I Hope You're Not a Diabetic

Here are some things to make your teeth hurt.

He has learned to say "please." This has seriously screwed me out of any disciplining I may have had planned for the future. When he inserts himself between me and the open refrigerator and starts pleading, "Apple. Please, please" well, really. What choice do I have?

I physically can't resist the lisping, raspberry-finishing sound of my boy being polite. And what's extra-annoying is that he doesn't even know what it means! He has no idea that he is evidencing good manners. He just found the thing that works.

Also, apple is all fruit. Strawberry? Apple. Peach? Apple. Grape? Apple. Apple? Banana. Just kidding. It's apple.

Finally, when he is finished eating, he says, "all done." Which in and of itself? Cutest thing ever, right? How about when you're in bed on a Sunday morning eavesdropping on the baby monitor and hear him declare "all done" about sleeping? Have you died? Yeah, me too.

Um

Listen, I know all I ever do is talk about the dancing. I know it's boring and we all get it: he's gonna live forever; he's gonna learn how to fly, HIGH! But seriously.

(The chorus of the song includes many "no"s. That's why he's getting pissed--he can't stand to be told "no." You'll notice near the end that he has decided they're saying "nose," so he can continue the soul train in peace.)

Lovin' the Ladies

Dash with his cousin Sky on Father's Day. Dash's love for Sky is so deep and abiding
that I'm a little worried he's gonna abscond with her to Vegas.

Mansie & Mason at the beach. He's just a prop in her performance art.

The true love of his life, Aunty J.

Papa

I don't talk much about Josh in this space. It's all just me, me, me all the damn time. Sheesh, what a blowhard. But in honor of Father's Day just a short two days ago (see? self-absorbed), I'd like to talk a little about the father that he has become.

I always knew that Josh was going to be the bestest, most funnest daddy ever. He has a natural way of relating to children that is beyond me. I love kids in that high-pitched and shrieky, "omghowcuteawittlebittlebaby!" way that terrifies all children the world 'round. (Dash has tempered my awkwardness a wee bit in that I can now sort of relate to kids who are exactly Dash's age and gender for about 3 minutes before they get bored of watching me put bowls on my head.) But Josh has skills. He can have actual conversations with four-year-olds we meet at the pool. He spent like 2 hours with Jamie's nieces at the beach teaching them to body surf. Jamie reported that on the car ride home the girls rated Josh 105 and 110 out of a possible 100 points. There are more examples.

But I knew all that already. What I didn't know was how Josh would transform into a Father--you know, disciplinarian, guide, Parent. I'll admit that I worried a wee bit when, before we had Dash, I would arrive home from the market to be told that he couldn't help unload groceries as he was in the middle of playing a baseball video game over the Internet with someone and couldn't leave them hanging (I swear this is true). Or when I would leave a white sock on our charcoal couch just to see how many days would pass before he put it away (I finally gave up three days later). But the birth of Dash was the occasion to which Josh would rise.

He gets up with the baby exactly the same number of times as me. He has (and don't tell him this, please) changed probably more poopy diapers than I have. He has done as many loads of laundry and given nearly all the baths. He takes seriously his job of modeling a good and fair and honest man for his son.

He is an admirable and steady father with a heart that is full of wild, barmy laughing and baby-love, but also an understanding of his duty (heh, doody) and responsibility to raise up a man.

It is my honor to be chosen to parent this child with him.

Funny Ha Ha

Dear Little,

So, by the time you can read this you'll already have been made painfully aware that your mother's sense of humor has not evolved one iota since she read her very first joke in her very first joke book in grade three. To this day--at this very moment, even--I laugh at the following:

Q: What's red and bumpy and rides a horse?
A: The Lone Raspberry!

Now, that is not a funny joke. It is even less funny because for years after I first fell down laughing at it, I did not know who or what the Lone Ranger was. I have still to this day never seen an episode. You probably don't know, either. So, you know, you understand how it's even less funny than it is, if that's possible. And yet, ask anyone who loves me how to make me laugh without fail and they will recite to you that joke. Go ahead. Ask Daddy.

Anyway, another joke I LOVE goes as follows:

[squish your cheeks together as hard as you can while reciting aloud]

Hi, I'm Chubby. My Daddy's chubby, my Mama's chubby. Even my dog's chubby. Sometimes, my Daddy takes me for rides on his motorcycle. When he does, I look like this!

[pull your cheeks back toward your ears as hard as you can]

Good stuff, yes? Wow, long setup. Here's the payoff:

Hi! I'm Chubby!

My Life as a Dog

Miscellany

I’ve been so busy just enjoying you lately that I’ve stopped narrating. Let’s catch up, shall we?

*

Our second Mother’s day together was perfect. We celebrated with your Gamma & Gampa on Saturday, so we were able to spend Sunday just lolling around together. You and Daddy woke me up with breakfast in bed (which you immediately demanded be fed to you) and showered me with gifts from Tiffany and Nigella. Yay! Then we packed up the car and headed off to the Arboretum. It was a beautiful day and when we found a patch of grass we let you out of the stroller to wander around. The minute we set you down you started running and grunting this insane little laugh. I wish wish wish I had recorded it. It was like a mix between a movie villain and a monkey. Best sound I have ever heard.

*

Oh! And look what we had made! It’s you! On a pillow! Which you can say: “pillllaouw.” Each grandma has one, as do we. Because we are drunk with our love for your punim. Drunk!

*

You have learned your first command: “up!” Though when you say it you finish with a raspberry: “upppprrr!” Also, you don’t really know what “up” means. It can mean its proper definition: “Please lift me onto your lap/hip/bed/couch/chair.” Or it can mean “Let me out of this goddamn highchair/carseat/person’s grip.” I guess to you it just means, “other.”

*

You pooped in the tub again. After the first time, I relayed the story to a coworker (that’s right, I tell people you pooped in the tub. I will continue to tell people well into your adulthood) and when I got to the part about our inability to extract the poop from the tub she suggested using the cats’ litter scoop. Genius! Did we remember that advice? No! What did I use instead? My bare hand!

*

Nope, still not eating food.

*

I know I’ve mentioned your fondness for dance before, but I just can’t believe how much you love a booty quake. The other day I walked into your classroom to find the music blaring and the tots all rocking out. The other babies were bouncing and jumping and throwing their hands in the air (it was almost as though they just didn’t care) but not you. You were in the center of the floor, crouched down and doing this modern dance move with your arms. It was Martha Graham meets Madonna. But maybe the cutest part of your Need For Dance is that when you see us watching you get shy. You’ll pause and look embarrassed for a moment before the music overwhelms you again.

*

Lookit, you ate a popsicle:

Nope, doesn't qualify as food.

*

OK, that’s all for today. You continue to be our reason for living and our love for you grows more and more obsessive every day. You know, as it should be.