The Descendents

Well, sorry to all my 10 followers that I haven't blogged for two straight days. It's been abnormally exciting around Casa de Senyor Madre.

Thursday I had to help chaperone Connor and five of his mates on a birthday trip to the Field Museum--train, bus, museum (walk walk walk walk walk), bus, train. That was also the real birthday of Senyor Madre's Senyora, Carrie, who had to work all day. She got presents and cards from me and the kids in the morning, then a cake and champagne at night.

Friday was a regular day, and Saturday she worked and we went to a party at night. Sunday, hung over, Connor's real birthday (cake and presents in the morn). Connor's Dad took him to the Sox game, where he paid to have Connor's birthday wishes announced over the P.A. and put on the scoreboard. Then, I took the little ones to the gym, while Carrie slept and then I took Maggie and Gavin to Morton Arboretum for a couple hours of wet and climby shenanigans.

It was our date night for her birthday, which was attended--surprise!--by five of her closest friends at a local joint. They let me in on their sex talk and gossip, and I held my own (as I usually do; it is mine after all).

Determined to blog, even though I still am hung over and very sleepy, so it's all for you, Damien.

Carrie thought I should blog tonight about the seemingly-hilarious take I have on farting, and couples who make sport of it. Bottom line--I don't fart in her presence, and I don't understand tolerance of it, let alone bonding over it. As I at-my-wit's-end explained to the group of ladies--IT IS GAS FROM YOUR ASS AND IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT! How can that be in any way fun to share?

Instead I want to blog about a guilty pleasure I have that may be harming my children long-term. Of course, I'm referring to getting the toddlers to repeat phrases they say incorrectly but sound so cute. Parents, you know what I'm talking about, turn yourselves in. (That's not the same as me wanting you to share your experiences in the comments section; if you want to do that, start a blog--our kids' cutenesses are never as cute to others).

Connor was really into Thomas the Tank Engine for a long time. I met Connor when he was 2.5 years old, just as the Island of Sodor began to weave its magic spell on him. The mayor or don or burgermeister of the isle was, and still may be, Sir Topham Hat.

Connor would always exclaim, not say, the guy's name without the Sir, and end the Topham with an 'n'. So, "Top-an hat!" I would prod him to say it many times a day.

I don't remember what Maggie would say that would make me manipulate her in the same manner, but I would listen over and over to a voicemail I saved on which Carrie called me during jury duty and made Maggie gigglesnort to the Bananas Split theme song, so much so that at the end of the message, Carrie says, "Oh, I'm exhausted." Smiling, like blinking and the beating of the heart, is involuntary.

Gavin calls Mr. Potato Head "Tooty Head." When I say that to him, he will respond by saying "No Tooty Head" mainly because he doesn't know why I would bring up that toy out of nowhere. Still, the victory is mine.

Darcy is just past this now, but for a couple months recently, would ask me (and probably anyone else) "What doing, Daddy?" or "Daddy, what doing?" Can't get enough of that, so I ask her the same thing, "Darcy, what doing?" It's a bonus when they play along and say it back because they know you're playing.

The little goblins do and say a lot of other funny and endearing and sweet things, but you knew that, and I want to go find something cold to drink.

I'll be doing the blog thingy every other day from now on, so, see ya Tuesday. I have a freelance assignment I'm working on (90 cents a word, baby) and a business meeting at White Chocolate Cafe Wednesday, so, as you can see, I'm moving and shaking when I'm not coercing toddlers and blogging and collecting unemployment money.