Introducing... Kicky McAngrypants

I figure every crying newborn looks pretty much the same, so I'm bending my rule about No Pictures of The Boy on le blog.Aside from a little matte medium to seal the inked paper edges, this new page is done. It's about how I discovered that sticking out the lower lip when angry is something babies really do, without being coached.

You know how some people (um, me) rename people "Something McSomething"? It's a habit I picked up from my sister-in-law while she was living in L.A. So it was inevitable that The Husband and I would apply that to The Boy in the first few months of his life.

The Boy was not keen on swaddling: he had to have his arms free, and very soon he decided the legs had to be free too. So one evening, while The Husband was bouncing The Boy on his knee to calm him down, he came up with "Kicky McAngrypants."

I typed "Introducing" and "Kicky McAngrypants" in Blasphemy [hee hee... "blasphemy"] font, then did water transfers of both in different font sizes. I also gessoed, then painted the nameplate space with a cream acrylic, then adhered the water transfer with matte medium. Just for good measure, I painted a little more cream around the edges of the nickname.

Finally, the fun part: I blended it in with the patina of the nameplate by painting it with the special Michael de Meng schmutzing colors. I love it when things turn out the way they look in my head!The "Introducing" water transfer sits on top of cream acrylic paint too, because I figured it wouldn't show up very well otherwise on the purple cardstock. A little more schmutzy paint on that and the prickly cactus loteria card to tie them all together, and there we go.
I also made a mica and vellum paper sandwich, bound with wire. Someday The Boy will look at this page and not find it funny at all, of course. So this is my (ultimately futile) explanation that he was not, in fact, tortured by his parents for the sake of a picture. Geez, The Boy got nursed and a bottle right after I took the picture! What does he want, blood?

Oh, yes... of course he will.

The Bluebird of Testosterone

The Boy has begun making the occasional comment that seems to indicate the presence of a completely testosterone-driven portion of the brain.

It started one day when we were driving to the mall, and The Boy said he saw a bird where none could have been. About as elusive as the bluebird of happiness. The Husband went along with The Boy's story, saying it was a bird only guys could see; therefore, it must be the Bluebird of Testosterone.

Today I was buckling The Boy into his car seat, but I couldn't get it to click closed at first. I realized what was wrong, and said, "Oh, your shirt was in the way."

The Boy's response: "And my penis was in the way too."

Uh-huh.

Wisdom for the ages

"Never, ever shoot a gun full of spite."
-- The Boy, after The Husband explained that one should never do things out of spite because the attempt often backfires.

The Boy learned that lesson the hard way today. He thought telling Daddy he didn't want to go to a birthday party would punish Daddy for disciplining The Boy.

Wow. The Boy really doesn't know who he's dealing with.

I can breathe now

Aaaaaahhh... it's finally less than 88 degrees Fahrenheigt. (Don't mock me. I've gotten used to not having a normal summer.) Still wiped out and tore up, but here are some pix to hold you until I have more coherent thoughts.

The Boy and me at the strawberry farm two weekends ago-- when it was maybe 71 degrees:
Still thanking my local farmworkers. I do not want to crouch and kneel like that for a living.

No pictures from this weekend. Too hot to focus, plus The Boy was showing us the range of his three-year-old orneriness. I spent most of my time trying to control my temper when I wasn't wiping away under-boob sweat.

Speaking of being unreasonably hot, more news from PreggerLand: we found out we're going to have a boy! He "waved" to us during the ultrasound (his hand was next to his head, and he flexed his fingers a couple of times).

And because I run a side specialty in weirdness: see this cuddly little Cerberus I found at the book store:More soon.

Daddy's Day recap

Wow, am I late with this recap. Well, we'll live.

That's how The Husband celebrated the reason why he gets Father's Day gifts: taking The Boy and me to The Boy's first movie theater movie. (The Husband got a couple of books -- that I will break in for him -- and a pedometer he'd actually considered on his own.)

We prepped The Boy for the experience, and he did really well. Went to the bathroom before and afterwards, had a few peanut M&M's, didn't get scared by the "fight" scenes (although he was a little worried that the bad guy was really going to hurt a few other characters), and no more than the usual loud-child's-voice-in-the-theater moments. But that's to be expected in a KID'S movie... anyone who was in there expecting peace and quiet was in the wrong damn showing.

Together with breakfast at our favorite local diner, it was a pretty swell day. Oh, and I remembered to get the cards to the fathers-in-law out in plenty of time. Bonus.

Genius. Genius, I tell you

The Boy is showing an interest in "reading" on his own, and he seems to have an inkling on counting things (especially the number of M&Ms that we occasionally dole out). So we started him in a phonics class and then a math class at day care last week, and apparently he's really enjoying himself. Nothing hard-core: the kids his age only do 20 minutes a day in these optional classes, which is about the length of any other activity they do.
My favorite comment on his progress: "He also enjoyed writing in his journal!"

I'm kvelling!

Let's just nip that in the bud.

I don't care how cute they are. I don't care that the word's an endearment to some. No one is allowed to call my kid "monkey."

I just had one of those weird moments as an African American parent, where I had to shut down someone who meant well before they did any lasting damage to The Boy.

Today The Boy and I encountered someone who loves The Boy to pieces, someone who likes to steal kisses from his cheek, tickle him and generally tell him he's adorable. But this morning, she ran her fingers through The Boy's curls and greeted him with, "Hi, monkey!"

And instantly my brain broke in half. One half said, "it's just an endearment!" while struggling to block the other half from attacking the speaker. But the other half got free and, showing some restraint, opened my mouth to say, "I'd really appreciate you not calling him that."

The speaker was surprised (she's kinda young) and said, "Really?" "Anything but that," I replied. And the world continued spinning on its axis.

It's clear that she meant no harm, but she's also old enough to learn equating African Americans to monkeys is enough to get you sent to HR for a talking-to, at the very least. You don't have to look too far into the past to find someone calling black people monkeys. Go back, oh, less than a month.

Woman protests racial slur on t-shirts sold at bar in background.
Photo credit: Frank Niemeir, Atlanta Journal Constitution

And yet I felt like I'd been slightly harsh today. Even though I was just deflecting an unacceptable comment away from The Boy. Man, I wish I could talk to my parents right now.

A la weekend (On the weekend)

I finished the page I made for The Boy's scrapbook. Lots of transfers and transparencies, and a few Mexican lotería cards too. I know that "El Catrín" means "guy" or "dandy", and that it has nothing to do with Hurricane Katrina, but I added it anyway. Elsewhere on the page, there's a transparency of The Boy over a pierced-heart lotería card... but it shows his face. (And when was the last time you saw an unblocked picture of The Boy? Not never. Right.)

The Boy was just over six months old when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. (This satellite picture is printed on white rice paper with a swirl pattern.)
I kept up with the devastation only through listening to the radio in the mornings. Katrina hit not long after I left reporting, so I had some professional interest in the coverage. But I couldn't bring myself to watch on TV. Yes, The Boy was far too young to be watching any TV with me, let alone disaster coverage. But I have to admit I was too much of a chickenshit to expose myself to the misery of children.
Here I was, safe and sound, big ol' Costco boxes of baby diapers at hand whenever I needed them, and there babies were blistering in the heat and diaper rash, lucky to get anything they could digest.

At the time, I wasn't working, and The Husband was working exclusively on his websites, so more money was going out than coming into our household. We did send a donation to the American Red Cross, but I still felt guilty for not doing more. This is why I now take unused diapers to our local YWCA, since they take in battered women and children.

The page is probably a little, um, dark for a scrapbook about a child... but that's how I roll.

On the lighter side, The Boy wandered over to see what I was doing as I finished the page, and asked if he could play. So I helped him make his first ATCs with textured paper scraps. We used matte medium as a glue and sealer.
No shopping involved, minimal mess, and he got to play with Mommy's art supplies. Then he "signed" them on the back with a red Tombo marker. He was very reluctant to give up the pen, but Mommy insisted. (He should count himself lucky. Mommy's been very territorial ever since her brother used to break her crayons as a kid.)

Must start on the next postcard for Tally, and the fatbook page I promised my Artfest dorm buddy Kristie.

Happy third one

Presents are twice as fun when they're covered in Spider-Man!

The Boy is now officially three years old, and this weekend we had a dual birthday party for him and his day care pal who was born three days after him. Low-key, at least from a party-planning perspective: we went to the indoor play place and had pizza for the kids. Fortunately, Beth and I planned ahead, and we mostly were prepared for the guests, their parents, and the... um... "bonus guests."

Nana flew in for the festivities, sans Peepaw, because Peepaw is an accountant and is just a little busy at this time of the year. She climbed into the ball pit with The Boy (not for long -- she did get back out after the picture was taken) and had a little pizza with everyone too. Nana visits for two reasons: The Boy, and our junk food. See, junk food has no calories if it's eaten outside of your home state.
Note Nana's pitching arm, which is much better than The Boy's swing. No, I take that back. The Boy has a great swing -- down. He approaches the ball Bam-Bam-style.

Don't worry, the bat and the ball are both padded. No grandparents were harmed in the making of this blog post.

Ba-rock the casbah

So The Husband and The Boy went to caucus for Barack Obama today. Here in Extra-Blue State, the Democratic Party is assigning delegates according to which candidate wins the caucus process. We have a primary, but it's pointless -- your primary vote doesn't get counted in the delegate-assigning process. (The state Republican Party assigns half its delegates at caucus, half through the primary.)

But apparently The Husband waited too long to head out to the caucusing place. He says there were cars parked in every side street, every parking lot, for about two miles around. And you reallyreallyreally don't want to walk that far with a toddler. In the rain.

So he gave up, and called me to rant about how he's tempted to sue the state Democratic Party on the grounds that the process is economically biased against anyone who has trouble participating (need to work, need to find a babysitter, etc.). He talks about suing a lot, but this is because he is Lawyer Spawn.

[See, this is the difference between him and me. I would've parked illegally, gotten a button or sticker or some such for The Boy, taken pictures of him and the crammed parking lots, and then grumbled my way home.]

So this sucks, but on the upside, there are so many people caucusing that Extra-Blue State might line up for the Audacity of Hope.

The best part of the day

Rocking The Boy into sleepiness after a bath: I get three minutes of The Boy resting his head on my chest, sucking his thumb, his other fingers curled up against a patch of my bare skin at my collarbone.

Good Christmas

This year was a lot more fun for The Husband and me too, because The Boy was old enough to tear into his presents himself. Here, he's pulling one of the characters from the movie "Cars" out of the gift bag, one of four he received. (Mommy is lazy. Plus, she buys good wrapping paper and uses it to make art.)

The Husband made Christmas dinner, with our personal cultural references: collard greens with kale, sweet potato latkes (with potato starch as a binder instead of egg, in deference to The Boy's allergy), homemade brown sugar applesauce, and pot roast. Oooh, you should've just been there for the smells...

I also made the long-distance calls to relatives and said hey. My mother's sister, who's the nexus of many genealogy contacts and provided many of the stories I've learned, remembered another tidbit that day. Apparently her favorite aunt ran what you might call a speakeasy or private club, out of her apartment! (The Husband makes an excellent point that the rebellious aunts are usually the favorites.)

My aunt remembers going to see Aunt D on Easter Sunday as a child, with my grandparents and mother. Apparently Easter was a busy time for Aunt D, so my grandfather went to her door and brought her out of the apartment to see the kids. (See, carefully avoiding any corrupting influences.) Aunt D oohed and ahhh'd over their dresses, spent some time chitchatting, and then went back inside. Aunt D never married, but I'm thinking that might've been because she couldn't be bothered. She lived to a ripe old age, though -- 87, the same year my grandfather died at age 95.

Budding evil genius

For most of his life, The Boy has been in the same classrooms at day care as another little boy, L. The other kiddo is slightly shorter, built like a sack of potatoes, but L runs just as fast as The Boy. The Husband says someday L will be The Boy's enforcer (even though this is a kid who gives me a hug goodbye when the The Boy doesn't feel like being cuddly). M-E is a recently-reformed terror who now is usually more social than The Boy.

So in the spirit of Dooce, a nubbin of something The Boy said tonight:

THE HUSBAND: "Is L your friend?"

THE BOY: "No."

TH: "Is L your minion?"

TB: "Yeah."

BLOGGING QUEEN: [after an explosion of cackling] "Well, a minion is someone who does naughty things so you don't have to. Does L do naughty things so you don't have to?"

TB: "No."

TH: "Is M-E your minion?"

TB: "No! [emphatically correcting The Husband] M-E is my friend!"

TH: "Well, is L your friend?"

TB: "No."

TH: "Is L your minion?"

TB: "Yeah."

We tried, folks. My son considers another sweet-natured, playful 2-year-old to be a human toy to do with as he will. No idea where that came from.

UPDATE: The Boy and L are set for a play date next month. Don't worry, L's mom and I will be there to protect L.

Crafty

I done learnt a few things about art for sale, after yesterday's holiday craft fair. In order of occurrence in the twisty little corners of my mind:

-- The more expensive items (the full-sized notebooks, as opposed to the palm-sized mini notebooks) sold first. I think that was true of this year's and last year's craft fair. Don't know if that's because people think bigger is better in general, or for this particular type of artwork.

-- I'd like to find something else smallish to alter. Maybe under a certain size, people doubt that something artistic can also be useful? (Other than iPods, that is.)

-- I need to update my Flickr account with my newer stuff.

-- I need business cards or Moo cards. And I need to decide what art I'll put on the cards.

For those of you who have Moo cards, aren't you afraid people will lose them in their purses/bags/pants pockets, and then not know what your contact info is?

This year's craft fair was kinda slow. I blame it on the fact that there was also a craft fair going on simultaneously at the outpatient treatment center of the research institution where I work. The treatment center is uphill -- not a long way, but you know lazy-ass Americans like me. "That's too steep. If I go to both craft fairs, then I have to walk uphill either to get back to my car or to go to the fair up the hill!"

No, I think I'd make the trip. Geez, I'm already there, and the money is burning a hole in my pocket.

Nevertheless, I did make a little cash, and some people didn't sell anything yesterday. The other vendor who was selling notebooks wasn't there this year, so if anyone was interested in a notebook they bought from me. And I pointed some people to my Flickr account so they could order something later. Here's hoping.

I also met a lovely woman named Mary, who's friends with another art friend Stacie (Stacie was one of the co-organizers of the craft fair, as well as a vendor). We got to talking after the fair, andMary said she has a real knack for convincing wholesalers to carry her jewelry. So I asked if I could tag along and see her in action, and she loved the idea.

My brother says I think I need a Ph.D in a subject before I try something new. But preparation + opportunity = "luck." I also learn well from other people's mistakes, which is why my brother's behind saw more spankings than mine did when we were kids.

Probably the best thing about not selling everything at the craft fair: I had said I hoped I'd have a few left over to start the dang Etsy shop. Ask, and ye shall receive, dahling. I'll get this done by the end of this week at the latest. Might not be as purty as everyone else's, but I'm learning once again that sometimes mostly-done is good enough.

Speaking of the in-laws, Nana and Peepaw came over to visit for most of Thanksgiving weekend. It's only our second "family" Thanksgiving, meaning one with relatives as our guests: mostly we've gone elsewhere, or been by ourselves. We had a good time, and no blood was shed. The Husband cooked: turkey tenderloins, collard greens with pancetta (mmmmmmmm...), stuffing, and cranberry sauce from the can (homemade is good too, but it doesn't wiggle enough to be as funny as the canned stuff).

The Boy went to town on the cranberry sauce. The next day, he even ate leftover turkey as long as it was topped with bits of cranberry sauce. And leftover chicken that wasn't breaded nuggets, if it had the beloved sauce bits. And morning oatmeal, with sauce. Good thing we ran out.

Nana and Peepaw have lots of prior experience with (his) grandchildren, so they have a grand old time running around with and reading to The Boy. He's Nana's only biological grandkid, but hopefully my sister-in-law S or I will remedy that soon. Peepaw works out every other day, so he's pretty flexible for over seventy, and Nana just hugs on The Boy and plays until her arthritis pins her to the floor. They've got the tag-team method of Toddler Wrangling down.

The Boy was in denial about Nana and Peepaw going home, so he wouldn't give them hugs when they were leaving. But he came to the door and starting crying when they got into their rental car without him. We cuddled him and reassured him he'd see them when we go to their house this weekend.

Nana also encouraged me to get off my tuchis and get those samples of my notebooks to my friend whose friend owns a local boutique. I told her I was working on it, and that it was too late for the holiday season per se. But Nana said quietly, "you don't know that." Well, we'll see what happens with that. It would be mightily awesome if the boutique peoples want my stuff.

EDIT: Sin of sins! I forgot the sweet potato latkes we had for Thanksgiving! Jaysus, what the heck is wrong with me?! Melt-into-a-blob-o'-happiness good, and the potato starch The Husband uses replaces the usual eggs required for regular latkes. Drool...

"Can you let Mommy back in now?"

Well, that's the last time Mommy runs out the front door to take out the garbage.