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?

We touched earlier upon the subject of children inheriting their parents’ traits, and this past weekend has revealed that Spencer has most definitely inherited his father’s outgoing personality.

As a child, I was completely unable to approach anyone I wasn’t familiar with, and express myself in any fashion whatsoever. I felt a longing to crawl under the nearest rock, or perhaps disappear entirely, whenever a social situation presented itself. When playing that fun game, Which Super-Power Would YOU Want? Mine was invisibility, hands down. Still is, when I’m late for work or caught typing a blog entry on company time. POOF! Want to scold me? Got to find me first, bitches!

Nathaniel, on the other hand, is and has always been the most extroverted person I know. This, I believe, is why our balancing act works so well. He’ll order the dinner when dining out, for example, and scream if it’s wrong, and I’ll stare at the floor. We each have our parts to play.

So back to this past weekend…We took the kiddos to an indoor trick-or-treating event and they had a BLAST. Batman, a.k.a. cousin Jason, took the lead and off they went, trick-or-treating to their hearts’ content, punctuated with the occasional delighted scream as some masked creature peeked out from around a corner. Said with no sarcasm whatsoever, fun times.

At the end of this winding road of Halloween joy, we came to a gathering place where they had everything from a coloring contest set up, to refreshments and a large area with a d.j. for the kiddies to break it down to the tune of the Monster Mash. I said, “Spence, go show ‘em your moves!” Half-expecting him to turn bashfully into me & hide his face against my (ample) thigh. Son of a gun if he didn’t take off full speed into the heart of the melee, shaking his booty like a pro.

I was astounded…I myself couldn’t have gone onto the dance floor for a million dollars, regardless that my judging peers would have been an eighth my age. Nathaniel was pleasantly surprised, a little smile on his face which I knew meant he was reminiscing on his heyday, complete with impressing the grade-school girlies with his fancy, fancy moves. ‘The sprinkler’ has not died, ladies and gentlemen, it lives on, if only in Nathaniel’s memories.

So I’m here to say, lock up your daughters, because darling Spencer is truly his father’s son.

In this time of wondrous change and growth, I've sat back and watched my boys get older with the subconscious idea that I was somehow perfectly preserved in my 16-yr-old body. That window of internal viewpoint slammed shut just last night while perusing some old photos. I came across one of myself in a sweatshirt in which long blond hair was flowing in the breeze, and I had this smile on my face like, Responsibility? What's that? Who needs it?? Not me, I'm just hanging out, wearing perfectly applied makeup & have you seen this HAIR? Yup, woke up & styled it with all the time in the world laid out before me.

I'm thinking, yup, that's me, wrinkle-free face & all.

Then my eye caught the sweatshirt I had been wearing, & the condition of this sweatshirt, which I actually still own. The shirt is absolutely threadbare, really just two sleeves held together by an Aeropostale logo (yes, I was quite the fashion snob, before I knew what "bills" were).

A bucket of cold water to the face. While I realize that skin doesn't age at quite the rate cotton does, I...prepare yourself...have aged as well! Son of a gun. Who'd have thunk, even I could be affected by the passage of time?? I have laugh lines now, & carry some hefty luggage under my eyes...& around the hip-thigh area...

Oy. I'm not ready for this! Who the hell wants to get older? Not I, said the fly, as he keeled over 24 hours after his birth.

I'm thinking a cute haircut & an extra workout or two may stave off the depression I feel breathing down my neck, edging in on my happiness here at the new job. Well, I suppose I've got to take the good with the bad...Do you know any 16-yr-old legal assistants be-bopping around downtown, going home to the arms of a gorgeous loving family?? All right then. I've got two healthy dollops of sugar at home to help the medicine go down.

Today's Pondering:

What would a stifled sneeze, followed by a sigh of relief, sound like to a cubicle-mate?

For side-splitting fun at home, try holding a book or other impromptu divider between you and a friend, deep breath, lips pursed tightly together, forcefully expel the air, big sigh finale, aaand...Voila! Instant fun! Note: Please don't attempt this if you are actually right now sitting in a cubicle.

Also great at parties!

The government is approving a much-needed piece of legislation I think all of you Internet-savvy should be made aware of.

TAADA (The Acronym Awareness & Dispute Act) allows any person or agency to bring forth an acronym for discussion. If said acronym is already in common use, it cannot be granted to said party. If it’s an unusual & fun one, such as DUBYA, which of course stands for Dumb Useless Bullshit-Yakking Arsehole, you will automatically be placed in the running for the Nobel Prize (NP).

TFB (This Fun Blog) would like to take this opportunity to say that there are entirely TMA (Too Many Acronymns) on This Crazy Planet (TCP), and although there actually is no PL (Pending Legislation) before TBIC (Those Bastards In Congress), I feel there should be. So STIYPASI (Stick That In Your Pipe And Smoke It).

If I come across as Frustrated And Cranky (FAC), it can only be due to my present learning environment (LE), which appears to run solely on WTMATL (Way Too Many Acronyms To Learn). PL (Patent Law) and the ADBMW’s (Attorneys Driving BMW’s (Bavarian Motor Works)) a.k.a. BOSS’s (Bitches Out Sidewalk Shopping) should really consider patenting a learning environment (LE) in which one is submerged in PLL (Patent Law Language) for a short period and be done with it (FINITO), rather than this slow, current madness-inducing CWT (Chinese Water Torture) method.

Please, DUBYA, can’t we come up with some legislation ASAP, or I fear I may TALWOASP (Take A Long Walk Off A Short Pier).

SOL,
Cera

P.S.
P.P.S.
R.S.V.P.
Cc:
Fw:
Encl.
CKV/ckv

Dear Little Boy in the Oven Door,

I just want to extend my heartfelt thanks. You never disappoint; you are always there for my Julian when he needs you to be. You never complain, you never make a sound, you are not another mouth to feed…you’re simply there for him. And he leans on you more and more these days (literally), especially when seeking some quiet solace from his larger, older, much louder siblings. So thank you.

You remind me of “Katie,” Anne of Green Gables’ mirrored friend. Do you know her? How is she these days? Haven’t heard about her since Anne traipsed off to The Isle.

I also wish to apologize…You seem capable of handling not only Julian’s weight, but endure his lengthy make-out sessions, which can get quite messy. My most sincere of apologies for those. When I laugh hysterically and take pictures, don’t fret, dear Oven Door Boy, my mirth is not at your expense. Per se.

So keep up the good work! I know what you’re thinking. I’ll put my money where my mouth is. I’ll break out the Windex this weekend, and all will be right with the world.

Yours in Kitchen Endeavors,
Cera

I see my mistake. Now I see my mistake.

We discussed getting a pet, way back when, LBB (Life Before Baby), and Spencer was positively enthralled with the prospect. Although the pair of goldfish didn’t last too long, may they rest in peace, we had actually been toying with the idea of getting some sort of pet, perhaps a hamster in one of those handy indestructible plastic balls, the better to scurry out of reach of the clutches of afore-mentioned loving boy. Who was that cartoon girl, Elmira? Elvira maybe? Who would squeeze her animals til their eyes bulged out of their desperate little heads, squeaking sweet nothings like, “I will LOVE you and HUG you and SQUEEZE you and HOLD you forever and ever and ever!” Mental image in place? Good. Now insert the face of my sweet 3-yr-old. There ya go.

Enter Baby Julian, stage left. I do believe dear Spence thought his wish had been granted. A pet, at long last! For his very own. To LOVE him and HUG him and…you get the idea.

I had thought, when I realized I would be the proud mother of two, two, two boys for the price (I wish) of one! that the sort of obstacles I might face would include separating fights, dividing rooms with pieces of masking tape, deciding whose breathing space was whose, etc. And that may very well be in my future, but for now…

I find my biggest obstacle is separating them, all right. Separating Spence from HUGGING (yes, I mean to use all caps) defenseless Julian, yelling vows of undying love in his face (it’s the ol’ deaf/tourist trick…if they don’t respond, just YELL til you think you’re getting through), lovingly petting random features (ears, toes, eyeballs), slipping food to him from the kitchen table like a little…you guessed it…pet.

So a word to the wise…If you are even considering trying to conceive another baby, whatever you do, limit your child’s exposure to animals. Although cute, warm and cuddly, current studies are indicating that babies are not, in fact, pets. In my house, however, the jury is still out.

This is me, prostrate before you, begging forgiveness and whipping my own back with one of those handy flogger thingies. All right? Ok?

My humblest of apologies for having been absent so very long…In Blogger years, a week equals about two months, I know. Haven’t you been just dying to know what antics my boys are up to, and what the new job entails? Well, honestly, I’m still training for the new job, so when I figure it out, I’ll let you know. In a timely manner, Scout’s honor. I’m an honorary Girl Scout by way of Thin Mint Obsession.

Quick update, since I used a nail file to saw through the ankle chain to my desk and once they discover me missing, it’s all over! They’re coming to take me away, ha ha, hee hee, ho ho…Honestly, it’s not too bad here on the ol’ patent law frontier, just difficult to learn all the terminology. They speak another language ‘round these he-yur parts, and I’m a-fixin’ to learn me some.

The boys, well…Boys will be boys will be boys, no matter how much I dress them in girls’ clothes and makeup and force them to practice their curtsies…KIDDING! My boys are boys, through and through. Spence has just recently joined the ranks of The Rough’N’Tumble Gang, which positively horrifies Julian. It’s difficult to convince the baby that Spence is screaming in fun, especially when the baby and I speak different languages. But we’re learning, the both of us.

In other news, Julian has decided to cruise the furniture as his primary means of transportation, so when his daycare calls Child Protective Services on me for all the bumps and bruises, you are all witness to this testimony, this sixteenth day of October, year of our Lord two-thousand-six…I do solemnly swear that although said baby does piss me off occasionally, I have never raised my hand to him. There are simply too many people in line in front of him for their well-deserved bitch slap. Speaking of which, I do so hope my darling ex-employers have mailed me my last check.

Well, dear audience (are there any left? I feel I’ve been away for eons), do please continue to check in…I promise never to neglect you again for so long. Please don’t pine away for me, I’m here, just struggling to juggle the world and everyone in it. It’s a rough job, but somebody’s got to do it. This is The Circus, signing off.

The latest trend in raising a generation of baby geniuses is to teach the fine art of sign language. While this may be a noble endeavor, I don't find it to be very practical. In my short time on this planet, in fact, I have never met a blind person. Although I appreciate sign language, don't get me wrong. Helen Keller, you da woman.

What may be more beneficial, to me, is reading lips. I'm going to start teaching my darling 7-mo-old...tomorrow. This involves much over-exaggerated lip contortion, facial expression, and possibly a hand gesture or two, all with the volume set to 'mute.' Should be hilarious.

Selfishly, I'll guide Julian to read lips for my own ulterior motive. This will help to answer a line item on my List of Burning Questions...WHAT ARE THE EXTRAS SAYING?? I must know. I could die happy tomorrow if I only knew what exactly those background conversations are about. You know what I'm talking about. You're watching a TV show, and Susie is breaking up with Bobby or whatever the hell, front and center, but behind them, a couple walks past, or "co-workers" are mingling over by the water cooler...Extras. People, instructed to act as though they are having some sort of fascinatingly intellectual conversation...The director yells, "Action!"...And these people who probably met each other the day before at a casting call turn to each other and say...What?? They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves, do they not? I find myself more fascinated with this than with whatever is happening center stage that I'm supposed to be paying attention to. Hence my problem. This is where Julian comes into play.

So those pseudo-actors had better step lively. In just about...10 years, I'm going to be totally hip to their scene. And...Action!

I've touched in the past upon the subject of Ye Olde Boob Tube and its undermining influence in my household. I'd like to revisit that subject...

Sunday evening, I was temporarily possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver and decided to whip up a batch of wholesome goodness for my doting family in the form of cookies. I actually find baking to be very therapeutic, and I need all the therapy I can get these days.

My darling 3-yr-old comes wandering into the kitchen in the midst of said whirling dervish. Curiousity piqued, he begins the usual volley of questions...What's this, what's that, flour? I love flour, let me taste, the oven is hot? What's that thing, what's it for, can I use it, can I mix it, can I touch it, can I hold it? What's that, baking soda? I LOVE baking soda, please may I have some baking soda? I asked nicely.

Since I didn't have a free hand at the time to throw him out the nearest available window, I withstood this one-man firing squad rather well, and was under the impression it was winding down when it clicked.

Down came the peanut butter out of the cupboard. The inevitable..."Peanut butter? For...PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES??"

A gleam came into my darling sweet boy's eye, the like of which I had seen only on cartoon villains...The picture was made complete by much licking of chops and wringing of hands.

"Peanut butter cookies! What a great idea!" I wish I could convey the tone to you. As if I had just suggested some fantastic new method of world domination.

"Peanut butter cookies! Mu-hahahahahaha!!" I know you think I'm making this up, but I swear on Nip/Tuck I'm not exaggerating when I say dear Spencer threw back his head and laughed maniacally.

So the new rule is this...Alden watches his cartoons on his TV, and Spencer can watch as much light-hearted, upbeat kiddie fluff on the Disney channel as he wants. And I can once again sleep at night.

Actual excerpt of a father who shall remain nameless reading to his son last night...

"...And this is a fire engine...."

"...And the person who drives the fire truck is called an engineer..."

"...And the people who sit in the back of the truck are called losers..."

Wanted: Full-time Watcher. This position involves filling all requests to "see," "look," and "watch" during all waking hours of one spirited 3-yr-old. Seeking extremely patient individual's undivided attention. This position's pay is the reward of one little boy's adoration and one tired mother's undying gratitude. Yeah I didn't think so.