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Oh. My. Gah. Don't copy that floppy!


What are these? I do not know.







Monday, January 16, 2006

JB returned home from southern China early Saturday morning, and not a moment too soon - I essentially tossed the boy at him and crawled into bed where I lay in a semi-coma for half the day. I now have something more than respect for single parents, it's more like...oh, let's call it shock and awe.

The sun made a sickly appearance over the weekend long enough for JB to wear a path between our house and Home Depot as he attempted to deal with the giant Bog that has grown in our yard. See, during the construction work on our garage foundation the workers unearthed an old septic tank, which JB then had drained and removed, leaving a hole in the ground that looked very much as though that creepy-ass girl from The Ring might crawl from it at any moment. JB filled the Ring-hole with sand and dirt, then left for a week, during which time it rained 3961 hours per day, and presto: BOG.

I suspect that JB is happiest when wrestling with an engineering challenge, although he claimed irritation I thought he looked awfully contented out there in the side yard, streaked from head to toe with dirt and surrounded by shovels, buckets, and a length of hose which he was using to orally siphon the muddy water.

Also, our neighbor hired someone to deal with their waterlogged roof, and while I wish I could have captured the moment more perfectly, I give you this:


Remember kids, CRACK KILLS.



Our living room. JB is home from work for lunch and Dog is going mad with joy at the possibility of a midday Frisbee outing. She drops into classic dog play position: rear end high, tail flapping, front legs splayed and head low.

Me: "Dog has just sent you an Evite."
JB: (distractedly) "Tell her I have to hit 'maybe' for now."


Riley has learned to roll over. It seems like this would be more exciting if once he did so, he could do anything other than lie there on his face like a roadside possum, but rolling over is one of those baby milestones people like to talk about, so there you go. My baby can roll over. CALL MENSA! Ahem.

What this really means is that he can now get himself so hopelessly entangled in his Ocean Wonders whatchamathing, it takes the jaws of life and an economy-sized jar of Crisco to disgorge him from its cheery fish-themed appendages.


Warning: baby not positioned correctly for optimum learning potential! Fisher-Price cannot be held responsible for child's future inability to slog through "Silas Marner".


It's funny how becoming somebody's mother has influenced my attitude towards movies. I mean, the sort of violence that's being shown nowadays, the sex scenes that are apparently acceptable in PG-13 rated films, the language, and the -

Ha! You totally thought I was serious! Come on, I had a kid, not a lobotomy.

No, what I mean is the birth scenes in movies, I can't seem to suspend disbelief for those. We watched The Island the other day, which has a futuristic plot involving clones and aerial pursuits and Scarlett Johansson's giant pillowy lips, all of which I was willing to accept for the sake of cheesy entertainment, but when a character supposedly gives birth in the movie I couldn't take it any longer. "THAT BABY IS AT LEAST 9 WEEKS OLD," I cried, pointing at the screen where a swaddled "newborn" was being held. "And what the HELL, in the future they're still using those pink-and-teal blankets? BULLSHIT."

I realize newborns are usually hideous even if they are produced by Heidi Klum (or, um, especially if they are) but I can't help it. While throngs of nerds dissected Revenge of the Sith for its faithfulness to the Star Wars legend, I personally was hung up over the fact that whatshername supposedly had TWINS in there, and when they came out - accompanied by a halfhearted moan - they were TWO MONTHS OLD.

Ah, parenthood. They say it will change you, and they are right.



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