Durel and I were talking the other evening about how, even at our ripe old ages, our parents still kiss us firmly on the heads.  

My family has always been pretty affectionate, so I never thought about it.  Durel's family is less demonstrative, so he did.

Here is my operating theory:  No matter how old you get, you are still your parents' baby.  And they will kiss your head firmly, forever.  Because it's in their parental DNA.  They've been kissing you like that since you were born and there simply is no good reason to stop.

*     *     *     *     *  

So, Jack is huge now.  He has seen the first Harry Potter movie and asks me repeatedly when he can go to wizarding school.  (I see Harry Potter themed parties in our future.)  He will play Quidditch, of course.  He anticipates being in Gryffendor, but Durel and I are quick to posit the virtues of Slytherin.  (Seriously.  Slytherin is cool.  It's how you use your power that makes the difference, n'est pas?)

He's big on cocoa, also.  So, imagine the kismet that occurred when one of the items on his monthly homework calendar was to "drink a cup of hot chocolate and use your five senses to describe it."

We got to work, and here's what we learned.  

Me:      OK, Jack.  Let's use your eyes.  What does your cocoa look like?

Jack:    Clear vomit.

Me:      ...Oh!  Uh...OK.

Jack:     You know what I mean. It's all bubbly.

Me:       Rrrrright.  How about your nose?  How does your cocoa smell?

Jack:     (sniffs)  Chocolate!

Me:       Great.  What about touch?  How does it feel?

Jack:     (unceremoniously sticks finger into hot cocoa)  Oh!  LIKE FIRE!

Me:      Wow.  OK.  How does it sound?

Jack:     (looks at me as if I'm a bit daft)  Like bubbles popping.

Me:      OK, most important one!  Let's taste it!

Anyway, that was a successful (and enlightening) exercise.  Here are a few shots of Jack at his best lately. I took them in between stealing every opportunity to kiss him firmly on the head.

As we do.

Holding a baby kangaroo at his friend Addie's amazeballs birthday party.

We big puffy heart love Menchies. 

He stole my sandwich at Panera.

He also ate about half of my pho.  I swear, I feed him.

Hope kisses are firm and vomit is only theoretical in your world today.

Talk soon,
Heather

little wreckers

Yesterday, I had a Plan.

Get up.  Take Jack to school.  Go to gym, with Sawyer accompanying me.  Have lunch.  Take Sawyer home to nap.  During Sawyer's nap, dominate things like my email inbox.  Cook delicious, Whole 30 dinner.  (OMG, Whole 30.  More on that later.)

Unbeknownst to me, Sawyer had other ideas.

Since I am taller than him and had the car keys, we did get to the car.  We even got on the road to the gym.  Then, I heard a cacophonous baby snore from the backseat.

Shit.

Sawyer's had a cold or an ear infection for like, ever.  I am not at the mercy of random car naps, but I could tell that this was serious sleep, which I respect.

So, I pulled over and did email on my phone.  (Heeeey, data plan.)  He sniffled and snarfled himself awake after a while, and looked at me with those eyes, as if to say:

"Hey Mom.  What are we doing just sitting in the car?"

Sure. 

Back to the Plan.  Back on the road!

Then, I heard a cacophonous baby dissent from the backseat.  

Hunger.

So, we went to one of the closest delicious food serving establishments, Torchy's Tacos.  (You are my true love, TacoDeli, but you weren't around.)  I got Sawyer a kid's combo of fried chicken strips and fried avocado pieces. It's called the Little Wrecker.

Indeed.

You thought we were going WHERE?
No.  We were always coming HERE. 

You have done well.

I love my job.

Since I'm taller than him and still had the car keys, we went home after that.  He napped. 

I can't believe I ever thought I was in charge.  Little Wrecker, indeed.

Hope you find David and Goliath analogous to something today.

Talk soon,
Heather

sawyer with a chance of meatballs

We went out to dinner the other night.  On, like a Tuesday.  We are wild.

We love Rocco's.  Most importantly, Jack loves it, and has since he was three.  When a three year old loves a restaurant that has a full bar and does not have a playground, it's a little bit like winning the lottery.

But ... would Sawyer like it?

OF COURSE Sawyer liked it.  He is perhaps the most agreeable person I know.  

He is also, lately, the hungriest person I know.  Cute little agreeable hungry men must be my type, because it's the best thing ever.

Sawyer ate:  the entire (small, round) loaf of sourdough provided to the table, his entire kid's menu order of cheese ravioli (with Alfredo sauce, because we need to fatten him up, which is a horrible hardship, isn't it?), and at least one of Jack's meatballs.  

He was pretty psyched about it.

We may need to find a restaurant with a full bar, no playground, and like, unlimited kids refills on ravioli and meatballs.

Side note:  I am not ever permitted to sit next to a dish of Alfredo sauce again.  Ever, ever, ever.  Because Alfredo sauce is AMAZING.

Hope you get to choose your favorite sauce today.

Talk soon,

Heather

motherhood amnesia

When Jack was about a year old, he stopped drinking from a bottle.  He went to sippy cups.  He didn't look back.

Durel and I facilitated this change with intent, care, and thought.  Jack's teacher had expressed a strong preference for one year olds to be bottle free, and with the earnestness of first-time parents, we obliged.

We were quite successful, as I recall.

Exhibit A:  Jack at 13 months or so, eating scrambled eggs with basil, biscuits, and drinking from his sippy cup.

What?  No Eggs Benedict?  What kind of a joint is this?

Exhibit B:  Jack at school around the same age, sitting with his classmates in a chair, at a table, eating rice krispies with a spoon (and his hands) and drinking from his sippy cup. 

I was told there would be pain au chocolat.
Take that, Rice Krispies.

(Also, please note the lack of hair.)

Exhibit C:  A very suspicious looking Jack at around the same time, eating toast and drinking from ... wait for it ... his sippy cup.

What?  The hair will come.
 Now leave me with my toast, woman.

And now, there's Sawyer.  Dear, sweet, Sawyer.  Drinking from his bottle without a clue in the world.  Turning one in like two weeks.

I swear to you.  I just realized, like last week, that I should be doing sippy cups with Sawyer.  I haven't bumped my head.  I haven't stopped being a hands-on mom (far from it!).  I just plain forgot.

Second kids do that to you.  You're more relaxed.  You're certainly busier.  You feel more confident.  You buy your one year old a sippy cup packed cutely for "ages 4 months +!!"

Whoops.

But, Exhibit D:  I copped to it on the Great App of All Truths, Instagram.  

In my own defense, it's not like I've totally lost my mind. (No comments, please.)  He is, as Jack was at this age, eating actual food.  In fact, he's quite fond of pot roast.

Hope you're quite fond of your dinner this evening.

Talk soon,
Heather

tubes

When I was a kid, having tubes in your ears was a pain in the ass.  

I didn't have them, but I remember people who did.  It made them high maintenance about going swimming -- a direct result, I'm sure, of their mothers warning them with the Most Serious Voice about getting their ears wet.  (I know that voice.  I have it now.  You get it when you become a mom.)

No one understood why those kids couldn't really get crazy at the pool parties.  They kept telling us they had tubes in their ears, and we couldn't see any tubes, and that sounded crazy, but they wouldn't budge on it, so we just left them alone.  (Marco Polo, anyone?)

Luckily, that's not how it works anymore. With the tubes.  I should know.  I have two children and we are on our third set of tubes.  And no, we didn't sponsor tubes for anyone not in our family.  And yes, our ENT loves us.  

So anyway, Sawyer has them now.  (Jack had two sets, if you're counting.)  And as with Jack, they have transformed him from a sleepless snot-ball to a happy, cooing, pancake gobbler.

Even the seventeen teeth he's sprouting can't slow down this cuteness.

Hope someone makes you a pancake today.

Talk soon,
Heather

in a word

Hope you enjoy something musical today.

Talk soon,
Heather

let them eat (vegan) cake

I never met my mom's father, but tales of his coolness persist.  

His name was Henry.  (Sawyer's name was almost Henry.)  He was a left-handed pitcher in minor league baseball in the 1920's.  (I'm left handed.  I can't throw for shit, though.)  He hurt his elbow and never made the majors, so worked as a contractor building roads, bridges, and the like in Chicago.  In the 1920's and 1930's.  He was a Mason. (He was not a gangster, but HEY Chicago in the 1920's!)

Henry's birthday was on Christmas Eve.  His infinite coolness aside, he always sort of got the shaft for his birthday.  Less presents, and/or birthday presents thoughtfully wrapped in Christmas paper and given to him with his (indistinguishable) Christmas presents, also thoughtfully wrapped in Christmas paper.  You get the idea.

For years, Mom would make a birthday cake at Christmas.  In addition to the legions of cookies, truffles, candies, and the like that my father's customers would send to him, we would also tuck into a birthday cake in honor of Grandpa Henry.  In later years, Mom stopped doing it.  Logical considerations took over, I suppose.

I decided to revive the tradition this year, in large part because I didn't have time to make cookies because I was lawdogging my face off for the entire month of December.  I also recently discovered Capital City Bakery, a local Austin bakery that makes THE MOST AMAZING THINGS, which happen to be vegan.  

Truth be told, I ordered Durel's birthday cake from them in October because I was dairy-free at the time (courtesy of Sawyer) and wanted to have some damn cake.  The cake was so good that I've been looking for an excuse since then to order another one.

Anyway, as I sat at my own breakfast bar to indulge in my Christmas cake, Sawyer decided to join me.  In the spirit of the holidays and all that is dairy free, I decided to let him.

Whatchoo looking at, punk?  This is MY CAKE. 

Good stuff, indeed.

Hope your Christmas was filled with tasty treats and things that were joyfully messy.

Talk soon,
Heather

it's bananas. no, really.

Christmas is next week, you guys!

I'm done with my shopping (just).  I have wrapped exactly zero presents.  I have not yet sent my cards.  (Stay tuned; they're coming.)

And I have not yet told you the ground-breaking news that Sawyer ate a banana!

Let's just cut to the chase, shall we?

Clockwise from left:  (1) Inquisitive Sawyer. (2) Cute Sawyer, with banana.
(3) Excited Sawyer.  (4) Slimy, banana-scented Sawyer.

With all the dairy allergy stuff, I sort of forgot that Sawyer was, like, nine months old and that it was time to give him FOOD food.  His pediatrician kindly reminded me at his recent well check.  

We hurried home and enjoyed a ripe banana together.  I mean, Mum Mums are SO a month ago.  

Hope you enjoy something new and tropical today.

Talk soon,

Heather

brussel sprouts and grandiose aspirations

Before you have children, you have grandiose aspirations of what your parenting style will be.  

Those grandiose aspirations are also TOTAL BULLSHIT.  

This is because they are concocted, in large part, as you sip a nice Chilean Malbec at a nice restaurant while you pretend that you are not judging the nice family across the dining room.  You are, in fact, judging them, and you should not be.  First of all, because it's not nice to judge people.  Second of all, you should be applauding them because if they are at the same nice restaurant as you, they are doing a lot of things right.

As a matter of fact, that family might be mine.  So you should definitely be sending over a dessert to congratulate us for doing such a good job.  OK?

*     *     *     *     *

I, for example, was certain that my children would not be the ones eating food while at the grocery store.

[Hang on; let me stop laughing AT MYSELF.]  

Right.  Anyway.  I also was certain that my kids would not be the ones who refused to eat anything but chicken nuggets and french fries.

As for Jack, I will say that much is true.  He isn't that kid.  He will eat almost anything.  However, the route we took to get there and how I feel about it are VERY different than my naive pre-children self would have imagined.

We have always offered Jack bits of what we were eating.  And he happened to like most of it.  We are really, ridonkulously lucky.  End of story.

*     *     *     *     *

Here is Jack the Gourmand through the ages (so far).

*     *     *     *     *

Here's the latest addition to the gallery.

Seaweed salad, with a side of HAM.

Hope you crave something salty and silly today.

Talk soon,

Heather

a life aquatic

Hey you guys.

Jack can swim.  

Like, he goes underwater and swims to the steps.  He can dive down and grab toys.  He uses his arms and legs in appropriate motions to move through the water.

He's pretty psyched about it.

We're pretty psyched about it, too.  

You can't NOT swim when you grow up in Texas.  It's hotter than hell.   Until you are old enough to drink frozen margaritas, swimming is pretty much the best way to cool off.  (Even when you're an adult, swimming *while* drinking a margarita is pretty great.)

On a related note, Jack is now seriously grown up.  He's 4 and a half.  He does very four and a half year old things like: strolling through the kitchen to the pantry and grabbing a snack.  Or, opening the fridge, grabbing two carrots, making the dogs sit, and rewarding them with the carrots as a treat.  (Our dogs love carrots.)

Also, his current career aspirations are to "feed Sawyer from a bottle" and "go swimming."  

I don't blame him one bit.

Hope you stroll somewhere for a snack today.

Talk soon,
Heather

queso, wherefore art thou queso?

I didn't know about chile con queso until I moved to Austin in 2001.  I'm not sure how the opportunity to order a bowl of melted cheese in a restaurant (and eat it in public, without judgment) had escaped me for that long.  I've been making up for lost time ever since.

From Homesick Texan.  Disregard the sound of me, weeping.

That is, until two weeks ago.

My sweet angel of a newborn, Sawyer, is allergic to milk protein.  This happens to some babies; it's different than lactose intolerance; they usually outgrow it by age 1, if not age 3.  Fine.

What that means is that I cannot have any food with milk protein in it.  It also means that I cannot have any food with casein or whey protein in it.

[long pause]

UGH.

And so, as I mentioned, it has been two weeks of a Dairy-Free Heather.  Here are the highlights:

-- I don't miss cheese as much as I thought I would.

-- I haven't killed anyone!

-- Coconut milk creamer is awesome.

-- Almond milk yogurt is NOT awesome.

-- I miss yogurt more than I thought I would.

-- Thank God for peanut butter.

-- There is NO DAIRY in Oreos.  (Stop and think about that for a moment...)

-- I really like celery.  Plain.

-- Vegan chocolate chips are expensive.

-- I am not likely to make vegan chocolate chip cookies.

-- I like Lara bars.  Especially the blueberry ones.

The most important observation is that Sawyer is flourishing with my new diet.  His cheeks are rosy.  He's smiling.  His, um, digestion is vastly improved, shall we say.  (That is also how we diagnosed there was a problem.  It was in his diaper.  I'll leave it at that.)

Happier than Pharrell to be dairy-free.

I'm also avoiding as much soy as possible.  I am having NO dairy at all, and as little soy as I can.  Damn, Gina.  Soy is in EVERYTHING.  

We were already drinking almond milk at our house.  No big change there.

When you completely rule out dairy, you get really hungry, really fast.  

To be clear, I don't think formula is the devil.  But I do know that the formula that is both soy and dairy-free is approximately the price of our mortgage.  And that I can create milk for free, and it's better.

Also, yesterday I would have kicked a puppy for a cheese pizza.  And then, I saw Sawyer, that little bundle of dairy free awesomeness, and I didn't give a shit (pun not intended) about pizza.

Hope you do what you have to do today.

Talk soon,
Heather

is he twelve?

The other night, Durel and Jack had "man time."  This entailed a haircut (Jack), a sports bar for dinner (Jack and Durel), and a trip to Menchies (ostensibly Jack, but who doesn't love Menchies?).  

When I say "sports bar," I really mean a restaurant with a lot of TVs.  TVs that are turned to sporting events, not to Bravo for Project Runway reruns.  (Although, that's not a bad idea.  Ten kinds of white wine by the glass and TVs showing The Golden Girls, Felicity, and You've Got Mail?)

The hostess was trying to assess whether Durel and Jack were eligible to sit in the bar area for dinner.  She sized them up, turned to Durel and asked, "Is he twelve?"

[long pause]

No.  Nope, he is not.  He is FOUR.  He looks nothing like a twelve year old.  From Earth.

So, they sat outside.

This snapshot from the dinner gives a pretty good overview of where Jack is these days.  He is a little man.  He loves cheeseburgers and Star Wars.  And he does not look twelve yet.

Gratuitous froyo shot:

Hope your devil may care attitude is adorable today.

Talk soon,
Heather

bad movies and debatable lunches

Every city has an Achilles heel, right?  (Except London, maybe?)  When I lived in San Francisco, I realized it is pretty close to perfect.  Except for the outrageous cost of living.  Oh, and the ever-present threat of a devastating earthquake.

Austin often seems perfect, as well.  And then it's 104 in the summer and you think, "Oh, Austin is perfect except for the heat.  Well, I can go get a frozen margarita and handle that."

By January, you feel smug because you only have to read about the "polar vortex" or whatever the hell is dumping feet of snow on my sister and friends back East.  You text them, "How much snow?"  "Are you OK?"  And then you put your flip flops back on because it's Austin.

But then cedar happens.  Mountain Cedar trees pollinate from mid-December until early March, and they hit their highest levels in January.  The wind blows the pollen off the trees in clouds, and misery ensues.

Not even kidding.

If you live in Austin, just skim this because you already know all the pain.  For the rest of you, cedar means wheezing, snorting, your nose running off your face, clearing your throat and/or coughing so often that you no longer realize you are doing it, buying ONLY the Kleenex with lotion or aloe in them, and comparing notes with everyone about what you're taking versus what they're taking in case you need to switch.  (Note to self:  Buy stock in Flonase.)

When you are wheezing and snorting and 7 months pregnant, this trifecta means you are not taking your energetic almost-four year old outside as much as you should.  Because, self-preservation.  It does mean that you start exploring indoor activities with determination.

*    *     *     *     *

Jack and I went to see The Nut Job last weekend.  You know, the one about the squirrels to decide to do a heist of a nut store? 

Don't worry if you don't.  It is bad.  It is a bad movie.  Jack didn't even like it.  

Halfway through he turned to me and said, "Momma, can we go home?"

And since we were at Alamo and I hadn't gotten the check yet, I said no, but that speaks volumes, dude.

*     *     *     *     *

I tried to up my game on Monday, when Jack and I were both off for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.  I took him to a "jumpy place" so that he could GET IT OUT while I was safely indoors, blowing my nose and following him around from foam pit to inflatable slide.

That was a success.  He loved it.  He GOT IT OUT.  And then, it was time for lunch.

We went to Whole Foods because I needed a few things.  And, I love eating lunch at Whole Foods.  We picked up our supplies and then grabbed food.

Jack chose some cantaloupe, a slice of pepperoni pizza, and a chocolate cookie.  Oh, and a can of sparkling water, which he calls "bubbles."

Life was good.

*     *     *     *     *

On the drive home, I was feeling good.  Accomplished, even, in that way that only the mother of a small child can feel accomplished when you've pleased them without spending one zillion dollars or losing your mind.  In that way that even involved fruit and exercise!  In that way that knows that "Nap" is the next event on the agenda and that sounds damn good, too.

A voice interrupted my self-congratulatory reverie from the backseat.

Jack:   Momma, I wanted to eat lunch AT A RESTAURANT.

Me:    (making the split-second decision to be just a tiny bit deceptive)  We did!

Jack:   No, we DIDN'T.

Me:    (Thinking - True!  Well, shit.)  Well, what do you call that place where we had lunch?

Jack:   (I swear to you he SCOFFED.)  Momma.  We ate lunch at the SUPERMARKET.

[pause]

Me:    Well, that's one of my favorite places to eat lunch.  So, I guess that's that, isn't it?

[no comment]

*     *     *     *     *

Hope your city is pretty perfect today, your movie choices are solid, and your lunch is just where you want it to be.

Talk soon,

Heather

laser beams and salad bars: a pregnancy update

Every evening when I come home from work, my sweet husband greets me with two questions:

1.  How are you?
2.  How is your urge to kill?

He asks this because he cares deeply about both answers. (Out of both love and self-preservation, I presume.)  Both answers will also clue him into what we may be having for dinner, how soon I'm going to bed, and how many people I roasted with my laser beam eyes of hormonal hate that day.

*     *     *     *     *

The bump is growing.  Most of the time, I love that.  Sometimes, at the end of a long day, I know I'm already waddling, which I do not love.  

But then the bump kicks me, and I love it again, waddle and all.

*     *     *     *     *

Commentary on the size of the bump is increasing in a proportionate ratio to the bump's size.  This week, these things were all said to me:

1.  You are looking very motherly today!
2.  You wear your pregnancy very well.
3.  OHMYGOD, you are getting SO BIG!

Two of these comments made me smile with pregnancy radiance.  One of these comments made me feel hormonal hate.  I will leave it to you to decipher which comment elicited the rage.

*     *     *     *     *

Luckily for me, Jack's curiosity (in general, too, but I mean about the baby) has not reached a level where I am not sure how to answer him.

Jack:     Why is the baby in there?
Me:       In my tummy?
Jack:     Yeah.
Me:       Because that's where babies come from.  From mommies' tummies.

(Obviously, the next question could be "How did the baby get there?"  I am very glad he didn't ask that.)

(Side note:  How did that whole stork thing start?  Isn't that an odd way to get around answering the procreation question?)

*     *     *     *     *

For the record, today is a good day.  My urge to kill is not dormant, but is minimal.  The woman who bumped into me at the Whole Foods salad bar and then gave ME stink eye, while carefully placing ONE PIECE of roast zucchini in her container, next to the ONE PIECE of broccoli, could easily have been a victim.  But that salad bar is so glorious that I refrained.  Nothing ugly should happen next to that many organic vegetables.

Hope you're wearing something well today.

Talk soon,
Heather

life lessons from the grinch

We DVR'ed The Grinch from TV when it was on a few weeks ago.  It was kind of an afterthought, as I rushed to hit the button, thinking, "Ooh, this could be a DVD that I don't have to buy."  If Jack likes it, that is.

(Side note:  Meet the Parents was on right before the Grinch started.  So, at the beginning of the recording, we have ten seconds of Ben Stiller doing his kung fu moves into the hidden camera -- remember that bit?  I maintain that it's some of Ben Stiller's finest work, because in every other thing he does, he's visibly trying too hard.  It makes him seem constipated in some fundamental way.  But, I digress.)

Anyway, Jack not only likes the Grinch.

Jack LOVES HIM SOME GRINCH.

In an effort to make sure Jack understood the meaning of the Grinch, Durel and I asked Jack what he thought it was about.

Jack:     I don't know.

Me, hopeful still:     Jack, what is the meaning of Christmas?

Jack:     PRESENTS!!

Me:      What the Grinch means is that Christmas isn't about presents.  It means that Christmas is in our hearts.

Jack:     [silence]

Me:     Jack, where is Christmas?

Jack, obligingly:    In our hearts.

I mean, I'll take it.  Right?  Also, I learned that the Grinch has taught us other things.  Last night, I made barbecue chicken for dinner.  (Crock pot.  Delicious, if I say so myself.)  I cut some up and gave it to Jack, who promptly scrunched up his nose.

Jack:     I don't like that.

Me:       It's barbecue chicken!  Try it.

Jack:     No.

Me:       It's roast beast, Jack.

Jack:     ROAST BEAST!  [begins gobbling]

So, there you have it.

1.  Roast beast is delicious.

2.  Christmas is in our hearts.

Hope your day involves unexpected kung fu AND roast beast.

Talk soon,
Heather

from whence this blog came...

About four years ago, I found my pregnant self, parked in a leather recliner in our house, looking for something to do.

I was pregnant with Jack then, who we didn't know was Jack, so instead was called Cheeseburger. 

I was on bed rest, and very close to maxing out on episodes of What Not To Wear, so I decided to start a blog.

I also wrote another blog at the time, which has since been put to rest, but that's another story.

This blog, however, is going strong.  And since I have't come right out and said so, per se, GeauxBaby is about to be about more than one little.

You see...

There are a few things I can tell you about this:

-- In keeping with our tradition of nicknames based on cravings, this little one is known as Chilito.  This is because Durel makes awesome chili, and I force him to make it for me at least every other weekend.

-- I eat said chili over top of a bed of pasta (angel hair is my favorite), with shredded cheese, diced jalapenos, and a dollop of sour cream on top.  Every time I eat it, I behave like a caveman, yes, but I also reminisce about good times had at Hard Times in Alexandria, Virginia.

-- The expression on my face in the picture above is a mixture of total excitement and joy, mixed with the realization that my bump ain't small, folks.

-- I have heartburn.  

-- Yesterday, I texted Durel to warn him that I  needed dessert, and that if I did not get it, I might become homicidal.

-- He brought dessert.  (He's smart.)

-- Jack is pretty nonchalant about becoming a big brother.  He is more excited about Christmas and his birthday.  Prioritizing parties and presents over poopy diapers does indicate his brilliance and pragmatism.

-- This second child is long-awaited and much anticipated.  I am one lucky lady.  

-- Chilito is a boy.  I'm ready for soccer games galore!  Yay!

Hope you get dessert today.  It's really good.

Talk soon,

Heather

initiation, with hazelnut

Jenny studied in London during her junior year of college.  

Much to my middle school delight, Mom and Dad and I went to visit her.  It was pretty much the coolest thing that had ever happened to me, that LEAVING THE COUNTRY thing.  Galena Middle School did not boast many international travelers.  I daresay it still does not.

Anyway, one of my little sister privileges was to spend the night with Jenny and her flatmates at their flat.  (It's not an apartment!  It's a flat!  England is SO cool. -- I thought.)  

Now, being a college student saving her pennies (and pence) for important things like Doc Martens and pints at the pub, breakfast at Jenny's flat was, shall we say, minimal.  Tea and toast.  Toast and tea.  That's what we had.

Granted, I didn't want to give up the cool factor of staying overnight in a flat, but the spoiled 12 year old me might have teleported herself back to the cool hotel where she was otherwise staying for the cozy and posh breakfast they were serving.  But, not an option, so tea and toast it was.

At some point, Jenny brought out this Nutella stuff.  You put it on your toast, she said.  YOU'LL LIKE IT, she said, with what I remember imperfectly to be growing impatience because suddenly, breakfast at the hotel didn't sound all that bad to her, either.  A full English breakfast, mind you, is awesome.

OK.  Give me some Nutella.

And then, the rest was history.  We ate our Nutella toast in a haze of choco-nutty happiness and our concerns about breakfast were a thing of the past.    

*     *     *

I didn't want Jack to wait as long as I did to discover the magic of Nutella.  I mean, why wait?

So, the other evening, he and I decadently had Nutella toast for dinner.  (My ears are closed to any judgment.  I just don't hear it.)

I hadn't had it in a long time.  Damn, it's good.

Oh, and Jack agreed.

So, you know.  That's a win.

Hope your day involves a nice cuppa.

Talk soon,
Heather

the one with popcorn

We took Jack to his first movie in the theater recently.

Of the three of us, I was by far the most excited.  You would think we were going to, like, a queso festival or a party thrown by Oprah.  I was giddy.

Durel was, as he tends to be, a bit more pragmatic about it.  The movie of choice, Planes, wasn't getting great reviews.  The attendee of honor, Jack, isn't always known for his patience or ability to sit still and be quiet when it's required.  

Still, it was exciting.  

Tickets were purchased.  Photos were taken.  Jack's outfit represented an amalgamation of transportation:  monster truck tee; planes on his shorts, Star Wars moving thingees on his shoes.  And, Francesco Bernoulli in his hand.  

(Come to think of it, Jack may be the Roger Ebert of the family.  He knew that Planes would be so formulaic and modeled after Cars that he just went ahead and brought some Cars propaganda.  You know, since we haven't been to Target to buy the Planes propaganda yet.)

So, how was the movie?  

Um, I liked it.  Dane Cook voices the main character, Dusty Crophopper, who is a crop dusting plane who dreams of being a racer.  (Not really a) Spoiler alert:  He overcomes his fears, is a good guy, and wins the race.  

Durel thought it was a smidge hard to sit through.  Fair enough.  (If Sean Payton had voiced the "coach plane," I bet he would be singing a different tune.  Just saying.)

Jack thought the popcorn was delicious.

Waiting.  For.  Popcorn.

We went to one of those awesome theaters with reclining seats and a full menu.  Jack insisted that he just wanted popcorn.  So, we got him popcorn.

In reality, we got him a bowl of popcorn approximately three times the size of his head.  Gallons of popcorn. A huge mixing bowl of buttery, popcorny goodness.  He dove in.  We almost had to grab him by his ankles to make sure he came out in one piece.  

And he told everyone for the rest of the weekend that he loved going to the movie theater because he liked eating popcorn.

Hope you have a relative victory today.  With butter, maybe.

Talk soon,
Heather

the one where I'm a sucker

To be honest, I always thought that when Durel and I became parents, I would be the "bad cop."  

Sure, I knew that I would be really good at kissing boo-boos and cuddling and stuff.  But I always thought that he would be a softie, sort of, about things while I was the stalwart Keeper of the Rules.

Hey, guess what?  I was so wrong.

Jack is a good sleeper.  He always has been.  In the past few months, he's also become quite the negotiator at bedtime.  I know this, I do.  I see it for what it is:  a stall tactic.

It usually goes something like this:

Me:    OK, Jack, time for bath and bed.

Jack:  I'm HUNGRY!

Me:    You had dinner at dinner time.  Now it's bedtime.  Let's go.

Jack:   I'm FIRSTY!

Me:    You can have some water after bath.  Come on.

Jack:   I want TEN! MORE! MINUTES!

Me:    Nope.  

(Yes, this exchange is thoughtfully placed to save face for what I am about to say, but seriously, it's accurate.)

Jack is also a good eater.  And I'm not just saying that so I can brag that he eats seaweed salad.  The kid can throw down some food.  And he's growing.  He's getting taller every ten seconds.  I have no idea what size pants he'll be wearing once the cool weather comes.  I'm pretty sure he's skinny like a 2T but that those will wear like capri pants.  I'm waiting until it cools off to buy anything at all, as a result.

So, last night...he had a cheeseburger, a few green beans, and some Pirate Booty for dinner.  He demolished it and said he was done.  OK, I thought.  Fair enough.  He chugged some water.  Great.

Bath time came and went without incident.  Story time came, and he chose to read one of his current favorite books about fruit.  The book talks about where kinds of fruit grow, if they grow in bunches or alone, etc.  He pretty much has it memorized.  

(Side note:  When he shouts out that peaches are FUZZY, I have a flashback to Shag: The Movie, which is a total non sequitur and only a handful of people will get.  Megan and Mandy, I'm looking at you.)

Yeah, so.  While reading the fruit book last night, Jack looked up at me and said plaintively, "Momma, I'm hungry."

Listen.  Durel and I are not allowed to watch Top Chef or Iron Chef after dinner.  BECAUSE IT MAKES US HUNGRY.  It was not that far afield to think that Jack's fruit book had made him hungry.  And after he demolished his dinner, I thought -- you know what?  I believe him!  

To take a three year old out of their bedroom once bath is finished and you're nanoseconds from getting into bed is a BIG DEAL.  You're challenging the very tenuous bedtime rules that you've instilled for said three year old, a master negotiator and button pusher. 

I committed to believing him.  We went downstairs.  Durel gave me a mild side-eye but went along with it and made Jack a turkey sandwich.  The three of us sat down at the dinner table for dinner.

Yeah, he totally wasn't hungry. 

He did want to sit at the dinner table with us.  He did want  me to light the candles.  He did want to blow them out.  He did want to hang out with us (kind of).

He wanted to stay up later.  And Momma bought it.  Hook, line, and sinker.

Anyway, that's that.  

Hope you outsmart someone devious today.

Talk soon.

Heather

friends in texas

I am not a big fan of getting older.  (Every birthday I have, I pretend I don't care about the number, but that's really because I've spent the last 6 months "trying on" that age in my head, so by the time it rolls around, I'm almost used to it.)  (Also, I am very Type A.)

I am a big fan of realizing that you've been friends with someone for over ten years.  

I am an even bigger fan of realizing that their spouse, whom you have not met before, is like totally your best friend separated from birth.

Enter:  Kristin and Brandon.

Brandon and I went to law school together.  We were in the same section, so OBVS we're close and have stayed friends.  (Just kidding; it doesn't really work that way.  Our section was just really cool.  But, I digress.)  He married Kristin a few years ago in a stunning wedding that Durel and I could not attend because Jack was a baby and we were exhausted and broke.

They recently came to Austin for a few days.  It was super duper fun.  Super.  Duper.  Fun.

Here's some of what we experienced.

We also experienced 100+ degree temperatures, hours of awesome conversation, lots of wine, and lots of pettings, as demanded by Pablo and Lucy.

Suffice it to say, carnivorous, wine-drinking, intelligent, fun friends who you've either known for a decade or feel like you have, well, I like those.

Hope you have some laughs and some brisket today.

Talk soon,
Heather