The Closest Your Dad Will Come To Being In The New Yorker

Dear Laney,

Every week, The New Yorker magazine has a write-in contest where they provide the cartoon and you provide the caption. I'm sure it says something about our lifestyle that when I saw this week's cartoon, I thought, "What's funny about that? It just looks like Thor going out to collect some data for the Forest Service."

Love,

Mom

Don't Touch Ennyting

Dear Laney,

When people say, "This has been one of those weeks," let me explain the kind of week they're probably talking about:

On Monday, you were home sick and miserable, I had a huge work deadline, and the Pump Guy surprised us by showing up to put the pump on our well. He would have called to let us know he was coming, but he'd been out hunting and forgot. This passes for a perfectly reasonable excuse in Montana. (Also: I was bagging a trout, I was trapped in the snow, I hit a moose with my truck).

After working all day long, Pump Guy casually said, "So...I think your husband asked me last week if I take credit cards, and here's the thing - I don't." Well, here's the other thing: Holy crap. I won't tell you what the total for the project came to, because talking about money can be seen as tacky, but I will tell you that it added up to The Contents Of Mom's Checking Account + The Contents of Dad's Checking Account + Everything We Made At Last Weekend's Yard Sale + Your Nascent College Fund. I would have put my head between my knees to keep from hyperventilating, but at 7 months pregnant, I can't get my head that close to my legs.

Yesterday, you were feeling so much better - and were in such a sweet mood - that I let you do my hair. As a side note, I always thought that if I opened a beauty parlor, I would name it "Curl Up And Dye."*

Then you threw on some accessories so we could hit the road for a family walk...

Shirt by: BabyGap

Pants by: OshKosh

Necklace by: Talbots

Bracelets by: Party City

...but what you really wanted was to push your teddy bear in a stroller.

You of course wanted to do it all by yourself, and when your dad stepped in to help you push it up the hill, you told him: "Stop! No! Don't touch ennyting!" This was one of those times as parents when we were supposed to step in and tell you that you do NOT talk to your father like that, but mostly we stared at each other wondering if we'd heard you right. Sometimes, you can be very mean to your dad. Speaking of bullying:

This morning, Ella and Gus got in a tussle, and - depending on which dog you ask - either Gus fell into and through our greenhouse window, or he was pushed. CSI report is pending. Gus is perfectly fine, but our window is gone and needs to be replaced.

I think I'm going to take your advice and go sit on the couch and try not to touch ennyting for the rest of the week.

Love,

Mom

* Since originally publishing this post, I have received an e-mail from eagle-eyed reader Clay Mercer of Dooly County, GA, letting me know that there is already a hairstyling establishment in Cordele, GA called "Curl Up And Dye." I should have known. Cordele has always been on the cutting edge of comedy.

The Long Goodbye

Dear Laney,

So, here's something you think is fun lately: saying goodbye.

You load up your backpack (essential items: one shoe, a cap-less marker, three pennies), and open the front door. Oh yes, you can open the door all by yourself now, which scares the hell out of me since we currently have a 6-ft deep trench in our backyard in anticipation of a water line being installed. You turn around at the open door, and say "Bye, Mom! See ya in da morning! Miss you!" then you walk a few steps, come back and do it all over again.

It seems you don't want to actually go anywhere so much as hold dress rehearsals for running away from home.

Last night, we didn't get much sleep because you've got whatever ailment it is that makes green goo come from your nose and makes your speaking voice a dead ringer for Kathleen Turner's after a pack of cigarettes. At 2am, I woke up and realized that you were no longer in bed with me. Then I panicked, and performed this internal monologue:

She can actually open the door on her own, and could conceivably hit the road if she wanted to. Maybe all of that practice was leading up to something, the way inmates at Alcatraz made guns out of soap waiting for the perfect opportunity to escape. Maybe she's halfway to town, and I'm going to have to report her missing. And when the judgy cop asks me, "What was the last thing she said to you?," I'm going to have to admit: "Bye, Mom! See ya in da morning! Miss you!" and he'll snidely ask me if I thought that was a red flag. And I'll officially be the Worst Mom In The History Of The Universe.

But nope. When I got downstairs - again, this was at 2am - you were stirring one of the pots from your kitchen, and singing the "Bate, Bate, Chocolate" (translation: Stir, Stir, Chocolate) song from Dora the Explorer. I cannot express how annoying this song is without resorting to vulgarity, so I'll let you all experience it for yourselves:

Mom: Whatcha doing, Laney?

Laney: Makin' 'ookies.

Mom: You're making chocolate cookies?

Laney: Yep.

Mom: OK, well... I'm going back to bed.

Laney: Bye, Mom! See ya in da morning! Miss you!

Love,

Mom

Don't Try This At Home

Dear Laney,

I'll just warn everyone up front that there's a video clip in this post, and for its duration, we'll be catching glimpses of your naked butt. And here's why:

You have a new war cry that goes something like this: I SELF! It took me a minute to figure out the missing section between those two words, but I think it's either I (can do it all by my-) SELF, or I (think you should keep your hands to your-)SELF. Either way, you're adamantly refusing help in the given situation. I SELF is most irritating to me when you holler it to let me know that you're going to put yourself into your car seat and buckle yourself in. It's great that you can actually do it, but not so great that it takes you about 12 minutes and you only want to do it when we're already running late. I've given up on fighting you, and started keeping magazines in the car so I can use those 12 minutes to catch up on current events.

But back to the nudity...

As you know, we're working on potty training around these parts. You've mastered the part where you go to the bathroom and sit on the potty at the appropriate times, but you haven't mastered the part where you're able to pull your pants down by yourself. I'll follow you into the bathroom and remind you, "You need to pull your pants down before you potty. Can I help you?" "NO! I SELF!" ...only you can't really do it YOU SELF, and what ends up happening is that you pee in the potty through your pants. More independence for you, more laundry for me.

So we have a new pants-free policy around here.

Now, on to the post at hand, which is this:

You and your dad get a little nutso around bedtime. I don't endorse anything that happens in this video, and I strongly urge readers not to try this stuff at home.

The end.

Love,

Mom

Second-String Swimmer

Dear Laney,

You had a swim class last Wednesday, but I just wasn't up to the challenge. The very idea of squeeeezing my big pregnant butt into a bathing suit and hopping up and down in chilly water singing "Ring Around The Rosie," followed by an inevitable locker-room fight with a toddler who by-God doesn't want to put on her Dora panties seemed oppressive to me. Running the Ironman would have been preferable - at least when you pass out from exhaustion there, they bring you Gatorade.

I had a flash of genius and realized that the whole point of getting married is to have someone on hand to do all the unpleasant stuff you don't feel like doing (see: taking out the trash, lifting heavy objects, cutting Ella's toenails). And let's not forget the break you get on your taxes! All that to say that your dad got drafted into service and had to take you swimming.

By all accounts, you were not in the mood to be swimming with Dad. No tanks, don't wanna sing. No blow bubbles. 'On't want to. Out! Outta pool!

Your teacher is hell-bent on getting you to blow bubbles, which clashes with your need to never ever under any circumstances get your face wet. Several times during each class period, she'll bounce over to you and ask you to put your face in the water and blow bubbles. Blooow Bubbles! That's when you turn your head and gaze off into the distance and pretend you can't hear her, even though she's standing 18 inches from you. Peg Peg calls this move the "Genie Mae," named after your great-great-grandmother, the original Southern Machiavelli, who could pretend the person in front of her didn't exist if they weren't worthy of being on her radar.

I want you to blow bubbles, of course, but I'm also secretly glad every time you spurn her advances. Sometimes, the perky must be stopped.

Love,

Mom

No! MY Gasses!

Dear Laney,

Guess what Grandma Sue left at our house and will never see again.

Love,

Mom

Bought And Paid For

Dear Laney,

Because your birth didn't go exactly according to plan, we ended up incurring some medical expenses that we hadn't really counted on. In the end, even with our insurance, you ended up costing us $818/pound. Considerably more than a Thanksgiving turkey, but less than Beluga caviar.

I mentioned to my friend Brian at lunch the other day that I was about to send in my 25th and final payment on your hospital bill, and he said, "Great - you can finally take her off layaway." And then, like a dream sequence in a sitcom - the ones with the cloudy borders and harp music - I thought how much easier parenting would be if only you could keep your infant stashed in that sketchy back room at TJ Maxx, awaiting pick up.

We're glad you're ours, free and clear, but I hope this isn't going to be one of these situations where you send in the last car payment and those mysterious dashboard warning lights start popping on.

Love,

Mom

Wedding Of The Century (Or At Least The Year)

Dear Laney,

On Thursday afternoon, we drove to Spokane and dropped you off with Grandma Sue so your dad and I could fly to California for the wedding of Will and Lindsay. While I was excited to see all of my friends in California, I had been dreading leaving you, because three days away just seemed too much. On the day we left, I considered buying you a last-minute plane ticket, but your dad assured me that you probably wouldn’t have $940 dollars worth of fun that weekend, thank you very much anyway, Delta.

When we met up with Grandma Sue, you happily sat down and started playing with Play-Doh, and completely forgot that we existed, so I figured I could be at least as grown-up as you were.

As we boarded the plane in Spokane, your former-Navy-pilot dad inhaled deeply and, referencing the jet fuel stench in the air, said, “Man I miss that smell.” He couldn’t figure out why I thought he was nuts, even after I explained that poetic longing for smells should be reserved for honeysuckle vines in Georgia, or the parking lots of rib joints in Memphis.

***

This wedding weekend was a serious, timed-to-the-minute operation, as can be expected of any event put together by a television producer. It required a production meeting en route to Friday night’s rehearsal, and a call sheet for the weekend.

For those of you not in the TV business, a “call sheet” is an extremely specific schedule that’s drawn up for a day of filming. Until Will reads this and asks me to take it down, I’m going to post a portion of the call sheet here. If you glance at this and immediately begin sighing and rolling your eyes: Congratulations! You’re an honorary member of the wedding party! Fill out your I-9 and a time card and let’s get going!

On Friday night, your dad went with me to the wedding rehearsal so I could practice walking in a straight line with the rest of the wedding party. I learned that even in their 30s, boys need to be told to settle down, get in line, and hush. It doesn’t matter if they’ve passed the bar or own a dairy farm or – Lord help us – have been to seminary, they’re still 2^nd graders at heart. Basically, I learned that wedding rehearsals exist for the people who won’t be wearing a dress to the ceremony.

The major epiphany your dad and I had during the rehearsal is that being a parent completely changes the way you experience a wedding. It’s not so much a secret now that when your dad and I got officially married, we went down to the Missoula County Courthouse, and used the extra $16 we had after buying a marriage license to buy two burritos from the Mexican place across the street. The end. We knew we were going to get married, and I wanted to go ahead and get a Montana drivers license, so what’s the big deal? Well, let me tell you what the big deal is, missy:

At Will and Lindsay’s rehearsal, the priest joked with the father of the bride, “Are you sure you want to give her away?” and while everyone else chuckled, your dad and I looked at each other with tears springing to our eyes and telepathically shouted to each other, “HELL NO, WE DON’T WANT TO GIVE HER AWAY!” Your dad and I are freaking out about your future wedding and you are only two years old. This explains why, when we called my mother from the Missoula courthouse to give her the heads-up that we’d gotten hitched, she screeched in my ear at a decibel only wild dogs could appreciate.

***

On the wedding day, we started the day early at Lindsay’s house, a.k.a. the Beauty Factory, where all of the girls had their hair and make-up done by professionals. The make-up artist asked me if I ever wore make-up, and I told him the bears in Montana don’t seem to have a preference. I told the hairstylist that with a little Aqua Net, my hair could easily be jacked up to Jesus, but – alas - Lindsay wasn’t going for the Alabama Pageant Queen look in her wedding party. Also, it’s possible that Aqua Net is no longer legally manufactured in the United States. Must check on that.

The rest of the day was a beautiful blur. Everyone looked great, the ceremony was flawless, the love was palpable, and the reception was great fun. Your dad will not want me to mention this, but while I was part of the wedding day photo shoot (see: 1:30p-2:45p on the call sheet, and call your union rep with any questions), your dad was left to his own devices back at the hotel, and was solely responsible for dressing himself. He arrived at the wedding in a seersucker suit, a plaid shirt and a polka-dotted tie. Still, in the loving spirit of the occasion, I was able to overlook his ensemble and confess to the people we met that I was the lucky girl married to Sideshow Thor.

***

It’s Sunday afternoon now, and your dad and I are on the plane home from the wedding. We can’t wait to see you; you’d be surprised by how much we missed you. Every time I called to check on you, you were “Drawin’ picher!” or “Eatin’ see-we-uhl!*” or “Watchin’ Ora Splora!” so I think you’re not going to be psychologically scarred by our separation.

***

Your dad and I want to be sure to thank Will and Lindsay (and their families) for including us in such a magical weekend, and for being such an important part of our lives. We’re sure they’ll have years of happiness together, and that Lindsay has accrued a lifetime of Heaven Points for pledging herself to a man who I once watched eat a past-its-expiration-date hot dog and then point to his complaining stomach and shout, “YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!**”

We love you dearly.

Love,

Mom

* a.k.a. “Eating cereal.”

** Absolutely true story

Lemons Into Lemonade. Problems Into Pizza.

Dear Laney,

We’re traveling this week, so I’ve been a little negligent with the blog. Rest assured, we have much to discuss and we’ll get all caught up.

Last Wednesday, I took you to swim class, which you love. I can tell that you love it, because you like to strut down the entire length of the Olympic-sized pool yelling, GOIN’ WIMMIN’! For this last session, the teacher wanted you to go under water, so I asked you several times if you were ready, and you always said YEAH!

Are you sure?

YEAH!

‘Cause we’re going all the way under…

YEAH!

I think – to paraphrase Cool Hand Luke - what we had there was a failure to communicate, because you came back up looking confused, hurt and betrayed. But still, you rebounded from it pretty quickly. The teacher asked if you wanted to try it again, and you said, NO. NO TANKS. ‘ON’T WANT TO.

The real problem came when it was time for class to be over, and we needed to leave the premises. As Peg Peg would say, “That’s when things turned ugly.” When you figured out in the locker room that we weren’t just on break, we were actually packing up to leave, it became a Festival of ‘On’t Want To.

On’t want to shoes!

On’t want to Ora Splora Pannies*!

On’t want to GO!!

It was one of those times when I had to drag you kicking and screaming, Norma Rae-style, into the car.

The cherry on this cranky sundae came when we pulled out of the pool’s parking lot and realized we had a flat tire on the car. We got the spare put on and drove to Costco to see if they could fix it, and to wait on your dad to come get us in case they couldn’t. Since we had some time to kill, we hit the snack bar where I bought you an eight-pound piece of pizza for a buck fifty. I know it was good pizza, because you kept reminding the patrons of the snack bar, “’AT’S GOOD IZZA!”

Here’s what we learned today: 1) Swimming=Good, Dunking=Bad. 2) Your forgiveness can be bought for $1.50. 3) Costco has a corporate policy that won’t allow them to patch the same tire three times. 4) Tires in Montana should be sold in vending machines.

Love,

Mom

* Translation: Mother Dear, I would prefer not to wear those Dora the Explorer underwear.

The Care And Feeding of Babies

Dear Laney,

In anticipation of your brother's arrival, I've been getting your baby doll out and using it to warm you up to the idea of being a gentle caregiver - "This is how babies like to be held..." that kind of thing. While I try to reinforce the ideas that BABIES ARE FRAGILE, you seem to be happy taking a more "tough love" approach to newborn care. When in doubt, yell at 'em to LIE DOWN! That's your motto.

So, like I was saying, here's how things are going so far:

Obviously, we have some kinks to work out before your brother gets here and you jam a handful of goldfish crackers down his windpipe. But when I need someone to dangle him by his toes and drop him on his head into the Pack n' Play and tell him to hush, you'll be my first call.

Love,

Mom

Battle Of The Bear

Dear Laney,

Two Christmases ago, our friends (and soon-to-be-marrieds) Will and Lindsay sent you a teddy bear. I will confess that at four months old, you didn't really care about it, so I threw it in a bin with your other stuffed animals and forgot it existed after writing the Mandatory Southern Thank-You Note so we wouldn't get sent to Ingrate Hell*.

A few weeks ago, we were cleaning out your room and you rediscovered the bear. You have not put him down since. When I ask you what we should call him, you always sigh and with an implied "duh," say, "Bear." Riding this train of thought to its logical conclusion, we'll be naming our next child, "Baby." Sure, things might become uncomfortable for Baby Burbach in junior high school, but if he really hates it, I guess he can have it legally changed on his own time; your dad and I are notorious haters of paperwork.

Most recently, you've decided that - when in a moving vehicle - the bear should ride in a car seat. You like to practice buckling him in and announcing, "So we be safe!," which you learned from Dora.

Last night, after swim class, we went out for pizza with Cedar and her mom. You decided that, for his safety, Bear should be buckled in to a five-point harness. "But where will you ride?" I asked. You pointed to the empty seat next to the car seat. "No," I explained, "Laney needs to ride in the car seat." This is when you started screaming "BEAR FIRST!!" I'm familiar with the notion of "Women and children first," but "Bear first," was a new one for me.

I obviously didn't do a very good job of patiently explaining that I don't give two s#!*s about what happens to that bear in case of an accident, because you threw yourself down on the concrete in protest.

My grandmother has two versions of what she calls "The List." If you're on the first version, you get cookies and carry-out meals and she irons your clothes. If you're on the second, there's a "S#!*" implied in the title, and all you get is a raised eyebrow and possibly crossed off the prayer list. You can guess which version of my List that bear is currently on.

Bear made it into the morning carpool, and I hope he's having a good time with you at school today.

Love,

Mom

* Located 2 miles beneath Newark.

Hanging On To Summer By Our Toenails

Dear Laney,

You let me paint your toenails last night, which was kind of incredible, because it's not like you to sit still for more than 0.00023 seconds. I guess - like me - you were trying to hold on to the festive vibe of summer.

Last year, it snowed for the first time on my birthday (Oct 26 - only 46 shopping days left!), which means we have about 6 more weeks before we can expect it to once again be cold and miserable. In the meantime, we're heading outside and playing at the river every chance we get.

Today, as we were sitting by the boat ramp, this lovely young couple rowed in and started putting their boat up on their trailer while you went over to supervise. Then, your dad and I had this conversation:

Thor: (pointing off into the distance at the paddling animal in the river) Here comes their dog.

Brooke: That's kinda mean that they make their dog swim that far.

Two minutes pass.

Brooke: Thor, are you sure that's not a bear?

Thor: (laughs) No, that's a dog with a ball in its mouth.

Brooke: Oh, then you definitely need to cough up the money for my new glasses.

Two more minutes pass.

Thor: OK, you're right. It's a bear.

Then the bear swam to just about ten feet on the other side of the boat ramp, lumbered out and disappeared in the bushes.

I will confess that I am notorious for being unable to identify the wildlife in our neighborhood, and it's not uncommon for your parents to have conversations like:

Brooke: Hey look at the funny horse! I mean, the moose!

Thor: You mean the elk?

Brooke: Whatever.

...But credit where credit's due, I can spot a damn bear.

Love,

Mom

"We Did It"

Dear Laney,

There may be people out there who aren't familiar with the format of Dora The Explorer. To those people, I say, "You have not suffered nearly enough." "Let me introduce you to some of the finer points."

To the best of my knowledge, there have been 94 episodes of Dora produced, each with the same format: We establish where we're going. We repeat where we're going six times, and check it out on The Map. Sometimes, The Map says, "So you tell Dora..." which is when your dad screams at the TV, "Why don't YOU tell Dora?!?"

We sing a song about where we're going, called "Where Are We Going?" We accomplish two small tasks (always stopping in between to re-establish where we're going). When we finally arrive at our destination, we all sing a song called "We Did It," celebrating that we made it to the place we've been talking about for the past 22 minutes.

As a person who has spent approximately 15 years in the television industry, I am always impressed by the cojones of whoever first pitched this show. I imagine the network pitch went something like this:

Producer: So, the show's about a mini Latina with a bowl haircut who has adventures.

Network Exec: There should be a monkey. Research says kids love monkeys.

Producer: Fine. Monkey. And get this - every episode will be exactly the same.

Network Exec: The same, you say?

Producer: Yes, and at the end of the day, we'll all make a jillion dollars off this series of 94 episodes featuring a kid - and her monkey! - wandering around the jungle, talking about where they're going.

Network Exec: Sold.

This is what the "We Did It" finale of every episode looks like at our house (it's worth hanging out for the "More times!" at the end) -

I wish I knew the Spanish for, "If only I had a piece of this series."

Love,

Mom

Wimmin' Class

Dear Laney,

Some of your grandparents sent you money for your birthday; since I was worried you were going to blow it all on M&Ms and slot machines, I went ahead and used some of this birthday fund to enroll you in swim classes at the University.

At the last minute, Cedar decided to join the "Parents and Tots" class, too, so last Wednesday, we picked up Cedar and her dad and headed into town for our first session. We got to campus about an hour early, so there was plenty of time for you guys to run around and wreak havoc before class started.

It occurs to me that there could be a really effective contraceptive campaign in unleashing unsupervised toddlers onto college campuses in the middle of the day, wearing T-shirts that read, "Two Years After The Party."

When it was almost time for class to start, we headed into the locker room where we squeezed you in to your Little Mermaid suit, then headed out to the pool. You and Cedar are 2/3 of the Tot Class, with a roly-poly 7 month-old W.C. Fields-lookalike rounding out the shallow end.

There are no pictures from class, because I was in the pool with you the whole time. Sorry, grandparents. You and Cedar (and even that baby) seemed to have a good time practicing your kicks and splashing. The uber-perky instructor seems hellbent on getting you guys to put your faces in the water to blow bubbles. You always puff your cheeks and tuck your head, then at the last minute decide to lick the water instead.

In the end, a good time was had by all. You got to jump in repeatedly, Cedar got to play with squirt toys, you both took a ride on a whale-shaped float, and I got to be surrounded by a supportive group of parents all sharing a common dream: Dear Jesus, let my baby not poop in the pool.

Love,

Mom

Gallery Opening

Dear Laney,

As a result of some production work I've done for Brian over the past few years, I've spent a fair amount of time in art galleries. All we're missing at this opening is a DJ spinning Latin Jazz, a passel of hipsters in fedoras, an ironic "installation" made out of macaroni noodles and grandma's knitting yarn, a crowd outside our bathroom, an air conditioner on the fritz, and a line of people outside waiting to experience the free booze magic.

Joking* aside, I've really been digging the pictures you've been drawing lately.

Love,

Mom

* Not really joking. All true.

Sand Swimmin'

Dear Laney,

I've been informed there are some members of Granny Jack's Sunday School class who check in on this blog, look at the photos of you swimming in the river, and then ask Jack, "Lord, don't you know that water's COLD?!?" Well, for all the Bettys, Mildreds, and Pats out there, I can confirm: Hell yes, that water's cold. Also, I am sorry for any and all swearing I may do on this blog.

Apparently, you've had enough of swimming in Arctic waters, because yesterday when we met Cedar's family at the river, you mostly kept to the sand.

Here's the thing about going to meet Cedar - we have to be really careful about mentioning her name as part of our destination, because as soon as the Cedar's out of the bag, this is what our car ride becomes:

I'm not going to say that when you and Cedar get together, you sometimes act like you've spent the afternoon at Tequila Tuesdays at Cabo Wabo Cantina. At least, I'm not going to say that now that I know that decent, God-fearing, church-going Alabamians of an advanced age are reading this blog. Instead, I'll just put the photos here, and maybe when you're a little more grown up, you can explain to us what this was all about:

Love,

Mom

Psalm 23:4

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the mall, I will fear no toddler evil, for my freakishly strong left arm is with me...and when my head hath been anointed with chocolate gelato, I can haul a 31-pound toddler through the parking lot and sling her ass into the truck 'til her car seat runneth over. Amen.

"Bomb-Proof"

Dear Laney,

You had your two-year well child visit with Dr. Hoover last Friday. You are the picture of good health. I think everyone who watched you wobble past the nurses' station was initially concerned that you had the world's most pronounced pigeon-toed walk, 'til I explained that you were saying, "Waddle! Waddle! Waddle!" and doing your impression of that macaroni penguin that Diego had to rescue yesterday. Leg braces averted.

You're in the 52nd percentile for height, and the 92nd for weight. I explained that you were on an all-carb diet that will soon be sweeping the nation.

She said that, with some patients, she likes to do a follow-up, 2.5-year visit. Then, she decided you could skip it after declaring you "bomb proof." On the one hand, we're incredibly blessed to be the parents of such a healthy young'un. But on the other hand... In the past 10 days, I have watched you hurl yourself down a slide head-first, drive a tractor into Uncle Nate's retaining wall, fling yourself into the river, get stung by a yellow jacket, and learn to throw elbows at Dad's Dinnertime Wrestling Camp, and I could have saved myself the co-pay to learn you're indestructible.

Love,

Mom

Big Girl Bed

Dear Laney,

Since your brother's going to be here in a little less than four months, and is going to need a place to sleep, we decided to promote you from the crib to your own big girl bed. This is because you demonstrate such remarkable maturity for your age, and not at all because we're low on furniture options. Ahem.

The highlight of using a crib is that it also functions as Baby Jail! a contained environment. Now that you're in the big girl bed, there's nothing to stop you from getting right back out of bed and coming downstairs - like, "That bedtime story was great and all, Dad, but now let's break out the beer and jam to some Barney songs." More unsettling is when - at 4:56am - I am jerked awake by someone poking my head and yelling HI, MOM!!

Next on our agenda: Teach an otherwise brilliant toddler the concept of a "psychological barrier."

What's happened just about every night since we made the change is this: You wake up in the middle of the night and start shouting. Your dad goes upstairs to convince you that everything's okay, and you really need to stay in bed. But since your dad was trained by the Navy to fall asleep on a noisy aircraft carrier in 3-2-1!, what actually happens is that he lies down with you in that little twin bed and immediately begins snoring.* You seem to find sleeping with a large, furry, noisy dude reassuring, so I go upstairs in the morning and fetch you both for breakfast.

Obviously, this system needs work.

Love,

Mom

* Your dad and I have had more than one domestic dispute when he's started a conversation by saying, "No, really, I'd love to talk about your feelingssZZZZzzzzzzzzz...."

A Belated Goodbye To Grandpops and Grandma CC

Dear Laney,

Your Missouri grandparents left us last Thursday, but not before taking you on a hike. Even though it's been a few days, I thought the pictures from the outing were so cute, I had to share:

Speaking of Grandma CC, her birthday is tomorrow, so we want to wish her a happy early birthday. Because we want to get her something she'd really enjoy, I'm going to pack up this fishing game that she patiently played with you about a hundred times over the course of her visit. She must really LOVE it to have played it that many times, right?

Love,

Mom

Hello, Handsome

Dear Laney,

Here's the latest on your brother:

Crazy, no? I'm sure when he arrives, he'll look less like a bobble head doll.

In the meantime, your dad and I are struggling to come up with any boy names that we like. We were thinking of asking your opinion, but since your three favorite things in the world - popsicles, pickles and tickles - are all pronounced "Ickle," maybe we'll just cut to the chase and name him that.

Love,

Mom