A Very (belated) Christmas to You

Whew, it’s been a long time since I’ve been around these parts.  Lots to talk about and not a lot of time for talking.

After seven months of working on the new house we finally got it to a point where we felt like we were ready to move in.  We moved the week before Christmas.  If you have any say in when you plan to pack one house and move into another one, DON’T pick the week before Christmas.  Not only is the weather in these (and most) parts unpredictable, it’s the week before frickin’ Christmas! We ended up with pretty good weather all things considered.  It was dry and sunny but cold.  Considering last year at this time I think we’d already had twenty some inches of snow I’ll take no snow, sunny, and cold.

We moved in on Saturday and by Tuesday I had the tree up, even if most of the boxes were still in the basement waiting to be brought upstairs and unpacked.  (Hell, most of the boxes are still in the basement waiting to be brought upstairs and unpacked.)  I’m pleased to say that my plan of buying only a pre-lit tree and three strands of tinsel to decorate went over well this year.  No ornaments to attract unwanted attention, break, or get carted off to other parts of the house.  Oh, and that old lace tablecloth that I used for the skirt is bound to show up on every interior designer’s must-do list next year.

Little F had a great Christmas.  He’s not yet two so the real excitement for presents hasn’t quite kicked in yet; I expect that to happen next year. I do have a question for all you aunts and uncles and grandparents out there: When did it become okay to get a child some huge present requiring assembly without consulting with the parents first?  My very sweet sister-in-law sent us a very nice present for Little F.  However, it took my dear husband two hours to put together on Christmas Eve and once assembled, this is what we had:

I know it’s not really possible to understand the scale of this thing from this picture, but it’s about five feet tall and five feet in diameter.  I could easily climb in and bounce my little heart out if I weren’t convinced I’d go careening into the wall and tip the damn thing over.  So far Little F has had one good bounce session in it and several “two bounce” sessions: he demands to get in, jumps twice, gets bored, and demands to come out.  I’m not sure what my sister-in-law had in mind when she bought this for us, but I get the last laugh.  Before we moved in two friends told me, “You’ll never use your living room for anything since you have a family room too.”  Well, ha ha, guys.  The joke’s on you, we’ve used the living room at least four times since we moved in.  Once to assemble the trampoline and three times for Little F to bounce.  I think we’ll need to rename the living room the trampoline room though.  We’re going to have to disassemble that thing in order to move it and I don’t know who’s going to do that or when that’s going to happen.

Maybe my sister-in-law will take it apart for us the next time she’s in town.


Like father, like son

Earlier this week I was lying in bed with Little F.  Big E had already gotten up and was in the kitchen pouring coffee.  Little F was climbing out of the bed when he farted.  He paused for a moment then said, “Toot.”

To really understand the significance and the humor behind Little F recognizing and acknowledging his fart, you need to know what happened one winter’s night in 2008.

Big E wasn’t feeling well and took a dose of that night-time cold and flu medicine that promises you’ll feel better by the morning.  He went to sleep and I laid next to him reading.  At one point Big E passed gas, woke himself up, looked at me and said, “Farted,” then rolled over and muttered, “Typical” under his breath.  It was one of those moments you wish someone else were there to witness with you so you wouldn’t be the only one to capture the moment.  Of course he claimed to not remember anything the next morning; a cold medicine induced black out.  Very convenient.

But, as with the now infamous “typical” incident, I was the only one to hear Little F say toot.  My hope is now that I’ve written about it none of us will forget it and I can hold it over both their heads some day in the near future.  After all, Mama never farts.

Books and Swings


A couple of weeks ago I was putting Little F into his car seat when I found a new book in the seat.  I’m not sure where the book came from, but whoever gave it to him has a sick sense of humor.  Whoever green-lighted the publishing of this book has a sick sense of humor.  Or else I have a sick sense of humor and am seeing things that no one else sees.  I’ll let you judge for yourselves:

Now I don’t know what a Boohbah is, but I can tell you what a Boohbah reminds me of.

Need a hint?  Here’s a different view:

I also received a package from a close relative that same week.  Some hand-me-down toys, clothes, etc., the usual suspects.  Then I found this padded velour vest:

I can just picture Little F on the playground wearing his velour vest advertising that he’s a baby swinger to all the other girls and boys at school.  “Hey, Baby.  Want to come over to my house and look at my Boohbah?  Just leave your keys in the bowl by the door.”