A good day revisited

Well, you're visiting it for the first time. However, I'm revisiting it, since I just did my monthly trip through my photos to sort out the good ones for printing, and I found a ton of fun ones I wanted to share with you from a sweet day we had in June. A few weeks ago, I got this mega-coupon for a waterpark...$5 for adults and $3 for super-short shorties. I corralled Auntie Hode into going, and we packed up some contraband sandwiches and off we went with my two creatures. Let's review...

Phook got serious right away. The "slow to warm up" tendencies in her are fading. Sometimes they still surface in really new situations or with people who freak her out (read: heavily bearded men). But in more and more settings that are just fun kid things, she is becoming inclined to dive right in. Here she goes, just randomly jumping with excitement:

And some sweet dicing out on the slide:

Pig was a little bit undernapped and consequently a little salty on this day, but he got his pool groove on too:

Now my sister is probably going to rip my eyes out and piss in my dead skull for posting a full body shot of her in swimwear on the interwebs, but I had to post this because she and Pig are rocking the exact same squinty farmer expression (inherited from our father and presumably a lot of squinty farmers before him). Plus, she looks hott.

After dicking around in the kiddie pool for awhile, we took the opportunity to eat our illegal sandwiches. During this time, I captured a shot of Phook which completely portrays her personality...peeking out of the corner of her eye and looking like she is up to absolutely zero good:

There's also proof I was there, which rarely happens:

Then we hit the wild and exciting thrill rides. I put my kid by one of those little measuring stick things and realized that she exceeds the 36 inch minimum (by a few inches, sheesh...) for the littlest of solo rides. Which meant I could put my frickin' kid on a contraption operated by a carnie and just hope for the best. As lame as it probably sounds, this felt like a milestone. My baby is big enough to get strapped into a carnie contraption and just go sailing around without me? Why is there no spot in the baby book to record that? After I made a mild scene about asking if we could stop the ride if she lost her shit, she of course climbed on that ride and loved it. When she got off, I was freaking out about what a big girl she was for riding "all by herself." She corrected me quickly, saying, "No, no, no, I go with pink bahnkie." Of course.

We then hit the train, which she loved. She rocked her squinty skeptic face:

And I just have to take this opportunity to add that we went to this waterpark last year too. Reviewing that post, I had to notice that I had a shot of her on the exact same train making the exact same face. It's strange how you don't immediately notice the physical changes once your kid is past babyhood, but a year still makes so much difference. Here she is, being a squinty skeptic a year ago in a picture I loved:

After some rides, we hit the water stuff again, except the Pig was pretty well cashed out, as evidenced by his jacked up hair and zombied demeanor:

Phook had some energy left to burn, so she went to town:

And then she spent half an hour repeatedly pressing herself up and out of the pool, ignoring all other stimuli. You know, standard 2-year-old workout behavior:

Finally, it was established that everyone was cashed, so we hit the road. Everyone passed out about 4 minutes after exiting the park. Pay no attention to my child's blue face, which may or may not be evidence of a exit gate rendezvous with a ring pop:

And the poor overtired Pig out like a light:

And on that note, my work here is done.

A letter to Snuffle Pig from his mom

Dear Snuffle Pig,

Oh, child. Really, writing you a letter with English words feels a little awkward. It really ought to just be a string of letters approximating the sounds I make while I spend three hours per day blowing bubbles on your neck(s), your cheeks, your belly. Really, little man, I'm going to be perfectly honest...I gnaw on you a lot. I can't help it. You are my baby snack. Oomph.

Here's the thing, little guy. I love you. It is so terrifically uncomplicated. Nothing in my life has ever been easier than being a mother to you. Sure, there were a couple months of howling at the beginning and I sure am glad that the body's friendly little defense mechanism that makes it so difficult to recall pain kicked in to wash that water under the bridge, but really, my boy, other than that nonsense, this whole Mom 'n Pig thing has gone just unbelievably well.

I'm struggling to be profound here as I write you this first birthday letter. To offer some insights into your first year. To say things that might someday mean something to you. But I keep coming back to this: you are just so happy.

You are quite possibly the happiest person that has ever been placed upon this planet. The earth's energy crisis would be instantly solved if we could harness your incalculable wattage. You are just so happy. And watching you cruise around your world has become my favorite activity. Nothing makes me happier. I could watch you play...well, I should say I could watch you bash things with heavy objects...all day long. I could watch your chubster fingers maneuver hot dog chunks into your mouth for an entire weekend. I could watch you chase our pets and collapse on them with glee for the rest of my life. You remind me that there can be joy in anything. In everything. You make me happy. Happy. A very basic word. A simple adjective that people tend to skip in favor of fancier ones. But it can be so hard. Happiness. So many people spend their whole lives chasing it like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Those people do not have a Snuffle Pig. Because once you have a Snuffle Pig, the chase is over. There it is. Happy. Right there, reaching out to me to pick it up. All I have to do is bend over and snatch it. Nothing has ever been easier than being your mother.

Surely I have had to do the physical work of caring for you. A billion feedings. A billion diapers. A billion spit-ups. A billion trips up and down the stairs with a giant baby on my arm. A billion steps to fetch something you need. A billion little things that I have done for you that no one will ever know and no one will ever count and no one will ever concern themselves with. But ever since you could, months and months and months ago, you have thanked me for each of those things with a smile. Every single one. No one has ever done that for me. No one has ever convincingly thanked me for the little things. And certainly no one has ever thanked me for each and every one of them. But there you are. Smiling. Thanking me for everything I do with that giant gap-toothed grin. Oh, little man, I can't figure out how I got so lucky. I am just so happy I did. Happy. Happy. Happy. I don't need a fancy word. Happy does the trick. Happy. Thank you so much for being so happy. Thank you so much for sharing it with me.

And Happy Birthday to you.


I love you. I love you. I love you.

~Mommy

Meet Turbo

You know, I just got one person in this house potty-trained, and I found myself feeling a little empty inside. I was up all night fretting about how much less time I was able to spend physically toting another being's poop about. Really, I just felt I couldn't go on unless I found an additional creature whose poop I needed to personally handle on a daily basis. Meet Turbo:

Um, yeah, that's my fuggin' basset hound.

I should start at the beginning. The beginning was in approximately 1995 when I came into possession of a cardboard coin-type thing about the size of a 50 cent piece with a picture of a basset hound on it. It said the name "Jeb" underneath it. At that moment, I decided that a) I should start calling my high school boyfriend "Jeb," which I did for several years, and b) I wanted a basset hound.

As time marched on and I met Big K, we did what young lovebirds do and started talking about the trips we'd take (check), the well-muscled children we'd have (check), and the dog we'd have (freshly inked check). He agreed he was down with the hound. And he agreed with my choice of ironic dog name, Turbo. (It was either a lazy-faced hound named Turbo or some wee dog named Jumbo. Those were the only options in my dog plans.)

Now, after the well-muscled children came along, my desire to become a dog owner dampened considerably. As you might imagine. It would be fair to say that in recent years I'd rather have been shot than become a dog owner. And really, friends, I'm going to tell you something. I don't really love dogs. I am definitely a cat person. I like to look at dogs, I like to talk to dogs on the street, I like to claim I know the names of various dogs when I'm really just making it up, but I do not love dogs. We had a really jumpy one when I was a little kid and I think it sort of warped me. And really, I don't like filth or stink and dogs seem inextricably tied to those two items of business. I'm a cat person. I just am. But the idea of a Turbo...some day a Turbo...that was my one potential dog plan. I've been friends with a local basset hound named Otis for a few years now (I don't even know his owners' names, but I socialize with the dog quite a lot when I'm out prowling around The Woods with my double stroller). Otis sort of kept the dream alive for me. The far-fetched dream of Turbo.

All right. So fast forward to a few weeks ago, when we had some friends over for dinner one random Sunday. Out of the blue, they said to us, "Do you want a dog?" And we, resoundingly and in unison, replied that we'd rather take a taser to the naughty bits than get a dog. But then I said, "Unless he's a basset hound." And our friends said, "He is a basset hound." And I said to Big K, "We could name him Turbo." And our friends said, "HIS NAME IS TURBO." Then I started freaking out and Big K got out the taser and shot himself in the beans and then said, "Well, we'll have to think about it." Any crack in Big K's steely exterior, such as that statement, is basically akin to jumping up and down in acquiescence.

We (I) then spent a few weeks having panic attacks about whether or not this was the right decision, blah, blah, blah. I talked to the owner, got my questions answered, etc. Basically, the dog had been in an outdoor kennel 24 hours a day since puppyhood without nearly enough attention. He barked a fair amount and the neighbor got pissed. (And I heard a rumor that the owner's girlfriend has an unexpected 3rd bun in the oven and that may have been that straw that broke her personal barking dog ownership back.) The dog has been climbed upon by the family's two kids, roughly the same age as ours, and is very jovial about the whole business. He's a real nice dog. And that was about it.

So we made a date to meet the dog at a ballpark where his owner (Fuzzy is his name, because of course I got a dog from a guy named Fuzzy) plays ball. We walked up. I saw the dog. I crumpled onto the ground and began seizing, because I knew I was screwed. And then the Pig ambled over and made friends, best friends, with Turbo. At one point, Turbo sauntered over to a picnic table, put his paws on the bench, stood up, and casually sniffed at a spectator's hot dog. Pig followed Turbo, pulled up on the bench, put his hand upon Turbo's paw, and then the two of them mutually sniffed the hot dog. And that pretty much sealed the deal. Pig needed a dog. It was just so obvious to us. A boy needs a dog.

So last night we picked him up. We brought him home, had him pee in the yard, hosed him off, and hauled him in the house. The cats gave a hearty "WTF?" but were reasonable, and that idiot Growler was nose-to-nose with Turbs within about 7 minutes. Big Chuck remains the most pissed, occasionally hissing but improving steadily, and Joey is less pissed than I thought she'd be. All in all, Turbo was the most frightened about their meeting. He hid from them. I wanted to mention that he is a fairly large dog and should not be afraid of some mere felines, but instead I just acted casual. I didn't want to give him a complex right off the bat.

My sister has been around a bit, and she decided to spend the night here to help ease the transition. She is a raging dog-hater whose boyfriend has declared he will be getting a chocolate lab (her least favorite dog), but that she can name it if that helps ease her "reservations" about dog ownership. She plans to name it "Resentment" and call it "Rezzie" for short, and has mentioned antifreeze poisoning on more than one occasion. However, within 5 minutes she was snuggling with Turbo and spouting off nuggets of canine wisdom like she's the fuggin' dog whisperer. I'm not kidding. I was doing my standard overthinking, "What do I do when X happens?" and Hode was just very calmly responding like some kind of expert dog behaviorist. She also referenced getting a she-hound and naming it "Turbinato Sugar." Hode is just like that.

So this morning, the kids got up, and we brought them downstairs and Phook came in the living room and excitedly said, "Turbo's here!" And then the Pig went batshit with glee and reunited with his hotdog-sniffing buddy. It went beautifully. And this damned hound apparently remembered being potty-trained as a puppy, because he has had no accidents and seems rather inclined to just drop his deuces and mark his territory out of doors. He likes to go outside and take walks at a spritely little canter, and has yet to do anything dickheaded. I think he's a gem.

Of course, he stinks like hell and my house is already covered in fur. There is also occasional drool and I don't know what else excreting from him. He's a hound. And he's in my living room. Stinking. And I'm pretty sure I am okay with that. Which is weird. I really like saying, "Look, there's my hound." Or, "Hey, there's a hound over there!" And other sentences that include the word hound. Apparently I took advantage of this new vocal tic enough today to pass it onto my daughter in less than one business day, because as I was taking pictures of him this afternoon, she came over to my camera and said, "Let me see the hound!" and then when I showed her the photo display she said, "Dere's the hound." So, yeah, Phook's even onboard with hound references, which is nice.

So, my biggest concern at this point is leaving him. I don't think he'll wreck shop in the house or have pottying troubles, but I am a bit worried about him getting scared and barking. He is following me very closely at all times and I can tell he's just nervous and has been left alone too much. So I'm not sure how he'll do when I leave him. If you have any recommendations on getting a dog used to being left home alone when he's not inclined to enjoy it, please let me know. I need houndvice.

Now, let's enjoy some houndcam. First, let's look at Big K enjoying the hound last night. I must admit that second only to Pig's enjoyment of the hound is Big K's enjoyment. Big K had dogs growing up and seems very at ease with the creatures. And frankly, Big K deals with an immense amount of stress and pressure, always but particularly since his promotion. It is extraordinarily difficult for him to relax and get into a mode where he can shrug off the work shit and just enjoy things, and seeing him with the hound makes me think that perhaps Turbo might have the power to unleash a more carefree Big K, which is something I am always praying for, for everyone's sake. I captured a moment of it here I think:

And here we have Mr. Pig walking about in the presence of his new hound in this morning's sun. Did you folks catch the verb there? Yeah, my Pigster has mastered bipedery. Check it out:

But really, why would you take casual laps around your hound if you could dive over the top of your hound?

And when that tires you out, you can use your hound for a chaise lounge and just do a little chillaxing and thumb-sucking before you gray out for your morning nap:

And here we have a quick shot of Growler the tool meeting the hound (you have to look hard to see the hound in this photo):

And, finally, since I didn't get a great Phook v. Hound shot, let's just enjoy a cute one of her yelling like her crazy mother:

So there you have it. We have a hound. His name is Turbo. He is smelly and lovely. Just as with the Pig (also smelly and lovely), I spent so much time freaking out about how he could possibly fit into our already full home, but now that he's here I realize there had been an empty spot all along. Aw, Turby, welcome home.

Check out my new spaceship!

Yo, yo, yo, yo....check this out!!! I got something new. Something brand new. Something brand new and awesome. Something...life changing. No, no, no, I didn't let some random dude with tattooing aspirations cut loose on my forehead after I got a little crazy with the jello shots. No, friends. But something almost as wild, reckless, and off the chain. Yeah, I got a new washer and dryer.

Wait, what? Did I just hear the collective steam hiss out of my readership, after I made it sound like something cool had happened and then it turned out to be something really lame..the very epitome of lameness...an announcement regarding the appliance I use to launder Big K's jockey shorts? Well, let me tell you, ya suckers. THIS IS COOL.

Let's discuss.

First off, I have a pretty huge appliance boner. For example, my sister got me an immersion blender for my birthday last year, and that was pretty much the most awesome thing she could have come up with. For fun, let's just enjoy a picture of her putting the little lady to use while looking a bit like a psycho, since I happen to have one on hand:

Okay, so, appliances. I just like shiny things with buttons that enhance my already raging domesticity. In the small appliance department, I've got to admit that I have some pretty pimped out equipment. I've asked for KitchenAid mixer attachments pretty much every holiday for about 6 years, and it's working pretty well because I think the lady who enters product registration card information for them is probably able to enter my data from memory. (Granted, I don't have the attachment that allows you to link your own sausage, but since Hode insists she wants to get into charcuterie and I do have a birthday coming up, it will probably happen.) But anyhow, the major appliances, not so much. We have an okay fridge which we bought solely because it was short enough to fit under a weird cabinet in our house. We have an okay electric stove that came with the house. We have no dishwasher other than the sad, shriveled stumps at the end of my arms. (Go ahead and process that for a minute, ye fellow members of the sippy cup fan club. Shit.) And then there was our washer and dryer.

Okay, so we bought the washer and dryer from my parents several years ago when they went to a stackable set. They had had the set for several years themselves. Run-of-the-mill top loading washer with 3 water temperature settings - worked fine and I conned some dude out of $75 for it today after Big K and I wheeled the thing out into the front yard on Phook's wagon with hand-penned signage that included the elegant phrase "inquire within." (We thought that was hilarious.) But the dryer. Oh shit, the dryer. The dryer started going to hell 45 minutes after we hooked it up. We already once paid way too much money to have the motor replaced, and for the 2 years since then, excepting the first 2 weeks after the repairman left, it's taken an hour and a half to dry a load of clothes. And that's a good day - she's a temperamental old broad. I don't remember when the moisture sensor thing in it even worked...only the time dry has been operational for a good long time. And then a few months ago it started shrieking when I started it up. My dad came over and diagnosed it with something I've since blacked out, I paid a little money for a part he replaced for me, and then it was back to its standard lackadaisical--albeit quiet--performance. When it started screeching again a couple weeks ago, I got out a baseball bat and went all Office Space on that thing. (PC LOAD LETTER.) No, I didn't really do that. I just kept adding another hour onto that load of towels in the hopes that they'd dry before they developed black mold.

But then Big K came home, and I got out a hacksaw and started to dismember myself in front of him, and I said, "Every minute you delay in authorizing me to drop an obscene amount of money on new laundry appliances, I get a little closer to not being able to wash the mountain of dishes you create every day." And he said, "Go ahead, honey." Or something like that. It was actually a more peaceful transaction than that but I'm sure it included some unnecessary threats on my part, since that's how I roll. If I can invoke a reference to a sharp object and my eye, it's going to happen. But, yeah.

So I went online and read a shitload of reviews and found a vendor offering 18 months no interest financing and I pulled the trigger and spent roughly the equivalent of the national deficit on a new washer and dryer. Because you know I was getting a high efficiency washer while I was at it. Just like that. I bought a hundred trillion dollars worth of laundering technology while sitting in the very chair I'm blogging at you from right now. How modern of me. (My mother was horrified.)

I'm tempted to launch into a very long-winded justification of this purchase right now. For some reason I feel like I'm financially accountable to the internet, but upon further reflection, that's kind of dumb. We're gonna save an assload by not running a dryer around the clock and not dumping an entire lake into the laundry tub 14 times per day. We can afford the payment. And that's good enough for me, so it'd better be good enough for you. And really, I have a huge appliance boner (did I mention that?), so money was no object.

I'm gonna tell you what I got, dudes. The Electrolux. Dudes. Dudes. Dudes. I mean, the name sounds kinda fancy so it's gotta be, right? I mean, Kelly Ripa zooming around looking distressingly fit while hawking the shit on tv...I couldn't go wrong. In all seriousness, I have never read such glowing product reviews as this stuff got. It was all e-tears and gushing love poems and just utter blathering nonsense. So I was into it. Now, I didn't get the tippity top of the line and I didn't get the pedestals to raise them up to a more convenient height (only because we were about an inch shy of enough height because of a shelf) and I didn't spring for the kelly green (only because it wouldn't match my current kitchen/laundry area or my half-baked plans for my future dream kitchen/laundry). But still. This shit is F-A-N-C-Y.

And let me tell you, I deal with lot of human leakage. You know, your standard daily leakage. Someone is sick leakage. And "let's go to the hospital" leakage. Pretty much everyone that lives here poops on themselves on occasion. Really, I need the fancy. But dudes, I also wanted the fancy. And now the fancy is in my ghetto unfabulous laundry room. Here, the Pig will show you:

Dude, the stuff chimes to life at the touch of a button and a little screen says "Welcome" to me. That's the most sophisticated message I receive all day sometimes. There are all sorts of laundering options available to deal with my family's leaked-upon clothing. There's even a "sanitize" option that like boils the shit or something when somebody gets into some tainted potato salad and spends a couple days wrecking gastrointestinal shop. I can customize this and personalize that and pause the cycle and add garments and lock the controls so little naughty people can't go accidentally launching my spaceship. It squirts like a teaspoon of water on the clothes and then spins them until they're practically as dry as my pathetic dishpan hands and then it kindly notifies me that the magic has happened with a friendly little chime that takes the sting right out of the fact that I am doing a chore. And there are little greenie options within the greenmobile such as the ability to lower the water temp a couple degrees for each cycle or add an extra spin to reduce drying time and a lot of other ways to help me do penance for the fact that my former dryer is the reason behind every single sunburn that the human race has suffered for the past 5 years. And then the dryer has magical tools and is also really nice to me and--get this--includes a stationary drying rack. So what I am telling you is that rather than setting a sweater out on a towel for my ill-mannered cats to bathe themselves upon for 3 days (decidedly undoing the fact that I laundered the stupid thing in the first place), I will be setting my sweater on a rack in my spaceship and gingerly removing it shortly thereafter, only to find it dry, intact, and unsullied. Dude.

I don't know. Maybe you people have demanding jobs that pay you money. Or lives. Or interests other than the removal of spit-up stains. That being the case, you're reading this post and finding that you now have definitive proof that aliens have invaded and are living amongst humans on Earth. (Perhaps those spaceship references aren't just my clever wit.) But at this juncture, friends, I have to tell you that the unending hell of being a laundress is just a hugeass part of my life, my day, my labor. I do so much laundry and I do not like it. So now that the Electrolux has landed, I feel like a social worker who hates paperwork and just got a secretary. (Oddly, that scenario also recently played out in the K House.) I guess what I'm saying is that this is a big deal and I'm really excited. The night they arrived, I sat on the floor in front of the washer and just allowed myself to enter a pleasing trance as I watched that laundry spin. I received total consciousness of the homemaker variety. This is the stuff dreams are made of.

Can you people even imagine how I would react if I ever got a dishwasher?

The sort of thing that happens here

I've been meaning to mention this, but I'm just getting around to it now. Sorry. (Not that you knew I was holding out on you, but whatever.) So one day a couple weeks ago, Phook started to seriously dismantle our toy room. (It was ages ago, in fact, in that Phook is wearing a dipe in this shot and Phook, let me remind you all with a very large smile on my face, no longer wears dipes.) Anyhow, it's not that she doesn't wreck shop in there when playing on a regular basis, but this was different. She was purposefully removing every single toy from the shiteous old bookcases where a good portion of her toys normally roost, and chucking them into a pile. I believe I was assisting Pig with his breakfasting when I head the cacophony. I looked in the room and saw this scene:

(Don't you find the label on the storage basket in the lower lefthand corner absurdly appropriate?) So anyhow, I looked in there, I saw that a hurricane had occurred. I told her it was a nice mess and that she'd have to pick it up at some point, and then I went back to attending to the Pig. Big K was showering for work or something when this went down, so when he became available I told him there was some amusement for him to check out in the toy room. He did. He looked in just in time to witness absolute hilarity. Phook reached into the mountain of plastic shite that no child should ever be able to amass in a mere 32 months of life and pulled out the item she was apparently desperate to find. She grabbed it, looked up at Big K, and very casually but with no shortage of surprise, declared, "Oh, here's pink bahnkie!"

Maybe you had to be there. Probably. But dudes, it was hilarious. As if pink bahnkie had been hiding behind the Happy Meal My Little Pony toy she hasn't touched in 7 months. As if pink bahnkie had been hiding underneath a miniature Elmo Easter basket. As if pink bahnkie had been anywhere other than attached to her body as it always is. She declared with sincerity that she found what it was she had been looking for...apparently a difficult task given that she had to clear two complete bookcases stuffed with toys in order to complete it. Funny shiz.

So this mess persisted for awhile that day, and I decided we should just embrace the disorder and play in it. At one point mid-morning, I threw Pig in the pile. I also threw some Cheerios in the pile to keep the Pig extra happy. (And you should already know about how Cheerios function in my home.) So Pig was rabble-rousing about in a heap of brightly colored objects that were busy giving him lead poisoning when I noticed something looked funny about his foot. Specifically, he had grown a sixth toe. Not one to have a problem with innocuous physical deformities (I've always wanted a tail, you know), I was kind of excited. But as it turned out, the sixth toe he had miraculously sprouted turned out to be a Cheerio. You can see how I might have been confused:

Now I laughed really hard about this. I made a scene, actually. I got Phook in on the game and we all had a hearty chuckle at Pig's sixth toe. Really, this is the kind of shit that keeps me going some days. Phook definitely knew that the Cheerio-toe had pleased me. The reason I know this with absolute certainty is that approximately 7 hours after the initial amusement broke out, she came out into the kitchen to show me something "weewy funny." It was this:

How awesome is that? Very awesome, if you ask me.

Those kids, man. They're some kind of rad.

Okay, so I'm feeling vaguely self-conscious about this post, like you are all going to read it and think, "Woman, what are you on? That is not remotely funny." Well, I have an answer for that question too. Valium, friends, valium. I know, I know. But I've sucked helium out of the valium balloon or valium out of the helium balloon and the result is this post.

I should explain. Friends, my neck is freaking destroyed with muscle strain right now. I have a history of intermittent (and sometimes crippling) neck pain stemming from the car accident I had years ago that also blew up my low back. So I've had a few severe flare-ups since I started toting around a really robust baby. I'm mid-flare right now. I believe the word is actually conflagration. To make a long story short(er), I have long had a prescription for a muscle relaxer, but it puts me in a coma, so I can only take it at night...and even then I wake up the next day feeling like a trucker who has been on the interstate fudging his log books for 2 days. So I called my doctor today in a state of desperation - you know, not being able to turn my head at all in either direction and causing my husband to stay home from work to wipe butts because the task was beyond my capabilities - and she called back and prescribed valium, saying it is sometimes used to treat muscle spasms and that some people have less drowsiness with it than with my regular prescription. I was directed to take half a pill of the smallest dose they make. I did. An hour later, you could have landed an aircraft on my garage roof and I would have casually asked the passengers if they liked my geraniums after they deplaned. Granted, I didn't want to pass out, which was nice. But I did find that I was not exactly cogent. I can see why people enjoy taking valium when they do not enjoy what is really going on around them.

So that's where I'm at. I have no range of motion in my neck, I'm somewhat stoned, and I'm really excited about the new issue of Newsweek I just received, since its cover seems to indicate that it includes information that might help me solve the mystery of Oprah, which is perhaps the most burning question in my life. Also, the Pig is freestyle standing and I predict that his first step will occur on Thursday. I'll keep you posted.

XO,
Big W

A report on our camping trip and some photographic miscellany

I have to tell you, we had a grand time camping over Memorial Day weekend. We went to one of our favorite state parks in Wisconsin, Peninsula State Park in Door County. It is truly a gorgeous place to be. I was a wee bit nervous about camping with 2 kids, one of whom likes to crawl through mud, eat rocks, and bash his head into things, and the other of whom was just learning not to piss herself. Plus my parents were involved, and it is fair to say that their enjoyment of camping is tenuous at best. And my sister was trying to drag her surly boyfriend out into the wild as well, even though he strongly preferred spending the weekend tearing down a garage. Really, a recipe for disaster. But all in all, it was a disaster-free time. The weather was lovely during the day but chilly at night (and we were prepared for the chilly at night part). Phook maintained her pottying skillz and marked a lot of territory in the great outdoors. Pig ate a lot of dirt but didn't choke on any pine cones. Sleeping in the wild went well, excepting one rough night for Pig. Overall though, it just went well and was a lot of fun. (It would of course be better for my blog if it was a disaster, but sometimes you just have to accept the positives that life throws you rather than yearn for how you could have made that train wreck sound really hilarious on your blog.) So let's have a peek, huh?

Let's kick this off right. Big K is a big eater. A real big eater. We made pancakes one morning on our Roadtrip Grill with the sweet tits griddle attachments we got for Christmas. (I've often thought of doing occasional product reviews on this blog, and that grill would be one of the items I'd like to expound upon...two fat thumbs up.) But anyhow, Big K made a griddle sized blueberry pancake for himself (note that it's larger than a standard size paper plate):

And then he wrapped the thing around a giant sausage. Not a breakfast sausage. A full-sized meal sausage from a previous dinner. It may have even been infused with hot sauce or something. He was disturbingly proud of having made the world's largest pig in a blanket:

While we were there, we were happy to discover that the campground offered some really nice playground equipment, which Hode abbreviates to "P.G.E." when she's trying to outsmart Phook. My kids really like to swing, so it came in handy. Phook, semi-pensively swinging:

Pig, not remotely pensively swinging:

And also, I at this point need to mention Pig's top teeth, which we refer to as "toppers" in this house. Yeah, he got his two top middle teeth. The unfortunate thing is that you could fit a third tooth between them. He is totally that kid. You know, the gentle giant hilarious headbutt kid with a giant gap between his front teeth. This picture captures it somewhat, but you'll have to probably click on it to expand it to see the true awesomeness:

And here we all are, happily swinging together:


We also took a couple of hikes. This consisted of Phook running ahead of everyone in the woods for approximately two miles or so, screaming, "You coming, guys?" I think I have a cross country runner in my family. It's unfortunate that those kids seem to puke a lot and cross the finish line covered in snot and blood, because none of that business is very becoming. But I believe she may turn out to be an adolescent trail runner who likes to elbow the shit out of her competitors when no one is watching. But I digress. We tried to capture a decent photo of us acting like woodland explorers, but it didn't work out. Instead we have Phook grabbing Big K's face to kiss him while dressed in one of her jacked up camping ensembles, Pig looking odd while clinging to his toy drumstick which at this juncture I think has the best chances of becoming his lovey, and me just looking like a tool in a track suit and a visor - but it's proof that we were there, right?

At the end of our hike, we were rewarded with a lovely view of the water. Phook regarded it thoughtfully with her father, and was quite excited about all the boats passing by. She told me that there were guys on all the boats lookin' for fish. I love listening to her observations about general shit when we're out and about. As much as it sucks once your kid is able to tell you off, the rewards of them being able to tell you what they are thinking are just unbelievably huge. Just listening to her chat about everything she sees is pretty much the highlight of my life.


While my mom does not necessarily enjoy the labor intensity of readying herself and my father for camping, or sleeping in a tent, or freezing her ass off, or being away from her deck, she's not one to piss in her grandkids' cheerios. So she was in high spirits the entire trip, and amused my shorties with tunes on the grass flute. She also looked a bit like the Unabomber, which was nice:

While we were there, we paid a visit to one of our favorite pit stops, the Plum Loco Animal Farm. It is a delightful mini-farm gig that is sized just right for toddler types. You get to feed animals, dick around in little kid-sized play houses, and generally have a lovely time. Here is Phook feeding a creature:

And here is Pig saddled up on a wild beast:


So that's what we did. We ate in the woods, we wandered around in the woods, we fed beasts for a reasonable fee, and had a great time.

Now, while I'm at this whole labor intensive business of posting photos, let's just continue on and regard some additional recent adventures. On Mother's Day, we went to the zoo. It was lovely. Observe Phook as she slides with glee:

Observe Phook as she pretends she's a gerbil:

Observe Pig as he enjoys his first carousel ride:

We finished up our day with lunch at a diner, which locals of the area will know as being famous for pie. Phook enjoyed licking the sprinkles off of a giant cookie there:

We also recently attended a wedding. Pig was very handsome and greasy at the dinner table:

Before I left for the wedding, I attempted to take a self-portrait of me and Pig. Unfortunately, a random serial killer snuck into the shot - and I didn't know it until I later reviewed the pictures, which was pretty dang funny to discover:

I also recently busted out the sandbox. The Pig loves it. More specifically, he loves to eat dirt. But whatevs. Have it your way, buddy.

One night recently, I had to cover up my plants on account of cold weather. Phook took the opportunity to nest in the covers I used - it was rather amusing to find her self-bundled in the blankets like this:

Also, Phook recently determined that she required another sibling. A green, overweight sibling who must sit at the table with us wearing a bib. And eat things like meals of salmon, asparagus, and roasted potatoes.


And finally, in this uncertain world filled with economic strife, climate change, raging nations, and my sister's phobia of hitting peak oil, I am going to leave you with one absolute truth. One indisputable nugget that I use as my personal bedrock for remaining sane in insane times. And that is this:

The Pig is ridonkulously cute.

The End.

Beautiful Music

I've always really enjoyed the sounds of water. You know, ocean waves crashing, rain hitting the roof, a melodic tinkling fountain. But no sound of liquid in motion has ever moved me so deeply, brought me to tears so quickly, as the sound of Phook's urine hitting the toilet. Dudes.

So, I've been loathe to post about Phook's dipe wearing in-depth, because I just haven't been in the mood for 19 comments saying, "Don't worry, she'll do it when she's ready." That would have been supportive and nice and all, but quite frankly, I've been handling a duo of diped butts for nearly 11 months now, and it would be really nice to reduce the number of times in a day I get poop on my hands. That, and, to be honest, it is THE THING people have been asking about for like 6 months now. You know how when you have a 3-week-old baby (preferably with colic or reflux or something) and every clown on the planet asks if she's sleeping through the night, and being the sleep-deprived milk cow/bottle warmer that you are, you just want to fashion a shiv out of of the nearest toothbrush and disembowel them? Well, now the question with daggers is "Is she potty-trained yet?" Eat it, people. You can clearly see the mural of Elmo on her Pampers sticking out of the back of her shorts. Ugh.

So. We've had some limited successful pottying incidents over the last couple months. Perhaps 6 times Phook has been placed upon the potty and urine has escaped. But when encouraged to wear underwear, Phook has rejected the notion forcefully. She has also violently rejected many attempts at pottying. I have of course responded by purchasing enough bribes to personally stimulate the economy via M&M's and small plastic objects in the shape of things my kid likes. But the other day, I upped my game and apparently hit the jackpot. I bought one of those machines that blows about 9 trillion bubbles per second. I showed it to Phook, told her it was a bubble chine, and said it would shoot about 9 trillion bubbles per second. I said, "If you pee on the potty, you can have this." Phook said she would. And she did. And then we covered the entire interior surface of my home with bubble residue. Unfortunately, she still rejected (forcefully) the lovely Elmo underwear we've had for her forever. And at that moment, you should have felt a sharp dagger enter your torso if you're one of the people who has ever said to me, "All I did was get my daughter some pretty underwear and tell her she was a big girl, and that was it!!!"

So we went to the store, and I asked her if she'd like some underwear with Lightning McQueen on them. Phook is currently a very big fan of the movie Cars, so I thought this might be appealing. Of course these are boys underwear, but an escape hatch for a peen might come in handy if she ever needs to smuggle something across a border or whatever. She said, "Uh huh, yup. Maybe Phook try doze ones." We then had urinary success in the store's restroom and at a Mexican restaurant where we lunched. All the way home, Big K and I told her that after her nap, she'd wear her McQueens. She said,"Uh huh, yup. After napper." So her nap occurred, she came downstairs and peed on the potty, and then I tried to put the McQueens on her. She was pissed. But I put them on her anyhow, and then held her on my lap while she held pink bankie and mourned. She settled down. Big K took her and put her capri pants over the underwear against her will. At that point, I seriously would have caved. I don't like forcing certain stuff on my kids. I don't like pushing food. I don't like pushing her to hug people she isn't compelled to hug on her own. I will force the words "thank you" out of her, but there is some stuff where I just get a little queasy and think that she really does have the right to say no, even if she is two. I don't want someone shoving food in my mouth, forcing me to hug my weird uncle, or cramming me into garments I don't like. I try to extend those courtesies to others in my home. That being said, Big K tends to know when to push. Like when he dropped Phook in her big girl bed the night before her 2nd birthday without my knowledge or consent, and she slept peacefully through the night there that night and every night since.

So he crammed her in the pants. She started hollering. And I ran in the room and screamed, "Let's go outside!" The protest stopped, and out she came. She has been in underwear since then, excepting naps and nighttime, when I've put her in a pull-up. And the pull-up has been dry every single nap, so I might even get brave on that soon. Now, there have been several (about 2 per day) pee accidents, usually when I've gotten lazy about reminding her to pee and when she's been engaged with some activity. But by and large she is going on the potty. About half the time it is at my suggestion and about half the time she's telling me she needs to go.

Now, perhaps you are wondering about poop. I have friends who spent in excess of a year training their kids re: #2. I was twitching with fear about this issue. I was so scared that first day that if she didn't poop on the potty, she would hoard it until she got in the pull-up, deuce it in secret during her nap, and then we'd have a precedent of pooping in the pull-up at naptime that I'd spend the better part of 2009 and 2010 trying to correct. But she did not. She was clearly nervous to poop on the potty, as she told me about 12 times that first day that she had to go, but then got scared and didn't go. But around dinner time on Monday, she declared she had to do it. We went in the bathroom, she got on her potty, and I suggested that she pull the towel hanging on the nearby towel rack over her face if she wanted to hide. (I didn't say this to be a weirdo, but she has been hiding behind curtains and bookcases to poop in her dipe for a solid 6 months, and I thought that if she wanted to hide to get past the anxiety, it would be okay.) So she pulled a towel over her head and deuced it. You probably heard me screaming with joy. Even if you do live in Egypt. So there was much rejoicing and I gave her a small plastic dinosaur and some pressure valve in my brain finally released and the gasses of anxiety flooded out into the atmosphere. (I predict it will be an especially hot summer in Wisconsin.)

The next day, she informed me in the morning that a deuce was imminent, and then just did it. Later in the day, she came down from her nap while I was at a meeting and my friend was watching the kids. My friend was outside with the baby monitors but hadn't heard Phook come downstairs. She came in to check on them, and Phook was standing in the kitchen, nude from the waist down. She said to my friend, "I just pooped in the potty." And she had. First solo mission, a raging success. Later that day, I picked up a book I had ordered from the library that a friend had recommended. It was entitled, "Toilet Training in Less Than a Day." Irony.

The other major success came when I decided we should take a nearly 3-mile hike around a lake. With no potty access. I simply informed Phook it was cool to pee in the grass, and she proceeded to mark her territory around the entire lake. When we stopped for a picnic lunch mid-way, she surprised everyone involved by providing serious fertilizer to the earth, right there in front of God and everybody. I stared at my child's turd on the ground. And then I realized that with that single turd, I had saved about a quarter. And then I rode around on a fake bull and slapped my own ass a lot.

I don't even know what else to say. Clearly we are going to be pissing ourselves occasionally for a little while here and maybe we'll even make the summer fun with some sort of large-scale pottying regression. But, really, I'm pretty cool with that. At least we are on the road. We're going camping today for the weekend, so that should be interesting on a number of levels. Crawling baby who likes to bash his skull into things? Check. Grandparents who basically hate to camp but aren't 100% ready to throw in the towel? Check. Two-year-old mid-pottytraining? Check. Should be fun.

So that's the update. Phook is the rockstar of the restroom, the queen of the commode, and the princess of the potty. And I have $50 extra a month to put towards E.R. copays for the Pig's impending stitches and casts. This couldn't be more awesome.