Fingerpainting Fail

Actually, I have to classify yesterday as a whole as a Fail. It was just a bad day (well, up until the point where Kris came over and we took a shot before a nice soak in the hot tub, from that point on the day was a Win). It was just a bad day all the way around.

Gabe, who is usually a good napper and has always stuck to a pretty strict (if occasionally inconvenient) sleep schedule, decided, quite noisily, that he wasn't having anything to do with his nap. Two separate attempts led to nothing more than much forlorn screeching and the shedding of many bitter tears (from him--I prefer to shed all my tears inwardly, where they can pool up in my brain and cause very convenient memory lapses). Because he is used to taking naps, when Gabe doesn't get one, he tends to be a bit bipolar. He'll range from manic states of complete, off-the-wall bonkers annoyingness to depressive states of lying on the couch half-heartedly watching Nick, Jr or PBS shows without much interest. Obviously, the lying on the couch phases aren't tough to deal with--as long as whatever show his fickle whims demand we watch happens to be on or available in our every growing supply of digital recordings. But the manic phases can pose a bit of a bother.

Actually, to call yesterday's state of mind "manic" isn't entirely accurate. It was REGRESSIVELY manic. He effectively lost almost six months of maturing. He was throwing toys and tantrums, he was hitting me (which is something he has almost never done--he was never a hitter or a biter), and he was being about as much of a monster as he could be.

This was bad enough, but on top of that, little Button, overachiever that she is, decided that, instead of just one tooth, she'd go ahead and get TWO of them out of the way at the same time. Because of this, she's been terribly fussy and she, like Gabe, decided that sleep was an option she wasn't interested in. Toddlers who don't get enough sleep are a nightmare, but infants who don't get enough sleep probably make up their own circle of Hell. Maybe not Hell, but certainly a big portion of Purgatory is cordoned off with baby gates and all of those just-bad-enough single people and DINKs who never had kids get to spend a few months experiencing the joys they missed out on.

About midway through the afternoon, to top things off, Gabe got his hands on a fingerpainting project he'd done a month or so ago. It had been left in a stack of papers on our hutch in the dining room. Now, normally, I am a savvy enough parent to know that it's necessary to keep reminders of unwanted (unwanted by me, the person who has to clean up afterwards) projects out of sight because, sure as the Coreys will never again have a successful joint venture, if a toddler sees one of these projects, he or she will instantly demand to do another one. But I was somehow remiss about the fingerpainting project--a mistake I won't soon make again.

And demand to do another one is exactly what Gabe did, at high volume, and with more than a little crying when I tried to weasel my way out of it with lame excuses of "I can't find the fingerpaints," and "I bet Momma would really LOVE to fingerpaint with you when she gets home from work." So we fingerpainted.

To make matters worse, I ignored all of my instincts and opted NOT to supply Gabe with only a controlled amount of fingerpaint. I thought, "Ah, he's done this enough times to know what he's on about. I'll just open up the tubs and let him play. He'll only use what he needs."

Ha! Such folly. Within a few very short minutes, Gabe had all but emptied all four of the tubs that I had opened for him. Yeah, that's right, I didn't just open one tub, which would have been plenty to make him happy, I went and set him loose with almost a pint of fingerpaints. He immediately spread the paint all over the table and was, in fact, painting his paper by smearing it across the paint on the table. Possibly a brilliant innovation to the world of painting, I have to admit, but one that required a huge wad of paper towels and, eventually, two kitchen towels to mop up after it was all done. Probably, somewhere down the line, art teachers will pass this technique on to students who are eager to learn a new approach to applying paint to paper, but I heartily regretted allowing its genesis mere moments after it came into being.

Gabe proudly "creating." He was scooping out entire handfuls of the paint, with gusto--as evidenced by his arms. You have to do some serious paint scooping to get the paint all the way up to your elbows, let me tell you.

Actually, the sheet of paper in front of him was just the first of three that he was able to fill to saturation with the paint he pulled out. One of the sheets was so soaked with paint that I had to carry it, by its corners, outside and let it dry in the sun. I brought it in before I went to bed last night and put it on the washing machine in the back room. It still has damp spots on it this afternoon. So, even though you can't see the paint on the table because the table is so dark, it IS still there.

Yet, even though I allowed an epic mess to be made--one that required about twenty minutes of soaking in a tub whose water eventually turned a murky shade of bluey-brown (sort of like a bruise)--it did successfully change the tenor of the afternoon. From there on out, Gabe was much easier to get along with. Even though he was still a cranky little turd from being so tired, it was as if his mischief quotient for the day had been met, so all of his mood seemed more for show than to have any real malice behind it. So, I guess I can give myself a lower case "w" to go along with my upper case Fail, at least.

I only caught a few moments of the process, somewhat early on. As you can hear in the background, Button was deciding it was her time to shine, so I cut the video a bit short so that I could feed her. This was when I supplied Gabe with the two additional sheets of paper so that he could keep himself busy long enough for me to feed the baby. I think the fact that he thoroughly tasted the paint has to say something about the boy. I just haven't decided yet if it's something good or not.

No, Diego, No

Time for a little ranting, I've decided.

I've made no secret of my feelings towards Diego. Dora, I'm not fond of, but her show can at least be classified as "charming" and "harmless." Diego, on the other hand, MUST be setting the scientific community back a few decades (which, considering how far the community here in the states was already set back over the past decade, is quite a feat) with its unforgivableness and stupidheadity.

The problem is, I support the show's premise. It conveys a strong message of environmental responsibility, which is something I think people need more of--and the only real way to get people to accept something as a given is to expose them to it from a very young age. Well, it's not the ONLY way, obviously, but it's the most successful. So, I support the message the show is giving kids.

What I don't support is its method. And its inconsistency. And the way it encourages kids to be friendly with wild animals.

Actually, I wouldn't have a problem with its method if it wasn't so closely intertwined with the other two hate-making aspects of the show. Each episode is pretty similar--animal is in trouble, Diego has to face several Dora-esque "obstacles," animal is rescued. In theory, this could be a great, educational show, exposing kids to various aspects of geography, ecosystems, environmental issues, and animals--which it does, in a not entirely consistent sort of way.

See, the show doesn't follow any sort of scientific approach--it haphazardly mixes the fantasy aspects of Dora (talking animals, improbably convenient Deus ex Machina type uses of either Backpack or Rescue Pack, that sort of thing) with what should be science. Some animals talk, but some animals can't--and ALL animals are reliant on Diego to save them, which is a bit of a troubling concept in and of itself. I don't like it. Science is science, fantasy is fantasy. Science fiction is one thing, but this show pretends to be science, so its fantasy aspects, I think, are inexusable because they are, in effect, teaching young children all sorts of wrongness.

Take the episode Gabe and I just finished watching. Diego had to help a hippopotamus rescue his oxpecker (heh, heh, oxpecker) friend (actual quote from the show: "I'm glad you're safe, too, oxpecker. Seeing you makes me one happy hippopotamus." That made me laugh. This was then followed with a Lion King style musical number about symbiosis, which I also thought was humorous. Except, I shouldn't be laughing at ANY of this stuff, at least not ironically, because this isn't supposed to be that kind of show) who had done something typically stupid to get itself into trouble. The hippo had a "big dumb oaf" voice--like the abominable snowman/space alien from Bugs Bunny that said, "I will hug him and squeeze him and call him George" all the time--and was comically helpful.

That's just dangerous. Hippos are mean, dangerous, far from benign animals! They might LOOK like big dumb water cows, but they are, in fact, big dumb water cows that can, and will, crush a human's bones to dust should one wander too close! And Diego was all buddy-buddy with the thing, riding on its back while it ran here and there. I don't like that, during every episode, at least once I have to say something like, "Remember, Gabe, a hippo is ACTUALLY a very territorial animal with jaws powerful enough to crush a human skull like a mango--and they HATE humans. You should never try to ride one, even if you are trying to save a friendly oxpecker." Oxpecker. I love that. See, THAT is scientific humor I can support.

And don't even get me started on Rescue Pack. Usually, Diego turns it into some environmentally irresponsible gas-guzzling eco-terror, like a jet ski, snow mobile, or helicopter, which sends the message that thinking of the environment is all well and good, as long as it doesn't get in the way of our fast and convenient transport from point A to point B. Sometimes I just want to knock him off the damn thing and leave him freezing in the arctic waters. Maybe he could find a friendly polar bear to quickly grab his leg in its razor sharp jaws and drag him back to shore where it could slowly devour him.

Yeah. THAT'S how dangerous wild animals help people, Diego! Get it straight and stop teaching my kids to walk up to pumas and scratch them behind the ears!

One Other Thing

If you are on Twitter--I am, but I'm terrible about updating, mostly I just have it to read the funny things several authors and comedians I follow post on there--you MUST follow @shitmydadsays. Not only is it funny as hell, it's remarkably insightful. For instance, from the other day: "Sometimes life leaves a hundred dollar bill on your dresser, and you don't realize until later that it's because it fucked you." Brilliant!

Warning! This guy's dad is a swears like a stevedore. So, if you're squeamish about the eff bomb, you should probably avoid it.

I guess it would have been better of me to put that warning BEFORE the pasting from his site, eh?

My Baby Is More Advanced Than Your Baby

I am fully aware that this is a subject that I touched on in an earlier blog post. EVERY parent is convinced that their child is some sort of genius. Every milestone that is reached a little ahead of when its expected is a sure sign that the child will be the president or Jesus or a rocket surgeon or something. I must say that I'm a little guilty of doing the same--though, I'm pretty sure it's different because I, unlike most other people, am almost always right. Just sayin'.

Anyway, MY baby is better than YOUR baby because my baby just started to cut her first tooth yesterday--at only 3 1/2 months old! Yes, yes, I know. It's not THAT unusual, but that combined with her other advancements almost certainly signifies that she's something special. Quite probably, she'll be walking by seven months, talking before she's a year, and composing her first symphony by two and a half. From there, the sky's the limit. Actually, no, she'll probably be the first ten year old to land on the surface of the sun. At least that is where the evidence is clearly pointing right now.

In probably unrelated news, Button has been a bit of a mess today. She's fussy and isn't happy doing all of the things that she usually spends her blissful days doing--lying on the floor, half-lying in her bouncy chair, lying in her bed, those sorts of varied and entertaining things. She's hardly slept at all today, so she's really tired and quite put out by just about everything around her. Since she's female, I can only assume it must be "woman problems." I can't think of any other reasonable explanation.

I really wanted to take a picture of the tooth to share with everyone, but, for some reason, she wasn't all that receptive to the idea. Something about me sticking a finger in her mouth to hold her bottom lip out of the way while covering her eyes so a close-up flash didn't burn out her retinas just didn't sit quite right with her. Babies are so fickle sometimes.

Anyway, please forward you congratulations in the form of generous donations to my paypal account. A portion of all proceeds will be put towards supplying her with some new teething toys (the rest will go into my charitable foundation A Pat on Your Ass--I haven't quite worked out the details of what or how, exactly, my foundation will be charitying, but those details can be hashed out at a later date, probably it has to have something to do with asses, though).

Swine Flu Hits the Playroom

Over the weekend, we celebrated my mother's 60th birthday. I KNOW, can you believe she's that old! I certainly can't. I'm glad that my age is in no way reflected by hers.

Mom is a notorious pig hater. She's always detested the stinky little buggers, and who can blame her, really. If they weren't so delicious, they would almost certainly be worthy of the type of discrimination usually reserved for your most attentive of religions (just kidding, I know that some religions already discriminate against the pig--silly though that may be since it means NO BACON, which is probably too high of a price to pay just for a particular brand of heaven). Because she hates pigs, and because our family is so very supportive, she is guaranteed to receive at least one pig for every major gift giving holiday from some family member or other. And, if we're ALL really on our game, she might receive four or five. Not surprisingly, she has quite a collection of pigs.

For this birthday, since it was a milestone, we decided that we needed to do something special. My sister-in-law Casey suggested that we decorate the house with 60 pigs. The rest of us thought this was brilliant, so we went on various pig-buying quests to find as many as we could.

We ended up getting 64--we figured the rest were "to grow on" pigs. When we were finished with our weekend of surprise parties and other gatherings, some of the pigs were divvied out, and since Gabe is too young to know how disgusting some animals are, he just HAD to have several of them. Thus we are now in possession of several new pigs.

And I decided that it was timely to do an H1N1 bit in our living room. Yes, this was a "teaching moment," and I thought it might be the perfect opportunity to explain to Gabe some of the intricate in's and out's of epidemics, pandemics, and the occasional hysterias that go along with them.

Rather, it COULD HAVE BEEN a teaching moment. Instead, it was just me orchestrating another story in the background while Gabe went about his business. As you will see from the video at the end, the four months that have passed since the last time we had a playroom escapade hasn't been enough to make Gabe interested in my stories. He has also gained remarkably little ground in his Following Directions area of expertise.

The story began with the introduction of the pigs to the room.

Gabe, along with some of the other denizens of the living room, greet the new arrivals.

Because it wouldn't be very interesting if everyone got along swimmingly from the first moment on, trouble started to brew almost immediately.

Currently, our room has a very high redneck population, thanks to Gabe's unwavering interest in cars, trucks, and tractors. Nothing against rednecks, of course. Salt of the earth, and all that. "Git r done," and "I hunt white tail year 'round." See, I can talk your talk, so there's no need to visit me in the night and burn down my house or plant a four story rendering of the 10 Commandments in my yard or whatever. 'Necks are very understanding and sympathetic people, normally. Very accepting and eager to move the human race along its social and cultural path towards the kind of living perfection that we MUST be heading towards, otherwise, what's the point of it all?

But OUR rednecks, well-intentioned though they are, tend to be unusually undereducated by the normally rigorous standards of the NASCAR culture. They tend to get their news from sources that prefer to insight and instill fear and hatred rather than actually inform (that's right, NPR and PBS), so they have a tendency to over-react to any little thing.

And, wouldn't you know it, just this morning, Morning Edition had a big piece of Swine Flu. "SWINE flu?" they said, incensed into action by the knee-jerk media. "We just had a mess of swine move into our neighborhood! Surely they will kill us all! Huzzah!" (You read that correctly. Thanks to the summer Brandy Sue spent traveling the Renn Faire circuit, she'd picked up a few peculiarities of speech, and one or two of them stuck because the goodly people of our living room are eager to expand their horizons linguistically as well as culturally).

As the timing is wont to be when a story is wholly constructed by an addled and somewhat hackneyed brain, several noteworthy citizens (meaning, no homeless or foreigners, obviously) came down with deathly illnesses and were consigned to the hospital couch. Terrible timing, indeed!

Oh the humanity! NORMAL people are being struck down! (Note: that pink one isn't a pig, it's a hippo, so it's SAFE for it to be there)

Almost immediately, in the tradition of other well-thought-out and totally justified rounding-ups of possible problem sorts such as the witches of Salem, the Japanese during WWII, and the Commies during the 50s, the new porcine citizens of the living room were gathered together (interestingly, in the exact same place they were greeted) by the good people of the room.

"Let's roast these porkers!" screamed Randy Bob (the first word of his name is actually an adjective, not a proper name--I know, it's confusing to people until they get to know him) as he thoughtfully and empathetically leveled his twelve gauge shotgun on the pink perpetrators.

Then, all of these little piggies were hauled in to a confinement center (which was later unofficially renamed Happy Funtime Piggy Palace to better illustrate the exact kind of pampering the pigs could assume they would receive there).

The Happy Funtime Piggy Palace (or the Porcine Organizational and Re-educational Klink--P.O.R.K.--as its official government letterhead says). Sadly, all of these pigs were eaten by the P.O.R.K. facility's single gigantic baby guard. A sad day, indeed . . . if you're one of them there pig-lovers!

Less than a week after the giant baby guard ate the detainees, it was discovered by socialists in the scientific community that, in fact, none of the people in the hospital had contracted Swine Flu. What they DID have was a hybridized mutation of Monkey Pox and Bird Flu. It was also discovered that Patient Zero, the monkey that can nearly be seen in one of the pictures above--had been the very first person admitted with the symptoms--and he had only been brought to the hospital after his baby mama (a pigeon) had died from the same malady back at their trailer. Patient Zero had, actually, refused to be admitted to the hospital because, as he calmly and cleverly noted, "I'll be goddamned if I'm going into that place! It'll be SWIMMING in those swine loving, pig fucking, hog humpers! I'll die in five minutes in that pig pen!" Once he lost consciousness, however, face down in the giant plate of fatback he had set before him just moments before, his neighbor delivered him to the hospital where he passed away less than five minutes after being admitted!

The moral here, good readers, is that he COULD have been saved, if only the goddamn pigs that spread this terrible malady had been corraled earlier! Never hesitate! Your instincts are always right! Trust your guts cause your head's got no balls!

Gabe, hustling the pig-folk to their eventual resting place. What a helpful child!

Gabe's Afternoon Project and Other Items of Moderate Interest

Yesterday, about an hour before Libby got home from work, Gabe began a project.

The Project

With a methodical precision that may border on obsessive compulsive, Gabe carefully placed all of the toys that he had out under the baby's bouncy chair. When I asked him, "Why?" he only looked at me as if to say, "Because SOMEBODY has to do it."

He started with the stuffed animals, which he carefully crammed under the back of the chair. He even took the time to make sure he wasn't missing any of them in the bottom of his basket before moving onto the next step. Then his Sesame Street K'Nex followed (Earnie, Oscar, and Cookie Monster, which are, incidentally, his favorite toys right now. He has yet to actually attempt putting any individual character together. Instead, he likes to create variations on the Ernoskie Monster, sticking random pieces together in every which order and arrangement). This was followed by what cars and trains he had out (he hadn't yet stuffed the tracks under, as you can see them sitting in front still).

Then, when he was done, he found his little Cabbage Patch baby (which I've named Sean Astin because that name was similar to the ridiculous name the company had given him, and he sort of looks like Sean Astin, I think), who was stuffed in the pile in the back, pulled him out, and carefully placed him in the bouncy chair, because that's where the baby goes. It was all very cute, if, possibly, a bit worrisome. He has, apparently, progressed beyond stacking up various stuffed animals on TOP of the baby to entertain her, to cramming as much stuff UNDER her as possible. I'll certainly have to keep a close eye on how this develops, lest she end up perching on top of an inevitable avalanche of toys.

And then I have a few videos to share. Nothing TOO spectacular.

We got a little more video of Button laughing. Her laugh is developing nicely, but I'd still say it falls into the category of "a little creepy." Also, Libby's lips haven't had a workout like this since we first started dating. Booyah! (Note: I am not entirely sure what that is meant to imply, since it wasn't like she was giving me lots of zerberts at the time--you ponder on its possible application.)

A video of Gabe trying to make shoes out of the containers his Seasame Street characters come in. Though it would have made for good video, nothing really THAT entertaining happened. Not for his lack of trying, though.

Isn't He Lovely? Isn't He Beautiful?

That is, of course, a reference to a Stevie Wonder song. And I suppose Stevie had a distinct ability to appreciate people for their inner beauty, something that we should all aspire to have in spite of our gift of sight.

But, man, I've seen some ugly kids in my time.

Behold the power of the barrette.

This morning. Gabe found the sheet of Button's barrettes and had to try one for himself.

I'm going to go ahead and skip past all of the comments I could make about cross dressing and gender bending and so on and so forth. And there are plenty I could make. But, frankly, I'm not all that concerned. Sure, Gabe loves to put Libby's makeup on with her in the morning (and then he comes in and asks if he looks pretty). But he's a kid and most kids are a little bi-curious, right?

No, what I want to comment on is the supposed power of the barrette. According to most of my observations, it is presumed to be a magical accessory. Time and again I have seen babies that could be politely described as "gender neutral." Or impolitely described as "fugly."

Yes, yes. I know. There is no such thing as an ugly baby--or ugly PEOPLE, in fact--there are only ugly attitudes and by passing such judgments on physical appearance, I am only proving just how ugly I am on the inside. I get it. I'm a bad person. Maybe YOU are ugly on the inside for judging ME. Frankly, I'm a little disgusted by you. You don't know what I've been through. Maybe I was an ugly child and suffered terribly because of it, and because of that, I feel comfortable parcelling out my own judgments (I wasn't, of course. I was a beautiful baby. And a stunningly cute toddler, except for that month or two that I had a black eye).

(Fun fact: did you know that, in the 70s, it wasn't illegal to not fasten children into safety seats while driving around? At least it wasn't on the farm where I grew up, since there were no highway patrolmen to enforce such a law, if it existed, which I doubt it did. In fact, it was encouraged to let your children "roam free" all over the seat in your pickup truck while you drove around! Problems, no doubt, arose when sudden stops had to be made and the child in question--me in this case, around age 2--went hurtling into the gear shift eyeball first. Really, it's a little amazing that any of us made it out of those dark ages alive.)

But, come on. YOU'VE seen the ugly babies too. You can't deny it. There's no guessing the gender with some of them. With ugly boys, it's not a problem, at least not as far as the parents are concerned. They go about their business as usual, dressing the child in the same clothes they would if the baby was "normal" and could easily be identified as a male. In a way, boys are supposed to be ugly. It comes with the gender. Ugly boys can grow up to score attractive ladies by having talent or being "interesting" enough that their hideous, deformed faces don't distract from their inner beauty (sorry, Lyle Lovett, but it's true). But with girls, it's another story entirely.

Enter the barrette.

Is shrouding your child in pink just not enough to tell the people around you that, despite all the evidence presented, your baby really is a girl? How about accessorizing a little? Yes, the magical hair slide can do just that for you! It can change your ugly, hairless, freakish child into a beautiful little girl! Sure, the barrette will look like a fashion disaster when it's gathering up all twenty-three of the long hairs on top of your kid's head and hanging lifelessly off to the side like a rubber band wrapped around some long overdue scallions, but there will be no mistaking its gender! Or maybe your three year old, even with hair and all the other extras coming in nicely, is STILL unmistakable for a boy, but her hair just isn't long enough for pigtails that will stay in for more than a minute. Remedy? TWO barrettes! And be sure to place them assymetrically on either side of her head. It will give her a "rakish" look that all the other parents will be jealous of!

Yeah. Anyway, Gabe put a barrette in his hair this morning, and I know that I've seen little girls that still looked less like a little girl than Gabe did. Fun for us, but my heart goes out to all those poor, ugly babies around the world who have to rely on the barrette as a gender marker. Hang in there, ugly babies! Maybe that ugly duckling story really was true and you'll grow up to be a beautiful swan (though, I rather doubt it--that's why the story is about an ugly duckling and not an ugly baby, but hope is free, so keep on doing it)! If not, at least there will be a slew of things you can wear other than a barrette to verify to those around you that you're a beautiful woman on the inside, despite what all the visible evidence suggests otherwise. I recommend the push up bra because nothing distracts from an ugly face like a set of fetching bosoms.

Just saying.

This public service announcement has been brought to you today by the Barrettes for Beauty League. Remember our motto: Ugly? Barrettes!

Advanced Maths, Two Year Old Style

For the past few months, Gabe has been showing some interest in his numbers. Being "educated" folks, we have FAR more numbers and letters floating around than could possibly be necessary, in the hopes that, just by seeing them everywhere he goes, he will eventually gain their knowledge and powers. Thus far, that hasn't really worked out.

Rather out of the blue, he started counting up to nine (with the noticeable omission of 3 and 7), and we thought for sure that he was a genius (because that's what all parents who pay attention to their children's development are convinced--just like all of them are convinced that their kid is going to be an engineer the first time they successfully stack four blocks on top of one another). In the past few months, he's increased his counting to fourteen (I assume because we count the stairs as we walk up them--though there are sixteen of those and he's shown no interest in 15 or 16 yet). Of these 14 numbers, he still detests 3 and 7, but he's also taken a disliking to 10. Again, not sure why.

And, yes, I've noticed that 3+7=10. That's why I'm still pretty sure that Gabe's a genius and he's just CHOOSING to omit those numbers because they have, in some way, offended him, not because he doesn't remember they exist. Everyone else's kids, though, they're still dumbies. Sorry.

Anyway, today, in his continuing quest for genius, Gabe ventured into advanced maths. He was at the table, doing some coloring, when he started counting.

"One. Two. Four. Cars. Bugs. Pop Tart."

See? Genius! He's taken the concept of Algebra, where numbers are randomly replaced by letters that supposedly mean the same as numbers but are a secret (and where imaginary numbers can exist, in a perfectly sensible way, I was assured against all of my protests in high school and college), and advanced upon the concept by replacing numbers with objects! Brilliant!

I'm really looking forward to getting his genius grant money (which I'll be applying for shortly). We still have some portions of floor that aren't completely obscured from view with letters and numbers, and those things can be expensive!

Not Entirely Appropriate Minor Update

So, Gabe had a busy last weekend. Friday night, we went out to Nana and Poppa's, where he spent the night. Libby met my folks in Hutch to pick him up and they did some shopping and ate out and such. Sunday, Libby and Gabe went out to Fall River to visit some friend who were camping out there for the weekend. Gabe got to ride in a motor boat and did all sorts of new things (which Libby forgot the camera to get pictures of, but our friends got some, so I'll post some stories about it if we get the pictures) then got to stay up until almost 10:00. He also saw some fireworks. Then, yesterday, Kris brought Finn over and Jon and Casey brought Tanner and Sydney and we had a hectic afternoon and evening of screaming excitement and cookout food.

In my own round-about way, I'm getting to the point that business seems to have a bit of a gastrointestinal effect on Gabe. Usually, he's pretty much like clockwork--every morning between 7:00 and 8:00 he's a goer. But doing things tends to throw him off. And this weekend, he's been pretty off, taking random, ineffective dumps pretty much anytime during the day.

So, this morning, Gabe did some catching up, with a major butt explosion.

Now, this in and of itself would be blog worthy (god knows I've done it before, more than once), but what I ACTUALLY wanted to mention was the fun little game he invented while I was elbow deep in an offal mess. While I had his legs up in the air, trying to wipe away all the offending substance (it was a SEVEN wet wipe affair, nothing to be scoffed at when two is usually the maximum it takes for his most days), he started spreading and then closing his legs.

"Open. Close. Open. Close."

I laughed, but I'm not sure if I did it because it was funny or because I felt a little uncomfortable--although I know it WAS funny.

Obviously I didn't get any video--because I didn't have the camera ready and he only did it for about thirty seconds, but also because I think posting a video like that would likely get me arrested or something. But go ahead and picture it mentally. And be sure to add the big smear of pooh.

UFO (Uncoordinated Flopping Object of affection) Saucer

Yeah, I know. That "O" word combination that I used in my acronym stinks. If you can come up with a better option that means "baby," and isn't "orphan," which is the only one that I could come up with (and obviously couldn't use because it has almost offensive connotations considering the adoption process we're going through), then I will happily change it.

Last week, Libby picked us up a new play saucer/baby entertainer/jump up and downy thing for Button. We had borrowed the one that Gabe used from one of Libby's work friends, and they had another baby so we had to give it back. It's just was well, really. The old on was kind of lame. In fact, this is the first thing that Button has gotten that is BETTER than what Gabe had before. Gabe got all the best toys, better media attention, and the better bed (which we also borrowed and will be returning to its owner just as soon as we can figure out a way to get Gabe to stay in a regular bed through the night). So far, Button has received mostly hand-me-downs. But not this time (though, technically, it still is a hand-me-down, since Libby bought it at a second hand kids' store--not second hand KIDS, second hand kids' ITEMS).

Gabe's saucer thing was a car. It had four or five little do-jobbies scattered around it to play with and a tray that we routinely filled with puffs, cheerios, and other nearly-toddler snack foods (translation: the old one was a MESS of caked on gross when Gabe was finished with it, and, though we cleaned it as best we could regularly, I'm glad we gave it back because ritual burning was probably the only other suitable way to get rid of it). The do-jobbies were pretty basic, and Gabe never showed the least bit of interest in them. And who can blame him? Mostly they just hung around looking pathetic. This new saucer has all the bells and whistles. Literally. Well, no bells, OR whistles. So, I guess NOT literally, but it certainly has its share of noise makers on it. Things play songs and light up and fun times are had by all. Obviously, Gabe LOVES the new toy. He will likely get more use out of it than Button will.

But she'll get her chance to use it. Just not yet. She's at least a month away from being able to support herself well enough to use it. Maybe two months. Possibly three. But, since we had it, we had to try it.

You can't really see in this picture, but her feet are a full four inches from reaching the floor. And we have blankets stuffed all around her to try and keep her from tipping one way or another. All the same, we'll get her in this thing as soon as possible. Gabe was at least a month from reaching the floor when we started putting him in his, and we used the same blanket stuffing method to keep him straight inside. I distinctly recall using a phonebook or something on the floor, too, so his feet would touch something.

Faceplant. She just doesn't have the musculature to stay upright yet. But soon!

Mostly a video of Gabe enjoying the new toy. Poor Butts. Even when the subject of the video is her in her new toy, Gabe finds a way to chew up the scenery. I swear that's not football in the background (OK, it is. Hey, Ben, if you want to hear about a minute of the Chiefs' last preseason game, give it a listen!).

Great Wolf, Part II

First, let me post a little observational disappointment I have on the developmental progress of children.

I am greatly saddened by the attention span and interest Button has for ceiling fans and mobiles. I'm not disappointed by HER development, mind you--she's moving along swimmingly, and since I expect her and Gabe to be geniuses capable of supporting their parents with lucrative jobs, I'm eager to see her develop as quickly as possible. Instead, I'm disappointed in how terribly these things keep her attention now, just a few scant weeks after she discovered their existence.

I had always been told that ceiling fans and mobiles are a great distraction for infants, keeping their attention for hours on end. We saw no evidence of this with Gabe when he was still a groundling. He has, from the moment we got him, had a notoriously short attention span for pretty much everything. He will watch something for a few seconds, and when it fails to engage ALL of his interest, he'll move on, never to return. This has applied to everything--toys, television programs, small child distractions, and, most of all, me (but I can't really blame him there, I'm pretty boring). Only now that his communication skills have increased has he started to show some interest in a few television shows (most disappointingly Max and Ruby, one of my top ten least favorite shows--but at least it's not Barney or the Wiggles, probably because I've refused to even let him know those exist). But our fans and his mobiles and other such distractions were never much of an option.

So, since Norah has been far more "typical" in her early development (meaning she's done all those things that we were told babies were supposed to do, like not cry every second they're awake), I sort of figured she'd take to the ceiling fans and the mobile over her bed. The way people talked about these distractions, I figured they would be akin to an adult watching the entirety of a convoluted television series like "Lost." I thought she'd end up staring at the things for hours on end, eagerly awaiting the next plot twist, or the introduction of (and with Lost, the inevitable elimination of) a new character. The way I saw it, she'd lie, transfixed, on the floor, staring expectantly up at the fan for HOURS on end.

This has not been the case. She has hardly taken a passing interest in any of that.

In fact, she's starting to get a little demanding, now. She's no longer interested in lying in her bouncy chair off to the side watching Gabe systematically destroy our living room. She's showing real interest in being involved, which, considering Gabe's heavy-handedness, isn't really an option. Over the past week or two, we've made several references to the line from Dirty Dancing--"Nobody puts Baby in a corner." Though, really, we probably shouldn't be making ANY references to things like Dirty Dancing around her, lest we curse her personality forever. As it stands now, we're a little worried about the type of girl she might grow up to be. Right now, her two favorite things (the things she'll always smile at) are being laid down on her back and having her diaper taken off. She ALWAYS gives us a big smile as soon as we pull off her diaper, then she'll coo and giggle the entire time the diaper is off. It's very worrisome.

Anyway, on to the last part of our Great Wolf adventure.

It is common knowledge that terrible luck, poor planning, or some sort of disaster makes a vacation memorable. Throughout my childhood, we took numerous vacations "back east," to the D.C. area where my Mom is from. We also traveled to the Black Hills and then, once I was in late middle school and high school, we visited family on the west coast, too. By most standards, I was pretty well-traveled. And I have some pretty good memories from many of the trips. From time to time, we'll casually reflect on this event or that from one trip or another. But, for the most part, our vacations went off without hitches. Because of this, there aren't many that we can REALLY sink our conversational teeth into. With two exceptions, and both of these trips have come up in casual conversation not just with family but with friends who never went on the trips in the last few months--proving their conversational mettle. And they came up because they were truly memorable for their terribleness, which is what makes a truly memorable holiday.

The first was a trip that we took to Russell, Kansas, for a cow show of some sort. During the mid to late 80s, my Dad was pretty big into showing cows, so we went to a number of places for overnight or weekend stays while he did his cow things (the details of which, I won't go into now). This trip to Russell took place in the middle of winter, and a big snow storm hit while we were there. Now, nothing particularly INTERESTING happened to us because of this storm, but the trip was memorable because we spent three days trapped in our cheap motel room with literally nothing to do. We had a few books and that was about it. We didn't even have the benefit of a television to keep us distracted because this was pre-cable time for much of the rural area. All we had were the few local networks that came in. To this day, I still rank those three days as among the most boring of my life.

The second happened on a trip we took to California--I think some time around 1994. My grandfather was ill and we were making the trip there to be with him. Because it was cheaper than flying, we decided to put a topper on our truck, put some carpet on the floor so we could take shifts sleeping or playing back there (a travesty of motor vehicle safety, I'm sure), and drive it. The memorable part started as we were leaving Wendover, NV (which we now lovingly refer to as Bendover). We were about forty miles from town, and dozens of miles from the next town, when the transmission went out on our truck. And it was the middle of the night--about 2 a.m., as I recall, and I recall it pretty well since I was the one driving at the time. Thus we were stranded in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night with nothing but a sheet and a few light coats to keep us warm in the cold desert night. What followed was a series of crazy events that put the truck in Salt Lake City, us on a series of buses to get us to San Fransisco (and a train back to Salt Lake City later on). I got to sit next to a hairy knuckled sociopath for nearly six hours! Very memorable.

Oh, and one time we road on an airplane sitting next to Kool and the Gang when flying to Maryland. This was during--or close to--the height of their popularity, and we were in coach, so that probably says something about the state of the music industry then and now, though I'm not sure what.

And then there were a number of trips that friends and I took in college and shortly after, most of which were very memorable because we are TERRIBLE planners, but I'll save those for another time as well.

Anyway, I was secretly hoping that something like that might happen on this mini-adventure, just because it lends itself well to stories. But no such luck. Everything went off without a hitch, thanks in large part to Libby's ability to seemlessly and meticulously plan events.

Gabe and Finn had a pretty good time, though Finn doesn't much care for swimming or water in general, us adults weren't too put out or worn out since it was only a 36 hour trip, and fun was had by all. Pretty tame as far as storytelling options go.

Gabe and Finn sitting on our balcony, checking out the "tail" at the big outside pool. Such big boys.

In fact, Gabe LOVED it. I'm not sure he's ever had as much fun as he did running around and trying out all the different water features.

After the first trip to the pool, Gabe was still in splash-mode. Libby let him pretty much demolish our bathroom because, as she said, "It's a hotel!" Sound logic, except that we only had a few towels left over to use after we mopped the inch of water off the floor.

There was only one small hiccup when he crashed and burned in the toddler area, which I happened to get on video. Sort of. From my vantage point, I wasn't really able to get much good footage of anything, but here it is, for what its worth. He got a pretty good skinned knee out of it.

Then, after we checked out of the hotel, we went to a nearby mall and visited a Build-a-Dinosaur workshop (by the same people as Build-a-Bear, but much cooler because it's dinosaurs instead of lame ole teddy bears). There, Gabe got to pick out a dino. They stuffed it for him--which involved him picking out a heart for the critter and then there was a bit of a ceremony as the guy stuffed each of his body parts ("We stuff his head so he can be smart and come up with wonderful ways to play with you" or some such stuff--I couldn't really hear what was going on because I was trying to take pictures from out of the way).

The stuffing process

"We stuff his ass so that he might expel mighty dinosaur wind on you while you sleep, haunting your dreams with rancid dinosaur butts."

There was one minorly tense moment while we were in the store. Every thirty minutes, the lights all start flickering and noises of a big storm start. I observed that this must be the Extinction Event, but none of the dinosaurs were lying over dead afterward, so I'm not sure what it was. Unless the intent was only to terrify toddlers, because it worked a charm in that sense. Gabe is terrified by thunder right now (and all really loud noises, really). Finn isn't bad with thunder, but he HATES dinosaurs, so he was already on pins and needles just being in the store. The Event pushed him closer to the edge and Kris and Jess had to take him outside shortly after that. A weird thing to include in a theme store for kids, I think.

Then we let him name it. He named it Soupie (possibly because the outfit we got him was a superhero outfit and he was trying to say "super," but we can't know that for sure). Now, Soupie the dinosaur is Gabe's new favorite toy. This, of course, is great because it gives me yet another character to use in our playroom dramas. If I should ever have the time or energy to get back to those, that is.

So, all in all, a great trip!