And the results are in…

A couple of days ago, I put up a poll on my blog asking people what they thought I should do about Henry wanting to be held all the time. Two surprising results. First, nearly half of you say I should just hold him. Thank you, but not helpful. Second, no one thinks I should buy toys to entertain him. Really? that was actually my first thought. Also, roughly a third of you think that I should just let him cry. Of course we all know that this is really my only recourse. With that in mind, please look at the previous post with all those squishy little baby roll pictures. See those big blue eyes with lashes so long they could start an infomercial? See that smiling mouth wreathed in by plush cheeks and a perfect nose? I need you to understand something here. As adorable as he is, he is also equally tyrannical in his tantrums.

It’s official then–I’m going to stop cleaning my house.

In other news, we went car shopping today. AJ just got a job working at Seattle Children’s hospital for a couple of months, and our second car which now has more white hair and wrinkles than santa claus decided to put in it’s two-week notice just the other day. AJ and I have a love-hate relationship with car shopping. We love the thrill of the hunt, and take pride in getting great deals, but on the other hand we still shop for cars right around the poverty line, so ninety-percent of the cars we look at are a real piece of work. And I don’t mean that in  good way. Also, this means visiting smaller used-car dealers and having to sit there while someone who loves to hear the sound of their own voice rattles on and on about the importance of compression versus miles and how we’re not no way going to find anything clean and in good shape in our price range. It got so bad I actually said the two following phrases to one guy:

1.”This ain’t my first rodeo.”

and 2. “This is how we roll” (as in “hush your mouth for one dadblame second and let me explain that I’m used to buying a whole lot more car for that much money, or a whole lot less money for that much car.”)

Also, it appears we’ve finally reached the point in life every parent dreams of–embarrassing our kids. We took Violet and Henry on a test drive and the whole time Violet was telling us that she very much did not like the car we had chosen. When we asked her why, she said, “People no like this car, Mom. People no like this car.” Needless to say, we didn’t buy it. Apparently we’re susceptible to peer pressure too.

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dinner, car bombs, and matchmaking

It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to blog over a glass of red wine. I’m not sure what the technical term is that I’m looking for, since my wine glass is almost empty and at times like this, important words seem to escape me when needed, plus wine makes me want/feel a strong need to use an inordinate amount of commas in my sentences, but every year my mom makes a batch of red wine that runs too sweet for her taste but is divinely delicious to me. How’s that for a long sentence? Anyway, I’m just trying out last year’s batch. Better than ever. She could sell this stuff, but by the time it would be ready to get sent off we’d have only a bottle or two left and the rest would be hiding in my house.

Anyway…

Tonight we had a fabulous dinner with some fantastic people at one of my favorite places. Jimmys Pizza and Pasta. I love the noisy bustle of a busy restaurant and a long table of friends with multiple conversations being yelled over each other as babies eat napkins, and friends share life over a piece of pizza. There were four babies at the table–three girls and Henry–all the same age. At one point an older lady with some sort of an accent came over and asked some of us if the babies were related and I jokingly assured her that they weren’t since I intended for Henry to marry the one closest to her in about twenty years, so being related would kind of mess that up. If funny looks could talk, her’s would have said something like, “Maybe back in the old country that would have worked, but here in America people don’t pick out their children’s spouses.But she didn’t. Instead she lamely trailed off with “Oh, I just figured they were related because they were all so cute.” You figured a bunch of babies were related because they were all cute? Huh? I know, it confused me too.

Speaking of arranged marriages, I am a fan. Not of my own, but of arranging my children’s. Not in like a get-married-at-12-and-see-your-freaked-out-spouse-for-the-first-time-on-your-wedding-day sort of way, but in a gentle-coercion-by-way-of-years-of-playdates-and-shared-summers-spent-eating-watermelon-on-the-back-porch sort of way. I may have bitten off more than necessary though, because tonight I betrothed Henry to all three girls–although I’m not sure I officially asked all the parents. Details, details. It’s not that I want him to be a polygamist, I just want him to have options.

Last but not least, I brought these amazing cupcakes to the restaurant that are inspired by a truly ridiculous drink where you have to chug it before it curdles. In a drink, these combinations are ambitious. In a cupcake–the trifecta of chocolate cupcake delight.

Irish Car Bomb Cupcakes

 

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Went to the Doctor, and the Doctor said…

Violet and Henry are both in the 75th percentile for weight, and the 85th for height. I think they get that from their father. I am very resigned to being the shortest person in my house in about 12 years. No sense in fighting it. I like wearing heels, but I also like being comfortable so eventually I will have to take them off. I’m okay though. I already know lots of analogies that support my theory that I can still be the boss even if I am short, like a helm to a ship, or a neck to a head.

Here’s my question though since I think I’ve forgotten all the lessons i learned with Violet and can’t seem to figure out how to let Henry cry on the floor while I perform necessary tasks like cooking, etc.

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The spice of life,

is most certainly not poop. Sometimes though, it does add variety. At least that’s what I was thinking when my husband was using a doggy bag from the little sidewalk dispenser to pick up Violet’s poop out of a flower patch at a park.

I suppose I should tell the rest of the story and how the poop got to be there, but sometimes it’s better to leave things unsaid. It makes for a better story.

I wish I’d blogged when Violet was in the 0-6 months phase because I have a hard time remembering when she did stuff. I think she slept though the night before him (he still isn’t) and I’m not sure when she started crawling. Maybe I should go read early on in this blog to see what I can expect from this guy. I also am pretty sure he will be crawling before he can sit up. He can already get up on all fours and rock back and forth but he still doesn’t sit up for long, although that might be because he is always moving. It’s pretty hard to sit when it’s so boring and there’s nothing to find and taste. He is six months old already. When did that happen? How is it possible that we’re already half-way through the baby-phase? I don’t think I’m okay with this.

Also, today when we were out I saw snow on the foothills. Low foothills. Are we going to see snow before Thanksgiving? Is that even Legal? See, here’s the problem I have with snow. No one in western washington has the first clue what to do with it. Two years ago we had to reschedule Christmas because none of the roads were clear and lots of areas had no power. I am not okay with that. Rescheduling major holidays make me wish I had a stomach ulcer. Not really, but that’s just how I feel.

Okay, if you really want to know, Violet and Henry and I were playing at a park in everett while AJ was inside the nearby hospital doing some paperwork for work. I didn’t have any other options, because when she has to go, she has to go. It was the pants or the flowers. I chose the flowers. As soon as she was done she jumped up and squealed in delight, “Poop, Mama! POOOP!!” Of course I was thinking, Thank you Violet. Say that a little louder please. I’m sure the gawking onlookers who peeked out their windows in shock while i pulled down your pants and held your hands so you could poop in a flower patch had no idea what you were doing. But then I realized that moments like this are the ones that are the spice of life. So some people watched me help my child poop in a park. Their day just got a lot less boring.  That’s also why I snapped a picture of the small brown offender with my cellphone and sent it to my dad.

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