Ba Dum Bump

Lumpyhead was playing with an inflatable flamingo in the pool.

Lumpyhead: Mmmm, delicious flamingo.
Me: I don't think people eat flamingoes, Buddy.
Bump: Flamingoes, no. But egrets, I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention.

My husband, ladies and gentlemen.

I Can Come in Handy That Way

I went to the Social Security Office with my mom so she could apply for benefits under my dad's record.

I'm fairly certain she was the only English-speaking white woman to arrive with an Asian interpreter to translate bureaucrat-ese.

Things That Only Suck a Little About Attending Your Father's Funeral

1. Hearing how your father touched the lives of such a large and varied group of people, and learning how many others will miss him terribly - almost as much as you will.
2. The socially adept fellow mourners who manage to say the right things at the right time.
3. Seeing distant family and friends again (both the ones who live far away and the ones who are aloof).
4. Aunt Wilma.
5. Missing your children a lot, but being really glad they're not with you.
6. The amazing support from your friends - through every means possible - like getting text messages and voicemails (when I can triangulate between the big rock and the church steeple and a windmill and score two whole bars) or watching the florist haul in truckloads of flowers from your friends and colleagues.
7. Finding out your mom has high-speed wifi. (It went like this. Me [incredulous]: "Mom, do you really have wifi?" Mom: "What's a why-five?") It's a little unreliable, but it's wifi, man, and upon its discovery the heavens opened and the angels sang and I cried a little.

Things That Don't Suck About Attending Your Father's Funeral
1.

I still got nuthin.

Things That Completely Suck About Attending Your Father's Funeral

1. It means your dad has died.
2 through 8,932. See Number 1.
8,933. Leaving a fantastic beach house in Charleston, SC - three days into your trip - and finding an airline that will deliver you to Sioux Falls, SD (in a hurry, one-way or multi-city, for less than a gazillion dollars).
8,934. You end up back in your teeny-tiny hometown, with spotty cell service, even spottier blackberry service, and internet through your mother's ancient computer.
8.935. It is logistically impossible for your family to join you, so you spend most of the time answering the question "Where's your husband and kids?"
8,936. No, that's not my husband. That's my brother.
8,937. That's my uncle.
8,938. That's a woman. Dude, are you blind?
8,939. The social morons who want you to guess who they are. They approach you with the words "I bet you don't know who I am" and then just stand there, expectantly. [Note: It is perfectly acceptable to say "I bet you don't know who I am," and follow that immediately with "I'm Firstname Lastname and I know your mother/father/family through…" But if you just stand there waiting, imagining that you are a) so astoundingly memorable and that I will recall that one time your daughter and I went to the swimming pool together and b) so age-resistant that I can recognize you from twenty years ago, then you are seriously drinking too much of the local nitrate-laced water, my friend.]

Things That Don't Suck About Attending Your Father's Funeral
1.

I got nuthin.

Legitimized

Nathan Jr discovers the trick for not looking ridiculous in a red felt cowboy hat: Add a Horse.

The issue remains for the boots, however.

Nathan Jr's Birthday

Tuesday is Nathan Jr's birthday.

Like his siblings', his birth was induced at 38 weeks. There was very little uncertainty about when he would be born. The obstetrician scheduled an appointment with the hospital, labor was induced with pitocin, and grandmothers' flights were booked well in advance.

I realized at the time that because we could schedule his birth, perhaps we should take advantage of the calendar and give Nathan Jr a cool birthdate: 08-08-08.

You may recall that I'm not a very happy pregnant lady. I'm sick for the first half and GINORMOUSLY HUGE for the second half. I spend the last month or so experiencing constant contractions which enable me to walk into the hospital already 4 to 5 centimeters dilated. (On the bright side, that makes delivery pretty fast. Nathan Jr was out on the second push.) Then there's that whole "sober" thing that doesn't mesh well with my lifestyle or personality.

Someday, when I'm far enough removed from the horror of pregnancy, I may wonder why we accepted the first available time slot on the 3rd. Why didn't we request the 8th? Well, Future Me, allow me to respond:

Reason 1: Bump's birthday is the 10th.

No one wants to share their birthday, and a full week between Bump's Special Day and Nathan Jr's Special Day seemed reasonable. That gives me a whole week to recover from planning Nathan Jr's birthday party and to prepare the Absolutely Nothing I typically shower on Bump.

(Yeah, I kind of suck. At least I make a cake, though, and seven days guarantees that Nathan Jr's cake will be completely gone and Bump will get his own damn cake.)

Reason 2, aka the Actual Reason, and Waaaaaay More Compelling Than That First Thing: There are FIVE days between the 3rd and the 8th.

If you had suggested to me - pregnant and contracting and extremely unhappy me - that I wait five (5! FIE-HUV.) whole days to get that baby out, just so he could have an amusing birthdate, I would have punched you in the throat.

If you had suggested it via telephone or email, I would have walk-waddled to your house and then punched you in the throat, muttering the whole way about what a fucking idiot you are.

So Happy Birthday Nathan Jr. I suppose I could have used this post to marvel that you're already two, to describe how awesome you are and what milestones you've reached, or to imagine the incredible man you will become.  But I didn't.

I'm glad you were born. On the 3rd.

I'll Need to See Your Referrrrrrrrraaaaaal . . . .

Nana came for a short visit last weekend, and we miss her already.

Among other things, she told us there are lots of film shoots around New Orleans right now. Some of her friends - the ones with lots of time and patience - have enjoyed serving as extras. She tried to get Doc (her husband) to answer a casting call for "big guys" to be zombies.

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Doc is quite tall, like his son was, with the same lineman's build. He certainly fits the "big guy" description, but the hospital might not like scheduling around his budding acting career.

I should probably point out that Doc is a neurosurgeon.

"Yes, Thank You for Noticing" Might Have Been a Better Reply

My toenails and fingernails are currently the same color as Lula's.  On Sunday, a very sweet 20-something woman grinned at us and asked, "Did you get manicures?"

"Well," I said, "if by 'manicure' you mean sitting on the bathroom counter and painting under duress, then yes."

"Duress?" she asked warily.

"She was yelling and I tried to shut her up with nail polish," I explained while darting off to prevent one of my children from causing yet another disaster.

"Oh," the poor girl said softly.

I think she was imagining the lovely world of having a daughter, where charming mommy-and-me outings for mani/pedis precede baseball games. I probably shouldn't have burst her bubble.

Squick

I went to a Big Box Hardware Store this afternoon to buy paint. Bump is refinishing furniture for Lula's room, and we were negotiating color choices this morning. I was being difficult because the correct shade of pink was not among the 45 frillion color chips he brought home (That's too light! That's not red enough! I want it to match the super-cute rocking chair Nana sent!) so Bump threw up his hands and sent me to the damn store myself -- well, with the chair.

I eventually found the right hue and collected all my purchases while lugging around a child-size rocking chair. I got tons of comments about it (it is super-cute, after all) and realized that my quasi-standoff with Bump about which of us was trudging back to the damn store with the damn chair to find the perfect damn pink probably ended the right way. While he is physically better able to carry a piece of furniture like a handbag, socially it was probably less awkward for me to haul a wee pastel chair around in public.

All the attention from strangers about the chair meant I wasn't alarmed when someone approached me in the parking lot with a smile.

"Are you Vietnamese?" he asked.

"Nope," I chirped. I always find that question a little weird. Sometimes I go out of my way to avoid satisfying random obnoxious curiosity, but I was feeling generous. "Korean."

I put the chair in the passenger's seat. By the time I got behind the wheel the guy was next to the car, waving expectantly. I rolled down the window.

He was earnest and stranded. His car had broken down. He called his friend but it had been over an hour and his friend hadn't arrived.

I offered him my cell phone.

He declined. He worked at a National Gas/Service Station Chain (a work shirt bearing the company's name was draped over his shoulder) and really just needed a ride. Did I live around here?

They're Half Dutch, You Know

On my side. Yeah, it's confusing.

You can't accuse Lumpyhead of jumping on the bandwagon - it's the 2006 uniform.