Toddler of the Month

My precious baby boy, Tasker Brett, is April student of the month in his classroom at the Weekday School. His teachers asked me to write a little blurb to put in the hallway with his pictures. He makes me so happy, I couldn't help but share.

Our sweet Tasker Brett is a busy little man. Though we're not certain he loves anything more than sucking his thumb and poking his belly button, we're pretty sure he enjoys other things too. If the weather is nice, then you'll likely find him outside cruising the yard on his Buzz Lightyear power wheels. No matter where we are though, Tasker Brett is almost always just two steps behind his big brother Connor, or chasing our wonderfully easy-going dogs, Diego and Nico. And nine times out of ten, he has a book in one hand and a snack in the other. He loves Maisy and dancing too. Currently, his favorite words are: no, mine, and bite. We're hoping this list will evolve, just like we're hoping one day little man will find other uses for his thumb and understand that his belly button really doesn't serve a purpose--and that's okay. But for now, while we're patiently waiting to see just who Tasker Brett will become, we are thrilled to enjoy all the smiles, kisses, stories, and even the crumbs. There could be no better way to pass the time.

I was just angry, now I'm just angry with myself. Why do I feel most compelled to write when I'm upset? I'll see something, I'll hear or experience something, and it might have a chance to filter through before I am consumed by a desire to put my little fingers to work on the keyboard... or it might not.

Right now, I'm dealing with crappy neighbors. No, nothing new, but events seem to come in waves. And the past couple of weeks have been a bit rough. I mean, one guy thought he could park his four-door extended cab long bed pick up with a trailer in our front yard. Yep. Really. In our front yard. This in addition to the menacing stares, mind you. And later, muttered curse words. Grrrrrrr.

I always tell Connor that no person can make him feel a certain way, that only he is in charge of his emotions. But darn it, it sure is easier said than done. I catch myself thinking, "They make me so mad!" And then I realize I'm only letting myself become angry. And then I realize I want to write (probably because I'm angry) and then before I know it, I'm angry because I'm writing because I'm angry. I'm feeling the If You Give a Pig a Pancake motif at work here, but my version is not nearly as cute or entertaining. My next post will not be a rant. Promise.

I almost peed my pants

After publishing my last post, I moseyed on over to Nathan Bransford's blog (no longer a literary agent, I've just noticed) where today's topic concerns writing decent blog comments. I do believe the planets are in line this evening. If you're interested, Bransford share some valuable advice here.

no resolutions here

Yes, I know it has been six months since my last post. I also know how terribly annoying bloggers' excuses can be: "OMG! I can't believe I haven't blogged in like half a year!" and "I promise I will never again go that long without posting!" I am apologetic, but I won't make excuses or promises. I recently explained to a friend my reluctance to comment on the blogs of folks I don't know personally. The part that involves putting myself out there, in another person's space, for the whole world to come across makes me a wee bit anxious. I mean, every blogger dreams about an audience, but the reality of new subscribers checking in is a bit nerve wracking. Erin, (you can find her over here) suggested that contributing to others' blogging communities is a wonderful way for me to hold myself accountable for keeping things rolling in my own space. You know, sort of like: Keep your house clean--you never know who might pop in for a visit. As I'm sure you've already noticed, a little accountability might not be such a bad idea--it's only been six months. Check back in to see if I've worked up the nerve. I mean...I don't want to be a lurker forever.

My recent excursion to an adult entertainment operation, the name of which I'll gladly withhold

I'm unsure, at this point, if I seek to make a statement (about mores, self-respect, and the choices we make that define who we are) or simply relay a serious of unfortunate events.

The shenanigans began (as usual) with Andrew's Craig's list addiction. Okay, I won't blame him entirely for the circumstances, but at 11:30 last night, as I drove, exhausted, the one and a half hours home from my epic adventure, I just had to direct the blame for my tears, anger, and general disgust at someone.

You may label my displacement of feelings inexcusable, and rightly so. I suppose I am the one person responsible for how I choose to feel, but you must agree that we all have difficulty sorting through our emotions at some point.

Andrew had been searching, for a couple of weeks, for a cargo van. He had seen a few around town and investigated a couple down the road a ways. Unfortunately, he settled on one not so close to home, and conveniently (or not so conveniently) awoke with a massive migraine the day he had agreed to pick up the vehicle. He had already paid a hefty deposit and didn't want to risk losing the van and his money. So....my sweet husband's deeply understanding, but equally frustrated wife, along with his kind father, agreed to retrieve the van for him.

The plan was for all three of us to make the trip, while my father-in-law would drive the van home. Well, that went well until about ten minutes into the trip, about five minutes after we stopped at Walgreens for Midrin, when I was forced to pull over in an trailer park so that Drew could puke in the middle of the road, with every gangsta in the neighborhood watching. A fantastic plan! Needless to say, we turned around shortly after his nausea subsided.

Feeling quite generous, and equally ill with the jerk (or, the "owner" of the vehicle) who insisted that my sick husband make an hour and a half trip that evening because "he really need[ed] the money," I told Drew that his Dad and I had no problem making the trip alone. We headed out, screaming baby in tow. Our ride was uneventful (except for the screaming baby) until Andrew called me with the exit number and the direction: "Make your first right."

"Oh, my first right. Okay, right into the strip club parking lot?"

"Yeah. Just pull through the valet and tell the guy you're here to get the van."

"Oh, okay. With my father-in-law and my baby in the backseat? Sure thing!!!"

How does one omit such a glaring detail? Not once did my wonderful husband mention, or even hint, that I would be visiting such an establishment. I was humiliated. We pulled around to the back of the building, near the van, and I noticed several young girls enter the back door, duffel bags on their shoulders. I noticed mini vans in the parking lot, married men in their business attire, and a security card patrolling the premises. Wow, I thought. There has got to be more to life for these folks. I felt dirty just standing in the parking lot. And, although we all had a good laugh out of my unforeseen experience, being there really struck a deeper chord.

We make choices everyday. We choose what we'll wear, what we'll eat, where we'll go, what we'll read, or watch on television. Sometimes our choices are limited, but even when this is the case, we always have the option to not choose. I cannot claim to understand the perspectives of the women who "strip" for money or what goes on in the minds of men who frequent places like the one I visited (by way of the parking lot alone, mind you). However, I am confident that none of them have to be there.

And on the way home, after my embarrassment subsided and my anger diffused, I was just plain ole sad thinking of all the folks who, unlike me, purposely walked into that place that night, simply because they chose to.

Miss Lila in the attic

This is a story of creaky stairs, cobwebbed dark corners, dusty old boxes, and a bottle of coconut rum.

Miss Lila had really been working hard lately. Her job was stressful, her domestic life demanding, and her time to unwind-minuscule. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon. The house was quiet, empty of its male inhabitants. And Miss Lila decided it was time to take a trip, a tropical getaway. She kicked off her shoes, locked the front door, and headed to her special place. Miss Lila slowly worked her way up the old, narrow stairs to the attic. As she neared the top, she made a mental note to bring down Grandma Jane's old cookie cutters. Homemade chocolate chip cookies- hhmmmm...no one would ever question her trip to the attic if cookies were the result. Just inside the door, Miss Lila turned to the blue canvas box she had hidden strategically behind her bound, yellowed-by-the-years church bulletins. She wondered, for only a moment, why she held on to all of those old bulletins. Then she stooped slightly, reaching deep into the blue box, and immediately recalled the cool feel of the glass bottle at her fingertips. Ah, yes, those paper stacks were sooo useful. Just as her mind began to dance off to her island paradise, it happened. She raised her head a bit too quickly, forgetting the thick, heavy beam overhead. Seconds later, the coconut rum proved no relief. Blood streamed down Miss Lila's face, and she realized stitches were in order. She abandoned her stash and hastily exited her would-be attic vacation. There would be no escape, only a nice, relaxing evening in the urgent care. No cookies either.

THE! Elmo Cake

My sweet baby boy is now one year old. We had a small cook-out the weekend before his birthday. For this occasion, I baked a tiny two-layer round cake especially for him. Brett tore into it. By the end of the evening, he was a chocolate, blue icing mess (an understatement), but his messy happiness was positively contagious.

Well, when Andrew and I decided to invite our family over for a shindig the weekend of Brett's special day, I knew we would just have to have another cake. I already had Sesame Street on the brain when I discovered the Elmo cake pan at Michael's. Luckily (and oh so conveniently), I also had a handy 40% off coupon, too. I spent hours locating the proper preparation materials and cooking-up this work of Elmo art. The effort, time, and energy I expended were all worth it--Elmo came out looking fabulous!

It was so neat for me to do something so different, so out-of-line with my habitual interests. Before Brett's Elmo, I had never even considered decorating a cake. And now? Haha...Don't get too excited. I'm thinking once a year is probably often enough. We shall see!