Sunshine!

Day six, the weather was perfect and we had lunch on the beach. I swear she would head straight into the water and not stop if we let her.


There's a serious riptide, and this was making me a little nervous.


Yummy.


Uh-oh. Lost her feet.


Crazy little bug.


I don't know why I bother trying to keep the car clean. It's just a car, Laurel.

Tired old buddy.

Max was just a puppy when my parents found him under their deck fourteen years ago. He lucked out, big time. It's possible my mom's nest was feeling a bit empty, because she faithfully took him to obedience training and agility classes, and he was such a smart, gentle dude that eventually he worked as a Certified Therapy Dog. He's retired now, but he's not resting on his laurels. As head of the canine security detail, he dutifully checks the perimeter of the compound morning and night. He walks with my father each morning to the mailbox at the end of the driveway to get the paper and carries it to my mom in the house. (They don't get a paper every day, so on off days my dad brings out an old paper so Max has something to deliver.) But he can no longer jump on the bed or climb stairs or get into my dad's truck. It seems as if he aged so suddenly in the last year, but that's probably because I don't see him often. Which is my loss, because there's something so special about him that when we're canoodling, I'm almost always reminded what it's all about: love.

Should we go to the beach TODAY, Mommy?

Of course we should. We should bundle up and go get cold and wet and we would probably have a swell time, but Mommy is a lazy ass and has not taken a shower in days and would rather shuffle around the house in her pajamas complaining about the weather.


Imagine the whining that accompanied this expression.


Indoor activities included feeding chips to Max. We could have read books or colored or practiced counting, but this was WAY more fun for me, and didn't require any effort on my part.

Who's the biggest loser?

Actual conversation:

"I think I was rejected today by someone I hadn't even decided I wanted. Yesterday he confessed his feelings for me, so I spent a night weighing the possibilities, then today he said he couldn't just walk away from all of his obligations. He seemed angry. I actually cried when we hung up."

"Wow. Poor honey. So I think the wedding planner broke up with me on the phone the other night. I was kind of drunk and he woke me up, so I don't exactly remember what we said, but I don't think it was good. You think I should call and ask what happened, or wait and see if he ever calls again?"

Dating must suck.

I haven't yet found the meaning of life.

I have found a few pounds I'd lost, though, and learned how truly cranky a toddler can become after five straight days of being cooped up inside due to cold, wind and rain. Promises of the beach with Gabba ("Grace's Favorite Things," below right) were what persuaded her to miss school and tolerate an interminable car ride, so I couldn't blame her.


This is the first time she didn't look through these binoculars backwards.


Poor noodle. But stylin', no?

Gittin' outta Dodge.

It's about 140° in the house right now, and we're all a bit cranky. Grace and I are leaving tonight for a road trip; Ducky will be joining us, Brady's not so lucky. We're off to visit my parents at the beach for starters, so I'm going to stuff my gas tank with hundred dollar bills and drive, crank the music and ponder the meaning of life. I will try to post if I can find a computer and an internet connection. Otherwise, I'll be back when the temp drops below 90°.

While the memory is still as fresh as the smell.

(Warning: I'm going to talk about poop now. Lots and lots of poop in all its glorious detail.)

I shouldn't have bragged about Grace's potty training. She's got the peeing down, but she's one of those kids who doesn't like to poop because she doesn't like to be wiped and as a result she sometimes holds it in until letting it go hurts like a mother giving birth to a GIANT-HEADED baby. I know when she's having a normal poo, because she stands quietly in a corner and yells, "No, don't come OVER HERE!" if I so much as glance in her direction. She needs her space, and I can respect that. But when it's a big bad poo, which doesn't happen often because we're pretty careful about her diet, she screams and cries and all I can do is hug her and rub her back and breathe through my mouth. She had one of those on Monday, and then her poor little bum was fire-engine red and I figured she was planning on never pooping again.

Yesterday morning Ella was here with Nathalie and Kitty and we were in the backyard, soaking up the beautiful weather and laughing at the girls playing. Grace was bare-bottomed, because I had a feeling she might need to have a little movement and she's more likely to do it on the potty if she isn't wearing underpants. The potty was on the patio and she'd already demonstrated her peeing prowess several times, although she really needs to work on her aim. Suddenly I realized she was off by herself, really quiet, so I asked, "Gigi, are you pooping?" and she shouted, "NOOOOOO!" and then Ella said, "Ohmigod, it's halfway out! Get her quick!" I ran and picked her up under the arms and on the way to the potty the turd fell and landed on my bare foot and bounced into the grass. So I set Grace on the potty to finish and went in to wipe my foot and get a plastic bag. (I've had twenty years of picking up dog poop, but I never thought I'd pick up my child's poop the same way.) Grace insisted she was finished, then screamed bloody murder when I wiped her sore bum, and I knew we weren't out of the woods yet because every time I wiped a tiny bit more would appear.

After a long nap, she whined and cried and acted like a complete asshole (Ella says I can't call my child an asshole on the internet) brat from the minute she woke up until the end of dinner, which was cut short when she expressed her sudden disdain for guacamole by pouring a glass of water on the table. I figured she was grumpy because she had more business to take care of and didn't want to, so I decided to get it over with by giving her a suppository laxative. (I'm not sure who enjoys this procedure less.) Later, I was folding a mountain of laundry on our bed, and one minute Grace was downstairs with John (wearing pull-ups), and the next she was upstairs calling, "I pooped, Mommy!" Because I'm such a sunny, optimistic person, I assumed she'd pooped on the potty in her bathroom, so I came out to do the high-fiving and dancing and congratulating, but instead was confronted by a trail of poop all the way from her room, down the hallway to our bedroom door. A truly mind-blowing combination of runny poop and chunks of solid poop and poop running down her legs. All on her bedroom rug, a rug in the hallway and all the carpeting along the way -- pale beige berber carpeting.

Accidents happen, as we've learned from hundreds of viewings of "Elmo's Potty Time," and one must remain upbeat about potty training. But come on. While I washed Grace in the tub and John did the best he could with the floor, I honestly thought my head might explode. I hummed the "Accidents Happen" song so Grace would know we weren't mad, but all I could think about was putting her to bed and having a beer. Lots and lots of beer.

I don't think I'm qualified for this job.

Grace spends her days trying to snap her neck, I believe. She throws her body around with total abandon, and when I'm certain she's finally done it and I'm trying to decide whether to take her to the ER at Legacy Emanuel, which is closer, or Legacy Good Samaritan, which is usually less crowded, or just call an ambulance, she jumps to her feet giggling and says something like, "That was CRAZY!" This afternoon our neighbor came over with her one-year-old, who is just starting to walk, and we winced repeatedly at Grace, who is just starting to fly, apparently. After one horrifying maneuver made us both gasp, Grace stood tall and announced, "I'm not weird, I'm just crazy!"

I can't complain on the potty training front, however. She has taken to it with such glee and pride; she sits on the potty and screams, "I'm peeing!" and it's all I can do to not piss myself.

The grandaddy of all rejections.

I'm getting used to rejection letters, but this is just cold. A stamp on my own original query letter? You just know some intern with a shred of sympathy added that written note. I love the idea of saving paper and all, but SEND A FRICKIN' EMAIL.

She's messing with my HEAD.

Breakfast and lunch weren't too much fun yesterday, as my post may have subtly suggested. As usual, however, the universe slapped me upside the head and reminded me it's not nice to be an asshole. I put Grace down to nap after a long morning of semi-successful potty training, and she was so adamant about NOT NEEDING A DIAPER, I thought, "Fine. Marinate in your own pee for a couple hours," and left her in underpants and shorts. When she woke up? Totally frickin' dry, and she went straight to the potty and took care of business.


I felt so bad about the blog post, I set up the pool and let her drown whatever she wanted in it. While she was doing this, I assembled the little picnic table that had been sitting in a box in the front hall for weeks.


She's all, "Yeah, ya gotta take the bad with the good, huh?"

Someday, maybe she'll cook for me.

And do you know what I will do with whatever food she lovingly prepares and serves me? Pick it up, whine, "I don't LIKE this!" and throw it on the floor. If I'm feeling really frisky, I may sweep my arm across the table, sending plate, flatware, beverage and napkin flying. Then I will look up at her innocently as she gasps in horror and ask sweetly, "What happened?" While she's cleaning up, I'll cry as though she's done something unforgivable to me, then piss my pants to top it all off.

Holy yummy pastrami, Batman!

A few weeks ago I wrote about my first boss, David, who now lives in San Francisco and, with his wife Rachel, hosts a radio talk show about food, wine, dining and travel. They've also created a line of artisanal cured meats, and today I went to Elephant's Deli on NW 22nd to sample David's Old World Brand Pastrami. This is the Classic Grilled Pastrami Reuben, and it set me back $9.95. It was worth every penny and every minute of anticipation on the drive home. (I decided to take it home with me, a wise choice because the noises I made while scarfing it down had Brady pacing nervously and surely would have been disturbing to the well-heeled patrons of Elephant's.) I will be returning ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE RIVER soon to buy some by the pound. That's how yummy it is.

Bloggedy blog blah blah.

Today is one of those gray, bleak days that saps every drop of motivation from my lazy ass. I'm bored, but I don't want to do anything. Grace seems to be in the same mood, so she's in front of the TV watching every Elmo video in her vast collection. Even Brady looks disgruntled, or, as Zadie Smith put it so well in White Teeth, "not entirely gruntled." Yawn.

Two hours of barely controlled chaos. Barely.

Grace's birthday party was Saturday afternoon, and she had such a blast surrounded by all the people she loves, I think I popped out a tear or two. We "borrowed" the pirate theme from Jake's party a few weeks ago, and Grace greeted her guests in a black pirate T-shirt, a pink tutu and black crocs. (No, I didn't get a picture of that ensemble, but I'll recreate it soon.) What a fun night for our three year old baby.


Grace refused to get dressed after playing in the kiddie pool, which vexed me because her main outfit was so fabulous, I envisioned her wearing it in all the photos. Plus, I thought she'd be cold. She looks miserable, doesn't she?


We ended up with a really great mix -- kids of all ages who played together beautifully. No arguing, no awkwardness and, most important, no bleeding.


The adults were a different story, but just one was asked to leave.


How cute is Jack, opening the door for Emerson? He just wants her to get out so he can ride in the car, but still.


Picked up this baby (the pool) for ten bucks at Walgreen's. (Jack and Grace are quite the couple at school, I've been told. We approve, mostly because of that irresistible grin and his British accent.)


Got this cake for a lot more than ten bucks at a local bakery. It was delicious, and we're still working on the head.


This doll was the clear favorite of a truly impressive haul. Everyone might as well have left once Grace opened it, because all she wanted was to be alone with "New Bath Baby" for the rest of the night. She managed to tear herself away to give good-bye kisses; she's a big girl now, after all.

We've kept her alive for THREE YEARS.

Yesterday was Grace's third birthday, a day I have been anticipating with as much excitement as her first birthday (so I could stop worrying about SIDS). We had so much fun all day. I sensed she was acting more mature, and I secretly hoped she felt guilty about her behavior as a two year old. Then this morning she sent her cereal bowl flying, and tonight she asked for a grilled cheese sandwich, which she tossed on the floor before pouring her milk on the table. Brady was delighted. Me, not so much. I know these are a lot of pictures from last night; indulge me. It's the last time I was delusional enough to think we were through the worst of it.


She didn't set her hair on fire or stick her fingers in the flame. Color me surprised.


It was a nice idea, but who the hell eats a cupcake with a fork?


Ah, yes. That's more like it.


She sampled three cupcakes. This was her favorite.


Like a little lady eyeing a finger sandwich...


...and deciding to cram the whole thing in her mouth...


...and giving the finger to the "little lady" label. That's my girl.


This was really fun for me to watch. And if you believe that, you probably don't know me from Madonna.


Early present. I thought it was a chair, but it's just one more thing on which to climb and jump off.

A little quiet time before bed.

Grace gets so wound up at bedtime, I'm always amazed she falls asleep once she's in her crib. I've felt this phenomenon since she started eating solid food at six months: when we put food in front of her and she eats it, it's a miracle. When we put her to bed and she sleeps, miracle. When I ask her to pick up her toys and she does it, HUGE miracle. I think I need to work on my air of authority; she smells fear and takes advantage of it. Yes, I really am the boss of you, Gracie. Let's both try to get comfortable with that, because this potty training thing is going to be the ultimate test.

Entitlement, doggie style.

Brady greets each day pretty much the same way: she hauls herself to her paws, enjoys a looong full-body stretch (downward-facing dog, of course), stretches one back leg and then the other straight out behind her, has a good shake, then wags her way to the head of the bed and curls up between our pillows. Thus ensconced with her pack, she seems fully content. Especially, I imagine, because The Small Human is still all the way down the hall.

Entitlement

I don't recall the exact circumstances, but in this photo Grace has asked for something to eat and is waiting with that singular childhood certainty that her request will be met. Pronto. I love it and loathe it, this confidence of hers. I love it because it makes me feel useful, my (and John's) ability to give her what she needs. But I hate it when the answer is no. At her current age, that usually happens when she tests boundaries or is being unsafe. Later, though, we'll fail her for countless reasons; we won't be able to comfort her when she is emotionally wounded by some despicable boy, for instance, or we'll have to deny her something that contradicts our system of values and beliefs, or we won't be able to afford something that EVERYONE ELSE HAS, which will lead to social ostracism from which she will never recover. It's a lot to think about, really. Probably not for normal people who never lie awake at night wondering if it's better to raise a happy person or a good person. I've been gnawing on that one since we learned during the ultrasound that we were having a girl. I burst into tears because I realized I would have to be a role model. Me. A role model.

He didn't SAY he'll call, but I think he will.

We had some wacky wind and a small, unplanned fire, but the kids had a blast and the burgers were yummy. Not a bad date at all. (We're courting the entire Martin family to ensure a future marriage between the kids.)


My mom picked up these tent thingies at a garage sale and they have been a HUGE hit. Better even than the appliance boxes we used to play with as kids, and just as flammable. (That tunnel in the background came from IKEA, and I had an obscene amount of fun this morning tossing treats into it so Brady would run through.)


Grace is doing her signature "scorpion" move here. Good thing she weighs less than Maxwell, who is clearly planning to try it out the next time his own Daddy throws him in the air. I don't see that ending well for either of them.


"Better him than me."


Working off dinner, one beer at a time.


Maxwell put a tent cube over my head and took pictures of me. He's only five months older than Grace, and he can work a camera and eat with chopsticks, among other things. Not that child rearing is a competition or anything.


Totally suave and stylish. And tuckered out.

Water buddies

It's almost impossible for a toddler to not have fun at the park, especially when there's water involved. Maybe that's why Grace and Julian had so much fun the other day -- neither one of them could say, "That's MY water. I WAS USING THAT."


I will be so sad when she loses her little pot belly. Her pants might finally stay up, but by then she'll probably be one of those girly girls who will wear only dresses. Or, as a friend's daughter insisted, twirly dresses. (The twirl factor had to be tested in the dressing room before a purchase was made. I'm not kidding.)


They make a cute couple when they're not arguing over toys. Julian looks a little possessive, though. I hope he knows they're not exclusive. Grace has a date with Maxwell tonight -- you know, totally casual, maybe burgers in the backyard. She'll dress down so she doesn't look like she's trying too hard. I wonder what he'll wear.

(Photos courtesy of Julian's mom, Justine)

Behaving badly on the Fourth.

Our friend Kent (Grace's godfather) and his better half, Carrie, were in town for the Fourth of July weekend. I know we had a great time; I wish I could remember more of it. A few pics and a video.


Grace dressed for the occasion in an outfit Kent bought for her. Just wearing this made her act like a rock star, I swear.


Carrie puts the finishing touches on a platter of guacamole. Grace loved her so much, she had be right next to her at all times or she would ask, "Where's Perry?" Wait, maybe that was me.


The little celebrity emerging from her ride.


We're confident Kent is committed to guiding Grace on her spiritual path through life, when the time comes. Right now, all he really needs is upper body strength and a little more stamina.


There just no getting around it -- saying goodbye sucks.

Serendipity doo dah...

In my ongoing quest to confuse people from my past by contacting them out of the blue (some to whom I haven't spoken in almost twenty years), I may have found a little of what I've been looking for. After a Google search and a couple of emails, today I spoke with David, my boss from my first job out of college. I worked in the marketing department of a liquor distributor, and David was The Don of Fine Wines. I grew up in a really small town, and my college experience in St. Louis was a four-year game I couldn't win because nobody bothered to tell me the rules. David was everything I wanted to be, and I was completely infatuated with him. He was older; he knew wine and food; he was effortlessly dapper and cultured; he had traveled; and, to top it all off, he was funny rather than boorish, which wine people can tend to be. He also provided me with a shitload of free wine (gotta know the product) and took me to fabulous parties, wine tastings and all the hottest restaurants in St. Louis. He put a mini-fridge in my office and brought me lunches he had cooked himself, introducing me to the idea that Italian food can taste good even when it's not smothered in gooey sauce. And he turned me on to cooking, for which I will always be most grateful. I can quickly and easily julienne basil, de-vein shrimp and peel tomatoes thanks to time spent as his sous-chef, and I will never be able to stand inferior olive oil or overcooked poultry. Hearing his voice this afternoon, I felt like it was just yesterday he pounded on the wall between our offices to get my attention.

What does this have to do with the little pirate above? Just that I appreciate the influence he had on my life, the ripple effect of having known one person for a short while. Working for David for one year was like getting paid to go to finishing school. But had he managed to convince the bobble-head running the company to pay me more, I might never have left St. Louis, moved to Chicago, met John and had this kooky little girl that makes me laugh every day. I wasn't my best self when we knew each other, but he put up with me then and sounded genuinely happy to hear from me today. That's pretty wild if you think about it. Thanks, David, for that and for the David's Old World Brand Pastrami I'm going to pick up at Elephant's tomorrow.

As for Rachel, David's wife and business partner, I had a feeling he had met his match the day she came into the office wearing leather pants. She was smokin' hot. Lucky man.