Another Reason Katie is a Better Mother than You

Yes, Max did request that Mommy carve the pumpkins. Of course, one, will be ordered "Curious George" style. What's that? I have another pumpkin? Two? Two pumpkins?! Well, if I have two pumpkins and I already know that one will turn into a George then the second should be. . . AN EXCAVATOR!

So all Max knows is that some pumpkins were bought, he got to choose the theme and then he went to bed. What he didn't see was Mommy, up late and bleary-eyed, swearing and stabbing at the poor, little pumpkins. Long, long, looong time readers of this blog will know this type of blue streak-fueled creativity is a recurring theme.

Whatever punk yoinks these from our stoop had better appreciate the hell out of 'em before he smashes them on the street in front or our house.

A Taste for Fine Design. . . Literally

For reasons I've yet to comprehend, Halloween seems to be a big, hairy (spider) deal at Grandma Kay's work. Something about selling cubicles, carpet and really, really hot designer furniture makes normally staid adults do the dress-up thing.

If it's Halloween and it falls on a Friday, all the rules of decorum go out the window. That means, not only do my kids go out to Grandma's work, it means I have a video of Max driving around the stockroom on a forklift, chasing someone's dog and adults in costumes. It also means, people at Grandma Kay's work, that I can make that video go away as long as one (1) Noguchi table is white-glove delivered to an address of my choosing.

Even more exciting (and less blackmail-ly) is the fact that Miles seems to really like the molded plywood and clean lines of what we lovingly call the Eames' "Potato Chip" chair. It's unclear of Miles was chewing on the chair because he thought it was, in fact, a potato chip or because it's just a lovely thing or could it have been because he thought by licking it, no one else would want it and mommy and daddy could have at least one nice thing in their house?

Gleefully Tumbling into the Cute Abyss

It may well be that any reticence I have had about blogging recently stems from the fact that I'd prefer that this joint doesn't become a 21st Century version of "Kids Say the Darndest Things"! HowEVER, kids, do in fact, say the darndest things. To whit:

Grandma Carol comes over the other day with a sweet-ass Lego-type cement mixer. (Let's have an aside here: Really, when does a Lego stop being a "Lego"? I mean, three pieces: a chassis, a tumbler/barrel, and a cab does not, in my book, a Lego make. In my day, Legos meant sticking little tiny pieces together until you went blind and had something that looked nothing like what was on the box. Even your Dad would, after trying to help, put his arm around your shoulder and cry with you quietly. You want to figure out what's wrong with America? It's Republicans and too-easy Legos, that's what!)

So, Max is pretty pumped about this cement mixer. So much so that he repeatedly thanks his grandmother: Push, push. "Thank you, Grandma!" Push, push, turn mixer barrel, turn mixer barrel. "Thank you, Grandma!"

A few nights later, Max is going to bed accompanied by, among others, his cement mixer. Katie is getting him tucked in (yes, he's in is big-boy bed now. More on that later) and he says, "Thank you for the cement mixer, Grandma!"

"Max, I don't think Grandma can hear you. She's in her house."

Max promptly stands up and walks over to the northern-most wall of his room. Which, interestingly enough, is the wall closest to his grandmother's house. He begins to knock softly on the wall. Knock, knock, knock. "Grandma?" Knock, knock, knock. "Thank you for the cement mixer, Grandma!" Knock, knock, knock. "Grandma, are you in there?"

Before you get the idea that the talking Max is all fun and games, today, he also ran off with my lawn and leaf bags while simultaneously chastising me for trying to rake up "his" leaf pile. Even that was pretty cute, though.

Miles Cracks Up

Get Your Own Spatula

Miles, having mastered The Art of the Fork, has moved onto your larger utensils. I guess holding Miles while I flipped pancakes the other day was a mistake.

Pay No Attention to Those Kids Behind the Curtain!

A casual peruser of this blog may be lead (by my careful manipulation) to believe that we lead a mighty idyllic life here Casa Papa de los bebes. Unlike other father bloggers who tend to let it all hang out there, I like to think of myself as, like, the Colonel Parker to my boys' Elvis. I'm out there at the shows, selling 8x10 glossies and vetting non threatening movie scripts. Case and point: Here are are two brain-meltingly cute brothers, sharing a playful bath together. Look at the sweet face of Max, smiling as his brother gazes upon him with pure adulation. It's a little slice of heaven!

The truth, though, my friends, is a titch uglier:

What? You Can't Post 'Cause You're on Vacation?

For the first time in a couple of years, I had a non-baby related vacation. To be accurate, I had, like, five days off. Which, I can tell you, does no a vacation make. What had had in mind: late fall beer drinking, time with the boys, unstructured play time followed by more drinking, was abruptly cut short by a mighty "Thump!" near my feet resting on the coffee table. At first, I thought Katie had dropped a new Minneapolis yellow pages down so I could get my feet higher, more comfortable. I looked closer at the stack of paper and noticed the top page was blank except for the words "Daddy's To-Do List".

The only thing I can say about my vacation, really, is that tilling with a tiller is much harder than I remember.

Here are Max and Miles checking to see if my grading job on the side of our house is up to code. Soil samples dug and eaten by both children confirm that, due to their excellent supervision, we have improved drainage. When you do do the grading, by the way, it is important to have a small wooden excavator, a small plastic dump truck, and a hot wheels car. You just never know when you're going to need to race away from your job site!