Self Deprecation Is Healthy, Right?

I'm afraid, that I already ruined the punchline of this post by making the picture taken of the incident my Facebook profile picture. I've received no end of ribbing for it, but I figured there would be no harm--and, in fact, only good could come of it--in giving the full details of the event for the annals of history to decide. Oh, and the kids did some stuff this weekend, too.

It all started about a month ago. Well, longer than that, really. For the past year or so, we've been having problems with the drainage from our kitchen sink and dishwasher.

Our plumbing is a nightmare. See, our house is at least 106 years old. We've done some research into the records, and the earliest mention of our house that we could find was of when it was moved to this spot, in 1902. How long the house existed before it was moved, we have no idea, but it's been standing on the spot it is now for over a century.

When it was moved, concepts like climate control and plumbing were completely foreign, so, not surprisingly, the original owners of the house weren't that concerned with the crawl space under the house. Presumably, they figured they only reason they'd ever need to get under the house was to remove errant wildlife or, perhaps, to hide from a tornado. So they only left something like three feet of clearance.

When they eventually added plumbing and central venting, they didn't bother to dig out the space under the house any further. So, in spots, there is about a foot of clearance under the duct work--and, in other spots, there is no clearance at all. In fact, we cannot access the entire front half of our house because there isn't enough room to get under the obstacles.

AND, when some previous owner decided to add some rooms on to the back of the house (the bathroom, and the entry room we use for the washer and dryer, and possibly the kitchen), they did something even stupider than leaving a three foot crawl space--the back filled OVER the plumbing they installed, leaving no clearance and zero access to much of our house's plumbing. As I said, nightmare.

Needless to say, the plumbing they installed was cast iron, because that was cheaper than copper. Obviously, these owners suspected they would be dead or gone by the time this plumbing wore out, so why worry about it?

And now it is wearing out. Quite rapidly, in fact. For the past year or so, as I said before, the drainage has been terrible. We've managed, but it hasn't been pleasant, until about a month ago when things started backing up regularly. Because we're cheap, I tried to deal with it on my own--with a plunger and some muscle. To my surprise, it actually seemed to work. All of a sudden, the sink and dishwasher were draining well again!

And then the stink came. Libby was the first to catch a whiff (because I have a pretty dead sense of smell for some reason), and she swore it was coming from under the house. We thought maybe some mice or a rat or snake or a hobo or something had gotten underneath and died. No such luck. We opened the crawl space to find about four inches of sitting water under there--sitting water filled with the various discardings one would expect to come from a kitchen sink.

Ugh. So we had a plumber out to fix it. He replaced a section of worn pipe with some PVC and recommended we get a drain company out to clear the line. So last week we did that, and found that we had ANOTHER leak in the line. Then the drain company said it was impossible to clean out the line because it's too old and practically destroyed. Now we're waiting on the plumber to come out and tell us how much it will cost to put in as much new line as they possible can.

Double ugh.

The problem is, with two kids who use dishes like they are going out of style (and one female adult occupant who never met a glass she'd use more than once), we have scads of dishes to do on a daily basis--and only two sinks, the kitchen and the bathroom. Our bathroom sink is tiny and very poorly designed for doing dishes. So, I decided to do the dishes in the bathtub.

And how, you might ask, does one go about doing the dishes in a bathtub? Not easily, it turns out. Obviously it would be easy enough to fill the tub to soak the dishes, but then you don't have any clean water to rinse them off (without making a new pile then figuring out a way to rinse them in the bathroom sink, which would doubtless leave the bathroom a wet mess from all the wettening, transferring, and rewettening).

So I turned on the shower. Perfect solution! New water sprays down on the dishes making it possible to clean them and rinse them at the same time! I turned on the shower and set to work while I knelt down outside the tub. Only to get sopping wet from the haphazard sprays of the shower head, which was apparently not designed with washing and rinsing dishes in mind, for some reason.

The dishes in the tub. Quite a load, actually. We were in need of a run through the dishwasher before the plumbing fell apart, and this was a full day after that. There were, actually, more dishes that I'd already run through the bathroom sink and a few others that hadn't made it into the tub yet.

Thus I came upon another solution--one that I felt was not only a mult-tasking ingenuity, but a perfectly acceptable answer to my problem: I would sit in the tub with the shower running (and the drain open, so no water was sitting) and do the dishes!

The ultimate class act.

Yes, I know, terrible. Everything about it reeks of the Appalachian backwaters. But what other option was there that worked as well? There was none. And, sadly, I just got off the phone with the plumber and he said it would likely be Wednesday before they could make it out to fix the drain. We're already in need of another load of dishes, so it looks like it will be back in the tub with me some time today! Hurray!

The Madness!

Try as I might, I just couldn't come up with a pithy, appropriate name for this post. It's going to cover an array of topics because our kids have been doing some weird/funny things the last few days. But those things include Norah finding a new place to hide, Gabe playing on his new slip and slide, and Gabe making a footlong hot dog dance. How could I possibly come up with a name that could allude to such a diverse range of weird topics? I couldn't, so you got a half-assed name instead. Oh well.

Anyway, yesterday, Norah kept insisting on crawling into her new hidey hole.


I'm not sure what the draw was. The first time she went under, she'd thrown a toy under there and went to retrieve it, but, after that, I made sure nothing went under there so she wouldn't crawl under and get stuck. But she kept bringing her own toys under with her. I pulled her out the next three times, figuring it would prevent her from bonking her head, at least, but she kept going under. Eventually, I just let her find her own way out, which she did after spending about five minutes hunkered up under there. Kids are weird.

Next, the slip and slide. As if Gabe needed something else to be obsessed with! It's pretty much non-stop "Slip and slide? Slip and slide?" all day now. But there you have it.

He hasn't quite mastered the concept yet, obviously. It's more of a Run and Splash right now than a Slip and Slide (Note: I'm making a conscious choice to say "and" instead of reducing it to the "whimsical" replacement "'n," on general principle). I like how he has to get a BIG running start, too, and then clean out all the grass that he's dirtied it up with.

And, finally, last night, Libby got him a footlong hot dog for dinner at Sonic. For some reason, Gabe will not eat a hot dog in a bun. He likes to eat the buns plain--and he will ask for them often--but he won't eat one that's holding a hot dog (or has held a hot dog, as if it's compromised the purity of the bun, which, considering hot dogs, it probably has). So he pulled the dog out and started to eat it.

At the very beginning (and you have to watch close, it doesn't last long), he's says he's dancing his hot dog to the music on the TV. Then the rest of the video becomes a contest between Libby and the TV for Gabe's attention.

A Busy Week

Well, busy month, really. Or two months, maybe. April and May tend to be that way--so it's not a surprise that I'm glad to see the tail end of them. But the last week and a half or so has been especially busy.

Aunt Molly was here for much of it, "enjoying" the kids. After a little better than a week of sleepless nights, I think we've given Molly a pretty good idea of what it's like to have kids. I'm telling you, if we, as a nation, want to take teenage pregnancy seriously, we need to establish some sort of outreach program where high schoolers spend a couple weeks living with someone who has an infant. I guarantee, after having to stay awake with those kids for two weeks--and then go on to function in the real world after--these kids will realize exactly how much they DON'T want to have a kid yet.

So, here was our last week.

It started with Adoption Day. Hurray! As far as I'm concerned, this is the end for me. No more kids. Unless we're cursed . . . I mean blessed, to have one of our own, we're done. I'm ready to move away from the baby raising stage of life. While babies are cute, they really don't have much else going for them. Toddlers are FAR more interesting.

But, with this adoption day, we made Norah an official part of the family, which is fantastic. The day itself went fairly well, too. We started off at the courthouse. From what we've been told, they start the days with the adoptions since they are the bright points for most of the judges and they like to begin on a high note. So, as soon as things were up and running, we were hustled into the courtroom where we spent something like five minutes doing the last little bit of stuff that needed to be done to make things official. It took far longer for us to take pictures than it took to finish any of the legal proceedings.

Us with the judge. I think his name was Dredd. Or maybe Judy. Can't remember.

Norah with her new bear. Our foster care provider (or maybe it's the court system) gives adopted children a teddy bear on Adoption Day. Gabe got a little black one that we named Burgess after the judge. This one will be Parker (there's an obscure newspaper comic reference for you folks) or Roy Scream (followed up by a Six Flags over Texas reference).

I've never seen a small child look so smug before.

After court, we went to breakfast (where we took no pictures) and then to the zoo. Because Kansas' weather is becoming more unreasonable every year, it felt like mid-July at the zoo that day. The temperature was only in the 90s (ha! I said "only"), but the humidity was somewhere around 85%. It was miserable. But we endured the zoo, for a little while anyway--right up to the point where the kids started melting down because they were missing nap time. Then we called it a day.

We really hoped to get a picture of her hamming it up in front of the big monkeys with this hat on so we could have matching pictures of her and Gabe doing the same thing, but she hated the hat (and, because her head is so big, the chin strap was nearly cutting off the circulation to her chins), so we just took one picture of her in it before we left the car and called it good.

Near the end of the day, Libby arranged for a friend of hers to give a little demonstration in the education center at the zoo. She read a story then let the kids pet a pair of rats. One of them was hairless and looked (and felt) like a scrotum. Education!

And that was Adoption Day, more or less.

Other things happened, too, over the week, and we took pictures whenever we thought about it. I'll post them and comment as I go because, frankly, I can't really remember what all happened, exactly, over the past two weeks.

Showing uncharacteristic resourcefulness (probably because Molly was here), we actually managed to use some of the fruit that grows naturally on our property. Here, Molly and Gabe gather up mulberries from the big tree in our back yard.

Gabe with his mulberries. These were the ones that we managed to bring inside. He ate at least this many more as they were handed to him.

Once the mulberries were picked, I took them inside to make muffins, which meant that Norah had to come outside to play (since she hates sitting in her high chair watching me cook). She's quite taken to the sandbox over the last month.

Though she's taken to the sandbox, she still hasn't learned that she shouldn't eat the sand. Every time she's in there, at least one handful goes into her mouth. Libby was kind enough to get the picture of her disgusting, snotty, gritty face for all posterity. Later that night, as I got her changed for bed (and AFTER a bath), I spent about five minutes and used a handful of wipes to wipe the sand out of the folds of her neck. Ugh.

Finn came over for a playdate, too. Libby and Molly took them shopping before playing and bought them both hats. Gabe actually kept it on for awhile, which was unusual. Want to know something funny? Gabe's hat is a 2-4T size. Finn's is a 5-7. Kris said that he's given Finn one of his old hats already, and it pretty much fits. Big heads are funny! I feel safe pointing this out as I already made fun of my baby's massive melon earlier in this post. Oh, and what you can't see in this picture is the plumber's crack both of them are sporting.

While Molly was here, we went through pretty close to three cases of Diet Coke. It was like she and Libby were having a contest to see who could drink the most. Gabe, apparently, likes it too. I've tried to steer him clear of anything soda-like for three years, but now he's getting old enough that he doesn't have a problem finding our drinks and making them his own. Now we have a choice--give up soda so he doesn't get it, or live with the fact that he, too, will likely end up a soda junkie like his parents (especially his mother--I try to restrict myself to about one can's worth of soda a day, but I pretty much ALWAYS have that can's worth). It's a tough call.

Since I was already on the subject, might as well include another picture. This was from later in the week, and includes another of Gabe's friends--Mara. Libby liked this picture because they look like grown-ups enjoying a day at the spa. Libby (and Mara's mom, Libby--I know, confusing) sat there and humored the kids every request, allowing them the fantasy of enjoying a stay at a five star resort. Now, if I were to sit there like that, asking for drinks and service, she wouldn't think it was cute at all--and humoring me would be the last thing on her mind. Why is that?

Also this week, Gabe got new jammies. He had pretty much outgrown all of the novelty pjs he got last fall, so it was time for a fresh set. He got several pairs including this superhero costume (to replace his old one). This one even has a little cape that velcros onto the back (pretty much exactly like his stuffed dinosaur Soupie has). The sunglasses and hat were also purchased on this shopping trip, and he's shown an unusual interest in wearing both of them.

Molly flying Super Gabe around the room.

One of his other sets of pjs--the doctor. Libby tried to find out what kind of doctor he was last night, but he was reluctant to tell us--which means he's embarrassed about it, which means he's a proctologist. Oh well. At least he'll never hurt for work--everyone has a butt.

And, finally, we topped off the weekend by getting rid of the kids for a night and having our annual wine party. No pictures or stories worth sharing, really. We had great fun and everyone got pretty well inebriated (AND we got to sleep in until like 9:00 the next morning!), so it was a resounding success as far as I was concerned.

Of Birthdays and Minions

Yesterday we celebrated both kids' birthdays with a backyard extravaganza. No fewer than 200 children were involved. Or at least it felt like that many. It was chaos. Molly--who has been here since Thursday--and Libby spent the better part of Saturday planning things out and setting things up. They even made a map of the backyard for where certain activities should go. It was very cute. The Love girls, apparently, take this shit very seriously.

But I'll get to the party in a moment because, as we were going through the pictures of the party last night, I found some Play-Doh pictures that I took earlier last week with the intention of posting them, but then I forgot. So I'll deal with those first.

While Gabe and I were playing with his Doh, he struck upon the idea of creating an army. His notion of "army" is still a little fuzzy, though (and he still isn't clear because he had me repeat the process today), as he refers to each soldier I create as "army." Thus, when I created each of his little men, he said, "Make another army, please," as he took the new recruit and lined him up.

Not entirely excited about the prospects of my three year old plotting war strategies already, I convinced him, instead, to line up each of his little men (and, later, creatures) into a queue to eat some of the birthday cake I'd made out of Play-Doh a little earlier.

Gabe learns a valuable lesson about queuing. The "birthday cake" in the little plate at the head of the queue looks, pretty much, exactly like the birthday cake on his plate at his birthday party ended up as he tore it apart to eat all the frosting off it.

But that's about all I have to say about that. Gabe's showing an interest in forming an army. Probably that's something else I should keep an eye on.

Oh yeah! Speaking of things to keep an eye on, Gabe offered to "fight" both Libby and I in the past couple of days when we've told him to do something he didn't want to. He didn't seem to have much of a concept of what was involved in the fighting, and we had some pretty stern words about the matter, but there it is. I think the next time he offers I will take a moment to explain the concept of "choosing your battles" and the very relevant concept of not picking a fight with someone who weighs about five times what you do. Maybe that will clear things up a little for him.

On to the party. I'm not thinking that I want to relive this particular event just yet, so how about I just select some of the best pictures and fill in what blanks I can, minus the running commentary.

After letting the kids get a taste of the messes that awaited them (and a little mingling by the parents), we opened presents. Norah went first. Mostly the rest of the other girls did the work for her. She got WAY more crap than any one year old should ever get.

Then it was Gabe's turn. Last Christmas was the first time that he truly grasped the concept of opening presents, so he went at it with gusto this go-round. Again WAY more crap than any three year old should ever get (we're going to have to closet some toys or start giving them away because our house has officially reached critical mass).

Because she still refuses to sleep when we want her to, Norah was SUPER cranky all day thanks to a napless afternoon. When she wasn't the center of attention, she was a crabby little stinker. Until she fell asleep on Liz's lap. Then she took just enough of a nap to keep her awake but cranky until bed time.

Norah's cake. Gabe had one too, but it wasn't as "special" as this one. Notice the smiley face on it. I added the name and the face. Note the terrible job I did. I'm guessing I won't be invited to compete in any cake-based reality challenge programs any time soon. Good thing she's too young to remember.

Before we ate cake and ice cream, we set the kids loose on the sprinklers (it was a balmy low 90s yesterday, so it was the perfect weather for it). We forgot to cinch up Gabe's swimsuit, so he was looking pretty "gangsta" (which, from what I gather, roughly translates as "someone who is proud of plumber's crack") throughout the afternoon.

Gabe ate three pieces of cake. In less than five minutes. And he's been a little ticked a couple times today to find out that all of his cake got eaten. I think he was looking forward to the cake more than the presents, even.

The obligatory picture of a child feeding cake to him/herself on her first birthday. Because she was passed out when we did the cake and ice cream, we actually forgot about this for awhile, but still had a piece left over, so, before bath time, we let her at it. Gabe wasn't impressed by his cake when he turned one. But Gabe didn't like his food like Norah does. She snarfed it all down.

And, finally, one of those pictures that my child will hate me for eventually. Awesome.

The kids, blowing bubbles. An art they haven't quite mastered yet.

Gabe with the T-Ball set that Uncle Jebes got him. Shortly after the video, he started smacking the ball pretty consistently. Since he's showing no proclivity for throwing or catching, but he's pretty good at hitting, my guess is that he's got a successful career as a designated hitter ahead of him.

And that's that. We got a little video of Norah eating her cake, but, really, she did it with such skill and relative grace that it didn't make for a terribly interesting video (plus, Blogger is playing silly buggers with the video again today, and I'm not even sure if these first two videos will post, so I'm done messing with it).

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I am not an insomniac. I've had my problems with sleep over the years, but that is not one of them. Were I to ever go an entire night without ANY sleep, as with true insomnia, I would be a complete wreck the next day. I've tried sleepless nights a few times over the years and they have all ended the same way, with me feeling sick to my stomach and utterly miserable--not to mention completely useless--until I got some proper sleep.

Round about late grade school/early high school, however, I began to track something that I started to refer to as "semi-insomnia." While I wasn't kept up all night, I found it impossible to get to sleep before sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning, which mean I only got a half night of sleep. Though I started keeping track of when it happened around this time, and came up with a not-quite-accurate name for it, it was something that I suffered from since early childhood.

During college, I figured out what the problem was. Thanks to more flexible class scheduling, an abundance of things to do in the middle of the night, and no parental supervision, I learned that my body clock naturally wants me to sleep from 3:00 until 11:00 in the morning (over the years I've been able to bump that back from 1:00-9:00, but it's still hardly what you'd call a "workable" sleep table).

Mostly, I've been able to adapt. I still rarely get to sleep before midnight, but I've found that I an function--albeit inefficiently--with only five or six hours of sleep at night. But, every once in awhile, I'm struck by a case of semi-insomnia, and there are few things in the world that I find more frustrating or irritating. Being one of nature's clock watchers, every five minutes that passes tosses and turning in bed registers very clearly in my mind as five minutes LESS that I will be sleeping that night. Thus the frustration and irritation.

Anyway, last night, I had another bout of semi-sleeplessness. I finally got to sleep around 2:30, but it took a great deal of coaxing on my part, including an act of desperation that I never in my wildest dreams thought I would consider.

In early childhood, when I couldn't sleep, I used a number of methods to try and self-sooth myself to sleep. Often I rocked against the wall my bed butted up to (my parents eventually had to put carpet down in my room because I had worn a groove with the feet on my bed into the hardwood floors, from the bed being rocked away from the wall about six inches at night), but sometimes I slept under the covers with my head at the foot the bed.

This was my comfort method of choice when I was having some of my bad dreams. I remember two instances specifically. Once I was hiding from Darth Vader, the second I was hiding from that goddamn clown nightlight. Both times, I carried on quite long and involved conversations with Luke Skywalker, hatching plans of attack should the bed become compromised and generally trying to convince myself that I was actually safe in my bed. And, both times, I fell asleep down there, feeling half smothered when I woke up the next morning from the complete lack of circulation.

I remembered the success of these endeavors last night as I destroyed my bedding with all my tossing and turning. So I gave it a try. With all the grace and aplomb one would expect from someone in his mid-30s, I maneuvered my way down to the foot of my bed. Granted, the result wasn't quite the same since my feet were sticking out the top of the covers, but, I assure you, my top half was quite well secured.

Sadly--possibly because I'm beyond the point in my life where I can carry on a soothing conversation with an imaginary Jedi, or maybe just because feather comforters let in FAR less oxygen than the standard issue one I used as a child--it was not successful. Feeling deprived of air, I abandoned my great experiment just five minutes into it. Eventually, I went to sleep feeling rather foolish (maybe shame is what I need to go to sleep at night--there's a thought!), so I thought I'd share. At least that way something positive might come of it.

Potty Training Is Less Stupid

Over the past few months, as we've fought, off and on, with Gabe's potty training, we've often lamented to other parents about the ordeal it had become. Invariably, we were met with one response: "When he's ready, it will just sort of happen."

Because I am a very polite person, I always replied, "It needs to goddamn happen, goddamn soon, then," and the other parents nodded knowingly and we moved on to the next bitch-worthy topic. But, despite my gracious and urbane demeanor, I always secretly scoffed at this little bit of advice. See, I had been burned before by seemingly well-meaning and helpful parents who were passing on their hard-earned wisdom.

There is a long list of advice that parents will give other parents, or prospective parents, that should ALWAYS be received with equal parts skepticism and cynicism. See, one thing that few parents will admit to others is that the old adage "misery loves company" is never more alive and well than in the parenting game, and they will use a series of half-truths and rose-colored adages to convince others to join in their pain. There are a range of reasons why parents do this--ranging from jealousy to basic stupidity, and covering several options in between--but we needn't go into that here. Books could be written on the subject (and, if because of my suggesting it, one is, I expect at least a mention in the Thank Yous at the end).

For instance, before we had kids, all we ever heard from anyone was that having kids was the greatest thing ever. Everything about having kids was wonderful. If anything even mildly negative was let slip, it was always suffixed with "But it's totally worth it." Never was the fact that sleep would be a stranger for multiple YEARS mentioned, or that having kids would make doing anything even remotely fun an ordeal (and, in fact, most things are done for the KIDS to have fun, never the parents because, frankly, the parents are too caught up trying to make sure the kids stay safe and out of everyone else's hair to even let their guard down for a few minutes).

But, to anyone out there who doesn't have kids but is considering it, it's totally worth it. No, seriously. Frustrating as hell at times, but worth it. You'll want to pull your hair out (what little you have left, because the years of not sleeping, eating properly, or exercising will take a pretty terrible toll on your body) at times, but who needs hair when you're already old and haggard, right?

(Side Story: I've been working on this post off and on through the morning--whenever the kids have been sufficiently entertained on their own to allow me to break away for a few minutes. As I was working a little while ago, Gabe came down the stairs--he'd been watching a movie upstairs--and said, "I need to pee pee in the potty." For the time being, this translates as "I already pee peed in my pants and want to sit on the toilet for two seconds then have you put some new clothes on me." So I led him into the bathroom and pulled down his pants to find a lump of smushy poop in his underwear--and now spread down his leg since I didn't notice it before taking his clothes off. He still has NO interest in crapping in the toilet, and, in fact, doesn't seem to even recognize the fact that he needs to poop or even HAS pooped. So we've been leaving him in a diaper in the morning until he has his poop then moving to underwear. He's usually a one-poop-a-day kind of guy, so we're usually safe doing this. Except this morning.

So, anyway, I tell him to stand still in the bathroom so I can get some wipes and clean him up. I ask him to bend over so I can get him wiped and get to cleaning. As I'm doing so, I explain to him that he MUST try to tell me BEFORE he poops so we can do it on the toilet too, and he replies, "It's all part of the plan."

This, I should note, is the catch phrase of Special Agent Oso on the pre-K show on Disney in the mornings, so the fact that he said it wasn't all that interesting. The CONTEXT, though, has me a little worried.)

Then, after we had our first kid well established and started thinking about a second, we were again bombarded with helpful advice from everyone who'd already had their second kid. "Having two kids is actually easier than having just one," they swore. "They entertain each other and make the day-to-day caring of them MUCH easier!" "Well," we thought, "we certainly like easier."

What these parents failed to mention, however, is that the "easier" part doesn't start to happen until the youngest child is getting around the house freely and is capable of offering mild entertainment to the older child. We are JUST starting to see this happen, almost a full year later. So, technically, what these parents said was true, they just failed to mention the entire year in between the child's birth and it becoming a semi-productive member of the household, which is filled with entertaining TWO children instead of just one.

And on and on. Just about any sunny-dispositioned load of bull pucky parents can feed another parent, they will feed. I guess it's just the nature of the game (and I know for damn sure that, given the opportunity, I'll inflict the same nearly-bogus information onto other unsuspecting saps--it's what they deserve for listening to my advice instead of just going with their own guts, as far as I'm concerned!).

So, naturally, I just figured this one about potty training was a bunch of diaper filling crap, too. It didn't stand to reason that a kid would just "know" when they were ready and start cooperating accordingly. Our kid doesn't "know" not to jump head first off the couch, and basic survival skills seem like they would trump hygiene skills.

But, over the past few days, Gabe has begun to show an understanding of, and appreciation for, the toilet using process. Obviously, as my side story illustrated, we've got a LONG way to go before potty training becomes less work than changing a diaper every couple hours, but there are marked signs of improvement, which was something I was convinced we would never see (remember, not too long ago, I was sure that Gabe would be wearing diapers in middle school), and it's all been Gabe's doing.

Sunday, quite out of the blue, he decided that he wanted to wear underwear and didn't want to have ANYTHING to do with a diaper. So we obliged. He still isn't very good at telling us when he needs to go, so hopefully that's something that will develop (because I don't fancy asking him every hour if he needs to pee pee until he gets into middle school--imagine the cell phone disturbances as I ask him in the middle of his classes throughout each day, if nothing else), but he managed to stay totally dry Sunday and yesterday because I asked him every hour if he needed to go and made him sit on the toilet every two hours whether he thought he needed to or not. And he was VERY proud of sticking with it--enough so that I think it made a real connection in his brain between being a big boy and using the toilet.

So, you know, hurray. I look forward to spending about $70 a month less on diapers. Maybe I can put the money into a savings account so I can use it to pay for his cell charges in middle school.

A Busy Weekend

As it happens, May is a bit on the busy side. Even without having kids in school, we've still managed to have a google million things going on, and it really doesn't look as though it will be letting up until the last weekend of the month. Then, thankfully, things should start to go back to normal.

Last weekend, we had our third of four trips to the zoo this month and a birthday party for Gabe's friend Finn.

I'm not sure I see the necessity of going to the zoo so many times in a single month. Of course, I've never seen the zoo as an interesting entertainment option to begin with. I can't say with any degree of certainty, but if I had to estimate, I think I probably visited the zoo all of a dozen times by the time I graduated from high school. Possibly fewer times than that. We seemed to go about every other year on field trips, and my folks took us a few times, but that was it. And except for having a distinct memory that the Jungle exhibit was too hot and stuffy, I really don't have any memories of the zoo--it made that little of an impression on me.

Libby, however, grew up going to the zoo all the time. From the way she talks about it, one would assume that her family held a timeshare burrow in the prairie dog town as much time as they spent there.

At any rate, we went back again Saturday. It rained most of the time we were there--great for keeping the crowds down, which was just fine by me.

When we got to the orangutan exhibit, one of the big monkeys was sitting right by the glass (yes, I know they aren't monkeys, but I like to call them that just to irritate Libby). Gabe, seeing a kindred spirit, immediately sought to bond with it. This turned out to be too much for the orangutan to bear, though, as it soon fled to the furthest point in its cage.

Then, for reasons known only to him, Gabe decided that he needed to pick the noses of all three of the commemorative bears, which he did with OCD-like procession.

Bear Two.

And a nifty little backhand pick for the third bear.

The birthday party, then, was great fun. Jessica (Finn's mom) went to a great deal of trouble to set up party games--including a pinata (though it had pull strings on it to release the candy instead of having the kids bash themselves and everyone around them to get the candy--which begged the question, "What's the point?" If it's not going to make America's Funniest Home Videos, then pinatas don't really have much purpose, in my opinion) and pin the tail on the donkey. It was actually stick the donkey sticker on the donkey, I guess, which was probably a much better idea than giving a mess of three year olds a tack to poke themselves with. For most of them, this was the first time they'd ever played the game. For Gabe, it was the first time he'd ever been deprived of his sight (except, obviously, when it's dark).

He actually dealt with it quite well. He stood still and listened to the instructions and carefully stepped forward to stick the donkey tail sticker on the donkey (on its head, so, sadly, he didn't win--but a good go for a first try). The way I see it, it was like putting blinders on a horse. It kept him uncharacteristically focused. It might be something to consider on a regular basis for those times when he won't listen and he can't seem to stop running around in circles.

I like this picture because it proves that it's NATURAL to open one's mouth when feeding something to someone else. I do it a lot, embarrassingly enough, when I'm feeding Norah. As if seeing my mouth open will encourage her to do the same thing. Or, perhaps, it only proves that I am only as advanced as a three year old. I've suspected as much for some time now, and I doubt I'd hear many arguments to the contrary from Libby.

And here's a little video of the feeding.

Next weekend is the double birthday party for Norah and Gabe! Weeeee!!!! He's certainly excited. All he's talked about this morning is the presents that he's going to get this weekend. As if he needs more crap than he already has. He has so much stuff, he doesn't even know what he's got. We can pack it away in the closet and he won't even notice it's gone until we get it out again and he's excited to play with it. Kids.