Look -- something shiny!

In the hopes of distracting you from realizing how neglectful I've been of this blog ... oh, darn! It's too late, you say? Eh. Great. Oh well. I can't even call this a reward for reading so faithfully. So this isn't a distraction, and it's not a reward. But it's something.



Please excuse my messy office and stupid voice.

Full-on ramble

- I can't seem to find a quarter of the things on my list when I go to a store lately. Not just food shopping, but places like Target or the craft store. I'm not looking for hard-to-find items. Has the recession made stores stop carrying stuff? I guess we'll know when people start fighting over the last package of toilet paper (er, "bathroom tissue" if you're fancy).

- My health insurance company asked me to enroll in a healthy-pregnancy program that would give me access to a nurse on the phone around the clock. It sounded good until they kept calling and leaving messages, and then when I would return the calls and be on hold for three minutes, I'd hang up. And the process would start over again. When I actually got to talk to someone to find out what they wanted, it was a guy asking me questions about very private parts, and I told him I wanted out of the program. Two weeks later, they sent me a $50 gift card and a guidebook to pregnancy. I hurried and spent the money before they realized what had happened . . . .

- Related to that, I am running out of patience lately. Or at least, I don't seem to have a great tolerance for Fly's shenanigans. The past few days of terrible-two behavior have had me greatly stressing. And I had myself a little meltdown yesterday. JP was there for me. He came home early and told me to get out of the house for a little while. I love him. Marriage definitely has its perks. He didn't even blink when I told him I'd send him a postcard.

- By the way, does anyone know how to get a two-and-a-half-year-old to listen and do what he's told?

- Specifically, not to run away from me and make me chase him and then carry him bodily back to where he needs to be? My pregnant body just isn't up for that anymore. This is how fast I have to run to catch up to him:



- And because today is Take Your Child to Work Day, I think it would be a splendid idea for JP to do just that.

- A friend told me crushed Cap'n Crunch cereal was good to coat chicken with before you bake it. Another friend said wheat germ was good too. So I bought both. Guess which one I've already had two bowls full of?

- Speaking of Cap'n Crunch, have you looked at the box lately? Doesn't it seem as though the company has "Sponge Bob-ized" the look of all the characters? Everyone looks stark raving mad.

- I am thinking about getting my hair cut. As in, seriously shortened. I've had short hair three times in my life. See my blog header? My hair isn't that long. But it has been. However, I just don't have time for it. Or patience. (See above.) And when the baby comes, it will probably look like a rat's nest unless I cut it to a length I can maintain because it is inhumanely thick (I get it thinned once or twice a year) and curly (but not in a good way). I just do not want to turn my hair into a hobby.

- So what's a good style for a hexagon-shaped face?

- We were going to go away this weekend to use tickets to a water theme park we bought before the Junebug came into being. Now we have about a month to use the tickets before they expire, and I am forbidden from going down any water slides while pregnant even though it is one of the most fun things to do in the world. (Yes, I am 11 years old.) Our plan was to drive there Friday night, play in the water on Saturday and come home Sunday. But we had to buy a new water heater unexpectedly. And a car-repair bill cost about 40% more than estimated. Now our dishwasher is broken. And we have to pay the doula. So two nights at a hotel would be financially irresponsible. If I could just talk JP into driving there and back on the same day, then we wouldn't need a hotel . . . .

- Actually, it might be easier to talk myself out of thinking it would be fun to heft my big, lazy body around a place where a bunch of skinny people were walking around and having a great time on the water slides. ("That should be me . . . sob!") Yeah, maybe not the best way to spend a Saturday.

Someday, I might visit the Bahamas and actually not be pregnant

So over the weekend, we went to the Bahamas (I know!) to celebrate our anniversary. It was a wedding anniversary for JP and me, but it was also a sort of anniversary for Fly, who visited the Bahamas in utero on our "babymoon."

Although it's been a year and a half since Fly got his passport, this was his first international trip. (Come to think of it, it was also his first out-of-state trip.)

But Fly discovered some aspects of international travel aren't all that glamorous, like waiting in lines at the cruise port before the sun even rose.



The promise of getting on a big boat helped, though.



And it was great to look out our cabin window and see the ocean.



Or not.

The cabin was small, and the beds were slightly more comfortable than ambulance stretchers, and some characters think it's funny to photograph people while they are sleeping.



When we settled into our resort in Port Lucaya, we discovered in a cruel slap from Mother Nature that the temperature was actually a bit cooler in the Bahamas than it was at home. For about two hours, though, it was warm enough to play on the beach.





We also spent some time in the marketplace square, which couldn't be more charming.



At nighttime, there is live music in the square. Fly asked me to dance.



But he quickly turned his attention to another woman.



I couldn't compete with that.

It was fun going back to the same place we went to three years ago, only this time with friends -- and a toddler.

Not much had changed there since last time. See? Here I was, six months pregnant with Fly:



And back again, four months along with our little Junebug:



Even if I couldn't enjoy the fruity Bahama Mama drinks, I guess I kind of am a Bahama Mama.



JP and I are so glad we went back -- and we feel so blessed to have each other and celebrate another year of togetherness.

Hurt and gratitude

A new life coming into the world. A beautiful baby to celebrate. (Aren't all babies beautiful, really?) You would think any time a person says, "I am having a baby!" that you would congratulate the mother or father. It's the polite and reasonable thing to do -- even if you are a stranger who doesn't know the person.

We rejoice with those who rejoice.

Except for JP's sister.

When JP told his sister the news that we are expecting another baby, she made a rude and untrue comment to him. Then she sarcastically said, "Congratulations," and cut off the conversation.

That was one of perhaps five times I've known my husband to cry.

Not every family is perfect, and relationships can be fragile. Something, somewhere, went wrong with our relationship with JP's sister. We don't know what that is. But I certainly never expected her to make her brother cry when she should have been sharing in his happiness.

As disturbing as this is, I am overwhelmed by your comments and good wishes -- overwhelmed and grateful.

Thank you.

The state of things

I'm sitting here on a Friday night with my whole head smelling like olive oil, my husband alternately coughing, moaning and winking at me (likely a fresh case of conjunctivitis, if you ask Dr. Damselfly, along with a cold) and wondering where my day has gone. Where my week has gone. Where my mind has gone.

First, the olive oil: You know the economy. The one that almost doesn't really exist? I decided to sacrifice my salon highlighting habit in the name of the family budget. This meant a trip to my (former) favorite stylist to, as I said, "reverse my highlights." When it was all done, he declared me, as he said, "a raven-haired beauty." Oh, hee hee. It wasn't until I got home and looked at myself in good lighting (why shouldn't a salon, of all places, have decent lighting?) that I realized he was right. I now look like a contestant in the Miss Goth Universe pageant. My hair is pretty much black.

I should note my hair has never naturally been this dark.

So I consulted my next-favorite stylist, Google, and learned I could strip away some of the color by putting Prell shampoo on my dry hair for 45 minutes. (This required a trip to the store. I don't keep Prell around at home.) Then wash it out, watch the dye go down the drain, and apply hot oil.

I may have just ruined three towels with hair dye stains. And nearly burned my scalp.

But my hair still looks black.

Can I say it? Lather, rinse, repeat as needed. Tomorrow morning.

Now, the husband: He is clearly sick. Two nights ago, he came home, slumped over dinner, went to bed without saying a word and fell asleep. Leaving me to entertain and take care of Fly for the rest of the night. JP finally woke up ... just as I was putting Fly to bed.

Today, he went to the doctor, who told him he doesn't have a cold -- he has a respiratory infection. I asked him what the difference was. He said he didn't know. Back to Google again, and voila! Apparently a cold is a respiratory infection. But I think the "respiratory infection" proclamation just gives him a good reason to shuffle around the house and go to bed early. I know you're not supposed to hold grudges, but I clearly remember having mastitis once with little sympathy from JP, and another time I had a bad cold (couldn't take anything because I was nursing) and JP left me with Fly all day to go to a car show.

I've heard it said before, but it's true: When it comes to being sick, men are just big babies.

And now that I pointed out to him his left eye has been red for hours and it's oozing goo, having a possible case of pinkeye will just give him an additional reason to get out of doing things. Anything. All he needs now is to stub his toe really good, because then he clearly couldn't be expected to walk.

I'm not really trying to come down hard on JP (you know how much I appreciate my husband).

But this is all plenty to make a mama grumpy. Between a sick husband, my hair crisis, preparation for Thanksgiving and then a weeklong vacation, and being so behind in my to-do list that a birthday gift I started making for Fly (who turned two in September) will now be a Christmas gift if I'm lucky -- and assorted unraveled nerves as of late -- I need to take a blogging break. I need time away from the computer to slow down and yet catch up on real life. To make my hair brown again. I hope to pop in now and then, but I won't be around much until some time in December. I'd love to blog through my vacation, but I've heard Internet access rates there are crazy.

So, I will miss you and you and you, and I hope you have a great Thanksgiving. Don't mind my olive-oil-infused tears ... maybe they will make the wrinkles around my eyes go away.

He's mine

Maybe it's because JP knows I am having "one of those days" day after day lately.

Maybe he just wanted to do something nice.

Maybe the universe is being kind to me.

But when I saw a top on eBay I had to have -- then saw the bidding price escalate way past what I would ever pay for it -- JP bid a crazy amount of money at the last minute so I would win.

And last night when I realized I had no breakfast to take to a mom's group meeting today, when it was my turn to bring breakfast, he went out to buy muffins and fruit, and made a fruit salad while I bathed Fly and put him to bed.

He also brought me chocolate ice cream bars.

And he's been a generally all-around nice, understanding good guy.

Sometimes, my husband is the only thing that makes life bearable.

And times like these, I just can't believe he's mine.

The photo that got away

How did I miss this photo that made me fall in love with my baby-who's-not-a-baby all over again? This amazing, pre-teeth, spontaneous grin from about 22 months ago?

Oh, yeah -- it was on my husband's computer.

When is someone going to invent a time machine so I can go back to that day?

My trophy

On the couch we hardly use. In the living room. I think only a handful of guests have sat on it. But I was sitting on it then. The room was dark, except for lines of light shining through the slats of the window blinds. I wanted to be somewhere dark, to hide. I put my feet up on the good table because I didn't care.

That was it -- I just didn't care.

No -- I did care. I just wondered why I even bothered.

Because you love him, I answered myself immediately. If you didn't love Fly, it wouldn't bother you. The opposite of love isn't hate; it's indifference.

Yadda, yadda, yadda, I told myself back.

If I can't even get along with myself, how can I expect anyone else to? Especially someone who's not even two years old?

I crossed my arms and tried to put myself back together while going over the day and what I could have done differently to make it better. When Fly threw everything off the table at the restaurant, turning a drink into a puddle on the floor and causing the manager to quip, "Want a refund on this piece of bread?" When he almost pulled the earring out of my ear, slapped my face, pinched me and pulled my hair from its clip, all while screaming. When Fly repeatedly climbed onto the glass table JP made -- but not quite well enough to stand up to stomping feet -- and I had to put him in timeout. Twice. When he defiantly grabbed a book I was reading to him out of my hands and threw it across the room. When I finally put him, thrashing and wailing, into his crib for the night. What could I have done differently to make it better? There must be something I'm not doing right, or just don't know that I should be doing -- some key ingredient to parenting that got left out of our family recipe.

The couch was getting softer, the room darker, and my thoughts couldn't walk a straight line. I was thinking about how nice it would be to not be thinking and instead just go to sleep.

Then JP found me and sat down next to me on the couch. He got me talking about things other than tantrums and timeouts and the spectrum of discipline theories. He told me he's glad we think the same way about raising Fly.

And JP told me he thinks I'm doing a good job. Inwardly, I brushed it off, certain I am not.

But because the only awards passed out for mothering toddlers come from fathers' encouraging words, that's the trophy I'm placing on top of my mental shelf, and the hope I'm hanging onto today.

You might be a reformed white-trash mom if...

I've heard you can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl. Once a country girl, always a country girl?

Is that true for white trash too?

What I mean is, maybe I'm white trash and don't know it. Or maybe I'm still white trash -- just a little bit reformed.

Tell me what you think:

You dress your child in camo,



but the pajamas are from Baby Gap.

You own a pair of faded, frayed shorts like this,



but you never wear them.

You often look like you're still in the 80s,



but only because you just woke up and haven't done your hair yet.

Your husband keeps a pair of rusting motorcycles in the yard,



but, well, I have no defense here.

Turning lemons into a new bathroom ... or something like that

They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

And when life takes away your Internet and phone access for most of the day, a mama has to find a way to make good use of naptime on a rainy day.

So I finally cut and sewed a ruffly thing for my bathroom.



Oh, wait. I never mentioned my bathroom redo, did I? This is what it used to look like:



Disclaimer: this was after I pulled off the flowered wallpaper the previous owners installed. Which Fly would eventually grow to despise, I'm sure -- so onto a more masculine-looking bathroom.



I really can't describe the color of the walls waiting for me once I got rid of the wallpaper. Except maybe dingey.

Back to the ruffly thing....

I didn't finish the hem yet because the trim I was going to use ended up being too short. And when JP fixed the rod and hung the ruffly thing up, he slid the rod through the wrong casing so there's no ruffle on the top. (Men!) After I finish the hem, I'll put it up right.



Forget lemonade, I like ivory and black for this room much better.

Oh, and here's a little tip from me: never, ever think you can do one little thing in a room. One little thing snowballs into at least a half-dozen things. Getting rid of the flowered wallpaper led to not just a fresh coat of paint, but also new art on the walls, replacing the towel bar with a hook shelf, and new faucets, lighting, soap dispenser and maybe some towels in the near future.

And a new ruffly thing just waiting for a rainy, no-Internet day.

Love hurts

Fly turned 21 months old on Saturday, and the cutest thing he does now is give me a hug and a kiss. He says, "Hug!" (it sounds more like "Haaaag!"), then embraces me. After that, he zones in on my face for an open-mouth kiss -- he doesn't yet get the idea to close your mouth. I'm not sure why he wants to kiss me on the lips, because I've only kissed him on his forehead or cheeks. But from what I hear, these kissing days are short-lived, so I will take any hugs and kisses I can get!

Somehow JP realized Fly can get a little jealous. Yesterday when he came home, JP said to me, "Watch this." He made a big show of kissing me in front of Fly.

Fly squealed, then ran in our direction. "Hug!" he said.

I bent down to give him a hug, but Fly kept coming. Right before he got close to me, he did a weird leap/trip -- honestly, I am still not sure how the laws of physics enabled him to do this -- and he ended up whamming his head upward under my chin.

The sound of my teeth grinding against one another made JP's hair stand on end.

JP didn't know which one of us to comfort first. Fly was wailing the loudest, and JP scooped him up. I think I was speechless for the most part -- not really hurt, but my chin still aches a little if I rub it.

I always wondered what it would be like to have two guys vying for my attention. I didn't imagine calamity....

Take my picture, please!

I love taking snapshots of family and friends and occasionally putting pictures into digital scrapbooking layouts.


Most of the layouts are of Fly, or Fly and JP

Before Fly was born, I created annual DVD slideshows of all the best pictures JP or I took that year, often from our travels.


The northern shore of St. Croix, overlooking Buck Island National Wildlife Refuge

The problem is that even though JP is the one with the photographic expertise and the big cameras, JP doesn't tend to take a lot of pictures of Fly and me together. Fly's album is going to be full of pictures of him and his dad, and very few with me. And that really bugs me, because I spend the most time with him. But also, of course, that's why there are fewer pictures of Fly and me together.

Oh, there are some pictures:


We look so happy in this picture!


"Who are those people, Mama?" "Oh, just other people at the museum." (Get out of my picture, people!)


Showing off our tongues, with a waiter's behind as our backdrop


This one is actually decent, but it was taken five months ago

So, looking forward to Mother's Day, what I would like to have is not a cheesy bottle of perfume or some rocks on a string (aka diamond necklace), but a resolution from JP that he will take more and better pictures of me and my boy together.

The Parent Bloggers Network is asking how moms would like to be recognized on Mother's Day, and you know what I want? Some decent pictures. Please. PBN is partnering with Johnson's Baby Cause program, which promotes health for children and mothers around the world, for this blog blast.

And now we take gift ideas very seriously

Several years BC (before child), I actually used to enjoy flipping through the Victoria's Secret catalog. (These days, I usually don't have time. Plus, I'm really not that interested in seeing super skinny people in their underwear. Not that I ever was....) JP and I would sometimes veg by sitting together and looking at our respective magazines and catalogs, pointing out interesting things to each other.

"Flannel pajamas," I said once, going through a Victoria's Secret catalog. "I love flannel pajamas!"

"Really?" JP asked.

"Sure. They're warm and soft, they go allll the way up to your neck and allll the way down to your ankles and wrists," I said, with a wink in my voice. "See?" I said, showing him the catalog's selection of winter-themed flannel.

JP must have been too absorbed in his own reading, because he didn't detect that I was kidding.

So a couple weeks later when I opened my birthday present from him, I died laughing because what he had given me was this:



(Actually, these aren't the same Victoria's Secret polar bear pajamas, but they come very close.)

JP was stunned at my maniacal giggles. "You said you wanted flannel pajamas!"

The man with the driest humor in North America -- the guy who says outrageous things in jest while others think he is being serious -- didn't know I had been kidding about the PJs. JP got it wrong, but it was really my own stupid fault.

I took the pajamas back and got something else. Cute as they were, there just aren't that many opportunities to wear flannel where we live.

The Parent Bloggers Network is asking for tales of gifts gone wrong -- or right -- to highlight a new service called Get In Her Head. It's an uber wish list that also keeps track of sizes and dates, and e-mails you preferences and ideas for gift giving. Perfect for Mother's Day coming up, hint hint . . . .

Handy man-ee

The drip in the bathtub started about a week ago. At first it was just

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

A couple days later, I noticed

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

When it got to

Dripdripdripdripdripdripdripdrip and could fill up Fly's sandpail in an hour, I mentioned it to JP, because men don't seem to notice these things even though they use said bathtub (for showering).

JP is super handy and can fix or build just about anything. Yes, I know I'm lucky, and you're welcome to have my autograph if you must. Sometimes, though, having a handyman for a husband has its downsides. For one thing, you spend time waiting for whatever repair is needed until he has the time. For another, sometimes the repair strangely leads to additional repairs.

But sometimes, it's just good for a laugh.

JP will be the first to say he isn't as good a plumber as he is, say, a mechanic. Yet he'd rather try to fix something himself rather than call a real plumber.

So he opted to spend his weekend muttering choice words at the faucet and making a half-dozen trips to Home Depot, one trip of which I'm sure was just to complain about the management decision to stop carrying a certain part that we needed to stop the leak.

Fixing plumbing also means turning off the water to the house, and that meant I couldn't clean (gasp!) or even cook dinner (the horrors!). But that meant we didn't sit down to eat until 8 pm, and that meant Fly didn't get to bed until 10. Both weekend nights.

All because JP insists on doing the work himself.

By Sunday evening, JP still couldn't get our faucet to stop leaking. In fact, it was now running a stream of water into the tub -- hot water, strangely enough. And because we couldn't let Fly haphazardly wander into the bathroom and start splashing in the hot-water-running faucet, we closed the door to the bathroom.

Which, of course, became a sauna.

(I just know all the environmentalists who read this blog have lost a half-inch in height while cringing at all of this.)

We lived with the sauna yesterday, and JP brought home a different part last night after work and made the final repair.

He beamed at me.

"Do you see what I did?" he asked.

"Wow!" I said, ever the admiring wife. "It's so ... so ... non-leaky!"

I put my hand under the faucet for effect.

But then a drip fell on my fingers.

And another drip.

And another.

"Look!" I said, gasping, showing JP my hand.

"No, no," he said. "That's not a leak. Just low-lying clouds."

I looked at him.

"It's just some dew," he said.

I patted his cheek with my wet hand.

"I dew."

Mariachi Mama

I bought some black yoga pants on eBay for 99 cents! I was feeling pretty proud of myself. I didn't look at the auction description too closely, though, and I noticed after I bid there were gold studs running down the length of the pants on the outside of the legs.

Undeterred, I put them on this afternoon for the first time. I wasn't sure how I felt about the studs, but the pants fit, they were comfortable, and I knew I wouldn't be going anywhere, anyway.

Then JP came home and saw the pants.

"What, are you in a mariachi band now?" he asked.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Your pants."

"These are not mariachi pants!" I exclaimed. But the seed had been planted. Fear grabbed my heart.

During our ritual after-dinner walk with Fly -- when Fly does his ritual removal of his socks so I end up walking the neighborhood with a tiny pair of dirty socks in my hand -- JP started up again.

"All you need are a sequined vest and a big sombrero."

"Would you stop with the mariachi stuff?!" I smacked his arm with the dirty socks.

Quoting Nacho Libre, JP said, "When you are a mom, sometimes you wear stretchy pants in your room. Just for fun."

(Which has nothing to do with mariachis.)



I really don't think my pants look this bad....



- - - - -

This post is for Amber at Crazy Bloggin' Canuck. I can't imitate her well, but this post reminded me of her. If you want to write a post in the style of another blogger, please do -- and share!

Attitude problem

It was almost 12 years after JP and I were married before Fly was born.

Twelve years.

Most people don't wait that long.

Many people assumed we couldn't have children or had been trying, and some people even pointedly asked me what fertility method we used to "get pregnant" when I was expecting Fly.

But, nope.

It was just a combination of us having a good time enjoying being a couple -- and trying to get careers in place.

JP and I had counted on one of us (ahem, moi) staying home with any child(ren) we would have. His mother stayed home when he was a kid, and mine mostly stayed home (or my grandmother took care of me), and that was what we knew. I had hoped to work toward a point in my career that would allow me to work part-time from home, or to be able to set my own hours -- that kind of thing. JP had worked toward building a business that would, we hoped, cover our expenses, including a child's. That took time.

Now that we have Fly and I am able to stay home with him as we had hoped and dreamed, I feel blessed. And yet, sometimes I feel staying home with Fly is a burden. I don't know how I can feel both ways at the same time....

Today, JP has taken the day off work to go to a car race. He's taking off tomorrow, too, and there are events on Saturday and Sunday. Cars are a big obsession with JP.

But it still pisses me off that he can do these things -- which are just a hobby -- while I couldn't attend a writing conference last year that was important for my book -- my career.

This past weekend, I wanted to go camping, which has been our tradition every Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. holiday weekend. I need time outdoors, or I go nuts.

But we didn't go, basically, because JP didn't want to.

And so here I am, living the dream ... but sometimes quite grumpily.

Crabby

Now my blog has a reputation.

- - - - -

Earlier today....

JP: Fly knows the word crab.

Me: Really?

JP: Yeah, watch. (JP shows Fly a crab toy.) What is this, Fly?

Fly: Dad!

Me: I'm impressed! I think Fly is calling you crabby.

- - - - -

JP's mother, MM, gave me a trial-size lotion of her favorite perfume.

Me: Look, honey, now I can smell just like your mom.

JP: (worried look on his face)

A first on this blog! Cocodoodles

These are cocodoodles. They aren't snickerdoodles because they're made with cocoa. And they aren't labradoodles because that's a dog (but just as fun to say). They're cocodoodles.

About 6.7 minutes after I came home from the supermarket today, I heard JP tell Fly, "Darn! I forgot to tell your mom I wanted some cookies." (Nice hint, eh?)

To JP, the only kind of cookie that exists is a chocolate chip cookie. But this house hadn't seen chocolate chips since....

However, I knew we had cocoa, so I pulled out the basic things that go into cookies and made these dark little beauties.

JP approved.

So if you make these cookies and enjoy them, that's my story. But if these cookies poison your whole family, well, then, I got the recipe from some old 1970s fundraiser cookbook. And if you make them and people go wild for them -- donations via PayPal are accepted!

Damselfly's Cocodoodles

1 stick of butter, softened
1 cup of sugar
1 egg
1 1/2 cups of flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup cocoa (I used Hershey's dark chocolate cocoa)

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Spray a cookie sheet with nonstick spray.

Cream the butter and sugar together. Then add the egg and mix it until it's creamy. (Add some vanilla if that floats your boat.) Blend the flour, salt, baking soda and cocoa together, and slowly add it to the butter mixture, beating it well.

Roll the cookie dough into 1-inch balls and put them on the cookie sheet, fitting about one dozen on the sheet at a time.

Bake the cookies for about 10 minutes.

This cookie recipe should make about 2 1/2 dozen cookies.

If you're at a high elevation, I can't help you out because that whole elevation/baking thing mystifies me!

I think these cookies would be even better dipped in chocolate, or maybe even frosted.

But anyway, these are easy, chocolate cookies to make -- no chocolate chips required!

The playhouse's the thing

Early December. JP decides he's going to give Fly a gift from the heart -- a gift only he can give Fly, something he's made.

He is going to make Fly a playhouse!

Because JP's motto is there's nothing he can buy for $100 that he can't build for $500.

JP starts to draw up plans. He gets out a calculator. I find scraps around the house here and there.

Then JP asks me for ideas.

"Well, you want to make it interactive, I suppose," I say. "Fly likes that. If it's just a box, he's going to walk in and walk right out."

I happen to find some playhouses (the plastic kind) in a catalog and show them to JP.

"See this one? It has a table and chair. This one has different levels. Fly likes stairs, so he'd like something like that." I show JP playhouse after playhouse and point out their features like I'm some kind of Realtor for the preschool set.

JP isn't satisfied.

So I start dreaming.

"I know! Make a playhouse with a hidden room. Like in those old Scooby Doo cartoons. The playhouse could have a wall that spins around and put you in a hidden room!"

JP stares at me.

But I'm just getting started.

"Or you could make a tiny crawlspace in the wall so only little people could get into the hidden room. Of course, you'd have to have a back door on the playhouse so Fly wouldn't get stuck back in there. Yeah, this playhouse definitely needs a hidden room.

"And a lookout tower! Have some steps so he can climb safely to the top of the playhouse, open a little door in the roof, and look out. You'd have to design it so it would be impossible for him to get on the roof, of course.

"Or how about a skylight? Maybe like the one in the old Swiss Family Robinson movie, where you just pull down on a door in the roof to see the sky.

"Fly likes to push buttons and turn knobs. Maybe you could make part of one wall inside like the play wall at the library. But make it look like our stereo. With lights! Things that light up. Fly loves that.

"A mailbox. Now that would be cool. Fly doesn't get any mail, but I always take him to the mailbox with me and show him how to put the flag up. He would love his own mailbox.

"So how about those ideas?"

JP is awestruck.

"I'm just making a little cabin. It's not going to be big enough for all that."

"Well," I say, "You asked for ideas...."

A few more days go by. JP has been to the hardware store. He discussed with a hardware store guy some options on how to finish the outside walls. The hardware store guy rejects one of JP's ideas as being "too ghetto." That phrase is all JP and I need to brainstorm even more ideas while we have dinner one night.

"Too ghetto?" I ask. "What does he think you're building, a crack house?"

"Maybe I should install a little lab inside the playhouse?" JP ventures.

"Ooh, and then you can build a dealer house on the other side of the yard. With a tunnel between the two of them!"

"Or a live steam train that goes back and forth!"

"You could build a whole little crack town out back!" I say. "One of the playhouses could have graffiti on it!"

Fly, sitting between the two of us, is luckily too young to realize what kooks he has for parents.

We are kooky, yes, and that may be why we are insane enough to think we can create and accomplish some of the things that we take on.

Like JP's playhouse for Fly.

One week before Christmas:


After I helped JP use PVC pipe to roll it into the backyard because it was too heavy to carry. This thing meets hurricane building code!


Fly already likes playing in it.

Yesterday:


Half of a roof!


Fly, the building inspector, giving his approval to continue with the work.

Any bets on whether the playhouse will be finished in time for Christmas?!

The guy at the office

I am losing my cred.

When you have best-friend status with your husband (JP and I have been married almost 13 years), you tend to rely on each other a lot. Best friends do. Best friends really believe in what each other thinks. In fact, many times, you go out of your way to find out what your best friend thinks about what you should do. You know how it goes.

But lately, it seems what I say doesn't count -- unless another person can back it up. Humph.

I know this because of The Guy At The Office:

"The Guy At The Office said the way to get a baby to sleep through the night is just to pat or stroke him and not pick him up out of the crib," JP said.

"Oh, really?" I said. "That's what I told you six months ago the first time we tried sleep training with Fly. And you didn't want to do it."

Or:

"The Guy At The Office said you can use rubbing alcohol to get grease out of rugs," JP said.

"Uh-huh," I said. "Yes, I know. I told you I did that when you tracked motor oil from your boots on Fly's bedroom carpet."

That kind of thing.

I still think JP and I are best friends, but The Guy At The Office will probably continue to trump me for some time....