Cookie Monster

Scene: Making cookies at my parents' house with P running in and out of the kitchen. He didn't seem too interested in what I was doing, but that was a rouse. At one point I looked over and he had his hand in a pile of cookie dough.

Me: P! What are you doing?

P: Yum!

Me: P, we're making cookies for Grandpa.

P: OK.

Look over again, and he has his hands in a lump of cookie dough.

Me: P, what are you going to tell Grandpa when he sees these mis-shapen cookies?

P: I'll tell him, "SURPRISE!!"

Dogs Don't Play Baseball

The Parentville Family spent the weekend with my parents in Tennessee. Really low key weekend. G helped my dad with some work converting an old log cabin into a storage shed, and P had the run of the grounds.

One of P's favorite activities was playing with Dooley Dog. P played "school" with Dooley, and tried to teach him how to play baseball. Here he is trying to explain to Dooley the importance of staying on third base - it didn't work:


And, oh my goodness, the boy was dirty! Probably as dirty has he's ever been! Exhibit A:

That shirt? Yeah, it WAS white!

Turning Three

P had two third birthdays - one with just G and me, the other other with Grandma, Grandpa, and my niece. That meant two cakes.

Cake one: yellow and chocolate marble. Big "3" candle on top.

Cake two: French vanilla with buttercream icing. Bob the Builder theme. Oh yeah, and tool-shaped cookies to complete the ensemble. (Three hours to decorate this sucker - P's reaction when he first saw it? Priceless!)

His reaction, when told he had to share the Bob the Builder cake with the rest of us:

"Here's your piece, Gramma!"

We spent time at the zoo. P loved the zoo this year - the monkeys, zebras, bears, penguins (or "pay-gins"), and of course, elephants. I think we'll get a lot of mileage from the Family Membership we bought for his birthday. It's going to be a good year - happy birthday, baby boy!

Running Home

After two weeks of crying on my lap, P decided to play on his t-ball team this weekend. It only cost me a $2 bribe and promises of having "splash day" at home after the game. Luckily, P can't count coins, so I can't say for sure that he actually got $2, but he LOVED putting the money in his bank.

The best part of the game was whenever he was told to "run home." Instead of running toward his coach and home plate, he'd come running to me. That sound you hear? Yep, that's my melting heart.

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

We left for Florida on a gorgeous Sunday morning. Sun shining, birds chirping, perfect day. It's a trip I've been planning for a few months - the Parentville family would vacation in Orlando with one of my bestest friends, V, and her family.

The plan was to drive to V's house and carpool to the airport (basically, to make sure all the luggage, car seats, strollers, and other crap needed when traveling with toddlers would fit into one car so we would know if we could get away with renting one car/van in Florida). Things were going well. Everyone was excited.

No vacation is complete without a vacation hat - and happy feet!

The airport was busy, but manageable. We planned the flight around naptime, with the hope that the kids would sleep on the plane. We had a decent lunch, and a snack, and waited for the flight to board.

Really, he's happy in this photo. He gets to wear his Thomas backpack, or "beckpeck" in P speak.

Important sidenote to the story: G was a frequent flyer for years - he'd fly to different places for work about three times a week. Then he found himself on a really small plane during an IBS attack. No bathroom. No where to go. He was fine, but emotionally scarred. He hadn't flown since. Knowing that he'd experience anxiety and fear and not wanting to scare Pumpkin, G went to the doctor to get a prescription a few days before our trip.

G took the medication as prescribed, 30 minutes before take off. It wasn't enough time. We boarded the plane, and G was freaking out. Like major freak out - if I didn't know him, I would have suspected he was faking this for attention. Rocking back and forth. Sweating profusely. Slapping his hands against his legs.

I tried to block Pumpkin from seeing his daddy going nuts as people continued to board the sold out flight.

A flight attendant named Mike came over to talk to G. He asked what was wrong. He told G that he wanted him to make the trip with his family, that he would be okay once we took off. The flight attendant asked that G tell him he'd be okay before the doors closed on the plane.

G said, "I can't promise anything. I don't know that I'll be alright."

The flight attendant went up front to consult with the other airline personnel. A group of them came back to our seat to ask some questions. They recommended that G leave the plane. G turned to me, "I don't know what to do."

I told him to get off the plane. It wasn't fair to the other passengers to hold up the flight. We were already about 15 minutes late to take off.

G left the plane. Our friends, who were sitting several rows in front of us were confused. They didn't know what was going on and I didn't really have any way of communicating to them right away.

P and I stayed on the flight.

Handy Manny? Check. Sippy water? Check. Wooden airplane model? Check? Daddy? Daddy? Bueller?

I've thought about this a lot. Should I have gotten off the plane with G? Should I have dragged P off the plane with all our carry on baggage? Should we have gotten off the plane as a family? How would I explain what happened to G when Pumpkin asked about his daddy?

Stay tuned for the next installment to find out if/when G made it to Florida...

Where We've Been

More to come on our adventures in sunny (and hot) Orlando, P's first plane trip, and how G almost didn't make our family trip. Stay tuned...

Hobo Toast: A Recipe

Edited to add: recipe should be for cinnamon SUGAR. Don't forget the SUGAR. Ugh.

A few weeks ago, P was in an extraordinarily playful mood. It was nice.

When I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, he replied, "Toast."

"No problem," I said, and I took out two slices of whole grain bread and put them in the toaster.

"Wait!" P cried. "I want toast! Hobo toast!"

I stopped. "What?" I asked. "Did you just say 'hobo' toast?"

P giggled and said, "Yes. I want hobo toast."

"Fine. Hobo toast it is," I said and I frantically searched for some magical ingredients that could turn ordinary toasted bread into hobo toast. (Side note: Where the hell did he hear the word 'hobo'? And what does he think it means?)

P doesn't like peanut butter, and he's not really fond of jelly/jam/preserves. I wanted it to be somewhat healthy. What the heck could I use to make hobo toast?!

Finally, I found the perfect ingredient to transform his toast into hobo toast - cinnamon.

Behold the recipe for hobo toast, a new Chez Parentville specialty:

2 slices whole grain bread
dollop of butter/margarine
liberal sprinkle of cinnamon

Toast bread in a toaster. Spread butter/margarine. Sprinkle cinnamon. Serve warm.