Monkey cups

Owen and I took a trip to target on Friday. Anyone who knows me at all knows that Target to me is like a shoe store to Carrie Bradshaw. (I’ve always been pretty easy to please, I know.) We went there specifically for paper towels but of course it’s impossible for me to resist anything cute and kid related. Steph & Eddie got Owen a monkey cup with a straw for his birthday (along with other goodies) and he loves it. I grabbed another couple of adorable cups – a crab, a fish – and after he flirted with the check-out girl for a bit, we headed home. When we got home I realized that Owen’s assorted cups are completely taking over our already-puny kitchen counter. It was time to clear out some space in the cupboards and something had to go. So the battle begins: at what point do we get rid of our margarita glasses? Do we really need to keep any shot glasses? I'm not fooling myself into envisioning a night where Keith and I toss back some body shots after Owen goes to sleep. It just isn't a very good fit with our world anymore. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that our soon-to-be brother-in-law Adam proclaimed with complete sincerity on New Years Eve: “Hey guys, let’s get totally BUZZED!” A very genuine indication of how often we get to hit the sauce nowadays.

Although I like to think there will be a time when we’ve got some friends over and we are celebrating with some nice, icy, tart margaritas…I just can’t see us sitting around with another couple and working up the energy to move the cereal boxes out of the way to the doors to the cabinet above the fridge so I can reach up to grab the dusty blender. Now I register that we put the blender, Peach Schnapps, and Cachaça up above the refrigerator for a reason: we’re never going to use those things ever again. It’s fine with me, too – my husband makes some of the best beer around.

Happy Daddy Day!

Yesterday was Mother's Day - my second. It still seems weird that I'm a Mom - all those other women with the gigantic bags with readily accessible kleenex and cute small people running around them - those are Moms. I still consider myself just a person who happens to have a kid.

I was awoken on Mother's Day by a tiny finger touching the tip of my nose, gently but persistently. I opened my eyes and when my eyes met Owen's he squealed in glee, "DADDY!" We're still working on the Mommy/Daddy distinction, but for the Mother's Day greeting it seemed particularly fantastic.




The day was lovely; relaxed, nothing in particular on the agenda. Owen and I took a nice nap later in the day, then went to the mall to check out the Babystyle closing sale. At some point Owen decided he was done in the stroller, so I carried him in one arm and pushed the stroller with the other, carefully maneuvering around the crowds of teenagers who are clearly going to hell for not spending the day with their mothers. I started to register that I am becoming invisible, that when people see us they see Owen's big curious eyes and friendly smile. I'm his pedestal. I am one lucky pedestal.

Our Wee Happy Sean Connery

One thing that all of us who love and take care of Owen agree upon is that it is fun to ask him questions. We do it at home constantly. His daycare ladies LOVE it. Without fail, we get a "Yesh!" in reply. Owen's "yes" is something I'm hoping to catch 1,000 times on video tape, and I think we're in prime season for it. Everything, lately, is "yesh".

Do you want some milk? "Yesh!"
Do you know how much I love you? "Yesh!"
Do you want to go outside? "Yesh!"
Do you want some dinner? "Yesh!"
Are you the super cutest kid in the world? "Yesh!"

Keith calls it his Sean Connery yes.

We are certainly enjoying it while it's here. Too soon it will all be no.

Owen at 3 years:
Do you want some milk? "No Mommy. JUICE!"
Owen at 5 years:
Do you know how much I love you? "Look Mommy, a TRAIN!"
Owen at 7 years:
Do you want to go outside? "Mooooom! I'm playing XBox!"
Owen at 11 years:
Do you want some dinner? "I'm not hungry."
Owen at 15 years:
Are you the super cutest kid in the world? "Ugh, Mom, stop."

So, as you can imagine, I'm very much digging this cute agreeable boy.

Tubby signing

Last night in the tub Owen signed "please" when he wanted some toys from his wall-mounted frog (if that didn't make any sense, I understand). Of course, this signing required prompting, but only minimal. I can't even possibly put into words how freaking adorable it was to see my little naked boy covered in bubbles smiling at me and signing "please". I think I went a little overboard with my excitement, but at least I think he registered that it was a good thing to do. This weekend he signed "banana" when he wanted Keith to hand him some banana and both of us almost fell out of our chairs with excitement. There is something so thrilling about communicating with our kiddo - whether it's a sign for "banana", his saying "Daddy!" when we're approaching Keith's work to pick him up, or whether it's catching his eye and sharing a giggle over something we both found amusing - that understanding that we're sharing a moment of humor. He's such an amazingly happy, curious, and snuggly kid. It's so hard sometimes to imagine having another - how could any other baby compare?

Dooce

Last Friday, one of my favorite bloggers, Heather Armstrong, of Dooce.com (link is at the left of this page) posted her Month 51 letter to her daughter Leta. Heather has posted letters to Leta every month of Leta's life (except Month 50 - addressed in the letter) and I found this to be one of the best ones I've read yet - it is about Mommy Bloggers in general, and Leta in particular. The blog, Dooce.com, inspired me to write regular private letters to Owen (which I do), and later, to start blogging (which you know I do if you're reading this). Her honesty and sense of humor are so inspiring to me. Worth a read.

We don't much stand for ceremony 'round here

Today Keith turned twenty fifteen. We worked all day, inhaled our dinner at BJs with a squirmy 13-month-old, then hit Bev Mo for the traditional Birthday beer run (what? you don't have that?). Owen crashed on the way home so Keith and I were free to celebrate old skoool style: we went home to laundry and dishes - oh, hot hot birthday fun, you are ours to be had. After these events, I made my dear husband a birthday cake from a Betty Crocker microwaveable dessert I found for sale last week at the grocery store, sang Happy Birthday to You (the smelly monkey version) with the gigantic colorful "1" candle we forgot to use for Owen's pie smashed into Betty Crocker's creation, then ate the "cake" myself because Keith was not hungry. Don't let anyone tell you celebration and romance are dead, my friends. They're alive and kicking here at Casa de Luhrs'. Excuse me while I go watch some TV in my jammies with the Birthday Boy.

Sprinkler days

When driving to work the other day I noticed a sign along a parkway that read “Grass under renovation.” The sign was dutifully pegged into the lawn every 50 feet or so, as though people would drive by and take serious issue with some browning on a lawn. (Come to think of it, this is Irvine we’re talking about – of course someone would take issue with a brown lawn. In Berkeley people would probably take issue with a very green lawn). Irvine is very particular about how its grass looks – it waters regularly and with great gusto – this city is notorious for not only the ridiculous daytime sprinkling (where most of the water evaporates soon after it comes out of the sprinkler head) but also the generous watering of the sidewalks in the process. Seeing this amusing “Grass under renovation” sign took me way back, to August 1999.

Very soon before we started dating, Keith and I were at a barbeque at a community picnic spot in graduate student housing. It was a late summer afternoon, gorgeous warm weather, bordering on hot. At around 3pm the sprinklers went on. I had had a few beers, I was happy, excited to be spending time with friends, particularly in Keith’s company. I took off my shoes, walked over to the lawn, and walked around in the water coming out of the sprinkler. It felt glorious on my legs, and I imagined I looked relaxed, happy, carefree. I knew Keith was watching me, and I imagined he was thinking “What a fun person to go running through the sprinklers, just like a kid!”

I came back over to where everyone was gathered, talking. I approached Keith who was standing with another graduate student from my department. This other grad student looked at me, his lip slightly curled in disgust, and said “You know that’s reclaimed water, right?” It was then that I looked around and noticed the myriad of signs saying “Reclaimed Water – do not drink” around the lawns. I noticed the iridescent sheen on my bare legs where the water – the lip curling reclaimed water – had coated my skin. I noticed the slightly metallic smell I now carried. The image I had of my sprinkler play, of a carefree young woman enjoying the sprinklers on a warm day now was completely shattered, and in its place I now saw a naive grad student trying too hard to look carefree and happy, getting coated in metallic and who-knows-what-else scented reclaimed water. I didn't even really know what it meant that the water was reclaimed - reclaimed from where? - only that it had to be disgusting no matter where it came from. I looked up, trying to hide the mortification I was experiencing. Keith – bless his heart - smiled warmly at me, shrugged, and said “Well, at least it looked refreshing.”