Little Jack White

So the "hammer, hammer, saw, saw" jelly candy bribery worked and I managed to get W in costume this morning. He just about jumped off the changing table with glee when I mentioned the sweet tooth opportunity. I had to pre-layer the shirts so in essence I was pulling only one shirt over his head and I had to pre-loop the belt so I could slip on the britches and velcro. He was almost aware of what I was making him do and started to protest but I was saved by the neighborhood street sweeper. The whole way to school he sang "Where is sweet sweeper, where is sweet sweeper, down the sweet, down the sweet..." to the tune of Farajaca.

Here are the little White Stripes. Getting them to stand together was like herding cats. Impossible.






































And this blue eyed fella is Z but the Hubs and I call him Bill Clinton because he's usually standing by the gate smiling up at you and you almost expect him to shake your hand every time he's there.

One White Stripe

The Hubs and I are simultaneously battling allergies in the worst way and having both of us suffer together isn’t the picture of “let’s cuddle in bed, share Kleenex and watch bad daytime TV as we drift in and out of sleep." Nope, it’s more like “I’m sicker than you so you see what W needs while I sip more of this hot toddy and channel surf." I usually never get allergies but something in the air has got me all twisted. It’s all I can do to keep from coughing up a lung on to my desk at work. My co-workers better love me for the personal sacrifices I make for them.

The other night in the middle of the night I awoke to a mysterious crunching sound. I listened harder in the direction of the open bedroom windows and though it was a squirrel enjoying a midnight snack but the chomping was too close. In the pitch I turned my head so both ears could dial up the sound and process from hence it sprung to wake me (some pretty fancy writing, huh?) and was convinced that the squirrel was in our room. We don’t have screens on the windows so it was a viable possibility. I looked in the direction of Hubs whose profile I could barely discern in the moonlight and sure enough, I could see his jaw working away. The “squirrel” was the Hubs chomping on cough drops like stolen Halloween candy. Took a lot of will power to not grab a pillow and gently place it over his munching head.

Tomorrow is Halloween and we are almost prepared for the ghosts and goblins to appear. W is going to be Jack White from the White Stripes while his best bud, CaCa, is going to be Meg. As we all know from the previous blog entry, W doesn't "do" costumes. Took FOREVER to find some red pants in his size with belt loops for his white belt. I did find him some britches but they are for girls…and they have silver sparkles in them. Not only is the white belt going to mentally scar the child but the girlie britches with sparkles may send him in a demonic fit. Thank goodness he’s only two and loves a certain kind of jelly candy that I have a secret stash of for bribery cases such as these. Yes, W gets candy after his oatmeal tomorrow morning.

It Takes A Village

So this is the episode where I have to give mad props to all the mommies and daddies who are the kick arse parents of the kids in W’s class at school. Can I just say that I’m the luckiest momma on the planet to have such an awesome bunch for a) drinking buddies, b) open-minded, laid back, non-judgmental conversationalists, and c) measuring 11 on the 1-10 scale of total foxiness. Seriously, we should all pose for a calendar and I bet we would sell the hell out of it. We could donate some of the money to the school and spend the rest on wine clubs.

Friday, W had his first school program. They had been studying about Africa for 2 weeks and this was the apex of all their research. A small gathering of parentals waited like paparazzi for the tots to burst through the classroom door dressed in kente cloth vests made of paper bags and painted images and anklets made of pipe cleaners and bells. It was no surprise to see W sans kente vest and bells. I can barely convince him to dress in the morning. All of his friends paraded around in costume and banged on various instruments while W promptly put his toosh in my lap and watched. “I ain’t wearin’ no stinkin’ paper bag.” Yep, that’s my boy. He takes very much after his father.

Afterwards, I took W to my workplace to finish my day and pack up while he ate the dusty candy pumpkins perched on my edge of my desk as decor. I then wrangled the sugar-hyped tot and hoofed it over to the motherland, Central Market, where everyone from W’s class noshed and kibitzed as a PG-rated group. The wine bottles lined the tables like centerpieces, the kiddos ran amok and danced to the live music and we all had some good laughs at watching them wrestle, mosh, do yoga poses and hug. Good times, good times.

Faker

For several weeks now parents have been reading about the misuse of infant cough medicine ending in some overdose cases but I have yet to read about the addiction they may cause. For example, I’m getting ready for work this morning. W is doing his usual rooting around in various drawers and reveals two bottles of adult cough medicine. He brings the larger of the two over to me and says, “W cough, need cough medicine.” He starts fake coughing and continues begging for the meds. I tell him this one is for adults and he doesn’t have a cough and stop sticking your finger down your throat and let’s watch Curious George instead. The dramatics are cued and he starts with the whining and begging and more fake coughing/choking and I’m just looking at my toddler junkie and wondering who I should call for backup…911? NA? His doc? Pest control? My imaginary therapist? I admit to using cough meds when I felt he needed it but I’m not a believer in the band aid method of curing what ails you. I believe your body should work to banish the illness on it’s own. With constant observation and care of the situation, the natural method usually works for us but I’m disheartened by my 2-year-old’s junkie-like reaction to the sight of a cough medicine bottle. Anyone ever heard of toddler intervention?

Old Cowhand

I’m pooped. Pooped from sitting at my desk all day pecking at the alphabet with my fingertips. It’s the wrong kind of pooped, too. It’s a crime, in fact. I should be pooped from jogging or housecleaning or building a yurt but I’m depressed to report that this fatigue is from non-activity, the slothfulness that is a desk job. How did this happen? It’s so wrong. If anyone with a ranch wants to hire me to run it, I’m your girl. Seriously. I’m a cowgirl at heart and THAT’S where I’m supposed to be. In the meantime, I’ll continue taking the baby steps necessary to get me there. Where there? Outdoors…with livestock…and friends, old and new…and divine food from my garden…and campfires…and starry skies…and feeling rightfully pooped.

Evolution

A few weeks ago I learned I was getting a new molar. My tongue rubbed the gummy surface in confusion and discovered the widening divot. Hello? I'm a little too old for this. I was happy with only three wisdom teeth. What I thought was a sign of evolution (I mean, we’re not wooly mammoth eating cave people anymore. Who needs all these teeth?) is instead a latent arrival that is surely going to wreak havoc about the time an 8-course Thanksgiving meal is set before me. I’m sure this is going to go poorly. I never had the other three removed and now I think number 4 is going to destroy the dental harmony. My top teeth are going to start looking like a pile up on IH-35. Sweet.

So I’m sure that anyone who lives in this part of the country and blogs will be writing about the weather here today because it’s totally writeable fodder. Yesterday, the sun shone and the air was in the mid 85’s. Bliss. Today Mother Nature smacked us with much needed rain and temps in the low 50’s. The projected high for the afternoon? Something like 58 degrees. Where in the hell am I? I opened the screenless windows of the upstairs bedroom to enjoy the coziness of the down blanket but the enjoyment turned to complete annoyance as the howling wind shook pecans loose from the trees. The machine gun popping sounds of the plump nuts hitting the balcony and roof just about drove me mental. Feeling a little sleepy today as a result.

For a complete change of scenery, check out the schonze on this here fish. Snapped it at an aquarium while on vaca.

Mr. Creepers

I can hear W clapping to the Curious George soundtrack in his room. His little palms smack loudly. It’s both sporadic and meaningful. Lately he’s been spending a lot of time playing in his room, exploring, creating, and destroying. I adore hearing his sweet voice as he talks to his cars and trucks, pretends to be a cat, makes up words to Farajaca and reads to himself. These moments in the day are precious gifts.

The other night the Hubs had a gig so W and I were tandem for the evening. As bedtime drew near, I abandoned the greatly insisted upon idea of reading the same five out of 50 books he owns and turned on the TV instead. I’m the best mom ever, I know, I know. I unfolded his Spongebob Squarepants couch and we squeezed in together. This actually means that my arse end is hanging off the edge and my weight is deforming the box-shaped frame. Spiderman 2 was on. W knows who Spiderman is but not what he’s about. Since it was a relatively calm moment in the film, we tuned in for a few minutes. It was the scene where Kirsten Dunst is at a café with Tobey Maguire and she asks him if he still loves her. During this time, W moved from being wedged in the couch to sitting on my belly. Tobey says he doesn’t love her and her character is obviously pained by this. W is engrossed by the intensity of her expression although he doesn’t understand what is going on, or so I thought. She whispered, “Kiss me. Kiss me. I have to know something. Kiss me…” or something like that. W suddenly turned to me and whispered, “Kiss me.” I burst out laughing. He did it again and started to slowly lean in all slobbery lipped. The humor of it quickly reached a super creepy level and I gently pushed him back. He gave it another go and seemed to enjoy my second grader’s reaction. In an instant his attention turned to a car flying into the plate glass window of the café and I was saved by some kick ass special effects.

Seriously y’all, that intimate kissy moment gave me the hebegeebees something fierce. What’s up with this kid?

Better Late Than Never

Can’t seem to get my blogging act together.

Many of my girlfriends are busy nurturing buns in their lucky ovens and don’t cha’ know it makes my baby makin’ machine start to churn with the urge. Granted, at the more than ripe age of 38, it’s not so much a churn as it is a chug. The Hubs and I have talked about procreating again but as we’ve learned throughout this tour of “dooty” it’s a pretty big (huge) deal. We’re not quite ready to welcome another round of sleepless nights into our world and with W sleeping 10 to 11 straight hours a night, life is pretty grand but it’s nice to think about the possibility of family member number four, talk about it, consider it a little. All of W’s baby things are stuffed in the attic like piles of promise rings so maybe, just maybe, we’ll expand our little rock n roll nest to include another band member.

W and I went to see Thomas the Tank Engine this past Saturday. We found the bright blue cartoon train anchored to a series of passenger cars and grinning eerily up at the sky, looking at nothing in particular. W was as cool as a cucumber as other children around us exploded into billions of pieces upon seeing their beloved train. The swirl of activity kept W welded to my torso. He seemed happy to be there and loved the actual train ride but, thankfully, he wasn’t buying the commercial seduction and neither was I. W’s love affair for the afternoon was in the form of my college roommate’s 6 or 7 year-old daughter, Zoe. W was captivated by her and held her hand for 3 city blocks before we had to go our own way. The boy has great taste.




















Eating ice cream, if that's what you want to call it...














My friend's husband who gets all the credit for these photos said, and I quote, "The subject line is actually what one of my friends said it looked like W was doing in this photo. That is actually you, waving a napkin in front of his face while I was taking the photo. The photo has been the source for much head-scratching amongst my familiars." The subject line:
Burping the ghost of Christmas past

Dumbo

I found out this morning that I can make an authentic elephant sound. W was trumpting in the back seat on the way to school (speaking of back seat, I encountered no drama while strapping him in his carseat this morning thanks to a squirrel who was burying pecans in our front yard, perfect fodder for distraction) and he wanted me to try. I tightened my lips, sucked in some air and blew and out came an elephant sound so real I almost high-fived myelf. I thought W was going to pass out from laughing so hard. Over and over I honked like Dumbo and W gasped for air between laughs. I guess I looked pretty stupid to my stoplight neighbors. Several had confused expressions on their faces and were probably trying to figure out if I needed medical attention. It's hard to see the kiddo in the back because of the tinted windows so I seem to be totally alone.

Most days with W in the car I'm pretty much a solo freak show.

Monster In Our Midst

We found out over the weekend that W’s favorite band is the Pixies. We put on Surfer Rosa and for 20 non-stop minutes, he ran in circles swinging the two t-shirts he swiped from the laundry pile on the couch and bobbed his head. He was intense as he bounced around in his imaginary mosh pit. He seemed possessed by the music, determined to elbow anyone in his way. I was grateful when he ran out of gas and plopped down for a drink of water. The dancing/thrashing/smashing was funny at first but then started to creep me out. Too reminiscent of teen angst already. Lordy, what we have in store for us.

W latest milestone is to defy being buckled in his car seat. He goes rigid with resistance as if I’m strapping him in the electric chair. It’s really frustrating to have to climb in the truck to secure his rigamortis frame. Today he was anti-blue or black Crocs so I chose the black ones for him. They were airborne as I was leaving the driveway. Thank goodness they’re not clogs. At the moment I can appreciate their foamy softness. What to do with the little devil…

My work hours recently changed from 9 to 5 and that’s kinda thrown things off a bit. I’m still trying to figure out how to divide the day so I get things done and take care of my mind/body/spirit somewhere therein and heckling the Hubs does not count as health care. I’m considering taking some yoga classes but the fact that I will probably die of muscular shock a third of the way through the class is discouraging. And if I don’t die in the class, I will definitely die of muscular soreness the next morning. I cancelled my gym membership Sunday after they called to tell me I owed them some money. I got so frustrated I just told them to stick their membership. What happened was that the Hubs changed the credit card number for billing but forgot to include my joint membership on the switch so suddenly I owed them $80. Fine, whatever. I can’t get over to your stinky, germy facility to work out anyway. The guilt of not going has now evaporated. Poof.

Crimes and Chaos

It’s been hell getting things back on track since my journey to West Texas. The hell being that I’d much rather be out there than chained to my desk.

I use my personal laptop for work. I have my browser set to CNN.com when Safari opens. I have since had to change it because I cannot stomach the horrifying and constant headlines about people neglecting and abusing children. Yesterday there was the 4 or 5 year old girl that authorities were hoping to identify because she was being sexually abused by an adult in a video that was found outside of Vegas. Then there was the report of the 4-month-old that was found in a daycare bathroom with its pacifier taped to its mouth. Today there’s the one about the parents that strapped their 14-month-old in his stroller so they could go party. He was found with severe diaper rash, his temp was 12 degrees below normal and was required to have 21 minutes of CPR to revive him because he stopped breathing. The mother of this child admitted to only changing his diaper once a day! Once a day, people! What the fuck? How? How can they do this? Makes me sick. I can’t read this crap at work anymore. I’ll never get anything done.

W had a true blue meltdown this morning right before leaving for school. I went in his room to put on his, yes, you guessed it, his Crocs and he flipped out. His body went stiff and he little arms were spinning like windmills. I quickly gave him the once over to rule out anything poking or scratching him. I was on the verge of being late for work so I carried him out to the truck kicking and screaming. I calmly put him in the carseat and that was like wrestling an armful of piglets. He wailed all the way to school despite my efforts to console him with an improvised version of The Wheels On The Bus. When we pulled in, I finally exhaled and gently extracted him from the truck. I retrieved the shoes he launched to the front seat and put them on him. He had settled down by this time but I was completely rattled. We hugged for a few seconds, collected ourselves and headed to the playground. I couldn’t unload him fast enough. I know this is only the beginning of the alleged Terrible Twos and, so far, it really stinks. Must do research.

I Saw It Before It Was There

Last Wednesday, I was drinking sake in Marfa. That Thursday, I cured a slight hangover by building a Mongolian yurt. On Friday, my bottom lip looked like a botched botox treatment courtesy of the West Texas altitude and sun. Saturday, I was rockin' and rollin' with the guests of El Cosmico and Sunday we put the whole thing to bed. Monday, my travel companion and I filled up with on a heavy duty country breakfast in Ft. Davis and promptly sank to the bottom of Balmorrhea Springs upon impact.

This is the last 5 days in brief. We were hired to work this amazing event. What a time. Here it is in pictures.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/7852978@N08/sets/72157602138131992/?page=2

More to come…

No Way...

Go here now. The perfect gifit for the sassy-assed girlfriend in your life.

Crocodile Rock

W asked me if I would "nurse, nurse" Jelly Cat last night. For those of you who don't know, Jelly Cat is his favorite stuffed animal. Lately W has been somewhat obsessed with the idea of nursing and I can't figure out why. Is he secretly pining for a sibling? Hubs, you want to weigh in on this (insert sound of screeching car tires, here)?

W is seriously infatuated with his Crocs. He won’t wear any other shoes. I’ve purchased a couple of super cute pairs for him from Old Navy and Piperlime.com for the fall and I bet they will collect dust in the closet. I got his first pair of Crocs in Nashville back in June. I never, ever intended on getting him a pair of those ugly, rubber colander looking things but he was putting them on at the department store by himself. That's a pretty big deal. My girlfriend was nodding her approval with that “see I told you so” look on her face as she dug through the latest Croc style for her son. They were awesome shoes to travel with this summer. Easy on, easy off. Easy wash up, easy dry. They were great for walking on hot sandy beaches and parking lots that seemed to go on forever. One evening after dinner in Santa Monica, we were walking back to our hotel, W leading the charge. A lovely, leggy British speaking woman was walking in front of us with her tall significant other and two teens. W barreled past them and I jogged to keep up. The woman commented, “Look at his little Crocs. I didn’t know they made them that small.” I called out to “Shorty” to slow down and she repeated his nickname out loud. As I walked past her little group, I turned to see it was Minnie Driver (totally pretty in real life). Dahlia Malloy was talking about my kid!

Not surprisingly, several kiddos at W’s school wear Crocs. Interestingly enough, most are identical (same shade of blue) so it often happens that classmates go home with each other’s shoes. I imagine a 3 or 4-year-old cramming their dirty little sole in them like Cinderella’s stepsister as they hurry to leave with a parent knowing in their toddler mind that something isn’t quite right down there. I’ve put W’s name on his shoes but it rubs off on the playground gravel pile and sand pit.

Last week W was the last one at school (I hate when that happens…kinda makes me feel like a bad mom). When we went to put on his shoes, one was missing and all of the extra blue crocs were enormous on his feet. Frustrated, I stuck him in the car shoeless and took him to get another pair, a black pair. These are without a doubt his favorites and now shuns the blue ones. He proclaims “Crocodile shoes, black like mama’s truck.” He wears them with only his diaper on. He would wear them in the bathtub if I let him.

What I want him to wear…
















What W won't take off his feet...
















So damn ugly.

Birthday Boy

Wow kiddo,

You’re two-years-old now. Like everyone says it has whizzed by like an empty inner tube on a waterslide at Schlitterbaun. It seems like just yesterday I was propping your wobbly large noggin in my hands and hoping I wouldn’t somehow break you in half. What a good baby you were but, oh, how mommy-centric. Come to think of it, you are still very mommy-centric. I know it won’t always be this way so I embrace your constant calling out for me…”Mama, air are ewe? Mama, mama, mama…” You turned two yesterday and to commemorate it, you actually asked me if you could “nurse, nurse” which was a total surprise. You haven’t nursed in six months. The request must’ve been in honor of your fleeting infanthood and I completely respect that. Mommy sometimes wishes she had a bottle to nurse but that would be one full of white wine with hints of peach and cardamom.

Your daddy became a year older yesterday, too, and as usual, he’s not taking it so well. He even did a bit of muttering last night that we both recognized as something an elderly person would say. That was a blow. But he’s in the gym more, eating well and wearing cologne so he’s putting up a pretty good fight. Let’s keep rooting for him, okay?

We gave you a drum kit for your birthday and you love it. This is not a surprise as you are really in to rhythm and beats. And you love to sing. Loud. In the car. Just like mama. This morning was your 2-year doctor’s appointment and as we headed out of the house you asked, “Mama, takie dum dicks?” and I said, “Sure, you can take your drum sticks.” Then you said, “Mama, takie dum?” and I looked over to see you dragging the whole kit to the front door. Needless to say, we only took the dum dicks.

This is the part where I tell you how much I love you and can’t imagine my life without you. You have brought so much silliness, laughter, and fun into our little world. You have helped me to be a more patient and aware parent, friend, co-worker, and wife. You have encouraged your father and me to grow up in the best ways therefore enhancing the beautiful bond we nurture on a daily basis. I am blessed, plain and simple.

Love you up to the sky,
Mama

Grilling For Dummies

We finally got to use the grill last night. Thank goodness because W was just about convinced that it was his Beyond The Thunderdome playhouse. We fired it up in the twilight of the evening and gawked at its awesomeness. We grilled ears of corn and shrimp for this recipe we love mucho. We felt victorious and sated at the end of the night. Unfortunately we ended up using an entire tank of fuel on a pound of shrimp and 4 ears of corn. How can this be, you ask? It can be because no one remembered to turn off the damn gas and it leeched out into the world all night long. How many carbon credits are we going to have to buy to correct this little oversight? Not only that but it was a powder keg waiting to happen as the fumes congregated underneath the grill cover. Don’t you wish you were our neighbors? AND our yard guy came today which means there was the possibility he could’ve ignited the entire ‘hood with his mower. We are so grounded from the grill. The Hubs has a label maker and will be making all sorts of directional messages to adhere to the shiny sides of the beast so we don’t make any other stupid mistakes. We remind me of Homer and Marge Simpson.

Little People Rule

Please tell me that at nearly two years of age it’s normal for a little boy to be as empathetic as a Red Cross volunteer. Despite W’s usual moments of defiance and resistance to anything that hints of doing something he doesn’t want to do, the kid has got a tender side that borders on creepy. For example, I was in the 4th hour of putting our grill-the-size-of-a-shiny-new-semi together (living hell) this past Saturday and W was vying for my attention, which was fair enough. I had been piecing it together for a while and he didn’t have the Hubs to defer to as he had hightailed it to a private gig out of town. I was leaning in to the silver beast for the seventh or twelfth time with the cordless drill as I hopelessly tried to get a shelf to secure to the base when W rammed me with his large, plastic dump truck. It startled me and I jumped, maybe even squeaked “Ah!” and W looked at me like I had been hit by an actual construction vehicle. Since I was sitting on the floor I was at his eye level. He came over, said “C’mere,” and hugged me. Not the full arms around the shoulders sort of hug but one where he was to my left and swung his right arm over my shoulder like a chummy dad. He said, “C’mere, “ a few more times, kept looking at me like he expected me to cry and then said, “Hug.” I obliged him but felt awkward. His parental-esque coddling was just a little too grown up. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had given me a tap on the chin with his little fist and said, “Hang in there, kiddo.”

So we have a new grill. Unfortunately, it has been sitting in our living room since Saturday afternoon. It rained all weekend and our porch isn’t covered. Something we should’ve thought about doing during the remodel a couple of years ago. So we sat around the house and sat and sat except for Monday when I actually talked the Hubs in to going to Nordstrom’s because we were both in dire need of some new duds. This was going to be a maiden voyage for us all. Yes, I have never been to Nordstrom’s. And yes, it was pretty awesome, especially the fish aquarium in the shoe department and the pianist that played cheesy hits at warp speed. The Hubs found some shirts that looked mighty foxy on him and he even bought some cologne. Does he have a lova’? W was completely content to push his balloon around in the umbrella stroller the entire time. He followed like an obedient pup. We eventually found our way to the shoe department (of course) and I scored a sleek little pump for work. I spied a naughty looking heel that I pointed out to the Hubs. He picked one up, agreed they were completely sexy, turned them over, saw the price tag and reacted like he had just seen his mother naked. “Those cost more than the grill!” he bellowed. Yes, sweetheart, yes they do.

I Heart 3 Day Weekends

Labor day weekend is going to rule, y’all.

Why, you ask?

Well, let me list the reasons why…

1) W and I will finally get to spend some time with the Hubs who we have only seen for a few moments in the morning all this week.
2) We’re going to buy a real grill, one of those multi burner monsters with several racks and enough surface area to hold a marinated moose. I’m going to let W beat our old charcoal one like it’s a bloated piñata. I loathe that damn thing.
3) Monday morning we’re all going over to a neighbor’s house for brunch. Most of the guests are folks I’ve never met that live in my ‘hood and have children. I heard there’s going to be mimosas. I love the idea of champagne in the morning and a big family nap afterwards. Oh yeah.
4) Big sale at Last Call. ‘Nuff said.
5) I’m going to finally buy some cowboy boots. I don’t have any and that’s a crime.
6) Several playdates and hen sessions.
7) And lastly, it’s a 3-day weekend which means no work in Monday. NO...WORK...ON...MONDAY. Sweet.

In an effort to keep the grandparents sated, here are more pics for their viewing pleasure. These were taken in Kentucky, the first leg of our summer on the road. W and I traveled sans the Hubs. Fun was had by all.

Ay Me Cabeza

Yesterday I left work with a headache and I knew it was going to be one of those that would wear out its welcome in a hurry, like a drunken uncle at a pool party. I had a laundry list of things I wanted to knock out last night, little chores like vacuuming, dishes, etc., but I was paralyzed with pain. Thankfully, W was totally game to go upstairs and “noogle” with me while I waited for the ibuprofen to kick in although we did spend a couple of minutes jumping on the bed before burrowing beneath the covers. I lucked in to an amazing show on TLC that I had wanted to see called Crazy Sexy Cancer. I was fortunate enough to meet the star of the documentary this past March when I coordinated a party for the premiere of the film. Little did I know how incredible her story was going to be. It airs again tonight at 11 p.m. so DVR it at least. You’ll be glad you did.

I swam in the ocean of cerebral hurt all night and that must’ve triggered the nightmare I had about W getting kidnapped from a playground. He and I were leaving a lingerie store (huh?) and W immediately bolted to a busy playground across the street. I couldn’t keep up with him and he soon vanished in a crowd of people. I searched frantically for him, screaming his name, delirious from the fear of losing him. The experience seemed so real, so intense. I knew in my heart as I crashed through bodies standing around the slides and swings that I couldn’t go on living without the little guy. The pain of it was larger than life. I awoke this morning panicked and with a pounding head and I didn’t waste any time before racing down the stairs to check on the kiddo who was happily playing with his monster trucks in bed…like he always does…everyday…thank the Lord.

Doesn't this picture look like W fell out of a tree or airplane and just landed like that with all of the debris around him? It's one of those worn out from the ocean naps that takes you as you are...completely exhausted.

Willem and The F Word

So here's a video of W saying something that sounds like the F word. Leave it to the Hubs to make it seem so. Notice how W calls the Hubs by his nickname. Notice the ever present pacifier held like a cigar in W's mouth. For the record the paci has a limited presence in the household these days. Not being able to have one at school has helped tremendously and I'm seriously sick of the thing.