one other member of this family gets her way by annoying everyone into it.

He must be talking about Dinah.

I am charmed...

When you tell me that you could watch me laugh for hours. (It did not escape my attention that you used the word "watch" and not "listen.")

When you let my entire family come to your house and stay for DAYS and never complain once about our crap all over the place or how much food (and alcohol) we consume.

When you ride behind me on a four-wheeler, even though I JUST learned how to drive, and don't scream in my ear even once.

When you humor me and participate in my funniest-swear-word-making contest, and even let me win...Dicknose.

When you make jokes about certain body-parts that you had removed like it's no big deal.

When you offer me a chubby, sweet-tasting cheek everytime I use the word "kiss," even if it's not in the context of me offering you one. (As in: You can kiss my ass if you think I'm going to do these dishes. Mwa!)

When you make a Barbie fingernail-polish-digital-printer! It prints on your nails!!! Bravo Mattel!!!

When you disregard my blatant (and sometimes confusing) overuse of quotation marks...it makes me "feel" terrific.

I Got Parole, Bitch!

Recently Sydney has taken a brief hiatus from her endeavor towards becoming the world's smallest eating champion in order to learn how to scale furniture. See, up until now we had been using the furniture as a make-shift fence to trap her into a corner of our family room. In the last few days she has come to the realization that she is tall enough and strong enough to scale said furniture and escape into the wild that is the rest of our house. (I should have bought electrified furniture. So dumb.)

Her situation is not unlike that of a life-long felon who has recently been released from prison. Instead of immediately finding the nearest whore house, she makes a bee-line straight towards our trashcan. Instead of hitting up an old dealer or bookie, she compulsively sprints to the dog's food bowls. I am like her parole officer...jaded, disillusioned, and wishing I was drunk. I chase her around fruitlessly, trying to make her see the error of her ways, threatening her with re-incarceration, but she takes no heed. She merely laughs like a maniac (a maniac who is totally jacked-up on dog kibble). She's an outlaw alright. Didn't you know? The recidivism rate among 14-month old convicts is staggering. If you see one, RUN.

Overheard

Dan, changing Sydney's diaper: "Keep your hands off of your lady parts!"

Dan, trying to feed both children: "This is becoming less fun for me!"

Jack, over Sydney's screeching: "Do you want to keep this baby?"

Jack, sniffling: "This booger is like a giant like a T-Rex in my nose."

Co-worker, on being proselytized to at work: "He's a great guy, but he is jacked up on Jesus."

The numbers game

Today's version:

• 4.5 = gallons of Sydney's bath water that I am currently wearing.
  
• 16 = baby wipes that Sydney pulled out of the container when I wasn't looking.
  
• 5 = times I had to ask Jack to please stop singing.
  
• 2.5 = hours until all children in this house are asleep.
  
• 2 = animals that will still be awake and requiring attention.
  
• 163 = times I have thought about having more children and then kicked myself...HARD
  
• 0 = times I have reconsidered my crush on Robert Pattinson

Curious Lists

Another fun one:

Justifications for Walking Backwards
(listed in order of least-to-most embarrassing)

• You're encouraging a small child/dog to follow
  
• You're dragging a heavy suitcase
  
• You're walking in front of Jack, who has a penchant for "small hiney pinches" (small qualifying the size of the pinch, not the hiney--he's an equal opportunity pincher)
  
• For a glute workout
  
• You split your pants
  
• You split your pants while wearing cutesy, ice-cream scoop underwear
  
• You split your pants while wearing no underwear at all
  
• Your head is on backwards
  

So Many Words

Sydney is becoming more adept at communicating. While her caveman-style grunts and screeches have sufficed up to this point, we're starting to put our collective feet down about her moaning and groaning and forcing her to try to verbalize or use her sign language. It is working well as she is nearly in a constant state of needing and/or wanting something, so she's developing quite a vocabulary for a (parrot-like) 13-month old.

WORDS/EXCLAMATIONS

• This
  
• Jack
  
• Dog
  
• Mama
  
• Dada
  
• DON'T TOUCH (I suspect she thinks that the electrical outlets are called "don't touch." That's the only time she says it: while excitedly groping them.)
  
• Nononono
  
• Uh Oh
  
• Whassat?
  
• Woof
  
• More
  
• Bye-bye
  

SIGNS (usually accompanied by screeching)

• Eat
  
• More
  
• Drink
  
• Please
  
• Done
  
• Down
  
• Kiss
  

Overheard

Jack, wearing an outfit consisting of entirely navy blue: I am a, wait, am I? Yes, I am a black man!

---------------

Jack, watching the baby eat: She looks like a snake swallowing a mouse!

Celebrities/Characters the Baby Resembles

• Chuck Liddel
  
• Woody Harrelson
  
• "Vincini"
  
• "Dr. No"
  
• Winston Churchill

Halloweenie

This year, in anticipation of Halloween, we purchased an "Easy Pumpkin Carving Kit" which should get more than just quotations to indicate my sarcasm. This kit included a few flimsy "saws" and a miniscule "drill" that, instead of allowing me to "carve the pumpkin of my dreams!" only made me growl and reach for my usual stabbing weapons.

We persevered as always, and have one "carved" pumpkin. While it is not the pumpkin of MY dreams, it is apparently the pumpkin of Jack's (bad dreams).

Instead of using the patterns that came with the kit, he insisted on drawing up his own carving sketch that I was instructed to follow TO THE LETTER. We even went through transferring the sketch to the pumpkin with a pencil before I was given the green light to start cutting. (Jack will make a great plastic surgeon.) The drawing literally came to life, and by the time I got to the jagged maw of a mouth, Jack was standing behind me, watching over my shoulder and visibly shuddering.

"Thaaaaat's it!" he whispered in a super creepy voice, RIGHT IN MY EAR.

I squealed, then he squealed, then we both needed reassuring hugs.

Once we procured a candle, he eagerly hustled me and the scary pumpkin right out of the house and onto the front steps--where it will hopefully terrify any would-be intruders interested in stealing 2nd generation baby toys and/or whippets.

Noticably more relaxed after the pumpkin was outside, he realized that it was time for his nightly chore of feeding the dogs. As he poured food into their dishes he noticed a legitimate intruder of the 8-legged variety.

"Aaaahh! ASPIDERISINTHEHOUSE!" he screamed.

"Get it!" I urged.

"How!?" he squealed.

"Kill it with your lips!" Dan piped in from the other room.

With a disgusted look, he finished pouring and went to grab a tissue. "I have to do everything around here" he muttered. I wonder where he hears that?

Overheard

Jack, sneaking through the kitchen during dinner: Jack's not in his seee-eat!

Sydney, spying ANYTHING AT ALL: Whassat?

Sydney, dangling her sippy cup over the side of her highchair: Don't!

Sydney, closing ANY door: Shut!

Jack, to Dinah: Your breath smells like dog doo.
Me: Put two and two together son.

The Boy Who Cried Throwup

A few weeks ago Jack got sick in the middle of the night. He came into my room to tell me that he was feeling funny, and I stood with him next to the toilet for awhile. Since nothing was happening, and he was yawning, I put him back to bed with a "barf bucket" and passed out. A few minutes later I hear him crying, so I go into his room to find him standing in a small lake of vomit. GROSS.

(I'll skip the cleaning up part of the story--it was unfathomably disgusting.)

He was fascinated by the event, and proceeded to talk about it for the next few days with avid interest (my interest, on the other hand, had beyond waned). He was even announcing to people that he "threwed up several days ago." Not cool at the grocery store, Jack.

Since The Event, he has taken to announcing non-chalantly, "I think I need to throw up" and then standing in the bathroom over the toilet for several minutes. Usually this happens after I have issued an order like, "Jack, get your shoes on, we're going to school" or "Jack, put those Legos away." So any inherent drama in the throwup threat is now dead for me, and I think at this point I have seen, smelled, heard, and witnessed so much barfing that someone could puke right on me and I would not flinch. (Universe: that is not an invitation.)

BALLS

Sydney is in love. With balls. She spots them everywhere, and will point them out with a chubby finger and for some bizarre reason (as the rest of her utterances are pretty high-pitched and screamy) a low, gravelly, "Ball." Then she looks at you seriously to see if you understand the implications of her statement. It's like she was put on this earth to be a fat little ball detective.

Now, the word "balls" to me is hysterical. My Gran used to use it as an expletive when she was frustrated or had made a mistake. I always laughed, and now I have this tiny person channeling her left and right, and it makes me smile so wide my face hurts.

Needless to say we already had quite a collection of balls around here because of Jack and Dan (no joke intended, but HAHAHAHAHA). Sydney has commandeered them all, her favorite being a tiny beach ball that we got at some YMCA event. She loves to throw it crazily around and then chase it, squealing. This game is improved when someone else challenges her for possesion of the ball (which is usually Jack) and then she gets so excited that she is almost sidetracked by her spasms of delight, and invariably does not get to the ball first.

Luckily Jack is a good sharer and 85% gentle in his brotherly ministrations; Sydney is a greedy pig who loves to pound on him. They are like the stereo-typically backwards yin and yang of siblings.

The Peace of Wild Things

It is rare when I find something that expresses an exact emotion of mine, so I was delighted to find this. It desribes the exact feeling I have when I run outside, on the path, through the woods, past the heron and the cows, and feel the sun on my shoulders.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

...and I quote...

These are all from Dan:

"What you have to do is always take the BIGGEST BITES POSSIBLE."

"Did you hear me screaming at them?"

"Gatorade 'Ice-T' was the best flavor...I miss it."

"So I drank your bottle of wine...wait, where did you get that wine!?"

"I am the worst parent ever."

"I hate our neighbors, and our neighbors hate me. I am comfortable with this."

Overheard

Jack: Mom, let's talk.

Me: OK!

Jack: ...about poop.

Me: Oh.

Jack, excitedly: Did you know that elephants poop!?

Me: ...

Jack: It's a huge, huge poop. Like, up to the sky huge.

Me: Well...

Jack: Yeah, bet you didn't know that!

Me: Is this what you're learning in school?

Jack, laughing loudly: No silly! Pop-Pop told me.

I am captivated...

When you unexpectedly quote my favorite Saturday Night Live sketch in the car for me and you are only 4-years old. And you get the voice right and everything.

When you still giggle everytime someone says the word "sausage" even though you will be 37 in a few weeks.

When you build a waterpark that has a feature called "The Hubba-Bubba Highway" and it is absolutely the best ride I've ever experienced.

When you use a headset for work phone calls and it makes the walkie-talkie noise when we disconnect. Kssssshht.

When you write a song with the lyrics: "I don't know who I like less, you or me."

When you call me and the first thing you say is, "I have an amazing idea, and you're directly involved." And it is, and I am.

When you steal my son for the day and take him along on your date, and he has a great time.

When you buy me an Amazon prime membership because you know how I hate to wait.

Beardy Locks

Lately there is a lot of beard talk in our house. It's kind of confusing to an outsider because Dan grows a beard that is a poor imitation of one that Keanu Reeves might sport, so it's not as if we have beard trimmers laying all over the house, or beard grooming issues, or even beard PROBLEMS really. In fact, I can confidently say that of many of the problems that we DO have, none of them are beard related.

That is, unless you talk to Jack.

Jack is obsessed with beards. Luckily this newfound interest sprung up after our friend Scott B. had visited--for he is quite beardy and would have had to endure endless interogations from Jack on the subject of his beard. Which, who knows, might be the kind of attention Scott is looking for. He's a beardy dude. And sometimes neardy. But that's another post.

Sometimes as of late I will catch Jack sitting on the couch stroking his non-existent beard thoughtfully. Resisting the strong urge to hand him a pipe filled with tobacco, I asked him what he was doing, and he replied, in a completely non-chalant fashion: "Checking on my beard." I made the grimace that I usually make when I'm trying REALLY hard not to laugh in my children's faces.

[Aside: These kids are going to grow up thinking that I either have some reoccuring and painful hernia problem, or that the things that they say make my intestines spasm. All because of this face that I cannot help but make everytime I smother a laugh. It's starting to become a question of whether it would just be better to laugh at them than screw my face up like this.]

Anyway. So I asked him a follow-up question: "How is it doing?"

He looked at me, with an earnest, Will-Wheaton-in-Stand-By-Me-look and said, "It's still under my skin. It's going to come out soon. I can feel it."

I nodded, and turned around and screwed my face up. Maybe I'll give Scott B. a call to see if he can get down here soon to teach this kid how to grow a legitimate beard. Lord knows Dan won't be able to.

Hoink

A) How Jack pronounces the noise that pigs make.

B) I thought to myself today that Sydney must have been an adorable, chubby, smiley, pink piglet in a former life. Then I thought, wait, that's this life.

Buschwhacked

We spent this past weekend in Williamsburg, VA along with some very special friends who we have not seen in TWO YEARS. (Yes, this a good indicator of the speed at which my social life moves.) We visited Water Country USA, which I cannot say enough nice things about, and Busch Gardens Europe, which was just so-so. The family survived the weekend in amazing spirits, despite a 7-hour roundtrip drive, one speeding ticket, several forgotten items, foot-blisters, a harrowing I-want-to-get-off-this-roller-coaster-now moment, and two small colds (me and Jack).

I was, as usual, very impressed with how well the baby fared during the whole trip. She didn't fuss in the car, was perfectly content to eat anywhere (and anything), napped in her stroller, played amongst hundreds of squealing, wet people in pools, greeted everyone with a smile, and even safely rode in the hotel shuttle with no restraints (although she did manage to pinch two strangers during these bouncy rides, which--if you don't know her--is a very low statistic). I suppose I find all of this mildly surprising because these were not activities we could have done with Jack. I know that you're not supposed to compare your children, but that is kind of impossible--it's our experience as parents to figure out each one of these rascals and how best to keep everyone from choking everyone else. (Thinking about it is OK.)

While we were off having fun, my parents and sister watched the dogs. Stanley was up to his usual antics (running around like a moron) and managed to have a near-death experience (luckily at the hands of my cousin, who, thankfully, is a very conscientious driver). He was very excited to see us when we finally made it to my Mom's for a bbq dinnner. He was so emboldened by his new lease on life that, at a moment during the meal, he hopped up into an empty chair at the table, and then proceeded to climb right up onto the table...and when the whole family started squawking, he was all WHAT? WE AREN'T DOING THIS ANYMORE?

Now he has contented himself with guilting as many cookies as possible out of Dan and I with his tap-dancing and I-could-have-died-doe-eyes. So all is back to normal in this house.

Credibility

(This is an unpublished post I found from back on May 4th. It made me laugh, so prepare to feel dumb if it doesn't have that affect on you.)

My cousin, who is only 4 months older than I am, spent the weekend down here with us. It was wonderful. She and I grew up next-door to each other, and went to school on and off with each other, so I can safely say that she is one of those lucky people who know me best in this world (they are limited for a reason).

She and Dan were invariably drawn to each other as co-survivors of knowing-me-well (good thing we kept my sister away). They sat and talked for HOURS about ridiculous things as I rolled my eyes until they were sore. Dan was ecstatic to have someone who had not heard all of his stories, and even more excited to find that my cousin, like Dan, is what I call a fellow "fretter." So their conversations turned towards how best to worry over unforeseeable life-events, forcing me, the non-worrier, to leave the room lest my eyeballs fall out entirely. (This was probably their intention all along.)

As they discussed their worst fears (about how to mentally and physically prepare for nuclear fallout and waking up one day with a bank balance of $0), I tackled some of our never-ending laundry. Needless to say, they had more fun than I did. I could hear their excited squeals of fear-mongering as I folded clothes upstairs, wondering about my worst fear: being discovered living in Wyoming with a very sexy cowboy and sent back home to my real family.

Admit It

I absolutely said:

Manure = "man-yer"
Lingerie = "Linger-ee"
Daschund = "Dash-hound"

Also I stubbornly pronounced "pint" to rhyme with "mint" for a LARGE portion of my life, because I thought that it was really asinine to say it any other way considering the spelling. Probably more asinine was my series of very bad haircuts between 1991-1996...but I was a teenager--I had to focus my outrage on something besides my horrible appearance.

I am delighted...

When you tip your hat to me as I am walking past, causing your wife to jab you in the ribs.

When you struggle but manage to pronounce my name correctly, even though your grasp on English is tenuous at best.

When you acknowledge my severe impatience problem, and reply to my emails with lightening speed just to make me happy.

When you assure me that you too are having a 1/3 life crisis.

When you help me clean up broken glass in the garage at 11:30pm because people are stupid...even in their 30s.

When you exclaim upon seeing me after a few months away that I look "lean," causing me to categorize this as one of my favorite compliments.

When you are legitimately convinced that Chelsea Handler will undoubtedly hear my laughter over a crowd of thousands and make fun of me.

When you bring your parents to the movies and I am so smitten with them that I want to put them in my purse and take them home with me.

Fat and Annoying

Sydney is getting...girthy. Her enthusiasm for consuming food is unmatched. UNMATCHED, PEOPLE. She will eat 99% of the foods she is offered, and never tires of packing her little face. This is a quality I greatly appreciate in a child (and a friend). All of this gorging gives her boundless energy, and although she is quite rotund, her skinny arms and legs propel her around my house like a pudgy bullet.

We went out to eat last weekend, and Sydney was ecstatic to be fed both her baby food bits and bits of all of our lunches. She couldn't decide what to focus on in her delighted greed, so she filled both of her fat fists with bits of chicken and bread, and then proceeded to lean down and goose peck (with alarming accuracy) cheerios off of the table with her little lips. Dan and I had to scoot back from the table to laugh. Needless to say, I no longer wear mascara to meals with this child.

She is also disconcertingly preceptive and is quickly learning how to manipulate all of the members of this house...even the dogs. She knows that she can sneak them anything she doesn't want (which isn't much) at the table, and that they will lick her fingers clean should they invariably get covered in cereal and/or mashed vegetables. It has taken her 10 short months to learn that Mommy will laugh at anything, even if you are in the midst of getting in trouble. (I myself am impressed that I managed to hide this fact from her for 10 months.) She likes to pinch me to see how mad I will get, and even tucks her little lips in to make her mouth into a determined line as she tries to sneak those tiny fingers in for a nasty tweak. I have had to resort to pinching her back to get her to stop. I can assure you that she does this deliberately to annoy me--so she fits right in in this crowd.

Overheard

Jack: Um, I think you need to buy me this toy that is on TV.

Me: Um, no.

Jack, in his Mom voice: If you do-on't, I will be VERY angry.

Me, non-plussed: Oh really?

Jack, whispering: Well, maybe just a little angry.


-------------------------

Dan: Jack! We're going to the store. Come on.

Jack, reaching for a small tote: OK! Let me just grab my purse.

Dan, muttering: Jesus. That's not even a purse.

Jack: OK...HANDBAG.

Threats

Me:  Jack, I will knock you into Dimension X if you do not stop pulling on the blinds.
Jack:  Nooooooooo!

Dan:  Jack, I will hang you by your toes in the woods if you do not finish your dinner.
Jack:  Nooooooooo!

Me:  Jack, I will have 10 more babies if you do not stop banging on the wall.
Jack:  Nooooooooo!

Me: Jack, I will atomize all of the cheese on this planet if you do not stop playing with the toilet seat.
Jack: Noooooooooo!

Jack:  Dinah, I will wrap you in spaghetti if you don't get off of my feet.
Dinah:  *leap*

Curious Lists

Another one from the best time-wasting book ever.

Working Titles for a Screenplay About George Washington's Space Adventures

"The British Are Orbiting!"

"Georgie Wash--Space Surveyor"

"Patriot of the Cosmos"

"First in War, First in Peace, Last in Space"

"Conquering the Void of Freedom"

"Nature Abhors a Truth Vacuum, or 'I Cannot Tell A Lie...Intergalactic or Not!'"

"I Left My Wooden Teeth on Mars"

I don't feel the same when I am away from your smile...

Happy Birthday woman, and thank you for the following fond memories of my childhood:

• When we would hold hands, and you would pull yours away far enough to tickle my palm with your thumb.
  
• Letting us watch Victor Victoria ad nauseum.
  
• 31 Birthday cakes: shaped like tic-tac-toe boards, with licorice and icing balloons, and probably at least 13 plain white ones made with egg whites only, with white frosting.
  
• Letting me drive to the Olney Shopper's Food Warehouse in your fast car, on my learner's permit, through all of the road-work, clutching the Jesus-strap the entire way.
  
• Letting me watch MTV while you ironed. (Now that I have to iron, there is no way I'd let someone else choose the programming while I perform that chore.)
  
• Lifting me out into the backyard through the kitchen window in my bright pink turtleneck.
  
• Not getting mad at me when you came home early from a Jimmy Buffet concert to find me and my boyfriend making out in my bed; instead you simply said, "Get him out of here before your father sees."
  
• After a fight, driving me around so we could talk it out, and not going home until we were both happy again.
  
• Telling me, "I hope that you have a daughter that is just like you," and meaning it for the good reasons.
  
• Teaching me to swim.
  
• My wonderful wedding (especially the part when you covered Scott B. in sparkles).
  
• Making fence-tents in the backyard with old tablecloths.
  
• The singing and dancing, all of the time, which I've never stopped doing.
  

If anyone wants to know where my heart is, tell everyone that it's wrapped around yours. (Song for Susan; Nash, Graham)

Admit It

Until today I did not know that "hair-suit" was not the correct spelling.

Don't dream it's over

As we were driving to my Mom's house yesterday afternoon, Jack remarked, "The clouds hold your dreams, you know."

I was really struck by that image. I looked up at the sky: the big, floaty, clean, and sun-dappled clouds sitting contentedly in the blue abyss really did seem to hold the promise of something unexpected, and also the innocent assurance that there would be many more endless, sunny, cloud-dimpled skies to canopy our wonderful life.

"That is great Jack!" I exclaimed, marveling in his poetic imagination.

"Great, now there are two of you," Dan muttered.

I am enchanted...

When you interrupt me at work to show me your adorable dirt tan.

When you invite me to make fun of your golf SADDLE SHOES.

When you give my name to reporters, resulting in me being interviewed, which is a secret bedtime fantasy of mine.

When you bring over ALL of your nail-polish on a Wednesday night.

When you turn the usually gruff and serious man behind the deli counter into a bubbling mass of baby-goo with your dimpled smile.

When you make a Star Trek video to Ke$ha's "Tik Tok."

When you still encourage me the way you did when I was 12.

When you ask me why I have been laying in your bed with you so long, and then whisper as I go that you really liked it.

When you continue our conversation in completely serious tones even though I am twirling in my office chair. (I really was listening.)

When you drive 300+ miles to visit and insist we stay up until 3am playing board games and drinking everything in the house.

What she really means

Sydney can't talk...yet. After our experiences with Jack, we are making a point to enjoy this while it lasts. Somehow though, she always seems to get her point across, no matter what type of noises and/or gestures she uses. For example, here are some things that she "said" to me yesterday:

"You are RUINING bathtime!"

"No, I DO NOT WANT to sit down. Standing only from now on!"

"I am going to need 7 more sips of your iced tea."

"I really like dog feet!"

"Wiping my hands and face is totally unnecessary, you evil woman!"

"These matchbox cars are delicious!"

"I am not tired, and I am NOT READY FOR BED! DON'T YOU KNOW ME AT ALL!?"

"Where is Jack? He will fix this. JACK? WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Less talking, MORE DANCING!"

Overheard

(This seriously made me chomp my face in an effort not to laugh.)

Child: I'm so relieved! I just passed my background check to start ______.

Mother: What were you worried about?

Child: Horrible thing A and B!

(Long pause)

Mother, in a small voice: I didn't know about either of those things.

Child: And you guys think I can't keep secrets. Ha!

Curious Lists

Someone who knows my deepest, darkest desires gave me the most splendid present ever: a book. But not just ANY book, it is titled Curious Lists: A Creative Journal for List-Lovers. And boy, am I ever a List-Lover.

I will share with you, internet, some of my favorite (completed by me) lists from this book.

Haikus About Duct Tape

A roll of silver
Poised to fix any hole at all:
a shiny soul patch

The MacGuyver of
my toolbox, anchoring the
bottom with your weight

The shy-er cousin
of red electrical tape
your girth is useful

I am smitten...

When I giggle and warn you, during our 10:30pm phone conversation, that I have just taken NyQuil and you reply, "Awesome. We're talking all night. Go get a beer."

When, driving me home after an amazing date, you let me blast my favorite Yeah Yeah Yeahs song and sing along loudly with all of the windows down.

When I am forced to buy my favorite type of yogurt in blueberry (which I don't care for), because that is all that is left on the shelf, and I eat it and find it to be AMBROSIAL.

When you indulge my secret crush on a certain British vampire-actor and buy me a calendar of him for Christmas.

When you label the wrapped calendar with a tag that has a fanged-smiley face after the From:.

When, in an effort to out-child me, you produce beautiful twin boys who I already love.

When you still remember the reasons behind those 2 times we almost got thrown out of 11th grade Biology.

Recipe for Awesome

An incredible way to spend 40 minutes of your evening is making risotto. Allow me to explain how truly awesome that 40 minutes can be:

1. Begin cooking: chop onion, saute with butter, add risotto.
   
2. Pour wine (a small amount into the pan, a large amount into your glass).
   
3. Turn on radio, add chicken stock to pan.
   
4. Stir, sip.
   
5. Dance.
   
6. Stir, sip.
   
7. Add more chicken stock.
   
8. Stir, sip.
   
9. Dip it low.
   
10. Began singing along to songs where you don't know the lyrics, but make up your own that sound infinitely better anyway. Add more chicken stock.
    
11. Pour more wine (glass, not pan).
    
12. Rotate pelvis rapidly while stirring.
    
13. Taste risotto and be amazed at your skills.
    
14. Add more chicken stock, dance and sing to Michael Jackson's Bad while singing, "You know I'm bad! I'm bad! JAMAL!"
    
15. Stir, sip. You might need a refill at this point. Trust me, it helps with the cooking (and dancing).
    
16. Add more chicken stock.
    
17. Stir, sip, seriously consider auditioning for American Idol.
    
18. Finish risotto with an egg yolk, a squeeze of lemon, Parmesan, pepper, and a dash of half 'n half.
    
19. Gobble up amazing dinner (also good with steamed asparagus, or shrimps, or mushrooms) and marvel at your remarkable cooking and dancing skills. Repeat between bites: "I am phenomenal."
    

I Wish I Was A Punkrocker

I can really get behind music that features:

• steel drums
  
• a ukelele
  
• marching band percussion
  

(If you find a song that has all three of these I will probably propose to you.)

Bright are the stars that shine...

I can no longer keep it to myself: I have been having a love affair since late 2001. And I have to tell you this also: If you saw my love, you'd love him too.

He is of Egyptian lineage, and has deep, deep brown eyes. His face is so beautiful that it almost looks like he is wearing makeup. He is one of those people that is always cold, even in the summer. He loves the beach, but not in the cheesy, Playboy centerfold-fake way; he genuinely loves it. He would camp out, eat fish, and live on the sand.

He is very introspective, but at the same time, a giver. He loves to sit in my recliner, but not in the reclined position. He is a very good listener, and is rarely the first person to break out of a hug. He has a rather large overbite, but it is charmingly attractive. He secretly longs to be a tap-dancer.

He eats like a pig but stays remarkably trim. He is a very fast runner, which is kind of how we met. He would always rather be on a golf course and thinks that cats are not to be trusted. He loves babies and sneaks bites of their food when he thinks that I am not looking.

He respects my space and will only sleep in my bed if invited. He will always want you to turn on the fire, and will never talk you out of baking anything. He likes to play games, but only with certain people (me, or course, being #1 on that list...did I mention how smart he is?).

My love is patient, kind, giving, and smells soft and musky and never unpleasant. Sometimes he could use a rinse of mouthwash, but I would never hold that against him. He will try any food once. He hates to see me cry, and tends to worry if I am in the bathroom for too long.

Sometimes he talks in his sleep, and I do not begrudge being woken up to that. He would take a bullet for me, and has told me this many times. He does not like loud music, or football games, but will let me put my feet on him when they are chilly and need to be toasted.

He is quietly poetic, endlessly faithful, and has been a big inspiration of mine for the past nine wonderful years. Plus he also loves, loves, loves to annoy Scott B. which is also one of MY very favorite pastimes. For these reasons, and oh so many others, this love of mine will never die, as long as I have him near me. And I love him.


Stanley Doo

Tonight, tonight

I had a piece of cold pizza and about 7 Russell Stover's chocolates for dinner. It has been that kind of day.

Now I am watching Remember Me, again. This movie got dumped on because of the ending, but I really liked it. Admitedly I was initially drawn to it because of the panty-melter, but, as a viewer with such shallow expectations, I went into it expecting melted undergarments, and ended up laughing some, being genuinely impressed with the story, and moved by the ending. I prefer movies that make me ponder a bit, so this did not disappoint (on many levels).

The saddest thing I can imagine...

...is having nothing to say.

(Luckily that is not a problem I often encounter. But I imagine it to be pretty devastating.)

Word Hungry

I was raised by a pack of readers. Literally. And as any voracious reader knows, the best time to read is while you...eat.

Growing up we had piles of varying types of literature in our kitchen, ranging from gardening books to random pre-teen dramas, like Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself. (Actually, according to one of my childhood friends, this book was the Celine Dion to the Vegas of our kitchen table; it had a running showing of over 8 years.) All of it was there so that at any given time, one could just pick up a book, open it to anywhere, and commence reading. The subject (or audience) didn't matter...it was the reading that mattered.

Because of this multi-tasking at mealtimes, it could take me anywhere near an hour to finish my food. If other people were eating as well, they would also be reading and quietly chewing--it was the best of everything: food and words and silence! Naturally as this was how life was in our house, I thought that this was normal. It was sometimes difficult to eat at someone else's house without anything to read--it was like eating naked! What was I supposed to do, sit and TALK? I had food in my mouth!!

It is for this reason that if you open up one of the billions of books that travel between the members of my extended family's homes, you can often find a page with a smashed crumb or faint orange-cheesey fingerprint on one of the pages. They are the "A Reader-Eater Was Here" cave paintings in our history. Sometimes you can even use the edible detritus to determine who the last person was to read that particular book: anything chocolate=my sister; a dried, sticky drip of apple butter=my Gran.

As I got older and started living with other, non-reader-eaters, I realized that this isn't really the mealtime norm, per se. (Actually I came to realize that a good many things that occurred around our house weren't the norm...but that is another post altogether.) I adapted to eating and watching tv (college), eating and web-surfing (jobs), and eating and feeding (kids), but my preference is still, and will always be, to settle down at the kitchen table with a book and a plate-full of delicious.

[Aside: I suspect that this incessant reading was either the solution to, or the cause of my nosiness. I cannot NOT read. I will read labels, toothpaste tubes, instructions, ingredients, anything I can spot with words on it. I have to know what it says. There may be SOMETHING THAT I DON'T KNOW! I cannot live in a world with unread signs. Dan, however, would be quite at home there.]

So you can imagine my surprise and joy when at breakfast this morning, Jack sat down to eat his toast at the table and asked me for a book.

"Which one?" I asked him (they are everywhere).
"Oh, I don't know. How about that Simpsons book?"

I gladly handed over Dan's Simpsons encyclopedia and had to take a picture as my little budding reader-eater followed in his Mom's (clearly superior) genetic footprints, leaving his toast crumbs as a testament of this, hopefully for his sister to find.

I am beguiled...

When you put your friend on speaker phone so that I can giggle at both sides of the conversation.

When you bring me pork-roll sandwiches and coffee in bed. Twice.

When you tell me that you really love our baby, even if she is "a Chinese."

When you sign your text messages, "Love Dad."

When you laugh for me, but only when no one else is around.

When you let me squeeze your furry body when I wake up from a bad dream in the middle of the night.

When you let me lick the beaters when you make frosting, even though I am over 30. And sometimes the spatula too.

When you greet me with "Hey Skinny!"

When you go splitsies with me because I couldn't decide between the chicken sandwich or hamburger.

When you let me tease you about your briefcase and transitions lenses.

When you insist that I take your wife's new car for a test drive.

When you buy me a shirt for Christmas and it is my favorite thing to wear.

When you let my baby yank on your ears, and are not offended when I laugh.

When you indulge in my fondness for combining words and let me refer to your chest as your "hairea."

Overheard

At the bank today, a man on his cell phone waiting in line behind me:

"Weeeeellll you know that Theodore is gonna be there. We'll just have to put up bug-zappers and buy some ice. Do you still have those ear-pugs? Mmmhmmm, and bring some extra beer."

I would really like to know what issues Theodore has that necessitate all of those bizarre items. Not entirely sure what it could be, but it sounds like something I could get onboard with.

How old is old?

Today as I picked Jack up from school, he regaled me with the history of his preschool while we strolled the halls on our way to the exit.

"You know, this school is actually not that old," he explained.

"Well, how old is old?" I asked.

"Eh? I am four."

"I mean, you said 'old' so I just want to know, what does that mean? How many years?" I inquired.

He paused, mid-stride. "Well...is 50 old?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. "Pop-Pop is 50...ish."

"OK. Then this school is actually not Pop-Pop-old."

"Good to know," I said, as we continued on our tour.

"And someone actually threw up right here!" he exclaimed, gesturing to a small spot on the carpet.

Dream a Little Dream

Dan's Father's Day wishes have been as follows: (My commentary in parens.)

1. Go see Toy Story 3. (Done!)
2. Eat steak AND shrimp for dinner. At home. With potatoes. And an appetizer. (This may lead some of you to the conclusion that I don't regularly cook amazing dinners. Not so. He is just a simple kind of man. With a predictable appetite. Although the dual-meat thing is not something that I usually indulge, so that is the bulk of this wish.)
3. Watch golf on TV all weekend with no complaining from yours truly. (AMAZINGLY enough I have managed to adhere to this wish. It is a one-pass phenomenon.)
4. Go to the gym. (The subtext to this one is "ALONE." Usually we go together at lunchtime, and he is forced to stay UNBEARABLE EXTRA MINUTES while I stretch or, God forbid, workout for longer than 40 minutes at a time.)

Deliverance

Dan and I enjoyed an afternoon of pretending to be the parents of an only child today as we took Jack to see Toy Story 3. (The most convincing act was Jack's unadulterated greed.) My parents watched The Hamlet at our house so that we could fulfill Dan's Father's Day Wish (#1).

[Totally irrelevant to the story I've already started: Every time my parents babysit the kids they manage to find an installation of the Lethal Weapon franchise on the television to watch. It's uncanny--it is on EVERY TIME they've been here. And after they've left, their absence is heralded by Danny Glover and explosions. And children whining.]

I insisted that we arrive at the movie theater early to secure good seats, and even defied movie theater law by bringing sandwiches and cheese balls and a Coke refill in my hideously large purse. (I am a pro.) The movie was adorable, with the requisite laughter and tears, along with some excessively loud whispering from Jack, the novice movie-goer. As this is only his second venture to the Regal Cinema @ Beaver Creek (our favorite theater, also affectionately known as "The Regal Beav" as a nod to Three's Company), I was astounded at how well-behaved he was. The movie was predictable punctuated with teeny voices and cries, which, in my opinion, only made it more legitimate. (Funnily enough, as a parent, I don't usually get upset when other children misbehave, only my own. Sometimes, secretly, I take tangible pleasure when other children misbehave as it affirms my belief that IT CAN HAPPEN TO ANYONE.)

Everyone loved the movie, all snacks were consumed, and as we headed home, Jack inquired if he could "have a treat since I was so good at the movies."

Dan, not one to be easily duped, replied, "Ahh, no. Your treat was going to the movie."

"That was YOUR treat." Jack said pointedly.

"Look, a cow!" I exclaimed, hoping to diffuse the escalating treat embargo.

The topic eventually was switched as Dan mentioned that he wanted to call his Dad when we got home.

"Your Dad is at our house already," Jack told him.

"That is MY dad," I explained. "Grandpa, who lives in Maryland, is Daddy's dad."

"Uh, no. Pop-Pop is Daddy's dad and your dad."

(Gross.)

"Who is Leslie's Dad then?"

"She doesn't have one. Or a mom." (This explains a lot, I thought.)

"Jack, Pop-Pop has two kids--Leslie, and me."

"You're not a kid!" Jack cackled. "You're a big girl!"

Ready...Set...Go?

Sydney is teetering on the edge of mobility. She is about ready to burst from her easy-to-manage, chubby chrysalis into a blurry, moving mess. I can feel it in my bones. My aching bones.



Wave that flag!


She gets up on her hands and knees and rocks...I've never seen a baby do this in person, only on America's Funniest Home Videos. Then she will straighten her knees and move into a rather impressive pike position like she's doing yoga. Then she slides back down to her belly and checks to see who was watching this maneuver. Sometimes she does this in rapid succession which makes it look like a very plump inchworm is backing it's way across our family room. Jack finds this to be hilarious.

I told him, "Keep laughing buddy, she's going to make a bee-line for your most prized possessions as soon as she gets that little rump in a forward gear."

"Mama, you're crazy!" he screams.

(This may be true.)

"JACK."

Sydney has said it. She calls him like a siren. As soon as she hears his INCREDIBLY LOUD VOICE (usually from several miles away), she perks up and looks around like a goose. "Ah Jack!?" she says, pushing my face to the side so she can see past me to the invariably approaching tumbleweed. It is adorable beyond belief, and it always makes me smile. It's a fool's smile, as I'm sure these are just the early bonds being forged in an iron unity that will destroy me as a parent. But I am nothing if not optimistic! After all, how far can a ghostly white tumbleweed and a fat little ham get on their own?

Surfer Dude Infestation

Jack has been experimenting with...for lack of a better term, lingo. He slips things into conversations here and there, testing the waters, determining if certain words will earn laughs (Me) or menacing glares (Dan).

The beach house that we rented this year (for far too short a time) was incredible for many reasons--it was ocean-front, had a great pool, was impeccably clean...but it was mostly awesome because it had an elevator.

AN ELEVATOR!? You say. Unnecessary! Foolish! Begging-for-rust! All of these are true, but you're leaving out one very important exclamation: Heaven!!!

It was bliss to not lug a huge cooler, suitcases, baby crap, groceries, and 4,000 beers up rickety wooden stairs like we have done every other vacation. Just step, step, ding, and you're there! No work at all! It was marvelous, in the perfectly lazy way that a vacation should be.

One evening as we were all crowding into the elevator to ride down to the driveway, Jack was dawdling (as usual) and Dan yanked him in by the shirt. Jack shook off Dan's grasp and looked up at him with obvious disdain. "Dammit Bro!" he exclaimed as he adjusted his collar. My Mom and I immediately locked eyes and clamped hands over our mouths in an effort not to make a peep. Luckily Dan had not caught what Jack had said, and I waited a good several minutes before whispering it to him in the car, between giggles. Dan just shook his head. "But I didn't laugh!" I told him. "It's a beach miracle!"

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N

Sooooo we're headed for the beach. This has actually been the least stressful day of leaving-for-the-beach that I've ever experienced, which is INSANE because I have an extra kid to pack for, feed and take care of. I'm sure that I've forgotten things, and the car is packed to the gills with junk, but I'm determined to relax this year and cruise to my destination...man. (In fact, I have two bottles of tequila to insure that I relax. Mmmm. I wonder what everyone else is going to drink? ;-)

PS. If you don't hear from me for a long time, it is because I sold my family and I am living in a surf shack.

A Pox Upon Your House

Sydney Largenton, as I like to call her (or sometimes, Sydney Jerkenton), has a virus. Actually she has two. BECAUSE WHY WOULD YOU WANT ONLY ONE? Now, lest anyone think that I am exaggerating, the doctor told me today that she almost definitely has two due to her disparity of symptons: fever, red throat, boogers and general ornery-ness. She, who is usually a pleasant child, gave everyone in the doctor's office today the most miserable and memorable stink eye I have ever seen. Even the other sick children shut-up upon seeing her Medusa glare.

After we got home from this wonderful outing (you should be able to cut that sarcasm with a knife if I'm not getting that across) she finally settled down after a good dose of Jack. It's amazing to me that he who constantly pokes, pats, knocks, bumps, and crushes her is her favorite person, hands-down. So Jack managed to cheer her up, and as I was preparing his dinner, I overheard him telling her: "Baby, baby, you need to RELAX."

Again, I think that he will make an excellent husband.

Bring in Da Noise...

Soooo two weekends ago we drove to New Jersey to visit my oldest and dearest friend and also to attend her Grad School graduation picnic. That's right, NEW JERSEY. Four states away. The kicker was that I drove the first 300 miles sansDan.

The most exciting part of our journey was remarkably before we left North Carolina. While on the highway that we take for 50 miles to get to I-95 (i.e., the first tiny leg of our trip), we came upon a huge traffic jam: apparently a tractor-trailer had flipped and lodged itself across a bridged overpass, so basically no one could get through. The accident had just happened so there were only about 50 cars between us and the carnage. Now, I was sitting there in dead-locked traffic thinking, "Thank God we didn't leave 10 minutes earlier, we could have been in that accident!"

10 minutes and approximately 3,000 questions from Jack later I was thinking "OH MY GOD PLEASE CLEAR THESE BODIES AND CRUMPLED CAR PARTS AWAY FASTER!" (It's a clear demonstration of how quickly parental optimism can turn into wretched, karma-ruining desperation. IT HAPPENS TO ALL OF US.)

Then several good things happened, of which I credit this gorgeous state entirely: Several police cars (Dukes Of Hazzard, muscle-type cop cars) sped by our basically parked car on the wide, grassy shoulders...that's right, SHOULDERS. I would estimate that at least 15 amazingly-matchbox-car-like vehicles sped by either side of us blowing up grass and gravel in their wakes, causing my 4-year old son to practically pee in his seat. Only moments later a police officer actually parked next to us on the shoulder and walked to the 18-wheeler ahead of us to talk to the driver. As he was coming back to his cruiser, he spotted Jack shrieking excitedly out of his window and came over to inform me that a) no one was hurt in the accident ahead, and b) my son is extremely loud.

Once Jack recovered from his near-cop-experience, I noticed that people were actually maneuvering their cars around to drive back West on the shoulder. Now, we are on the East-bound side of a large highway. They were just driving the wrong way down the shoulder! I watched, incredulously, explaining to Jack that those people were clearly idiots.



Fast-forward 4 minutes and I am maneuvering my car around to drive backwards up the highway. Apparently a road-block had been set up behind us and we were allowed to drive the wrong way on the highway and up an ENTRANCE ramp, with the blessing of a North Carolina State Trooper, to take a rural detour route. The entire time that I am driving THE WRONG WAY down the grassy shoulder, Jack is screaming, "LOOK OUT! WE'RE THE POLICE!!!" I was half-expecting him to throw in "m*therf*ckers!" a la Samuel Jackson. Thankfully he didn't. Or else I was just too deafened by his screams to actually hear it.

Needless to say, we eventually made our way to VA, MD, DE, and NJ and had a fantastic time with our satellite families. The ride home was unfortunately (depending on how you look at it) without incident, and all of us have taken a solemn vow never to drive anywhere further than two-hours away ever again.

Overheard

Me, making amazing ice cream treats: The only way this sundae could get any better was if there was a hot, hot...
Dan: Uh oh
Me: ...blondie underneath it.
Dan: Oh. Haha, I thought you were going to say something else.
Me: like "a hot, hot, Robert Pattinson underneath it?"
Dan: Something along those lines.

That Ha-Ha Moment

It was a momentous night for us here in Tarkland. Jack cracked his first off-the-cuff, non-coached joke. (It was brilliant, and corny as hell...literally.)

We were eating dinner when Jack accidentally dropped his cob of corn on the floor.

Stanley immediately rushed to the rescue.

"My cor-in!" screamed Jack.

Dan was able to assuage him with promises of another cob, and Jack calmed down and turned to watch Stanley nibbling away on the rogue cob.

"Stanley!" he said, "You are a real corn dog!"

Mama's Night Out

I periodically get together with a few of my old co-workers (and by "old" I mean me; they are 28) and we have dinner and drinks at our favorite Mexican place. I look forward to these evenings, because they don't occur often (it takes a lot of planning), and they are invariably hilarious.

Last night did not disappoint, and as I arrived home, full of enchiladas and bonhomie, I realized that I had missed a SCENE here. Instantly I was excited; both to have avoided the SCENE and also to hear Dan's recounting of said SCENE (he is a very animated storyteller).

Apparently, things got a little out of control after I departed. My aunt and uncle had stopped by to visit, and Jack, like a shark sensing that his weaker prey (Dan) had become preoccupied, had decided to go in for the figurative kill...and jump ship. Evidently he snuck outside while the uncle was on his cell phone on the front porch; Dan assumed that uncle was watching Jack, and uncle assumed that Dan had given Jack permission to flee the vicinity...which he did with great speed for someone who is usually SO SLOW TO FOLLOW DIRECTIONS.

After awhile Dan noticed that the uncle was back inside but Jack was not, so he inquired as to Jack's whereabouts. The uncle, looking confused, said, "Oh, he left...didn't you know?" The uncle leans over to peer out of a window. "Yeah, see? There he goes."

Dan runs to the window to see Jack entering our neighbor's house.

According to our neighbor, Jack had apparently strolled over, noticed a package on their porch, rang the doorbell and offered the package, and barged right in as if he were invited. This awesome neighbor, who is himself saddled with two kids while his wife is traveling for work, graciously (and unquestioningly) accepted Jack's self-invite and, until Dan's arrival, had been waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. (He is a more seasoned, and therefor much wiser parent than the two idiots that live here.)

Eventually Jack was successfully extracted and returned home, and promptly pajama-ed. I got here just in time to tell him goodnight and then hear this wonderful story. It was like icing on my cake.

Overheard

Jack: Daddy, can I go outside and play?
Dan: No, we're going to sit down for dinner soon.
Jack: But I want to feel the gentle breeze on my face!!

Motion in the Ocean

Jack has a very distinct walk. In fact, calling it a walk is a little misleading, because out of all of the ways that he propels his Pinocchio-like body forward, hardly any of them constitute what one normally considers a "walk." In fact, when you first see Jack approaching, you would probably think: "Oooh, a very strange child is coming towards me." And you'd be right.

Ever since he began walking, at 11 months, he was a tip-toer. He gamboled around on the tips of his feet until around 2 when he finally began to engage a gear other than Weird. Now he lopes, he scoots, he bounces, he twirls, but he rarely ever just walks. This is adorable until you really need to go somewhere, OR you are in public trying to avoid stares. (As you can guess, the latter is an impossibility for any member of this family--unless they are in a room full of deaf and blind folks.)

Jack is starting T-Ball in a few weeks, and I've been trying to coach him on running. When Jack tries to run he looks like a large, white tumbleweed being blown by a haphazard wind. I made the mistake of explaining, as my soccer coach did, the idea of "cheek-to-cheek" running. The words had barely escaped my lips when I realized what a fatal error I had made. Jack was rapidly tapping both of his cheeks (the face ones) and bouncing in place. As I tried to explain that you also have cheeks on your rear, Jack insisted on seeing them.

"You know what they look like," I told him. "There's a crack between them!"

"CRACK!" he squealed. "I need to check this out."

So inside we went, to use the bathroom mirror so that I could demonstrate to Jack that he did indeed have two separate "cheeks" on his backside.

Eager to get him back outside lest this anatomy lesson stray to darker subjects, I carried him through the house, explaining on the way that if you pumped your arms, moving one hand from your face cheek to your rear cheek, as you ran, you could go faster.

Now picture in your mind a large-headed, very verbal young boy trying to implement my directions of cheek-to-cheek running. Got it? I guarantee you what I witnessed was 53x funnier than that. Needless to say we didn't actually get to any running at all, but we did achieve our signature fail-laugh, which is what I'm usually after anyway.

The Days of Our Lives

Jack was following me around my room last night as I cleaned up. I was putting folded laundry away and I wasn't paying attention to his poking through my drawers, as this is something that he does regularly. We call it "taking inventory."

[This phrase was coined by my father's mother when, as a small child, I would arrive at her house, shove by her in the doorway, and immediately begin inspecting all of her closets. What can I say, nosiness manifests itself strongly (and early) in our breed.]

Anyway, as Jack is usually looking through something, I didn't really pay that much attention. I heard a sharp gasp and I turned to see what was going on.

"WHAT is this!?" Jack asked, holding up a Cadbury Cream Egg, still it it's foil wrapper. (I had kept two for myself out of the MOUNTAIN of Easter candy he had received, and squirreled them away in my nightstand.)

"They're not yours, don't touch them." (My usual refrain.)

"WHOSE ARE THEY?" (His usual ignoring of my usual refrain.)

"Those are my candies from Easter." I told him, innocently.

"You've had them here this whole time?!?" he asked incredulously, gesturing to the drawer.

"Yes...Drama, I was saving them."

"I didn't know that!! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO TELL ME EVERYTHING!" he screamed, and ran away.

Best Movie Ever

Jack is currently fascinated with the movie, The Iron Giant. This is a nice change from the endless Scooby Doo and the (insert ridiculous scenario here) movies that he is so fond of. The best part about The Iron Giant is the way that Jack pronounces iron; he says "eye-rin." When he asks if we can watch it I usually feign deafness and ask him to repeat himself several times. It is hilarious.

On a serious note, for a kids movie, it is a great one.

Still serious: I watched it before I had kids, I admit it.

Even more serious: I MAY have cried a tiny bit at the end the first time.

Dead: OK I cry every time.

Overheard

[Scene: At the dinner table. Everyone's plate is empty, except for Jack's, which looks like a war zone.]

Me: Jack, you need to finish those beans before you get down.
Jack: They're too chewy.
Me: Use your teeth, that's what they're for.
Jack (laughing and slapping his knee): You old beaver!

What did the five fingers say to the face?

My sister has been watching Sydney during the day so that I can get the monumental task of getting back to work... started.

This week she was sitting in the family room with the baby facing her on her lap while I cleaned up the kitchen. They were having a goo-goo-ga-ga type of conversation when I heard a distinct, loud slap. Silence.

I walked around to view them, both sitting there looking rather stunned.

"What was that?!" I asked.

"The baby...she just...SLAPPED me!" my sister exclaimed.

Sydney turned to look into my eyes, and then smiled.

"Yo go girl!" I told her.

A Day in the Life...

of Sydney.

6:30am: Hey! I'm still alive! And I haven't eaten anything in HOURS! Or perhaps YEARS! I'm so happy that I am alive and able to EAT! MOMMY!

10am: Ohh, warm cereal. This stuff is great! I like to spit it. I like to gobble it up like a hungry turkey. Sometimes I pretend that I am a growling, predatory fish snapping up bites of helpless smelts.

11am: Whaaa? Zzzzzz.

noon: Hey! I'm alive again! And I pooped!

1pm: Watch me roll Ma! Watch me roll! Oh, you aren't watching? Listen to me say "Dada" over and over and over again...got your attention now?

3pm: Whaaa? Zzzzzz.

4pm: Hey! I'm alive again! Let's bounce! No seriously, put me in the bouncy seat. Don't make me slap you.

5pm: I will eat all of these vegetables. Got any prunes? Throw some prunes on here.

6:30pm: I'm feeling a little funny. Please give me zerbits to resuscitate me. They aren't working. FINE THEN. Put me down.

7:30pm: Whaa? Zzzzzz.

2am: Sleep jabbering. Just checking to make sure that you're listening.

More Lessons from a Horrible Mother

This seems to be a continuing trend: My inability to NOT laugh at children.

At a birthday party this afternoon, at a nearby park, I watched as Jack and his best friend, Jason, terrorized the airwaves. They are an adorable pair--Jason being a compact, impressively speedy, dark little bullet of a child, and Jack, the complete opposite, tall, gangly, PASTY, toe-running, monkey-like and did I say PASTY?

These two adorable morons are seriously in love, and I couldn't decide whether to tear up or choke back laughter for most of the afternoon. They stood, at the top of separate play structures, on opposite sides of the park having a conversation. Now, in order to have a conversation across a park that is crammed full of approximately 200 other screaming children, you really have to ratchet up the volume. Which these two did.

"JACK TARKENTON! WHERE ARE YOU?" screamed Jason.

"JASON, I'M RIGHT HEEEEERE!" Jack screamed.

"WHY ARE YOU UP THERE?!?" screamed Jason.

"I'M THE KING OF THE MOUNTAIN!" Jack screamed back.

And this went on and on. According to Jason, besides being King of the Mountain, Jack was also a poopy butt.

"WE DON'T SAY BUTT!" screamed Jack.

"I'M GOING TO CRUSH YOU!" Jason screamed back.

Good luck with that one, I thought. Jason's mother, a lovely woman, was soon forced to chase Jason underneath one of the play structures after his language became a little too PG-13 for the playground. Jason, angered by the censure, huddled underneath a platform where she could not possibly reach him and screeched unintelligible, but clearly angry, words at her. And this is the point where I went from being her ally to her enemy. I laughed.

I KNOW. I know that you're not supposed to laugh. But he was so hilarious, squatting and peeking out from his shaded hide-out like a teeny little hobo, clutching his knees and so utterly infuriated that he had to INVENT words to convey the enormity of his feelings. It was adorable. She gave up eventually and came back over to sit with me.

"He does this all of the time," she sighed.
"I know, boys are terrible with all of the...RAGE."
"Yeah," she said. "Girls are way easier at this age."

SCORE! I said to myself.

I regaled her with stories of Jack's latest fits to make her feel better, and then we both indulged ourselves by laughing at the kids who were throwing sand at their mothers in the sandbox in front of us.

An open letter...

Dear Sydney,

You are nearing the 6-month mark and I am constantly astounded by both your girth and seemingly endless supply of smiles and good will. You are the most charming small person I have ever met in my life. Every morning when I go in to get you from your crib, you greet me with the widest, face-cracking smile that showcases your two razor sharp teeth and, without fail, it melts my heart. Any grumpiness I have at getting up is immediately evaporated by the sheer wattage of your grins. And they are all for me.

You are a voracious eater and will consume large quantities of cereal and fruits, of which you have turned down none. You aren't particularly fond of peas, but you will devour any other vegetable with glee. When we eat, you focus your attention on what we're doing with laser-accuracy, eager, I'm sure to join in on the deliciousness that is my cooking. (Except for last night, when for some reason I decided to BROIL FISH and we can all agree now that was a BIG MISTAKE. PU.)

You are very much in love with your brother, and will cry when he is (inevitably) crying. You share both his victories and defeats, and with this albeit adorable camaraderie comes a lot of DUAL CRYING--I cannot get on-board with that. I am enjoying this pure and symbiotic relationship while it lasts, because I foresee some dark ahead as soon as soon as you start crawling. I predict that you will do this with lightening speed (you are very coordinated already!) and directly towards all of Jack's stuff, which, let's face it, is pretty much everywhere. I hope you have a hard skull my little chubby friend, and a lot of patience, because that one is his own whirlwind of terror these days.

You were introduced to the bouncy-seat this week, and it is apparently the best thing that has ever happened to you (besides being "borned"). You love to bounce-bounce-bounce ad infinitum, and I usually have to take you out of the seat before you have tired of it because, if left to your own devices, you would bounce to China.

I love you so much little butter bean. You have redeemed all babies everywhere, and I have some awesome guns now due to carrying your enormous ass around. All I have to do is picture your little fuzzy-peach head, gummy smile, and sparkling blue eyes and I forget every worry or care I've ever had. You are my excuse to be endlessly cheesy and doting, and I am taking full advantage! I love you bubba-loop!

Love,
Mama

Applesauce

Jack loves applesauce, but is hesitant to eat it unless it is decorated with approximately 74 sprinkles. (We have had many arguments over how many sprinkles are TOO many.) Usually he's pretty amenable to getting any sprinkles at all (after a particularly nasty incident) and we use this as leverage to get him to eat the other, more nutritious things on his plate. As in, yes you can have sprinkles if you finish your fried okra and catfish. JUST KIDDING. He doesn't eat fish. KIDDING AGAIN.

Tonight we bartered some bites of steak for sprinkles, and Dan teased him that there weren't any left, holding up a mostly empty sprinkle container. Jack looked over to me with his head tilted down, through his eyebrows in a kind of creepy manner, and said, "yes there are" in a growl-y voice.

"Whoa Children of the Corn!" I laughed.

Well, Jack thought that this was hilarious, and for the rest of the evening he was chanting, "Children of the Cor-in, Jack of the Cor-in!" Because extra syllables are requirement in Southern linguistics.

First Words

You know, it is kind of monumental what a person's first words are, in an ironic sort of way...I say "ironic" because my first word was "star" and I am so clearly not one. But I digress.

Sydney has been blabbing up a storm (A STORM) and her two first words are, I kid you not: "Mama" and "Blahblah-Blahblah". Just say it, that second one. If it sounds like a cartoon noise than you are spot on. Now these two seemingly unrelated utterances are the exact opposite of that: I truly beleive, in my CORE, that it is not a coincidence. To her, they are relational constants. Mama=blahblah-blahblah.

You know how all of the baby books tell you, "TALK to your infant, they will use your constant stream of verbal incontinence to learn how to communicate!" and my darling child has done just that. She has learned how Mommy communicates: BLAHBLAH-BLAHBLAH. I think that maybe Jack has gotten to her.

I know, I know...(and a poop buffet)

I have been remiss. But the title of this post is not an apology. OH NO. It is the repeated phrase that follows any sort of instruction that I give my sage 4-year old. The good news is that sometimes he follows it up with "I was supposed to...(insert instruction here)" and then does it. I choose to take this as a positive sign that a) he is miraculously listening, or b) he can accurately read my strong desire to toss him out of a window and diffuse it. Sort of. That second one, besides being a great survival instinct, is pretty much the only way that 4-year olds are awesome...unless you count creating an unbelievably enormous pile of crumbs under their chair at the dinner table and then falling OFF OF THEIR CHAIR and into it during the meal as awesome. In that case, he is awesome every night.

On a completely different tangent, the brilliance of the spacing in my children's ages is not (as one would think) due to ovulation, but is more based on my own experience growing up. My sister is 3.5 years younger than I am, and I remember taking care of her even as she was an infant, and I figured that worked out great for everyone...well, except for maybe her, so let's DO THIS.

Today Jack proved his might as an older brother yet again while he "babysat" Sydney (she sat in his mini-club chair while he played don't-let-the-baby-fall-out) so I could clean up the utterly disgusting remains of a recently devoured poopy diaper. YES, my life is that gross. I won't get into any more detail lest you vomit on your computer, but let me just say this: dogs suck. And this is coming from a DOG LOVER. The only way the situation could have been worse is if she, demon-dog, after consuming said poo-wonton, had then upchucked THAT on the carpet. Let's keep our fingers crossed for the night, shall we?

My Alias

Jack finds it hysterical that my parents and Dan have other names besides "Pop-Pop" and "Daddy," etc. He was going around the dining room table at dinner, announcing people's real names and when he got to me he said my name was, air quotes included, "Lauren 'My Mommy' Frances."

Overheard

While in the bathroom cleaning up after Jack had puked on my mother's dining room table: I can't BELIEVE that I throwed up!

Raisins

Jack is a huge fan of raisins. He loves to eat them right out of the little red boxes, usually while snuggled on the futon upstairs watching cartoons. Now, Jack is, at best, a careless eater. So therefore there are often rogue raisins in and around the futon, and when I happen across these, my first thought, as someone who has lived through two terrible cases of PPSD (Post-Puppy Stress Disorder), is "Please God let that be a raisin."

The interesting thing, as Dan points out, is that I KEEP GIVING HIM RAISINS. The way that I see it is a) they are fruit, and b) they are not Cheetos.

This week Jack and I, as a rare treat, went to the grocery store alone together (this is only moderately easier than going to the grocery store with Dan, the cart-packer). While in the produce section, Jack spied some dates...which, to the uninitiated, are just very large raisins. He convinced me to buy some and, thinking that they'd be easier to contain than their smaller cousins, I agreed.

Fast forward to later that evening, at snack time, when Jack is eating dates. Fast-forward again to when I find a half-eaten date STUCK TO THE ARMREST OF THE FUTON. Ironically this was not upsetting to me, as I knew immediately what it was. It would, however, be quite worrisome to perhaps someone who had lived through PMST (Post-Monkey Stress Disorder.)

Weather and, unrelatedly, smartasses

For anyone who isn't living in NC this time of year, I am so, so sorry. This is absolutely the best part of the year in my opinion. The weather starts to warm up in the afternoon, just enough to negate the need for any sort of coat or jacket, and I can walk through my backyard with no shoes on without the fear of freezing toes (although I still do have a healthy fear of dog-doo toes). The daffodils are starting to come up and EVERYONE is outside. You see your neighbors again and the dogs come out of hibernation and are no longer glued to the hearth. And also NAKED BABIES.

This Spring Jack is building a garden in our backyard with the aid of a very able and sweet Aunt. They started this weekend by selecting a spot in the sun to start the beds, buying some untreated lumber and manure, and also spent some time ruminating on what the best things to grow would be. They settled on radishes, basil, green beans, sunflowers and baby peas. Actually, Jack insisted on the baby peas, over and over. This seemed odd to me as he only mildly likes peas, but after I heard him chanting this under his breath it made more sense: "Baby peas, baby peas, baby peas and baby poops!"

This is an opportune moment to segue to another story about why I am a bad parent...namely because I laugh at stuff like this instead of chastising. Well, when I say "bad" I mean bad the way that a precocious 4-year old is "bad." Because they do things they shouldn't. But usually those things are funny, and worth getting in trouble for in the end, right?

Jack has accumulated quite a language repertoire by age 4, and certainly has many favorite words and phrases that he uses as often as possible. One of these is "let's not take any chances" and also, "ONE THING AT A TIME PLEASE!" Now, I don't know how many of you regularly verbally wrangle a 4-year old, but let me tell you, it takes a lot of brainpower. He has become an expert on turning something that you say to him into a convincing argument for him to get what he wants. As much as it can draw out our conversations, I really love it. He is just so clever and annoying--I could not have asked for more!

Mata Hari

Sydney loves her blankets. Her favorite is a fleecy purple one with white flowers. She likes to pull it over her face to sleep. This, as anyone with a baby knows, is a SUFFOCATION HAZARD. (Not unlike my overuse of CAPS.) So what this means is that to fall asleep she likes to be smothered, and that I have to wait for her to fall asleep, and then covertly pull the blanket off of her head without waking her up. This all makes me a very good mother, right?

Because I Like A Challenge

For the past 4 years Dan has been running his own company, which makes me both very proud and very busy. He has to handle things all over town so he is often gone for a week at a time traveling for business. I am very lucky to have my family close by to lean on when I need to, and despite the consensus that I am taking on too much having two kids on my own for 4+ nights at a time, I have to say that I think it's good for me.

On Sunday nights, as much as I dread him leaving, I have come to realize that I really do relish my temporary alone time. I LIKE missing him. I love having my bed to myself and then getting tired of that. I love having only my own palette to please for a few nights and then wishing I was cooking for two. I enjoy the temporary frustration of having to do everything on my own and by myself, but then to be rescued! It is good exercise for a marriage when someone disappears for awhile and you can see what a big hole they leave in your life--but then you get the repeated joy of reuniting and also NO FIGHTS BECAUSE I MISS YOU. The extended separation means that we can unerringly point out what we need and value about our togetherness, and spend time enjoying those things when we are together, as opposed to fighting about the banal frustrations of life. I can see how silly it is to get mad at him for leaving giant clothes everywhere and instead try to see them as parachute-sized reminders that he is home! Yay!

[Also, Dan, when you do come home, please take out the garbage, feed the dogs and read Jack 231 bedtime stories. KTHANKS!]

Suggested Catharsis

Another loving blog suggestion that I was given recently is that I should write about something embarrassing that has happened to me, as opposed to just using this blog as a vehicle for embarrassing my family. To this I answered, "CAN DO!" I have loads of horribly uncomfortable experiences to share with you internet...social gaffes galore!

The first one that comes to mind happened around 1999 when I was working for an HVAC company as a summer intern while in college. I was good friends with the HR chick and the president's "secretary." (It was a very old-fashioned place...there was CARPET on the WALLS. But that is an entirely separate story.) Anyway, I was sitting in the HR chick's office, talking to them both about a new employee who I had met earlier that morning. They were trying to decide if he was cute or not. I voted no since he had a longish hair-do, and used a GREAT DEAL of hair gel giving him that just-out-of-the-shower look.

"That guy is a total wet-back," I assured them.

The both looked at me, horrified.

(Apparently "wet-back" is not slang for someone who has a hair gel addiction.)

The HR chick quickly informed me of my faux pas. (Here is a buried gem: I used to pronounce that "faah poe.")

I don't think that there is an adequate word to describe the color that my face turned. I was so humiliated--mostly because beyond embarrassing myself, I had used such a horribly lame racial slur so ignorantly, but also because I AM A READER. HOW COULD I NOT BE CERTAIN OF WHAT THAT TERM MEANS? It was inexcusable.

Luckily, the "secretary" was of the same Irish stock as my family...where the solution to any problems of embarrassment is to bring up the key point of the embarrassment as often as possible: she called me "Tijuana" for the rest of the summer.

OK FINE.

It has been lovingly pointed out that my blog is starting to consist merely of "Overheard" conversations that occur in my house, and that posting these conversations, while providing an insightful and often funny (or inappropriate) peek into the goings-on here, does not require any creativity. In fact, as it was pointed out, those entries are really only feats of stenography; they only require the ability to hear, remember, and then type.

What this dear person failed to realize though, is that if I don't post about funny things that happen in my house, then I will be posting about the things that go on IN MY BRAIN, and these are not always things that the internet (or my mother) want to read.

BUT. I am a people-pleaser if nothing else (unless by "people" you mean my sister, who I often displease) so here you go.

When I was laying awake in bed last night, desperately trying to sleep, I thought about what a friend had told me once was the secret to falling asleep: Pretend, in your mind, that you are on a talk show. Pretend that you are being interviewed on your life. Pick a question and answer it, and before you know it, it will be morning.

So dubiously at first, I started thinking. Now, if you know me, you will already have foreseen that I would spend a good half hour determining the question that would be fun enough for me to answer. Eventually I hit upon it (it's disappointingly banal too) and, eager to answer this pretend interview question (perhaps I should apply to be a writer for Jeopardy), I snuggled into my favorite sleeping position to began my imaginary show.

I picture myself walking across a stage, being introduced by a deep-voiced announcer as I shade my eyes to the glare of the blinding of the key lights, waving to the audience and taking my seat next to a faceless interviewer. As we get through the basics of why I am here, etc., he asks the big question. (I've now been lying in bed awake for an hour.)

"So Ms. Tarkenton...what do you think is the one determining factor in your life that has given you so much success?"

(Now, stop boo-ing. I must point out that I am being interviewed as myself, not as a famous artist or other person of interest. Or perhaps as any person of interest given the prelude to this drawn out story.)

Now in my mind the stage and various talk-show surroundings fade away as I think about the answer to this question. I suppose that it starts with my ability to, or just plain luck in, making amazing friends. And I really mean amazing. I don't know whether it is easy for me to find someone incredible, or if I have the ability to turn a regular relationship into a good friendship, or that I have simply been ridiculously lucky to meet individuals that are themselves terrific friends. Either way, I can trace all of the positive things in my life back to this one point. My own marriage and family is all based on Dan, who was a great friend before we started dating, and who I met through friends that I made in the ninth grade who I am still close with. In my career I have continued to succeed in part because of the relationships that I made with customers, co-workers and peers, also some of whom I have known for many, many years. Even making a list of close friends would have to include my parents and two of my cousins, who I consider to be some of my favorite people to spend time with. All of these friends have supported me through good times and incredibly crappy times; they all supply me with attention and love and at the same time provide, within themselves, qualities that teach me what kind of person I strive to be. I think that I can thank my father for the advice he gave me a long time ago: Be the things you like, don't be the things that you dislike. I try to focus on and emulate the wonderful qualities in the people that I am so very lucky to have in my life, and while I don't always succeed, it is a good project to keep me on my toes.

And Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The Rules of the House

This morning I was sitting next to Jack on the couch talking to Dan about the Superbowl when I muttered something about "not giving a shit."

Dan tilted his head and looked at Jack pointedly--Jack noticed and leaned a little closer to me and whispered, "Yeah, we don't say that word."

I smiled and looked at him, appreciating his conspiratory tone.

"Or crap, or stupid." He added under his breath.

"Thanks," I whispered back, and got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen.

"Or IDIOT!" He yelled after me.

Bones, Sinking Like Stones

Dan was complaining the other night that Jack has no life skills.  And by "life skills," he meant the ability to swim or play soccer.  So we discussed signing Jack up for some swim lessons this summer.

"It's really important, I think," explained Dan.  "I had some traumatic pool experiences as a kid."

Having heard this story many times, I innocently replied, "Oh?"

"Yeah," he began, "I was at a party playing in the pool and I got in over my head and my Dad had to jump in in all of his clothes to save me."

"And you think that if Jack knows how to swim you'll feel better b/c you won't have to worry about jumping in to save him?" I asked.

"Oh, I knew how to swim." He reassured me.

I was bewildered.  "You knew how to swim?  Then why didn't you???"

"I PANICKED OK!?!"

Since this conversation took place, I have taken to reminding Dan, while he is performing a task, not to PANIC, much to my amusement and his irritation.  It never gets old.

Overheard

Jack, wrestling with Dan on the couch:  Ow, you're crushing my penis.
Dan:  What?
Jack:  YOU'RE CRUSHING MY PENIS.  MY PENIS--IT'S BEING CRUSHED.
Dan:  Oh, sorry dude.

"Are any of Joey's romance magazines in there?"

This morning as I was juggling two enormous children, Jack declared that he had to use the bathroom as I was feeding Sydney in our bed.  He disappeared into our bathroom and shut the door. (He has a new interest in privacy.  This, I applaud.)

After many minutes had gone by, I set the baby down and went into the bathroom to investigate. 

"Jack?  Are you pooping?" I asked through the door.

"No, I'm fine, I'm fine."

I listened at the door for several minutes longer and eventually heard pages turning.  Extremely curious by this point, I opened the door a crack and peeked in to find Jack perched on the toilet reading one of Dan's Playboy magazines.

Uh huh.

Interestingly, he was reading an article about cars.  SERIOUSLY.

Meat Products

Jack is becoming increasingly curious about "what cookers make" out of certain foods, and where we get certain foods.  This past week we had to break it to him where chicken nuggets come from ("but where do they get THE CHICKEN?") and also what sausage is made out of.  I carefully explained that we actually eat some animals, and he took it in stride, which shocked me but not his father.  "Tarkentons love meat." Dan reminded me.

The funny part of this conversation is the way that Jack pronounces sausage.  He actually sticks a double sh in there so it comes out as a Bogart-esque "shaushage."  It cracks me up.  His initial question was actually, "What is shaushage made out of?  Shaush?"  I couldn't stop laughing, so Dan had to take over the explaning.

An open letter...

One of my absolute favorite blogs is written by Heather Armstrong at dooce.com.  She regularly (or used to) write letters to her daughter to document various milestones.  I thought that emulating that would be a great way to capture Sydney's fleeting moments of being a baby (which are sandwiched between growth-spurts of elephantine proportion).

Dear Sydney,

This week you will be 4-months old.  This I cannot believe without scrutinizing a calendar.  You are gigantic, both in body and spirit, and often will go a solid week without crying at all.  Your enormous smile and blue eyes often are the first thing I see each day (at 4am) and I am, amazingly, happy to greet you at that ungodly hour. 

This month you have breached the 19-lb mark (and my muscles' capacity to hold you while taking the stairs two-at-a-time) as well as discovering your voice.  Since you have made this discovery, you have not stopped using your voice, and love to issue high-pitched, squealing noises at all times.  You like to watch your brother's (and the dogs') antics, cartoons, and your most favorite sight is Daddy eating.  It is bizarre. 

When you are trying to fall asleep, you turn your face to the side, clutch your blanket to your face and snuggle into it and make tiny slurping noises.  Your favorite place to sit is in your bouncy seat which you can bounce yourself by lifting and swinging your right leg in small circles.  Your amazing coordination is matched only by your ability to produce boogers, as you have been sick for an entire month, but happily.

You are indubitably a huge sweetheart and, while sometimes frightened by bearded men, have only nice things to say to everyone and a huge smile to top them off.  I hope that you will continue to have this level of bonhomie your whole life, my little sunshine.

Love,
Mama

Job Placement

[This is for Dan.]

Last night we were talking to Jack about what he wanted to do when he grows up.  This talk was prompted by his declaration that we needed "more dogs and more babies" in this house.  I was explaining to him that when he grows up he can get married and have as many dogs and babies as he wants.  (I hope that he finds an accommodating wife.)

As this discussion continued, Jack consented to MAYBE getting married, but declared that what he really wanted to do when he grows up is to drive a race car.  A red race car.  With lots of toys in the back.

Thanks (Warning: Sob stuff)

Tonight as Jack and I said our prayers, I mentioned the people of Haiti and asked for God to please spend extra effort helping the souls in need in that terrible situation.  Jack inevitably wanted to know about a) earthquakes b) if our house could break and c) where people slept when they had no house.  So we talked at length about blessings, and not taking things "for granite" as Dan would say.  Jack, in a rare moment of quiet contemplation, said, "They should come live in our house."  I absolutely started tearing up.  I wish it were all that simple.  I wish that our luck and success were that easy to extend to others, especially long-distance.  I wish that there were something more that I could do besides donate the money I would normally spend on having someone clean my house to this cause. 

As I scrubbed my bathroom yesterday (it only took 2 hours...anal much?) I thought, with each puff of breath I took to blow my hair out of my sweaty face, that it seems ultimately unfair that such an unforeseeable and unpreventable tragedy should strike a place that is already so down-trodden and angst-ridden.  How can people who are already living in poverty, fear, and hunger deal with an EARTHQUAKE?  It's not like they even had houses to crumble...the slums simply collapsed.  My frustration and helplessness is unassuagable, and I wish I had a solution besides a simple monetary donation.  I decided that the least that I could do was to not take one iota of my amazing life in America for granted, to remember evertime I look in my sweet baby's perpetually grinning face that we are so very lucky, and so very fortunate to have been born here, to have parents that gave us everything they could in order to succeed.  I will try to remember with my every (numerous) gripe and worry that things could be SO MUCH WORSE, and that I am a spoiled, spoiled girl.  Spoiled with love, shelter, food, and freedom from fear.  I would share it all if I could.

Close call

Yesterday evening Jack suggested that we call Daddy, who is on a business trip.  Eager to accommodate him (because he, like me, is not a phone person) I called Dan and handed the phone over.  Just like his father, Jack took it and strolled around the house talking loudly.  He was on his way back towards me when he tilted his head back, let out a Hollywood chuckle and said with a smirk, "Daddy, you're full of shhhhhhh...ugar."  I think that my heart skipped a beat during that long "shhhh".

I don't know where he picked that up, but it's hilarious.  (I suspect it was my father, who used to answer the phone with "Jello!?")

Where's Baldo?

Jack has an interesting habit of describing people with little-to-no hair as "brain-heads."  Like much of his vocabulary, we do not know where this came from.  So often he describes the baby as a brain-head or a baldo.

Jack was interrogating me last night about exactly when our baby was going to grow discernible hair.  I had no good news for him--I'm pretty sure that I was a baldo until at least 2 years old.  Looks like I will soon be in the market for some gigantic baby-hats.