"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.

Sorry Mom!

[My Mom loves to read this, so she will be immensely disappointed to hear that this post is about an incident that happened in her presence. So it is sooo yesterday.]

Much to my delight, I conned my father into my parents agreed to have Jack for a sleep-over this weekend. My dad explained on the phone that he would come and get Jack, except that my mom was grocery shopping and he was waiting for her to get home so that he could help her with the bazillions of groceries (bagged individually in plastic) that she was bringing home. I assured him that it would absolutely NOT be a problem to drop Jack off, along with his physical and verbal baggage.

We arrived and hung out for awhile, waiting for my mother's imminent return from shopping.  When she arrived, we all helped bring stuff in from her car (I helped by making remarks about the plastic bags, which she insisted that she needed for her dogs' poops), and once everything was inside, we informed her that Jack was staying.  "Yeah!" Jack added gleefully. 

"Jack, did you ask SuSu if you could spend the night?" I asked him, trying to start trouble.

He walked across the kitchen, looked up at her with a furrowed brow, and proclaimed in a deep, serious voice: "I....AM."

I guess that was the end of the story.

(PS. This house is blissfully quiet and I have gone over an hour without anyone asking me a question and having to reply, "NO!"  Heaven!)

Dan's Rap

Yo!

I love fresh drinks! I leave cups everywhere!
The woman complains, but Hey! What do I care?
It's who I am, it's what I do,
I know I could change, but I don't want to!

I...like...to...strip as soon as I get in the door,
gigantic shirts just litter the floor,
They get cleaned up as soon as she see's 'em
What do I care? I don't even NEED 'em.

Sem-Eye NAKED, I walk through the house,
I'm not quiet, nothing like a mouse!
My steps just echo, my voice just bellows,
You'd think with age, this shit would mellow!

I like to drink beers most every night,
play video games, maybe start a fight...
with XBox online friends I talk some mad trash,
and then, with the wifey, my victories rehash.

I work in software, I'm not a big nerd!
I may look like one, but that's just absurd!
Don't listen to the woman, ignore what you heard,
I'll talk your ears right off, I won't be deterred!

Exhibit A

It has been pointed out several times that I have not "written about the baby" in awhile.  Mostly this is because she is the most easy-going person in this house and therefor does not generate a lot of blog-fodder.  However, she is starting to develop a very sweet personality, which I can elaborate on for you here (so shut the hell up already).

Things Sydney Likes:

• Daddy's face
• Eating Daddy's face
• Eating Mommy's face/clothes
• Eating her fists/clothes
• Pumping her legs like pistons
• Smiling
• Being the largest baby EVER TO WALK THE EARTH
  
• Not napping all day!
• Eating anything
  

Things Sydney Does NOT Like:

• Napping!
• Not being able to see a face at all times
• Silence
• Napping!
• Being startled
• Bottles
  

Lots of whining

So sometime in the blurry 3-month haze leading up to Christmas, I pulled a muscle in my lower back.  Now, I don't know if you've ever attempted to continue to live your life with a pulled back muscle, but I can assure you, it is not pleasant.  And when "living your life" consists of hauling around a giant 19-lb baby all day, and doing the enormous amounts of laundry that having two boys and a constantly wet/dirty/barfy baby generate, well then "living your life" is comparable to single-handedly building a railroad.  Through Texas.

I probably should go to the doctor in regards to my twingy and perennially sore back, but I just don't have time.  I am still doing laundry.

Needless to say (but I will anyway) having a sore back makes me a wee bit crabby.  Especially by the end of the day.  This is not coincidentally when Jack usually acts up...his opening act occurs at the dinner table where he torments Dan by not eating, and then sneaks bites when Dan isn't paying attention.  It does not bode well that he loves to antagonize his father already; I can only imagine what plans Sydney has in store for me.  The second act happens while Dan does the dishes and Jack proceeds to talk a hole in my head about various toys and violent acts.  The third, and THANK GOD final act is getting his skinny white body into pajamas and into bed.  Luckily this is usually taken care of by Dan, but often I am required to be the relief parent when veins start bulging in Dan's face as Jack comes up with his usual 53 reasons why he can't go to bed JUST QUITE YET.  Last night I overheard Dan ushering Jack through the process when there was a period of silence followed by some loud squawking.  Dan had found a bag of cookies stashed in Jack's bathroom.  Suddenly everything made sense:

After dinner (while Dan was occupied with the dishes) Jack had talked me into giving him some shortbread cookies.  I gave him two, but set the bag down next to the couch where I was sitting with the baby.  After eating his cookies, he picked the bag up and said sweetly, "I'll just put these away."  He walked back through the kitchen to where I assumed he was putting the cookies.  Well, unbeknownst to me, he walked THROUGH the kitchen and up the back stairs to his bathroom where he put the cookies "away."  Now this didn't bother me so much because it is absolutely something that I would have/did do in my childhood (Boyds are huge cookie-heads) but it was unnerving to me that he had the guile to come back down the FRONT STEPS holding a book which led me to believe he had run upstairs to grab something from his room.

So, to look on the bright side, Jack could have a successful career as a petty thief and also is clearly smart enough to find an opening and take it.  But the un-ignorable truth is that he is a weasel.  So note to all mothers of boys that are under the age of 4:  Enjoy this age of innocence and honesty.  Because at 4 things start to get ugly.

If I only had a blog

Narration:  Jack has been out of school for almost 10 days, and after holidays, treats, presents, visitors and being sick, he is absolutely desperate to escape this house, if not our attention.  We have been issuing more threats than usual over the past few days, and as the baby has a cold, I am absolutely on my last nerve from lack of sleep.

Me:  Jack, pick these toys up or you're going to your room for the rest of the day.
Jack:  Um, no thank you.
Me:  One....two....
Jack:  I want to live somewhere else.
Dan (muttering):  If I had a blog I would make a lone, two-word post:  "2010 sucks."