Pinniped Squatters

Yesterday afternoon L began coughing. As the day drew on it grew worse until she had a nasty, hoarse, weazing cough that scared her as much as it pained her. Listening to her, Mommy suggested that she might have swallowed a seal. This seemed to resonate with L who took the idea to heart and was much less concerned. We listened to the barking all night long.

This morning the seal seemed to still be there. I looked in her mouth, but couldn't tell; I then checked her belly button and I think I saw a flipper, so we are pretty convinced it hasn't vacated yet. L and I had a lengthy discussion on whether the seal would like any morning tea. L wasn't too sure it would, but when I offered to put a little sugar in it L felt that the seal would oblige. We further discussed whether she needed to tip her head back so I could drop some raw fish down her throat, but she deemed it unnecessary. She informed me that the next time we go to the aquarium we need to go to the seal exhibit so she can spit and have the seal come out.

Sweet Chair-ity

The chair as in days of old.

Ages ago Stacy's Aunt Joyce gave her a dinning room set she really loves. The chairs that go at the head and foot of the table are upholstered and very comfortable. Since we've had them, however, the upholstry on one of them (the brother to the one in the photo to the right) became shredded and the foam stuffing started to come out. We lived with it for about a year and then started asking around for an upholsterer recommendation.

The recommendation came from our friend Karla: her mom Darlene! When Karla asked her on our behalf Darlene was quite willing. Darlene picked up the chairs and some fabric Karla had left over from some project she had done, and we didn't think much more about it. Yesterday, after only a week or so away, the chairs were back around the table when I got home from work. And what chairs they are! The job Darlene did was phenomenal. (And evidently her husband Larry got to go wild with a staple gun too.) When Stacy asked how much we owed her, she would take nothing more than the $10 for the new stuffing. We're quite grateful.

Here's the masterpiece:

A Place to Rest One's Head

Last weekend N underwent a rite-of-passage of sorts. The bunk beds which heretofore had been jealously monopolized by L got split and dropped, while simultaneously the prison bars of the crib were thrown wide, and N became the proud custodian of his own "big boy bed".

I have never seen the kids more wound up than when they were readmitted to their room after their construction-time banishment. L was squealing as much as N, jumping on the beds and climbing on the headboards -- all things I let slide in this time of ecstasy, but will now have an uphill battle of trying to prevent from here on out.

A quite similar undertaking about two years ago.

Back in the day, the first few nights that L had in her own bed were a rough ones. She fell out a couple of times (despite what seemed like impervious guard rails) and got scared and fussed a bit in the night. Not so with N. My son to the bone, N sleeps like a rock in whatever forlorn spot he gets dumped in. I've heard not a peep of complaint from him. He especially likes the fact that the guard rail of his bed rests up against the footboard of L's bed, giving him a little seat within his bed. Whenever the jumping gets out of hand and I give the "sit down" order, his butt never finds his mattress, but his little guard rail seat instead.

Dynamic Dancing Duo

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

This is funny, if a little disturbing. It was a gift from our neighbors Wayne and Donna.

I kind of like being taller than Stacy for a change...

Wardrobe Malfunctions and Other Stories

It's amazing the autonomy you are willing to give up when you're an adult. When I was a child I was dressed by my parents. When I was "old enough" I picked out my own clothes and dressed myself, which I thought a great improvement. When I got married, my wife started dressing me, which everyone else thought a great improvement. Now that I have kids, I find myself abdicating even further down the line. Most of my outfits are criticized, if not outright coordinated, by my daughter L. It seems very important to her that the whole family matches. Often she does a pretty darn good job. But today before church I had to regain a little of the old authority and veto one particularly frightening combo of shirt and tie that had been laid out on my bed for me while I was in the shower.

I believe I have told elsewhere of L's new penchant for breakfast and the preparation there of. A couple of days ago I heard lots of noise coming from L and N's room. I stepped in to investigate and found that L had prepared breakfast out-of-bed for her and her brother. He was sitting quite contentedly at the tray she had set up and seemed to be rather pleased with the service. I choose not to think how he (or he and his accomplice) managed to get himself out of his crib.

Oh, and please pretend you don't see all the junk scattered from one end of the room to the other. Just pretend, for our sake, that you see a nice, neat, well-organized and maintained bedroom, and not some set from the film Twister 2.

More raven than boy, N has found a sudden fascination with anything shiny or bright. He's discovered candles this week. We talked about hot, and we talked about careful, and we talked about how you can smell a candle, but can't touch. I'm quite sure it went in one raven ear and out the other. I'm fairly sure it will take a barbecued finger or two for the lesson to really sink in.

Not Just Any Port in a Storm

Roy and Thomas are the two true wine connois-seurs at church. Last Sunday after the post-service fellowship had wrapped up, Roy pulled me aside. Out of his backpack he pulled a single bottle of tawny port, a gift for another friend who had had the grave audacity to fail to come to church to pick up. Roy, not about to reward the ingrate with another opportunity, offered me the bottle: Penfolds Club Reserve from South Australia. I certainly have no well trained palate, but I do really like tawny port, and I told Roy so.

"Oh, but this isn't just any tawny port," Roy explained. "This is something special."

Right at that moment Thomas came round a corner and seeing the bottle, stopped short with an "Ohhh!" that was more the sucking in of breath than an exclamation. Thomas quickly assured me that this was the good stuff. "Try it over vanilla ice cream," Thomas recommended.

"Or better yet, with unsalted cashews," said Roy.

I thanked Roy profusely and took the prize home. It sat on our china hutch all week untouched, waiting, though I was mindful enough during the week to swing by Trader Joe's and pick up the suggested cashews.

Tonight, on this beautiful Friday night, Providence set forth a rare gem of an evening perfect in which to open it up. Stacy had a scrapbooking class to attend; the kids had had long days with no naps. They were in bed by 7:00 and out cold by 7:15. It started raining lightly and I could hear the drops on the roof. Otherwise the house was expectantly silent. I turned down all the lights except for one in the living room next to the couch. I retrieved my book from beside my bed (The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux), and sprawled out on the couch with a snifter from the freshly opened bottle, a small bag of cashews and the book. A couple of cashews, a sniff from the swirled glass, and then the first taste.

Oh, wow.

I choose not to put a trivializing exclamation point on that last sentence. It was not a time for shouting or crude ejaculations -- it was a moment of stunned silence. Oh, wow.

The two hours that passed after that were transcendental.

Stacy is home now, and L has woken up crying. The moment is past, like a foggily remembered vision of a former country. But Stacy brought home some custard pie from a friend's house, and L will likely go back to sleep... Stacy likes port...

Hmmmm... The moment may be rekindled yet!

A Lot of Ballet-hoo

Awaiting the start of the magic.

L has been taking a ballet class for a couple of months. Her last class was on Tuesday and the class always ends with a special "performance" for the parents. This basically amounts to a row of chairs being added to a wall of the classroom where we parents all could crowd in with our collective $40,000 worth of video and photography equipment and watch a dozen 3- and 4-year-olds wave their arms vaguely over their heads. For L, however, a performance at the Kennedy Center could have held no greater honor.


L actually didn't know I was coming; I asked Stacy not to say anything to her since I wasn't sure I could get away from work for the 11AM performance. But I was able to flee my 9-to-5 and I was waiting in the studio complex lobby when Stacy arrived with our neighbor Grandma Donna, brother N, and of course, the prima herself. She squealed and bolted across the lobby when she saw me. She flung herself over my knees so hard I assumed she probably ruptured a spleen or something. But Daddy's mere presence is evidently a very potent anesthesia.



The "performance" was everything you would hope such a thing would be. Lots of little pink puppets in princess-style tutus, all randomly focused and varyingly attentive. Some turning right, some left. Some deciding that sitting down suddenly seem the best of interpretive choices. Synchronization was not a strong point. Grace and poise? A couple of years down the road. But it was dripping with sugary sweet cuteness.

L twirled. L kicked. L sashayed across the dance floor with her arms over her head. (I'm a little embarrassed to use a word like "sashay", but could think of nothing better to describe it.) She was, of course, brilliant. And she patiently sat while all the other less talented students were awkwardly paraded in front of some very easily pleased critics. At the end of the heart-pounding 30 minutes, L was rewarded by Grandma Donna (who I must say has much more discerning tastes than all the other audience members) with a single pink rose, and she got to have her photo taken with her instructor. (It will be in her portfolio.) Her triumph was complete.

And just when you'd think the day couldn't get anymore glorious, Stacy announced that the post-curtain party would be celebrated at McDonald's - an establishment long associated with the fine toddler arts.

My Penance for Failing to Get a Mother’s Day Card

It’s just not time for Christmas. Easter is passé.
July the Fourth and fireworks are several months away.
Halloween’s too creepy; Boxing day: obscure.
You don’t get into Kwanzaa; Leap year: so unsure.

Labor Day sounds worksome. Flag day feels strung out.
Columbus makes you seasick. (April 1st is just plain out.)
Father’s Day: transgendered. Thanksgiving? ... getting warm.
Arbor Day? Potential -- had you lived on a farm.

Mother’s Day is over; your birthday: months ahead,
Memorial Day’s in a week or two (but that implies you’re dead.)
Valentine’s is jaded; Earth Day’s not your thing
St. Patrick’s Day is taken. Ditto M.L. King

I've run the year in circles; I’m coming to conclude,
There’s just no day worth choosing that strikes that perfect mood.
No day to mark the standard. No day to set the tone.
No day that’s even-handed. No day that’s all your own.

This can't be "luck" or "chances". An oversight? Can't be!
This must have been deliberate. Intended cruelty!
A slight of great proportion. A snub of epic scope!
An injustice unforgiven; But, wait! … I think there's hope.

There's still a way to fix it -- a remedy, I feel
I think we can address it, and start to grow and heal.
Though culture may have faltered and failed to homage pay
I’ll remedy that error, and declare it "Stacy Day"!

Flor-abundance

The months (yes, months) of blood, sweat and tears during the marathon 9-month sprinkler installation are finally paying off. Now that we've had 6 months of regular watering the yard is starting make it all worthwhile. This has been the best our roses have ever looked, and just about everything makes it past the two-week mark that was the previous life expectancy of anything I planted.

That we don't forget the sufferings of the past:

Tea for Two

I stayed home from work this morning and as is usually my morning custom, I made a pot of tea. L tasted mine and said she wanted some. I poured her a little mug and added a decent amount of sugar to make it more to her liking. When she took her first sip her eyes lit up.

"There's a little bit of special treat mixed in mine! " she said, "You can taste it!"

The Lights are On and Everybody's Home

Saturday mornings used to be sacred. Saturday mornings were when the world was simple, pure and delightful. Saturday mornings were the Age of Aquarius, the Millennial Kingdom, the Golden Age, and the Temporal Utopia, all rolled into one -- at least between 5am and 8am. That was when I was the only one up in the house and I had those few precious, solitary, peaceful, quiet, utterly lovely hours all to myself.

All that has changed now. Like a biological Loch Ness monster, some long dormant gene in L has raised its ugly head from the sleepy depths of her chromosomal pool, such that now nothing, including genes, stays dormant in our house beyond 5am on any given morning. On good days I am awakened at 5:00am (5:30am at the outside), to WAAAAY too loud and cheerful songs, filled with joy and chipperness, as L sings N awake with her 3-year-old off-key caterwaul, in a what I can only think of as a twisted, inverted Mary Poppins thing.

Less welcome are the mornings I awake to the clanking of pots and pans and other riotous noises from the kitchen. As I lumber down the hall in the dregs of my ursine half-hibernation I'm greeted with every light in the entire house full-ablaze. The kitchen is usually dripping on all sides as L has pulled out half of all our cookware and filled it with water (L's rather thin version of oatmeal). There are often plates or bowls at each spot on the table, commonly chock full of soggy Cheerios and milk or some other such foul cereal pudding. You can always tell how full (and heavy) the milk jugs were (emphasis on the past tense), by the size of the white pool at the base of the refrigerator door.

Yes, yes. Her love for her brother and family is touching, and her desire to assist her Mommy is charming, and all that garbage. But can't the daily assault hold back for just another hour or two?

I want to join a union just so I can file a grievance.

Pleasing the Piano Critic

They say those who can't do, teach. I was playing the piano a bit after dinner tonight while L played on the floor of the living room beside me. I was playing a song I hadn't played in a while and it was pretty rusty. Every time I hit a wrong note (a "clunker" as Pastor Greg calls them), L would jump up and say, "No, Daddy. That's not the right one. It's down here." And then she'd go hit some random bass note, then return to her game, quite pleased with herself.

Also this evening I noticed some little black dots on N's arms. I didn't think much of it until I happened into the dining room and caught Dr. L in consultation with her patient. She had N sitting in his chair and had his arm extended. She held a black ballpoint pen against his outstretched arm and said, "This won't hurt at all." At that point she thumbed the spring-loaded button at the end of the pen giving N his ink dot "shot".

I had to pretend not to notice so that I wouldn't have to tell her to stop.

Nevertheless I probably should be looking into malpractice insurance.

My First Commission

I've finished my first "commissioned" oil painting, a scene of a pirate ship running in the Mediterranean with Gibraltar off in the background. It's for my friend Evan McCallum at work. It is a copy based on a picture he found online somewhere. Enclosed below is the original source picture.



I wasn't sure I was going to like this painting, but as it gelled I grew to like it more and more and now I'm very happy with it. I think the waves in the original are still a lot better than mine, but mine aren't too bad. I'm glad I have no room left in our house or I would have a hard time giving it away!

Every Rose Has Its Thorn...

...and N seems to have found most of them.

A head dive off the garden path yesterday left N looking a little worse for the wear. I'm not too worried. His future as a GQ model might have just taken a detour, but he'll still have plenty of positive opportunities before him. I can, for example, just stick bolts on the side of his neck for Halloween this year. He can make big bucks playing Victim #8 in Freddy Krueger Decimates Dallas. At any zoo he's free to crawl into the tiger cage, because the cats will all assume he's already been mauled.

By the way, anybody know of any cute little 1-year-old girls with a shock of white hair running down the middle?