Cute and Cuddly My Ass

I know, I know.  I'll try to be more diligent on the posting.  Onward.

We have a garden.  I like the idea of a garden.  Ellie LOVES the idea of the garden.  Wes is obsessed with the garden.  Since the garden is not a train, Harry does not care about the garden.  There.  All our bases are covered. 

Recently I have been coming home from work to find Wes forlornly holding decimated green tomatoes in his hand. Tomatoes that have not met their tomato sandwich destiny.  Instead, their spotless smooth green skins have been pierced by the fangs of some insidious garden beast.  Ellie will tell me with all the compassion of an Emergency Room doctor, touching her little hand to my shoulder and affecting a very concerned look, "Daddy found more tomatoes that have been eaten.  He's very sad."  I try to muster up the appropriate level of gravitas, but really I'm just thinking that Whole Foods has some really nice tomatoes and I've never seen teeth marks in them.  I'm also thinking did I put that wine in the fridge yesterday?  I really need some wine.  Oh, right, tomatoes.  Yeah, that sucks.

Fast forward a couple of days.  Wes has decided it's a varmint (his words, I'm not kidding, yes, I live with Yosemite Sam) that's damaging our "crop."  He sets out rat traps.  He catches something.  In my mind, moments before it fell into the trap it looked like this:

Yep.  That's a chipmunk. 

Apparently, he's got friends, so the battle wages on.  Even today.  Luckily, I think we may get some help on the front lines. 

Last Sunday our pastor gave the children's sermon on the rabbits in his front yard.  He was expressing his pleasure in watching the rabbits frolic in the yard and about how much he and his wife wanted the rabbits to feel welcome.  Midway through this discussion a little voice pipes up:  "do the rabbits eat your vegetables?"  Now, just who do you think interrupted the pastor?  I'll give you one guess.  He assures her that there are no vegetables in his front yard and the rabbits aren't hurting anything.  The sermon continues uninterrupted.  However, as she's processing out she stops, turns, walks up to Dr. Sam and says (none too quietly...not a trait she inherited) "WE DON'T HAVE RABBITS...WE HAVE CHIPMUNKS...THEY EAT OUR TOMATOES...BUT MY DADDY KILLED THEM SO IT'S OKAY." 

Dr. Sam had a hard time getting his composure back for the big kids' sermon.

An Open Letter From Your Friendly Neighborhood Elf



He's not impressed.

 Dear Friends and Family,

Another Tacky Sweater Party has come and gone.  While I am pleased that everyone presumably had an amazing time, I feel I would be remiss if I did not address certain behaviors that I, and my boss, find troubling. 

Despite the fact that my line of work does subject me to the high potential for injury from toddler maiming or falls from precarious perches, I do not, at present, have the need for an attorney.  Therefore, I must insist that you refrain from filling the cubbies on the Smith family advent calendar with your business cards.  I assure you, if the day comes when I need the assistance of C. Lee Davis, Jeffery L. Dickerson, Ryan G. Prescott, Suzanne T. Prescott, Carey Olson or Clay Seaton O'Daniel, I will know where to find you.  I always know where to find you.  In the meantime, I have no need for the business cards (or 9 business cards in the case of Mr. O'Daniel...you're an eager one) you so graciously left for me in the space generally reserved for the deposit of children's gifts.

Similarly, I am currently without the need of the services of one Amy M. Harrison.  As Santa pays me in leftover Christmas Cookies and Eggnog, I have no taxable income and no use for an accountant.  Thankfully the laws at the North Pole are flexible in that regard. 

As for the office furniture salesman and "Keith" working for Intelux, you have demonstrated excellent networking skills in having your cards delivered without (1) being present at the party, or (2) ever having met the Smiths before.  Santa likes to reward dedication to the job.  You can expect a little extra in your stocking this year.  Clever.  As a devious elf, I can appreciate that.

While I am thankful for your willingness to serve, I do ask, in the future, please do not make my job more difficult by unnecessarily crowding the calendar.  I'm a small elf.  Those cards are hard for me to dispose of.  Also, I must ask that you please conduct yourselves like adults in the future.  Crab risotto appetizers are meant to be eaten, not tossed at each other as in a middle school food fight, for some poor elf to pick up the next day.  Remember, Santa is watching.  Please, govern yourselves accordingly.

Sincerely,

Jacque-Jacque Le Elf

Child Observational Specialist, First Class

Life Imitates Art. Or Is It The Other Way Around?

I'm not sure she's a true artiste, but Ellie's drawings are definitely becoming more realistic.  Just last week she came home with this:

I asked her who was in the picture.  She says (with an exaggerated eye roll) "Mommy, of course it's you telling me 'no'!"  Well, of course.  How silly of me.

Thanksgiving Tidbit: Indians STILL Wear Hairbows

As was discussed last Thanksgiving: Things the History Books Don't Tell Us, historians and social anthropologists have discovered that Native Americans displayed bowhead tendencies. The historical evidence is mounting:

2009 Thanksgiving Feast:

Same Little Indians, one year later:

There is a rising concern among experts that the bows are seemingly growing.  We can only hope that this trend does not continue.  Any further increase in bow size could have massive cultural and ecological ramifications.

Rip Van Harry

Harry caused us a little concern last night.  He generally takes a late afternoon nap, sometimes not waking up until just before dinner, around 6.  Nanny Melissa tells us he went down at 3.  We're expecting wakeage around 5/5:30.  Dinner time came and went (although there was no dinner yet as I had made up my mind to concoct a lasagna recipe completely and totally from scratch, noodles and all) without a sound.  We let him snooze. 

Dinner actually hit the table at 8pm (did you read the part about totally from scratch--marinara, bechamel--on a Tuesday!).  Not a peep.  At this point we know we have to make a call.  To wake him, or let it ride.  If we wake him at 8 he may not go back down until midnight.  If we don't, he may wake up at midnight.  Sort of a lose/lose.  Plus, he's going to be hungry when he finally rouses.  A hungry Harry is never, ever pretty.

I went the "never wake a sleeping baby" route, crossed my fingers, said a prayer and hoped Wes would take pity on me when he woke.  Being the good husband that he (usually) is, Wes did get up with him...when he finally decided to wake up and start playing in his crib at 6:15 a.m.  Fifteen hours and fifteen minutes after falling asleep he sat up, looked around his crib, and starting wailing on Baby Tad:

Not that he didn't deserve it.  That frog is irritating. 

Harry seemed no worse for wear.  In fact he was downright chipper this morning:

He says to me when Wes plops him in our bed, "hi ya ma ma, yeah uh-huh" which is meaty feet speak for morning lady, where's my breakfast?

Ding Ding! Here Comes the Fire Mobile!*

Ellie got to take a "walking" field trip to the Fire Station here on the Marietta Square yesterday. She was THRILLED that her daddy got to chaperone (not sure the feeling was mutual). The best part is, Daddy got pictures!

No, not this one:

But these:

She got to "ride" on the fire truck. 

She even got a fireman's hat and badge!

They learned from the guys at the fire station that fire trucks used to be pulled by horses.  BFF Mary Riley asked if they were winged, Pegasus horses, which would have made putting out fires a WHOLE lot cooler back in the day, but I think they shot that idea down.  Alas.

All in all an excellent field trip.

*With apologies to Maddox, creator of The Best Page in the Universe. http://maddox.xmission.com/.  I'm sure this is not the purpose for which he intended his work.  Beware, content is not fit for people without a sense of sick, inappropriate humor, or anyone under the age of 18, or anyone with a soul.

Everybody Say Cheese Yee-Ha!

She is definitely my child.  New outfit = insane mugging for the camera.  She was so excited about her new denim skirt that she wanted me to take a picture of her in it for her Daddy to send to him in Vegas.  She would NOT, however, just pose in a sweet, little girl fashion.  She insisted on saying "Yee-Ha" and when I begged her to say cheese so she wouldn't have a weird facial expression, she compromised by shouting "CHEESE YEE-HA" instead.  Here is the result:

Harry, by the way, refused to participate in this farce.  Mostly because he was too busy trying to climb into his high chair.  It was breakfast time.  He was not happy.