It's all fun and games until...

... someone tries to conga with their pants around their ankles.

No photos for this post.

I've had Jay at home all week. Debbie, his wonderful daycare provider, lost her sister on Easter Sunday after a long bout with cancer. We knew Connie, a little anyway, and she loved Debbie's kids. We will miss her. With some heaviness in our hearts, we set out for a big-jeff-little-jeff bonding week.

We've been doing well. Both of us have adjusted our expectations for the week. Right now Jay is taking his first real, not in-the-car-while-daddy-is-exhausting-himself-driving-then-waking-up-when-we-get-somewhere nap. It's Thursday. 

Tuesday was the hardest- he woke up, a little scared and a little damp, at four in the morning. As in, he FULLY woke up. I wasn't about to start snoring next to him when there was bouncing and singing to do. So, we never got back to sleep. He DID fall asleep at 9:45 on our way to library story hour. I carried him in, and rocked him during the story reading, as his friends and mine wandered past. I finally decided that we should go. He woke up when I tried to peel him off my chest and place him in his car seat. He screamed to go back into the library. And, he was up. Up again, and for the rest of the day. We poured him into his crib a seven that evening (he usually goes down around 8:30, if we're lucky), and he slept through the night.

Yesterday he also took only a short nap, on the way to Home Depot. When we got there he woke up, and wanted to go inside. We picked out lots of garden supplies (I found several seed packets of mystery vegetables in the bag when we got home). On the way home, I asked if he wanted to go to his friend Alex's house. We hadn't been there before, but his mom was looking for play date candidates and we were just as anxious to fill the latter part of the afternoon. We had to stop by our house along the way to check messages and grab a fruit tree order for Mandy's Spring Nursery, which was between our house and Alex's. All the way home Jay was chattering about going to Alex's house. He was also showing signs of a second straight day with a too-short nap, which is to say he was getting a bit moody and, at times, downright giddy.

I left him playing in the yard and ran inside. I checked messages and grabbed the order and check, and went back out to the van. I said, "Let's go to Alex's house!"

As he climbed onto his slide for one last run, I couldn't help but laugh. "Dude. Are you smuggling grapefruit in your pants?"

He giggled, and said "Yeah Daddy!" He came running over and climbed into the van. 

I pride myself in the 20-second diaper change, no matter the conditions. Ten seconds if it's only wet. I fully expect to get a call from an Indy pit crew before Memorial Day. We have been practicing our Standing Diaper Change, and he knew the drill. This time he wanted to stand on the center seat, which put everything right in front of me- easy peasy. Thanks little guy. I pulled his pants to his ankles, and dropped his diaper. It hit the driveway like an unbroken water balloon. SPLOOSH!

There is no book to read which can prepare a dad, young or old, for what came next. 

His pants were still down. He turned his rear end to me (remember, this is all happening at eye level), and started shaking. Then the singing begins.

Dunt dunt dunt dunt - CON-GA!

Dunt dunt dunt dunt - CON-GA!

He got halfway through the third line before he fell over, between the seats, laughing hysterically. He hit the floor, yelled out "I'M OKAY!", and jumped back up to start again.

Dunt dunt dunt dunt - CON-GA!

Dunt dunt dunt dunt - CON-GA!

By now we both completely lost it. The harder I tried to get his diaper on, the harder he wiggled and the louder he sang. This went on for five full minutes before we both collapsed onto the seat, still laughing and panting. 

I have absolutely NO idea where this came from. I wish I did know; I feel like I owe someone a thank-you letter. 

The ten-second diaper change took more like ten minutes. It also marked another step forward for us. I am realizing how much fun it is to be with him- not in an observing father, watching his growth kind of way, but simply to enjoy him as a person, to love (most of) his developing personality, to share with him dad-to-son as well as human-to-human.

We did eventually stop and order our trees, and we did get to Alex's house. I'm glad we ended up running late.

"Daddy, I made a pile."

Jay takes a great deal of pride in being industrious, and even more pride in knowing the words to describe what he has done.

Jay and the Farrier

8:15 a.m.

The farrier came early. Wayde Ellsworth trims our horses’ feet every six to eight weeks or so. It’s been about ten or eleven weeks since his last visit, but because of the cold, snow, and inactivity, their hooves aren’t too bad. 

He was due around 8:30 this morning. Jay was in the middle of his second episode of his current TV obsession. Paw Patrol, which I had cleverly timed to end at about the hour of Wayde’s arrival. Except, Wayde got out of the house early this morning. At 8:15 there was a knock at the garage door. I poked my head into the garage. “Be right there.” Wayde heard Jay’s objections and smiled. “I’ll be here.”

Wayde is himself a father, the single parent of a 12-year-old girl. He works his ass off at a job that is, on its best days, unforgiving and brutal to his body. Yesterday he spent a good bit of time doing some corrective work with a very heavy, unbalanced horse that refused to hold its foot up (horse owners do their best to train their horses to lift and hold their feet for farriers, vets, and even for themselves, so they can clean out rocks and debris). His back was still a bit off today, but Wayde is a man of few words. He doesn’t waste them on complaining.

The argument over leaving the TV to go outside in the rain had the seeds of an epic father-son battle. I didn’t want to keep Wayde standing around, so I immediately pulled out the big guns. “Jay, you get to wear your squishy boots.”

“Oh. Okay.” He sat quietly in the big recliner, breaking his gaze from the TV long enough to look down and smile as I pulled on his monkey socks. I pulled his muck boots as far onto his feet as I could. Jay slid onto the floor and jumped up and down, saying “BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE” until his heels reached the bottoms of his boots. I didn’t teach him that. He continues to put his own spin on his world, and I can only shake my head and smile at his spontaneity.

We pulled on his dinosaur raincoat, and headed outside. The air was heavy, with a few sprinkles popping onto Jay’s green spiked dinosaur hood.

I had run out earlier and put halters on the horses. It’s nice to have a “handle” when I need to catch them. Kal, my horse, was never a problem. As is the case with most horses of Arabian descent (Kal is Anglo-Arab), he is extremely people-oriented. I walked up and took hold of his halter. He didn’t really want to go into the shed, but that is just how he is. He prefers to stand in the rain than to go inside any building. He relented, and I turned him so Wayde could get to his feet safely.

Holding a horse for someone else is not a casual thing. Everyone in the area needs to have a clear space to move, to run out of harm’s way if necessary. No one should end up between a horse and a hard wall. The handler should know to hold the horse on the same side as the one working on that horse. This allows the handler to pull the head toward him or her if the horse objects, which moves the hind feet away. Ideally this has to be done while not standing directly in front of the horse. Some horses will strike out with their front feet, others may head-butt. Because of the position of their eyes to the side of the head, some horses get nervous about anything directly in front and up close. They actually don’t have great vision there. 

On top of all of that, the farrier in particular has to be able to move the horse’s feet around, forward and back, out and back in, to clean, clip the ends, pare the sole, and rasp the hoof wall. This requires the handler to control the horse fully, give the farrier ample room, and always be on guard to move the horse away from the worker who is likely to be bent over in a vulnerable position.

Thankfully, our horses are generally quiet and pretty easy to work with. Today’s rain and gusty winds challenge the calmest horses, however, and Kal was a bit jumpy. He’s a good boy, but just doesn’t balance himself well when standing. He shifted his feet together. Wayde talked to him calmly, suggesting that it would be easier for the both of them if Kal would square up a bit. Kal did his nervous best.

Jay stood at the edge of the fence. He knew not to enter the turnout without being told it’s okay, and I was extremely proud of him for not testing me on the matter. 

Molly, Laura’s horse, wandered around the paddock, and seemed to be pretty calm, at least while Kal was the center of our attention. I asked Jay if he would like to come in with us. His eyes widened and brightened, and the excitement in his face was radiant. It was a big-boy thing, this being asked by Daddy to come in with the horses. He nodded vigorously. I pointed to the divider between the stalls of the run-in shed. It was under the eaves, thus dry, and a pretty unlikely place to get run over no matter what happened.

“How about standing right over there?”

“Okay!” He walked quietly but quickly to the assigned spot. He was beaming with pride and excitement. He was IN with the big guys.

Jay watched Wayde's every move. “What are you doing?”

“I’m working on your horse’s feet. What do you think of that?”

“Cool!”

I explained, “It’s kind of like when mommy trims your toenails. A horse’s foot is ALL toenail.”

“Ohhhhhhhh.”

“What are you doing?”

Jay really wanted to maintain his conversation with this fascinating man. Wayde patiently and kindly answered questions (okay, it was actually just the one question, over and over) as he moved from hoof to hoof. I had Jay move into a corner while I turned Kal around for Wayde to work on his right side. Wayde finished the last hoof and said to Jay, “What do you think? Does he look like he’s done? Does that look okay?”

“Yeaaaaaaah!” Jay was thrilled to offer his opinion.

I gave Jay a carrot to offer to Kal, and reminded him to hold his hand flat. Kal is great about this thing in particular; he takes food from the hand with his lips, and is extremely careful to keep his teeth back. He smacked Jay’s hand with his lips, grabbed the carrot, and turned away. Jay cackled with delight.

I moved Kal out of the stall far enough that if he decided to celebrate his freedom everyone would be safe. I removed his halter and stepped to the left. Sure enough, he charged Molly and threw his right hip into her. She had already been wandering around, dreading her turn, and was ready to show some fire.

Wayde and I have been through this before with Molly. She hates the notion of being "caught." She could also rile up her stable mate with little effort. Between the two horses, we could soon have about 2100 pounds of careening cheval meat, complete with eight flying feet and two large tossing heads. And now there was a toddler in the mix. As I saw the energy build in the turnout, I looked to make sure Jay was staying in his safe place.

The other father in the paddock was at work. Wayde was already holding Jay in his arms. Jay was on top of the world, in the arms of a rodeo guy watching the horses play rodeo around him. He was completely comfortable, excited to be in the action and close to this most interesting man.

Molly raced around the muddy turnout, and if there had been less mud I’m sure she would have thrown a buck or two. She worked herself into a corner. Kal moved forward as if to help catch her. Molly’s sire is Custom Chrome, a member of the reining horse hall of fame. It's in her blood: she threw some spins and flying lead changes that dropped my jaw. While she never made it on the reining horse “A” circuit, she still had some moves left in her.

I continued to move Molly toward her stall, even as she attempted to flee. I dropped the lead rope and showed her my open hands, one balancing a piece of carrot. She wanted no part of me or my carrot. Eventually, though, a winter of inactivity and eating extra hay rations caught up with her. She kept moving away from me, albeit more slowly. Eventually she decided to switch tactics. That little boy had given Kal a carrot a few minutes before. Maybe he had one for her. She wandered up, and Wayde slowly and carefully reached out and took her halter. She relented. I gave her the carrot. Jay was pleased to have "helped" with the wrangling.

I took Molly's halter. Wayde looked at Jay and said,"Let's go get your daddy's lead rope." He giggled and answered "YEAH!"

As I moved Molly into position inside the shed, she hinted that she might want to rear up. This has historically been her defense; rear, spin, and run. She has overdone it more than once, having pulled off cross-ties, broken halters, and landing on her back in our barn in Massachusetts. Another time she nearly killed us both:

I was out riding alone with her. We were at peace, rolling along a dirt road, taking in fresh spring scents and sounds. We reached the gate the held out car traffic. She balked at my efforts to pass her between a large rock and the gate. She went up, and up, and over.  As we went over backward, my only thought was, I have no control over how this will end. I landed flat on my back. My head was within a foot of one of Massachusetts’ famous stone walls. Looking up, I watched her roll down onto me, and for whatever reason she tucked her chin at the last second. It saved her life, as she narrowly missed the same pile of rocks. She panicked, jumped up, and started to run. While my foot position was great during the ride, my boot had slid a bit forward during the ride over to our upside-down position. My foot was twisted a bit sideways in the stirrup. At the last possible second, it slipped out. Molly ran for home. I took my time, testing everything slowly before moving very much. Aside from a sore back and loss of wind, everything seemed to work okay. I got up and walked home. Molly was standing in the yard, eating grass. She looked sheepishly at me, and shuffled her feet nervously. She wasn't sure what my response would be. I walked calmly and confidently (as best I could), and took her reins. I patted her and talked softly as I re-cinched her girth. She knew it was no time to mess around, and she stood quietly as I remounted. We walked about a mile down the road, and returned home. A few short minutes after our near-disaster, we ended our ride on a positive note.

I looked up inside the shed. There was a two-by-four rafter about a foot and a half above her head. If she chose to rear, her decision would meet with some pretty fast karma. 

I looked over at Jay. Kal was shaking him down for more carrots, snuffling his pockets and pushing his nose into Jay’s hands. Jay was giggling, and rubbing Kal’s nose. Kal's feet were well away from Jay, and he was being his usual sweet and gentle self. Normally I would not intervene, but Molly was still a bit fractious, and nothing gets Kal into the air faster than a freaking-out Molly. I pushed Kal aside. He walked into Molly’s stall and began eating what was left of her hay. Molly decided that was okay, and settled into her trim.

Jay was disappointed to lose Kal’s attention, and told us so. We moved him into the front corner of the stall, right next to the opening. Wayde handed him a hammer and asked him to hold it until he needed it (our horses are unshod, so he wasn’t going to need his hammer). After Wayde finished each foot, he asked Jay for the hammer and gave Molly’s freshly-trimmed hoof a few taps. Jay was happy to see he was being so helpful. Once Molly's trim  was done, again he asked Jay to inspect his work. Jay nodded vigorously in approval.

Wayde took his hammer back and thanked Jay for his help. I moved Molly well away from the shed, and turned her loose. Wayde grabbed his box of tools and headed up the hill toward his truck. Jay was at his side, stretching his legs mightily, moving his squishy boots to match Wayde’s strides.

I gave Jay the check, and asked him to pay Wayde. “Here you go!” He handed over the check, and marveled at the tool shop in the bed of Wayde’s pick-up truck. There was row after row of horse shoes, boxes of tool, a drill press, and welding tools. 

“Ooooooooh, nice.” 

Jay was reluctant to let Wayde go. He had a new hero. 

He'll have many heroes. Mine, growing up, included those lucky guys that got to operate the garbage trucks, cement mixers, and other big noisy things. And perhaps the biggest of all, for a short while, was Neil Cole, an actor at the now-defunct Six Gun Territory near Ocala, Florida. He was the guy who, during the shootout, fell off the roof and landed in a cloud of dust. He told us after the show that he was a real cowboy, from the days when the town was a real western town. Right there in central Florida. We bought the whole story. My brothers and I ran around for days, maybe weeks, popping our cap guns and arguing over who got to be Neil Cole, the cowboy. Was I smitten? Almost fifty years later I remember the name of a 1960's theme park actor. 

You decide.

About heroes, I will say that Jay could do a lot worse than to idolize a hard-working single parent who goes out of his way to include a client's two-year-old in his work. A rough-hewn, heavily-weathered man who "gets" gentleness, Wayde will teach my son values I appreciate, without ever knowing he is doing it.

The Great Easter Egg Hunt Tour

It’s Easter season here, and many other places I would presume. That means the vast array of egg hunts and kiddie events is in full swing.

Saturday we set out to go on tour with our friends whose son Rowan is about 7 months older than Jay. Jay and Rowan are tight; they are growing up together as cohorts and friends, teachers and rivals to each other, as much brothers as they are friends.

Rowan and his parents can be a bit clock-challenged, and Saturday morning was no different. We wanted to leave the house by ten a.m. to get over to the town of Wells, Vermont, and find the hall of the Modern Woodsmen of America where the egg hunt was to take place. At 10:10 the father called and said they would drive separately.

Laura and Rowan’s mom, and the two boys apparently got to an egg hunt last year a few minutes too late. There was sadness, and apparently a fair bit of trauma- for Laura, anyway. We blasted to the mini-van, Laura had it rolling down the road almost before my feet left the ground to climb in. I felt like the wicked witch of the north country bobbing up and down in a tornado as we bounced down our frost-heaved and pot-holed road. We were NOT going to be late. There would be NO sadness allowed today.

The van was nearly out of gas. Would we make it? The question came up several times. I don’t know. I still don't know. Ummmm, same question, same answer. Probably, but running out of gas in our neck of the woods would be the surest way to sadness on multiple levels. We stopped, with Laura scratching through her wallet for her credit card while simultaneously negotiating the cars already parked, some of the backwards, at the pumps. We veered around a sedan (even Jay interrupted- "what are we doing????"), and backed into the lone open pump. A swipe and a quick fiver in the tank, and we were back on the streets of Granville.

We indeed made it to the site on time. The town of Wells is a crossroad, so we figured correctly that it wouldn’t be too hard to find the “MWA” hall. It was the one right before town that was surrounded by preschoolers with baskets and itchy feet.

Jay and I got dumped next to the taped-off field of eggs. Laura parked the van. We made it; it would be a sad-free morning, anyway. Jay watched in annoyance as a little girl ran out several times and stole eggs early, including a football-colored egg right in front of him. Bless his heart. I think when I was his age my basket would have “slipped”.

Finally the countdown happened, and a hundred pairs of legs waddled and tripped and tumbled onto the battle field. There was no “hunt”, other than in a predatory sense. Jay didn’t quite get it; he was happy running around with a bunch of other kids. In the end, he got five eggs and ran past 20 or 30.

It was fine; he was happy for what he had and I was content to help him with a couple of Hershey kisses.

The plastic eggs mostly had the chocolate, with a couple of balloons thrown in as token choking hazards. Right at the end of the frenzy, Rowan trotted up with one egg in his canvas Easter egg bag. I suggested to Jay that he share one or two of his with Rowan, but he suffered an attack of temporary deafness that so often afflicts him in such situations. It was fine; he doesn’t have to share. Pushing the issue tends to engender resentment toward the whole notion of sharing.

After the hunt we went next door to the school playground. I was happy to see a few vestigial playground parts: a metal-pipe monkey bar structure, and an old-school metal swing set. Sadly, the entire area was padded with mulch and wood chips, which only serve to teach children that they can fall without consequence.

But, I digress…

The most entertaining thing about the trip next door was the overwhelming number of chocolate- smeared faces. Chocolate faces swinging, chocolate faces climbing, sliding, chocolate faces teetering and tottering. I doubt there were many, if any, unconsumed chocolate kisses remaining from the recent frenzy.

After a good 30-45 minutes of this, Rowan’s dad wanted to head for home, while the rest of us considered other plans. There was a hunt in Cambridge, New York, an hour’s drive in the opposite direction. We had two car seats in the van (we had planned originally to all travel in one vehicle), so Stephen went home in their car. Rowan, Jay, Laura, Kate (Rowan’s mom), and I piled into the van. We stopped and filled up the gas tank, and for the next almost-hour, shoved food and drink into the boys’ mouths as we moved toward the next battleground.

We made good time (remember, the sad-free ethos was still fully in play), and pulled into the Round House Café and bakery. Author Jon Katz and a table full of friends and students of his, including writer Lisa Dingle and photography legend George Forss were there, as well as Jon’s wife, Maria Wulf.  We ordered a large pile of food, gluten-free and otherwise, and continued to feed the kids and ourselves. Live music filled the air. While the Round House feeding frenzy carried on, I wandered down the street to find out where the Easter egg hunt was taking place.

As I had figured, the awesome staff at Battenkill Books had the scoop. A few blocks down, turn left at Price Chopper, and you won’t miss it.

Upon my return to the Round House, my nose was assaulted by my son’s “essence.” Something about that place brings out the “best” in him; we’ve never been there without needing to change a nasty nappy before leaving. Must be the high-fiber uber-healthy menu. Jay knew the drill. Walk back to the bathroom. Knock on the door (he did this on his own, and leaned his ear to the door to listen for an answer). Enter; push the potted plants aside on the two-foot-by-two-foot cocktail table. Lay out a pad. Recline on the table just so, at about a 22 degree angle so his feet don’t fully dangle off the edge. Reach over and pick off the fake bird and flower from the planter (there aren’t any books to read in there), and wait for Dad to finish the job. Replace the fake bird and flower, hop down, everyone washes hands, dry dry dry, paper towels into the trash. Wait for Daddy. Open the door, high-five the next person you see. Why? Few things are as under-rated as a good BM, except maybe a clean diaper. And he just had both.

After a high-five to Jon and a wave to his/ our friends, we re-loaded into the van. Again we arrived with but a few minutes to spare. Again Laura pulled into a parking lot filled with children. Again I think she wished for hydraulics so she could tilt the van and shake us out of it more quickly. Kate and I positioned the boys strategically at the corner of the egg-hunt yard, and discussed strategy. “Look, Jay. You can just go right down this line and score a bunch of eggs!”

“Okay.”

Laura arrived after parking the van. Soon the boys were in another “hunt”, another grab for plastic eggs filled with goodies. Jay plowed down his row like a farmer trying to beat the rain. He filled his basket to the brim. Rowan far out-gathered his own earlier number. As with the Wells hunt, within about two minutes the lawn was picked clean. Children and adults huddled to check out the booty. I was more fascinated than anything else; the few items that weren’t certified choking hazards (hard candy, pencil erasers, balloons) were full-on strangulation hazards (long necklaces strung with choking hazards- beads, spangly sparkly things, assorted tinsel). There was almost nothing he could have.

So, we loaded his neck with three or four necklaces. Safety in numbers, right? On the upside, when we returned the plastic eggs, we were given a bag full of goodies that included some jelly beans. Yeah, they’re also a technically a choking hazard, but at least he got something he could chew on.

And, of course, there was the Easter Bunny. The crafty hare managed to be in Wells in the morning, and time-warp to Cambridge in the afternoon. In both cases, Jay refused an offer to meet the bearer of chocolate and jelly beans; he saw the creature as I did (love it when he does that)-

A bizarre white lab rodent the size of his mother.

No thanks, Daddy.

I don’t blame you, son.

We ended the day, indeed, sad-free. Free of sadness. There was candy, there were eggs, there was a freakish white rabbit photo-bombing. We rounded out the day with a stop at Jon and Maria's Bedlam Farm to pet dogs and donkeys. Jon graced us with a sheep-herding demo with his wonderful dog Red, and his lab Lenore arrived on cue to knock down the giggling toddlers with love and kisses.

 Sunday held the promise of another hunt in Salem, New York, but rain ended that plan. There is one at a church in Hebron, New York next Saturday, and a private affair at a farm in West Pawlet, Vermont on Easter Sunday. The boys are veterans now. They’ve felt the mud and smelled the chocolate. They have donned the shiny things.

So long as the grown-ups can get out of the house on time, and the carriage stays upright en route, we have a good chance of next weekend being another success. Hopefully, whatever they find on their hunts will be a bonus. I think the real fun, the best way to stay sad-free, is to just enjoy running through the grass with a bunch of other kids.

Sounds pretty good to me.

Morning blitz

I had my first physical therapy appointment for my ankle this morning. I got to chuck the walking boot as of Tuesday. I'm now using an ankle brace when I leave the house, and I have to say it's wonderful to feel matching shoes on my feet for the first time in nearly three months.

My appointment was at 7:30 this morning in Queensbury, about 35 minutes away from home. I found a PT place near Jay's daycare, so we needed to leave the house by about 6:45 to execute the drop-off in time for me to make it to the office.

I got up at 6:00, pulled on a jacket, gloves, and a hat, and rolled out to feed the horses. I grabbed a water jug on the way out, since the water line to the barn is still frozen underground. I gave them their grain and hay, and topped off their water. The ground is still snow-covered, and it's just wet and mushy during the day. That early in the morning it's icy and pretty slick, and it's a gradual slope down and back. It makes for a sporty walk in the best of circumstances, and my recently-fused ankle wasn't helping. But, no excuses and no pity; just do the job. Everything here is the result of my choices.

I got back into the house around 6:15. It was time to start easing some stimulation into the sleeping boy's room. I opened his door and turned on the light in the hallway outside. I began making his lunch. Peanut butter and jelly, slice and peel an apple, plop some leftover spaghetti noodles into a cup with a lid. Yogurt, banana, milk and juice. Eventually Jay stirred, and Laura went in to greet him. He refused to let her change him, though; that honor was reserved for me. I peeled off his sleeper, changed his diaper, and started to slide some pants over his feet.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I want SOFT pants!"

Sigh. These ARE soft pants, honey. Feel them.

"No, they're not. I want soft pants, daddy."

"SOFT PANTS!"

Yes, honey, volume isn't the problem. I can hear you. These are the softest pants that are clean.

"Laura, are there any sweat pants in that laundry basket?"

"No."

Oh. Okay. This is what we have. Or these. They're nylon. How about the corduroys? You LOVE your cords!

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."

"SOFT PANTS, DADDY."

We looked in his travel bag, and there was a pair of sweat pants in the bottom, the "last resort" pants in the case of a diaper blowout of biblical proportions. They're size 18 months, which is what he was exactly a year ago. We gotta update this bag, and we gotta go shopping for some sweats. Salvation Army, here we come.

We squeezed his tiny ass into the sweats. He was happy, but despite all the noise he had made, still pretty sleepy. It was now about 6:40. Getting him out the door in five minutes seemed utterly ridiculous. We put on the full-court press. Laura and I put on our shoes and jackets (she decided to leave the house early for work, just to help get him into the car with me). He didn't want to go, but since everyone else seemed to be leaving, well, okay then. He stood up and stepped into his shoes. I velcroed them shut. He held out his arms like someone used to getting dressed by well-trained staff (that would be me). I slid his jacket onto his arms.

We walked out to the car. He climbed in, putting forth the effort and strain usually reserved for Himalayan expeditions. At this point he felt the need to remind me he had only really been up for a few minutes.

He squared himself into his car seat, and slumped into the "buckle me" position. He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and looked up at me. He sighed and said, "I need coffee."