You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January 2007.

And no, it’s not Acorn. A pre-approved credit card application came to the house today, addressed as follows:

P. O. Box
911 Our Street
Function Junction, Homestate

The Box family really needs to put a little more thought into the initials they’re bestowing upon their children.


What does it say about me that I have no idea what the “right” answers are to Andrea’s Psychology Exam?  For example, and right from the first question:

1. The coolest kid in kindergarten:

a. Has the toy everyone else wants and has.
b. Has a toy very similar to the toy everyone else wants and has.
c. Has a toy that no one else wants or has.
d. May or may not have any toys at all. May or may not care about toys. Perhaps is reading a book, making a rug out of fabric scraps or peeling chewing gum off the playground.
e. Is pulling the heads off the toys that everyone else wants and has, and making up stories about how a much cooler and badder toy villian comes along which hates all these stupid wimpy toys and their stupid wimpy guns because everything popular sucks.

I know which kid I was.  I know which kid I thought was coolest.  But which one was the popularly acclaimed “coolest kid?”  I can guess, but it’s only a guess.  I didn’t know back then, and I still don’t know now.

Thanks for the food for thought, Andrea.

From Nina:

Here, I walk every day–long walks along the shore and out to the old fort. The wind is strong. I keep walking in order not to face it, but I get to the lighthouse and have no choice but to turn around and lean into it howling around my ears. My face and legs are tingling with cold, almost numb, but my heart beats strong. I am so tired, but I keep walking because I have to get home.

And I too keep putting one foot in front of the other, because I must.  I must.

1. When you’re eating supper at home for the first time in a week, expect to share it with your two-year-old.

2. Turning on your brights when you’re driving through a cloud only accentuates the sense of suffocating whiteness. Also, it doesn’t let you see any further through the fog.

3. Not only does working 50-60 hours a week (plus parenting time on weekday mornings and weekend evenings) severely eat into the time one has available to spend blogging (or writing other things), it also erodes the list of “Ooh, I can blog about that” things you thought of on your new commute down to two. Plus a third you just thought up, because a two-item list is just lame.

Sad , but true.

Edit:  I just remembered one of the forgotten items.

4. There is nothing in this world comparable to hearing your normally nonverbal toddler scream with joy for two solid minutes when you walk in the door, eleven hours after you left for your first day of work.

  1. Leave toddler with his grandfather, on a night his grandmother is working.
  2. Grandfather reads a book while supervising said toddler’s bath.
  3. Grandfather thus doesn’t notice that toddler is pouring water from the tub onto the floor until he’s on the third cup.  Or so.
  4. Voila.

The title of this post is Acorn’s most adorable mispronunciation.  When asked to say “please,” he will often say “cheese,” as he finds that much easier to say.  When prompted to pronounce it correctly (“It starts with a P, Acorn.  Make a P sound: Puh-puh-puh.”), he’ll usually say “please,” or “pease,” or (rarely) “pwease.”  Sometimes, though, he does the simplest thing of all, simply appending the P to the front:  “Puh-cheese!”

He got quite enthusiastic about pronouncing it this way several days ago, when an old friend came to visit.  I hadn’t seen her in years — since shortly after Acorn was born, in fact — and frankly, it had been so long I had forgotten how much I missed her.  The three of us went to a restaurant, where Acorn was patient with our need for adult conversation until he decided he had been separated from his beloved tricycle for quite long enough.  At that point, I bought a little extra time by sending him to look out the window at the cars passing by, and he happily amused himself by naming the letters painted on the window: P… I… E… S.  Then he came back to the table, glanced at the back of the check, and pointed to the first word on it and said clearly, “Please.”

It said, “Please come again.”  He wasn’t asking for anything; he was telling me what it said.  I was (and am) blown away.

My son has had more than his share of struggles, thanks to his speech delay and the difficulties I’ve faced in getting him into therapy for it.  Reading is evidently not going to be such a problem.

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