Dylan can sign “milk” and “more” now, and he is quite the imperious little butterball, holding up his starfish-hands and demanding that I come scuttling over with yet another schooner of Go & Grow Similac for Young Master. I’m amazed and thrilled that he can actually communicate this way — I shouldn’t say this about my own bright young child but it’s sort of like watching a dog performing a trick, and I suppose I shouldn’t react to his clumsy finger movements with screeches of “Oh, good boy! GOOD BOY!” but really, I can’t help it. At least I don’t toss him a Snausage as a reward. I mean, I would, but he’s not too into the finger foods yet.

It’s hard to believe he’s going to be a year old in just a few weeks. Is it terrible that we don’t really have any kind of fancy birthday celebration planned? Because, well, we don’t. I imagine there will be some cake and family festivities, Poop Party Style, but that’s about it. Perhaps a nice gift of baby-safe power cords with Extra Chewy Centers, if they make such a thing.

I doubt he’ll mind about the lack of formal fanfare, though. (Well: duh. Like any baby is emotionally invested in whether or not their first birthday includes themed napkins and group activities.) When he’s not, you know, being a giant pain in the butt, this boy is awfully good natured. I often think his childhood must be more interesting than Riley’s was, what with the constant entertainment provided by his brother, the general bustle and chaos of our household, and of course the seemingly endless stream of injuries caused by my inability to focus on him at all times (latest one? Lip-first into the wood floor when Riley cluelessly pulled a blanket out from under him, and oh my god, the bleeding, it was like that scene in The Shining with the elevator and the GIANT WAVE OF BLOOD). I hope he remains generally happy-go-lucky as he gets older, for many reasons, but also specifically for birthdays, since he got screwed with this February business. Riley and JB get August, Dylan and I get The Month When All Hope Is Lost, Except for the Tentative Emergence of Daffodils.

Also, I’d like it if he never grows out of wanting to spend as much time as possible snuggling with us. I know better, I suppose. Still, I can always hope.


In other news, I am both super excited that the inauguration is finally here and wishing, sort of, that it was already over, everything having gone off just fine and everyone filled with excitement over the new presidency and ready to get to work and, you know . . . safe.

I plan to watch the ceremony on TV tomorrow morning before heading to work. What about you? Anyone actually going?

I started writing a very, very long blog entry about my love/hate relationship with comic strips and my detailed observations and opinions on every single one that appears in the daily Seattle Times, from Adam@Home to The Wizard of Id, like whether Frazz is a nice guy who would like us all to know that as a society we watch too much TV, eat too much junk, and don’t ride nearly enough bikes, or just kind of a judgmental douchebag, but about halfway through it occurred to me that 1) pointing out the unintentional humor of comic strips should be left to the people who can do it really, really well, 2) the fact that there are entire subsections of my brain dedicated to strips that I hate, yet know every single excruciating historical detail thereof (LUANNE) is both terrifying and probably explains why I can’t calculate a 15% tip without losing all feeling in the left side of my body, and 3) jesus, it was taking way too long. Suffice to say: I have strong feelings about comic strips, and I should maybe get over myself.

While I was busy deleting all that nonsense I also edited my last post to remove the story about our babysitter because I belatedly thought of the remote possibility that the wrong person might read it and somehow she’d end up getting in trouble at school, and man, that would be awful, so if you’re wondering what’s up with that, that’s what’s up with that. I often allow myself to forget the golden rule of blogging — which is, as you hopefully know, Always Assume The Person You Wish Wasn’t Reading Is — in order to write some of the things I want to write, otherwise I’ll get bogged down with worrying about whether or not I really want my coworkers to know I own a sex pillow (ha ha ha, TOO LATE NOW), but in doing so I sometimes forget that I’m not always writing just about myself and, you know, I should probably be careful where other people’s personal details are concerned.

Anyway, JB and I had a great date night this weekend (two battered, razor-scarred, bludgeoned thumbs up for The Wrestler), the kids love our babysitter, and her kids, who we just met, are super sweet and well-behaved. So I’m thinking that situation is going to work out nicely, and I can’t believe how nice it is to be able to get out of the house on our own. Have I mentioned this is our first babysitter EVER? Like, since Riley was born in 2005?

In other news, I’m really enjoying my little Canon, because without the ease of throwing it in my pocket whenever we leave the house, how would I have captured this lovely moment?


Why there was a Giant Sidewalk Dong, I do not know, but JB would like you to believe it is life-sized.

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