I fully embrace my Irish heritage.  I think a misty morning is heavenly.  I think a cold(ish) pint of Guinness is divine.  I think a curse word here and there is not only appropriate, but required.

There is a problem with that last one.  

Jack is a sponge.  And when I say "sponge," I mean little walking, talking person with no filter who likes to repeat every word you say that he can make his mouth form.  

He has not cursed, yet.  To avoid this unfortunate occurrence, I have cut way back on my cursing.  This is hard for me.  So, I had the *brilliant* idea -- or maybe Durel had it -- that we need to replace our curse words with another word that's innocent.  We didn't want anything that sounded too close to the offending word (as in, "fudge" is not an appropriate substitute for the "F" word because it's too close).  

What did we choose?  Biscuit.

Why?  Because!  How can you hate a biscuit?  With all of its buttery carbohydrate loveliness?  You can't.  Even if you hear your parents saying things like this:

• Don't be such a biscuit!
• Oh, BISCUIT!
• I'm telling you -- that butters my biscuit.
• That guy is a rotten old biscuit.

You get the idea.  So far, it's working pretty well.  And we're cracking ourselves up in the process.  

What do you think?  Are you more virtuous than me, so stopping cursing was no problem for you?  Or have you done something creative?  Do you think we're nuts?  (Maybe don't answer that last one.)

With butter and jam, even,

Heather

No.

When your child is a newborn, they cry a lot.  That's stressful, at least until you start to figure out what they need and what different cries sound like. (And/or get them medicine for reflux, which was sent down from heaven.)  Then, you feel like the Baby Whisperer, which, in fact, you are.  Each parent is a Baby Whisperer to their own child.  It's the perfect system:  The most gratifying reward ever is built into the world's most monumental task.

Then, when your child starts to toddle and babble, they cry less.  Because there is less reason for them to.   They're rocking their nap times, favorite toys, and sippy cups like little, well, rock stars.  Tears are for tantrums, boo boos, and other unpredictable flare-ups.    This, for the record, is a happy time in Parenting Land.

This weekend, we hit an important (and terrifying) developmental milestone.  Jack started saying, "No."

Don't get me wrong.  I am delighted to get to know Jack with words.  His personality is big.  We know this without the benefit of words.  And the words he uses are adorable and enlightening.  He loves his dogs, his parents, his balls, and his sippy cup.  The kid's got priorities.  

With the advent of "no," we're entering a new phase.  Independence.  Defiance.  Absolutes.  Tantrums.  Discipline.  Sentences.

Do I feel ready?  No.

Do I have to be?  Yes.

Will there be more stories?  Oh, hell yes.

Here's to your favorite words,

Lucy

To say that Jack and Lucy have a special bond is an understatement.  Lucy has, from day one, accompanied me up the stairs to the nursery for every diaper change, wakeup call, or attempt to soothe.  She licks Jack's face at every chance.  She hangs out underneath the high chair during meal and snack times (she's not dumb).  She is determined to care for him as she cares for us, with her very best doggie affection.  She also doesn't mind standing in as a pillow from time to time.

Jack says four words:  Mama, Dada, Hi, and Doggie.  You can guess why.

Hope this weekend finds your tail wagging happily.
Heather

Jack's Baptism

In what can only be described as "real, grown-up parenting," Durel and I decided to have Jack baptized at our church.  Gone are the days of yore, when 9 AM on Sunday morning was for sleeping off the previous night's transgressions before waking for a leisurely brunch. 

You know what?  That's great with me.  I prefer this.  It rocks.

Uncle Dustin and Aunt Geri did us the honor of agreeing to be Jack's godparents.  We have long known that Jack would have a special bond with them, but this just enhances that bond.  Good stuff.

The service was lovely; a total of 4 babies were baptized.  Jack was first.  Durel, Dustin, Geri and I did a good job of speaking in unison, reading our lines correctly from the Book of Common Prayer, not crying (Geri and I were at risk of this), and generally behaving well in public on this momentous occasion.

Jack also did a good job.  He didn't cry, puke, or have a massive diaper blow-out.  He did make his presence known, though.  I think we're dealing with quite a personality here.  (Not a newsflash; just an update.)  He "talked" during the service with explosively loud "DADADADA's."  He flipped over backward in Durel's arms and watched the sermon upside down, making everyone giggle.  When the water was applied to his head, he looked at her with a priceless expression of, "What are you doing??"  All in all, Jack was in the house, and everybody knew it.

All of Jack's grandparents were in attendance for the special day.  It was truly a wonderful day and a good time was had by all.

After all the excitement of church, Jack took a pro-style nap when we got home.  As a result, he missed his Baptism Brunch, for which I had gone to Martha Stewart levels of preparation.

The menu:

• fruit salad
• savory mini-scones
• sausage balls (my nod to the fact that I have birthed a Texan)
• Paula Deen's crock pot macaroni and cheese (shut the front door; it's amazing) (leave out the eggs, by the way)
• cake
• mimosas
• coffee

It was great.  Have I said that ten times yet?  I am delighted with how it went.  Grown-up parenting is pretty stinking fun.

Hope this finds you well,

Heather