and it was at this precise moment that he'd had enough of the zoo and all its caged exotic creatures

Yes, even this one.


Lucky for us, our kid also has about a one-hour tolerance for milling around with the general public.

a conversation with a nay sayer

"Hey little man, wanna go have some juice and a snack?"

"No..."

"You don't want a snack?"

"No..."

"Or juice?"

"No..."

"Should we go home and see Norman?"

"No..."

"Should we go home and play basketball?"

"No..."

"I think you mean yes."

"Essssss."

it's official, we have the plague

Today we all woke up in our bed wheezing, coughing and feeling altogether miserable. That's when some very important decisions were made:
• We decided we definitely had the Avian flu or some other deadly disease.
• The husband decided he wanted to be carried around in the bed like Frida Kahlo.
• We decided that maybe, just maybe, there were about four inches of our midsection (from lower chest to upper abdomen) that didn't feel quite so bad.
• We decided that the dog didn't care that we were all sick and that he still wanted his two walks thankyouverymuch.
• And little e decided that even though he couldn't breathe with a pacifier in his mouth and he's coughing up a lung, that he, was in fact, in need of a ball STAT.

It's too bad. I had some big ideas of productivity happening today -- there would be swim class, laundry and Level 3 grocery shopping. Then during nap time there were pilates to be done and calls to be made.

Instead I took a nap.

mister negativity

We had visitors Wednesday through Sunday. Whenever we're with people who don't have kids, I hope that Raisin behaves himself so that he doesn't become the kid that equals another dose of birth control every time you see him. Except for a string a sleepless nights, he pretty much turned on the charm. And I suspect our guests flew back to Seattle wanting to get them one of those. Er, maybe not.

We started our swim class this morning. As the teacher was telling us the most important thing to remember, "Don't let your kids in the water until you say so," Raisin was toe-deep in the zero-depth pool. I'm glad he's still excited about the water. After we got in the pool the teacher passed out an assortment of water toys. Guess what he got. A BALL. Actually it looked more like one of those sponge clown noses.

In other exciting news. His "owwwww" that he used for the word "no" has now quite clearly evolved into the word "no." Let the defiance begin. It's pretty funny though. When he says it, it's not like an adament no, it's more like "Mmmm-I-don't-think-so- not-today-mama" no.

My head feels like it's the size of a watermelon. Failure to lather the boy in Purel after a trip to the new library has resulted in snotty-coughy-achy colds for all of us. Hooray! On top of a major teething episode, I expect that we'll be getting some decent sleep in oh, around 2025. Stupid library.

Good night.

death of an idea

Day 1 (around conference room table)
Client 1: "Ooh, what a great idea."
Client 2: "It's really fresh."
Client 3: "I love it."
Client 4: "It's eye catching and fun."
Client 5: "Yes, yes, yes...it's really great."
Client 6: "This is IT."
Client 7: "They'll love it."


Day 2
Client 1: "It just needs a little fine-tuning."

Later, that same day...
Client 1: "We've spent some time thinking about how we can work with this idea without marginalizing our topic. Here's where we landed: (INSERT COMPLETELY NEW IDEA HERE)."

cat's in the cradle

Papa's out of town again. This one goes out to him.

If you turn up the volume and listen very carefully, you'll sense the unbridled enthusiasm of a kid who really loves to swing.

helicopters

Turns out, there is good that can come from 20 quatrillion helicopters in your backyard.

The gathering.


The wind up.


The release.


The consequence.

always

On today's trip to Target:
Raisin nibbles, sniffs, kisses and snuggles with a package of feminine hygiene products all the way through the store. The only thing stopping him from spooning it was the fact that he was strapped into a shopping cart seat. On our way out, he earnestly waves and says goodbye with thick southern twang, "Bah!" to each and every cashier or "Target team member" as they're called in the copywriting world. Sadly, no one on the team notices.

And here's something to ponder:
Is it just me or are "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", the alphabet song and "Baa Baa Black Sheep" all the same song with different words? You're humming them all now, aren't you?

a shout out to papa

who's away on secret SPAM-related business.



We love you.

blah! ball

Little e has a new favorite game. We call it Blah! Ball. You know the little dragon character from Baby Einstein? What do you mean, no? Well, there's this dragon and he says blah and man, is it funny (to a 16-month old)!

When we took our trip to Florida, we bought Raisin a little Blah puppet-- one of the countless props we used to entertain him on the flight. Now, apparently, it's more fun to play ball with Blah than it is with Mama or Papa.

The game usually starts when Raisin hobbles over to one of us, Blah in hand, and says, "ball" expecting you to go and fetch one. So you do, being the obedient parent that you are. Then, ever-so-carefully, you pick up the ball in Blah's mouth and throw it across the room. This can go on for a while. However, it's one of the better games for getting stuff done because a Blah on your hand can actually be quite helpful in some of the multitasking -- like drying dishes, for example. Or like last night when we were sipping cold, boozy cocktails, Blah was almost like a beer cozy around my icy glass.

Everyone needs a Blah. Act now while supplies last.

rrruy row rell rrrrigh

Like most people, I tend to get some junk email and it's usually labelled as such by my email program. But this morning, when I got back from a meeting, there was an unflagged email labeled simply from "Norman". Other than our dog, I'm sad to say, I don't know any Normans so I was a bit suspicious. I thought it might be a little joke from the husband, reminding me to take Norman for a walk since we had to skip our morning routine. So I opened it. And it was a stock tip. That's when I pictured Norman sitting with a Wall Street Journal in his paws sending random stock tips from my computer. "Buy Purina."

question

How many strawberries are too many strawberries for a 16-month child to consume?

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."

a kiss from heaven

It started as an innocent curiosity. What are those shiny colorful objects in that bowl? Then came the sorting. Five out of the bowl, five in the bowl. Eight out of the bowl. Eight back in the bowl. After that, was a detailed inspection punctuated with odd grunting noises. Roll it around the fingers, a little sniff, "enggggh" remove paper tag "enngggh" and gently push back pretty blue wrapping. Hey, what is this brown substance beneath the paper? Sniff again. "Mmmmmm." With slightly more aggression, remove foil wrapping. Hmmmm, more brown substance.

Finally, the words that forever changed his world: "Here, let me break the tiny tip off and let you have a taste."

Somebody just smack me upside the head.

florida 2006

I planned to post a detailed synopsis of our trip to Florida. But the more time that passes, the more trouble I have coming up with stuff to write about it.

We had a really great time. But, I mean really, sunshine, beach, grandma and grandpa. Them theres the making of a good time.

Except for the part where he chucked his Nuk three rows ahead of us, followed by his attempts to chuck everything else not fastened to him, several rows ahead of us, Raisin did an awesome job on the airplane. Maybe the entertainment provided by Ringling Brothers Mama and Papa Circus had something to do with it. I really expected some serious sleeping to go on during the flight since it was over his afternoon nap time, but it just didn't happen except on the flight home in the last 30-45 minutes. The perfect ending to our trip was having that tuckered little boy asleep in my lap.

Some of the highlights:
• Hearing Raisin say both grandma and grandpa in their presence and watching him interact with "dog" -- one who actually tolerated his antics unlike his brother Norman.
• Being seated by the train at the Bubble Room and watching Raisin's face every time the train came around -- and the delicious gianormous desserts.
• Raisin's fishlike tendencies in both ocean and pool. He loved the water and that made me happy. He did not, however, like saltwater in his eyes (surprise, surprise).
• The visit with the Cuban relatives -- a huge picnic featuring roast pig (Cuban style), black beans and rice, yucca (I'm drooling just thinking about it). The picnic was on a farm with horses, cows, little piggies, bunnies -- Raisin was in heaven with all of the animals and lots of people fawning over him in Spanish.

the re-gifter easter bunny

This Easter, little e scored quite the collection of fluffy spring-time critters. There was the little lamb from Grandma and Grandpa S. Plus, a duck, a chick and a bunny proudly presented to him by each of his three adoring cousins who visited over the weekend.

So what's an Easter Bunny to do? I couldn't bring myself to buy him even more stuffed animals -- those things multiply faster than the Easter bunny himself, you know. And he's only one. He has a few more stuffed-critter-accumulating Easter years ahead of him. So, with a little re-packaging, the Easter Bunny regifted all of the above, plus, a little bird I had given to him a few weeks ago. What!?!? It's probably the last year I'll be able to get away with such tackiness. I'm not so evil. He also got some new BALL! magnets, a new sparkly egg book and a frosted sugar Egg cookie from the bakery.

What's that? Is it the rubber duck/bunny you got from Grandma S. last year? How'd he get in there!?! Tacky, tacky Easter Bunny.

hair

The only thing that smells better than freshly shampooed baby hair is sweaty-boy-who's-been-playing-outside-alot hair.

we like sunny days

This week we're babysitterless so it's ALL MAMA, ALL THE TIME. Lucky for me, this week I'm also workless. And luckier yet, the weather's been perfect.

We've made many visits to the park just a few houses away. When you have a child and a brick backyard, a nearby park is a requirement. This one has everything too -- an elaborate jungle gym, swings, tennis courts, basketball courts, baseball diamonds -- everything a ball-obsessed boy could want. So we bring a ball and do some of that. Then there's the throwing of the sand, and the playing with the stick. This summer, we'll give the attached waterpark a whirl and if it's a hit, it's season pass for us, baby!

There are some great little-people swings too. You know, the kind that would have to be tipped completely upside-down for the baby to fall out? Raisin used to love the swings. He'd start crying when I stopped pushing him. But this time, there will be no swings. This time, the swing is the enemy and any move in its direction is met with much resistance. Same goes for the bouncy toys.

Did he get this from me? I have a vague recollection of being pretty much afraid to try everything when I was little. I know this is probably just a stage -- seems like pretty much everything is at this age. But I don't want him to be the boy who misses out on the fun because he's afraid. I used to hate the pressure that usually came with the fear of trying something -- even though once I tried it, I usually wanted to do it again and again. And when I see that look of fear in a child's face and the pressure that usually comes with it, it throws me into rescue mode where I want to whisk the child away from the situation so they don't have to feel bad.

So, how much should a child be pushed to try something they're afraid of trying? What if I had just put Raisin in the swing and start swinging him as he cried? Would he have eventually enjoyed himself or be forever terrorized by the sight of a swing? Call me a mollycoddler (just wanted to use that word), but I guess I prefer him to want to come to the conclusion that he wants to try it on his own. We have a playdate with his friend Maya next Tuesday. I'm hoping once he sees her on the swing, he'll change his tune.

Until then, we'll just play with sticks.

reason #8,417 why people like me shouldn't be allowed to garden

i...you!

We've been trying to teach Raisin the sign for "I love you." He's pretty much got it, but he usually only manages to get out the "I" and "you" part. This morning, as I shared my cereal with him, he repeatedly kissed his highchair tray. Then, unprompted, he signed "I...you" to it.

That's when I told him, that if certain people get their way, marriage will only be defined as such between a man and a woman -- not a man and highchair tray. He was crushed.

a man and his wound: a tale of courage

Last night (or, this morning) Ed worked until 4 a.m. Since I work in advertising, too, I know all too well how this happens. You see, advertising is a life or death business. Things happen, a client needs an ad rightthisverysecond or PEOPLE WILL DIE!!!!! However, now that I work for myself, my boss lets me go home whenever I want and so far no lives have been lost. (Side note: The other nightwe watched an old Cary Grant movie where he played a guy in advertising. He had 6 MONTHS to come up with a slogan. That made us giggle (or was it cry?))

Back to Ed working late. Apparently, in the process of putting the boards together, the poor man sliced his finger with an exacto knife. He cut himself pretty badly, and nearly bled to death as no one was insane enough to also be there until 4 a.m. to take him to the hospital. That's right, HE NEARLY DIED. I saw an entire reenactment of the harrowing event. What a brave, brave, husband I have. And let me just say, if I could hear about this cut on his finger 100 more times, it wouldn't be enough.

Actually, I can really sympathize with the working-until-4 a.m. part, but we both know where I received stitches a little more than a year ago. So sympathy for the tip of your pointer finger? Not so much.

happy haircut boy

the great ball of china

I'm not sure how it happened but somehow little e has managed to pick up Chinese. When he's particulary engrossed in what he's doing, you can hear him chit chatting: Meeeeee WhaOW tsuh Maaaaa neeee HaOWWWW BALL! Jennng shuu BALL leeee Waaa maaaAW BALL!

Maybe that's the stage that comes before actually stringing words together. Yes, I believe they call it "the Chinese stage."

walker texas ranger

When you have a child you get asked about milestones. Is he sleeping through the night? Is he eating solids? Is he crawling? How about walking, is he walking yet?

I'm pleased to report that yes, Raisin is walking. He actually has been for a while now. And it's not that it wasn't worthy of a post, it's just that it happened so darn gradually that it was difficult to discern when the actual "first step" happened. Does it count as a first step if he's hanging on to a couch? What if he falls right after the step? What if it's more like a half step -- does that count? He did all those things at the beginning.

But probably the best part was that very snowy Monday about a month ago. Ed was using the snow as an excuse to stay home from work, so we were both home. And that's when Raisin took the most steps we had seen. From Ed to me, he walked like a little drunken midget (sorry, little person) -- about seven steps. While it was really cool to see, I'm not sure it was the big tear-jerking emotional moment that it had been built up to be. It was more funny to see the excitement on his face, the hands held close to his shoulders and hear the "ah, ah, ah, ah, ah" (increasing in pitch) as he neared his destination in a kamikaze fashion.

Up until the last four or five days, he had been a bit of a reluctant walker -- reserving it for special ocassions. But now his confidence has increased ten-fold and the boy's all over the place albeit still like a drunken midget.

Pray for us.

fro no mo'

Today our little man got a haircut. With visions of every kid haircut gone bad, I was opposed to the idea at first. And truthfully, I was growing quite fond of his white-man's afro growing larger by the day. But time and again I found myself pushing hair out of the poor kid's eyes, so I finally caved.

We brought him to this Kid's Hair place. I was told it was like a three-ring circus entertaining kids as they sat happily in chairs receiving their new dos. But Raisin wasn't falling for their cheap entertainment tricks. Despite the Barney video playing inches from his face, he clutched on to Ed as soon as he was placed into the chair. The hairdresser didn't waste any time and immediately started spraying and snipping as he cried.



Ed and I switched places so he could capture the happy moment on video. That's when Barney, bless his little purple dinosaur heart, pulled out the big guns and began singing an obnoxious song about god knows what, but its choreography included beachballs -- and that's all that mattered to my little boy. The tears began to soften and as if on his last breath, he began to whisper, "ball...ball..."



Unfortunately (or fortunately), every Barney song must come to an end. So did the ball song. Luckily, at that point, the haircut was just about complete. And little e was back to his usual self playing with the germed up toys in the waiting area as we killed some time to let his hair dry (sparing him any further trauma by blowdrying).

the great outdoors

Today it was nice enough that we went outside sans jackets. Elian just wanted to play ball so badly with Norman, but the dog clearly wasn't interested. He knew better. Playing ball with Elian means getting it chucked in your face at least once. Instead, Norman and I sat down together and threw the ball for Elian to fetch.

he writes the songs

This morning, while catching a bit of Ellen, little e was nothing short of hypnotized by the vocal stylings of Barry Manillow.

au natural

Ed and I try to eat organic as much as possible. So it only made sense that once Raisin was born he would too. May as well start him out clean, right? God knows, we won't have any control over all of the ho hos and cheetos he'll stuff into his piehole at his friend's house. But c'mon, $6.50 for a gallon of milk? Think of all the Bluefly shopping I could do if we didn't buy organic. And really, how bad can a few antibiotics, artificial hormones and pesticides be?

flack about slack

Apparently two of my readers (or should I say, my two readers) think I'm slacking in my blogification.

Let me just say I'm surprised it's lasted even this long. I gave it two weeks top when I started. And here's Ed who wanted me to blog about ADVERTISING. zzzzzzzzz.

But after looking back at some of my past entries -- things I had already managed to forget until I read about them -- I've decided that I need to try harder. This might not mean more entries, mind you. It just means shaking this feeling that I can easily just give this up if I can't manage to get something down for a few weeks.

Besides, as Raisin gets older, the kid's going to do far more interesting things. Oh, there will be stories to tell.

random thought #2

On the streets of Paris, they have these self-cleaning public bathroom stalls. You put your money in like it's some sort of vending machine, then you step inside and do your business. After you're done, you close the door. And this, my friends, is where the magic happens. The entire bathroom gets bathed in a disinfectant solution, leaving it sparkly clean for the next user.

So here's the question: Where can I get a house like that?

best. things. ever. volume 2

• The way you make that little noise with the back of your throat like a little french man "hugnh, hugnh, hugnh."
• Your pegleg sound when you crawl with a toy or ball in your hand.
• The way you hug my legs sometimes when the babysitter gets here because you don't want me to leave.
• How you press against my back or tummy with your foot when you're sleeping with us, just like you did when you were inside the womb.
• The way you throw your head and fall backwards -- even when I'm not there -- waiting for me to tickle you when we push the "10 bees" button
• How you give yourself away when you're doing something naughty by tsk-tsking yourself.
• How you give kisses to strange inanimate objects like your highchair tray, the step, books on the bookshelf and that astronaut on the last page of your touch and feel book.
• How your pudgy little fingers do the sign for bird every time you see one or look out the window at the bird feeder.
• The crazed look you get in your eye right before you swipe my face like a reeces monkey.
• How you lose yourself in what you're doing and walk without even realizing it and sit down as soon as you see someone watching you.
• The way you laugh when your papa does his kung fu moves.
• The way you tickle yourself to the music where I usually tickle you in your Baby Einstein video.
• How when I tell you what we're going to do, you very desperately ask me "Ball?" as if to say, "There will be a ball involved in these plans, won't there?"
• How whenever you see a banana or someone says the word "banana," you make sounds like a little monkey "oooh, oooh, ahhh, ahhh!"

one fish, two fish

I have two small problems with the Mall of America.
1. It's a mall.
2. It's the biggest mall OF AMERICA!!!!!!

As such, I try to avoid it at all costs, only to make very targeted trips there -- ones where I consult the online store floorplan to devise my parking strategy before I leave. That way, I can be in and out without much contact with people who actually plan vacations around a mall visit.

Yesterday we had this idea that we would take Elian to Underwater Adventures, a big aquarium at the lower level of the mall. Since we're normally up at the crack of dawn, we thought we'd avoid the crowds and get there right when it opened. Silly fools. When we got there, the line was already about 10 fathoms deep. Apparently people like to start their nautical adventures early.

But had the whole adventure consisted only of the koi pond at the very beginning, it would've been well worth the wait and the hefty $14.95 entry fee. The little guy smiled and kicked with delight as he chucked a handful of koi food into (or near) the pond. I overheard a woman comment, "Look at all the koi food you get for 25 cents!" Clearly she's shopping at the wrong koi food store. I was curious to know how much koi food she thought she should get for a quarter.

The excitement slowly began to wane as we passed the endless turtles and a taxidermy beaver exhibit. But then the tunnel. Oh, the tunnel. If you ever want to impress a one year-old, send him through a huge glass tunnel with giant fish swimming over the top. He was so excited. That was cool.

Afterwards, we took a shortcut through Camp Snoopy and sat down to some mediocre mall crepes. Despite the fact that we missed the Super 8 bed-making championship, all in all, it was a perfect morning at the mall. And never before have I used the words "perfect" and "mall" in the same sentence.

look what we did today

You try entertaining yourself when it's been snowing like, FOREVER!

wings

Dear Red Bull,

This evening I drank one of your caffeinated beverages fortified with Taurine. No, I do not intend to go to a rave. I was hoping to get a little work done while the little man slept. I was also hoping to match Ed's stay-up-late stamina and work laptop-to-laptop with him into the wee hours.

Well, Red Bull, I'm here to tell you that I have no wings. NO WINGS!!! DO YOU HEAR ME!?!?!?

You'll be hearing from my lawyers.

Goodnight.

and now for a really exciting topic

I can tell I'm getting old because lately I've been doing a lot of talking about my back. Aside from the upper shoulder tension that most people who work on computers can relate to, I've considered myself lucky to not to have a problem back. Until now.

Oh, I know what exactly is causing the pain. And I can almost say with 100 percent certainty, I know what any doctor will say should I decide to see one about this. But, I've already been to my favorite doctor, Dr. Google, and according to Dr. Google, I should bend at the knees when I lift, not at the hips -- oh, and I should also try to avoid lifting anything below my waist -- which, last time I checked, is the height of most one year-olds.

A lot of lifting goes on in this house. And while I can manage proper lifting alignment for some of it, most of it happens so fast egs.: "Elian, get your hands out of the toilet." (LIFT) And I'd like to see anyone try to put a 23-pound child in a crib, stroller or car seat without bending at least a little at the back. I've contemplated just dropping him in many times, but there are people who frown upon that sort of behavior. Besides, I kinda want him to like me.

It could also have to do with the fact that the only exercise I've been getting is walking the dog and lifting and carrying a small child. Or maybe I'm just old. Okay, I'm done whining about my back now.

Stay tuned for another installment of Exciting Blog Topics when we'll be discussing the fine nuances of the weather.

it's no wonder all our fruit is bruised

Did I mention our kid has a bit of a ball obsession?

You might think every trip through the Rainbow produce department with him was instead a trip to a ball factory.

What's that? A cantaloupe? Wrong, it's a ball.
Apple? Ball.
Orange? Ball.
Tomato? Yes, you guessed it.
Grapes? Little balls.
Blueberries? Ditto.

Today, as I was putting groceries away, I stepped into the bathroom for a moment, then returned to find a just-chucked apple bouncing across the kitchen floor. "BALL!"

And then there was much sadness as the balls disappeared into the produce drawer.

like a rolling stone

Our boy's hair has a life all its own. Some days, he's a dead ringer for Napolean Dynamite. Other days, Grandpa Munster. Now, we're pleased to introduce his latest hair twin.

what $2.49 well spent looks like

i bet you wish you could write about this:

Look for this tasty eggy sandwich at a convenience store near you.

chuck-a-duck

There's a game that's sweeping the nation. It's called Chuck-a-Duck or "Cha-Dahhh." Here's how you play:
1. Line up eight rubber ducks and one orange fuzz ball on the side of the bath tub.
2. One by one, chuck each duck into the tub. Don't forget about the fuzz ball.
3. While chucking is in progress, yell "Cha-Dahh" at the top of your little lungs.
4. Repeat steps 1-3 five times.

And that, my friends, is how you play Chuck-a-Duck.

Good night.

"help"

It's been said that sign language can help babies communicate, thereby helping to eliminate frustration. That's one reason to teach your kid sign language. Then there's this one: Who doesn't want to see a baby signing like a little monkey?

We started teaching Elian signs thinking it might be fun. If it helped him communicate, well then, all the better. The only problem is, now that he knows quite a few signs, you just can't pretend you don't see them and ignore his requests. To let him know he's been understood, you sort of have to give him what he wants. Even though he can say the word "milk" well enough for us to understand, it's not uncommon for him to aggressively squeeze an invisible cow udder when he wakes up in the middle of the night until we cave.

Then there's the little "game" he's been playing since Valentine's Day where he takes the mylar heart balloons I bought him and releases them to the ceiling at the landing of the steps where you have to climb the stairs in order to reach them. "Help" he pleads desparately beating his chest with both his palms. This continues until you go up the stairs to fetch said balloon and bring it back down to him. Repeat 10,000 times. Come to think of it, the only time this request for help has been used is when he wants me to fetch something out of his reach (balls, balloons, Target, etc.)

We originally taught him "all done," so he could tell us when he's done eating. Now he uses it in any circumstance when he's had enough of what's going on, as if to say, "BO-RRRRRINNNGGG, let's move on to the next thing. I'm SO all done with this. Remove me from this current setting and show me something more exciting."

Stupid sign language.

my valentine's date with a 91 year-old woman

"Amy, this is Lempi. Do you want me to teach you how to make my banana cream pie tonight?"

"Um, yes."

And so began my Valentine's date with our awesome neighbor, Lempi. She delivered step-by-step instructions as I measured and mixed, hanging on her every word, so that I too, might one day make the world's most perfect banana cream pie.

All the while, I could tell it was killing her not to jump in and do it herself. As I mixed the flakey, delicious homemade pie crust, she said, "Don't give up. Persevere." And having lived through the depression, she saw that I scraped and used every last bit from the bowl. If there was a bootcamp for pie making, I was there. And I was loving every minute of it.

Sure, there were a few setbacks. Like the time when the basket she had set on the gas burners nearly went up in flames (it wasn't the first time, judging by the blackened straw on the side of the basket). And then there was the washing of dishes with water fetched from the bathroom then heated in a tea kettle because "I don't want to hear the faucet leak all night!"

I made four pie crusts under her tutelage. I filled one with the secret banana cream filling she taught me to make. Then I would bring two empty crusts home to freeze and she would keep one. As we said goodbye, she gave me a big hug and in the process stumbled a bit. Two of the crusts went crashing to the floor. She felt so awful. And I never let on that one had broken into about a bazillion pieces.

Yesterday we finished the pie I made in my lesson. And I'm happy to report it tasted just like Lempi's famed banana cream pie we've come to know and love. And I now have the secret recipe. State Fair pie bake-off, here I come.

do crunch berries count as a fruit?

Ed and I were in charge of bringing breakfast one day for the Dells birthday celebration. He had this idea to go with a large selection of sugary sweet cereals that we never buy for ourselves. But according to him, it wouldn't fun unless we went a bit over the top with variety. So this we did. Cookie Crisp. Apple Jacks. Lucky Charms. Cap'n Crunch with Crunch Berries. King Vitamin. Fruit Loops. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. The list goes on. The only flaw in this plan was that we were the ones who wound up bringing it all home. While the babysitter seemed pleasantly surprised, since then, there have been several nights where we've feasted from this selection for dinner. Oh sweet, heavenly partially hydrogenated goodness. The Lucky Charms were the first to go. Then, tonight for Ed, it was Fruit Loops followed by a bowl of Apple Jacks (he chose to stick with the fruit group). I, on the other hand, went somewhat sensible with Frosted Mini Wheats. But then followed that with a bit of Cap'n Crunch with Crunch Berries for dessert.

"Hello, Jenny Craig? I need help."

the year of the ball

Our little man has turned one year old. Actually, it happened a few weeks back, but who has time to blog, what with all the booger wiping that has to be done around here?

There was a big birthday blowout at the Wisconsin Dells (thanks, Grandma and Grandpa Schulz). Raisin got to share the celebration with three of his cousins whose birthdays all land within five days of his. The entire Schulz side was there and Grandma and Grandpa Johnson even stopped by for a special guest appearance.

There was some watersliding, wave pooling, present opening and, lest we forget, some throwing of the ball. By the time we got to the cake part, the kid was so tired he could barely lift his head, but once he saw the ball smack-dab in the middle of the cake, there was a miraculous recovery.

I'd write more but it feels like it happened so long ago. Wait. I almost forgot. There was also that part where mama got to take a big ol' 2-person whirlpool by herself. But only after fishing out the Tootsie Roll masquerading as a terd (oh, my funny family).

Happy birthday little man.

calgon take me away

I think of myself as one who is prone to stress. But sometimes I wonder, am I more prone than others, or is it just some bad timing on the part of the stressors?

Take, for example, this sequence of events that happened yesterday:
I'm working on an ad with an art director, who lays out only his ideas -- ideas that are, let's just say, ALL WRONG. The account supervisor calls me in a panic. The ad's due in an hour and where did all these crazy ideas come from that have NOTHING TO DO WITH THE CREATIVE BRIEF??!!! At this very moment, Raisin decides he is going to turn his fuss on. As the account supervisor and I discuss our plan of attack, I give Raisin a bottle. Seconds later, said bottle proceeds to leak out of the top and down his neck to his chest and back. WHAAAAAAAA!!!!!! Cue doorbell: Ding-dong (actually, our doorbell is more of a Brrrrinnng). Dog goes into barking frenzy. Doorbell rings again. Dog runs to front window to rip out the jugular vein of the neighbor on front porch. I hang up.

Curtain closes.

yes, we are twelve

Yesterday Raisin was playing with his shape sorter. Usually, he just plunks the circles in and calls it a day (they're most like balls, you know). But this time, he was doing an amazing job sorting all the shapes as both Ed and I cheered him along. Only, it went something like this:

ME: No buddy, that's too big to fit in there.
ED: That's what she said.

ED: Yeah, just turn it around, it'll go in!
ME: That's what she said.

ME: You've got it! Don't pull it out!
ED: That's what she said.

Turns out, she says a lot of things. Who knew shape sorting could be so dirty?

catch his disease

Raisin and I just had a serious groove session to Ben Lee's "Catch my Disease." You shoulda seen him shake his money maker. But really, how can you not dance to that song? You'd have to be dead inside to not at least wiggle a little.

the car wash theory

You know that theory with a car wash? As soon as you get one, it rains? Well, I have a similar theory with diapers: As soon as you change it, it poops.

table for (number) 2

It's official. Raisin has a pooping place.

I've heard stories how diapered kids sometimes find a regular secret spot to do their business. A few visits back, my niece Izzy ducked behind our wood-burning stove to do hers (luckily, there was no fire). So I wondered if little e would ever have himself a pooping place.

Recent observation concludes the answer is a resounding yes. Seems he prefers the comfort of the north end of the dining table -- not quite under the table, and somewhat hidden behind a chair.

Sorta makes you wonder what goes on inside those little brains that tells them that some things are best done in private.

college fund

Today we went to the bank to cash in our year's worth of collected change. Every time we do this, we each guess how much it will turn out to be. Whoever comes closest without going over wins. We got the teller involved in our game too and as it turns out, he had the closest guess (Little does he know, whoever wins, gets the money. Sucka!). I totally overestimated because I mistakenly thought we purchased our TV with our last change cash-in, but in fact, that was purchased from our cd sales on Amazon. Stupid Amazon. And here I was convinced the teller poured half of it into his own secret piggybank in the back.

So the total came to (drum roll please) something like $256. Hello college fund!

At this rate, by the time he's 18, the boy should have about a week's worth of tuition.

frue

The little man does this thing that cracks me up. Remember true/false tests and how when you didn't know the answer, you'd make an illegible letter that looked sort of like a "t" but sort like an "f" too? Maybe that was just me.

Anyhoo, little e does something like that when you ask him to point something out in a book. If he's unsure, he'll hesitantly point at one thing, then ever-so-slyly slide his finger over the page to point at another thing until you say, "You're right!" as if he never really meant the first thing he pointed at.

Sneaky cheater.

hello, my name is IDIOT

Okay, my glimpse in the bathroom mirror just revealed that I've been sitting here at the coffee shop for the past two hours wearing a "Hello, my name is" sticker on my chest, left over from a client meeting. Dork.

That explains the funny look from the barista.

he gets more like norman every day

a picture is worth 1,000 words

Look at it, would you? It's as if he's possessed by the ball.

It won't be difficult to remember little e's first word. After all, he says it 8,000 times a day. BAWWWWLLLLLLL. Ball this, ball that. Ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball. It's often the first thing he says when he wakes up in the morning -- and the last thing he says before he goes to sleep. We've even witnessed him saying it IN HIS SLEEP.

Usually after about the fifth or sixth time he says it, people in our class smile and say, "That's so cute, he must really like balls." I think that's just their polite way of saying, "Your child clearly needs help."

He takes every opportunity to seek and identify all balls and ball-like items -- anything circular in shape for that matter. The other day we went out to lunch at a Mexican sandwich shop, once inside he pointed and exclaimed "Ball." A ball in a Mexican sandwich shop? Highly unlikely! I thought. But there it was, a giant beach ball tucked snugly behind a plant.

And just so I don't forget, here are some of his other first words (none nearly as comprehensible as ball): Star. Dog. Spoon. Lights. Milk. Keys. Blue. Flower. Bird. He used to say "book," but apparently that's been phased out by the ball portion of his brain.

a sight to behold

I often pass the Aveda Institute on my drive home. Inside, Jose Eber wannabes practice hairdo techniques on mannequin heads. Stopped at a light by the school yesterday, I saw well-coiffed young beauticians wandering aimlessly about with their practice heads which, from a distance, looked like victims of decapitation. This made me giggle.

our little secret

Lately, we've been giving Raisin different distraction devices to hold during diaper changes in hopes of avoiding the twist-crawl escape combo.

Today, he took particular interest in papa's toothbrush on the bathroom counter. So, I gave it to him to hang on to while I changed his diaper. It just so happens he was producing some unusually messy and abundant poopies today. The minute I untaped his diaper, down went the hands for his usual boyish "exploration." But this time, there was a thick coating of soft poop smeared all over his target area. And before I knew it, it was covering his hand -- that's when he reached for the toothbrush in his other hand.

Sorry Papa.

aulophobia

I'll have to remember this when Raisin's older, in case he develops a strange, "unexplained" fear of flutes.

This Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa S. gave him a sweet, multi-piece set of wooden instruments, including a small sampling of "wind instruments" -- a flute, a harmonica and everyone's favorite, the kazoo.

Today, after serenading him with a beautiful flute, um, er, serenade, I handed it back to little e and told him to try. After several failed attempts at producing any sound, he gave it everything he got, and blew the end of the flute as if his life depended on it. At that moment, a very loud flute-like "TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!!!!!!" came out and instantly, he started to cry and shoved the flute away.

Yes, apparently, enough cases of flute phobia have been documented to merit naming it. If you don't believe me, go here: http://www.changethatsrightnow.com/problem_detail.asp?SDID=319:1399

So, while the kid does play a mean triangle, a career as a flautist is probably not in his future.