We're in the single digits with the wind chill here in good ol' C-Town today, folks. You know what that means. Oblivious snot-noses and nipples that could cut glass. Every year about this time I threaten to pack up and move to Arizona, somewhere with a nice dry heat. They always say that, a nice dry heat, when describing an ideal location to you. Is tropical so bad??

Right about now I'd give anything to be anywhere, tropical, dry, whatever. Is it wrong to consider signing up for the Army because you hear it gets up to the triple digits in Iraq? A rough & tumble sauna, but a sauna nonetheless. I'm IN.

We're coming to that point, ladies and gentleman (I know there's maybe ONE out there reading this), that I spoke of earlier...The height of Mad Indoor Person Disease. We are trapped in the home of our own making, the toys underfoot and each other's clutter liable to set someone off. Then that person takes out their frustration on another, a chain reaction til the baby gets pushed down and we're all in a crying mess on the floor. Ok. It's not that bad, all the time, but SHEESH. Some days are bad. Some days I just sigh as I'm crossing the deck to get to the door and remembering when all of that was living space. I'm dying til I can say, Go play outside! And not have to worry about bundling octopi into underwear, outerwear, gloves, hat, mittens and scarves, only to hear that someone has to use the restroom. Badly. Holy abominable snowmen, Batman, please shoot me with your stun gun. Thanks.

My tired vent on the wintry weather and all it entails shall end, mercifully, with just this...In my next life, I hope to be a bear. I wouldn't mind hibernating this dreadful season away ONE BIT. Lay down, curl up, snooze, awake to the twittering of gay birdies and, what's that? I've slept the whole winter away? FAN-EFFING-TASTIC.

I've been in the most musical of moods today. Friday, thank GOD it's Friday, started off with a rousing rendition of Eye of the Tiger sung at the top of my lungs along with the radio on the drive in to work. What a tiger's eye has to do with anything, I couldn't say, but the beat, man, the beat will get even the most exhausted slug worked up to fever pitch. A great start to the day.

Then, throughout the course of my ho-hum workday, an umanned jukebox slipped discs into my head at random...Spence's #1 all-time fave, "I Like to Move It Move It," was in the mix with Beyonce's "Irreplaceable," Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely," and of course the theme song to Sanford & Son. Don't ask because I don't know.

And approximately 2.5 minutes ago, I was in the restroom on the upstairs floor, doin' ma thang, yuh know, when a law clerk wandered into my private concert and busted up laughing. I'm not sure that's a good sign of my future as a vocalist. I mumbled something about the acoustics being first-rate and shuffled out. Damn uppity law students, like you never sing to yourself? If you don't, well...I feel sorry for you. The background track to my life is ever-evolving, as am I, and I think John Denver would be proud, so suck it.

Although I usually listen to Opey & Anthony on the drive home, I'm considering channel surfing on the radio instead. I'm just so pumped, so jazzed. The baby slept through the night last night, bills have been paid, another paycheck is in my pocket and I've got a weekend stretching out before me with nary a plan in sight. I LOVE it.

Now if only there were some way to program the baby to acknowledge a weekend morning like I do the thermostat, I'd be absolutely set.

Oh my, a week since I've posted? Please forgive. I hope all of you (whom are interested) have been able to access the link to my brand-spanking-new journal, updated weekly, at babycenter.com. It's been wonderful to actually write for a reputable site! (Nothing against Blogger, you understand, but really any schmoe can create a blog, no offense fellow bloggers.)

I find myself here needing to vent, as this morning was a rather rough one.

Dear Julian,

There are no parties going on in the middle of the night that you are missing. 2:30, while technically "morning," is entirely too early for any civilized child to be rising. For a smiley momma, try 6 or so.

Love,
Momma

~~~

Dear Spencer,

I know life is a little more difficult for you than it used to be a mere 10 months ago, when you were an only child. But we can't go back, only forward with this new, quite loud bundle of joy whose internal clock frequently goes on the fritz. I do apologize for that.

However, an interrupted night of sleep does not an excuse for bad behavior make. If I want to zip your coat, LET ME. If you should feel like continuing to scream and carry on once we're in your classroom, well...Stifle it til I'm gone, then let 'er rip. Teachers are much better equipped to handle your punk arse than my sleep-deprived behind, Ok? All right? You got a lot more sleep than I did, so PUH-LEEZE. Work with me.

Love,
Mom

~~~

So dear Reader, as you can see, you're not missing much in The Chronicles of Chaos, a.k.a. Sleepless in Cleveland.

I have a dream, a dream I hold high on a golden shining pedestal. It goes like this...The entire family goes out to a restaurant. I order something for Spencer, something for Julian, place each plate in front of each little capable set of hands, and...this is going to sound plumb crazy...enjoy my own meal. Well, a girl can dream.

Someday, dear Reader, some day when I sprout wings and fly over the fence in the backyard, second star on the right and straight on til morning, some day I will have my peace and quiet and take up some hobby long lost by the wayside...Something really ambitious, something wild and crazy...Maybe I'll read a BOOK. A whole one. Right to the end. All at once. I'll have a lot of time on my hands in the funny farm, anyway.

You knew I had issues, but what you may not realize is that I have ANGER issues. Yes, I fully realize all caps constitutes yelling.

It's this thing that lives inside me called The Morning Monster. By the time I get to work, work my little 9-to-5, pick up the kids, have dinner, give baths, la la dee da, I'm fine, the comfortable old Cera/Mommy you know & tolerate. But between the hours of, say, 6:00 a.m. & whenever we rush out the door, this thing inside bubbles to the surface & TAKES OVER MY BODY. It's all very Cybil.

I awaken not to my body saying I've slept enough, not even to the alarm clock, but to WAAHHH, wu-AAAHHH, wu-AAAHHH...Which must have been broadcasting for some time, since my head is already pounding from it. It's like the baby knows which nerve to touch in my head to make me absolutely crazy, then plays it like a freaking banjo. Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee duuum...Doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee dooooo...

Then I cater strictly to the baby for approximately three-fourths of the morning. Baba, check. Dipey, check. Silly baby non-words, check. But then, should I be so bold and outrageous as to expect a shower for my darn self, fugghedaboudit. WoooAAAAAAHHHHHHH! I take him w/me, close the shower door...woooAAAAAAHHHHHHH! He slides it open & stands there in the mist, bawling like just I ripped the head off his favorite teddy bear...Which is when I start fantasizing about doing just that. I think I may be pure evil.

Sleep deprivation does not look pretty on me. I am not one to bounce out of bed & whip up effing pancakes on four or five hours of sleep. Screw you, June Cleaver.

I read an article once about "sleep debt," in which it lays out a study showing how a body accumulates sleep debt. Anything less than seven or eight hours a night is recorded as a debt, which will need to be replaced at some point in time. So I'm thinking when the boys grow the hell up & move the hell out, I will stand on the front step, waving good-bye, where I will then collapse the moment the car is out of sight & sleep, right there on the porch, for approximately the next decade or so. I can't wait.

http://boards.babycenter.com/n/pfx/forum.aspx?webtag=bcus1506772

Well, folks, it's over. The flurry of activity that is Christmas has finally come to an end, thank God. Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, especially with the kids, but it is definitely a time-and-energy intensive project to coordinate, one that I am grateful to have finished. Done. Complete. Finito. Feliz frigging Navidad and call it a day, por favor.

In reflecting on the past year, I must say, the most positive thing has got to be (besides my sweet baby) my decision to quit taking it up the arse & get a new job. I am simply un-depressable (is that a word?) these days. These fine folks are head over heels in love with me, and I with them. What I'm doing isn't rocket science, I realize this, but I seem to be doing quite the fine job, according to the feedback I'm getting, and that is perhaps what I was missing most at the old place. In the place where you spend the majority of your waking hours, you like to think that what you're doing means something to somebody, somewhere, and that you're doing a halfway-decent job of it. If I should ever get the money/motivation/time/energy to pursue further schooling, I may very well consider studying patent law. The things I've seen, man, they're so damn cool. Really far out. Ba du ba ba baaa...

The other thing that sticks out in my head about the past year is a lesson learned. And that lesson is...Shut the hell up. It's hilariously ironic to me that I went to a shrink to learn to communicate, and my New Year's resolution will undoubtedly be to keep my mouth shut. I'm so irritated with having had an innocent chat with a family member, only to wake up the next morning and read my personal business splashed across the front page. Why? Does no one have hobbies anymore? Is my life really that exciting? Did confidentiality die with chivalry? I'm at a loss as to how to explain these happenings. The only course of action I see fit to take is to, you guessed it, shut the hell up. My shrink would probably be pissed, but I actually foresee this as being beneficial to my relationship with Nathaniel...He will now be privy to every vent and comment I might ordinarily have gotten out of my system elsewhere. I love you, honey. Get ready.

Christmas, check. New Year's resolution, check.

So what bright sparkling future awaits us in 2007? Stay tuned.

I’m beyond curious as to what Julian’s first word will be. I distinctly remember the biting disappointment when Spencer looked adoringly at his father and softly said, “Dada.” In order to nip another situation like that in the bud, I find myself inundating the poor child with “Momma”s. I am bound and determined that he recognize who wears the pants in this family.

“Momma makes a bottle! Look at Momma making a bottle for Momma’s baby. Oh Momma, you are so clever Momma, look how Momma mixes a bottle for Momma’s boy. Momma Momma Momma Momma.”

And now, halfway through my headlong plunge into this task, I realize just what I have become. It’s official, folks. I have in fact become…a Pokemon.

Remember Pokemon? All the cartoon-y characters, running around saying nothing but their own names in conversation-like cadence? This is what I have been reduced to. A PokeMomma.

But you know what? It will all be worth it. My silly conversations to myself, with myself, about myself…the sacrifice of any real adult conversation before 7 p.m….will all be worth it, when my JuJuBee sits up one day, points a little Vienna sausage finger at me and claims me for his very own, “Momma.”

You better recognize.

One of life's deepest mysteries is the male reaction to a virus. I need some scientific proof, a study, an experiment, a fricking poll, anything, that gives me some clue as to why the male body reacts the way it does when invaded by a little ol' germ.

You know the reaction I'm talking about. At the first nasal tickle, the first (gasp!) drip, he keels over. Crawls, mewling like an orphaned kitten, to the couch, where he will slump in vocal agony as THE BUG ravishes his otherwise strong-like-bull body.

THE BUG in question will be debated upon for weeks to come, long after the symptoms have hit the road, jack. He will ponder upon just who could possibly have been so angry with him as to target his particular immune system with THE BUG. Who so brutally attacked him, and why? This, folks, this must be biological warfare. I say we drop a bomb of influenza on whoever the hell it is we're fighting now and watch the menfolk drop like flies, crying like babies to their momma.

It's funny, isn't it (hiLARious), how women, especially the working mothers among us, really get no downtime. Cold? Doesn't even slow us down. Flu? Take your OTC drug cocktail of choice and keep on trucking. Polio? Meningitis? There is work to be done, woman, what is this talk of a nap?? Heresy!

As we speak, You Know Who is laying on his deathbed, quite possibly the first person in the last 85 years to die of the common cold. Pay your respects while you still can, he's down to his last moments, I'm sure.

Well smack my arse and call me Busy, it seems this week has rushed by again with nary a chance to blog! Oh my dear, sweetly patient blogging audience, all 2.5 of you, thank you for waiting. You must have been very, very good, look what Santa brought you! More blithering nonsense. Ready?

If I should not answer the phone, or douse the lights and pretend not to be home, please don’t be offended. It’s nothing personal. It’s not you, it’s me. I am finding quiet, personal time to be more valuable than gold these days. Even Nathaniel has found himself talking to the hand on occasion, because, dear reader, at the end of the day, when the rapid-fire barrage of ceaseless questions are over and The Crying Game has ended, I am one tired, tired momma who wants nothing more out of life than to crawl under a rock where it’s QUIET.

I propose that instead of burning pokers under the fingernails or Chinese water torture, we send prisoners of war or terrorists to be subjected to the incessant, burning questions of very young children.

“Pick up your toys, please.”

“Why?”

“Because someone could trip over them and fall down.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to walk there, honey, it’s the middle of the doorway.”

“Where?”

“Right there, in the kitchen doorway, where your toys are!”

“Here?”

“Yes!”

“Here, where my toys are?”

“Yes!”

“Someone could trip over them? Who?”

“Yes, honey, like Daddy or Mommy or just anyone.”

“You would trip? And fall down? And go CRASH! BOOM! BANG! Like that?”

“Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.”

“Hey, Mommy?”

“What, baby?”

“I should pick my toys up.”

Oh. My. God. Stand back. Someone, quick, get me the waiting list for Stanford.

I love my son. Don’t get me wrong. I just sometimes wish I were on a white sand beach on the opposite side of the world, listening to the sound of the waves and THAT’S IT.

Lord help the attorney who asks me “why” on Monday.

Ahhh, the weekend. We meet again, dear friend.

In with the weekend, out with the Indian summer. It has been a glorious sixty-plus degrees here the past couple of weeks, and today, a return to freezing temperatures and, your favorite and mine, winter precipitation. Walla walla walla, step right up and place your bets! Will it hail? Sleet? Snow? Will it take ten minutes to get to work or forty-five? It's anybody's guess, and you won't know 'til you roll out of bed in the morning.

Ohio weathermen have got to have the toughest jobs in America. I can just picture them, poring over blips on screens and highs and lows and God knows what...Here comes the anchorman, straighten his tie, powder his nose, quick, somebody, tell him what to say! And we're live in three, two, one...Well folks, six oh two is the time and the weather tonight will be...(I SWEAR one time he actually said this)...Changing skies! WHAT? What does that mean?? Absolutely nothing. It's comparable to THE ORANGE ALERT (I always picture it in all caps) the country has been on for what, five years now? I just want to know how that helps, at all. I want to hear one eyewitness get on the news and stand there, shaking and upset but visibly relieved...You know, that ORANGE ALERT really saved my bum! I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been for THE ORANGE ALERT!

A definite plus to working on the nineteenth floor is the frigging view, man. I am all up in those changing skies, and I can see foul weather rolling in a mile away. A dark line on the horizon, three layers of clouds moving at different speeds, and then...nothing. The clouds envelop us and for all I know, the nineteenth floor could have floated clean away and my elevator shaft nightmares could come true. We could be airborne, untethered, spirited off to that patent law office in the sky, some adventure to be had. It's all so Gulliver's Travels.

And here I am, daydreams burst, slamming back home to reality in my chair, my desk, my office, my floor, my building. My hunger to pour my thoughts out of my jumbled, eccentric mind, write them down, organize and share them has been sated, and that can mean only one thing. Lunch time is over.

Thursday? Thursday already?? How can that be? The time is flying, dear reader, and I am counting down the paychecks 'til The Big Day. Spencer, on the other hand, prefers to count down the hours 'til Christmas, and can hardly bear the thought of wasting any of them sleeping. The dilemma comes in knowing that Santa will be highly displeased to hear of him not listening to Momma and going to bed in a timely fashion. To slip peacefully off to sleep after a hard day of play, or to torture Momma with whiny excuses? Such are the moral struggles of a 3-yr-old. At the end of the day, of course, the Santa card trumps all, but you knew this.

Julian, on the other hand, hasn't a clue what is looming on the horizon and knows only his immediate pain. Frustration, thy name is SHOES! We had allowed our sweet baby to run with the wind between his toes thus far, but decided with falling temperatures and increased walking ability, shoes were in order. I had forgotten how putting the damn things on can throw all previous walking feats out the window and set us back, oh, to about 2-wk-old status. Poor Julian crawls around army-style these days, dragging the offending sneakers as if he were a war hero crawling home, useless legs behind him. What a drama queen. He gets that from his father.

Julian has also discovered his tongue, which adds boundless emphasis to his encrypted vocabulary. It's all so Sylvester, phbltt-uffering phbltt-uccotash.

Consider yourself updated, dear reader, a virtual peeping Tom in the bushes of my life, and fret not! I swear on a stack of patents, more postcards from the edge (isn't that a movie? Is that phrase trademarked? I should know, huh?) tomorrow!

Thanksgiving. Perhaps the easiest of holidays to explain thematically to the young'uns. More difficult, however, is explaining the meaning of the word, "thankful." Things or ideas you have, that you like, that you are just so so so happy to have. Or like. Things or ideas. You know. Stuff.

Seeing as how my insightful interpretation was laid out so cleanly before him, I don't understand how Spencer could not immediately grasp the concept.

"What are you thankful for, Spence?"

"Ummm...I'm helpful for..."

"No, thankful, look at my mouth, thu-ank-ful."

"Oh. Kay. I'm thankful for...Ummm...My friends at school..."

"Yes! That's great! Oh good job, what a nice thing to be thankful for. Go ahead, baby..."

"And I'm thinkful for..."

"No, thankful, Spence, thankful, what are you so happy to have?"

"I'm thankful for...Ummm...my friends, and...my school, and..." (Eyes start wandering) "...My mittens, and...our car, and...stop signs, and...stores, ay-uuund...car wash, ay-uuund...sidewalk, ay-uuund...lady walking her doggie, ay-uuund...Cwismas lights! And I'm thankful for Cwismas! And Santa Claus! And I will sit on Santa Claus lap! And I will say, (falsetto) 'Santa, please may I have a 'mote control car?' And he will say 'YES!!'"

Ah, Thanksgiving, you poor overlooked holiday. You are merely a stumbling block on the road to Christmas.

I am thankful for my boys, for my entire family, may they forever be deliriously happy and healthy, and for my sense of humor, without which sanity would not be possible. Amen.

Just recently we touched upon how similar dear Spence’s personality is to that of his father. In today’s Happy Hour, we will discuss a way in which Spence reflects a love of my own heart, The Great American Word Game.

Word play, it seems, provides endless fascination for this 3-yr-old, and he will happily engage in it with any willing participant/innocent bystander for hours on end.

“Hey Spence, look, it’s Uncle Jonah!”

“Uncle Jonah?”

“Yup. Say hello!”

“Hello, Uncle…Cheek!”

My dear brother, being the kind-hearted goof he is, plays along.

“Hi Spencer! How are you?”

“Fine, Uncle…Blanket!” (hysterical laughter)

“Oh yeah? Well that’s good, Spence-cheek!” (more hysterical laughter) “How was your day at school today?”

“Fine! I played on the swings pickle! I said pickle! Ahahahaha!!”

“Well the swings are fun…But what about the slide CHEEK?!”

(Spencer, of course, now believes my brother to be The Funniest Man On The Planet.)

“Well my favowite is the monkey PICKLE bars!! Ahahahahahaha!”

“All right, Spence, you’re a silly boy...Oh look, it's dinner time…Are you hungry? How about a WOODEN BLANKET SANDWICH?”

(Spence falls down on the floor, arms wrapped around his own stomach to keep from busting a gut.)

My brother has now cemented his place as favorite uncle. This only leaves the question of how to explain to the extended family at the upcoming holidays why Spencer now refers to him as Uncle PickleCheek BlanketPants. I’m sure they’ll understand.

Happy Friday! Friday, Friday, you know what that means...Donuts for breakfast, takeout for lunch, and pizza for dinner, meaning by the end of the day you will probably be unable to sit down comfortably in those jeans you were so excited to wear to work today.

Yes, Casual Friday, dear reader, Denim Paradise as far as the eye can see. I have a theory, yet to be disproven, that there may be a direct correlation between one's age and exactly how high-waisted one's jeans are. A teenager, bopping around the mall or whatever it is teenagers do these days (feels like ages since I've been one), will unflinchingly sport pants with approximately half an inch of material between crotch and button. These are called "low-rise," or "belly before baby" jeans. Display it now, chickies, display it while you still can.

Add on an inch or so for each decade lived and you've got the formula! Remind me to stop wearing jeans in about thirty years, Ok? Thanks.

When this theory leaves you questioning your results, an additional way to determine how old one truly is is to engage said person in light conversation. Note the enthusiastic use of the word "sucks" and the sideways glances to be sure you think they're using it properly. Very telling.

Again, these are just theories.

I'd like to lobby management to instate Pajama Thursday. Then we could really have some fun.

Oh, LAWD, here we go again. On a very reputable bulletin board that I visit, the inevitable debate of whether to return to work after children or stay home has reared its ugly head.

I thought I'd come here to vent a bit. Smart girl, aren't I? These things can get pretty heated on the boards and I'd rather not wake up with a severed stuffed animal head in bed beside me.

So humor me, won't you? I believe I've stumbled upon the perfect illustration of how it feels to be a working mother in the company of those who so fiercely believe anything less than staying home full-time to be equivalent to leaving your children in the woods to be raised by wild squirrels (I'm in Cleveland, Ok?).

Say you are one of the afore-mentioned mothers. Now say you throw a dinner party, of mixed company. If an acquaintance of yours, attending said dinner party, had a mastectomy, and you were aware of it, would you gather your bosomy friends 'round and go on and on about how you couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose a breast(s)? You couldn't possibly ever go through that, what it must be like to wear a swimsuit, how could you please your husband, etc. etc. etc.

See what I mean? Now, I'm not a (complete) idiot, I realize that these two things are not comparable in real life, not even close, but I wanted to paint a picture for you of what it feels like to be degraded in such a manner, even unintentionally. One of my best friends does this to me.

That said, I understand that each of us makes choices we hope will be best for our family, with the research we've done on our own personal situations and a desperate attempt to project the future of each decision. I say, if you can feasibly stay home, if you have both the financial stability and patience of a...very patient thing, then do. Enjoy the hell out of it! But please don't assume that I'm an asshole who could stay home and doesn't, or rub it in that you have that luxury. While I read your posts, I am at work missing my boys like crazy, hoping like hell they'll still love me best at the end of the day.

CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG??

P.S. Silly, light-heartedness tomorrow.

Today is an absolutely beautiful day in my neck of the woods. The sun is shining, it's warm(ish), & the leaves are lazily floating down all around. I'm thinking we'll take little Spence out to the park, as this may prove to be our last genuinely nice day of the year. Then...bum ba BUM...Snow, and ice, and all manner of things hazardous to this commuting chick. Ick. I keep threatening to move to Arizona. I actually know nothing about Arizona, but I hear it's a nice dry heat. I'm IN.

Irregardless...(I'm KIDDING, if you ever actually say this non-word to me, I'll take it as a personal affront & bitch-slap you)...We are looking at an inevitable stretch of cabin fever ahead of us. There are only so many times you can read The Boy's favorite book, or watch Toy F Me Sideways Story (oh no, it seems I'm tired of this one already, & winter isn't even fully upon us), or glue popsicle sticks together or whatever fun projects I can pull off my bookmarked kiddie websites. I can never come up with something truly original. I'm crafty like a fox, and only that way.

Where was I? Oh, cabin fever, indeed. These two words, along with "financial preparedness" are possibly the only obstacle on the path to having three children. I simply don't think I can stand to be sardine-d in with one more single person over the course of an impossibly long, dreary Ohio winter. For a scary sight, swing by my place around, oh, February-ish, peek inside, and watch the zombies duke it out over the remote. Fun times.

My last thought on this as I prepare to hibernate is this...If you take the term "cabin fever" lightly, consider this...There was a gentleman you may remember who suffered through a child-induced case of cabin fever. His name was Jack Torrance. 'Nuff said.

Just in case there was ever any doubt as to my coolness, it's been confirmed...Starting sometime soon (???), I will be writing a "journal" (blog, really) for babycenter.com, the site for the hippest mommas. How cool is that?!

True, it will be a lot of hard work, a thankless, non-paying job, but that's motherhood, really. I'm already signed up for that, may as well sing about it from the mountaintops for the sheer rush of it...The hiiills are aliiive...With the sound of tyyyping...

So I'm here today to write about writing, to blog about blogging...I do so apologize for the redundancy, but being offered that journal spot absolutely MADE MY FREAKING DAY. Tell your friends about me! No seriously, tell them. I could use the exposure.

I'm kidding, of course...if you actually tell anyone you're reading my lame-o crapola, they will certainly snub you. Or at least snicker a bit. If anyone asks, you Googled "vivacity" for a work project and stumbled across this really weird site, check it out, you might like it. It's this certifiable mom chick writing about her clearly disturbed children and the train wreck called her life. It's a scream!

Well darling dears, the journey to becoming the next {insert favorite author here} starts with one step, so...I'm off! Wish me luck! And thank you, audience, I sincerely appreciate your patience with these humble attempts to catalogue My So-Called Life...It is your support that gives me the inspiration to continue pursuing this, my dream.

Well, folks, it's happened. The inevitable is upon us, and I find myself less than prepared to deal with this new onslaught of milestones and the emotions that ensue. The Baby, if I can even call him that anymore, is walking. I am the proud emotional wreck of a mother to one young boy and one, GULP, toddler. I'm not ready. Hold me.

Tears aside, it is HILARIOUS to watch. He'll get halfway across the room, crawling like an express locomotive, before remembering that he knows how to walk. Pause, mid-knee-raise, head cocks to the side, wait for it, wait...A-ha! Gathers his legs beneath him, a push off the ground with little sausage-fingered hands, and VOILA...He's a stand-up kinda guy. Then, and this requires much effort...lift of the foot and quickly thump it down...steady now, steeeaaadyyy...and...other foot. This is exponentially more amusing than watching paint dry, although it takes about twice as long.

Spence is both intrigued and frightened to death of this new development. Our enthusiasm is contagious, and he'll fight to be the one to stretch out both arms and invite Julian to take a stroll his way...But at the same time, when said baby does actually reach him, he gets a little freaked out at someone pitching towards him, tearing at his clothes and leaning in, doe-eyed and dewy-lipped, for a kiss. Some day he'll actually search this out, from the appropriate girl of course. Oh, excuse me, the appropriate girl or boy. Momma's an open-minded kind of gal, you lucky sons of guns.

Even with Spence running hot and cold on him, The Baby seems interested enough to pursue this walking endeavor. And we are one hundred percent behind him, literally, arms ever-ready to catch a stumble.

On the bright side, I suppose this puts us one step closer to Adulthood and Get The Hell Out. Some shining day of the glorious future, when Nathaniel and I have the time, energy, and money, we'll travel and travel and travel. Or maybe just stay in bed and recoup from years of nerve-wracking stress. Either or.

Working on the 19th floor these past 3 weeks, I've come to realize some valid concerns I have regarding Gravity-Defying Death Traps, or what my completely oblivious coworkers call "elevators." Perhaps I can squeeze some free therapy out of this blog.

Concern #1: What if, or should I say when, because it seems like an inevitability over the course of time and daily wear and tear...What if the whole damn hulking thing should come loose, that is, the brake and corresponding emergency brake should give out, while an innocent person was, say, stepping out onto a floor? Would that person lose the leg they were so unsuspectingly stepping out with? And if so, whose insurance responsibility would that be?? How much blood are we talking? And just how many Halloween horror movies does it take to turn one's mind to an all-day gore-athon?

Concern #2: What if this same innocent Death Trap rider were "safely" in said Death Trap when Concern #1 occurred? Hurtling to the earth, free-falling and rapidly gaining speed...18, 17, 16...What would be the best course of action? 15, 14, 13... Randomly push buttons while screaming "Fire!" because any chick with an email address knows that would bring the most help the quickest?? Or...Maybe, just maybe, brace yourself as best you're able, thereby avoiding the direct impact of Death Trap vs. ground? Hmmm. Food for thought. And Lord knows I have plenty of time to review my options while rocketing up and down all day in these crazy, crazy machines we've come to rely on. I should have asked for more money.

Next week: Fire In The Stairwell...Now What?