Take Me Out to the Parking Lot

Sure, thunderstorms had ripped through at 2:30, but at 4 it was sunny, still hot, and the pavement was drying. We will Stick To The Plan, dammit.
Got everyone regaled in baseball regalia, from Ryan's sleeveless SWING tee to Erin's onesie with a baseball on the butt. Nationals fans a quatro, heading to the local minor league stadium. To buy Ryan some crackerjacks, after having learned the whole song in less than five days.
We got there fairly early, and had a good parking spot. Two bags on shoulders, stroller out, Erin secured, Ryan wanting up, got water, got cameras, got money.
Do not, however, got game.
Just as we were locking up the car, we heard someone else walking by saying the game had been canceled. What, they can't afford a tarp? We brought a towel to wipe off the seats. Play ball!
But no. We decided to wander down since we were already in wandering mode, and found a little 8 x 11 sheet of paper on the ticket booth explaining the cancellation.
I asked the young gentleman in the window if they didn't think it would be prudent to put a sign somewhere else, say, near the front of the parking lot, to prevent people from unloading their whole families and having to find out down here.
"Well, that's county property, and we're not allowed."
(Of course, they can leave up their signs that say $4 Stadium parking.)
"Can't one of you go up there and instead of collecting $4 (which no one was tonight), tell people the game's off?"
"Well, it's on the website."
"...Were you really beaten that much as a child?"
"Well, I am ugly."
Okay, that last exchange is slightly fantastical, but still.
Decided to go to a local sports bar "and restaurant my ass" I'd ridden by on one of my bike jaunts, since baseball hats didn't exactly scream "Olive Garden." Spent the better part of our time there trying to keep my body between Ryan and the Ultimate Fighting match on the Big Screen TV. Had to wait twenty minutes for out kid's meal hot dog, vegetarian nachos, and a nasty, small, crispy French Dip and five (count 'em!) whole onion rings that were soggy from the au jus that had sloshed over the side. So we went to Dairy Queen afterwards so at least something pleasant could happen this evening, but despite my saying it three times, the guy screwed up my order. Seriously: Welcome to America and all, but good lord, man. Learn your menu at least. If I ever emigrated to Russia and could only find work at a baked potato stand, you would think, among my first words I'd learn, were baked potato. Perhaps chives.
So the pleasantness had to wait for home, when Ryan and I shared a Star-Bellied Sneech story in his bed, lounged around a bit, and parted ways more than amicably; with a blown kiss and everything. Just got out of twenty minutes in 105-degree hot tub water. Got a great home, a great wife, great life. Wet onion rings be damned.

Kung Fu Frickler

Forced my way into the Doctor's office again
okay, I made an appointment
to figure out what I could do with my wrist, still hurting. Sharp pain up the back of the hand after my bike ride the other night. Still, with no stress fracture appearing, the doc said he read a book on sports medicine and determined I should have a splint for three weeks. He had prescribed two, but I told him my right wrist was feeling better.
After getting fitted with the thing, a black, eight-inch velcro pad that wraps around my wrist, I started regretting not getting the second one, since it would have completed the necessary symmetry for this October's Ninja Costume.
Quick check of e-mails at work before turning around and getting the branch to leave early and have a beer in honor of a guy in our office's last day. Our Deputy Branch Chief highly recommended the "Frickles" (fried pickles) and Dad Gum if they didn't taste like everything else fried you've ever had. Sort of like gooey potato chips.
Delicious, in other words.

The Taming of the Tew

We wouldn't call these twos "terrible", per se. But they are an interesting metamorphosis. And a challenge to our sanity.
The 'no's are a bit more frequent, without the 'tenk yew' of yesteryear. The whiny "I want"s. The independent streak of wanting to do 'it', whatever 'it' is, by himself. (Turn the page, finish the song, push the soap nozzle, run into traffic, etc.)
Although Ainsley has been a party to more of this than I have, I experienced my first full-blown meltdown the other day, when Ryan did NOT want me to comb his hair with the blue comb, he wanted the YELLOW one. Which was somewhere in a bag on a different floor, so, no.
Well.
Tears, hands on head undoing all I had combed, never-ending 'no's. It was actually rather comical.
0535 this morning, he's calling for Mommy. Mommy was in the other room convincing herself that Erin might want to sleep at some point, so in I went. He's sitting up in bed.
"No. I want MOMMY."
"She's with Erin right now, how about Daddy?"
"NO." Pushing away my very hug.
"Shall we just lie down?" I put my head on the side of his bed. Like he used to like.
"NOOOO." Pushing away my face with his feet. Calling it a kick to the face would not hold up in court, but man is my judgment ever cloudy at 0536am.
I had to go to work and uphold the Constitution, so Ainsley got to deal with him the rest of the day. Oh, and raise our other child into a fine upsitting young American with teeth potential.
Then at the Italian pizza place for supper, it was rapid head-shaking for fun while Mommy tries to feed him, napkin after napkin on the floor, stealing books from his baby sister, and going ballistic when I wouldn't let go of his hand crossing the street.
As Ainsley says, it's a good thing he's cute.
Maybe she says that about Griffin. Still, a propos.

Bippity Boppity Bjorn

Spent Memorial Day morning out and about (after posting the flag and taking the dogs, dude, and dad for a stroll), buying a sharp blue blazer for my next job schmoozing foreign diplomats, then a quick bite at Panera Bread before mandatory nap time.
Erin doesn't know the meaning, this word, 'mandatory'.
After nursing for an hour, she would not be swayed, so Ainsley brought her down to me in the garage so she could try to get a wink and a half of sleep.
I had been re-organizing the contents of the garage, putting winter stuff (shovel, kindling, tiki lamps) in the shed and moving other things, so I strapped Erin in to the front-loader papoose and let her hang out with me.
I tell you, it's hard to sweep when you've got to look past someone's big lump of a head.
I don't know how women do it. If you follow.
We watered the grass and hosed off the leaves on the patio/hot tub, climbed up onto the back deck walls to cut down some dead branches, even climbed up a ladder to drill some holes in the garage to hang up the auxiliary stroller.
Erin didn't care for the sawdust much.
Other than that, she was a trooper for a good ninety minutes, though I needed a new back at the end of it.
Oh, she also didn't like me accidentally spraying her full in the face with the hose.
My bad.

More Irony

Well, Ryan knows what a grenade does now.

As a thank-you to the grandparents for enduring two nights of babysitting, we'd brought home a half-dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts for breakfast, which were a lovely dessert after Ainsley's cream cheese spinach mushroom mashup. After they took off, Ainsley and I opened more ironic presents, with her getting me some new fireplace tools that match our new firescreen and some padded bike shorts (to encourage my continued "Iron Man" workouts, sans the running or the swimming). I bought her a metal tin of black and grey M&M's, as well as a new organic non-jungle-wasting cutting board from the IronWood company. Dad got 'us' chocolates. We see who he favors.

After grilled tomato n cheese sandwiches and garlic pita chips on the front porch, everyone went to bed while I stretched out on the hammock to read some Air War College until my eyes got a little heavy, too. Might have been the beer. Did I mention the gorgeous weather?

Everyone was up and out by 4-ish to head to the Boivins' Annual Festival of Meat (Part I), with Mista Leo cooking up four different types of bratwursts. Unfortunately, though we had talked all the way over about 'being tough' ("Rrrr!") if Cleo barked at him, he's still deathly afraid of standing on the same floor as she.

Fortunately, Missus Boivin had invited over a friend from school who also has a 2-year-old, so a) Ryan had someone to play with and b) Cleo had someone else to chase.

After they'd had all the fun they could muster out front (with Dad dutifully schlepping Erin along on his chest), Mr. Boivin turned on the Cartoon Network for the boys to watch -- it was showing old cartoons from, I don't know, the 20s? Popeye, The Pink Panther, Tom & Jerry.

and MAN were those things violent.

Hence the grenade comment.

One can add ashtrays and shotguns to the list of 'objects not usually seen on a Wiggles DVD'.

Six Years. Hence, Tim, Hence.

I'm the luckiest fellow alive.

I Yearn For My Wife

Sure is nice to sleep in all the way to 6:37 on a Saturday. RYAN. When you read this in seventeen years.

Loaded up the van to take a stroll around Leesylvania State Park, some lovely grounds right on the river with picnic benches under trees, small beaches to watch the blue herons, and a turtle n' bullfrog pond where a swimming pool used to be and no one bothered to clean.

No, no. They reptiled the area on purpose.

Ryan had fun chasing Grandpa's shadow, and Erin got to sit in a swing for the first time, precariously balanced against her grandmother. But you couldn't have asked for nicer weather. All weekend, actually. Mid-70s and sunny skies, not too breezy. Picture perfect.

After a Subway(TM) lunch on the back porch, with Erin already asleep in the car seat up in her room, we got Ryan and Ainsley and Grandpa and Mimaa and all the dogs down for a nap while I flittered about with last-minute preps. Took off about ten minutes late, then hit nasty traffic up to DC, but I wasn't fretting too much -- Ainsley didn't know we were going to a movie and dinner, and we could have swapped the order if need be, but I figured missing all the commercials and previews (or even the first few minutes of the film) wouldn't be a tragedy. As it was, the movie had started, though we were able to get into the swing of things fairly quickly over the happy crunching of our popcorn and milk duds (we were a tad giddy, going to a flick together for the first time in a year). I had to tell Ainsley after she was finally confused enough to ask, "What are we watching?" that we were ten minutes into "Iron Man." Naturally.

Enjoyed the hell out of the flick, particularly the robot in charge of the fire extinguisher. We then hopped on the Metro to Dupont Circle, forgot which way the sun traditionally sets and headed north instead of south, before finally making our way to the Iron Gate restaurant (naturally), a converted stable in the middle of a bunch of row houses, with a lovely courtyard and grape something that sounds like albacore or alcove but isn't. The roof. The green bits above our heads, there.

Had a lovely mediterraneanish meal, adult conversation and some flan, before getting home to a just-asleep Ryan and a wouldn't-if-you-paid-her Erin. Thankfully, she had been a delight until 8-ish, and Grandad was nice enough to come over to help out and give someone a free set of hands for a spell. Dad had strapped on the ol' Bjorn bag and walked Erin around the cul de sac for nearly an hour, it was reported, Erin happy as a clam and just as mobile. At bedtime, though, poor Mimaa had to endure ninety minutes of carrying or crying, though, when she would not be put down. But after a dose of Ainsley, she slept for four hours. Straight! Doubling her life's output!

ARBOR! Grape Arbor. There.

The Munk 'n Duck

That couple sure was smart back in 2001, picking a wedding date around a major U.S. holiday. We had selected the 25th based on my school schedule, and the consideration that more people would come if they had an extra day of travel. Now, it's worked out so that the majority of May 25ths fall on a three-day weekend, or, in the case of DTRA-ops, a four-day weekend.
Which just gave me another day to do something celebratorily togetherous.
The Boivins have invited us over on the 25th for barbecued fruit salad (and the restaurant I wanted to take Ainsley to isn't open on Sundays anyway), so festivities started today, with typical subterfuge. I took Ryan and my car to the shop to get its annual inspection, dressing him in a plain blue shirt, but sneaking his Redskins jersey into the car for a quick change at the dealership before Ainsley picked us up. "Where going, Mommy?" "I honestly don't know, Ryan."
We goinged up the road to the Springfield Metro station to take the "train" up to King's Street (sixth anniversary gift is "iron", so it was appropriate to ride the iron horse). It was Erin's first ride in one, and Ryan's first since he'd been destrollerized and upwardly mobile. Ryan and I were exploring the parked car until the doors bing-bonged, so I held his hand to take him back to A&E (<--har! What a great abbreviation!), when Ryan got excited and slipped from my grip to run back there -- just as the metrocar started, causing Ryan to run uncontrollably towards the rear door...until Ainsley pulled a hand out from under her nursing daughter and caught him three inches before facesmack. Good hands, Mommy! Across the street from the King's Street station is Joe Theisman's restaurant, a nice sports bar/lunch place, which I thought would be a perfect setting for unveiling our Anniversary gift (click to enlarge):

Yes, that's right. We're going to the Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony for Darrel Green and Art Monk. Gift of Iron -- Celebrate Greats from the Gridiron. You see.
Ainsley's parents were here when we got back, ready to take on two-kid responsibilities so A&I could join my father at The Tower Club for an elegant six-course meal -- he'd been awarded a night out by his boss for his good work, and insisted (or his secretary had insisted) that he take his son and daughter-in-law. Coat & tie place, only twenty or so tables, up on the 17th floor of a 17-storey building in McLean, more servers than guests replacing every utensil and ounce of water drunk, choreographed food delivery, Kenny the Jazz guitarist, etc..
Started with complimentary sparkling white wine (after a cocktail in the bar), then I had some pinkie-sized beef tenderloin aperitif, a Crabcake Solo over tortilla straws, a caesar salad made table-side, a cobalt blue shot glass of peach sorbet, sea bass over lobster cous-cous, and flaming bananas foster. And then they bring us an entire chocolate cake for our anniversary (we took it to go). Opulent. This after last year's night at the Inn in Little Washington, we're sure setting ourselves up for failure in future years (or bankruptcy).
We're thinking McDonald's next year. Unfortunately, Erin had screamed her tiny head off for the better part of our absence (making Grandpa offer to next babysit when she turns 21), though after having a bowel movement that was felt as far as away as Chicago, she seemed to feel a bit better, and Mimaa was able to get her down a few minutes before we got home. I was up with Ryan until after 10:15, though, as we continue to hope this phase ends any ol' day now.
My honesty sometimes gets the better of me -- I told him I had to go change out of my suit before hanging out with him, but I'd be right back. After I'd slipped into comfortablemoresomething, I peeked my head in and he was quiet and still (though not asleep). So do I leave him be and hope he falls asleep? Or do I go in and keep my word?
Didn't want my son thinking his Dad was a liar.
Hence the 10:15.
Giving us the opportunity to start learning how to read the clock, at least...

Another keghole

I know it's wrong, but I slightly resent Ryan's very existence.

Since it means that Ainsley makes me let him eat some of the banana bread when she makes it.

...kid's got a pantry full of perfectly good raisins and fig newtons. The hell.

Bonus Points

The kids may drive us around the bend and up the wall and through the woods and down the hatch from time to time, but they really are divine pleasures to have around. I mean, how can you ever get mad at a two-year-old when he goes up to our spouse, out of the blue, and says, "You look pretty, Mommy!"
I mean, sure, that won't work in fifteen years when he's busted curfew, but for now, it's amazing to watch. We went up to the Marina at Bolling AFB (who knew it had a marina!) to see some old military friends before three of them leave this summer. Ideal location, with a park and path on the side of the Anacostia River, watching airplanes take off from the other side, helicopters flying 300 feet off the wavetops, boats going by, and the Washington Monument just off in the distance. Ryan loved watching the planes roar by, at one point even waving at a jet and saying "Have a good tri-ip!"

Although the boss has tried to take things off my plate so the transition of my imminent absence goes smoothly, each day is staying busy with little things, short-notice taskers, short little meetings. I eat lunch at my desk with the hope of getting to the gym, but that still only happens about half the time. Yesterday, my boss asked me to review a document and forward it to three people with his compliments.
So I forwarded it on, adding:

Mary, you have a nice office. Lynn, you're one of the two best Deputy Division Chiefs I've ever had. Mr. E, your facial hair is robust and impressive.

Moral: forward your own damned stuff.

Because I didn't get to the gym, I took Ryan for another bike-n-trailer ride around the neighborhood, though one stretch was on a relatively busy street (albeit with a nice wide area to the right of the white stripe that we'll call a bike path for fun). I was whooshing down at about 30 mph, cars whizzing by, wind rushing past my helmet, so I couldn't hear how Ryan was reacting. Until I got to the bottom of the hill, and I heard,

"Go, Daddy, Go!"

Nomer

Well, they didn't call it "Marsh Trail" for nothin'.
I'd wanted to take a hike the last few weekends, but weather and life got in the way; today was beautiful, though, and Ainsley even invited a couple of her friends and their kids to join us on a little exploration of a series of trails I drive by every day on the way to work. It was mostly woods, crossing over little creeks and winding up and down wooded slopes, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, watching bugs, hearing woodpeckers, holding hands. Then we hit a wall in the form of The Virginia State Park Association Running Out Of Money and halting a maintained, graveled path in the middle of our only path, which would have been fine if we hadn't gotten a a cubic hectare of rain the last week. Each adult saddled up a wee'un in their arms (I already had Erin strapped on my chest in the BabyBjorn) and tried to find solid footing through the sludgy puddles and prickly thorns, mud up to everyone's ankles. Really bothered one of the girls, who had only worn sandals with her jeans, to go with her purse (for holding her High School Musical Lotion, of course). After finding terra firma, Ryan didn't want to be put down, so I had him on my shoulders, trying to keep his feet away from Erin's head.
So we'll be sticking to walking the Mall next time.

Finally got the bike and trailer down from the garage ceiling, tires inflated, cobwebs dewebbed. Took Ryan for an inaugural 2008 ride yesterday, and he did great, with no complaints about snapping on his helmet, or trying to throw his water bottle out the flap. Took advantage of the nice day today to ride my bike to the library, so I've done my part for oil conservation. Prices should be plummeting any day now.
This, after having a bear of a day, Ryan-sleep-wise. I was up four times with him between 3 and 4 am -- he just wouldn't stay asleep -- until I finally just dragged my pillow in there and made him happy just lying on the floor next to him (and falling asleep for an hour, cold and blanketless *music swells*). Same thing at naptime -- I'd give him the father-son high-five, get downstairs, and he'd be crying for me on the monitor. So I went back and got on the floor, until he asked for the pillow I was using. So I got up to leave.
Ryan: "Lay down on floor?"
Daddy: "Can't! I don't have a pillow -- you just took it from me. So I guess I'll go."
Ryan: "...lay down on your arms?"
Ingenious!
Ryan's getting so big -- walking down stairs as an upright hominid, even the big honkin' step off off the front porch, no hands needed, and he's a quarter of a smidge away from being able to make the full-circle turn on the tricycle. He's also able to mimic large words like "unanimous" and "Counterproductive". And crawl into the van by himself. And eat a piece of pizza without having it cut up first.
Ainsley would like him to grow up slower, please.

Love Me Tendon

So the x-rays were negative, but man does it still hurt to push my son in a swing.
Or lift my daughter's car seat anything more than yay high.
Or roll over in bed.
Felt like arthritis in the wrists at first, but now it's just a dull ache combined with a sharp pain anytime I try to push off with my left. I have to get up off the floor (where I tend to be an exceptional amount these days) by pushing up on my knuckles as opposed to my palms. The doc on Tuesday told me it might be tendinitis, for which WebMD prescribes a) doing nothing on it for a period of weeks to months -- uh, no: Ryan needs a bath -- or b) steroid injections to prolong the inevitable amputation.
No, no.
The doctor said he'd get back to me this week. I'll just hold my daughter in the bend of my right elbow instead.
Meanwhile, stop the presses, the kids aren't sleeping much, though Ryan has been pretty good about going down at night, saying "bye-bye" and blowing kisses as I leave the room. Miss Baldy, though, is a different basket of plankton. Monday Ainsley asked me a little after 8pm to try to get her to go to sleep (after she'd nursed over an hour), defrosting a bottle and telling me to wake her up at 10 if she wasn't down. Turns out that she fell asleep in my arms just after 10, so we watched the news and Letterman (after watching a great episode of "House" together, me swinging her in her car seat (with the good hand)). It's hard to feel good to have given your wife an extra two hours of sleep when you realize that's about all she's had since President's Day.

Pocomote

The All About Mom Holiday Weekend started on a bit of a damper, with continued alluvial interference Saturday morning. Plus, as I told Ryan at lunch, I had to go study so I could get promoted to Colonel.

His eyes opened wide: "Good Idea!"

It's invaluable to have that kind of support at home.

Upon my return from the library, Ainsley's folks were here, and Dad joined us for a lovely butterflied-it-was-so-thick 25-hour marinated steak on the grill with the brand new propane.
Despite getting down fairly late, sondaught were up in the early 6'oclock hour, but enjoyed "dogpile on the grandrents" time while I hottubbed to wake myself up.
I cooked the fam a mega breakfast complete with fruit cups and mushroom omelets, then took the quadpeds for a quick stroll, Ryan sort of in charge of Dover until he yanked the leash out of Ryan's grip. Ryan's also getting very good at the screeching "NO" and deadweight gravity pull away from holding hands when crossing the street. Ah, we'll miss these years.
After a quick mow of the lawn before the predicted deluge, we got the kids to bed so Ainsley and her mother could go the lingerilogical specialist to have their breasticular apexes readjusted (don't ask).

Unfortunately, Ryan woke up crying .8 seconds after Ainsley got into her car, with a head so stuffed he couldn't blow his nose, frustrating him more. After placing a pathetic, hoarsy phone call to Mommy (That'll learn her to ever set foot outside this house!), I took him downstairs on the couch to snooze on my chest, but he wanted juice, and then Erin awoke -- I darted upstairs, leaving Grandpa in charge of not letting Ryan squeeze his juice box all over creation. I held Erin for the next fifty minutes, because anytime I tried to put her down (or even sit down in a chair myself), she'd wake up crying, so back and forth and up and down the stairs I went. At one point, I was able to pick up a Smithsonian magazine with one hand and read words here and there when I passed the opening in the curtain.
After the Mammariously Meticulous Moms got home, it was time for "Happy Birthday to Mother's Day" (as Ryan sang it) presents--the lad picked out a very color-appropriate green bow to go on the gift bag for his and Erin's gift to mommy.

We then took them to their favorite Indian restaurant up the street, where they apparently mistook my 6:30 reservations as a knee-slapper of a joke. We finally ordered around 7, and despite some confusion over the Keema Nann, we all enjoyed our food.

Unfortunately, we nearly crashed into some old guy in a robe and beard driving some large-ass boat down my street with two of every animal stinking up the joint. We broke records for rainfall throughout the area; it was reported that our county got between 3-4 inches of rain just on Sunday. Close to 7 inches over a four-day period. Bob Ryan, NewsChannel 4, put it another way: over 500 billion gallons of water fell within a 50-mile radius of D.C.

So much for watering my grasseedlings. They're now down in Richmond.

The Roof is on Fire

I wish, anyway. That'd make today's news easier to swallow.

I was awarded a three-day pass at work, which, apparently, in Army terms, means a one-day pass that you have to use in conjunction with your weekend. So I used it today. Was going to take the family for a short hike on a trail I drive by every day on the way to work, but the weather was crapulent enough to keep us indoors, buying in bulky ridiculousness at Costco while I pushed Erin around from free-food station to free-food station, keeping her asleep in our alternate shopping cart.

In the afternoon, I'd scheduled a couple contractors to come out to see what they could do about annoying gutters that don't seem to drain correctly, get clogged, and rot away some of the soffets. The first guy said he could replace all the gutters and downspouts, and fix a problem alcove, for $3600. The second guy, though, actually got up on the roof and showed me where the roof itself is a mess, with warped plywood, ripped shingles, nails sticking out, nails poking through, and some comical vandalism from the guy who "repaired" our attic fan last spring -- he'd written his nickname, "BEAVER", in tar, upside-down, on the side of it. This contractor also suggested that the roof was not really re-done in 2000 as we were told when we bought the house (he said maybe just the part over the front porch, but he'd 'guarantee' the rest of it wasn't only 8 years old). He hasn't given me an estimate yet, but he shook his head a lot and whistled.

So with the two of us up on tromping on the roof for an hour, Ryan didn't get any sleep, so he was a ball of fire all night. Probably the only way we could get him to down his first Cracker Barrel fried okra, anyway, if he really has any of Mommy's genes.

He can still be awful adorable, though. Erin started crying on the way home, so Ryan did the Big Brother thing, obviously emulating something he's heard from time to time: "I know, Erin, I know. We're going home. Just a minute..."

Refund

We spent all that money on a big boy bed why, exactly?

Reelin' in the Years

Ryan would like to inform you that he is now two and a half.

Death Metal

An eleven-year-old friend died this morning, after a long illness. Broken arm for four years, he had led a dull, dry existence in the shadows, with only rare examples of ever showing us his former spark. He limped along, doing what was asked of him, before crawling back into his hole, whiny and leaky. We had hoped he would last through the summer, or at least until Memorial Day, but this morning...

the starter cord broke off in my hand.

So now we have a new lawnmower. Fire engine red, it's a 'self-propelled' jobby, which seems silly, especially when my Saturday backyard mow was sometimes the best exercise I'd had all week, but after rebate it was only $6 more expensive than the regular model.

Spent the morning with Ryan, as Ainsley and Erin were invited to a Mother-Daughter breakfast down in Quantico, allowing Ainsley to get dressed in a lovely flowery yellow ensemble with pearls, and Erin to wear an outfit a friend bought her that looks like it was made in 1906. So the dudes went to the Post Office in Historic Occoquan and did some historic Mother's Day shopping and ate some historic banana bread, before picking up Grandad to join us for lunch.
Because I'm actually getting some grass to grow in the tough under-old-deck spots, I spread some more soil and seed this evening with Ryan's help, plus he got to see a couple backyard frogs, so all in all a great Father-Son day. In casual unmatching clothes.

Anti-prolix

Ryan has started with the "I want"s. Not sure where he gets it. Probably picks it up at school, hanging out with the wrong sort. Perhaps during football practice.
Anyhoo, it drives Mommy batty. The gall! Of actually wanting something and telling us. In an altogether rude manner. We steer him towards the "I would like" version a la the British Regal manner circa late 18th century. Or just have him blast out the pleases, as in:
"Would you please sing E-I-E-I-O and on this farm he had a frog with a crown on it in the water please?"
We've also given him choices over the years, as if to pretend that he had any say in any matter. "Do you want the astronaut toothbrush or the car toothbrush?" "Ryan, would you like milk or water with dinner?"
So now he's doing it back to us.
"Ryan, lie down and put your head on the pillow."
"...the white one or the blue one?"
Ainsley also emphasized early in the dawning of the Age of language skills that she would like us to say "Yes, Ryan?" whenever he calls us, as opposed to "WHAT DAMMIT WHAT CAN'T YOU SEE I'M WATCHING LETTERMAN"
No, no. He's usually not up that late.
As opposed to "What?"
So it's what he now expects, and demands.
"Hey, Daddy?"
"Yo."
"...Not 'yo'. 'Hey, Daddy?'"
"HEll-lo!"
"...Not 'hello'. 'Hey, Daddy?'"
"mm-Hmmm?"
"...Not mm-hmm. 'Hey, Daddy?"
"Yes, Ryan."
"There you go."

My son. Actually telling me 'there you go." What a lad.
The downside is that after going through this little game, he's forgotten what he wanted to say in the first place.

Year 2 of Frugal Coasting

We've now had our Ford Escape Hybrid Leafy Green Planet Smoocher for two years. The stats:

It helps to have been TDY for nearly 18 weeks of the year in 2007, though Ainsley would still drive it from time to time so it wouldn't get lonely. But I still marvel at what this car does for us -- it's not like gas is any less expensive for me, but today was only the 8th time all year I had to fill it up.

But Hybrids are more expensive up front, they say. You'll never make your money back, they say. Unless gas goes to $3/gallon...they said.

We're already halfway there in just two years.

Hey let's invade Iran just for fun.