Cigarettes

We got Lyla a dump truck so she won't be a total girly-girl like her mama. When you press the button on the side, the truck shakes and then rolls across the floor. It reminds me of the awesome toys I did not have when I was younger.

With yesterday being the hottest May 24th in the history of Minnesota, we were not the only ones whose air conditioning decided to pull a Tim Pawlenty and stop working for the good of the people. The heat wave is breaking up, though, so I postponed the guy coming out because doing it Sunday on my birthday would feel depressingly middle-aged.

But tonight it was hot enough to fry an egg on your face, so we picnicked upstairs in Lyla's nursery where the window unit kept us cool.


Of course, Lyla sees that binky in her crib and she has to have it. Suck suck suck. Julie tried telling her that big girls don't use binkies. "See, Lyla? Dada doesn't use a binky. Dada's a big girl."


They're cigarettes for babies, I've decided, minus the chemical element. I wonder if they sell cigarette-shaped binkies with inch-long ashes hanging off. That would be hilarious in that horrifying way that some things are hilarious. We could give her a binky-cigarette, teach her how to sneer, and watch her push that dump truck around like some bad-ass version of Bob the Builder.

(Oh dear.)