Am I 8?

Harry loves to sing to me in the car on the way to school.  Sometimes it's that "if all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops" song, but only because he likes the part where he gets to say "a-ah-a-ah-a-a-ah-a-ah-ah" really, really loud.

He's now picked up the tune to what I learned as Frere Jacques, but which doubles as:  the blessing, that days of the week song, and, of course, Where is Thumbkin.  That last one is going to get me in trouble.

For those of you unfamiliar, here's the first stanza (sung to the tune of Frere Jacque, or Brother John for the anti-French):

Where is Thumbkin (hold up your right thumb)
Where is Thumbkin (hold up your left thumb)
Here I am (make your right thumb wiggle up and down as if nodding)
Here I am (ditto for your left thumb)
How are you today sir (more right thumb wiggling)
Very well I thank you (switch to the left)
Run away (right thumb behind your back)
Run away (I'm guessing you've figured out what happens next)

Putting aside the wisdom of singing this song with movements while driving, you repeat the verse with Pointer, Tall Man, Ring Finger (yeah, that's a little much to shove into the verse, I bet there's a real lyric around somewhere), and then Pinkie.  Harry loves it.  Especially the "run away" part.  He's really cute.  I, on the other hand, am a pre-teen boy.

Everytime, and I mean EVERYTIME he gets to tall man I giggle hysterically.  Seriously, there he is, my little two year old, flicking himself off in the back seat.  That's funny right?  Right?  He thinks it's funny.  Well, he thinks something is funny, because he laughs, and does it again and again and again.  Driving to school is fun.

Start 'Em Young. Raise 'Em Right.

Saturday.  Coastal Carolina.  Big Win (woo-hoo).  Ellie bogarts my ticket and scampers off to Athens with her daddy.  She was super, super, super bummed after the loss to the cocks last week, mostly because she was deprived of the opportunity to ring the bell.  I am quite proud of the fact that she knows the bell is ONLY, and I mean absolutely ONLY rung after a win.  If you ring it before a win or after a loss you will be personally responsible for the ills that befall the Dawgs, their fans, and every resident in the State of Georgia.  She knows this.  She gets the ramifications.  She's a good little Dawg fan. 

So she was thrilled beyond all belief to get to do this Saturday:

She rang the heck out of that bell.  She told us all about it when she got home.

Meanwhile, on the back porch of 337 St. Mary's, Harry was learning a few lessons of his own*:

*Note, the beer was empty, or at least that's what Aunt Mamie says, but you know how she hates children, so....

Pretty top notch Dawg calling for a two year old.  I like that he can bark WITH a beer bottle in his mouth.  Stellar. 

He can even do it covered in spaghetti:

Ok, so maybe the barking needs a little work.  He sounds a little like a chimpanzee.  I'll take it.

Rushing The Season

Busted out the jeans today for the kids.  Ellie rocked a pair of skinnies (I stand by my earlier assertions that those things are made for 5 year olds--she looked fabulous) and a fancy pants tunic she got from the Glovers.  Harry fratted out in his whiskered blues and checked button down--monogrammed, of course.

After confirmation from my little sis that it was perfectly appropriate, I threw on the Frye boots.  Gawd how I have missed you, my precious.  I know it's going to be 90 degrees next week, but I don't care.  The seasons are in:  birds, boots, bourbon and ball (of the non-European foot variety).

Speaking of non-European football, for your viewing pleasure:

If We Lost, Why Do I Feel Like We Won?

Not a win this weekend, but I am surprisingly not mad about it.  Maybe I'm mellowing.  Maybe the presence of these two made me appreciate the good things that happened Saturday.

This was Harry's first real game.  He made it to G-Day this year, but that is not the tactical nightmare that the SEC home opener can be...and that's before you add in a five year old and a two year old.  That said, they were both fantastic.

Harry ran around the tailgate for most of the day with a Georgia helmet on.  He looked remarkably like AJ wearing his #8.  I think we've done him a disservice by naming him "Blindside" at this young age.  His skill set is improving.

Ellie somehow made it onto the Chi Phi lawn.  After I told her "no."  After I informed her that five year olds do not attend band parties.  After she sobbed on the tailgate of Mr. Berta's truck for ten minutes because mommy wouldn't let her go meet Lil' P-Nut.  "Who is Lil' P-Nut" you might ask; to which I would respond, "not really sure, I'm guessing the seven year old protege of Lil' Wayne, so clearly you understand my trepidation." 

Despite my mandate, she got there.  She came back.  She said, "umm, mommy, that wasn't as cool as I thought it would be;" to which I responded, "Chi Phi never is baby... it never is."

At the game Ellie was concerned with two things, the score and cotton candy.  We spent the day doing scoreboard math:  "they've got 28 we've got 20 we have GOT to score eight more points, wait we need nine more points, is that right, ok."  The agony she felt when they went ahead for good was epic and very charming.  She wanted to know why we let them do that.  I didn't have a good answer for her other than "Murray doesn't know when to take a sack."  That satisfied her.

The cotton candy hunt took Wes on a thirty minute scenic tour of the stadium.  Five minutes after they returned, the cotton candy vendor showed up next to us.  Timing is everything...unless you're Mike Bobo.  HEY-O.

Harry learned the cadence to "Goooooooooooooooo DAWGS!  Sic Em! OOOO OOOOO OOOOO OOOOO," and said it over and over and over and over.  He smacked all of our seat mates in the their heads, necks and backs with his pom pom over and over and over.  And he cheered at the right times over and over and over.  He said "wook, mama (or daddy) putball," several times, and he managed to stay awake, nap free, after a hard working tailgate, for the entire game with nary a tear.  Troopers--both of them.  Once back in the car, I could hear him whispering "sic em ooo ooo ooo ooo."  Never give up!

The Dawgs played better than I expected but made several bone headed mistakes that cost us the game.  They'll figure it out and we'll all simmer down and the boys will win some football games.  If not, the offseason will be interesting.  But that said, Saturday was one of those days that is burned into my memory.  My sweet babies learning to call the Dawgs, my ever patient and flexible husband and 92,000 of our closest friends.  Go Dawgs!

P.S.  Ellie may be going again next week.  She told us she doesn't want to go to anymore "big games."  They take too long and it's hard to find cotton candy.  Word.  She says she likes the "little games."  Coastal Carolina sounds perfect.  May the cotton candy be plentiful and the game be a yawner!  I'll have dinner ready when they get home.

Let's Try This Again

Not sure what to expect tomorrow between the hedges, but here's the good news:

We won't see this:

Or this:

Or, God forbid, any semblance of this:

Regardless of how things go on the field (and I'm trying to be optimistic, truly I am), we will not be visually assaulted by Nike's misguided attempt at fashion this Saturday. 

Get the picture, now, Dawgs in those red shirts, silver britches, and red helmet with the big G on the side. 

Now, if we see something that looks like this ↑ (I'm looking at you #1, whichever one of you is wearing it) I will be eternally grateful to the football gods.

GO DAWGS!

WORST. GAME. EVER.

Here's how Saturday went down:
1.  Unreasonably hot tailgate.*

2.  Unreasonably stupid ballgame.

3.  Dead car battery at midnight after said unreasonably stupid ballgame.

4.  Unreasonably long search for someone, anyone, with jumper cables.

5.  One of five gameday buddies (for the record there where originally six gameday buddies in the car, we had lost one) , while attempting to climb over Suburban seat, puts her hand through ceramic dish decorated with the Arch and fried chicken grease.

6.  Several good Samaritans come to our rescue.  Chip, without hesitation, rips off his Georgia t-shirt (now that I think about it, not that big of a sacrifice given the recent on field debacle) and applies appropriate pressure to the spurting wound.

7.  Paramedics are called.

8.  A Downtown Atlanta resident of extremely questionable gender is flagged down on Marietta Street and wheels into the parking deck in his, er her, um whatever, awesome ride to save our bacon--car is successfully jumped off.

9.  Paramedics arrive, provide some assistance and tell us to go on our merry way.

10.  We arrive at Kennestone Hospital where I sit until the walking wounded's mother comes to take over for me.  Twelve stiches to her palm later, she leaves.  I am crashed out at home by this time.

Seriously, if the South Carolina game blows this bad I'm becoming a Georgia State fan.  Seems less hazardous.

*Oh, and an unreasonably rambling and never ending walk to find the folks with our tickets because someone, and I'm not metioning any names here but it rhymes with Jes Pith, had not arranged for that little detail prior to the tailgating festivities. This resulted in the mother of all blisters on the back of my heel which is now adorably covered with a Curious George bandaid.

Yep.  GO DAWGS!

Priorities? They've Been Known to Change

I am not sure when in my life this:

Became more important to me than this:

But at this point, faced with the dilemma as to whether to get a fantastically perfect red hot biscuit from Mountain Biscuit when I am absolutely starving on a Thursday morning, or skip it and save my equally fantastic red hot shoes from the dangers of MB's full on gravel parking lot, I go with the red hot biscuit. 

Mmmmmm, red hot biscuit.