master shape spotter

Our little man has a freakish ability to recognize shapes. I'm not calling him some sort of shape genius or anything. Maybe all kids his age do this. But sometimes it just blows my mind.

It goes without saying that anything in his world that is remotely circular is called out as a ball, but there's more to it than that. He can spot a heart the size of a dust mite from a mile away. And we know he's spotted a heart because everytime he sees one, he makes a "mwaaaa" sound like a kiss. Once on our walk, I heard him "mwaaa"-ing from his stroller. At first I thought it might be a leftover heart we had drawn on his hand at his request. But then I saw it, the decorative wooden-American-flag heart hanging in the porch ACROSS THE STREET FROM US. Hearts. Stars. Balls. If they're visible to the human eye (hell, even if they're not), he'll find them.

With the higher temperatures recently, we've had the fan in the window when this happened: He was sitting in our bed with his little pal Target. We saw him look at the fan, then look at Target, then look at the fan, then back at Target. Suddenly, a big smile spread across his face. It took us a little while, but we finally saw what he saw.

It wasn't a fan he was looking at, it was Target's eye.

oops

It has been brought to my attention by one of my observant readers that my experimental link did not, in fact, link. In addition to offering my most sincere apologies, all I can say is this: Crap. I'm not the technical genius I thought I was.

I believe the matter has been resolved. I can only hope.

Signed,
The Management

now with RETSYN®

The makers of hernan-dos are pleased to announce a new and improved blog. Same boring stories. Same hurried, clumsy writing. But now chockful of video and links. I'm still patting myself on the back for this outstanding technical achievement -- with no help from my computer-geek husband. Now if I could just think of a good link. Here, try (drum roll, please) this one.

rhubarb

"When I was your age, I didn't have toys. All I had was a stick of rhubarb from my mama's garden...and I was HAPPY."

more weekend highlights

Tossing back a cold one with grandpa.


Smooches.


Dirty pool water.

"whoah"

Most likely the highlight of a certain curly-headed boy's Memorial Day weekend. This clip requires no setup. But if its overviewing can cause blindness, there may be a seeing-eye-dog purchase in our future.

the plot thickens

Not sure this is the cranky little chihuahua that followed us home the other day or not. I think our little pal was thicker and less endowed in the ear department.

welcome peepers

I think I'm going to start feeding Raisin delicious, meaty worms. Get a load of at that anticipation.

best. things. ever. volume 3

• How you sound like the little Italian boy from Life is Beautiful when you're looking for me, "Mama? Mama? Mama?"
• When you cast your secret spell on us from your high chair.
• When I can hear your explosions of laughter from upstairs when you're downstairs with papa.
• How you sit forward in your stroller, so that you can point out each and every ball, flower, rock, dog, heart, butterfly and various lawn ornaments you see on our walks.
• The fact that you even still enjoy being pushed in a stroller for long walks even now when you're completely mobile.
• Your patented bounce-bounce-bounce-fall-backwards move you do on the bed (except when you're teetering on the edge of the mattress or inches away from the steal headboard.)
• The way you stop and smell the flowers. Every flower. With a "shhhh shhhh shhhh --- mmmmmmmm."
• The incredible amount of empathy you already show. When you hear another baby crying, you look at me with sad eyes, hold me tight and put your head on my chest.
• Your electric toothbrush sound effect anytime someone brushes their teeth.
• When you sleep past 5 a.m.

yo quiero roadkill

Following is a gripping update to the leashless dog saga as reported two entries ago:

Today on our morning walk we were followed about a mile back to our home by a feisty little chihuahua. Raisin was very amused by antics of our tiny little dog escort. And while usually I'm not a fan of the chihuahua, I'm also not a fan of my boy witnessing a dog being flattened by an oncoming car. So I made a weak effort to find its home.

I asked around if anyone knew where the dog belonged. One woman recognized it and offered to keep it tethered in her yard until someone came looking for it. But after my attempt to grab the dog's collar was met with ferocious chihuahua snaps, I declined to carry it over to her. So the dog continued to follow us. As we approached the busiest street on our walk, I lost sight of the dog and began to cross. Seconds later, I heard a "screeeeeeeeech." I was almost afraid to look but turned around to see the little dog prancing across the street after us. I thought if it followed us all the way home, I could keep it in our back yard and call animal control to pick it up. But just as we cut into the alley at our block, the dog continued down the street past our house. I'm not sure where the dog is now. Hopefully he found his way back home and we'll see him in an upcoming Taco Bell ad one day.

Later that same day...
Speak of the devil. Who is it? None other than our pal Rafe and his done-up elderly owner. Different street, same conversation, "Is your dog friendly?" I'm beginning to think Rafe's owner doesn't have such a good memory. That or she meets up with many green-stroller-pushing women walking a large black dog.

Stay tuned for more exciting dog-walking adventures.

presto chango

I like to think that even David Blaine himself would be mystified and impressed by my wizzardry and sleight of hand when it comes to making the telephone and remote control disappear.

dog-gone people

Besides the ones who don't pick up after their dogs, the second most annoying dog owner is the kind that lets their dog off-leash when they have no control over it.

There is a very miniscule percentage of dogs who are so obedient, they won't step paw outside their property lines. Then there are the owners who THINK they have that kind of dog. They obviously do not know the power of our Norman's je-ne-sais-quoi appeal.

I can't tell you how many times we've been followed across a busy street by an off-leash dog who's looking to get a whiff of Norman's fine behind. Then, it's up to me, to A. Corral the dog to safety (while pushing stroller and holding Norman) B. Direct traffic to prevent the loose dog from getting hit by a car or C. Stand there holding my breath hoping that the oncoming car sees the amorous loose dog and stops. Usually it's an awkward combination of all three.

I know that dogs sometimes get loose accidentally. I mean, Norman's been known to somehow Houdini himself from his leash to chase a squirrel. But then there are people like the done-up attractive elderly lady and her dog Rafe. We see her in the same place every time. I think she drives to this particular spot, parks her car and walks her dog up and down the street -- off leash. And without fail, this happens:

DONE-UP LADY: (Yelling down the street as Rafe charges at us) RAFE! RAFE! RAFE! COME BACK HERE!!!
(Rafe runs across street to meet us. I walk towards made up lady so that Rafe will get out of street.)
DONE-UP LADY: Is your dog friendly???
ME: Yes, usually with smaller dogs. (Rafe is smaller)
MADE UP LADY: He really is lonely and loves to play with other dogs. How old is your dog?
(Meanwhile, Rafe is jumping all over Norman -- Norman is surprsingly putting up with it)
ME: Um, (untangling the leash that has wrapped around Raisin's stroller in the chaos.) He'll be Seven.
MADE UP LADY: Oh, Rafe is six....He usually comes when I call --

Correction. He never comes when she calls. I know because we've had this EXACT SAME ENCOUNTER AND EXACT SAME CONVERSATION NO FEWER THAN FOUR TIMES!! In fact, in one such encounter she told me about the time she lived on a busy street and witnessed her beloved cat get hit by a car. One would think she would've learned a lesson.

Then there are the people who don't even bother supervising their unleashed dogs. Just the other day two cocker spaniels came barreling across the street to meet us. As I tried to steer ourselves out of the situation a crazy loon of a woman still in her pjs came screaming out of her house with a voice resembling Patty and Selma's of the Simpsons -- "SAM!!!!! SAM!!!!! SAM!!!!! SAM!!!!!! SAM!!!!!!! SAM!!!!!!" It's no wonder the dogs didn't go racing back into her arms. As we made our way down the block, her dogs continued to follow us and she continued screaming "SAM!!!!!" as they did.

Ah, people.

the day of mamas

I wish every day could be Mother's Day because mine went a little something like this:

• Slept downstairs -- and slept in -- with my furry son while the Husband fielded all sleep interruptions by the boy.
• Woke up to breakfast of fresh-squeezed orange juice and 10-grain pancakes with blueberries, bananas and walnuts. (Excuse me as I wipe the drool from my keyboard.) In fact, the husband was my man slave -- correction, willing servant -- all day long.
• Received a gift of not one, but one and a half glorious hours of a hot-stone massage. (Mmmmm, hot stones.)
• Went on our usual morning family walk but today's was special because did I mention it was Mama's Day? Even creepy-house shotgun guy (who turned out to be very pleasant) wished me a happy Mother's Day.
• Did a little gardening while the boys played ball and flattened a good portion of the backyard greenery (if it's not the dog and his pee killing my garden, it's the boy and his ball). My willing servant lifted heavy pots and bags of soil that I was feeling too girly to lift.
• Received extra gardening help from my special little guy (see photos below).
• Topped off the day with bathtime duties while the husband whipped up a feast of jerk salmon with honey-ginger dipping sauce.

I'm a lucky, lucky mama.

e-i-e-i-(insert random word here)

Like most kids his age, Raisin loves the song Old Mcdonald. Well, let me clarify, he likes to sing the E-I-E-I-O part. And let me tell you, that can never get old.

It started out as the traditional E-I-E-I-O. But then the husband and I started chiming in with an over-dramatic, boy-band inspired "ooooooooooooh" at the end, holding the note for a good 30 seconds, then, bringing it to an ear-popping high-note. And most the time Raisin follows.

Then one day, he did his own version, "E-I-E-I- BALLLLLLL!" (Go figure.) And it just sort of devolved from there. One day it was E-I-E-I- MAMA. Next it was E-I-E-I- PAPA. And who could forget Norman, Target, water, and Raisin's favorite, E-I-E-I- FLOWER!!!!! For some reason that one that one in particular is quality comedy material to the boy.

I can't wait for the day when he can appreciate a good poop joke with that same kind of enthusiasm.

bird wars

It's been like the freakin' Discovery Channel at our house lately.

Last spring a finch pair built a nest in the cubby shelf of our front porch. It was amazing to see those little birds work so hard to put the nest together, see mama stick it out patiently on the eggs, then watch the little peepers pop their heads up to be fed. But then sadly, the magic was over and they left us with a beautiful souvenir of their visit -- tons of poop caked all over the inside of the cubby. That's when we decided it was time to close up the cubbies.

Then a while ago, we saw what we thought to be the same finch couple fly around the front porch seeking out the location of their former digs. We could've sworn we overheard them saying, "What the hell? Where is that awesome cubby?" before flying off. But cubby or no cubby, it didn't stop a robin from trying to build a nest on the door frame of the extra door on our front porch. The poor determined robin must've made at least four attempts with each attempt leaving haystack-sized nest remnants on the porch floor.

Ed decided he'd help this poor bird out and built a little platform so it wouldn't have to balance the nest on the door frame. So, we picked up the latest nest attempt that had already been cemented together with mud and put it on the platform. Still, the stubborn bird continued to try building on the thin door frame. And its persistence has finally paid off because now there is a complete robin's nest precariously balancing on the thin door frame.

But the plot thickens. Yesterday, the finch friends came back and decided they'd start building a nest on the platform -- just a few feet away from the robin's nest. Papa robin did not like this one bit and said "Aw, HELLL no!" And this began the bird soap opera that Raisin and I witnessed from the front window and I managed to capture some of the juicy parts with photo.

Here's Mr. Robin on the platform seconds after chasing the finches away while screaming, "GET OFF MY PROPERTY!" Notice the large, 3-bedroom (complete w/ built-in jacuzzi) nest on the door frame.


Then, here he is taunting the finches he just chased away, "You want a piece of me?!?! Yeah, you better run, er...fly!!"


Then, from a nearby tree, our finch friends yelled, "Hey, we were here first! Do the words CUBBY LAST YEAR mean anything to you?!?!?


"I've got your cubby right here, pal!"


So, after getting the play-by-play, the husband decided to move the platform to the other side of the porch -- a good distance away from the robin's nest. And I'm pleased to report, the Finch Family has found it and is making good progress on their nest. Which led to the following exchange this morning:

HUSBAND: So, I think next year, I'll put platforms up in every corner with signs that say, "Nest here!"

ME: How about one that says, "If you lived here, you'd already be home."

HUSBAND: "Great nest platforms in the lower 100s...!!!"

he shoots, he scores!

This morning, about midway through my bowl of cereal, a tennis ball came sailing through the air and plopped dead-center of my Kashi Go Lean. The kid has got uncanny aim.

In other small-people-related news, we finally introduced him to peanut butter. Even though neither the husband nor I have a peanut allergy in our families, I was a big nervous about the whole thing after witnessing our friends' boy have an allergic reaction to nuts. The good news is, he appears to have no allergy. The bad news is, he might be the only kid on this planet who doesn't like peanut butter -- although he did seem to be enjoying my spicy Asian peanut noodle salad at lunch.

"badoo badoo"

Blame it on too many Chucky movies, but there's something majorly creepy about children's toys when heard out of playtime context. We seem to have our fair share of those possessed toys.

Two of them are hand-me-downs from my sister Karen. There's the wind-up radio that plays "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Sounds innocent enough, but just try not freaking out when you hear it over the baby monitor a good number of weeks since you last wound it up. Then there's the turtle (actually, this one's kinda creepy even IN the context of play). As various shapes of buttons are pushed on the back of its shell, a woman's voice identifies them. Another button plays music. But, hold on to your hats, here comes creepy part. It's the nasaly Barney-inspired voice, that says something unintelligle like, "Badoo, Badoo." What does this mean, this Badoo Badoo? I've been woken out of a slumber on at least four occsions by mysterious badoo badoo-ing in the middle of the night - a little disconcerting considering this turtle only says it while being pushed around on his wheels. (INSERT TWILIGHT ZONE THEME HERE.)

The latest, and possibly most disturbing, incident happened just a few nights ago with a toy John Deere tractor Raisin received from Grandma and Grandpa J. In a voice eerily similar to Dr. Phil's, the tractor walks the child through "repairs" that can be done either using a screwdriver or gas can. When there hasn't been any activity for a while, the tractor says, "I think it's time to power down. See you later!" That's your cue to turn the power off -- it's also what made me jolt out of bed about 1:30 a.m. Only this time, it wouldn't stop. "I think it's time to power down (long pause) ...I think it's time to power down (long pause) ... I think it's time to power down (long pause) ..."

Lucky for the husband, he sleeps soundly enough to miss these late-night hauntings, despite my attempts to rouse him out of his sleep "Did you hear that? Raisin's toy...it's ALIVE!!!" After my frantic whispers failed to wake him the other night when Dr. Phil started up, I carefully tip-toed down the stairs to check things out. I half expected to see a life-sized tractor charge at me with a chain saw maniacally chanting, "I think it's time to power down." Luckily, I turned it off just before it had the chance and ran up the stairs as fast as I could.

If the hairless Drowsy doll from the husband's childhood that my mother-in-law generously left with us ever starts in, I'm packing my bags for sure. Until then, I'll keep her safely stuffed in the credenza cabinet.

look what i got

He's not a rose guy, so imagine my surprise when he brought home these babies.

My baby' daddy done treat me real good.

r.i.p. little mylar balloon

I bought Raisin three mylar heart balloons for Valentine's Day. When I was about to go for the traditional helium balloons, the saleswoman upsold me to the mylar telling me it would last longer -- and she wasn't kidding. I was most impressed by how long these suckers stuck around. It's been nearly 3 MONTHS!! And this one is the true fighter. Three days ago, it was still at ceiling height until Raisin decided to bat it into its miserable present existence. I'm tempted to put it out of its misery with a scissors, but I think it still has a few days of beatings left in it.

If they stick around this long with helium, just think how long they last in landfill.

first thursdays live on

We're a family who likes traditions (or maybe that's just me). Unfortunately, once we proclaim something a new tradition, it's guaranteed never to happen again.

Take the great "Presidents Day Weekend" tradition that began (and sadly saw its demise) in the year 2001 or so. That's the tradition where, being the spontaneous duo that we are, we would jet off to some random location that was emailed to us in cyber fares the day before President's Day weekend. We thought this would be a good idea after we happened to get a good fare to Chicago (not a cyberfare) on Presidents Day weekend. It was a good idea while it lasted which, if you're playing along at home, was NOT AT ALL because the first time wasn't even a random cyberfare. And now, with the kid cramping our style, the tradition is dead for sure.

But I'm pleased to announce a new family tradition. And now that it's actually happend three times, this time I mean it. It's called First Thursdays. That's when the first Thursday of each month, Raisin and I brave the suits and ladies in power heels to have lunch downtown with Papa. And we eat at the same place too -- the basement of Marshall Field's. And believe me, they have a whole lot more down there than Frango mints.

Let me tell you. You don't see many babies in strollers in the skyway midday downtown. It's funny to see people look at us like we're some sort of freaks. "Hey, look at the family freaks!" The best part is seeing Raisin's face when he sees his papa come down the escalator into the lobby. Just like a ball, he can spot him from a mile away.

must remember

There MAY come a time when these words will mean something to the diaper changee:
"Hold on there, cowboy, there's poop smeared all over it."