So, you want to know how the potty trainingis going?

I'll tell you how it's going. Not that great. But not that bad, either. At the beginning of last week, when we informed the Tank that his diapers were too small (except for at night, when they miraculously fit), he avoided wetting his pants about ten percent of the time. Score: Potty 1, The Tank 9. The next day, Team Potty did a little better, scoring about 2 to the Tank's 8. A week later, they've really grown as a team, with plenty of coaching. Team Potty is winning, usually around 7 to 3. Team Potty still has yet to score the elusive 3-pointer, poop. In a valiant attempt to seal the deal for a three, a fine pair of Bob the Builder briefs was sacrificed. That's okay. We can shake it off (Um. The loss. Not the poop. Never shake a poop.) The team is still young. By next season, they'll be hitting them out of the park and right into the toilet bowl. And the coaches of Team Potty are working hard to recruit the Tank. POTTY! POTTY! GOOOOOOOOO, POTTY! And the crowd goes wild! So does the Tank.

Seriously? I don't care if he wants to be on the team or not, we're making him play. I know some parents disagree. They believe that some things shouldn't be forced. I even believe that, sort of. I mean, if your kid is great at soccer but hates the uniforms, wouldn't you consider making him do it? Am I the only parent that ever signed a kid up for something I knew he would enjoy in the end without telling him? For the reluctant child, anticipation is the worst.

My mother knew my sisters should take piano. They did not agree, so she told them they could quit at the end of the year, which they did. One crisp fall afternoon, she called them downstairs,

"Get in the car, girls!" she chirped. "We're going for ice cream!"

Now, if my gluttonous sisters had any sense, they would have hidden somewhere good. In what alternate universe did my mother ever take us for ice cream just for the heck of it? Well, now that I think about it, I do remember trips to Baskin Robbins, Hooligan's and occasionally Rossini's. And Zesto. And McDonald's for soft serve. So I guess we did eat a lot of ice cream. Why didn't I remember this until now? We also always had some in the freezer. What was it with my family and ice cream? Dammit. Now I want ice cream, like a scoop of Swiss Orange Chip from Swenson's. Do they still have that? Spectacular. But I digress.

They piled into the car, so excited about ice cream they didn't notice the ominous pile of last year's piano books on the front seat. This all happened back in the eighties, when kids could sit wherever they liked in air-bagless cars, so one of them might have been sitting on the books. They didn't notice as mom passed the closest ice cream shop and headed in the opposite direction from several others. They were completely at ease, trusting, as mom pulled onto beautiful, tree-lined Saluda Avenue. They continued to dream of ice cream, carefully considering what single flavor they might choose. We did get ice cream often, but only one scoop. Their short-lived hopes were dashed in a moment when the car stopped. Right in front of Mrs. Tucker's house.

"Get out," my mother said.

"WHAT? Nooooooo! You said we could get IIIIIIICE CREAM!"

"I lied. Get out."

"But...but...but, MOM...you SAID..."

"I don't care what I said. Get out. Mrs. Tucker is waiting."

"But..." Their complaints slowed to soft whimpers. They knew they couldn't win. Back in the eighties, children's victories over their parents were as rare as airbags.

"You are being rude. Mrs. Tucker is expecting you and her feelings will be hurt. She's looking out the window and she can see you."

Whether they like piano or not, everybody likes Mrs. Tucker. Although I seriously doubt she was staring piteously out the window waiting on my unmusical sisters as my mother claimed, it was a good argument, because nobody in their right minds would want to disappoint the divine and charming Mrs. Tucker. Which is why I started taking my own children to her for lessons when they entered first grade. For the most part, they like it.

So, I know some parents disagree with our method, if you can call it that. One such parent has mentioned on at least two occasions that we should let him go back to diapers. I disagree and told him he needed to criticize our parenting behind our backs and only to his wife, like we criticize his and everyone else's. Yup, that's right. We talk about you behind your back. The reason we don't tell you to your face is we know we're probably wrong. It just makes us feel better about our own lame parenting skills to disparage yours. Got a problem with it? Maybe our method sucks, but it's working. Ish. So there.

And the Tank isn't mad at us. He's kind of mad at his underpants, but I can live with that. He's still cute as a button. The other morning at the beach, he was sleeping on a futon a few feet from our bed. he woke up and the first thing he said was,

"I know that smell! That's my mommy!"

I'm going to assume it was a good smell. Maybe not. He also pointed to me the other day and smiled.

"That's my mommy! I loves her!"

Are these the utterances of a child suffering irreparable psychological damage from bad potty training? I think not. He also continues to refer to his brothers as "my boys," even though they, too, have encouraged him to join Team Potty. He loves us all and we believe in him. Gooooooo, Potty! And the crowd goes wild...

Namasté, y'all!

Quinoa Week comes to an anti-climactic close.

Well. I don't love this recipe, but I liked it. And it was all I had the energy to make after a few days in Charleston for their Fashion Week. According to the Weekly Beet, I may be suffering from PFST. I agree with this diagnosis and must acknowledge that I may also be suffering from PCFS*. To aid my recovery, I'm eating nice and clean and avoiding alcohol, for at least a few days. I am one-hundred percent sure I'll be drinking heartily on Friday night, when we're finally going to Orangeburg to try Four Moons. TF almost gave up alcohol for Lent like he has never in the history of the world managed to do, but he tries and fails does every year. Honestly? I don't even think he tries that hard. Because if he is trying, and continues to fail, don't we need to acknowledge he has a problem. And doesn't that mean I, too, have a problem? Why don't you shut-up, fun hater? So, he's our driver, because Four Moons is far, far away, y'all. And if I'm going that far for a meal, I'm going to wash it down with plenty of bubbly so I can pass out for the long drive home. But I digress.

Anyhow, I have dessert fantasies about the quinoa. My ultimate goal is to roast it with some nuts and some sort of caramel sauce so it gets crispy, at which point I will crumble it over ice cream or just eat it. Any suggestions as to an effective way to achieve this would be welcome. I'm thinking a burnt caramel taste, like those almond bowls in fancy restaurants. I figured a quinoa pudding would be easy, similar to rice pudding, so I didn't try that, but I most certainly will some day. The breakfast quinoa recipe is pretty close to a dessert, actually. I decided to attempt the next easiest thing, Apple Quinoa Crumble. Crumble is like impromptu bread pudding or Bisquick cobbler - not fancy, no need for a recipe, not exactly company food, but way better than pudding from a mix. Unless it's the pistachio kind. Do they still make that? Is it as good as I remember or was I as desperate for sweets as my children are, because we both have mothers who are so mean they want us to eat healthy and never give us dessert? Would I still like it? These are questions for another day. Now that I think about it, pistachios would be an excellent addition to the Quinoa Crumble. Here we go...

Apple Quinoa Crumble

Pre-heat your oven to 350° and cut up a few apples. Put them in a buttered casserole dish. Sprinkle the apples with cider vinegar or lemon juice. I feel sure white vinegar wouldn't be the end of the world.



In another bowl, mix 1/2 cup cooked quinoa, 1/2 cup sliced almonds, a few big spoonfuls of sugar, quite a few shakes of cinnamon, a dash of salt and about 1/4 cup melted butter. Stir all that together**.



Spoon the topping over the apples.



Bake it until the apples are soft, 30 to 40 minutes. Spoon it over ice cream and drizzle a little bit of honey to add sweetness if you like.



Honestly, this will not be the most decadent dessert you've ever eaten, but it's a nice way to use up the end of that huge bowl of quinoa you cooked at the beginning of the week and it's pretty satisfying. Besides, it's pretty healthy, especially if you used frozen yogurt, which would probably complement it better than the rich, full-fat vanilla my kids bought with the twenty dollar bill I gave them while I waited in the car with the Tank, who was in no condition to go into a grocery store. I was going to send the X-Man in by himself, leaving O. at home alone for a few minutes (He's almost 11. Don't call CPS. Also, he is pretty smart.) However, the X-Man requested his big brother's help for the adventure because, he explained, "Sometimes I get kind of shy." Aw.

Incidentally, one of the most amusing things I ever did with those two was give them $5 and send them into Palmetto Candy and Tobacco*** with orders to buy whatever they wanted without asking for more money or fighting. They were five and eight years old and I sat in the car just outside the store with a sleeping infant and waited. I had taken them there before and didn't want to deal with the drama. Palmetto sells candy in bulk and they have big barrels of candy from bulk packages that ripped. The barrels are labeled "5 for $1," "10 for $1" and so on. There is at least one barrel with big stuff, each item costing a whole dollar. And there are sodas. And bags of potato chips. Anyhow, I think it's a fun place for kids to go, a Columbia institution, but I couldn't deal with the (literal) nickle and diming once we were inside. So I gave them the money and the orders. And I prayed. In less than eight minutes, they left the store, skipping past the cigar store Indian standing guard by the door, right behind a house painter heading back to his van and laughing his head off. In their little hands, they held more candy than they had ever owned at once. In an effort to save the environment, they decided they didn't need bags. There was candy spilling from their pockets, their shirts, their clenched fists and their socks. They were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. And they had change from the $5.

I had one of those "Oh." parenting moments. I avoided the whining, they felt really proud of themselves and kind of bonded over the whole experience and I didn't even have to wake up the baby. They learned about budgeting and teamwork. It was the feel-good moment of the year! Why didn't I think of that?

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. I have ordered something new and exciting, for me at least. My new thing is a Flip Video MinoHD Camcorder. I'll mostly use it for my other blog, but I'm sure it will prove useful on this one, too. Perhaps I will film myself dying my own eyebrows. Maybe I'll take higher quality videos of my lawn. Perhaps I will film TF snoring. Don't warn him, m'kay? I haven't gotten it yet, so if anyone knows of any reason I should not be wedded to this cute little camera, speak now or forever hold your peace. Opinions welcome.


* Post-Child-free Syndrome. Oh. My. Gosh. It was awesome. The first two and a half days were also husband-free. No offense to TF, but that was pretty awesome, too. Waking up whenever I wanted (9 am-ish,) eating breakfast in peace, showering at leisure, spending the whole day meandering...and I didn't have to rush back to get ready because, with no one around to "help," I can shower, relax, put on makeup and get dressed in fifteen minutes. And I wear a lot of makeup, y'all.

** Sometimes, I like to over-use the sharpen function in photo-editing software because it makes the food look more like dishes in a seventies cookbook, which I like. Discuss. Or not.

*** Which my nephew used to call "The Candy Meadow." How cute is that?

Seth Myers is hot. And funny.

And would make a great parent. Love his suggestion for how to respond to the kids when they ask about Bong-gate.



In other news, thanks to a relatively new reader who so gets my sense of humor it isn't even funny (Mwah!), I plan to order this:

Yes, it is a potty that looks like a slot machine and rewards the potty trainee with a fancy noise each time he adds more "currency." I can feel it. This is going to work for the Tank, who has already been expelled from school. Oh, I didn't mention that? Yup. It's true. TF and I have finally gotten our karmic payback for that one time he criticized some other hapless parents, in the privacy of our own home, and put forth the theory that they should "try our way." I tried to stop him, but the words were out before my hand clapped over his yammering mouth. Ergo, the Tank is our just reward. I was working at home sitting around in my pajamas, sucking down coffee and trying to beat my a-hole sister's damn Scramble score on Facebook on Friday morning when I got the call. I knew it was bad when the drop-in nursery's name appeared on my phone's screen*.

"Hello?" I tried to sound clueless.

They were actually very, very nice. He had been put in time-out three times for sh*t kicking being less than kind to his friends. After a fourth assault, he got to sit in a chair beside the director's desk. You may think this is unpleasant. It is not. She is one of the kindest people I've ever met and he probably likes hanging out there. He's been there before, but this time was different. I didn't ask for details, but let's just assume he was pissing and moaning so much they couldn't take it. Thankfully, they were too kind to say.

I think the Viva Las Vegas potty will appeal to my little thug. I think dry pants will transform him into a kinder, gentler Tank. I think a lot of things that aren't true, but humor me. Just in case, we also took him for his first haircut, a rite of passage we hope will inspire him to use the d*mn potty and stop kicking his friends.

Namasté, y'all!

* See. I'm not all bad. I do have the numbers of the kids' schools saved on my phone. And I could look up their pediatrician's number in the phone book any time I wanted to. Or I could drive there, because I know exactly where it is. Gold star for me!

Why I need to shorten my showers from two minutes to forty five seconds.

I was desperate. I had some stupid fantasy, the same one I have every day of my life, about appearing to the world as a fully bathed and dressed adult. Every now and then, I like to do that. It makes me feel competent. I really thought I could distract The Tank* with a movie while I took a shower. As I may have mentioned before, sometimes I ain't all that bright.

I took the most basic of showers. No hair washing, no shaving, no exfoliating. Just water and a hint of soap, not even fancy soap, just the basic. As soon as I shut off the water, and stood still, dripping wet, listening for any small sound that would indicate destruction. I didn't hear a small sound. I heard this:

HAhaha-HAAAAAAAAAAAAA, HAAAAA, HA-HAAAAAAAAAAAA!

It was deep and guttural, unrecognizable. I threw on the closest bathrobe I could find and tore into the kitchen, ready to do battle with the cartoon villain attacking my precious toddler. Much to my relief, I found no villain, at least not in the strictest sense of the word. I found The Tank, standing on a stool, which he is not supposed to do. That was not my biggest concern, however. He was also naked from the waist down and had one hand in a glass jar of granola, which he was shoveling into his mouth. Bits of granola flew from his mouth with each maniacal "HA!"

If you know anything about The Tank, you're probably wondering what he was doing with his other hand. Never one to be idle, he was waving a flower, or what was left of one. He had removed the longest stem from a lovely arrangement on the counter, plucked all the petals and tossed them on the ground. What? Did you think he was going to leave them in a neat pile or something? You are funny.

So, it was a bit of a mess, but pretty entertaining all the same. Kind of like my column in Free Times.

HAhaha-HAAAAAAAAAAAAA, HAAAAA, HA-HAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Do you like how I snuck in the shameless plug? Read the article anyway! I just want you to like me!

Namasté, y'all!

* Baby J will now be referred to as "The Tank," in honor of my father-in-law, who called him that. And it fits. He has plowed through our lives, destroying everything in his path.

The power of the chicken balls is real.

It's been one of those weeks when I spend a lot of time thinking about the past, in a good way. As we were leaving church this morning (yup, Mom, I went to church!), I thought about the X-Man, at four years old. Watching him run, I made some goofy maternal comment, along the lines of,

"You are such a fast runner! Wow!"

Four year olds are such suckers. They believe everything you say.

"YEAH!" he beamed, making those googly eyes he makes when he's excited, "THAT'S BECAUSE OF MY CHICKEN BALLS!"

Then he showed me his chicken balls. He had about twenty, ten or so in each pocket. These balls, found on the playground at his school, were highly prized for their magical powers. Far be it from me to argue with a bunch of kindergartners. The balls did seem to have a magical ability to survive laundering. None of them hatched into chickens.

I did something very brave today. I Googled "fuzzy balls falling from trees." I now know that chicken balls are actually seed pods from the Sycamore Tree. I don't think the X-Man has any recollection of chicken balls and their magical powers so I won't bother him with this information, but I thought someone might want to know. If that was you, you're welcome.

Namasté, y'all!

Why we don't have boarding schools for toddlers.

"I love you so much!" I said to Baby J, in that ooey-gooey voice.

"I love you too much, Mommy!"

I'm incapable of describing the overwhelming cuteness without making myself and at least three of you, dear readers, throw up on our keyboards. So, you're welcome. In case you didn't know, I'm a big sappy mess when it comes to my children. The first time we took them to the circus, I couldn't talk, I felt so weepy. Looking at my children, all I could think of was (cliché ahead...wait for it...here it is...) the cold, cruel world and how eventually it would destroy my babies' perfect happiness. Also, there was a racist clown, which was totally depressing. And watching people spend piles of money on souvenirs that would break before they made it out to the truck was depressing. And the junk food was depressing - all those chemicals coursing through the insides of children destined to become obese and die of heart attacks in their forties. And the bathrooms were depressing. I don't even want to tell you how messy some people are when they change diapers. And don't they see the garbage cans in there? Might be a nice place for a diaper. Hello? Frankly, the circus sucked and we haven't been back. Luckily, the kids didn't notice any of the squalor and speak of their one trip to the circus fondly. But I digress.

The other day, I woke to the sound of little footsteps on the stairs, followed by the sight of his sweet little face, peering at me from the side of my bed.

"Mommy, cange my biaper*. It stinks."

Somehow, that was adorable. Ah, the joys of parenthood...

Namasté, y'all!

* Not a typo. He says "biaper" instead of "diaper." Cute!

Genius or weirdo?

The X-Man, looking out the kitchen window this morning,

"A hummingbird is like a hornet and a half."

Do you ever have those moments when your children say something and you just want to pick them up, even if they are seven years old, and hug them and squeeze them? Of course you do. I'm wondering if that feeling ever ends, because I still have it with my ten year old. Occasionally, if it won't embarrass him too much, I even indulge.

Having children is the best thing I've ever done. Even at their worst, they're perfect. I wasn't always a kid person. In fact, I'm still not a kid person, but boy do I ever love mine*. Not too long before I found out I was pregnant (in spite of having taken extreme preventative measures), I announced to my husband that I wasn't sure if I ever wanted children. Funny how those statements will come back to bite you in the a**. Anyhow, all's well that ends well.

Our surprise pregnancy, although shocking at the time, wasn't all that big of a deal. A. and I are so uptight, we probably would have waited until I was 42 to have children. Nothing wrong with that, but I ended up with HELLP Syndrome, which can get worse with age, so having my first at 25 was probably better. And having a baby ten weeks early made me realize how badly I wanted one. Years later, we were on the fence about whether or not to have a third. Over a couple of drinks we decided it would be a great idea and got pregnant almost immediately. I had a miscarriage. That was sad, but it helped us know how much we really, really wanted a third. Baby J is the best. He is also very naughty, which makes us very sure of our decision not to have a fourth**.

And here I go on another tangent. Just a second ago, I Googled HELLP Syndrome to find a link to add to this post. I haven't done that in years, but there was a time when I wanted to read about it every day. I was obsessed, I guess. I don't think that was a bad thing. We needed to know what could happen in future pregnancies (Answer: Same thing, but usually not as bad.) and if there was anything that could be done to prevent it (Answer: Nothing. But healthy eating and controlling my blood pressure with medication seemed to help some.) There's so little information about HELLP and most people who've had it crave answers. Even though I've only met a handful of people in real life who had HELLP, the internet is filled with groupies. I still don't know what causes it, but I think Diet Coke must be the cure. In my last pregnancy, which lasted a whopping (for me) 37 weeks, I allowed myself a can or two of my cherished vice a week. Baby J was almost full term, so it must have been the Diet Coke. Or the acupuncture. Or the exercise. Or luck.

Back to picking up children and squeezing them: When O was born, he weighed 3 pounds and 6 ounces. I weighed about a thousand pounds. We were both hooked up to this and that machine in different rooms, so I didn't get to see him for a couple of days. My dad brought me pictures from the nursery and I held his little hat and smelled it. I cried a lot, because Morphine will make you moody. That is the worst drug, by the way. It doesn't mask pain, it just makes you too tired to complain. I recommend Demerol. Fun times. More than anything, I wanted to pick up O. and squeeze him. I don't remember when we were allowed to hold him, but I do remember spending hours beside his bassinet in the special care nursery, stroking his tiny body with one finger, because my hand was too big. He came home after a month, weighing about four and a half pounds. It was a while before I could really squeeze him.

I didn't see O. at the moment he was born, because I was out cold. I remember feeling really happy about waking up, because from the way everyone was freaking out before I went under, I didn't know if that was going to happen. The last thing I remembered was hearing my doctor argue with the anesthesiologist about whether to use general anesthesia or an epidural. I heard the obstetrician ask for some sort of cutting thing and thought, "Oh. My. God. They didn't finish their little anesthesia chat! This is gonna' be a b*tch." I tried to recommend that they just pick one, but the room went dark, so I guess they already had. Waking up, thrilled to be alive, I looked down at my still full belly, turned to my mother and said,

"Oh! They kept the baby in!"

My happiness was short lived. The baby, thankfully, was tiny but fine. And not in my belly. That mountain was all me. That's what happens if you gain 80 pounds. Knowing that, I did it again in my second pregnancy. Some people never learn. To make a long story short, the baby grew and I shrunk. We both reached normal size. All's well that ends well.

Anyhow, I've exceeded my daily allotment of digressions, so I'll stop. Thanks for letting me relive the memories. Now I'm off to pick up my children and squeeze them!

Namasté, y'all!

* And yours, of course. Yours are adorable, as long as they don't get up in my personal space.

** Well, pretty sure. I'm getting too old for that sh*t, yo.

Two Going on Thirteen.

When your two year old has two older brothers who think they're thirteen (even though they're only seven and ten), you'll feel like you're living with the shortest adolescent in the world. He will copy everything they do and they'll teach him all sorts of charming behaviors. He'll have a sophisticated sense of humor, laughing at farts and burps long before other children his age get the joke. He may even learn how to beat box. At least once a day, I hear "unh-chhh...unh-chhh...unh-chhh" coming from the carseat. He actually keeps a pretty good beat. He can also sing along with Alicia Keys, Lupe Fiasco and Chris Brown.

He doesn't always know how to use the pre-adolescent tricks he learns, though. I'll ask if he wants a popsicle and he'll respond, in an exasperated tone, "Okay, fine!" He hasn't quite mastered the eye roll, but he will. Probably by next week. Probably just in time to offend some nice old lady at the grocery store. Yay.

Sometimes, he gets the pre-teen act disturbingly right. After lunch today, I somehow managed to almost doze off. My eyelids were heavy, but snapped open, as only a mother's eyelids will do, in response to a small sound in the kitchen. It wasn't more than a rustle, really, preceded by a few soft taps and a barely audible click. Most people wouldn't recognize it, much less be startled awake by it. I knew it was the sound of a stool sliding four inches towards the counter, a toddler climbing onto the stool and pressing the keys on the laptop and a digital camera lens opening. Much like his mother, the human toddler has a super human ability to hear the sound of his plans being thwarted. As I walked toward the kitchen, silent as a mouse, I heard him slide off the stool. I found him standing by the stool, pilfered camera in hand. The laptop, interestingly enough, was moved to the very edge of the counter and closed. He looked at me, defiantly, I swear. With big eyes, he claimed,

"I din't do any-fing, Mo-om!"

Total lie. But who am I to argue with a two year old? I've tried it before. You never win. Seriously, never, because they're playing by totally different rules. They can always claim short term memory loss...or total cuteness.

I'm beginning to think it's time that Baby J got a new blog handle. Perhaps "The Flying J" as an homage to his insane desire to jump off of, into or over stuff on a daily basis. But that might be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'm open to suggestions, by the way. I might just call him Baby J forever, though, because he'll always be my baby. And so will O and the X-Man. So there.

Namasté, y'all!

Even my baby is sarcastic. No idea where he got that.

Ahhh...summer. We spent yesterday afternoon at the pool with friends until the kids were all cracked out from sugary snacks and had rumbly tummies from drinking chlorinated water. Then we debated whether or not we needed pants to go to Casa Linda, decided shirts and shoes were enough and headed straight there. Although Casa Linda is our favorite, I'm fully aware of the fact that we are probably not theirs. But they're nice to us anyway. We sat at a nice big table; I could sense the dread in everyone around us. Frankly, if I was enjoying a meal out and found myself suddenly confronted with a table of eight adults and far too many kids, all in bathing suits, I would probably ask for a to-go box. But I digress.

I was very happy and proud to give our waiter my entire family's order at once, which makes it easier to keep the bill separate. Dinner out with children isn't like a civilized dinner with like-minded adults who can just split the bill down the middle at the end. There are too many variables to do that: number of children (we had the most), age of children (the older ones eat more), behavior of children (the naughty kids' parents drink more), level of bribery to children (some of them get dessert for good behavior).

Without thinking, I ordered a quesadilla for Baby J. What's not to like? It's cheese. It's a tortilla. It's fried. And this is where one of my obnoxious parenting thoughts comes back to bite me in the a**. I've been known to wonder (sometimes aloud to my husband and a select few others) why kids can't order Mexican in a Mexican place, Mediterranean in a Mediterranean place, Japanese in a Japanese place...you get the picture. Every culture seems to have some sort of plain dish involving beans, rice and/or chicken. Must we always feed them chicken nuggets? Must we? Insert superior sigh and mild eye rolling here.

Across the table from Baby J, his friend N. had been granted chicken nuggets. Although Baby J has eaten and enjoyed the dang quesadillah in the past, he loves him some chicken nuggets. And (yeah, I know I'm getting defensive here), it's not like he eats them all the time! His big brothers are vegetarians, so he doesn't see them eating chicken nuggets. But it was love at first bite for Baby J. All we have to do is say "chicken" and his little face lights up as he chants,

"Chi-CHIN! Chi-CHIN! Chi-CHIN!"

One look at N's plate of nuggety goodness and Baby J is all,

"MY CHICHEN! MY CHICHEN!"

Who am I to argue? Lucky for me, N's parents understand the occasional necessity of appeasing a toddler, at any cost, in public. Their son also happens to be an agreeable sort of kid and happily shared his bounty with Baby J. Maybe N. just sympathized with the overwhelming desire for chicken nuggets. Anyhow, my baby proceeded to eat most of his lucky friend's food. As these things go, N. didn't seem particularly enamored of his own food anyway, so it wasn't a huge drama. Thank goodness.

When he was almost finished, Baby J calmly picked up his previously untouched quesadilla, balled it up in his fist and dropped it onto my plate, raising his little eyebrows with disdain.

"Thanks, Mom."

It was subtle, but I could hear the dripping sarcasm. He's not even two yet. How wrong is it that I felt kind of proud?

Namasté, y'all!

Skip this if you don't like cute babies.

Because my baby is cute. I hope I never forget the way he is right this second. Well, right this second, he's taking a nap, which is probably why I feel so affectionate towards him.

• He says " 'mere" when he wants someone to "Come here," which is all the time because he really,really loves us.
  


• He sings "Ah-mo waaaah!" That would be "Elmo's World."


• He says "sauce," like the French, when he wants apple sauce.


• He does the cutest little dance, kind of like a lame chicken dance, one elbow in the air, one foot grounded while the other one pivots.


• He squints his eyes and smiles when he sees a camera.
  


• He loves his brothers and asks for them. All. Day. Long.


• He thinks it's really cool to say "Yader!" instead of "Bye bye." When he has a babysitter and he's trying to show me how sophisticated he is, he waves at me and says, "Yader," smirking like the teenager he'll be.
  


• Anything that can go on his hand like a puppet is called "Hello." This includes, but isn't limited to, actual puppets (both finger and otherwise), socks, napkins and paper bags.


• Speaking of bags, he's vigilant about not leaving his at the nursery. And he likes to carry it himself.


• He makes actual jokes, like holding his fork over his head, grinning maniacally with a gleam in his eye, after we've told him four hundred times to stop stabbing the table with it.


• He has another joke. He calls the boy next door "Wo-Wo" but pretends he doesn't know Wo-Wo's sister's name. He does know her name, but he likes to punish her for being his babysitter. But he laughs with his eyes when he does it.
  

• Predictably, everything is his: toys, food, paper, fire trucks and my stool. The other day, I was sitting on the stool and he stood behind me, waving a plastic knife, threatening, "Mine! Mine!" and trying to push me off of it. So he could climb on it and use his laptop.


• He calls snacks "n'yacks."
  


• He likes it when I put his shoes on, so he can take them off.


• He'll pull out all of the disposable diapers until he finds one with Ernie on it.


• He says, "ewwww" when we change his diaper. Wonder where he got that. Huh.
  


• He likes cookies and once ran into the kitchen chanting, "Tookie! Day-do! Tookie! Day-do!," thanking me in advance for the cookie I was forced to give him.


• He loves music and points to the CD player and says, "Songs!" when he wants to hear some.


• He likes to play ball, "ahh-side."

I know, he's not the first to do that stuff. My big kids probably did the same things, but I've already forgotten. I'm insanely jealous of parents who are with it enough to catch this stuff on video. If anyone wants to video my kids, I'll pay top dollar for copies, okay? Maybe that's why people agree to do reality shows. Huh.

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. If you know my baby and want to share other cute things he does, feel free to add them in the comments!

Awwwww...

Whenever Baby J sees a bottle or glass of wine, he says,

"Nice!"

This is humiliating. Kind of like when our friend's child pointed to his pre-school teacher's can of Diet Coke and said,

"Beer."

Or when another child pointed to a huge Budweiser display in the grocery store and yelled (at the top of his little lungs, of course),

"Daddy's juice!"

We are so fancy and so are our friends.

Namasté, y'all!

Baby!

Today is a beautiful day. One of my friends has been kind enough to let me come to her last two births, one of which was last night at her house, just before two am. I won't share the details, because that seems kind of rude, but there is nothing in the world like the moment a brand new, warm, squirmy baby enters the world. But y'all knew that, right?

Thank you, dear friend, for letting me be there with you and your sweet family. I'm honored. And here's a picture for those of you who need a visual of new baby. This is me and Baby J, the last time he was calm and not trashing stuff. I think he was about five hours old. And, yeah, I am wearing lipstick, but in a tasteful color. It looks like cedar liner* by M.A.C., with maybe just a teensy bit of clear gloss.

Namasté, y'all!

* This Just In: The color formerly known as Rosewood, now known as Cedar, is no more. Angela, an online makeup artist from M.A.C., recommends "creamstick liner in Softwood, to create a similar look." Why, oh, why must I be so persecuted?

Do You Know What Is Cute?

Dese wittle fatty feeties are cute: