Two

Dear Harrison Romeo,

Tomorrow is your second birthday. We will wake up and celebrate together, then Daddy and I are going away for a few days. We will miss you very much, but we'll all be OK. We'll observe your birthday in proper style in a couple of weeks-- lucky for us time doesn't mean much to you right now.

It means a lot to us, and the fact that you are turning "doo" is mindblowing. I'm the mother of a two-year-old. No longer a baby. A sweet, gentle, loving two-year-old who adores cuddling and story time and playing with your Thomas trains and Muppets collection. A stubborn, willful two-year-old who can't be made to put on a shirt or get through the night without demanding to be taken into our bed. A perfect two-year-old, because you are you.

With your crazy, curly, "look at the cute little girl" hair, your trusty, sturdy legs, your sticky-outy belly, your sweet delicious face. We've come so far since your last birthday. Walking! Talking! No more bottle! Catching a ball! Enjoying the sandbox! Singing and clapping and dancing and participating in your music class! You understand everything, and can communicate your preferences.

As you challenge us in different ways than you did a year ago, two years ago, our love has only grown, only expanded, and I know that this will be truer by the year.

Happy one-day-early second birthday to our boy, our joy, our Chucko-buddy-lovie-dude.

Forever and always, Mama.

Time, Time

I've appointed this list and schedule making day, so I'm experiencing a sustained mania of organizing for our upcoming trip. I'm really starting to look forward to it. The promise of warm weather (it's a dry heat), catching up with good people--most of whom I haven't seen in years and years, some not even since my own wedding--and two nights of potentially uninterrupted sleep are tipping the balance of my anxiety about leaving the boy. I know it'll be a whirlwind and I'll be back before I know it, almost assuredly not feeling rested, but I think it'll be worth it. I'm historically terrible at sleeping on planes, but I'm hoping I can cash in my default exhaustion and take advantage of the time in the air to get in some long naps.

This is what my life has become, a quest for sleep. And that's OK, by the time HR starts sleeping like he should I'll most likely be embarking on that stage of insomnia common to the elderly. Circle of life.

Take it away, Ric and pals.

I Won't Watch Blazing Saddles on AMC on Principle

We have reached the stage in our child's life where farts are ne plus ultra in the humor sphere. The other night we were reading bedtime stories and he laughed so hard after letting one out while seated on my lap it took us forever to get through Goodnight Moon. What can I say, he comes by it honestly, and his uncontrollable giggles are pretty damned endearing. How long before we can watch Dumb and Dumber together, do you think?

And that's who's bringing up the next generation of urban sophisticates.

Anyhoo, I'm pretty well out of words for this session and my bosses are springing for chinese food for research purposes so I better move on.  I'll leave you with this selection from a couple years back, I don't know that this is a band I would like in general, but this song was featured in a scene in Harper's Island (did anyone else watch this?), as background for the demise of the most annoying character (incidentally the scene leading up to her death was the only time I liked her). I don't know that the scene would have been so pivotal for me without the music, it was perfectly creepy-evocative and climactic in the right way. I had to look it up and purchase it on the spot, and it turns out I still like it.

The Intangible Weird

This weekend felt odd to me. It was great, of course, chock full of friend and family time, but between the up and down weather, deviation from our routines, and the creepy feeling that accompanies things going haywire in the household (malfunctioning carbon monoxide alarm resulting in my stove being shut down - don't ask), it left me a little unsettled as I embarked on my Monday morning. More likely I'm projecting onto this week, the end of which heralds our first extended time away from toddler-dude --oh and the little matter of his turning over from one to two. You know, just minor, insignificant stuff.

My brother and sister-in-law came into town on Saturday, and HR could not have been more ramped up for their arrival, chanting their names all day long and pulling me down the street so we could meet them halfway when they walked from the train. I love how he knows people now from memory, and can anticipate seeing them with clear understanding and excitement. Also his beloved music class started its new session this morning after being over for a month and that kid was bouncing off the walls with impatient happiness when I left for work.

Even with the residual strangeness I was feeling this morning, any weekend that includes this kind of afternoon:



as well as this one:

(and lots of good food and a Jaws viewing in between) is nothing to shake a stick at. Unless it's the kind of stick you shake when good things transpire. I do believe that the word "joystick" is already taken, so I'm going to have to think on a proper descriptive term.

Meanwhile, this is awesome.

Ode to a Falsetto

So I watched this week's episode of "Glee" and I realize that I watch this show out of habit lately, mostly to make sure I'm not missing a buzzworthy musical performance. I dislike most of the characters and their storylines. And the disco episode was no different, but it did remind me that disco music overall gets a bad rap.

It's OK if you hate disco, I don't, but as with all forms of music, I don't embrace it unequivocally as a genre. There's a lot of just plain bad stuff lumped into the nebulous disco category. Novelty songs. Copycat drivel. It's the same in most types of music, there's great stuff and not-so-great stuff. Then there are the transcendent singles: "Don't Leave Me This Way," "Bad Girls," "Boogie Wonderland," "Get Down Tonight." Songs so of their era, but still pulsing with energy, compelling you to dance. And then beyond that there is the "Saturday Night Fever" soundtrack, and the singular compositions of Barry Gibb. "Stayin' Alive" is a work of art no matter how you look at it, as far as I'm concerned. And it's for this reason I get pissed off when people say that disco sucks. Because what's going on here is so complex, so innovative. Genius. It's contribution to popular music can't be overlooked.

Not to mention that Barry Gibb is an underrated as a songwriter to begin with. He's often cast aside as merely a disco artist, but his work is so prolific, his range so broad. It's not fair that he and "Disco Duck" will go down in the same annals of history. The Bee Gees' disco stuff is amazing, definitive. But their older songs (plus a lot of songs by other artists you may not have known were written by Barry) deserve recognition.

Like this guy here:



I realize they're already in the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame, but I think their relevance is going to be misremembered. And it's a shame is all. One more for good measure.



OK, two.



RIP, Maurice.

We All Know Prince Can Do No Wrong

We're going fah-fah away to attend a wedding next weekend and I haven't even started my packing and to-do list yet. This is not like me. Though I am a gold medal caliber procrastinator, any opportunity to make lists (and lists of said lists) is a treat, and nearly the whole point of traveling for me. Well not quite, but I do so enjoy my obsessive organizing. And on top of that I get to make detailed lists for my childcare peeps, which will probably require footnotes and maybe an appendix. Better get hoppin'!

It's such a short trip though, I'm not even sweating it. I think I can get away with the bare minimum of prep. We shouldn't need too much in the way of clothing, particularly because it's like a million degrees where we're going. I should at least try on the dress I'm planning to wear though, it'd be a shame to get all the way there and realized I packed something that doesn't fit. I'm sure I'm subconsciously avoiding finding out whether I can still rock my favorite pre-preg semi-formal wear now that I'm two years post-preg. Oh well, whatever. Worst case I'll buy a new dress. That is my kind of "worst case."

In addition to getting into my planning mindset, things I should be doing, ASAP:

-seeing the damned "Hunger Games" before it's out of theaters

-wrapping up the guest entry I owe someone

-wrapping up this entry and getting to some work I'm not so excited to do.

But first, quandary of the week, redux: Mike and I watched some of "Rattle and Hum" the other night. I love documentaries. I don't really like U2. Like hardly at all except for a couple of songs. And the doc presents Bono in such a damning light, like maybe he's the legendary asshole he's purported to be and maybe not, but the arrogance in every frame of this film, it's like, do you think he should have sued for his portrayal? Or does he just not care? Anyway, I'm struggling with the same thing I was talking about yesterday, because every time B was on screen, all that I could think of was, "Who do you think you are in those heels? You are not Prince." This is correct thinking in one way because there is only one Prince and thank heaven and the angels of funk for that, but I know deep down that this is another example of the insidious meanness of appearance-based attacks. Part of me feels like it's especially important that I check this impulse when it comes to women because they get the raw deal in this respect and have since forever, but it's still me insulting Bono's looks as a shortcut to commentary on his character, and that's just plain lazy if nothing else.

In one way I can see how I'm overthinking this. But still... I'm not ready to be that dismissive of my feelings on this subject entirely. Hmm. Better let Damien take us out.

Unintentional Treatise

All right, so "Girls" on HBO. What do we reckon? I know it's only one episode in, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to like it in the very uncomfortable way I liked "The Puffy Chair" or "Greenberg" et. al. Sometimes I really value life-verisimilitude in art. It's funny, a bit, but not in a way that makes me laugh out loud. And that's OK, not everything has to be a knee-slapper. It's just important to me that HBO took a chance on a young woman as a writer and star. It shouldn't be a big deal, but it is. I know Apatow was involved, and maybe that's what got them to buy in, but whatever works to get the ball rolling. Points for him for backing the project. Now for women getting a shot  to be the norm and not so remarkable and, like, everyone will be a feminist. Haha, yes. The tide is turning though, I feel it inching ever closer.

Here is the part where I throw out a personal quandary: I watched "Tiny Furniture," Lena Dunham's critically acclaimed debut film that opened the door for her "Girls" gig, and I didn't love it. And I think I need to watch it again because my judgment of whether or not it was a film I enjoyed was clouded by my reaction to Dunham in a physical sense. I couldn't stop thinking, throughout the movie, things like, "OMG don't wear that it's so unflattering! She'd look so much better if only she'd get a trim!" I mean, really stupid knee-jerk things about her appearance. And it bothered me so much that I was doing this that I couldn't let go and focus on the real issues like "OMG don't have unprotected sex with that creepy moustache guy who we all know will never call you back! And OMG don't let that unfunny dude make you feel bad about yourself! And OMG more Merritt Wever in everything ever please!" It's possible that Dunham has self esteem issues about her body, but it doesn't show. I respect that she puts everything on camera with a big middle finger to anyone who might not like it. I always respect this, and it angered me that I felt powerless against picking her apart.

I knew I was being really unfair, and also being someone I didn't like. And I felt this way even before I read Ashley Judd's brilliant, complex article about our society's dangerous obsession with appearance. Yet I couldn't stop myself, and it made me feel really ashamed. Since I've read that article though, I've made a really concerted effort to stop being so judgy in all aspects of my life. Watching TV, on the T, at the pediatrician's office. I'm really doing my best to look for what's beautiful about people instead of running a constant critique on their choice of hair color, whether they're wearing too much make-up, the idea that they'd be so pretty if the only... Sure it's fun to tear people down sometimes, but I'm doing my best not to engage in it, for men or women. It's not easy, it doesn't come naturally after all this time. I want to make clear that I don't think I'm better than anyone else, either in being above reproach regarding my appearance or on some kind of moral high ground for this experiment. It's not like that, I'm just really interested in changing my way of thinking, for myself, for society, and especially to lead by example for my son.

That said, one of the great triumphs about "Girls" is that it is cast perfectly. Most of the cast is not conventionally attractive and I say this in a very complimentary way. It breaks the mold of what should be considered pretty, who is deserving of love, all that hoo-ha. You know you could be friends in real life with the characters, you probably saw them at the store this morning, you know? Also, the emphasis on friendship is wonderful, the portrayal of female relationships is nuanced, not stereotypical. There are fights, but it's not over men, it's not catty, petty stuff. So far they have gotten it right there. Oh, and Becky Ann Baker playing against type as a tough mom, what a coup. Love her.

Back in the olden tymes when guy love comedies were being released fast and furious, and I loved them all, I lamented the lack of female-friendship-driven comedies, particularly wherein the women have license to be schlubs and make bad decisions and still be loveable and get they guy or girl or whatever. Using the word "schlub" here just means not cookie-cutter, really. Anyway, this feels so close to what I mean. It can be done. And it can be done laugh-out-loud funny, I think it just took society this long to catch on so the wave could start cresting. Whether or not I turn out to like "Girls" beyond episode one, the idea of women getting their turn in the media warms my girl power heart.

This song is also a feminist conflict for me, yet I am unapologetic in my love for it. Truth is, I'm more offended by the inclusion of Rob Thomas than the whole "shut up and kiss me, crazy" theme.

Sweet Summer Sweat

I just came back from grabbing a sandwich and iced coffee and it was truly sad to return to the office. It's a-MAH-zing out there. Actually a little too hot - I feel for those people running the Boston Marathon today. In anticipation of a.m. traffic jerkery due to said Marathon, I actually ran in myself instead of driving. It wasn't my fastest time, but it was a treat to go for a run and... get somewhere. I do adore my treadmill and how it essentially lets me be my own competitor and kick my own butt, but it was really nice to be out among the flowers and trees and skip the earphones in favor of letting my thoughts bounce around in the relative quiet. Plus my workplace affords me the opportunity to take a shower and even throw my clothes in the wash so I don't have pingy pongy running shorts funking up my bag all day. If it didn't take up another hour of prime HR time, I would choose this commute option a lot more.

11 days out from his second birthday, and I still marvel at how great this age is with our boy. On the downside, he's increasingly enraged by being told "no," but gets great happiness from using the word himself, repeatedly. On the upside, he also loves to say "hug!" accompanied with a real, wholehearted hug. He gets more independent every day, adds to his vocabulary by the hour (this weekend saw the inclusion of "ant" and "headband" - pronounced "heb-BAYND"). He's really, really into his Music Together CDs and asks for the "Hello" ("Hey-YO") song constantly. His capacity for sitting in a chair through a whole meal in a restaurant is increasing, and we had a great experience dining al fresco on Saturday. He discovered the joy of dipping foods in ketchup finally, and also started drinking milk with his meals through a straw. You just never know with this guy.

The togetherness and beautiful weather conditions actually made this whole weekend a package of excellent. After our aforementioned Saturday lunch, HR fell asleep on the walk home, which translated into a long family nap when we got there. I woke up feeling rested while the other two slept on, and I flipped on the TV to find "Hot Fuzz" playing and I was like, could this day get any better? Of course Mike had to leave for work which was a bummer, but the boy and I soldiered on and I got to drink wine and catch up on DVR after his bedtime. Yesterday was another pretty sweet day with lots of outside time, and discoveries and laughs. Oh and the Red Sox started showing up to games, so that's a nice bonus.

Here's Dr. No modeling his heb-BAYND:

I know the look says, "Woman, I am not the singer of Loverboy circa 1982, and you will pay for insinuating otherwise" but he actually requested to wear it and I believe the way it keeps his locks from his eyes has made him a fan. Anything I can do to put off the inaugural haircut, I'll do it.

On the Q-Tip, it's entirely possible that this is the first song from A Tribe Called Quest that made it as my song of the day selection. Of course it's a travesty, but it also doesn't surprise me, because when it comes to my Top 5 bands, I'm under the assumption that I've already kablammed you with them a hundred times. Usually I'm mistaken. All right, so though every day is a good day for A Tribe Called Quest, hot summery ones are the best. And this is my very favorite of their later work.

Teat-totaler

Today is just great. We had a rather good night, sleep wise, and it's looking less like our kid is embracing his new milk cup and more like he's decided to give up drinking milk altogether now that it's not coming from a bottle. Makes no difference to me. As long as he still goes to bed as well without that part of the nighttime ritual (frankly this can only help as we round the corner on potty training), we can do without it. Lots of kids his age don't drink milk at all, we'll just need to check in with the pediatrician to make sure he's getting what he needs from other avenues. HR is a cheese maniac, so we've got the calcium angle covered at least.

This looks to be a chill, beautiful, home-bound weekend and I'm happy about that because after this one everything goes crazy for about a month. All good things of course, just a lot on the scheduled docket, including our first extended time away from the boo. Oh, and we just booked our Mexico vacation for November and I am BEYOND psyched for it but the thought of 7 days away from HR, I know it's good for all of us, but dang that's unfathomable from where I sit. I just think of all those nights of potential unbroken sleep, though, and I'm more comfortable with it by the minute.

If you're in the mood for a good happy-sad cry, check out this link I borrowed from a couple of friends' pages:



Oh, music. Oh, old people. Which of you will be my ultimate emotional undoing?

Fun fact corner: Leon Russell and Leon Redbone are not the same person. I'll be damned.

King of Cups

Potential milestone time: methinks HR has had his last bottle. As he is to turn two in just over two weeks, I'm sure everyone is like, weren't you supposed to conquer this one a year ago? But we didn't. We tried, but he just wasn't ready. So I never stressed about it, it was one of those times where we looked at what contemporary child rearing recommended, and decided to go a different way because that's what worked for our family. He's always been fine with water from his sippy cup, but he had some kind of mental block about milk. So for a long time he's been down to a bottle before bed, and one first thing in the morning, and that was the only time he drank milk and I just couldn't see a problem in that. But he is getting older, no denying, and Mike and I came up with a plan, just to try out, wherein he could pick out his own special cup for milk and we'd see if it worked. Yesterday he picked out a Cookie Monster cup, and was reminded from point of purchase up until bedtime routine how cool this cup was, his very own milk cup. We asked him over and over, "What are you going to drink from your Cookie Monster cup?" "Milk!" he answered, excited every time. I mean, we really built this up. And hell if it didn't work! He happily drank his milk from his cup and went to bed as normal. It was pretty goddamned gratifying, and I'm not so much saying "parental instinct for the win!" as I'm saying, sometimes, no matter what other kids are doing, your kid just has to be ready and he'll let you know when that is.

Back around when he turned one I was reading a message board to which I belong with other mothers of kids HR's age (sometimes this community is hugely helpful and supportive, but more often it's stressful and confounding, so I take everything with a grain of salt) and I remember reading a post by someone who wanted to know who was off the bottle, etc., and one mother said she firmly refused to give her one-year-old a bottle, reasoning that when he was thirsty enough he'd take a cup. And after screaming for his bottle for three nights and dehydrating, he finally came around to the cup and it was worth it. That seemed so drastic to me, and so arbitrary. I mean yeah, there are lots of good reasons a baby shouldn't be on a bottle forever, but if it gets to where your kid makes himself sick in the process of forcing him, I just don't see the point. To me that's where the need to control gets unrealistic and unhealthy. That said, it's what worked for their family. It's just not my style. (Passive aggressive award of the day for those few sentences.) I did appreciate many other mothers weighing in saying that they weren't too concerned about rushing the process.

Anyway, as The Wolf says in Pulp Fiction, "Let's not start sucking each other's dicks just yet." It's only been one night, and he could take a totally different tack this one. But dudes, even if we're not 100% all the way there, we're 99% closer than we were yesterday. And I'm such a dummy that even though I'm thrilled, I find it bittersweet.

Have we talked about Happy Endings and how great this show is? I'm fairly new to it, but every episode is like a valentine to me. The cast is gold, and if I could pick any show in the world for which to be a writer in my fantasy comedy-writer life, this is the one. That translates to personal high praise. In the season finale last week, a wedding band covered "Like a Prayer" and though I realize I've never been all that big on Madonna, that is a fantastic song that I never appreciated until way after its heyday.

So here's the Mandonna version (incidentally, Adam Pally where have you been before now?)



And the original, for posterity. And because it has aged beautifully.

And Believe Me, You Want All Organs Psyched At All Times

This past weekend, among the brisket and chicken cutlets and distribution of fluffy duckies and a "10 Plagues" playset (yes it is a real thing, and no, my child will not part from his lifelike locust or creepy diseased cow mask for the equivalent of one million baby dollars), there was a spot of Saturday afternoon where some of the men went to play golf and the grandmothers volunteered to be babysitters and I got to spend some time out of my house, doing nothing. Well I was doing something: I wandered about with my sister and her husband and we ended up at a once-upon-a-time favorite dive of mine playing Keno and drinking beer. I didn't actually play Keno because gambling confounds my brain, but it's not like the game took away too  much of my companions' attention. Even if it had, it was a truly luxurious thing to be in the world with nobody but me to think about for a couple of hours. All the better that it was such a spontaneous outing.

A word about drinking in the daytime: it's my favorite. Knocking back a few cocktails at night is not without its charms, but there's something about ingesting alcohol when the sun is shining, even if you're not on vacation or in a warm beautiful climate or have a holiday to be observing. A pitcher of Longhammer in an empty, grungy East Cambridge bar on a lazy Saturday afternoon with people I love is pretty much as good as it gets. It's not about getting drunk, for me. Not these days. It's just about what the whole package represents: freedom, celebration and enjoyment of life. Bubbles and sparkles and good squiggly warm feelings deep down. Something we do because we want to, and because we can. It's not for every day, because then it wouldn't be special. And our livers would be decidedly un-psyched. But when the time presents itself, clink clink, y'all.

Off to refill my water bottle with... water. And that's just fine.

Unrelated song I like! Devandra Banhart kind of gives me the willies, but I dig some of his music, like this guy here.

Your Brain Has A Shell On It

My weekend was stellar, as they go, and it went by way too fast, which is a given. But in its swiftness, there was much goodness as not one but two holidays were observed, many amazing foods were consumed, and much family fun was had. I'm left now with a clean(ish), quiet(ish) house, a kid who is missing his adoring entourage, and a whole bunch of lovely crunchy Cadbury mini-eggs just waiting for me to ingest in sensible, moderate portions. One giant bag is moderate, yes?

I've been online entirely too much today, and as such have exposed myself to way too much of the kind of negativity exclusive to the internet and its many outlets. The trick is to cut myself off before it completely harshes the sweet little joybuzz I've carried over from the weekend. Sooo... bye.

But first, a little Sugar (to help all the sugar go down).

Still Waiting For a Good Passover Musical

Knock knock.

Who's there?

Baseball season! No joke!

The Red Sox just dropped their first game of the season to Detroit, but I've even missed the losses. Hooray for baseball season and everything it brings.

In other boring-to-everyone-but-me news, I finally, finally got around to getting my hair cut last weekend, and my hairdresser really outdid herself. She's a new one, she's only cut my hair once before but based on the job she did last time, I decided to go back. And this time she cemented my loyalty forever. I'm notoriously lazy about doing my hair, and without me communicating this to her (I would have, but there's a wee language barrier), she somehow picked up that I needed a style that would fall perfectly every time with no laborious things like brushing or using a hair dryer. There's been no awkward bit where I had to get used to how it looks, it's been all love, all the way. So to Grace and her gifted scissorhands, I say thank you and you've earned the eternal entrusting of my sought after client-ship.

For someone who's so unwilling to engage in actual styling, or perhaps moreso because of this, I do so appreciate a good cut, and I've had plenty of blah, mediocre ones to compare. I'm actually starting to fantasize about going boy-short with it next time because, why not? I've always been fairly adventurous, follicle-wise, I'm just not attached to my hair and I don't like it when it gets too long. Maybe next time, we'll see. Grace would be the one to pull it off, but I don't know that I have the right features for it. One way to find out, I guess. For now, though, I'm just enjoying the hell out of this one. Hair, how silly. But a good 'do is a priceless source of happiness.

Look-a there! Despite my lack of a smile, I feel like you can see the happiness glinting right off.

Or is that just the bunny ears made of light? How fitting. Happy Pass-East-Whatever Times!

How We Do, and How We Do

This weekend we're hosting a Passover seder as well as Easter dinner. I agree, this sounds like a crack-addled enterprise. I'm operating on a solid two years of sleep deprivation, I think we all know I can't be trusted to have reasonable ideas. But the truth is, I'm not sweating it. I'm actually looking forward to it. Partly because I am not responsible for the cooking so much, everyone contributes, and the rest is dispatched with calm aplomb by the man of the house. Also it could be the soothing thought of the case of wine I purchased on my lunch break that's sitting in my trunk, ready for festive poppin' and sharing. Certainly it will be cramped and chaotic up in our joint, but that's never stopped us before. I like being in my own space and receiving people. I like that I can put my kid to bed in his own crib and maybe put on my stretchy pants and continue to hang out without worrying about transferring him or driving home. Sure there's the extra prep and clean-up, but everyone automatically pulls his and her weight and whatever's left is just housework. There's always gonna be housework. And really, this is why I have a house. So people can come to it and enjoy themselves.

When we were registering for our wedding presents like 500 years ago, I had no interest in a second set of dishes. I had a youthful contrary streak that resented the thought of doing something just because I should (as opposed to my current contrary streak?), had little storage space, and I'm a klutz besides. The lack of things like plates for 13 people didn't seem at all necessary (we did start out with service for 12, but that number has dropped over the years. Dropped by me, mostly) - that's why they make Chinet, right? But now that hosting has become something we do regularly and enjoy, I'm ready to invest in some entertaining-type things like a second set of dishes. I still have no storage to speak of and the klutz thing has only gotten worse, but it makes sense to me to invest in a simple set of real plates and bowls and cutlery instead of all the waste of disposable junk. I didn't realize that eating off plastic was something one formed an opinion about, but I went and formed one and it's not favorable. So maybe by the next holiday we'll be better set up, maybe not. It's not even the point, as the matzoh balls and chicken cutlets will not be one iota less the delicious, the company less warm and lively.

The point is, I don't wait around to have all the things I want or think I need before we do what I want to do. Messy and unmatched and go-with-the-flow and mishmashy is my style, anyway. It's descriptive of my life. When we stop having so many people who want to come around, that's when I'll get worried.

My house will not be "Passover perfect." There will be a ham in my refrigerator next to the farfel stuffing. Half of my guests will get to take in the beautiful view of a treadmill from their side of the dinner table. But my kid will get to run around with his cousins and be spoiled by his grandparents and aunts and uncles.  My sister and I will get to clink up a batch of mimosas in the morning while we're still in our pajamas. My back will kill me from sleeping on the floor in HR's room for two nights but who cares, who cares, who cares when we've got all the love, the special kind of family love that can make you absolutely crazy but is absolutely worth it.

Lucky doesn't even come within a hair's breadth of the tip of the tip of the descriptive iceberg. On that note, here's a prog classic to play you out.

Island of Sodor PSA

I unapologetically let my kid watch TV. It's one thing on the parenting spectrum that has never caused me anxiety or guilt. Like, it's TV. It helps sometimes. Let's all calm the fuck down. But I have one regret, and it's that I ever let him watch Thomas The Tank Engine and his simpy friends. Ugh, this show. It didn't bother me at first because it's from the UK which usually ensures it'll be cool, and the sets were charming and la-di-da. But of late it's the one show he actually requests and could watch until the cows come home if we let him and I realized too late that it is stealthily AWFUL.

In case you're unfamiliar (you lucky thing you), it's a show about this idyllic island where one stuffy rich dude runs the railroad and everyone gets around by train and all the trains have their own personality quirks and special talents. But really this is the formula: X train gets X assignment from Sir Topham Hatt, the aforementioned power trip guy. X train decides he knows better than the powers-that-be and decides to do things his own way because it worked out so well last time he did it. X train fails and is publicly chastised. X train then goes back and does it the way he was supposed to in the first place, and is treated like a hero when if he had just done what they were supposed to do it would save a lot of time and resources and humiliation. Much emphasis is put on being "really useful,"  and someone is always cross with someone. In the end, all the trains and other vehicles and people are a bunch of pigheaded dicks with no apparent short-term memory, but they accomplish something or other that gets the children cheering. Manufactured crises, hooray!

Now I'm not saying that all programming for kids must have a moral, but this show seems to insist on teaching lessons. Whatever the lesson is, however, is entirely convoluted. There's an overarching theme of cooperation and conformity, and there's always something about learning from one's stupid, ego-driven mistakes, but the thing is nobody ever learns. The next episode they're back to square one. And now it's all computer animated so it doesn't even have the quaint looking model stop-motion thing going for it. If you have any control over it, do what I did with stupid grating Caillou and pre-prejudice your kid against it.

It's too late to steer HR away from the Cult of Thomas now, but I do my best to supplement with exposure to less confusing and stringent children's characters. Outside of books, for which he thankfully hasn't given up his enthusiasm, HR also enjoys all things Muppets related, with an occasional foray into Yo Gabba Gabba, of which I wholeheartedly approve. Sure it's weird and too-hip-for-its-own-good and a bit creepy, but there's a lot of emphasis on dancing and Biz Markie has his own segment teaching kids how to beatbox. I mean come on, I feel like that's an idea they stole from me.

In conclusion, Thomas is the worst.

Anyway, here's something that came from England that doesn't suck.

Incidentally, All Women Named Mrs. Garrett Are Wise

Two fantastically amazing things happened over the weekend:

1) My cousin gave birth to a gorgeous 10-pound baby boy (who was in no rush to leave the womb, that's for sure) and in addition to wonder that is his presence in the world, he officially gave  my grandmother the title of great-great-grandmother.

2) One of my oldest dearests got engaged-- just when you thought I was out of loved ones to get married. I'm so thrilled for him and his bride to be.

The rest of it is a haze of babynotsleeping (OMG when does teething end?) and sadness as I realize that today marks one year since our dear friend Leo passed.

You take the good, you take the bad - 80s sitcom theme songs have so much to teach us about life. But I won't go so far as to link one here.