Just a swingin'.

Eliot is not as thrilled with his swing as I thought he would be: while it does elicit the smiles from him on the first few trips back and forth, he tires of it much more quickly than I had imagined he would. I guess I was hoping it would be this great fun game to occupy him while I sat on the porch with him and worked (ahem, blogged, check email, etc.). But not so much.






But how can I be disappointed looking at this face? Oh, those eyes! Those pensive, big blue eyes just break my heart. This kid has me wrapped around his little finger. *sigh*

Beware the OLD MAID.

The other day on Ebay, I found a set of Old Maid cards exactly like the set we had when we were little. I know I shouldn't be that amazed at the sexism inherent in this set (it was printed in the late sixties, after all), but I can't help but laugh in dismay looking through them.
Here are the lessons for children to absorb while playing this delightful game:


1) Doctors are boys. Professors are boys. Astronauts are boys.




2) Girls can be secretaries, nurses, teachers, or beauty pageant winners.




3) Whatever you choose to be, little girls, make sure you get married. Otherwise you will become the OLD MAID, a freftful, unfulfilled woman with nothing to do but knit. By all means, find your match! Find your match! Without a match, you are the OLD MAID! And we all know that the person who becomes the OLD MAID is the loser. Better start looking for a husband now.





*sigh*

Do kids still play this game?

It ain't exactly an extreme makeover...

Eliot's first haircut was...eh...a haircut. It wasn't as momentous as I had expected. I thought I would be upset at the loss of his long wispy locks, but I'm really okay with it. It's a little straighter across the front than I'd like, but oh well.


He sat through the process pretty patiently, considering that he doesn't generally like having his hair messed with. (Unlike Libby, whose familiar plea when tired was "muss my hair." I'd stroke her curls back from her forehead and she'd be asleep in no time.) Eliot doesn't really want his hair brushed, let alone "mussed." He'll pull on it when he's tired, but other than his own chubby little fingers, he doesn't want anything touching his hair--including hats, most of the time.


So I was a little apprehensive about how well he would cooperate.





















At first it was a game, because Daddy had the camera out, and it's always great fun to get one's picture taken. But after Sandy started snipping away, it wasn't long before he was like, "Okay, guys. Whatever you're doing to me, you can stop right now. Um...guys. Now. I said Now." He slowly got more insistent and starting squirming around.


But when the clipping and snipping was over, our little boy was looking less little, and the wispy strands were out of his eyes at last.


So I guess the whole shebang qualifies as a success after all.

Moving forward.

We've been contemplating a move since before Eliot was born.

It takes Eli and I years to make major decisions--we're rarely on the same page at the same time. It's a wonder we ever conceived a child.

My problem is indecisiveness. It takes me at least fifteen minutes of agonizing debate, weighing the pros and cons of each option before I can even buy tampons or order from a restaurant menu, so it doesn't take a whole lot of imagination to see why buying a house would present a challenge for me. (And the sad part is that after all this soul searching, I always buy Tampax Pearl and I always order the chicken strips.)

For Eli, I think the issue is a bit more complex. He feels a strong connection to the house that we're in because he's put so many hours of work into it. He's transformed the place from a shag-carpet covered little bungalow into a beautiful home.

Taking the next step is scary. Saying "yes" to one choice means saying "no" to all other options. But what if the next place we look at has a pond? What if the next home to come on the market has more acreage for less money? What if the grass is greener in the other backyard? What if? What if?

I have to keep reminding myself that no matter what we choose, it will be the right decision. Because we will live with it and make it right. It will fit into our lives and we will only vaguely remember how we were before. Or in this case, where we were. After all, "where we love is home," yes? And Eli and I, along with Eliot, can love one another anywhere, regardless of pond or lack of pond, wooded acreage or no, 3 bedrooms or 4. No matter what we decide upon, or refuse to decide upon, we'll always be moving forward. Together.

In the words of Pat Sajak, "Another day, another ceramic dog."

I dropped Eliot off at daycare this morning, where another little boy was wearing a bright orange shirt with white lettering that read, "My parents are exhausted." No kidding. Eliot should have that shirt.

He was up a million times Wednesday night crying and crying and crying. First we thought allergies, because he was rubbing his face a lot; then we thought cold, because he had a fever; then we thought constipation; because he hadn't pooped all day; then we thought teeth, because he was chewing his fingers and drooling. That's what it's like when he can't sleep: this constant guessing game to try to identify the problem and for god's sake fix it so we can all go back to sleep already. *Whew*

Allergies? = Benadryl, Fever? = Tylenol, Constipation? = Glycerin suppository (yeah, I know. ew. You don't have tell ME.), Teeth? = More Tylenol.

Oh, you mean that still isn't working? Cause nothing's really wrong? And you just want to get up and play at 3:00 a.m.?

Okay, we'll play. At 3:00 a.m. both Momma and Daddy will get up, turn all the lights on and play blocks. No, Daddy, we will not be watching that infomercial for "Girls Gone Wild" while we play blocks.

What's that? Major League Baseball? Okay.

So the kid sat there on the couch and watched a rerun of a Cubs vs. Pirates game that stretched out into something like fifteen innings. Until 5:00 in the morning. When he decided to go back to sleep.

Next time he wakes in the wee hours of the morning and refuses to go back to sleep, we'll know that he simply wants to catch up on his baseball. Makes perfect sense.

Spamelicious.

Become a new man with us.

I would think this would be difficult, as I've never been an old man. Can I then, become a new man? Discuss amongst yourselves.