Birthday Girl

I didn’t expect much from this birthday. Things have been rather turmoily as of late, money tight, and 39 other reasons. So it was a rather pleasant surprise that this was one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.

And not just because of all the birthday prizes. And they were fantastic this year– my longed-for iPod* in Jolly Rancher green from Robby and money for a purse from Momma (I’ve told Robby repeatedly, when a girl is this age and married and needs a change there are three choices– 1. A new purse. 2. Chop off hair. or 3. Get divorced. The last two didn’t appeal to me– leaving him not much of a choice perhaps?). Trish and the girlies gave me iTunes money, gymnastics tuition for JackRabbit, and a CD burned with a bunch of songs I’ve been wanting. Padre and Lady bought Jacky his bike and me a beautiful bowl that is all mine in the morning. (It’s really going to glam up my oatmeal.) And Chris and Susan feted me with an unbelievably delicious birthday dinner (my first Horseshoe!) and chess pie and a box of Lush. (Last night, for those of you curious, I soaked in the tub that was Lushy and pink and heavenly.)

Momma made clafouti, Lady made mousse, and there was that chess pie from Cinncinnati that nearly sang when the box was opened. I-yi-yi.

It was a three day celebration. Not bad for an old girl.

*The iPod had me wracked with guilt for about 12 hours. By then I’d downloaded a quarter of our CD collection and was so amazed by it’s abilities that I punted the guilt for devotion. (Of course, at lunch with my sister, 5 hours in and still guilt laden, I had to ask, “How do you turn it off? Where’s the off switch.” After she mocked me she kindly showed me how…)

And oy! The free NPR podcasts! I have 10 episodes of Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me stockpiled. (Why doesn’t Prairie Home Companion have podcasts??) Suddenly the initial cost for the iPod itself no longer mattered when I could finally listen to an entire episode of WWDTM without missing chunks. (I don’t listen to much radio unless I’m in the car. I don’t tend to have a lot of extended driving trips on Saturday when NPR pulls out all it’s stops.)

And really it’s not the gifts themselves– it’s the thought behind them– it’s Robby knowing how much I hate walking unless I’m with Susan or Lady… and how both of them won’t be here this summer. It’s everyone around me knowing all of my favorite things. (Lady tried to get me more Mallomars but it’s too late in the year. Still– the thought that she’d tried made even my toes happy.) It’s the silly extravaganze of bubbly baths and Goo Goo Clusters (okay, confession… Lady gave me a box of those and I didn’t mention it above because I was going to hide them from Robby but now I feel bad about that…) or the promise of a brand new, uncluttered purse to organize in.

My first iTunes purchase was The Proclaimer’s Sunshine on Leith album that I’d lent to a coworker 6 years ago. She was fired a few days later and I never got the CD back. It’s one of my favorites. I’ve mourned the loss of it in my life all these years since. How grand to have it back again! And the Sam Philips song from my favorite Gilmore Girls episode.

Anyway. It was a great birthday. And a good way to kick off this last year of thirtysomething.

Now Serving No. 39

I’m right up against 40 now. Up to my shoulders at least. And I’m starting to take stock… because that’s what you’re supposed to do, I guess. That and panic. I’m not where I thought I’d be in some ways– and in others I am.

1.I thought I’d have more children.

2. I’m grateful, very grateful for the one I do have.

3. I’m glad to still be married.

4. No books yet, by which I mean I thought I might have written one by now. So that’s still on the ToDoList.

5. No real vocation yet. Which disappoints me. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing (outside of motherhood and wifehood)… When I was little I thought I’d be a writer, a teacher, a script-supervisor (blame Lucy VanPelt), an ad man, a Museum curator (blame the mixed up files of Mrs. F. E. B.), a photographer, and a restaurant owner. I’m none of those things.

6. I haven’t been to all the places I really, really want to go… but I’ve been to some.

7. The long, long list of Things I’ve Read is ever shrinking in the face of the Long, Longer List of Things I Haven’t Read Yet.

8. I’m not very good at not having a disposable income. I miss having pocket money. Mad money. See a new pair of shoes and get them money. Sometimes I can be very, very good and think of the Bizarro Terri that lives in some wretched, teeming place that has nothing and yet is joyful in the very midst of that less-ness… but mostly I wish I had some green in my pocket.

9. I am better, in most ways, than when I was 10 0r 20 or 30 at some of the big stuff– more patient, more honest, more generous, more kind, more empathetic, and more aware of the power of Grace… but better is only that… better. Not perfected. Better is quantified only by the fact that I was worse before.

10. I can’t really remember what my parents were like when I was Jack’s age– so I can’t say if I’m the kind of parent I thought I would be at this stage. I hope so… but I think probably not. They were younger than me– but I still think they had their acts together. My mother was far more creative at 39 than I am now– she could sew circles around me then and now. And my Dad, at least at 39, was walking closer to God than I do. He had the discipline to read a little Bible every day and pray.

It’s not that I’m having a mid-life crisis. I don’t have any desire for a bright red car or a trophey husband. I’m just trying to figure out what it is I should be doing so I can get myself there.

Swarming words

I get emails from some of you that ask, “Why no blogging lately?” 

My hands get tied up. Sometimes there is too much going on to nail down any of the thoughts– and really, the best thoughts are the ones I can’t put in print. It’s frustrating. And it’s what kept me from journalism school. Afraid of hurting this person or that with words. (Particularly when it’s so easy to do.)

I can hear the words buzzing sometimes. If I sit still too long they are there, humming as they gather themselves and hover just out of my reach. If I pick one out then there is a flood of others that follow. I have to shake my head clear of them all and reach for something to distract– Word Challenge on Facebook, a book (The Madonnas of Leningrad), or a silly thing on television (hello new season of Deadliest Catch! Ahoy Cap’ts Sig, Phil, et al.)

I clean out closets, sort the plastic containers in the kitchen, search for new recipes. And all the while the words are still sounding their buzzing in my ears.

Which sounds crazy, I know. Virginia-with-her-pockets-full-of-rocks crazy. Or Sylvia-with-her-head-in-the-oven crazy. (Did Virginia think she could escape the words as though they were bees? Slip under the cold water and be free of them? Did Sylvia try to scorch them? or, like Lorelai said on Gilmore Girls, was she just cold?)

At church I’m partnered with one of the kids in the confirmation class. I lucked out and got a great kid. She and I are supposed to read the Gospel of Luke. Reading it straight through is not exactly a comfort. We’re about a third of the way in and in the middle of all the “leave your stuff/family/life as you know it and follow me…” directives. And Jesus, in Luke, only seems to speak in Parables… which, forgive me for saying, must have been incredibly annoying to the disciples.
“Hey, Jesus– we’re running into town to pick up pita sandwiches– what sounds good to you?”
“My brothers, if a man at a wedding feast is sowing seeds in a field…”
“Uh, yeah. So… did you want turkey or cheese?”

Still. It keeps the buzzing at bay. Makes me a little calmer for an hour or two while I marvel at the ability of my confirmation kid to pull out the meaning dead on nearly every time.

I make pots of good tea– or splurge for large Iced Chai at the little coffee place downtown. I savor the chocolate covered almonds we bought last week. I take great delight in Jack’s silly songs that he makes up on the way to school. Snuggle the small baby of our dear friends. Slip into a good book or imagine myself in London with the latest issue of Hello magazine. Stretch out the last of my Christmas Lush box. Take long walks with my pal around our lovely, finally greening park. Curl up with Robby at the end of the day when the baby monitor is only static and the little black dog is softly snoring on Rob’s outstretched legs.

Eventually I’ll wrangle the words back into sentences. Get them to line up into paragraphs even… for now it’s enough to hope that maybe they’ll make something akin to honey if I leave them alone.

Good Friday Passover

Last night we drove past our town’s only Jewish temple. The parking lot was unusually full with cars and people carrying in casserole dishes. We remembered it was the first night of Passover– so figured there must be a big Seder dinner.

Me: Let’s crash the Seder dinner.
Robby: Sure. Yeah. We’ll fit right in with our United Methodist Camp sweatshirts on.
Me (looking down): Oh.

Last week we went to one of the Catholic fish frys. There are about a dozen different ones within a 10 mile radius to choose from… our pals, Chris and Susan, were headed to the fry at St. Mary’s so we met them there. I’ve been to several of the local frys– hit this parish’s version and that’s… I was excited to see the basement of St. Mary’s. It felt illicite. Sneaky Protestants.

Susan, our only true Catholic, ignored our suggestions for dinner conversation. (Topics included “I think it’s just a representation of the body and blood of Christ” and birth control.) Chris and I were sure if we could just throw in a few references to the Pope we’d fit right in and not be detected for our Protestant stance. Bring on the papists! We were speaking their language.

Me: I really admire your framed 11 by 14 inch photograph of the Pope in your dining room. It’s really nice.
Chris: Thank you. We love the Pope.

The fry was a good one– we took over a big, round table with our four adult selves and the littler bodies of our Jack and their baby. The boys were a little disappointed that the beverage selection did not include beer while Susan and I were delighted at the big pieces of three layered cake (pink frosting flowers!). The servers put steamed broccoli on Jack’s plate and I figured, well, more vegetables for me– when the little man surprised us all and ate the spears with relish. Wow. Years from now there will be pilgrimages to St. Mary’s basement made by mothers and fathers of toddlers who observe the Miracle of the Broccoli. (He also enjoyed his fried “chicken”… you know the old saying, Trust the Gorton’s Chicken Man…SHHHHHH.)

I would have made a great Catholic. And a pretty good Jew, too. I’m not a great Methodist– but I’ll work on it. In the meantime maybe I can crash a Rammadan midnight feast or a pilgrimage to Mecca.

True Grits

My pal Wallis is cooking up a new venture. He’s a displaced southern boy living in man’s body in Michigan… and he yearns for the flavors of his youth. That yearning has benefits for the rest of us. Robby and I, for example, usually get a breakfast or two a year out of his valiant attempts at recreating the perfect southern brunch… These magical meals bring about platters of thick bacon, flaky biscuits, savory sausagey gravy, perfectly fried eggs (it is the only time I’ve ever seen Robby dig into fried eggs. He shuns them everywhere else in life– but there, at Wallis’ table, he tucks into them as though they are his favorite food…)– and always, always, there are grits.

I love grits. I came to them via my parents and grandparents– all of us bonifide northern-midwesterners. My mother’s father called them mush and I couldn’t ever decide which I liked better– the first morning’s version with yellow pools of butter and great lashings of maple syrup– or the second morning’s version where the left overs were fried into cakes with crispy edges.

My parents were big on grits, too. Years ago, before The Cracker Barrel restaurants made it this far north, my father would announce, late on a Friday night, “Let’s drive to Kentucky for breakfast”– and we would. Kentucky, being a border state, didn’t shudder at my request for maple syrup. And TCB had enchantingly tiny glass bottles of maple syrup that made it all the more fun…

For years I ate my grits with maple syrup. The same way I ate my Cream of Wheat and Cream of Rice. My mother rotated the Quaker Quick grits with the aforementioned cereals on winter mornings. The bowls, if left unrinsed, would have a ring of steely grit to them.

And then, in college, I met Wallis. And his utter horror that I would slander his good grits with syrup nearly undone any good I’d managed to do with words in our poetry class. I learned to butter and salt my grits. Pepper them even. And ate them this way ever after.

I don’t make grits often. I relish the servings that I get at Wally’s table and the bowls of cheesy grit goodness that our Georgian Uncle Pope makes when we visit. I have, in my fridge door, a tin of really good grits– the kind they use at Zingermans and very, very rarely, I’ll go to the trouble of making them myself but I usually end up with a scorched pan.

Last week we had a grits feast courtesy of Wallis. We did an un-blind taste test with several different varieties. Most of them impressive in their pettigree. Words like stone ground, organic, milled were thrown about while we sniffed and poked and tasted. Really, it was almost as obnoxious as those wine snobs you encounter occasionally. Each of us straining to detect and pronounce the nuance of each speciman.

The results were hilarious. We all liked one variety with almost identical scores. We pronounced the winning grits to be “creamy” and “consistent”… and yet those were the 5-minute Quick ones.

For me, this makes sense. I grew up on the Quick varieties. It’s all that was available above the Mason/Dixon in the 1970s.. but it was funny to see the shocked look on the face of my southern pal Christy– it didn’t seem right to her or me.

On the other flavors we were divided. I learned that I am not a good focus group panelist. I get swayed by worrying out that I will offend the person next or across me if I disagree with their answer. And I second guess myself. I also should have scored my grits based on how I would actually eat them– with butter and salt– and not how they are “naked.” This is why I always score terribly on standardized tests. In all earnesty I start to feel bad for the wrong answers and figure out a way to justify using them. (And yet I don’t have this same level of empathy for, say, some of my boneheaded coworkers…)

By the fourth bowl of grits I was sick wondering whether or not I would like the last one or this one better with bacon or eggs or toast or on the side of a really good steak… Again. Put me on the packaging panel. Or the marketing brainstorming– where I can’t do damage. (By the way– I think “True Grits” would make a really good name. But that’s just me.)

We had, in the end, a marvelous time– as we always do at Wally’s table. Katie’s pots of tea and Wally’s pans of grits combined in our bellies to leave us sated and fat and sloshy. And happy.

Regardless of the grits you choose– make sure they have the proper accompaniments– excellent company and a great deal of laughter. It’s the only real way to enjoy them.

Insomnia

Can’t sleep tonight.

I’ve done all the stuff to welcome sleep– drank some milk, took a bath, read some, facebooked some… but it’s no use. I’m wide awake.

So here are some random thoughts:

1. Read any good books lately? I just finished Geraldine Brooks’ People of the Book. It’s good. Not as good as her Year of Wonders but good. I wonder why her stuff isn’t optioned for movies.

2. I’m down to my last box of Mallomars. And I’m getting nervous about it. My Mother-in-Law gave me two cases of them for Christmas. There’s nothing like a good Mallomar and orange juice.  A little chocolate, a little marshmallow, a little juice– ah, bliss. My bliss, unfortunately is about to run out.  Stupid midwest.

3. I’m wanderlusty lately. I want to pack us all up and go someplace for a few days or weeks. Live out of a well-packed suitcase and eat new things, see new places, return home sated.

4. On Sunday night, also unable to sleep (stupid time change?) I found Mark & Olly on television. Two british men who go off on tangent adventures because they can. The series has them living with an Amazon tribe in some far part of Peru. I watched two and a half episodes that night– this is how I fell into the trap of loving Deadliest Catch, too– but it’s interesting TV.

5. Jack’s vocabulary has exploded again. This time it’s all the funny little in-between words… adjectives and adverbs and the ilk. He used the word “also” today. It broke me up. He’s delighted in our recognition of his new words. And he’s a great mimic. He’ll try out phrases he hears from us or his movies. This week we’ve watched A Charlie Brown Christmas a few times so there is a lot of Linus, Charlie, and Snoopy coming out.

6. I can’t beat Robby in Scrabble. Or Lexulous rather. We play it on Facebook. It’s disconcerting to lose to him when it is a matter of words and not numbers… but he’s a much better strategist than I am. My problem is I get so delighted in discovering a word I forget to pay attention to what might be more advantageous. Sometimes the two letter words get more points than the 7 letter words. It’s frustrating, too, because Lexulous circumvents the rules of Scrabble. I grew up on the rules of Scrabble– my grandmother was unyielding when it came to those rules. And there was no use of the Official Scrabble Dictionary unless there was a challenge thrown– you had to rely on the words you knew and could defend– not thumbing through the dictionary to find a word that incorporated the tiles in front of you. You can cheat quite a bit in Lexulous against those rules– it takes a lot of the fun out of it.
And it makes me a crabby opponent. The other day Robby started a new game (which irritated me– the loser gets to do that, not the reigning champ) and played a word that I didn’t know.
“Oooh! A new word! What’s it mean?” asked me earnestly.
“I don’t know,” came my husband’s hesitant reply.
“Yeah, then we’re done with this game then, aren’t we?”

7. To do: Learn the Kitchener Stitch so I can finish up two pairs of socks. Sew Jack’s teddy a little cape so that he can be “Super Georgia.” Drag Robby to IKEA to look at ideas for the kitchen and dining room (we’ll pay the Swedes in lingonberries). Paint a family tree on the upstairs hallway wall for Jack. Clean the basement. Get Robby to do his Charo impression again.

8. I need to come up with a fun treat for Friday at Jack’s preschool. I like bringing in the treat. It’s fun to try to find something that all 20 kids will eat.

Okay.  This hasn’t helped. I’m still not sleepy.

And now I want a Mallomar.

Hold, please.

Oprah keeps telling us all that this is our Wake Up Call.

Consider me hitting the snooze button. Sleeping in. Taking the phone off the hook.

I’m tired of all the doom and gloom and blathering on about the economy. Blahdittyblahblahblah.

Monday morning was my first Monday morning in months of not driving to work. Nearly every Monday since September I’ve gone into work early to knock off press releases and the ilk while Jack and Robby negotiate the school day preparations. This Monday we sent Daddy off to work and Jack and I went through the rituals of cereal, clothes, and backpack. I dropped off the little rabbit then drove to the park and willed myself to walk around the 1.3 mile trail twice.

It had seemed like a good idea the week before. Unfortunately the temperature was hovering just over 20 degrees with a biting wind. I looked ridiculous– layers of old ski clothes and my Pakistani Freedom Fighter Hat. (It’s really just an odd shade of green and simple wool hat but it’s made in Pakistan and we’ve always called it that.) I kicked myself for not buying an iPod before the reality of semi-unemployment hit. The first lap went okay. I moved fast enough to stay warm and two sides of the walk really weren’t so bad. The other two sides– were the wind came sheering across the open fields was a bit cruel. Apparently Mother Nature thinks I haven’t been kicked around enough.

On the second lap there was a creepy man hovering in a white van. The kind of van without windows in the back that will be easy enough for the producers on Oprah to find when they are doing the reenactment of my disappearance footage. I walked the long way around it– avoiding the side door and then spotted another creepy man with a backpack who, the closer I walked to him, slowed his gait. We would intersect at the one point in our park where there is no visibility from the road. A stretch through the frozen swamp where the chunks of my body would be found in about 6 weeks when the ground thaws. I turned on my heel and walked back the other way. There are very few incidences in my life where I’ve regretted being born a girl– this would be one of them. Stupid creepy men and their vans and backpacks.

I walked again on Wednesday– this time I ran for 100 steps, walked for 100 steps on the first lap. Again– an iPod would have improved my lot. At least it was well above freezing. I lapped an old lady. (She had an iPod, by the way.) Today the price of all my good intentions is a flare up of plantar facsiitis… Mother Nature could care less whether or not I’m healthier. (And she probably has a freakin’ iPod, too.)

Tomorrow I’m walking with my mother-in-law. She’s better than an iPod. We’ll mock the super serious healthy people together.

We’ll see what the next weeks hold. In the meantime call the front desk and tell them to hold my calls.

Kicking Pollyanna to the curb

So today Jack is sick.

Nothing major– just a phlegmy little cough and sniffling nose. We’re surrounded by people that have had bouts of strep throat/flu/Ick… so we’re lucky to just have a day of this, I know…

But. He’s four. And fractious. And forgets to cover his mouth when he coughs. And I’m on the glum side myself today. So it’s all made for a long day.

My job has shrunk. Blame it on the economy. Blame it on the changing face of the Museum Field. Blame it on the old presidential administration or the new one. Blame it on France. It still means I’m out about four hundred dollars a month. Jack has three more months of tuition, a possible gymnastics class, and a penchant for McDonalds once in while.

As for me– and yes, I am whining, I had my eyes on a couple of things that are now out the window. And I already miss the idea of going out to eat. (Two words: Tempura Rolls. Sigh.)

It’s all made me kind of Scroogey and grumpy. At least Jack’s been especially cuddley today. That’s taken some of the sting out of the rest of the world.

Argh.

Ed-ucation

An update on our dear, befeared Ed.

He’s still working.

Jack’s had no accidents since the fateful day Ed first clanked and hissed his way via our furnace. His toys have been picked up. His hands washed easily.

And– miracle of miracles– last night he ate part of a hotdog.

I realize that I’ll come to regret that– what victory is it to have my tiny son injest all manner of horrible things processed beyond recognition… Still, it would be easier to accept that my son eats as a vegetarian if he’d eat vegetables. He’s more of a carbarian.

One of these days Ed will be forgotten or at least repressed for some future therapy breakthrough. As it is now Ed gets a mention once or twice a day, “Mommy? Ed’s at his house because I went potty, right?” “Yes Jack.” Until Ed rides off toward some other bathroom (we imagine that he’s like a malevolent Mary Poppins… and yes, he does have an umbrella) we’ll see what else we can get him to help us with.

Continued Education if you will.

The Miracles of Ed and Adrian

Jack is still not “completely trained” which is a nice Mommy Euphenism… what I mean to type is that Jack is “still soiling himself.” (Were I the Daddy, and not the Mommy, I’d type Jack is still “crapping his pants.”)

We haven’t pushed it (no pun intended). Our theory is that, in his own time, he’d decide that the little Mickey Mouse undies would be far more appealing than Size 4 Huggies. (Particularly because I made a solemn vow when Jack was tiny that I wouldn’t ever buy the Size 5 Huggies. They seemed akin to adult size diapers and it creeped me out… Consequently, the little man has been somewhat squeezed into his Size 4s each night.) Of all the battles we’ve endured and have in front of us– this one, this basic function of polite society, seemed the least worth fighting.

Everyone’s weighed in. Some of our friends and family are horrified that he’s yet “untrained.” We see it in their eyes even as we shrug it off. “He’s not going to college in a diaper. Eventually he’ll decide he’s ready,” became our mantra in these scenerios. (We used to say “kindergarten” but somewhere we gave ourselves a wider berth.)

And we’ve had plenty of useless advice:
“Give him m&ms!” (He won’t eat chocolate.)
“Take away a toy” (He shrugs and says goodbye to it and finds something else to do.)
“Don’t change his pants.” (He walked around one afternoon with an increasingly bloated Huggies until his little legs chaffed. And never complained.)
“Make him sit on the potty.” (This was our favorite. He sat there one day for nearly the whole day. Completely happy. Watched a movie on the portable DVD player, flipped through his train catalogs, ate lunch, and sang every song he knew… )

Jack is unbribable. As exasperating as that can be sometimes (bribable kids are easier. Think about it.) we can’t help but think that might hold him in good stead down the road. He’s not going to cave easily to pressure– whether it’s our’s or the idiot buddy that says, “Hey! let’s go joy riding in that car over there!”

And then came Adrian and Ed.

Adrian arrived first– he’s the newborn son of our best pals. Suddenly Jack was no longer the baby in our midst but a “great, big boy!” in light of tiny, mewing Adrian. Jack was somewhat disappointed that this long awaited little friend was somewhat incapacitated– Adrian’s not able to run and play and eat pizza like Jack can… but there was a glint in Jack’s eye of the realization of his own cababilities.

So, in the blink of an eye, Jack was casually mentioning to us, “I have to go to the bathroom” and then going off to urinate, flush, and wipe his hands. 

Robby and I held our breath.

Ed came along this week. Inadvertently. Jack and I were home one afternoon this week and both of us were a little cross. I’d just changed his pants again. After he’d promised, “I’ll tell you when I have to go potty, Mommy. I promise.” I went back to reading a book and Jack went back to playing with his toys. We have steam radiators in the house and they tend to pop and hiss and clink. Jack can go weeks without noticing the sounds then have a day where he needs to be reassured that “it’s just the furnace, sweetie. It’s okay.” But this day I was distracted. I was in the middle of reading The Reader by Bernard Schlink and so when Jack paused in his play to ask, “Mommy! What’s that?! Mommy!” I didn’t look up from my book and said, “That’s the monster that bites small boys in the popo when they poopoo in their pants.” (Yes, I know, Tolstoy only wishes he’d written that sentence.)
Jack: “What? A monster? It’s not the furnace?”
Worst Mommy Ever: “His name is Ed.”

Jack’s little face went white and his lip started to tremble. I closed my book. He burst into tears, “I don’t want Ed to bite my popo Mommy!” I started to laugh. Because, really, Ed is quite possibly the poorest name for a monster… and it was all rather ridiculous. “Jack– it’s okay. I was kidding. There’s no Ed. There’s no monster. Mommy was being silly. It’s just the furnace baby.”

But he didn’t believe me.

So now, suddenly, we have a kid that runs to the bathroom when he needs to poo. That Ed is pretty effective.

Yesterday I had to go to a funeral so Jack was going over to play at the grandparents. “Let’s go potty before we go, okay?”
Clever Jack: “I’ll go potty at Grandlady’s house”
Clever-er Mommy: “Ed knows where they live.”
Jack ran. RAN. to the bathroom where he promptly shat. Three times in the space of a half hour.

I’m torn. I should put a stop to this. Somehow prove that there is no Ed.

Ed is growing. At our pals’ last night Ed took on a shape and size. Apparently Ed has been spotted before– and the glimpses show that his head is all teeth. No lips. So he drools and makes a horrid sucking sound when he uses a straw. Robby and Chris exchanged Ed stories while Jack played nearby and I shushed them, guilty that I’d started it all.

Yet, really, teeth and all, Ed isn’t so bad. I’m not sure which I feel worse about– giving a name to Jack’s worst fears or taking this long to give a name to Jack’s worst fears…

Because, and still holding our breaths, we may be on our way to those Mickey Mouse undies yet.