No Llamas

This just in:  The Edge does not like llamas.

Actually, to be specific, The Edge does not want any llamas in his room.  Now, I'm no expert on Bethesda Maryland, but I feel fairly certain that we don't have a big llama problem here.

In fact, I have seen no llamas in Bethesda at all.  Or really in the entire DC metro area, now that I think of it. And we have been to the zoo three times.

But the other night, The Edge sat down on the floor with a piece of beige construction paper and a green crayon.  When he finished, he enlisted his sister Peapod's expertise to help him affix the paper to his bedroom door.

(Peapod's expertise is that she knows where we keep the tape.)

Moments later, I walked by The Edge's bedroom door.

Here's what I saw:

Four misshapen circles and a line.

Me:  "What's this on your door, buddy? Did you draw this?"

The Edge (indignantly): "No it's a siiiiiiiiiiign!"

Me:  "Oh.  Ok.  What's it got on it?"

The Edge (yelling now): "NO LLAMAS!"

Me:  "No llamas?  Really?"

Peapod: "Yeah Mom.  No llamas.  The Edge doesn't want any llamas to go into his room."

Me:  "Oh.  I see. Why no llamas, sweetpea?"

The Edge (rolling his eyes and exhaling): "Because llamas are baaaaad!"

Of course.

No further questions, your honor.

Bag Lady

This time it's been an inexcusable 9 months since my last entry.  Whoops.

So what, after 9 months, would be so compelling an event as to draw me back to the blogosphere to write about it? Could it be putting our Pasadena house on the market and selling it 13 days later, while we were on vacation?

Nah.

How about packing up all our stuff into over 100 boxes in preparation for moving from  LA to DC?

Yawn.

Well then how about my emergency abdominal surgery two days before the movers showed up?

BOR-ING!

Hmmm.  I got it!  Visualize this:  a poignant retelling of our family's multi-stage trip across the country, with gorgeous photos of the places we stopped and people we spent time with along the way.

Nope.

Let me cut to the chase:  we moved a bunch and now we are settled in Bethesda, Maryland. There.

Ok, now here is what has motivated me to put fingers to keyboard and write again after a 9 month hiatus:

A NEW BAG!

But not just any bag.  A NON DIAPER BAG.

Let me be crystal clear:  I HAVE PURCHASED A BAG THAT IS NOT DESIGNED TO CARRY DIAPERS, PEOPLE.  Here it is, in all it's glory:

For those keeping score, you might recall that Alex was potty trained way back in November of 2011. I know.  I was there.  But I just couldn't wrap my head around the idea that, after 5+ years with a diaper bag glued to my shoulder, I would not need to carry a bag designed specifically to lug an emergency stash of Huggies and the associated paraphernalia with me at all times.

The Esposo thought I was out of my mind.  But I simply could not get myself to ditch the diaper bag.  "Lookit all the awesome pockets!" I enthusiastically pointed out.  Yes.  And 'lookit the holes in the seams and the grunge on the bottom that I like to refer to as "clean dirt" because I've tried to wash it out so many times.'

But then a couple weekends ago, we gave away all our extra diapers to another family.  That's when it finally sunk into my fat head that I no longer have any babies in diapers anymore. And I decided to part with my beloved diaper bag.

I was sad for a bit.  No more drooly little babes wrapped in swaddling blankets, cooing at me from the crib.  Then I hit myself over the head with a bat and came to my freaking senses.

YEEEHHHAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

I'm free.

And the new bag is super cute, if I do say so myself.

Bigger, Badder, Soggier

What a difference a year makes!

Peapod was faster. She ran a smarter race.  The Esposo did not have to carry her on his shoulders at any time.  She passed kids.  She passed adults. She made me so proud it was almost embarrassing. She paced herself in the beginning and didn't turn on the turbo boosters till she had the finish line balloons in plain sight.  Yeah.

The Edge made it the whole way without a single Peanut Butter Bumper.

He slumped less in the jogging stroller as you can plainly see by comparing

Fig 1: Santa Barbara State Street Mile June, 2011 

... with Fig 2: Santa Barbara State Street Mile June, 2010.

See what a difference a year makes?

Plus this year, I did not stick myself even one time with the safety pins.

It rained.

The kids got medals.

We had brunch.

And our dog, Sapphira, turned 17 years old. Yes, really.

Happy birthday, you stinky, sweet old girl.

King of the Candles

I had a feeling he was going to be really good.  He'd been practicing all week.

The Edge turned 2 years old yesterday, and when it came time to blow out the candles on his birthday cake, baby boy brought down the house.

Yeeah.

Personally I think his big sister had a fair amount to do with his success, which was all about the preparation.

About ten days before the actual birthday party, we all explained that his birthday was coming up and that there would be a cake with candles on it, we would sing the "Happy Birthday" song and at the end of it, he was expected to blow out the candles.  

But Peapod took the prep to the next level with actual birthday drills.  These drills included the construction of a birthday "cake" with "candles." But more importantly, the drills included an audience, which was made up of every stuffed animal they could reasonably round up, every doll, every choo choo and every plastic Lego guy that still had a head.

Many of these drills also took place in picnic format on various bed comforters or decorative throws dragged in from other rooms of the house.  As the April 24th date drew nearer, the drills moved into the dreaded-but-effective two-a-day schedule familiar to any well-trained athlete.

As you can clearly see, it paid off.

Happy birthday, My Baby Boy.

Artistic Sweet Spot

Peapod has entered that preschool age -- that serendipitous artwork moment -- where most of the drawings and whoozinwhatsitz she creates are just so ridiculously sweet and cute that you want to keep them all.

Of course it has become a problem because I don't even have space for one extra fleece hoodie, let alone the eleventy-six masterpieces she generates at preschool and our kitchen table on a weekly basis.

My unsentimental yet practical solution is typically to photograph my favorites, keep them around for a few weeks, and then introduce them to the recycle bin.  You know, move it on through.

But every now and then something will crash past my practical exterior and into my soft, gushy heart.  It happened just last week with this one particular piece.  I discovered it when I carted The Edge into his room for a diaper change. 

There, propped up next to his little diaper caddy, she had left a beautiful, crayon-drawn picture of The Edge, wearing a striped shirt and shoes.  (Note:  if you look carefully, you will see that Peapod's artwork gives away The Edge's real name, as Peapod wrote it above the drawing of her brother.)

I set The Poopy Edge back down and took the picture to Peapod to ask about it.

"Can you tell me about this picture, Sweet Pea?"

"That's The Edge."  She stated matter-of-factly and with no sentimentality whatsoever.  "I drew it for my brother."

The next day I spent 20 extra minutes in Target, looking for push pins so I could hang the picture in The Edge's room, where I could look at for all eternity.  Or at least until Peapod draws an even better masterpiece of her brother.

Oh, and I changed The Edge's diaper, too, by the way.

Ski School, Now in Session

Well, the one year I leave The Esposo, Peapod and The Edge unsupervised for the annual trek to Lake Tahoe, this happens:

Her first time on skis!  GO PEAPOD GO!!!!

Needless to say, I was devastated that I was not there to witness it myself, but bursting with pride when I heard all about how well she did and how much she loved it.  In fact, the instructors said she was the first 4-year-old they could recall who did not complain once the entire time!  (I had the Esposo check to make sure he was taking home the right kid afterward.)  I can't wait to crush her out of the chutes ski with her next year!

And here's a still shot just for fun, and because I'm so bleepin' proud.
My baby's gettin' all growe'd up.

If you can't say anything nice...

I'm not sure where this quote falls out.

We had just picked up Chinese food from Egg Roll Express.  Now before you roll your eyes, let me tell you, this place is solid, and they nail all the Chinese-food basics that every American family needs.  Chow mein, cashew chicken, egg drop soup, bing, bing bing.  All solid.

So when we asked Peapod and The Edge, who had had Egg Roll Express many times before and gobbled it up like frat boys, "Who wants noodles?" (which was the vegetable chow mein), we expected an enthusiastic response.

We got it from Peapod, who jumped out of her chair and thrust her hand in the air.

From The Edge, however, we got something much more rude, yet somehow more priceless and indelible.

We got a catch-phrase.

"Blah.  No way!  Mee!"

Blah.

No way.

Me.

What that could possibly mean, coming from a 22 month old human being is mind boggling.  It's almost deep, I think.

All I know, is that we will be quoting those three words, in that order for years to come.

Then someday, when he decides he wants to marry some lucky fool, and asks if he can bring them home so we can meet this person, I will look up from my book, peer over my reading glasses and calmly reply:

"Blah.  No way.  Me!"