Kiss Your Heinie Goodbye

On Sunday Lumpyhead suggested we go to the museum. His proposal went like this, "Go see efelant? Get a pretzel? What do you think about that?"

I'm a little sad that "heinie" is no longer Lumpyhead's word for elephant, but the sudden arrival of "What do you think about that?" is cracking me up. (Heinie! But! Crack! Hah ha ha ha.)

While it is good that my son is learning to speak with words people actually understand, it is still a little heartbreaking to see the funny words go.

When my cousin Dan was a toddler, he called his pacifier his "meat." I thought it was silly at the time, but now I think that is freaking hysterical. (Yes, my sense of humor is actually less mature now than when I was a teenager.)

What special words did you or your kids have for things? Did any of those labels stick long after the toddler started using the correct term?

Bad Idea Jeans

So I was leaving Tuesday Happy Hour when I saw this exposed wiring, and I thought, "Hey, why not stick my finger in it?"

Happy Sunday

Lumpyhead has been farting like a distressed dog all morning. Bump fed him chili last night for dinner. I swear there's a yellowish-green haze in my living room.

I turned on a CD and Lula immediately scooted around so she could see the TV. She was righteously pissed off when she saw the screen was black and realized she had been tricked.

That is all. May your day be sunny and your fantasy teams victorious.

Schadenfreude Denied

I came to the internet this evening hoping to read your tales of inlaw nightmares and family theatrics and too much wine with your turkey. I assumed you would be blogging your brains out, working through your myriad issues now that the dishes are washed and your kids are in bed.

I am sadly disappointed.

Either you haven't had time to write those posts yet, you all had marvelous holidays with your extended families, or are so shell-shocked from the experience you just can think about it right now.

That, or your families read your blogs.

Hey, if it's that last one, send me an email about how horrible your Turkey Day Feast was, okay?

Mine was fine, a boring shade of lovely; I'm looking for some drama.

Edited by Lumpyhead

Bump and I were talking about something at dinner the other day. I don't remember what it was, exactly, but it sucked.

Me: That sucks.
Bump: Yes it does.
Me: That sucks. SUUUH-cks!
Lumpyhead: Sucks and shoes!
Bump: That's right, Buddy. Socks and shoes.

It should be noted that Bump also gave me the requisite disapproving look.

Gluh. Ton.

Hey, remember when I took Lula to the department store for photos, but she cried and cried for like 30 minutes straight and we only got two photos that looked like this:
and this?

No? You don't remember? Well, it was awesome.

Anyway, I went back this weekend to try again. Guess how it went?
(sigh)

Thank You For Calling the House of Vomit, How Can I Help You?

Lula came down with the Blog Jinx Flu last night.

Awe. Sum.

After spewing six times on Tuesday night, Lumpyhead woke up on Wednesday morning feeling chipper and ready to dance the Puppetmaster with Elijah Wood. Lula, on the other hand, woke up this morning - after seven or so good spews during the night - ready to vomit a couple more times.

Bright side? Our living room carpet is already so disgusting that a couple of vomit spots aren't a big deal.

I'm operating on just a couple hours of sleep; it's difficult to concentrate and I find myself having to do the same tasks multiple times.

I left Bump this morning with a toddler chattering non-stop, a barf-scented baby, and two loads of laundry waiting to be taken out of the dryer.

Given the alternative, I think I'm glad to be at work, fuzzy and repeating myself.

Conversations with Lumpyhead

An interesting side effect of preschool and parking my child in front of the television for long unsupervised stretches is that Lumpyhead spouts new words and phrases that Bump and I have not taught him.

He surprises us with odd things, like shaking Bump’s hand and saying “Nice to meet you, Papa.” (Actually, Little Dude, you’ve met that guy already, on several occasions. You were sober during all of those introductions, so now you're just being rude. Also, we need to work on that dead fish handshake by the time you go for your first job interview.)

Or when we announce it is time for dinner and Lumpyhead enthusiastically declares “Oh boy! I love eating food!” (If that’s true, why are you so damn skinny? And “oh boy”? I’m sure I have never said that. Oh shit, oh crap, oh please, oh man . . . so where in the hell did you hear “oh boy”?)

Often he mumbles through the filler, and we're left to piece together what he means by the keywords. But every once in awhile he produces a full thought and accompanying complete sentence. “Hey mama, you wanna build track with me?” (Well, no, I’m leaving for work right now. But since you asked so nicely, sure, I’ll build track with you. I’ll blame traffic.)

We habitually repeat what he says, so Lumpyhead has taken to issuing most of his statements in the form of a question. Our little Jeopardy contestant has figured out his name is not you, but still makes all declarations in the form they are to be repeated. Then he happily answers our planted question, with a strangely hispanic accent.

Lumpyhead: [finishing dinner] Are you all done?
Me: Are you all done?
Lumpyhead: Jessss. . .

Sometimes we fail to repeat the question, so he asks again with emphasis. Just like we do to him when he’s ignoring us.

Lumpyhead: Do you want coo-keys?
Me: [no response, because he’s not getting cookies]
Lumpyhead: Do you want coo-keys? Do you want coo-keys? Do you want coo-keys, Lumpyheeyud?
Me: [resigned] Do you want cookies, Lumpyhead?
Lumpyhead: Jessss. . .

While these instances are fun, typically we have no idea what the hell Lumpyhead is babbling about. Much to his frustration, the random blend of noises and letter combinations he spends his time chanting have no meaning to us English-speaking, context-requiring, unimaginative simpletons.

But there is a great satisfaction - on his part as well as ours - when the occasional lightbulb switches on and we solve the mystery of what the fuck “calibowl” means.
Lumpyhead: You go to Aunt Bob’s [mumble snorf] tapas and calibowl?
Me: What? You want to go to Aunt Bob’s for tapas and calibowl? Dude, I have no idea what the hell –
Lumpyhead: Calibowl.
Me: Calibowl?
Lumpyhead: Tapas! Tapas and calibowl. Tamas.
Me: Oh, okay, Thomas. Fine, Thomas and calibowl. Calibowl. That really doesn’t help. Can you show me? . . . No? Well. . .
Lumpyhead: Thomas and calibowl. [repeat for five minutes. . . ] You go to Aunt Bob’s and play Thomas and calibowl.
Me: [LIGHTBULB] Clarabel! Clarabel! You want to go to Aunt Bob’s and play with Thomas and Clarabel?
Lumpyhead: [grinning like a madman] Jeesss. . . .
Me: (Yay! I got it! I understood! But. . .) No, we’re not going to Aunt Bob’s right now.
Lumpyhead: [crushed]

A lot of work for one little victory. A great, fleeting, useless victory.

And for the record, Aunt Bob’s Little Guy doesn’t even have Clarabel. He’s got Annie. Now come here and let's work on that handshake.

Turns Out You Don’t Even Have to Blog It, You Just Need to Say It

You know the Blog Jinx? The one that dictates the minute you post “Little Carter has always slept well” or “My Julia doesn’t pick her nose,” you’re guaran-damn-teeing that within the week Carter will be waking you up three times a night and Julia will be eating boogers like they’re cheerios.

Hey, guess what? The Blog Jinx works even if you don’t blog it - you just need to say the words out loud.

Last night, I wimped out on Happy Hour, so Aunt Bob came over after all the Tormentors were abed and we drank a bottle of fabulous wine, ate froufy snacks, and played a round of poker. (Bump joined us for the cards and Aunt Bob proceeded to hand us our asses. Cleaned up, she did.)

We were chatting about vomit (because, well. . . never mind why) and Aunt Bob recounted a lovely instance in which her Little Guy threw up so many times in one night she ran out of sheets for him.

Lula has barfed a couple of times, twice managing to hit me square in the chest/neck. Gross.

Then I said this: “I don’t think Lumpyhead has ever thrown up. Bump, how many times has Lumpyhead vomited?”

“Um, never,” Bump replied.

And the gods laughed and laughed and laughed. I’m sure if we had bothered to listen, we could have heard it, their roars of hiccupy, spasmodic, gasping laughter.


Lumpyhead was up all night, puking his little guts out.

He ate spaghetti for dinner last night, in case you’re wondering. I don’t think I’ll ever eat spaghetti again.

Okay, Okay.

Fine.
With deepest apologies to Nonlinear Girl for not delivering immediately.

I gave Lumpyhead my sticker on election day, but he didn't use it, so we could take this photo last night. Just for you.

Dis Good Guy's Gotta Good Disguise

So there's an otherwise-boring story in the Star-Tribune today about a man who is accused of being "one of Minnesota's biggest tax cheats." He claims to be broke (surprise, surprise), even though he was worth $20 million in 2003. He's been on the run for over a year.

Here's the interesting part (to me, at least):

Beale went by the name "Bob Johnson'' for much of the time he was a fugitive.

Bob Johnson.

First I thought, "Wow, he couldn't come up with something better than 'Bob Johnson'?" But I guess "Hyden Runfromthelaw" might raise suspicions at the pharmacy. Bob Johnson is probably perfect. (Quick, find every Bob Johnson you know and accuse him of being a wanted man. Only, you know, don't make it sound like a come-on like I just did there.)

So, what would your fugitive name be? I'm thinking "Jennifer Park" for myself.

That, or Heidi McRunfromthelaw.

All Electorating and Stuff

I meant to post these yesterday, but didn't have time.
Also, it turns out they are boring and I really don't have anything to say about them. So. . . .yeah, we voted.
Lula was deeply skeptical, as always.

It seems this delay is lucky for you, though, because now you also get the photo of Aunt Bob and me at Happy Hour. The excitement. Can you stand it?
Some photos I wish I'd gotten, but didn't:
1) Bump, Lumpyhead and Lula with stickers on their heads.
2) "This Could Be You" with a Member of Congress

Allow me to explain "This Could Be You." It has become a tradition that if no one joins Aunt Bob and me at Happy Hour, we take a picture of ourselves with some random patron at the bar. It's meant to serve as an enticement for you to come join us next time. "Look how much fun This Random Person is having with us! You could have such an enjoyable time yourself!"

It also serves as a reminder that you're totally replaceable. Don't want to come drink with us? Fine. We'll drink with someone else.

We never post the "This Could Be You" shots because I suppose it's unfair to put a complete stranger's face on the internet without his knowledge or consent. I mean, he probably agreed to be photographed because he thought he was going to luck into some digits, then saw the wedding rings and went back to his beer slightly disappointed. He shouldn't get his face plastered all over the internet just for that.

But last night there were at least two Members of Congress at the bar, who we could have easily convinced to be in our "This Could Be You" picture. And I failed to seize the opportunity. Blast.

(I'm also bumming that we don't have photos of the week we met Anne. She will have to ditch yoga again to come meet us, so we can get a picture.)

So. You coming next week?

Chatterbox

Lumpyhead probably watches too much TV. He asks for specific shows, his latest obsession being Toy Story.

He doesn't ask for the movie by name, rather he makes his request using the characters in it. He started by asking for "Woody, and Woody's Hat, and Buzz Lightyear." (I don't know how Woody's hat became its own character, but it always has been.)

Then the list began expanding. "Woody and Woody's Hat and Buzz Lightyear and Mr. Potato Head." (Fine, he has a Mr. Potato Head toy, so it's not a big surprise that Lumpyhead focused on that.)

"Woody and Woody's Hat and Buzz Lightyear and Mr. Potato Head and Jessie and Jessie's Hat." That would be a request for the sequel.

It's getting out of control. This morning Lumpyhead asked for "Woody and Woody's Hat and Buzz Lightyear and Mr. Potato Head and Jessie and Jessie's Hat and Slinky Dog."

I walked out of the room at the start of his request to get something. When I came back, he was still talking.

You Want One? They're Fresh, I Swear.

Halloween cupcakes, baked on November 1.

Yeah, shut up.

Nana Vicky sent a big care package last week, including the makings for Halloween cupcakes. We finally got around to baking them last night. Lumpyhead helped, and was very proud of himself.

No, Lumpyhead

Aunt Bob gave us a copy of the book "No, David" by David Shannon. It's a book about a naughty little boy whose mother scolds him for doing things like playing ball in the house and running down the street with no pants on. Lumpyhead has always loved it. One page of the book features David picking his nose while his mother admonishes him to "Stop that this instant!"

Lumpyhead has begun sticking his finger in his nose while saying "Stop that this instant." He's not pulling out any boogers (yet), he's just shoving his finger up there.

His father is super-psyched about the whole thing. I think it's hysterical.