Jingle Bells in May

Not all car rides are as much fun as this one. (On the way to the Minnesota Zoo with good friends Tonya and Amy.)


A conversation in the car ride home from daycare:

“Did you have a good day today?”

“Back-it ball.”

“You played basketball?”

“Yeah.”

“Who did you play with?”

“Daddy.”

“Daddy was at work, Silly! Did you play with Sam and Niko and Zander and Zoe?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you have for lunch?”

“Corn.”

“You had corn? What else?”

“Peanut butter.” (**I asked his daycare provider this morning if that’s what they had for lunch yesterday, and she said no, they had ham sandwiches and peas.)

“I wanna CWACKER.”

“Here ya go. Here’s a cracker. Actually, you can have two.”

“One, two, three, four, five, nine, ten, JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS!”

“You want to sing Jingle Bells? Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the -”

“Stop.”

“You don’t want me to sing?”

“Stop.”

And it starts already …

If you were here

My family - May 2, 2009. Adam in his first tie! This was taken way past his bedtime, thus the "Another photo? What? Just get me home already!" look.

Life happenings:


One of my best friends, Amy, got married May 2 at the historic Stillwater Courthouse. I was one of her matrons of honor. It was a beautiful wedding, she was a gorgeous, happy bride, and my best friends (and family) were in attendance. I even gave a speech and didn't faint.

Being in the wedding reminded me of going to prom. The hair, the makeup, the dress, the anticipation, the planning, the pampering. What girl doesn't love that? My niece April is going to prom tomorrow. I went to prom 15 years ago. I think about my prom date Brian every time I hear "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton. I wore a cute blue dress from Dayton's, Brian bought matching blue Docs, we ate at Gallivan's with a group of friends, we were part of the grand march at the Landmark Center (such a cool prom venue), we danced, Brian complained about getting his photo taken so much, and all I asked for -- all I really wanted -- was to feel pretty and appreciated after putting so many weeks of preparation into that one night. Instead, the night ended with a big stupid fight. Oh, high school drama. I have no desire to re-do high school. Life gets so much better after that. I wish more high school kids realized that.

I love 80s music. Brings me back. How can you listen to a song like "If you were here" by Thompson Twins and not think about that scene from Sixteen Candles when Samantha (Molly Ringwald) is sitting on the table, birthday cake in the center - candles glowing, cute Jake Ryan leaning in (gazing lovingly at her *sigh*), and not get chills? What a great song. What a great movie. I guess this post is taking on a prom theme, isn't it? The plot of Sixteen Candles is about getting noticed, it's about karma, it's about being awkward - something every high school kid can relate to. And in the end, the beautiful prom queen gets dumped, the geek winds up with the prom queen, and Sam gets Jake. Everyone wins (except for maybe the prom queen).

Oops I did it again. I got on the wrong bus last week. I didn't realize it until I was halfway to my destination. This is the second time I've boarded the wrong bus since I started working downtown. In my defense, I was only one digit off, I was taking a late bus that day so wouldn't expect to recognize the driver or passengers, and there was a crush of people boarding so I didn't have as much time to pay attention to the route number. When I realized what I'd done (thinking shit-shit-shit), I called Aaron (voicemail, he was at softball), my friend Megan (she was on her way to the lake), and my friend Karla (no answer). I was too embarrassed to leave Karla a detailed message with everyone standing so close - the bus was standing room only - so I whispered, "Hi, Karla. I'm in a bit of a pickle. Call me back if you have a chance." She called me back almost immediately and volunteered to rescue me by getting Adam from daycare and then driving out to the 'burbs to pick me up from a McDonald's near the foreign park and ride. That is a true friend. She didn't act annoyed or mad or inconvenienced. She simply said that these are the sorts of things friends do for one another. I can't thank her enough. We laughed about it on the ride home, but come on! Seriously. If I do this again, I'm not telling anyone. I'm calling a cab. My friends are all very nice and understanding (and helpful) but I'd never live it down.

Adam recently told me there are turtles in our sink. When I said to him, "Silly boy! Turtles live in our sink?" He looked at me, looked at the sink, then answered (in all seriousness) "Maybe not."

I have been faithfully working out now for 8 weeks. Getting up at 5 a.m. to do a workout video isn't such a bad way to start the day. (Who thought I'd ever say that??) I started taking the stairs every morning, too, up to the sixth floor. I don't know if I've lost any weight, but I do like knowing that I'm doing something good for my body. I've also started running again with my friend Julie. Just three miles one day a week, but hey, it's better than nothing.

I miss my friend Tonya. Why did she have to stay out West when I moved back home? I feel her absence in some way just about every day. It was great having her and Sam here in town for a week. It was also really nice spending time with Becky & Little G (they live in San Diego). Becky was able to (miraculously) translate a lot of what Adam was saying. She works with kids so she speaks their language. When we brought our little ones to the zoo, this is what I heard Adam say at one point: "G-blurble-shto-er-blurble" and I smiled and answered "You're hungry?" and he looked at me in frustration, like I was insulting his intelligence, emphatically told me "No-no-no!"and then Becky said "Oh, he's talking about how Georgie is sleeping in the stroller." And Adam beamed at her, nodded yes, looked at me like "Why can't you be smart like that lady?" then went back to admiring the camels.

I think Adam needs a sibling.

I need some good Book Club suggestions. (Infidel?)

I was looking at a photo of Aaron and Adam the other night and my heart swelled. I often wonder how I got so lucky. And not just once, but twice!

I wish my friends in Colorado, Idaho, Oregon, California, New York, and DC could fly to Minnesota for free.

Keep Pots Clean Or Family Gets Sick is a way to remember kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. (You can thank me later when you win a Trivial Pursuit pie piece.)

I really do believe there will be a cure for cancer in my lifetime. There has to be. We can't keep losing people to this terrible, heart-breaking disease.

How do marathoners do it? It is so inspiring watching them run.

I can't wait for patio season. It's been a long, miserable winter and a cold, wet spring. Enough already. I want to wear my flip-flops again!

I am addicted to chapstick.

We're going out of town in the morning with Meg, Bri and Sadie (I anticipate a very fun weekend) and I haven't done the dishes, laundry, picked up the toys, or packed.

And now, courtesy of Mitch Hedberg:
I saw this commercial on late night TV, it was for this thing you attach to a garden hose, it was like "You can water your hard-to-reach plants with this product." Who would make their plants hard to reach? That seems so very mean. "I know you need water, but I'm gonna make you hard to reach! I will throw water at you. Hopefully they will invent a product before you shrivel and die! Think like a cactus!

Good night!!

The kitty has fat fingers!

The first of two Easter egg hunts.

Adam and his godfather, my brother Shawn. They already have a special bond.

By the second egg hunt, Adam knew what was up. He was on a mission.

Adam is 20 months old now and weighs about 23 lbs. He’s walking and talking and it seems like a million years ago that he was a 7 lb. 10 oz. newborn. A newborn that did nothing more than sleep, poop, and eat.
And eat.
And eat.
He ate every two hours. Once I returned to work after my three-month maternity leave, I pumped twice a day, regardless of how busy my workload was, because if I didn’t, Adam would starve at daycare. I hated the pressure of being his sole source of nourishment.
And it was annoying lugging that breast pump around, even though it was disguised to look like your run-of-the-mill backpack. The male editor of our magazine once asked me why I was carrying two workbags and I told him he probably didn’t want to know. Most men—especially those without children—get squeamish at the words “breast pump.” Those who have seen a breast pump in action are even more traumatized.
I nursed Adam because it was so good for him (all-natural ingredients), it was free, and it was convenient (always the right temp and no bottles to wash!) but I was ready to be done by the time I decided to wean him, at six months.
We bought some formula and lo and behold, he drank it. I figured ‘Heck, this weaning thing is gonna be a piece of cake!’ After about a week, he broke out in hives, so we brought him to the doctor. Dr. P tested his blood and turns out he’s really allergic to cow’s milk (there’s cow’s milk protein in regular formula) and slightly allergic to eggs. We tried to switch him to soy formula, but he went on a Formula Strike, so I was forced to breastfeed for another long month.
When I was done, I was DONE.
Just the other day someone at work asked me if I was still nursing, and to be honest, the thought of breastfeeding him at his age just seems, excuse me for sounding like a total prude, but dirty. I know it’s recommended/encouraged that you breastfeed for a year or more, but when your kid is able to ask for your boob, or crawl up on your lap and unbutton your blouse, then—in my opinion—it’s time to wean. I keep thinking of the British YouTube video I saw of two elementary-aged girls still breastfeeding. Their mom thought it was the most natural thing in the world. The older daughter, she was probably 10, was so big she had to lie down on the couch to access her “snack.” I remember her saying in a lilting British accent, “We call the right one Milksie because it makes more milk!” (oh, spare me, nicknames for her mom’s boobs?!?) and the mom laughing about the fact that her girls got mad at her whenever she wore a bra.
Needless to say, that whole video was very disturbing.

I need to change the subject.

About the photos: We had a good but busy time Easter weekend. On Saturday we celebrated our niece April’s 16th birthday in Forest Lake, and since my sister Mary and her husband Ben and the kids were coming, my parents had an Easter egg hunt for the kids. The weather was beautiful and everyone was in good spirits. I can’t believe my niece is 16!
We stayed overnight in Forest Lake and celebrated Easter with my mom’s side in the afternoon (Easter egg hunt #2). It was nice to see my grandma, who has been in poor health for awhile now. I don't see her that often since she lives about two hours away in Rice Lake, Wis. She’s 80 and the last of my surviving grandparents. We used to be much closer until she started dating Mel, a crabby old man who seems pissed off at the world. She must’ve been lonely and wanted companionship, because I don’t know what else she sees in him. I didn't realize how frail she was until she came into the house using a cane. It broke my heart.
Later that day we went over to Aaron’s mom’s house in Coon Rapids and spent some quality time with the “crew.” I lucked out with his family and fortunately get along with everyone. Adam was in his element eating dirt and following Grandma everywhere she went.


Adam didn’t walk until he was 15 months old—a very late learner—but he talks all the time. Aaron likes to joke that while Adam’s daycare buddies were learning to walk, Adam was sitting there, watching and learning new words. He was soaking it all in.
Two nights ago he was sitting in his high chair, watching a squirrel up in a tree and he got all excited and announced, “Squirrel up der! Jump down! I go get it! Jacket on. Ok?” Whenever he wants to go outside he’ll say “Jacket on. Ok?”
It’s crazy that I can actually understand his train of thought now.
He speaks in actual sentences: “Where Mama go?” “I don’t want to.” “Oh man!” “You do it.” “I want to get down.” “I want more.” (That one comes out sounding like I wanna-mohz).
He says “MOVE” when we’re doing the dishes together and he wants to run his spoon under the water. I’m trying to teach him to say “my turn” or “excuse me” instead but somehow I don’t think he will, although he is polite enough to say “bless you” after you sneeze.
When he gets mad, he shouts “BYE!” and then chucks whatever he’s holding. It’s like this total act of defiance. He will throw every stuffed animal out of his crib when he doesn’t want to sleep. I always know when he’s up in the middle of the night because I hear the thud, thud, thud of stuffed animals hitting the ground before he starts crying for me. The worst is when he starts wailing and says, “Mama, I wanna get down, PLEASE!” If he didn’t throw that please in there, it would sound more like whining—which is easy to ignore because it's so irritating—but the please brings it to a whole new level of pleading (one I can’t ignore).

He wants to be outside all the time. Doesn’t matter if it’s freezing-ass cold out and his nose is running like a faucet, he still wants to be outside—looking for rocks, dogs, or birds or playing with his ball. Lately it’s become a struggle to get him into his carseat, too. He doesn’t want to sit in the car, he wants to play outside. On our 15-minute drive home from daycare yesterday he told me he wanted to “get out RIGHT NOW and GO WALKING!”
Patience may not be his greatest virtue.

He loves playing in that germy little play area at Maplewood Mall. He’s in his element when he’s able to watch the bigger kids run and scream and play. Sometimes he forgets where he is and will stop in his tracks to stare at them. This is very annoying when it happens at the top of the slide and other kids are behind him, waiting to get down. He has been compared to Aaron in this respect. (We don’t call his dad “starin’ Aaron” for nothing!)
At the playground, he likes to slide down the slide head-first, arms in front of him like Superboy, or crawl on anything that’s crawl-able, or swing higher and higher and higher.
He's not scared of heights or speed or large plastic horses or going around in circles. I know this because I took him on the carousel at the mall and he was beaming the whole ride, especially whenever we passed my mom and Aaron, when he would wave and shout "Hi Daddy! Hi Grandma!" and then laugh like a maniac.

He has ingested dirt on more than one occasion. How can dirt taste good?

He has been to two Wild hockey games (and managed to sit through two of the three periods, thanks to his newfound interest in popcorn), and can identify basketball and baseball games on TV. He has a pint-sized basketball hoop in the house and plays ball with Aaron at least once a week.

Before you give him too much credit for being a boy’s boy, he also likes to play with my makeup while I’m getting ready in the morning. He’ll take a makeup brush, open my bronzer, rub it around, sweep it across his forehead, smile, and announce, “MY MAKEUP.” (Hey, at least he’s not playing with my tampons anymore.)

What did Adam remember about our visit to Como Zoo early this spring with Grandma and Grandpa, Uncle Shawny (who, by the way, he adores) and April? Not the monkeys, the tigers, or the penguins. He remembered the giraffe and the zebra and their “poopies!” I blame myself for pointing this out. I blame the daycare kids for laughing and encouraging that response.

He likes to make funny faces in the mirror with me, he will perform his pacifier trick on command (he puts it in upside-down and twirls it around without touching it with his fingers. This is harder than it seems. Both Aaron and I tried to do it and couldn’t figure it out. Yes, both Aaron and I put a pacifier in our mouth and attempted to spin it. We are not beyond that behavior), and he still likes to turn his plastic bowls into hats after he’s done eating. (messy, messy, messy) He also likes to wipe food in his hair. I have to give him a bath nearly every night because of this.

His latest expression is saying, “Well, hi” when you walk into a room. He also made me laugh recently when he announced “The kitty has fat fingers!” when talking about Pip (so that’s what those paws look like to a toddler!) and just the other day, when a bus pulled up in front of our house to bring the neighbor kids to school, Adam’s mouth dropped open in his typical animated manner, he looked at me, exclaimed “BUS!” then added in an amazed tone “PEOPLE ON IT.” I don’t know if he thought all buses were empty or what, but the fact that there were kids on it really threw him for a loop.

He likes looking at photos almost as much as I do. Could this be a genetic trait? He’ll bring the flip photo album over to me about once a week, climb up on my lap, then ask “Who’s that?” while we look at our friends and relatives and identify each and every one of them.

Seeing as how he has voluntarily given himself time outs, I’m thinking that he doesn’t consider them to be any sort of real threat/punishment. Just last weekend he put himself into a time out. When Aaron told him that he wasn’t being naughty and didn’t need to stand in the corner, he walked up to the dining room table, slapped it, then promptly went back to his spot in the corner.

We have regressed with the whole sleep thing and are (once again) having issues. What I wouldn’t give for a whole night of uninterrupted sleep …

He is OBSESSED with Aaron’s mom. She’s like the Pied Piper. Whenever she’s in a room, kids gravitate toward her and follow her around like lost puppies. I have never seen anything like it. Ever. It’s amazing. They’re spellbound in her presence.
“Gramma-gramma-gramma-GRAMMA!” “Where Gramma go?” “I want Gramma. I miss Gramma. I WANT GRAMMA!” I am invisible when Grandma is around, which, most of the time, is perfectly fine with me. I mean, I get it. She’s Grandma. He’s supposed to be crazy about her. That’s part of the Grandma “gig.” Plus it gives me an opportunity to catch up with Adam’s Auntie Amy or Auntie April or Uncle Josh or Josh’s sweet girlfriend Anita—all of whom I love. But sometimes it’s kind of, I don’t know, hurtful that he prefers her over me. No one wants to be second-best, ya know?

We regularly see his cousins Max (exactly 2 months older than Adam and about a foot taller), Morgan (three weeks older), Lane (4), Logan (almost one) and Kayla (9) on Aaron’s side; April (16), Eva (7), Leo (5) and Lou (3) on my side; and his little friends Greta (2) and Sadie (9 mo) who we make a point of seeing fairly regularly. He has many little friends in our lovely state as well as Wisconsin, Michigan, California, Colorado, Texas, Kentucky and New York.
His circle of friends will expand when my friend Karla has another baby this fall and my friend Amy gets knocked up after her wedding this spring. I can’t wait for Amy to experience the joys and pains of motherhood along with the rest of us girls. Megan, Karla, Amy, Tonya and I have been close friends since high school—we’ve experienced first kisses, first boyfriends, first (crappy) jobs, first “real” jobs, and everything that comes along with finding good men and marrying them—so it’s only fitting that we get to experience parenthood together, too.

Adam’s favorite foods are hot dogs, hamburgers, FRENCH FRIES, strawberries, oranges, grapes, crackers, fruit snacks, and waffles. He eats chicken and turkey and fish and pork, but prefers red meat over white. He eats corn and broccoli and carrots but isn’t crazy about beans or squash. We have to bribe him to drink his soy milk (he’d have juice 24-7 if we let him). He tried some whip cream the other day, smiled his big Cheshire grin, then proclaimed “I LIKE IT!” We’re still too nervous to give him straight cheese or milk, but we’re slowly introducing milk products into his diet. So far, so good.

Aaron and I were in Wisconsin this past weekend for my college friend Sara’s bachelorette party and another college friend’s tenth anniversary party on Saturday—and while we had fun hanging out with the adults (and drinking lots of beer)—we really missed Adam. On Sunday, when we picked up the little squirt from my parents’ house, his face lit up like the sky on the Fourth of July. “Mama! Daddy!” he yelled from his high chair. “Mama! Daddy! HOLD IT!” (Hold it = hold me in Adam’s world). I guess I didn’t realize just how much I missed him until I saw his adorable little face. When I unbuckled him from his high chair, he announced “Kisses,” grabbed my face and planted a wet one on me. It was a very touching moment. He wouldn’t let me out of his sight that whole night and would yell “NO, MAMA, HOLD IT!” if I attempted to set him down. (My arms got very sore.)
These days, I hold him whenever he asks me to because I know he won’t be small forever. I dance with him whenever he asks me to because I know that will change one day, too. I have to appreciate this phase while I can. In the blink of an eye, he’ll be in another stage of development—and this phase—with that sweet voice and those high-pitched giggles and a never-ending vocabulary of new words and that hilarious “big-boy” swagger where he swings one arm dramatically as he walks, these pieces of Adam will be part of his past.
Time slips by so quickly. I felt that way at my 10-year high school reunion, and again at my 15 last summer. I think I was a little bit in denial about aging, but when I got to my last reunion and looked around the room and realized that my high school acquaintances—the people who were also victims of bad 80s/90s fashion trends, those who sat next to me in class and on the bus to away meets, friends from elementary school slumber parties and junior high dances—are a bunch of balding, beer-bellied, wrinkled adults AND THEY’RE MY AGE, it was a major reality check. We remember what Michael Jackson looked like “before.” We made friendship bracelets for one another. We traded stickers. And now many of us have kids. Some have been divorced (some multiple times). Many have lost grandparents; some have even lost parents. Some are still very trendy and some need serious makeovers (Clinton? Stacey? An intervention, please?)
I guess I realized then that time doesn’t slow down for anyone, regardless of how young you feel ... it will always keep marching on, whether you want it to or not. With every passing phase of Adam’s development I feel a twinge of sadness that he’s growing up too fast, so I try to live in the moment as much as I can.

Gene Simmons ain't got nothin' on him

Adam, pictured with my good friend Amy and Adam's two little buddies, Sadie and Greta. (Daughters of two of my dearest friends, Megan and Karla.) He's one crazy little guy!

Think it's time to move?

After a fresh snowfall about four years ago, while my husband was out of town skiing with some friends, I decided to shovel our sidewalk. It was late, but I didn’t realize how late because the streetlights were reflecting off the snow banks, making it seem earlier than it was. It was quiet and peaceful outside, the air was cool and crisp, and it felt good to be exerting some energy. So, there I am, lost in my thoughts, shoveling away, when a car pulls up across the street and a guy gets out. His friend stays in the passenger seat. My women’s intuition kicks in and I start feeling nervous. Something doesn’t seem right. He crosses the street and walks toward me. I keep shoveling, wondering if I could use the shovel as a weapon if I had to, wishing I had paid better attention in my self-defense class back in college.
He tells me that his friend’s car broke down and they need a few bucks for gas money.
“For five bucks I can finish shoveling,” he says.
I’m almost done shoveling and tell him thanks, but I’m almost done (and I was).
“We need gas money,” he says again. “I can finish shoveling for you.”
I try to remain calm as I suggest that he ask a neighbor instead. He shakes his head no. I realize he’s not going anywhere and tell him, “Let me go inside the house and see what I have.”
I try not to break into an all-out sprint, my heart racing, and barely remember to leave the shovel outside. Once I’m in the kitchen I lock the door with hands shaking harder than a senior with Parkinson’s. I figure he’ll get the hint that I’m not coming back outside and go away.
I am wrong.
A few minutes later, he starts banging on the front door. He’s not politely knocking. He’s banging. I’m home alone and frozen with fear. What do I do? What do I do? He’s going to break in and rob me. He’s going to rape me. He’s going to murder me. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
I do what any self-respecting 29-year-old would do and call my dad, even though he lives 30 minutes away.
“There’s a guy outside banging on the front door and he wanted gas money and I don’t want to call 911 if it’s not an emergency and I’m home alone and—”
My dad cuts me off, “Call 911.”
“I don’t want to bother them,” I answer. “What if he’s harmless?”
“What if he’s not?” he asks.
Good point.
I tell my dad I’ll call him right back. I hang up the landline, take my cell phone to the stairwell (for some reason I feel safe there), and call 911. I have never called 911 before. For anything. The dispatcher is very nice and tells me I am the third person in the area to call with a similar complaint. She wants me to stay on the line with her until an officer arrives. In the meantime, my poor dad is trying to reach me on our landline and I’m not picking up so he’s thinking he should jump in his truck and drive 100 mph to get to me and make sure I’m alright. I can hear the phone ringing and ringing but I am too nervous to get up out of my hiding ‘spot’ to answer it (I don’t want the Bad Guy to see me), plus I am on my cell phone with the dispatcher. The phone is ringing, my heart is pounding, and the whole time this guy is relentlessly banging on the front door. It feels like the perfect set-up for a horror movie.
After what seems like an eternity (in actuality probably a few minutes), a squad car arrives—cherries flashing—and I am finally able to stop holding my breath. I am covered in a cold sweat. I hang up with the dispatcher and call my dad back, apologizing for nearly giving him a heart attack. He’s just glad I’m alright. I peer out the window to see a young officer (my hero) talking to the a-holes. I wait inside the house. As soon as I see the big dude get in his car, I venture outside. The driver notices me, WAVES and smiles, like this is all some sick joke to him.
The officer tells me that he knows both men well and they are wanted for crimes in California, but since California doesn’t extradite, we—unfortunately—are stuck with them in Minnesota.
“They’re fairly harmless,” the officer tries to reassure me.
All I hear was “wanted for crimes.” I don’t think to ask what the crimes were. I don’t think much of anything except that I’m sure as hell not sleeping in that house alone.
The officer waits outside while I run inside and hastily pack an overnight bag. My adrenaline is pumping. I exceed the speed limit by quite a few miles as I drive up to my parents’ house. I call my husband to tell him the story, but it doesn’t sound as scary when I’m relaying it to him. It sounds like I over-exaggerated.
That whole winter I was paranoid about those guys returning to seek revenge on me. And four years later, I still don’t feel entirely safe in my neighborhood.

* Since then, there was a gang-related drive-by shooting on our street, a gang rape two blocks down from our house (the victim was six months pregnant), and two well-publicized baseball bat attacks—one victim a 49-year-old woman battling cancer; the other an 18-year-old guy—at the park we used to regularly exercise in. I know crime can happen in any neighborhood, but this is ridiculous.

Beheading a wiseman and other Christmas tales

Adam showed his love this Christmas by beheading both a shepherd and a wiseman from his ceramic nativity set (nothing that a little superglue couldn't repair) and by chucking Baby Jesus under the couch. I had to retrieve Jesus at least a dozen times. **Sorry about that, Baby Jesus!

One of Adam’s Christmas gifts this year was a broom and dustpan from Santa. The idea came after watching him lug our regular-sized broom around, which always ended with him losing control of the broom, the broom falling over, Adam falling over, then Adam getting frustrated and yelling “NO!” at the broom. He now has full control of his broom. Any time I get out my broom, he heads off in search of his. I even taught him how to sweep the crumbs under the rug right before company comes over.

Even though he doesn't really "get" Christmas just yet, that didn't stop his godparents — Uncle Shawn and Auntie Trish—and both sets of grandparents from spoiling him. He also received clothes, toys, and books from his aunts, uncles, and cousins on Aaron’s side, two of his great-aunties, his great-grandparents, and even a few of our close friends (which was definitely a surprise).
Besides the broom, he REALLY likes the Leap Frog Fridge Farm refrigerator magnets he received from my parents. Adam and I dance in the kitchen to the banjo tune of “We’ll be comin’ ‘round the mountain” every day, and I’m pretty sure I’ve gone to bed with this song stuck in my head: “You put the duck in front, you put the cow behind, put them together, and what do you find? A duck-cow, that’s silly!”

My 25-year-old baby brother Nick’s Christmas gift to Adam was a bright orange rubber ball, complete with crazy rubber spikes sticking out everywhere. It looks like a big orange porcupine. Nick watched with eager anticipation as Adam opened it, hoping for a positive reaction. His reaction was a look of terror and scooting away from the ball as fast as he could, chanting “no-no-no-no-no” as he hid behind Aaron. Nick felt bad that Adam didn’t like his gift, so kept showing him the ball as the night went on, hoping he’d come around to it. He didn’t. We finally had to hide the ball on Nick so Adam could relax. (Even after we hid it, Adam looked around the room and asked timidly, “Ball?” like it was going to attack him from its hiding spot.)
Since then, he has worked up the courage to touch the ball, but he definitely isn’t ready to play with it. When you ask him what he got from Uncle Nick for Christmas, he answers with wide-eyed seriousness, “Ball.”
I’m going to re-gift it when Nick has kids of his own some day.

Right after the holidays Adam started saying the name Nick whether actually referring to Nick (and the ball), my older brother Shawn, Jeremy, Russ, my dad, Aaron’s dad, Aaron’s brother Josh, any of our guy friends, some of our girl friends, and just about anyone else.
When Aaron and Adam were grocery shopping, Adam shouted “Hi Nick!” to a 50-something man as he walked past their cart.
The man stopped, looked incredulously at Adam, then asked Aaron, “Did he just say ‘Hi Nick’?”
Aaron was about to explain that it was Adam’s favorite name of the moment, when the guy exclaimed, “MY NAME IS NICK! That boy is a genius!”
Well, we can’t argue with that now, can we?


Adam and I were snuggling this morning when he sat up, stared intently at my face, then leaned over and gave me a big kiss on the lips. Because it wasn’t the usual “on demand” kiss, it was extra sweet. I wish I could bottle these moments up and take them out years later as a reminder of the “good old days” … I’m thinking it would come in handy when he’s a smelly 15-year-old teenager who’s too lazy to take out the garbage.

Statistically he’s 21 pounds and 31.5 inches long, which puts him in the FIFTH percentile for weight (meaning out of 100 kids his age, only FIVE are smaller than him!) and 30th for height. The doc isn’t concerned about his weight so I’m not worried. I just think it’s funny that he was in the 90th percentile for weight when he was a month or two old, and I was worried that I was going to be raising a sumo wrestler. I don’t think he’s going to be sumo wrestling anymore.

He calls grapes “balls.” “Mo balls, plea?” Actually, he’s OBSESSED with balls. (Just not his own … yet.)

Bikes are “vroom, vrooms” (complete with a motorcycle wrist-twist.) We take regular field trips down to the basement to check out the vroom vrooms. Every time we go down there, Adam whispers in hushed amazement "WOW!"

When he wants you to follow him, he’ll motion with his hand and say “C’mon.”

He’ll say my name over and over if he wants to get my attention. “Mom-mom-mom-mom-MOM!”

He’s a little performer and makes us laugh every day. He even has a “silly face” where he closes his eyes and scrunches up his nose.

He’s very verbal and talk, talk, talking from sun up to sun down. Sometimes we don’t understand a word of it, other times we catch a word or two, and sometimes he speaks as clear as could be. (Like pointing at Aaron’s beer and saying, “WANT THAT.”) He still loves it when we read to him and is regularly dragging his books around, chanting, “BOO-k, BOO-k” like he has some sort of foreign accent.

Maybe all 17-month-olds love to jam, but I like to think that Adam inherited some sort of dancing gene. I’ve never met a dance floor I didn’t like (even when slipping on someone’s spilled drink), Aaron is a great dancer (to all the men who say they “don’t dance,” I say: BORING!), my brother Shawn used to dance once a week at the Gold Rush Nightclub (and is still an awesome dancer), my brother Nick has some “mad moves,” and now Adam is proving that he can shake it with the best of us. He dances to the radio, his Leap Frog Fridge Farm, his Raffi CD, my Prince CD, to the church band at St. Mark’s, and to musical Christmas ornaments (particularly a rapping Santa at our house, a saxophone-playing snowman at Grandma Patti’s, and a singing snowman and his dog over at my parents’ house). Adam has even danced to cell phone ring tones. He has danced while sitting down and while standing up. He has danced his way down hallways and across living room floors and in kitchens and in the car. In the wise words of Lee Ann Womack, when he has the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope he dances.

Adam goes CRAZY when he sees a dog on TV or outside. He can’t get enough of my brother’s dog, Bella (referred to simply as “Woof woof”), and chased after my aunt and cousins’ Chihuahuas (four of them total) for hours on Christmas Day. I wish we could buy a dog, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave a pooch in our house from 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday - Friday, our house isn’t really big enough (it feels cramped with just the three of us living there), and we’re gone about one weekend every month, which would leave us with the predicament of finding a dog sitter. Maybe someday, when we get different jobs and move to a bigger house, we’ll buy Adam a dog.

He has a tiny bit of a temper. When he tripped over one of his toys the other day, he promptly got up, walked over to the toy, yelled “NO!” and slapped it. (There. You take THAT, you inanimate object!)

He has sampled my parents’ cat’s food THREE different times now. The last time I busted him, it went down like this:
“Adam, no-no. Put that kitty food back.”
He quickly shoves a few pieces into his mouth.
“Adam, no. You don’t eat kitty food!”
Chew, chew, chew. Look of disgust. Then spit, spit, spit. Frantically scrapes his tongue with his little fingers. More spitting.
I truly hope he learned his lesson that last time.


He is a Master Sorter. He takes things out, transfers them, then returns them. He’s done this with a basket of plastic Easter eggs, Tupperware containers, a fake vegetable garden in the Children's Museum Hmong exhibit, small toys, blocks, and crayons. All efforts to get him interested in coloring have failed. He’s only interested in sorting the crayons. His very favorite things to sort, though, are my tampons. He sorts them, carries them around, and then puts them back into the box, one-by-one. He could be learning his colors this way (green, yellow, blue) or his shapes (big, medium, small). It’s educational! One morning, while I was doing my hair, I looked over and he was sitting in the hallway, wearing a cardboard applicator on his finger like a finger puppet, with the string and tampon hanging off to the side. I thought it was hilarious, Adam thought he invented a new toy, shouting “Mama! Mama! Look!” as he dangled it around, and Aaron was totally NOT amused.

In the past few weeks, our usually good eater has been on a Vegetable Strike. He won’t eat peas or carrots or broccoli or green beans or squash unless we find creative ways to hide them in his food. Our doctor told us that he’s never seen a parent win a food battle with a toddler. Very encouraging. He told us to do the best we can.
Our daycare provider, Mary, thought she had figured out a way to fool him into eating his veggies.
“I put the ketchup on his plate, and he dipped each green bean in the ketchup before gobbling them up! I thought, ‘This is great! I’ll serve ketchup all the time!’”
When she took him out of his high chair, she said it was like an “avalanche” of green beans fell off his lap.
He had LICKED the ketchup off each bean before hiding the evidence under the tray on his lap. Based on the amount of beans that fell on the floor, she said it looked like he hadn’t swallowed a single one.

The wall across from his high chair has now been attacked by flying hamburger, spaghetti, fish sticks, tater tots, rice, pasta, chicken, squash, corn, French fries, chicken noodle soup, crackers, meatballs, hot dish, waffles, toast, eggs, bacon, and pancakes. We have tried over and over to sternly tell him NOT TO THROW HIS FOOD, but it doesn’t seem to sink in. (It’s usually how he signals to us that he’s done eating, as annoying as that can be.) He’s also a very messy eater, smearing sauce all over his face, splattering food on his sleeves, and wiping his hands in his hair a minimum of three times throughout the meal, but I can’t get mad about that. Have you ever seen me eat?

I always think it’s sort of goofy when people say they can’t remember what life was like before their kids arrived. Really? You can’t remember the 20-or-30-some years that preceded their arrival? So much for those memories.
I remember what my life was like before Adam, but now that he's here, I don’t ever want to think about being without him. I like the New Normal. It's a pretty amazing place.

… Because we spend more time at work than with our loved ones

I have been in the “real world” for a few years now (it’s been 12 years now since I graduated from college) and in that time I have developed some workplace pet peeves. One of my biggest complaints is the Walking Dead who come to work hacking, sniffling, and groaning about how sick they are. Really? You feel sick? Then USE ONE OF YOUR SICK DAYS AND STAY HOME. I’d understand if we didn’t have sick days to burn, but we do! News flash to anyone who thinks they HAVE to come to work when they feel like crap because they just have SO much to do: you are not so important that the office can’t function without you for a day or two.

Other annoyances:

• When people sign emails with “Best.” Have we become so lazy that we can’t write two more words and sign off with “All the best” or “All my best?”

• Anyone who doesn’t wash their hands after using the bathroom. What is wrong with you? Were you raised in a barn?

• Clients who lie about not receiving emails or voicemails.

• Cheap-skates who don’t donate to baby shower gifts but still have the nerve to sign the card and show up at the shower.

• When I can hear two coworkers on the phone IN A CALL TO EACH OTHER. Sort of defeats the purpose of the phone, doesn’t it? Either shoot her an email or get off your ass and walk over to her desk so we don’t all have to listen to your conversation.

• Speaking of Loud Talkers, there is one in my office—who has a wonderful, spunky, charming personality—but talks so loud that I can’t concentrate or think sometimes (and I know it’s not just me).

• If you don’t know how to do something, ask. Don’t pretend that you know if you don't. It will irritate the rest of your competent workers when you/we have to re-do everything at the last minute because it’s all wrong.

• When pregnant coworkers say, “Baby’s hungry” in order to justify whatever it is they’re eating. No, YOU are hungry, and that’s fine. Just eat the damn cheesecake already.

• When The Food Police feel it’s necessary to tell you what’s in your breakfast/processed meal/can of Coke and how bad it is for you. (Sometimes I don’t want to think about the nutritional value, I just want to enjoy the taste!)

• Chronic whiners. If your job sucks so much, maybe you should quit!

• The very annoying and very persistent “I sell home products in my free time and I will keep asking you if you want to buy some over-priced item until I wear you down” Consultant. How many times do I have to tell my coworker that no, I do NOT want to buy a candle (and no, I really don’t want to host a party), before she gets the hint?

• Malicious gossip. “Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss other people.”

• We have two functioning dishwashers in the kitchen. If one is overflowing with dirty dishes, add detergent and start it rather than leave your dirty dishes in the sink. If the other one is full of clean dishes, put those away and put your dirty dishes in there. It’s not that hard.

• Anyone who has a superiority complex. Get off your high horse. We all put our pants on one leg at a time.

How about you? What are your office pet peeves?