Gotta Laugh

Sometimes life hands you the unexpected and all you can do is laugh. Today I spent most of my day grudgingly working on a final paper for school due this week (yes, procrastination is my middle name). When I finally typed the last painful sentence, I was so elated I convinced Robbie that we should celebrate by walking down to Washtenaw Dairy for ice cream.

The Dairy is one of those quaint local spots that draws regular customers for decades. Every morning, old men gather to discuss how the world is going to hell in a handbasket over steaming cups of coffee and local business people rush in to buy a dozen of their amazing fresh donuts to keep the office workers happy. Every evening, residents of the Old West Side gather to eat ice cream and socialize with their neighbors on the wooden benches outside. It's usually a bustling crowd of giggling teenagers, sweaty kids in soccer uniforms, over-excited dogs and shuffling elderly couples. In short, it is a snapshot of life the way you wish it always was.

Despite the atmosphere, we usually don't linger too long since our dog and child are less than patient at this stage. So, as usual, we got our ice cream, talked with some people we knew for a bit, and then headed home with our cones in hand. We were only about 2 minutes into the walk when my cone suffered some sort of structural damage and dark chocolate ice cream immediately ran out in a stream - right onto my white tank top. It made a lovely brown trail down my enormous pregnant belly, which I proceeded to make even worse by trying to rub it away with a napkin.

There is truly no dignity in motherhood. I spent the rest of the walk home parading my brown-streaked belly for everyone to see (Robbie, bless his heart, did his best to cover me and cross the street when people approached us, but the great weather meant that every other house had a porch full of people watching us). Between laughing at myself and trying to frantically lick up the rest of the melting ice cream that continued to pour down my hands, I got home with a major stomachache and a lot of laundry.



To top off the night, my parents sent me this video from the Salt Lake City Jazz Festival which had me in fits again. The dance move at the end is truly worth watching:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDwYOouZIXA

Picture Time

My Boys

Mackinac or Bust!





We've added some new pics to "15-18" (sorry they are mixed in with old ones) and we finally posted our pics from our Memorial Day trip to Mackinac Island.

Oh Poop

Yes, my life has reached a point that inspires me to write an entire blog post about poop. As a child, I remember reacting to the bathroom humor of the men in my life (mainly dirt-smeared neighbor boys and raunchy uncles) with utter horror. Several times I gritted my teeth and thought, "Never, EVER will I marry a man like that and have disgusting boy-children like that. NEVER!"

But when you marry a man after only dating him for two weeks, sometimes you miss a few details. Ok - I can't totally blame it on the short courtship when it was at least partly blind love. He told me his favorite movies were "When Harry Met Sally" and "There's Something About Mary." I just chose to focus on how sweet his first choice was and ignore the second. I also should have known what was coming when he told me his family considers one's poop to be a great source of medical information and therefore they discuss it regularly (no pun intended).

In any case, here I am, the wife of a man who gets endless joy out of horrifying me with typical "guy" humor. For instance, our nephew Alex came to visit from Texas this week and so not only did Robbie spend the entire visit wrestling with him and our little cousin Ricky, I also heard numerous comments from him along the lines of, "I'm going to sit on your face and fart!" Then he would make a farting noise and all the boys, including my only 18-month-old son, would giggle.

People wonder why I am so terrified of having not one - but TWO - sons. Can't they see I am drowning in the testosterone?!

As if the bathroom humor weren't enough, I also have to deal with the real poop deal on a daily basis. Every morning I wake up and start my morning by changing a poopy diaper, yelling at Robbie for leaving a stinky bathroom, scooping dog poop out of the dog's litter box, and trying to find one minute of my own time to elegantly retire to the "abode," which usually ends with Emerson flinging open the bathroom door (it doesn't latch properly) and whining to be picked up. Pretty soon we are going to add to this mix yet another boy who, for at least the first few months of life, will contribute half a dozen more mustard-yellow poopy diapers to a day already brimming with....well, you get the point.

After that, the years stretch out ahead of us, filled with belching competitions, feigned farts and poop jokes. I'll do my best (for the sake of my sons' future spouses) to counterbalance their education with lessons in things like table etiquette, proper cleaning, cooking and gift buying 101.

[Which brings me to a strange side-note. I was looking at reviews of Danish aebleskiver pans the other day - in the hopes of reviving my grandmother's tradition of making them on Christmas morning - when I came across this quote:

"I want to teach my sons how to cook aebleskivers themselves because they will be out on their own soon, and it never hurts to be able to attract a woman who loves Danish delicacies."

I found this immensely humorous for some reason. What does a woman who loves Danish delicacies look like - and do my sons really want to attract her?]

Anyway, I suppose poop and other disgusting things are ingrained somehow in the y chromosome. I once had a boyfriend that I thought would definitely break the stereotype. He was snooty and fastidious all rolled up in an effeminate package - certainly not the sort to tell a bathroom joke or see a Jim Carrey movie. But, alas, even he eventually revealed a secret delight in discussing all things feces.

I guess the point is that I know probably shouldn't be so hard on my husband. I'll still grit my teeth and give him the stink-eye whenever he says or does something nasty, but sooner or later I have to accept my fate. I love him dearly and I will love both our sons just as much....even after they learn to play the national anthem with their armpits.