Sun up

Lyla and I met my mom at Macaroni Grill.

"Pot-sta!"

"I think they have that here."

"I want pot-sta!"

"Do you want red sauce, or do you want cheese?"

"Yeah."

"Uh...do you want macaroni and cheese, or do you want pasta?"

"Pot-sta!"

"Hey, do you want some pasta?"

"Yeah!"

Julie was at home doing work while extremely pregnant, sort of like an alien. On our way home with Julie's dinner in a take-out box, Lyla expressed her displeasure with darkness.

"Dada, sun up."

"The sun is sleeping."

"Peez."

"It'll wake up tomorrow."

"Wate up now! Sun, wate up! Dada, wate up sun right now."

"The Earth rotates, so the sun is shining on another part of the Earth."

"No!"

"Actually, yes."

"No, Dada. I want sun up right now."

"Uh..."

"Wate up sun peez."

Hospitality

Julie is 39 weeks pregnant today. Her back hurts, she's exhausted, and she's ready to be done. If only her womb wasn't so damn hospitable.

Today she was in the skyway walking to a meeting, and suddenly her feet slipped out from under her and she fell on her knees hard. In accordance with human nature, zero passersby stopped to help her up.

She was fine--at least it wasn't a belly flop--but one could certainly argue that the working world is beginning to reject her presence. What possible purpose does a pregnant woman at 39 weeks serve in the skyway, anyway? That was apparently the skyway's perspective, so it attacked her like she was a virus.

But we'll go 41 weeks and get induced again; I can feel it. Julie has one of those cervix doors that does not open without Pitocin. It's fine because the kid will be hearty and probably already know how to talk. The first thing he'll say is, "Ma, why the hell can't you relax?"

Typing in tongues

Yesterday morning while Lyla ran around and her mother slept, I sat on the couch with my laptop, in no danger at all of winning a parenting award. Lyla climbed up and started banging on my keyboard, so I opened a blank Word document and told her to write something profound. Here it is, a direct copy and paste:

º¬ˆ˚•ºˆøª–•≤ˆ––––––––––––––––––––– 6v––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––˙¶¶¶ªªªªªˆ•ªªªy

I believe that's the typing equivalent of speaking in tongues.

Tonight's blankie

Lyla's staying at my parents' house tonight, and our goal was that she sleep on her mattress there and not in the playpen. She's getting big for the playpen, and last time the transition back to her big-girl bed was awful.

So I ran through with my parents the recipe for big-girl-bed success: sit on the bed with her and read these books in this order, then read this book when she's lying down, then rub her stomach or back (she'll tell you) while talking about her friends and/or favorite animals. Then tell her she needs to stay in bed because you don't want to have to come upstairs and take her blankie du jour (last night a pink washcloth - and yes, it's a cruel threat, but you say it calmly and it works). On your way to the door, ask her if she wants the light on or off, she'll say on, you say okay, and boom you're out the door. Peek in and turn the light off in a couple hours. Simple!

Later, a text from my dad:

"Worked like a charm. Never heard a peep."


Woo hoo! It seems "book as pillow" was tonight's blankie.

Puppy

Kids grow up fast.

On an entirely different note, from what I've heard, your baby boy's penis will be your chief adversary. It urinates all the time, and during diaper changes it aims at your face.

Then at some point it compels its owner to play with it constantly.

It's like your baby boy is born along with a baby puppy, and you have to take care of the boy, but you better not forget about the puppy. With its various creams and attention-seeking behaviors, the puppy is at least as much trouble as the boy.

They have created a guard that you pop on it during diaper changes: the Pee-Pee Teepee.


Supposedly the Pee-Pee Teepee solves the fountain problem, but I have doubts. If it's not super-absorbent, then the urine will just drip into awkward places. And what if the kid's powerful stream shoots it into the ceiling fan?

To me it looks like a reactive measure. Your boy is on the changing table and suddenly a squirt of urine hits your chin, so you put the little dunce cap on it and say "Bad puppy!"

Enough said

Bob

Bob is an 85-year-old Walmart greeter, a classic Bob, an every-bob. You know Bob. Everyone likes Bob, but everyone also thinks it might be best if Bob just stayed home and relaxed instead of tempting his own health by hauling himself to work every day. Take it easy for once, Bob. You're still here, Bob? The worry is that Bob might have a major medical episode right there on the tile.

Tomorrow: Bob! Hello, Bob! Go home, Bob!

The next day: Bob? Again, Bob? My goodness, Bob.

The day after that: Oh Bob...

Bob smiles and nods wearily, but Bob isn't listening. Bob has work to do.

Bob wakes up every morning and hobbles out to his car. Bob drives through terrible weather. Bob works day after day even though he doesn't really need to.

Julie is Bob.