All of it.

So we went to the beach. With another family: one small mother, one large father, two 1-year old BOY twins, and a 5-year old clone of Jack. Luckily we were smart enough to hire a nanny for the week to watch a portion of this mangy group of children so we could sit on the beach in semi-peace and pretend to be adults that still have fun and don't scream at people. At least in public.

All in all we had an AMAZING time. It was the best vacation I've had in 6 years. Swimming, football, bocci, sunbathing, seafood, beers, board games, dogs; it was awesome.

Upon our arrival home, Jack's grandparents were here visiting from out of town. He was elated to end his week of vacation in their presence. They had also brought with them an incredible gift.

Backstory: Jack loves Legos. He tries to talk Dan and I into taking him to the store to buy a new box of them every weekend without fail. He squirrels away any coin he finds into his piggy bank, saving up to invariably BUY MORE LEGOS. He already has three shoe-box sized bins full of them. Maybe four. I can't keep track of them unless it's by stepping on them in the dark, in which case I would estimate that he has about 4 billion.

So anyway, Grandma and Grandpa bestow upon him his ultimate Lego dream: an enormous box of them that contain the components of the mega-huge police station. This thing has a guard dog, bad guys, two police vehicles and a whole several-story police facility complete with garage bays with sliding doors AND cell blocks that ALSO HAVE SLIDING DOORS. (The Legos I grew up playing with are Amish in comparison to this shit.)

As promised, I helped Jack begin construction on the police megastructure tonight. He could barely contain himself in his excitement to get this thing put together. He's usually pretty adept at following the instructions, but I had promised him to throw it all together quickly so he could play tiny-man-incarceration.

I'm leafing through the end of the booklet, making sure that I've completed the steps on one of the pages when I notice a (typically) bizarre activity occurring in my peripheral vision. I look up to see Jack excitedly squeezing/groping his chest.

I stopped and stared.

"Uhhh...what are you doing to yourself there?" I asked him.

"Pinching myself!" He squealed, unable to sit still.

"Uhhh...where exactly are you pinching yourself?" My voice getting higher.

"MY NIPPLES!" He screamed.

I lost it. Construction was halted--to resume tomorrow night.

Televishon

So tonight as we finished our Friday evening pizza, we debated on what to watch on television after dinner. Dan voted for G.I. Joe. I voted for Spongebob Squarepants. Sydney voted for 10 more slices of pizza. Jack paused, and tapping his chin, says:

"You know, I'd really like to watch that program about the cowboy guy...you know, the one who is a good guy, and has the adventures."

Dan and I look at each other.

"Crocodile Dundee?" I ask.

"Uhh, no. I don't think that's who I'm talking about," says Jack.

"Well...does he ride a horse?" I ask.

"No. Actually this cowboy mostly rides airplanes. And he has that circle rope thingy."

"A lasso?!" I ask, excitedly.

"Uhh, no. I don't think that it's called a lasso. It's makes a noise. It's loud."

"Does he live on a farm?" Dan asks.

"Nooo, he works at a college."

My jaw falls open. I'm starting to wonder if this was one of his dreams.

"Is he a cartoon?" I'm rapid-firing here.

"No."

"Do you see him after a certain program here?"

"No...I think I've only seen him at Susu's house."

Dan and I are stumped.

(Aside: Anyone who knows me will tell you that my mind is not unlike the jaw of a locking-jaw dog. Once I hear a riddle, joke, problem, I cannot let it go. CANNOT.)

(Another aside: Apparently locking jaws are a myth! I did not know that they weren't legit. I've have actually had a pit bull clamp down on a toy and drag me around the yard like a deflated balloon on a string. So surprised. But anyway, learn something new, and around here usually also something gross, everyday.)

I'm throwing everything out there. He-Man. Quigley Down Under. Garth Brooks. No avail.

"I totally know who he's talking about." Dan announces after a few minutes.

I look at him voraciously.

He waits a beat, just to torture me.

"Is it Indiana Jones?" Dan asks.

"YES!" Jack and I scream in unison.

Friday night is made.

It's fun to stay at the YMCA...

Dan and I belong to the "Y" that is approximately 4 miles from our house. It is an amazing place, for many reasons. The most important reason, in my eyes, is that every time I go there, something ridiculous happens. AND I AM NOT EXAGGERATING. (OK, maybe a little, just because I was there yesterday and the only thing that was out-of-the-ordinary was that the man who rides the upstairs spin bike for an hour in a lake of his own sweat--literally, the floor is a huge puddle that you have to avoid--wasn't wearing his usual uniform of bright orange shirt paired with yellow sweatpants.)

A few days ago I was there, and causing a huge ruckus at the check-in desk because I had recently gotten my membership card replaced because I had lost it, then I had found the lost one and lost the new one, and upon checking in had unknowingly tripped the someone-is-unchristianly-cheating-the-"Y" alarm. Luckily, I know pretty much everyone who works there. (Probably because they've all been warned about that lady who turns alarmingly pink when she exercises but is NOT in fact going to have a heart-attack/stroke...you think I'm joking but during the first month of our membership I swear they assigned a trainer to check on me periodically. He would come by and make me give him a thumbs up every 20 minutes.)

Anyway, as I was waiting for the whole lost-membership-card debacle to be straightened out, I saw an adorable friend of mine leaving on her way out.

We hugged and talked for a minute before she asked about Sydney and as I was laughing through some story about her, my cute friend asks: "Oh my gosh, so does she laugh just like you?"

(Aside: for my entire life, my very loud and distinctive laugh has set me apart from everyone else because it is very high-pitched and ridiculous and contagious. Think Julia Roberts meets Alvin the Chipmunk.)

"No!" I told her. "She actually laughs kind of like an evil scientist...who is on speed."

Friend paused.

"Lauren, I hate to break this to you, but that is TOTALLY what YOU sound like!"

Prodigy...?

Malcolm Gladwell stated in his book What the Dog Saw that many great artists can conclusively be grouped into one of two categories: they are either early or late bloomers. There is some pretty concrete evidence that great creative genius either bursts forth at a young age or is cultivated, often painstakingly, over time. Think Picasso vs. Cézanne. (If you are really interested in the piece, you can read it online here.) With this understanding, draw your own conclusions about my son's comedic prowess after reading this post.

Sooooo Jack goes to an AMAZING preschool where they teach him all sorts of things that no 5-year old really needs to know. When you pick your child up from this fantastic school, you are supposed to check a hanging folder for any permission slip/"a child in this school has recently been diagnosed with _____ disease"/artwork types of papers.

(Jack's folder is invariably crammed full of junk because I am only SUPPOSED to check this folder regularly, not REQUIRED TO BY LAW.)

My inability to remember to check this folder has, until now, only caused mild problems...like not realizing he was supposed to dress in a certain theme on a certain day, or that several kids in his class have ringworm. Pretty small on the whoopsie-scale.

(Do you feel a sense of foreboding yet? Cuz you're supposed to right here.)

So one day I grabbed a large handful of stuff from the folder (no doubt one to two weeks of accumulation) and tucked it in Jack's backpack to peruse after he went to bed...and maybe after I'd had a few cocktails. Turns out it was a good thing that I had those cocktails because you will not be able to believe/predict/comprehend what I discovered...

Note: The martini-glass magnet was added by someone else at a later date. Details to follow. (Bears like this get around.)




If at first you don't understand what you are seeing, allow me to assure you, I know how you feel. Maybe some of you have an inkling or a suspicion of what you are looking at. Perhaps some of you are sexually experimental and KNOW what you are looking at. (You know who you are...and so do I.)

This is an art project that has officially been named: Bear with Merkin.

To the uninitiated (to this blog--you probably want to run now, to merkins--congrats on your non-baldness), this is a paper bear that has a large chunk of very dense fur glued to what can only be described as his "pubic region." Now, according to the internet, there is a popular item that people purchase, called a merkin, which is, indeed...apubicwig.

(I can't really fathom why you would need a wig for this area unless you are recently received a great deal of radiation, or perhaps you are the victim/lover of someone practicing to be an esthetician and you are generous with your body, but also ashamed of the follicular impediment. I just don't know. Anyway, the reasons don't really matter. These things exist. And apparently Jack is aware of this.)

So at this point I've gotten over my shock, gotten myself another cocktail, and I am now delightedly calculating how much fun it will be to show this to Dan and watch his reaction. And perhaps video tape it.

Well, it was, and I didn't (I know, insert Snookie noise here), but we both got an enormous kick out of Bear with Merkin and tucked this priceless item away to astound future guests (and, of course, the internet).

A chance soon came when the one and only Scott B. came to visit. I patiently waited until everyone was nice and tipsy and in the middle of a game of "Loaded Questions" when I sprung it on him. (OK, I forgot about it until a game of "Loaded Questions" in which I pretty much answered every question with a phrase containing the word "merkin.") Eventually, after explaining to Scott B.'s normal, intelligent, and not-yet-perverted girlfriend what a merkin was, I realized I had an EXAMPLE. So out came Bear with Merkin. Scott B. immediately fell in love and begged us to give him Bear with Merkin. Dan and I finally acquiesed as Scott B. has put up with a LOT during the course of his mutual friendship with us. So when Scott B. and girlfriend left to return to Maryland, Bear with Merkin made the return journey with them (and was placed in a position of honor on their refrigerator...affixed firmly with martini magnet).

It was only recently that I realized how much I missed Bear with Merkin and that I had not documented his amazing existence, so I got a picture of him in situ...et voilà! Here is Bear with Merkin in all his vodka swilling glory, proud and out with his pubic wig!

Dananananana...

Jack: Let's play Batman!
Pop-Pop: OK. Who should I be?
Jack: The Poker, 'cuz Sydney bees Robin.

Attendance is mandatory

Lately Sydney has come to grips with the odd collection of people (or collection of odd people?) that make up her family/daily life. She is starting to see the pattern of who comes and goes regularly, and who she can't get rid of. With this newfound perception comes a lot of what Dan and I describe as "roll call." She will shout out, at any given moment, not unlike a high school gym teacher, someone's name and expect an immediate response. If you don't reply quickly enough she will start screaming at you to stop bouncing that basketball.

I picked her up from school yesterday to go to the pediatrician's office for her 18th ear infection of the year. Once we were in the car and on her way, she started in:

"MAMA!"
"Yes Sydney?"
"Maaaaaama."
"Yes?"
"JAAAAAACKY!"
"Jack is at school."
"DAAAAAADDY!"
"Daddy is at work."

...and repeat for nine miles.

Later that night, after we had finally got both kids in bed and were sitting down on the couch to enjoy the peace and quiet, we heard Sydney in her room, shouting. We looked at each other, both of our jaws beginning to dislocate.

Then we noticed that she was just barking "DINAH!" over and over again.

"Is the baby yelling for the dog?" Dan asked me.

"Um...I think that Dinah might be IN HER ROOM."

(Dinah often accompanies me into the baby's room for our nightly ritual of singing and/or screaming. I guess I had snuck out and shut the door behind me before she could herself escape.)

Dan went up and cracked the door to Sydney's bedroom. Poor Dinah came bolting out, no doubt completely demoralized by being yelled at for 20 minutes by a 21 lb. drill sergeant.

I am enchanted...

• When you tell me that I am the smartest person you know because I was able to accurately guess when the last time you went to the bathroom was.
  
  
• When you humor my competitive eating/food obsession and let me text you pictures of the awesome things that I eat.
  
  
• When you call me on your way home from work to complain about people b/c I am the only person who will understand.
  
  
• When you card me at the grocery store and audibly choke when you see my age.
  
  
• When you assure me that there is no way that you will attend a happy hour if I am not also going.
  
  
• When you have a huge, fancy, expensive wedding and I can actually attend and am so super-excited about going that I bought two dresses.
  
  
• When we go out to lunch and it turns into a 5-course meal...including cocktails.
  
  
• When you reminisce about my last pregnancy and recall it so fondly...you weirdo.
  
  
• When you insist on squeezing my face even though your hands are coated in banana shmutz...and I let you because you are irresistable.