Tip for Dads

If your wife buys you the "Big Guy/Little Guy" Father-Son Combo Shirt & Hat, and you're wearing your half while walking around downtown without said Little Guy, you just look like a dork.

Running Erins

Ryan and I were up with the crack of birds (well, he was, so I was), so we decided to go get breakfast at Panera bread and bring it home to the girls. The older of whom was appalled to learn that I took him out in his pajamas, but hey, I wasn't wearing socks (didn't want to wake anyone opening a drawer), so it all balanced out.

Ainsley had some things to do in town, so I got a little taste of Mummy, and I still don't know how she does it, day in, day out. Erin was fine in her rocker while Ryan and I rolled the exercise ball to one another, but then he needed a diaper change just as she started fussing, so I ran up to get the materials and bring 'em back down to the lower tier, got him freshened up, then plopped him down in front of whatever show was on "Noggin" before trying for twenty minutes to get Erin to even be interested in a bottle, then she wasn't sleepy, so I rocked her in her travel chair, swing, swing, swing, then finally asleep, so I put her on a bed upstairs, then my ankle cracks and she wakes up, so swing swing some more till asleep, then back down to Ryan to see how he was doing while folding some laundry, then Erin's back awake, so back to the middle part of the house to walk and swing, but there's Tomas gone and just thrown up in the office, and

Man!

Asked Dad over to help for the afternoon, mending a fence in the backyard, shoring up a teetering treehouse, and hanging my cool ambiance lights over the hot tub, before Ryan was up and ready for a wagon walk and park jaunt. We enjoyed wine & cheese for dinner in the living room, watching "Riverdance" for fun. Both kids were mesmerized. We were barely able to get Ryan to open his mouth to chew his dinner. Before bouncing around and giving this Irish Gazelle Leaping a try. Mostly around the dogs' faces.

That tuckered him out pretty good, as I was able to reverse low-crawl out of his room relatively early, though Erin was a different cupboard of catfish. She would just not stay asleep, and seemed wide awake after I changed her diaper around 10, so I brought her downstairs to sway and watch the Nationals home opener in their new stadium (another Ryan Zimmerman walk-off home run!), then catch the news before we all went to bed, close to midnight, uh-gain.

It's just amazing how mad we get at every little noisemaker around, like the random helicopters that fly overhead, the way Bailey takes a drink that makes it sound like someone pounding a stapler in a kiddie pool, and the way we have to Indiana Jones our way down the hall, hopping around the known-squeaky floorboards. Still, when we learned that one of Ainsley's friends had delivered her second child a few days ago, are we ever so glad we're not back at that stage.

Hit and Ruin

Got in a car wreck today. My Ford Escape was backed into, scraping the paint above the rear fender a good four inches. But the driver was a handsome devil, so I couldn't stay mad at him. Even if he is sleeping with my wife.
So I could be mad at Ainsley's parents for keeping their car in our driveway, making mine have to stick out diagonally into the narrow half of our driveway. I could be mad at Toyota for having screwed up a modification to our minivan that I needed to get fixed on a Saturday when Ainsley didn't need to take the kids anywhere, the whole reason I was backing out of the garage in the first place. I could be mad at the home builder for not having a two-car garage here, or for making the cul de sac all cul de sacky. Anyone but mystupidself.
Fortunately, it looked worse at first glance on both cars, but after cleaning the dirt off both scrapes, the minivan's fender has a small smudge of a scrape on it. Should still sell okay in thirteen years.
Waited at the dealership for 2.5 hours for them to tell me they'd have to order the part in a few days, thanks for coming.
Got a boatload done at home after having lunch with Kim and Olivia Waters, the latter of whom needs to work on her forward thrust vector while hugging Ryan (2 attempts, 2 takedowns). Finally cleaned up the workroom and saw the actual top of the workbench for the first time in about two months. Moved Ainsley's Redskins chair into place and broke down the box, after sweeping up the garage. Got rid of three grub-web-colonies-of-branch-eating death on the tree out front, then solicited Ryan's "help" in getting most of last fall's leaves out from under the front shrubs. Rewarded myself by taking the family for a way-caszjgh
okay how do you spell casual without the ual?
dinner at the salad-pasta-pizza-brownie food troughs that is CiCi's Pizza. So let close with those two little words that make this country the greatest in the history of the planet:

Macaroni & Cheese Pizza.

Something is Rotten in Delhi

Received a postcard from the mother-in-law during her and her husband's travels to the subcontinent, and I was pleased to learn, after Dad read it, that I wasn't the only one who thought that the hand-written recap included a visit to see lots of farts.

Conspiracy Theory

They're in cahoots, I tells ya.
Wednesday started out with cake for breakfast at work, which isn't all that bad with a nice cup of tea; I had inadvertently guilted the front office gals into making up for missing my birthday last month, so a couple-dozen folks had a sing-along, two chocolate cakes and a card waiting for me, and despite the fact that someone referred to me as Matt in the card and that my boss' boss' boss called me "Rob" three times in five minutes, it was a lovely morning.
Wednesday was warm enough to bust open the sunroom and have dinner in there for the first time in FY08, with Ryan and I sharing a lovely mommy-hand-made Boboli pizza and his favorite veggie du jour, red peppers, which can either be "J"s or "1"s, he'll tell you, depending on which end he bites first. Although we had a disciplinary incident wherein we had to reinforce that The No No was sticking one's plastic drill in someone else's one's face (namely mine, particularly after the dental Hades session from Tuesday), we had a good long fun bath with his dinosaurs ("Sarah Tops!") and volcanoes before getting him to bed at a decent hour.
Then 4:55 the next morning rolled around.
Crying like someone had plucked out a nose hair, Ryan needed a big hug and back stroke session, then would cotton to being left alone to fall back asleep. I resorted to just lying down on the floor (thankful for the spare nursing pillow that seconds as a snoozing pillow) and hoping he would fall back to sleep with me. But when my watch alarm went off and roused me, he immediately inquired HEY WHAS ZAT!
Wanting to give Ainsley a few more minutes of more-precious-than-platinum sleep, I asked Ryan if he wanted to sit and read a book in his room or come help me shave, and he chose the latter, marveling as the blue gel turns to white foam, which, to tell you the truth, is pretty cool. Not sure how that works. My field is history. Also combating weapons of mass destruction. Not so much exfolitionary engineering.
Anyhoo, after fourteen hours of sleep in the three days, I was baked that night, nearly falling asleep in my crabcake at the dinner table. Thankfully, Grandad was around to play with Erin, because I plum forgot to. All night. Never even occurred to me to touch her. I suck as a father. But she was enjoying herself and sitting happily or playing the stand up sit down game -- she really is a love to be with when she's not screaming her fool head off. After dinner, I took Ryan upstairs to change his clothes and brush his teeth and wash his mouth out with bubble gum.
For years now, I've gargled while he's brushed his teeth, and we had a cute little game going where he'd ask if Ryan could gargle and I'd say no in a silly manner, then he'd say if Daddy could gargle and I'd say yes in a sillier manner, topping myself with every question, sometimes going so far as to responding to his "Ryan Gargle?" query with a Yes followed by a look of OOPS WHAT AM I SAYING and changing it to a quick no no no shake of the head (since my mouth is full of mouthwash at this point. But this night I confused him. "Ryan gargle?" "Yes." Pause Pause Pause. Wait, that's not how it goes, his brow furrowedly said.
"Daddy gargle?" "Yes." "Ryan gargle?" "Yes." "Ryan GARgle?" ("Really?" his eyebrows archedly expressed). Ainsley had bought him purple 'kiddie' gargle (bubble gum flavored!) for Easter, and although it was for ages 6 and above, we know he's a super genius and could figure it out with guidance. After appropriately scaring the living hell out of him that swallowing the liquid would cause his esophagus to solidify and his nipples to catch on fire, I gave him a small sip, then had him imMEDIATELY spit it out in the sink -- he sort of let it drool-hang out his mouth, but that was that. His first acid trip. (It is the first ingredient.)
After Grandad had read him some books, I took over, reading another book ("Feet feet feet!" by Mr. Seuss, M.D.), trying to get him the concept of counting in the mid-twenties:

"Twenty-twooo…"
"Twenty-twooo…"
"Twenty ….
Threeee…"
"Twenty-freee…"
"What's after
twenty…..three?"
"...Seven?"

By this time, Ainsley was in with Erin, trying to get her down, and I got Ryan into his crib and stretched out on the floor to keep him company until he fell asleep. Dogs and cats had been fed (thanks, Dad), I had no computer projects, chores, or shows; just tired. Just need to sleep. Need boy to sleep. Okay: go.
Thirty-five minutes later, I woke up, and saw Ryan sitting happily, staring at me through the slats. I gave him a kiss and tried to leave, but he immediately started crying, wanting up. I got him to lay back down so I could fill his sippy cup, and he seemed to think that was an okay idea. Quiet and still when I got back upstairs a few minutes later, I debated whether he really needed any water over the next eleven hours or not, then figured a promise is a promise, and tip-toed in. Tip-toeing out was ineffectual, however, with tears and upstretched arms. Ainsley, by now in the hallway, said, "Let me try," and asked me to listen for Erin. I turned off the light and thirteen seconds later, I heard Erin.
Mission accomplished.
Now what.
Went from one crying child to another. At least Ryan I can have a semi-conversation with (though we can never quite get him to answer why he's crying and/or doesn't want to go to bed), but Erin is just a frustrated angry little cabbage I can't seem to do much of anything for. Ainsley, having gotten Ryan back down (though not asleep) calmly, came in and rescued me for the 6,546th time.
Over the next eight hours, Ainsley had to get up about fifteen times, changing diapers, letting whiny dogs out (one of whom threw up under my bed at 3am), and struggling with an extremely unsoothable baby whose teeth-to-be seem to be hurting like hell. I think she finally got to sleep a little after 5 am. My alarm goes off a little before 6. I felt like dirt. I heard her waking up, but was never able to coherently convince my body to get out of bed and help. Not that there's much I can do for Erin, but I can at least spell Ainsley for a few seconds. But you get that feeling when you wake up at 4am because your daughter's screaming and figure that Mommy can handle it and besides if you get up you'll have to pee so why not just wait until your alarm goes off and then pee which makes no logical sense and is probably biologically unstable, but that's what happens when you're just that tired. Apparently. Though Ainsley never has that luxury to tell the world to piss off. So, when I got out of the shower and dressed, and heard Ryan calling for Mommy, I decided that I didn't need to go into work right away today. Called in to a couple of people and said I'd be in around 9, giving Ainsley an extra minute or seventeen of sleep, while feeding Ryan cereal and watching The Upside-Down Brothers on Noggin, nestled between The Wiggles and Little Einstein on Disney.
So glad I'm paying all this money for cable.
I haven't watched SportsCenter in eight months.

Blood-soaked fingers

It is exceedingly difficult to tie one's long-laced military boots around undeclawed cats.

There's Only One Way To Pickle

I think the whole point of having kids is to see what funny things you can get them to say. Though 'What the fluke' is still my favorite.
Sorry for the long Bermuda Blogangle. If you get me. Which a lot of people don't. Lady asked me if there was anything she needed to report at staff meeting, and I said "nowt." She had to look it up. Who knew the first definition was "cow"? Besides my mom, probably, being british and farm-bred.
Anyhoo, busy week. Went to bed at 1 am the last two nights. Gimme a second to ponder and cap again.

17 March: Wore green. Though I usually do, with my comfy AF pajamas. Used shillelagh in a sentence in a threatening e-mail to a coworker. Most everyone in the office was TDY, so I was defaulty in charge all week. Zero confirmed deaths.
19 March: Took Ryan to the mall to buy me a supporter for my athletic. He finickially refused to eat exactly the same meal he devoured last Friday from the Petra Grill, so I dragged him home and fed him applesauce while he was taking a bath. Let's hope he doesn't always expect such curb-side service.
20 March: Spent the afternoon traveling to and from the State Department for an interagency meeting on the Black Sea. Did not bring up my travels in the region circa 1975. The other DoD speaker in the room went about 12 minutes over his allotted 3 minutes, so I felt the need to cede my time to the next speaker. Ever the diplomat.
21 March: Valium, Percocet, and outpatient surgery. Let's just say it'll make a VASt DIFFERENCE in our lives. Watched "Live Free or Die Hard" in a drug-enduced stupor before going to pick up my car from its 20,000 mile check-up and picking up half our pizza order since Papa John's employees apparently can't tell the difference between green peppers and banana peppers so I had to drive to a nearby Subway to get the spouza a veggie sub to bring home and see how Ryan reacted to my new Blue Man Group DVD. He danced. A lot.
22 March: Slept for 11 hours, thanks to the most amazing wife a guy could ask for. Though I guess she deals with two kids in the early morning hours most days, it still warmed my cockles that she let me sleep in.
23 March: Awoke to three Easter baskets, lovingly and amazingly how the hell does she find the timingly prepared by Mommy. Erin got a lot of infant medicine and Cinderella the movie. Ryan got toothbrushes with cars on the end. I got malt balls. Walked the dogs with Dad, then tried to put Ryan down so I could work on a computer project for Ainsley, but he wouldn't snooze. So we walked around the back yard and picked up sticks and threw toys for the dogs and climbed up the tree house steps to find acorns and let Mommy and Erin sleep for a spell. Got a warm and tingly feeling with Ryan just grabbing my hand and walking around, knowing I'm there for him. So for the second straight weekend, he was an unnapped mofo for a dinner at the Boivins', with Miss Kelly joining us and Erin in Easter Outfit #2 (the one without the bunny feet). Dad carried her around on the Baby Bjorn to let Ainsley eat, Ryan enjoyed some ham, and we only had one meltdown when, to quote our boy, "Chlo-*hhhh*-hee-*hhh*-barkt-*hhh*-at-*hhh*-Wyan!" Some day, dog.
24 March: A long day at work, then a longer night at home, with Ryan doing a near-faceplant off the couch while taking a swan dive onto the cushions, which he suddenly realized were awful "bouncy". Luckily, the throw rug and coffee table broke his fall. Up the rest of the eve with a non-cooperative "Movie Maker" program until I gave up at 12:30, my churning creative cranium coupled with a corvette-esque cat keeping me awake past 1.
25 March: A longer day at work, where I not only got my boss in trouble, but also had to endure a half-hour in the dental hygienist chair, drilling my brain, and flossing me as if I were a mental patient she was trying to strap down into a gurney, twisting my head back and forth. "Do this for three straight days and it won't hurt anymore," she offered. Sure, since I'll be dead.
Took Ryan to Basketball Theme Night at the Silver Diner, where I enjoyed an entire meal while standing up, rocking Erin back and forth, letting her check out the doo-wop videos on the TV. She was awesome with me for over a half hour, letting Ainsley and Ryan eat together for a small break in the action. There was a face-painter there, so we asked her to put a smiley face on Ryan's cheek. Odd that she can make entire elaborate tiger faces, but ask her to do a yellow circle with three dots and a curve, and it looks like a scarecrow got pegged with napalm. Oh, well. He was happy.

Goof Proof Proof

If you're going to espouse on your packaging, you'd better know what you're talking about. Lay's Potato Chips: New Improved Taste! My left ass.

And the tube of Super Glue? "Goof Proof!" it screams. Yes, well. Tell that to the white acidic burn scars on the ends of three of my fingers and the piece of plastic glued to my workbench.

It's just my girth and vitality getting the better of me again. I went ahead and let Ainsley open up the box of GrapeNuts this morning lest our kitchen look like a let off a grenade in a bag of kitty litter.

Ryan slept in until 8 Saturday, giving him plenty of energy to walk around a local strip mall and participate in its Spring Festival, letting kids go door-to-door and trick or treat for plastic eggs with ... coupons to the stores in them. Nice. He's two, lady, he doesn't need a discount on drycleaning his work shirts.

Okay, some of them had chocolate, and they had a face painter and a balloon inflatestress and someone in bunny suit letting kids get their pictures taken. 'Course, thanks to my mother getting Ryan a book, recently, he had the name all wrong:

Ryan (waving frantically): "HELLO PETER RABBIT!"

But it was a lovely late winter day, and Ryan got to hang out with his friends Jack and Oliver, and lick on a lollipop for an hour and a half.

It was so nice out, I put on shorts and dug out three bags' worth of old leaves from the front bushes (and I'm still not done), before heading to the Boivins' to eat take out TexMex (There's Only One Way To Guac, I told Ryan) and an absolutely scrumptious seventeen-layer raspberry cake to celebrate Beth's 27th. At home, Ryan was out quickly (no nap) but I was jazzed from the sugar and two cups of tea, so I stayed up until 12:30 doing laundry, cleaning up downstairs, and finishing my 950-page book on Truman I started seven months ago.

He dies at the end, hate to break it to you.

Today was utilizing a 10% off coupon at Home Depot, although Ryan was a little grumpy having bonked his eye into the corner of a table and then tromped around in a puddle which HEY LOOKIE THERE AT THAT got his shoes, socks, feet, pants, and legs all wet. Bought a cart load of lawn supplies (Ryan helped push), then worked on de-dorking the mud-stacked rock pile behind the air conditioning unit. I just need to go back twenty-seven more times for grass seed.

Our daughter turned 3 months old today.

Which is amazing, considering that she's only slept for eighteen minutes her whole life.

To Have and Hold Not

There is still major gappage in Master CuteCheeks' speech, but not so much that we can't understand him (usually). He's got the beginning and the end bits, but he still takes two-year-old-logical leaps with the middle bits. Particularly, he's not grasping the grasping verbs.
"May I please bye-eeet?" says he, eyeing our bag of popcorn.
May I Please is something I started to teach him before going to Russia, then Ainsley had it truly inculcated by the time I got back. Which makes some of his phrases downright silly.
"May I please cracker please?"
Sometimes you can see him physically struggle and then just give up:
"May I please ... (thinking of the word matching whatever it is he wants you to give him) ... that?"

The scary part is that while Ainsley and I can talk to each other like Ryan, that kind of stuff really should be left at home. A lady at work brought in a home-made dessert for an office birthday celebration, so as she was leaving, I said in a singsong Ryany voice, "Thank you cupcakes!"
Then had to explain that I wasn't calling HER 'cupcakes', but that my adorable son tends to grown on me.

Tried to take him to CiCi's Pizza last night with Dad since he'd never been -- Ainsley had taken Erin to the doc's to make sure her lack of being able to sleep and nightly screeching fits didn't equate to an ear infection (Nope-Just Perpetually Grumpy) -- but there was a line out the door, so we walked down the parking lot to Cheeseburger's in Paradise (another first for Dad), though, ironically, none of us had a cheeseburger. My chicken/onion/mushroom quesadilla was a little off, but the fried buffalo shrimp was awesome, and Ryan enjoyed his mac & cheese and sorta broccoli mixed in when we could hide it under enough noodles. The boy's getting a little particular. But he eats peppers. I didn't start eating peppers until I was 36 and a half.
Still rough getting him down at night. After a past-ten night yesterday, he woke up crying at 0520 this morning, though I was able to get him to sleep and catch 12 more quick minutes of zzzs before the alarm. I've been trying to get him to lie down in his crib before I'd sing to him as requested, though when he'd lift his head and I'd stop, and he'd put his head down and I'd start again where I'd left off, he'd just start laughing, enjoying the Red Light Green Light Daddy Singing Toy.

Light in the WInnie the Pooh Loafers?

Hmm.
Ainsley had a lovely meal planned for Saturday night, a selection of cheeses, veggies, dip, bread, and crackers, with a Chardonnay chaser. Perfect for sitting around a small table and nibbling while watching a movie.
But we're a little tired of all the cartoons and just needed a break from the 3-and-under entertainment.
She suggested the Eddie Murphy version of Dr. Doolittle, though we haven't seen it since becoming Responsible Adults, and therefore couldn't remember if there were scenes too intense for Ryan's porcelain eyeballs. I suggested we watch "The Producers" instead, since Ryan seems to enjoy singing and dancing, especially if guys are wearing colored shirts and speak AssTrayleun.
Ryan did seem to get into the big production numbers, twirling and kicking and grinning at the silly men on the screen.
But lest you get an alternative consideration out there, when a tall blonde Uma Thurman came on the screen and then walked out, Ryan got all worried and said, "Where'd Lady go?"

Tonight I left work at 4:26, the earliest in months. Wanted to spend an evening with my family, as opposed to just a dinner and nightly bedtime World War Two Kids. It's almost comical when we've divided to conquer, playing man-to-man, and one kid is crying upstairs and the other is crying downstairs. No, no, not comical, what's that other word? Sad? Let's go with that. We've gone to bed between 11 and 12 every night this week, needing super-late night to take care of our own stuff and sanity after the lilluns finally crash.
Stuff & Sanity. Opening soon next door to a Linens & Things near you.

There's "No" Time. Like, the present.

"Hey Daddy?" starts the relatively late Sunday morning.
(This after going to bed at 1:35am new clock-push time, causing a minor ruckus by throwing Asha off my head at 4:05am to the foot of the bed, whence I didn't know Dover had hopped up to snooze some time in there --> "YI!")
But the boy got a good night's rest, and is all charm and cheeks in his crib. "I have to go let the dogs out, then I'll be back, okay?" *whisper* "Okay."
I come back and open the curtains; wide eyes and mock open mouth surprise: "It's light time!" "Daytime, yes." He spells Ryan. He lets me change his clothes. He waves to his mommy in the hallway. Just a great time of day.
Goes downhill from there.
Went in to work to finish up my paper, to learn that Ryan babbled through his nap again. Rarin' to go for a brisk walk in his wagon, then down to the park by the American Legion, chasing Grandad's shadow. Back home for Papa Petrino's Scramble Bread in front of the fire, then it's off to read books! Ding! So starts the fighting.
Granted, it's not All That Bad just yet, but he starts to dart into corners or up on the sofa to get away from me when he should be making a left turn onto the shoes-off step. Unvelcroed his sneakers while he squirmed on the chair, kicking at my legs. Pick him up after 8pm recently, and he starts turning into Wet Noodle Back Arch Boy. The final straw was telling me "no" on the sink, a Dracula arm draped across his mouth, the hell he was going to brush his teeth tonight.
I realize I shouldn't yell. He's just being two. I should reserve my yells for when he's about to stick his tongue in the crockpot or goose a nun with his head. But it still comes out from time to time, when I'm sick of the "no"s. So I put him in his crib, fully clothed, and let him think about the importance of oral hygiene for a while.
Still, I have proof that I love him more than my own well-being. I was squatting next to the dining room window the other day, talking to the dogs (SHUT UP, DAMMIT!), when Ryan wanted to see, so I picked him up under his armpits, then immediately proceeded to lose my balance. Stuck between a chair and a hard wall, and not wanting to just fling him down as you would, say, someone else's kid, I took one for the team. Or at least my tibia did, rocking back onto my spine, holding the boy aloft like a fine Ming Dynasty vase in one of those Jackie Chan movies.
He's that precious.
Especially when he sings the "Air Force Song" with me. He only knows the last few words to every other line, but he sings them with gusto. "Ehya Fohhhhhhsss." I swear he's from Boston sometimes.

Way Rad

Spent the last two days at the Foreign Service Institute in nearby Arlington, taking a Combating WMD Terrorism course put on by a branch of the State Department. Some pretty cool content, and it got me out of the office for a couple days, not to mention sleeping in until 7 and helping Ryan shave on the side of my sink. ("More cleam, please daddy?")
Lecturers included an Undersecretary of State, a U of Maryland professor from Sooth Efrica, and members from Homeland Security, the National Counter-Proliferation Center, Dep. of Energy, and a couple from DTRA. The professor brought up the good point that we need to stop calling these things WMD, since most (except for nuclear weapons) don't actually cause destruction; a biological attack isn't going to destroy anything, but it will disrupt the hell out of a country.
Working on an Air War College paper all weekend, which is probably a good thing since it's supposed to be cold and rainy. Certainly not good for the rest of the fam, bouncing off walls or watching "Cars" for the 137th time. 'Course, Ryan calls it "Sally and McQueen", even though Sally doesn't appear in the thing for like 42 minutes, but I can't get him to switch. Still calls it a "tiguar", still calls it "Mugis." At least "Grandad" is no longer "DahDa." So no need to see the elocutionist just yet.
I'm going to need to buy some slippers. Nearly a nightly ritual to walk Erin around at waist level in her car seat, bouncing around, pant legs shooshing, until she finally falls asleep, and the ceramic floor is just murdering my feet. I bought Ainsley a kitchen gel mat for Christmas; maybe I should just buy thirteen more of those.

Who the hell's that?

Had my annual dental exam today. Sat in the waiting room, leafing through an Air Force magazine, and I hear,

"Lieutenant Colonel Gottrich?"

I mean, I'd changed my phone message, updated my e-mail title, said it answering a couple calls... but to hear it, out loud, from someone else, in the aural flesh as it were, was just surreal.

Surrealier was coming home and my son greeting me with a salute and a "Hello, Colonel!"

The Angry Chef

Started Saturday with a long soak in the hot tub on a clear sunny morning, before sitting down to spinach cream cheese eggs a l'ainsley, and then some more (!) promotion presents, since we'd been too baked to open any Friday night. Ainsley's folks got me a sharp-looking black-billed Service Cap with the "Scrambled Eggs" motif of clouds and lightning on the brim, as well as a book about the history of fine military cooking (S.O.S, anyone?).
Nice enough to throw the ball around out front, and Ryan even requested his bicycles again after a short 'winter' hiatus. He was even able to propel himself forward a few feet on the pedals! As long as he was on a slight downward slope of the driveway. His first Ryan-powered trip had him tuckered out enough for a quick nap before we sped over to the Boivins' (where my mom, dad, and brother had already been a few hours) for a lovely beef brisket and Ryan's first barbecue sauce, which he really liked on his corn casserole. Or straight off his spoon.
Sunday I picked up Tim, Mom, and a four-cheese egg souffle & bagels to share for breakfast at home, then helped put together his cool "Mack" leggo set with a leggo Lightning McQueen that you can drive up a ramp into the back of the rig. He also got a stuffed rabbit in a blue vest. That only slightly smells like hair spray now.
Tim and Ryan accompanied us to the airport to drop off Mom, then hit an Arby's on the way home, Ryan entertaining us with a "Da-Da" version of The Blue Danube waltz on the way up and Old McDonald's on the way back (apparently he had a green light on that farm, with a go-go here and a go-go there), plus mimicking the little girl on the French Fry box "thinking Arby's" -- putting his finger to his bottom lip and going, "Hmmm..."
The in-laws were back in town after we walked the dogs, so I decided to make something out of the military cooking book they got me, but only "if I promised not to be in a bad mood," said Wifelove, clinging to the impression that I get extremely upset when I cook because everything always goes wrong and something's forgotten or undercooked or made wrong because the powdered sugar sure LOOKS like flour the hell do I know?
But the meal, "Napoleon's Chicken Marengo", though taking twenty-five minutes longer than I'd expected, turned out lovely, and it was one of the most fun times I've had in a kitchen lately. On the flip side, I am now expected to make the asparagus every time it's called for, since Ainsley's, to paraphrase her, always end up tasting like pencils.

Pachadermy Alchemy

See, he had two choices. The boy helps me swap out the rank on my flight cap, and we revert back to his favorite book, "Go Dog Go." You're thinking fifty-fifty shot, but it takes three meetings such as this

Before random yeller chapeau critic dog actually approves of pink floozie poodle's choice of headgear.

Still. I was hoping for the latter.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Went in to work Friday, actually doing some real work while tying up the loose ends for the promotion ceremony. Besides being confronted with a ladle emergency and the cake box getting squooshed onto the lettering, all went fairly smoothly. My gang showed up about 1:30, meeting an old SOPSC colleague and his wife in the parking lot, so there was quite an entourage walking through together (we took up two elevators!). While Ainsley and our mothers made the refreshment tables look pretty, Dad, Gareth and Ryan stuck programs on chairs, while Tim dutifully rocked Erin back and forth in her car seat, keeping her happy. Around 2 pm we met the presiding official in his office, where pleasantries were shared and stories told. The popular one being after I left to get my service coat, as it was relayed that earlier in the day Grandpa had informed Ryan that Daddy was getting promoted to "Colonel" (figured it was an easier word than "Lieutenant" Colonel). Ryan thought... "Like Colonel Haithi!" (The Elephant on "The Jungle Book.")

"That's right! Can you say, "Daddy's going to be a Colonel?"

"Daddy's going to be a Elephant!"

I had an Army guy in my office be the narrator to get a true multi-service flavor to the proceedings, held in a handsome semi-circle of a room overlooking the rear of the building with a pond and fountain in the center, the American flag, Army, Air Force, Navy, Marine, and DTRA flags situated behind us. Nice words were said about me, then the order was published, and it was semi-official -- I was a Lieutenant Colonel (so declared, but didn't take effect until 1 March). Ainsley and my Dad took off the Major rank and pinned on the silver oak leaves, with my Dad unfortunately ripping the button of my left epaulet. My mom and brother then put the Lt Col sleeves over my shoulder epaulets on my shirt, and then Ryan, as we rehearsed all week, came forward, and took care of my hat with the words, "Gold Off...Silver On!"

"Do you like my hat?" I asked.

"I do not!"

"Rats. Well, whaddaya think of mommy?"
"Hubba hubba."

At least he got one thing right.

I then took the oath of office, then fumbled my way through a thank-you speech, forgetting a bunch of things I wanted to say (like thanking my current boss, for pete's sake), but everyone was very gracious and said they liked the speech. I started out by saying this was a daunting task, quoting Army General Creighton Abrams (who, coincidentally, appeared on the cover of TIME the day I was born), who said, "The higher you get up the flag pole, the more your rear-end shows."
All told, a little less than forty folks showed up, mostly from the building, as I knew it would be hard for others to leave there jobs mid-afternoon to come down to Fort Belvoir, though several did, including some civilian friends and one girl who drove all the way down from New York City. Seemed like less than half stayed for cake and punch, which was a blur of people congratulating me while I tried to stick forkfulls into my son's mouth and not getting any icing on his dapper blazer.

A few guests, but mostly family, met over at the Officer's Club, a beautiful brick building overlooking the Potomac, for a couple rounds of drinks on me, before we migrated over to the seafood buffet in the main ballroom that had a fair lounge band and a dancing floor where Ryan cut a mean rug with his grandparents. The food wasn't great, but the atmosphere -- my friends and family surrounding me on the biggest night of my career thus far -- was all I could have hoped for. It was an absolutely perfect day. Frozen crab legs be damned.