Dear 2007,
Don't let the door hit your bony ass on your way out.
Sincerely,
The Engels
**
Dear 2008,
Bring your round, sexy, glorious self in here. That's right. Get comfortable and stay a while.
Love,
The Engels
P.S.-- We need a new President.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Help
Josh and I were both raised by single mothers. Josh eventually got the best stepfather of all time (the "step" was abandoned many, many years ago), but essentially our mothers were on their own for the tough times. And I swear to God, I don't know how they did it.
We have, by all accounts, a reasonably easy child. Teachers and other parents all comment on how lucky we are to have a kid who can just roll. He has an easy laugh and warms to people rather quickly. Dash has good manners and isn't a biter (I know I will be punished for putting this in writing). But today he almost broke us. I was crying by six p.m., and I'm pretty sure Josh was seriously questioning his choice of wife and child (I know you don't choose your child, but sometimes it feels like you chose wrong anyway).
I eventually--after walking into our bedroom and seeing a child and surrounding white carpet covered in body lotion; after trying to go up and then back down an escalator with an insane and tantrum-ing child in tow; after giving him a bit of bliss on the mechanical cars at the mall only to be rewarded with wailing and clawing when it was time to go; after making a special trip to the grocery store to pick up something delicious for his dinner following such a trying day, only to have it spit back out at me--gave up and closed myself in the office for a few minutes so I wouldn't beat him with a wire hanger. I knew it would be ok to take a breath because Josh was there to be rational and wait out my little fit. Our mothers didn't have that luxury and I just cannot fathom how they did it.
Thanks, Moms, for not beating us senseless, as I'm sure we deserved. Thanks for setting the example that we strive to match, despite the fact that we are two and you were just one. You shame us into being better parents.
We have, by all accounts, a reasonably easy child. Teachers and other parents all comment on how lucky we are to have a kid who can just roll. He has an easy laugh and warms to people rather quickly. Dash has good manners and isn't a biter (I know I will be punished for putting this in writing). But today he almost broke us. I was crying by six p.m., and I'm pretty sure Josh was seriously questioning his choice of wife and child (I know you don't choose your child, but sometimes it feels like you chose wrong anyway).
I eventually--after walking into our bedroom and seeing a child and surrounding white carpet covered in body lotion; after trying to go up and then back down an escalator with an insane and tantrum-ing child in tow; after giving him a bit of bliss on the mechanical cars at the mall only to be rewarded with wailing and clawing when it was time to go; after making a special trip to the grocery store to pick up something delicious for his dinner following such a trying day, only to have it spit back out at me--gave up and closed myself in the office for a few minutes so I wouldn't beat him with a wire hanger. I knew it would be ok to take a breath because Josh was there to be rational and wait out my little fit. Our mothers didn't have that luxury and I just cannot fathom how they did it.
Thanks, Moms, for not beating us senseless, as I'm sure we deserved. Thanks for setting the example that we strive to match, despite the fact that we are two and you were just one. You shame us into being better parents.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Best. Christmas. Ever.
merry, merry
a walk around the neighborhood
Christmas Eve in front of the fire
Santa's gifts
were a hit
Baba, Gamma & Gampa came over for Christmas breakfast and more presents
it was a little excessive
a good daySunday, December 23, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Lucky
Well, really now. I am not one to start going on about my good fortune. I am, after all, a Russian immigrant and terribly superstitious. I don't like to invite fate or irony by proclaiming how very lucky I am.
But. But yesterday I was very, very lucky.
When I got home from work last night, late and tired and worried about the rain and what it seems to be doing to our drywall, I found a package on the porch. Look, just look, what was in it:
When I pulled this stocking out I literally started to weep. It is the softest, most beautiful thing you can imagine. There's something about the smell and the heft of it, too, that is so incredibly comforting. Even Josh caught his breath when he came home and saw it.
And, as if the stocking wasn't one thousand times more than enough, it was filled with an embarrassment of thoughtful riches. (There was a Santa toy in here, too, but the baby absconded with it before I had a chance to pull out the camera). There are lollies and cakes and cookies and teas and soaps and a candle and ornament and So. Much. Chocolate. (I gave Dash a piece of orange-flavored chocolate last night and when he woke up this morning he went running over to the table to demand more. At 6am! I must stop giving him candy.)
Thank you, Marianne. Thanks for the beautiful letter and the amazing gifts and for the love you shared with a stranger this Christmas. I hope it is repaid to you a million fold. And I pray my package (which pales so desperately in comparison) gets to you before Christmas.
But. But yesterday I was very, very lucky.
When I got home from work last night, late and tired and worried about the rain and what it seems to be doing to our drywall, I found a package on the porch. Look, just look, what was in it:
When I pulled this stocking out I literally started to weep. It is the softest, most beautiful thing you can imagine. There's something about the smell and the heft of it, too, that is so incredibly comforting. Even Josh caught his breath when he came home and saw it.
And, as if the stocking wasn't one thousand times more than enough, it was filled with an embarrassment of thoughtful riches. (There was a Santa toy in here, too, but the baby absconded with it before I had a chance to pull out the camera). There are lollies and cakes and cookies and teas and soaps and a candle and ornament and So. Much. Chocolate. (I gave Dash a piece of orange-flavored chocolate last night and when he woke up this morning he went running over to the table to demand more. At 6am! I must stop giving him candy.)
Thank you, Marianne. Thanks for the beautiful letter and the amazing gifts and for the love you shared with a stranger this Christmas. I hope it is repaid to you a million fold. And I pray my package (which pales so desperately in comparison) gets to you before Christmas.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Fear and Loathing in the North Pole
As was evident from the picture below, Dash hated Santa. Trying to get him onto Santa's lap was like trying to get a cat into a cat carrier--he was less baby than pure muscle and will working together at anything OTHER THAN SANTA. I literally had to set him down and run and hope that he wouldn't roll right off St. Nick's jolly old lap.
When we got home with the pictures (there were two--one with the baby screaming, hand in mouth and one with baby screaming, hand out of mouth) I set one on the shelf in the entry. Moments later, when Dash spied it, there was teary begging, "no Santa mama, Cookie Monster." (I think he says Cookie Monster when he means monster, which in turn means scary. Goddamn that's a cute effing kid.) I had to stow the Santa pictures in a drawer and when I pulled them out to show his grandparents or Aunty, there was more crying.
Until. Until my mother came over with a picture of another baby on Santa's lap (her best friend's granddaughter). Dash took one look at the picture and became obsessed. He needed to own that picture so much that when my mother tried to take it out of his hands for a quick glance she was met with an indignant, "no Baba...Dashy's Santa!" He carried that picture around for two days until it disintegrated. Then another Christmas card came in the mail. This one had the Extra! Added! Bonus! of the three loves of his life, Masie, Mackenna & Hayden, on Santa's lap. So you can imagine what that card looks like now.
Thusly inspired, I picked up a teensy little copy of The Night Before Christmas for the baby who again professed his love for all things Santa and carried it around for ten hours. WTF? I wonder what would happen if I tried to take him back to see Santa again now (I won't, but I wonder.) I bet he would be just as terrified.
I love cows and dream of hugging their necks and smooching their soft, wet noses. Except the only time I have ever come within 20 feet of a cow (in a pasture in England where I imagine these types of interactions are common) I nearly passed out from fright and made as fast a getaway as I could manage. It's probably like that for Dash and Santa, too.
When we got home with the pictures (there were two--one with the baby screaming, hand in mouth and one with baby screaming, hand out of mouth) I set one on the shelf in the entry. Moments later, when Dash spied it, there was teary begging, "no Santa mama, Cookie Monster." (I think he says Cookie Monster when he means monster, which in turn means scary. Goddamn that's a cute effing kid.) I had to stow the Santa pictures in a drawer and when I pulled them out to show his grandparents or Aunty, there was more crying.
Until. Until my mother came over with a picture of another baby on Santa's lap (her best friend's granddaughter). Dash took one look at the picture and became obsessed. He needed to own that picture so much that when my mother tried to take it out of his hands for a quick glance she was met with an indignant, "no Baba...Dashy's Santa!" He carried that picture around for two days until it disintegrated. Then another Christmas card came in the mail. This one had the Extra! Added! Bonus! of the three loves of his life, Masie, Mackenna & Hayden, on Santa's lap. So you can imagine what that card looks like now.
Thusly inspired, I picked up a teensy little copy of The Night Before Christmas for the baby who again professed his love for all things Santa and carried it around for ten hours. WTF? I wonder what would happen if I tried to take him back to see Santa again now (I won't, but I wonder.) I bet he would be just as terrified.
I love cows and dream of hugging their necks and smooching their soft, wet noses. Except the only time I have ever come within 20 feet of a cow (in a pasture in England where I imagine these types of interactions are common) I nearly passed out from fright and made as fast a getaway as I could manage. It's probably like that for Dash and Santa, too.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
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