Gender equality--one sandwich at a time

The other day Saydi was making grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids.

Charlie, sensitive that he and I are now in the minority 2 to 3 as males since Emmeline's birth, asked for a 'boy' cheese sandwich instead.

You've gotta love that.

Two 'M's - we're sticking with it.

There has been a bit of internal struggle within our little family about how to spell the name of our new baby.

I would like to announce that we are going to stick with 'Emmeline' with two 'M's. I say 'stick' because this is the way I spelled it on the birth certificate forms after checking on the spelling of Emmeline B. Wells' name (early Mormon suffragette, R.S. President, founder of 'Women's Exponent', and all around cool gal).

Then in a fit of indecision, we changed it and sent out emails to everyone with only one 'm'. The thinking was that we didn't want confusion with 'Emma'. But then I realised that some people pronounce 'Emeline' like Emma-leen.

So I'm changing it back because Saydi said I'm in charge. And I have to run with that while it lasts...

Pepperoni vs Charlie

Because Emmeline arrived a bit early, we were caught flat-footed. No food in the cupboard, no competent adult supervision (e.g., adult besides me) to help out.

Sunday mid-day, Hazel, Charlie and I went off to the store to get some essentials. Based on my last experience with cooking (see previous post regarding pizza, salad, and broccoli), I decided to stick to Saydi's shopping list. It included many green things that are created by water, sun and dirt, instead of in a factory like God intended. My one deviation was pepperoni because the kids dig it.

We got home and I started making what I thought to be an excellent lunch (little sandwiches made out of poppin' fresh biscuits with pepperoni and pepper jack cheese).

Charlie decided to put two pieces of pepperoni over his eyes (his mommy sometimes does this with cucumbers as a joke). I thought this was mildly funny, but then noticed the oil slicks all around his eyes, so I grabbed a dishtowel and rubbed his eyes vigorously. This was a bad move.

Charlie starts wailing 'AAAAAAHHHHH!! AAAAAAAHHHH!!' as soon as the spicy pepperoni oil hit his poor little eyeballs. So I tried a wet cloth, and that didn't do much better.

In the end, it was an uncomfortable few minutes until tears flushed out the 'spicy-ness'.

But the little sandwiches sure were a hit with everyone! At least everyone not named Saydi.

To make it up to him, I took Charlie out for a little date running errands, ending up at the Hostess outlet store. Because nothing says 'I'm sorry' like little cupcakes wrapped in plastic.

Kids these days...

By way of context, I am a very picky eater, especially regarding vegetables of any sort. It may be the slimy texture, it may be the [alleged] health benefits, it may be my own subtle protest against the brutal farmer's market monopoly, but there it is. I don't eat vegetables. Or fruit if I can help it.

So tonight, as Saydi was off doing more important things, I was caring for my children in my usuual competent and caring manner by baking a frozen pizza for dinner. After sitting down and saying grace [note to self: are frozen foods considered 'pre-blessed' the same way fast food is?] Hazel shouts 'DAD! WE DON'T HAVE ANY SALAD!'

She was very insistent, so I tried to explain that while her mother always made salad, there were other ways of eating vegetables than salad. Like french-fried, for instance.

'NO! DAD! WE HAVE TO HAVE SALAD!'

I compromised by offering some baby carrots and apple slices. She seemed mollified, so I got them out while the pizza cooled off. Hazel and Charlie are sitting there chowing down on their baby carrots and apple slices (and pecking tentatively at their pizza) when I'm thinking to myself 'what is wrong with this picture?'

Just then Hazel says 'I want broccoli'.

Incredulous, I tell her 'No. You eat your pizza first and then you can have some broccoli'.

She takes another small bite of her pizza and says 'I WANT BROCCOLI, DADDY.'

What is wrong with this kid? My patience wearing thin, I say 'Momma bought this deluxe self-rising pizza for $3.99 at Stop&Shop for us, and you are going to eat it, young lady!'

'NO!'

So I finally caved and got them each two 'little trees' of broccoli which they ate with gusto while their pizza got cold.

What is this world coming to...

White Trash Weekend!

J here: First off, let me say that despite the title of this post, everything in here was Saydi's idea (except perhaps when we went to a diner named Nick's, which was actually T's idea).

Saydi's clan (or at least 3 of her large brothers) were in town for Easter: Noah with Kristi and Mckay, Tal with his most excellent girlfriend Sarah, and Josh from AZ. With this fun group, we went to the fair (not the real kind with prizes for pumpkins and a washed up former country star, but the crappy kind with toothless, tattoed people who operate rickety rollercoasters imported from Mexico). We really only go to the fair for one reason...the FREAK OUT!!!!

It is Saydi's raison d'etre. She occasionally talks in her sleep, and rather than shouting my name, she sometimes yells out 'Frank!', because he's the guy who once gave her free rides on the FREAK OUT.

To give you an idea of the FREAK OUT, let me say that everyone else on it is between the ages of 13 and 23, and wears either excessively baggy, black, Roca Wear clother or excessively revealing, hoochie mama clothing. For those who do not know my wife, she typically does not wear either. She is the accomplished, well-educated, elegant mother of two, married to a strong, handsome, (and smart!) husband--but I digress.

When you get on the FREAK OUT, they start blaring really bad music of the style preferred by the 13-23-year-olds mentioned above. It is typified by incoherent strings of pronouns and articles interspersed with silences where the naughty bits (the real substance of the lyrics) used to be before censoring. (This is a shame, since I'm sure there is real poetry and pathos in the lyrics if only I had the energy to plumb the depth of those swears...but again, I digress).

Then, the FREAK OUT does a little something like this...


And here, in a state of dementia from having her brains addled by this gargantuan lobotomizer, Saydi puts her marriage in jeopardy by flirting with two hot guys while on the FREAK OUT.

I should point out that, contrary to reports in other blogs, local newspapers, and several peer-reviewed journals, Saydi did not pee in her pants while riding the FREAK OUT--she only looked like she had.

After the FREAK OUT, and before Horton Heard his Fateful Who (which actually sucked surprising less than I would have thought), we went to Nick's Diner. To give a bit of flavor, our waitress of a certain age heard about two things and sat down at the booth with us and said
'honey, you just tell me what you want, and I'll tell you how to order.'


At some point in the weekend (sequence became foggy for me after about Sat. afternoon), we also went disco bowling. Or I should say, everyone else went disco bowling (and by that I mean danced and bowled simultaneously with very little success but much entertainment) except for Josh and I who actually tried to learn how to do candlepin bowling (much respect, brother Josh).

All Hail Charlie, the K.O.P.!

That stands for the King of Poop, just so you know.

Saydi suddenly insisted that I start blogging, and I think the timing is no coincidence. We potty trained Charlie (24 months), but only for Numero Uno. We had been promising lollipops, candy, cake, ice cream, anything he could cram past his sticky little lips if only he would go poop in the toilet. But no dice. He started judiciously holding out until his naptime, when we swap out his Lightning McQueen underpants for Pampers.

But all that changed last night.

Charlie had been asking to go to bed for almost two hours (a sure sign of impending poop), but Saydi (highly intuitive mother that she is) refused. By the time he was ready to do his normal pre-bedtime pee-pee, Mother Nature had him between a rock and a hard place (or perhaps a highly motivated mother and a large piece of porcelain, to be more precise).

Because I was downstairs cleaning up, the first news I heard was Hazel, who was promised her own sugary cornucopia when Charlie finally pooped like a big boy, yelling about suckers and candy. Not wanting to waste any time in reinforcing this most positive of behaviors, I ran and got a lollipop as fast as I could, and got it into Charlie's hands PDQ. And then the Wild Rumpus started...

We whisked the kids downstairs to the kitchen, Charlie still in underpants, to have ice cream. Saydi made him his own little tinfoil crown, while I dished out (what else!) chocolate ice cream to commemorate the Grand Defecatory Event.

And this is where things got slightly strange...

Saydi wanted to memorialize the celebration by taking a few pictures (normal) of Charlie's butt (less normal, but it's a cute butt). Then Hazel wanted a piece of the action. Soon Hazel and Charlie are striking strange poses that can only be described as vaguely Polynesian, or perhaps reminiscent of the Village People.

So here's to you, Charlie, and your new-found powers over excretion. May they serve you well.

Live long and prosper, little man.

Shumway Brothers Deck Building