A Mother's Touch

Years ago, before I met Katie and before I realized that looking good (decent shoes, attempted color coordination) were admirable goals, me, this other, older, Katie-less person, would've snorted at this picture. "Snort," I would've said. "Look at this kid who matches the pumpkins. Fah-REAK!"

Now, though, the smarter, slightly more stylish, certainly better shod me, marvels, marvels, at Katie's preternatural ability to coordinate this kid with everything. She's like "Heroes" meets "Queer Eye".

10 Dollar Idea

For a long time, Whenever a friend or relative had a child - procreated, I mean - visiting the new family always made the incomprehensible pretty concrete. I'd go over there, and there'd be this kid and all the accoutrement that comes with said kid: all the blankets and, later, the toys. I realize now that, on my face, not as guarded as I thought, was a look. A look that said less "Congratulations!" and more "You're voting Republican, why?" or "So, you've decided to shoot up Heroin, huh?".

My friends and family were nice and continued to let me visit even though I unwittingly had this look on my face.

As the kid grew, I'd visit, and it always seemed like there was uncooked pasta or some, firm legume all over the floor at these kid-infected houses. Penne tucked in a corner or Radiatore grouped like spreading continents on the carpet. "What the hell with all this f'n pasta everywhere?" my disgusted brain would think.

Of course, now that I've drunk the kool-aid myself, it has become clear that these uncooked peas and pastas are fairly safe, durable things that make lots of noise when transfered from one container to another and, most importantly, occupy your child for up to five minutes.

I'd like to apologize to my friends and family for thinking the worst of them. You all can do all the heroin you want; just don't vote Republican.

It's Still Friday Turbo-Cute Friday Blogging

All your brains are toast!

Your Brains are Safe. . . .for Now!

We were going to melt your brains (Again!) with some cute this morning but, lucky for you (those of you who need your brains), Blogger is done gone and broke this morning. So, while you still have your gray matter, check out Hammann Eggs. He's been on fire of late. Oh, and as usual, Steve speaks more truth.

All the Leaves are Brown

Fall is here in the North Country. While it was eighty-five(!?) here the other day, things have cooled to something approaching normal. There's a lot of leaves in the backyard and I've been sloshing through them to the car, wondering when I should make the pile for the boy. Katie took the initiative tonight (seriously, nothing fascinates Max more than somebody raking) and, almost instinctively, he jumped right into the pile.

By the time I got out there, Max was tottering half-way across the yard so he could get to top speed for leaf pile contact. Jumping (thankfully) is not really part of his skill set yet, so he pretty much just ran into the pile until the leaves slowed him to a stop. Whereupon he would slowly tip over into the rustling clatter. Then, like all leaf pile moments, he would lie there, listening to himself breathe; listening to the leaves settle beneath him; looking up at the sky; solving the problems of the world. Of course, the problem he was solving was something along the lines of "How will I convince the Big One to let me play in the car before my bath?" Tragically, numerous sorties into the pile didn't help him find the solution: the Big One took him right to the tub.

Max Goes Off Script

Max really isn't in Kanye West or Howard Beale territory here but, indeed, a disturbing tendency to "color outside the lines" develops during this video. Now, normally, a good ol' iconoclast like m'self would be comfortable with a little rebellion. That's fine. . . in other people's kids. Now, in my old age and my fatherhood, I'm only interested in how other people's kids being bad helps Max look good.

Sadly, Max does himself no favors here, veering wildly off a program of pronunciation exercises. It must be something about Miss Spider: the wild colors and fun rhymes either drive the boy to tears or corrupt him hopelessly. Years from now, busted for buying a bunch of teenagers a case for Coors Light, he can break down crying and use the "It was Miss Spider" defense.

Hey, it worked for Phil Spector!

PS: Kidding about the pronunciation exercises! You hear him slurring? Yeah, that's the scotch.

Empathy and Counting

We haven't been reading Miss Spider's Tea Party as much 'round here lately. No real reason, we thought. Max had been on a pretty steady diet of Miss Spider for the first year of his life. Lots of Miss Spider and her new car and Miss Spider counting mixed in with some healthy doses of Brown Bear, Brown Bear became a rock solid literary base for the boy.

We've moved on, though, to flip books and books with a bit more of a narrative structure. The other night,however, probably missing the sentence "Five rubber bugs stared silently", (God, I love reading that aloud.) Max pulled out a blast from the past and grunted an affirmative, "huh-huh", as he handed the book to Katie.

The whole premise of the book is Miss Spider trying invite other bugs to a tea party and, naturally, not knowing Miss Spider, the bugs assume she, as a spider, has some nefarious ulterior motive to her "tea party" (i.e. Come get trapped in my web, suckahs, until I decide to eat you). Nothing could be further from the truth, however, and Miss Spider gets pretty bummed when all the bugs decline her invites. She sobs as a matter of fact.

Apparently, from the last time we read this book, to last night, Max has learned what crying faces signify 'cause when Katie turned to this page:





all hell broke loose. It took about ten minutes and multiple singing of the damn "Fim-Fam" song to bring him down. He was less perturbed when the window shut on his hand. Katie thinks that he caught it from me 'cause last week, when I finished this, I had my own "Miss Spider" moment. It wasn't all bad, though. Once we got him calmed down, Katie turned to me and observed, "Well, at least we know he's not autistic."

Under Construction

Like, uh, literally, yo. Sorry about the failure to post more, guys, but we've been deep into the improvement of our home. Most waking, non-working, non-sleeping, non-boy watching time has been spent in the attic, making a room for Mom and Dad. The downstairs shall be the realm of The Babies. We have to take this opportunity to give a hearty thanks to all our homies who came over to hang sheetrock (fun!) and the wives of our homies who watched the kids while the boys played grown up in the attic.

Here's Max wishing he were a cordless drill.