Mean Mama!

Little Husband's latest party trick is to grab the newspaper while I am reading it, crunch it up with all his might, and then cry inconsolably when I won't let him eat it.

Feeling Old

I was emailing a prospective sitter and I noticed that her email address was her last name, first initial and the number 85. "85"? I asked myself. "I wonder what that stands for? She's a senior in college, so it can't be the year that she graduated. Perhaps it's the year that her dad graduated from high school or college. That would be weird, though. Why would she include her dad's graduation year in her email address?"

After a few more minutes of musing, it hit me: 85...the year that she was born.

Dear Santa

Last year, I wrote about a neighbor whom we fondly refer to as Santa. Santa is a quirky guy---probably hovering near 70---who lives in one of the 1950's condos next door. Santa has been the center of this drama and this drama and is a constant source of mild amusement to both me and Husband. Last September he stopped me as I pulled out of my driveway and told me all some mysterious presents he has for Little Husband. After reading this post about it, many friends advised me to avoid receiving the presents altogether. I felt this was wise advice so I complied.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. My life has slowed down considerably since Little Husband's birth and I find myself ever fascinated with the goings-on in everyone else's life. It's not that I am a busybody, per se, it's just that I now have more time to think and care about other people. At least that's what I told myself the other day as I was digging around in the abandoned corner lot, trying to uncover the reason why Husband heard someone digging there at 10:30 on a stormy, moonless night.

I know I'm digressing, but I feel that I must first relay this story. Husband was walking the dogs around the block after a heavy thunderstorm. The block is a 1/2 mile long. As he neared the far end of the block, the one with the abandoned house and wild, overgrown lot, he heard the unmistakable sound of a shovel clanging against dirt and rock. The owner of the property died over a year ago, and the property has fallen into ruin. As Husband rounded the corner for a better view, he spied an old, beat-up pick-up truck parked on the side of the road. Not one to invite trouble and sensing that something bad was going down, Husband got out of there quickly. He came home, told me the story and my imagination went wild. I resolved to visit the site the very next day and inspect the grounds for signs of a fresh grave or buried treasure. The thought of possible danger thrilled me but, of course, I could not subject Little Husband to such danger. I had to go alone.

It took several days, but I finally found the opportunity to go down to the lot and take a look around. I ventured timidly onto the property with my dogs as if they had "led" me there and I was merely following. As the minutes ticked by I grew bolder and ventured deeper into the property near the shed where Husband heard the digging. I lasted all of three minutes before I hightailed it out of there fearing that a boogeyman or crazy, ranting homeless guy would pop out of the shed and give chase. I never did discover why that person was digging on that dark and stormy night, but I did see a pile of rocks that I decided must be a human grave. I'll have to go back and inspect that another day.

Back to Santa. So I'm running on the track near my house one Saturday morning and suddenly I see Santa. I run a few more laps and then slow down to walk beside him. "What's new, Santa?" (I don't really call him that). "Not much---and yew?" he asked in his East Texas drawl. Since he asked, I told him. I talked all about Little Husband's heart condition and surgery and how well he is doing. "Ya know...I never did give you that gift I got fer the little fella." Santa mused. "Well you'll just have to bring it on by!" I told him. Hey, I blame it on runner's high.

A few days later I was out on my front porch and heard Santa milling around in his doorway. "Is that you, Santa?" I called over the fence. "Yup!" he responded. "I'm coming over!" I announced as I made my way down the porch steps. "Oh no---don't do that! Let me come over." Santa sounded slightly panicked--the way you might sound if your house is a mess and you don't want someone to see it. "No problem, I"ll wait right here."

A few minutes later I saw a flash of blue on the other side of the fence and there was Santa rounding the corner and bearing gifts like a Wise Man. He looked so proud as he marched up our walkway clutching his treasures.

And what were his treasures, you might ask? A gently used globe and a children's dictionary. I was touched but also ashamed of myself for avoiding this little gift exchange for so long. Mostly I was touched. I could think of no reason why Santa would spend his time and energy on me and my son, but he did and he did so without asking for anything in return.

Well, he did ask for a babysitting job but I think I successfully dodged that one.

You Asked for It

Because I am extremely busy doing next to nothing (what *do* I do all day??? I have no idea!) I haven't been keeping up with my blog. Someone, I won't say who, is emotionally blackmailing me to post something so here it is.

Here's Little Husband eating his gruel:



Here's the little bird opening his mouth in the hopes that I will spoon some mashed peas into it:



And here he is caterwauling like a feral cat (his latest party trick):




There is absolutely nothing wrong, mind you, he's just screeching for the sake of screeching. He refuses to exhibit this behavior when he knows he's on camera which is why we have to resort to trickery. Our theory is that he doesn't want his beloved grandmothers to know what he is really like.