In full Christmas regalia

Her outfit for a visit to Santa:

More Christmasy photos here.

Up to her elbows in presents

One if by land, two if by sea

Today I was talking with Reilly about Christmas Eve, and educating her on how it would all go down. I explained to her that she would go to bed, Santa would come down the chimney and leave her lots of presents, and then fly away in his sleigh to the next house.

She wasted no time in correcting me:

"No daddy, Santa doesn't come in a sleigh. He comes in a sailboat."

I couldn't disagree with her. A few weeks earlier, we had attended the St. Petersburg boat parade, in which each boat was decked out in lights, bows, and a jolly old Santa.

I'm telling you, the kid doesn't miss a thing.

Five more things...

1) The other day we received a box from Reilly’s cousin Sophia. Reilly took the big cardboard box and put it under the Christmas tree, not knowing there were presents inside. When I opened the box to reveal a gift inside wrapped in pink princess paper, she knew right away it was for her, and made an attempt at opening it. When I explained to her for the hundredth time that she couldn’t open her gifts until Christmas, she begrudgingly relased the wrapping paper from her grip, and then asked if she could put the present in her backpack to keep it safe.

She wore her present around the mall for a good part of that afternoon.

2) The paci is gone, and the the Sleep Lady has once again helped us through a sleep crisis. Goodbye dirty pacifier. I won’t miss you.

3) Reilly always notices when the moon is out, and now that it is getting darker earlier, she has had plenty of opportunities to point it out to us. The other night Papa Bear was watching Reilly over at his house, and they went for a walk around his neighborhood to look at the Christmas lights.

That night it was a quarter moon, and when my dad pointed it out to Reilly, she said, “the moon is broken!”

4) Reilly twice counted to 13 yesterday, both times skipping the number six. I didn’t even know she could count to ten!

5) Tuesday was Shawn’s birthday. On the way to school that morning, I told Reilly that we were going to have a birthday party for her mommy after she got back from school.

Reilly said, “Yeah, and I’m going to have a birthday too. I’m going to have a pink party!”
“What color party is mommy going to have?
“Mommy is going to have a brown party.”

I was unsure how to react, not knowing which was better, a pink party or a brown one.

The Interwebs was down...

... and now it's up, and so I'll catch up on last week's pictures. First, your picture of the week:



For more, click here.

Driving, Sickness, and What Santa says

Why the lack of posting, you ask?

First, let me start with the post I had written on Tuesday, but had failed to post for reasons that are yet to be written, (though if you've read the title to this post, it might, perhaps, be obvious):

This morning, I was driving on Manhatan Avenue (oh, the irony) on the way to work, when I got stuck behind a slow driver. A slow driver that was driving a right-off-the-lot convertible Porsche. Which lead me to ponder the following conundrum, which I now leave up to you:

Which is worse, a person intentionally driving slowly in a very fast car, or
A person driving unintetionlly slowly in a very slow car?

And still, you ask, why the lack of posting?

Yes, by Tuesday afternoon, I knew that Wednesday was going to be a no-go. When you are so sore that you can hardly lift yourself out of your chair, yet you haven't done much more than lift a chicken wing and a beer, you know it's going to get ugly.

Was there fever? Yes. Was there a four hour nap in the middle of the day? Yes. Was there nausea? Yes. Was there barfing? No, I say. No.

By tonight, I was thinking, I could return to work. I don't feel awesome, but I could make it through a day. However, there is another person who spent the day by my side who was not feeling so hot.

Yes, it's Reilly (again). She's got my fever. My chills. My four hour nap.

It's hard to remember much that was worth writing about since Tuesday, but there was one exchange tonight that I think is worth mentioning:

As we were driving back from the local CVS, fully stocked with Children's Motrin (which was on sale!), Reilly asked that I drive by some Christmas lights. She loves Christmas lights, and I love that she loves Christmas lights. This particular Christmas light display had a blow-up Santa and a blow-up penguin dressed as a snowman. Here was the conversation:

Me: Reilly, there's Santa!
Reilly: Santa says, "Boo!"
Me: No, Reilly, Santa says, "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Reilly, Exasperated at my stupidity: "No, DADDY, Santa says BOO!"

Like Rats with Fluffy Tails

This being our first house, I went a tad bit overboard this year in the Christmas light display on our house. I put up about 500 bulbs (all white) that outline the trim on our house and garage. When I finished the job and plugged them in, I had a true Griswold moment. I was so proud; you should have seen me prancing on the lawn.

Then, two days later, when the whole group of lights went out, I had my second Griswold moment. First, I changed the fuses on each strand of lights. When that didn't work, I cursed a lot. Finally, I used two separate bulb finding tools to try and source out the bulb that was sabotaging my entire display. I went light by light along the first strand, cursing all the way as each light lit up.

Somewhere around bulb number 76 that I noted this:


I knew right away there was only one animal with access to my roof that would cause such destruction.

I spliced up the strands, rejoined them with a twist cap and sealed it all up with electrical tape. The lights lit back up in all their glory, and should remain that way, that is, unless of of those rats with furry tails comes back for dessert.

P.S. It is best to unplug the lights before attempting any repair job such as the one noted above, lest you shock yourself right off the ladder.

Santa's Smile

Here is Reilly's first visit with Santa. I think she was pretty into him.

For more pictures, click here.

It came with the house

An avocado from our tree in the backyard:

The joy of blasphemy

Tonight as we were putting Reilly to bed, Shawn and I sat on the floor and watched Reilly as she experienced her first snow globe. The globe is mossy green at the base, and within the glass globe are an angel, Mary, and baby Jesus. There is enough snowy glitter to keep a 2.5 year old fascinated for hours, which was a problem when after five minutes we told Reilly that it was time to go to bed.

Reilly said “no” so I turned off the light to force the issue.

Reilly: “Noooooooooooooo! I want to see baby Jesus!”
Shawn: “Okay Reilly, I’ll turn the light on so that you can say goodnight to him.”
Reilly: “No, it’s not a him Mommy, Baby Jesus is a her.”

The Devil wears Gymboree

In Reilly’s quest to put her universe in order, she has now taken to bossing Shawn and me around. I don’t mean to overdramatize, most of her bossing is very gentle, and in most cases, quite funny.

A recent example arose when she had to “go potty.” Whereas in the past she would ask us to sit next to her and provide various forms of entertainment, now she likes privacy when she is doing her business. If we dare to follow her into the bathroom, she will reprimand us and tell us, “No, get out! I go all by myself!”

An example from last night: Reilly first lead me, then Shawn, by the hand to the kitchen, and directed that we both stand in front of the refrigerator. “Mommy and Daddy stay here. Grandma, come!” She then closed the doors to the kitchen and took her Grandma by the hand and led her to the playroom.

This bossiness has also spilled over to the car, where Reilly now directs me from her car seat. “Daddy, slow down! Daddy, go faster!”

Shawn and I think she’ll make a fine movie director some day. She already has the blocking down.

Sunburn Fest 2007

This weekend Shawn, Reilly and I met some friends at the local Snowfest 2007. There was no snow, but there was "Ice Skating."*

As our friend Georgina said, "Guys, it's just like Central Park!"

*Ice Skating was made possible by a number of white plastic boards that had been made slick by the application of oil.

Week 126 Pictures

For all those who inquired, and for all those who are wondering, yes, Reilly is feeling much better. She had a checkup at the doctor this afternoon and though her urine test was still a bit off, she seems to be past the worst of it.

Here is the photo of the week:



For more, click here.

A new rule

Reilly has been sick on and off for the past three months. Mostly on. Three months ago she started preschool, which is well known to be the breeding ground for all things bacterial.

Our family has been through this before, has weathered the initial period where Reilly adjusts to her new daycare environment. This time, though, the initial period has seemed to stretch on longer than normal.

Being seasoned parents, we haven’t taken Reilly to the doctor much. We know that most of what she contracts simply requires a dose of rest coupled with a few shots of TLC. However, last week, when she contracted pink eye, we knew we had to take her in to see the pediatrician.

Shawn took Reilly, and it was a quick and simple visit. Later that day, I came home from work and was doing my usual afternoon potty duty. Reilly pee-peed in the potty and got up to wipe when I noticed that there were a few crimson drops diffusing in her urine. I knew right away that it was blood.

Back to the pediatrician we went, and after the drama of having Reilly give a urine sample, my fear was confirmed: Reilly had a UTI. The doctor prescribed an antibiotic and then told us he’d be calling us the next day. He was concerned about the amount of bacteria in her urine and needed to run additional tests to see if there was any damage to her bladder or kidneys. He said we might need an ultrasound.

(Here I am at this moment typing this all rather matter-of-factly, but let me just admit right now that I was really concerned and even a tad bit freaking out.)

So they call us the next day and tell us that Reilly also has e-coli in her urine.

(More freaking out by me.)

Over the last week, the antibiotic has done its job, and Reilly has returned to her happy, active self. Shawn and I permitted ourselves to relax and give a sigh of relief that this whole thing was over.

Then today, Shawn called me at work to say that Mrs. A had asked that she pick Reilly up from preschool. Reilly had just thrown up. Twice.

Shawn and I babied Reilly all afternoon, playing gently, bathing gently, eating gently. No matter, she barfed two more times, all over Shawn. So here I am, typing up a blog while Shawn reads a book to our mellow and bellyaching baby. Next, I’ll do the dishes from dinner tonight because honestly—there should be a rule that if you get barfed on, you don’t have to do the dishes, right?

Like the guy in the wedding dress at Washington Square Park

This weekend at the Farmer's Market, I saw a woman—let's say she was 60—dressed in all white: white shirt, white pants, white hat, white sunglasses, and white shoes. Hanging from her hand was a white leash connected to a white stuffed dog that was standing on a white skateboard. She was weird and I loved her.

I loved her because she made downtown St. Petersburg feel a little more like a city—like The City. The market was mostly populated by the bland, safe people who make up the suburbs (including me), but when mixed with the homeless and punks and weirdoes, I truly felt like I was experiencing an urban moment, and it felt good.

Nearby, a Celtic band played, and Reilly spun herself in circles in appreciation of their music. Shawn and I stood on the pavement and absorbed it all, saying nothing. I looked back for the woman in white and saw her as she moved away, towing her dog on the skateboard, smiling at God knows what.

The Correction

Last night, Reilly sampled a bit of her dinner, then hopped down from her chair and walked over to where Shawn was sitting.

"Mommy, I want a snack.”

Shawn pointed to her still full plate and said, “Reilly, you just had a snack.”

Reilly tilted her head to the side and replied, “That's not a snack mommy, that's dinner."

Shawn and I burst out laughing. What a little hair-splitter.

Week 125 Pictures

Happy Thanksgiving!





For more, click here.

Almond memories and what Squirrels eat

Reilly’s ability to recall minute details of her life is amazing. She consistently remembers people and events that have long since been filed away in my memory, and jogged to the front of my consciousness only by her prompting.

Shawn and I usually keep fresh nuts in the house. The most popular nut would be almonds, followed closely by cashews. For some reason, we hadn’t bought any for several months, so the last time I was at the local Publix, I bought a bag of raw almonds.

When I got home, Shawn was psyched to see the almonds, and opened the bag immediately. Reilly, seeing her mommy eating something, demanded her own cup. Shawn and Reilly sat down on the kitchen floor and dug in.

Reilly took her first almond, bit it in half, and then gave half to Shawn. To the casual observer, this might come off as just a nice sharing moment. To me, it was stunning. Reilly was recalling a behavior that Shawn and I had established many months ago: When Reilly was younger, we used to bite her almonds in half to ensure that the piece of nut was small enough for her to chew and therefore not choke on. So when Reilly made this gesture to her mom, Shawn looked up at me with a “isn’t our daughter amazing” smile. I gave her the look right back.

This weekend, Reilly’s “Uncle Willy” and “Uncle Drew” visited. When we were at the Farmer’s Market Saturday morning, Uncle Willy bought Reilly a bag of kettle corn, which is a huge event of spoiling, since Shawn and I are paranoid about Reilly choking on a popcorn kernel. Reilly ate that popcorn like a starved child, though eventually we were able to put it away when she was distracted by the live band.

In the vein of Reilly’s reversal of the words 'kitchen' and 'chicken, she later asked us for some acorns. After some head scratching, we realized that she was really asking for popcorn. It makes sense that she would reverse the words. Our big old oak tree is dumping acorns all over our house and yard at the rate of one per second, so the word ‘acorn’ is well established in her lexicon.

Later, when we had returned home, we were all watching our family of squirrels foraged around the foot of our oak tree. Reilly took one look at them and exclaimed, “Look, they’re eating popcorn!”

Week 124 Pictures

A visit from Uncle Willie and Drew, a trip to the market, some fun at the beach. Here is your photo of the week:

Click here for more.

Having a stroke

There is a new saying that seems to be gathering steam in the nonprofit field: “Stroke a check.” As in, the donor just “stroked a check” to my organization.

I hate this saying.

I hate it because it makes the charitable donor sound cavalier and uncaring, which is the exact opposite of what I consider our supporters to be. Donors don’t just “stroke checks.” They write checks from their bank accounts—giving away their hard earned money—to support a charitable cause that they care about.

So, to all you nonprofit workers out there, I now decree that the saying “Stroke a check” is forbidden from your lexicon.

I have spoken.

Delay Techniques

Getting Reilly to bed has grown to be a challenge lately. Proving how smart she is, she has learned the behaviors of her mother and father, and now uses our sensibilities against us. Here are a few of the lines she tries on us each night:

Delay technique #1: “No, five books!” We usually start the negotiation by offering Reilly two books to read before bedtime. She then goes to the shelf and brings back about five books, knowing that her parents are suckers for educating their daughter through reading.

Delay technique #2: “In the rocking chair!” The next step in the bedtime ritual is when Shawn and I sing bedtime songs to Reilly. We used to hold her while singing, but at 24lbs, that option is getting a little tiring. We try to put her in bed to sing songs, but she prefers having them sung to her in the rocking chair. Of course, as soon as we sit down in the rocking chair, she hops out of our laps and runs for it.

Delay technique #3: “I’m thirsty.” Should Shawn and I get Reilly in bed with stories read and songs sung, we rub her back for a few moments before leaving. It is usually at this point that Reilly requests some milk.

Delay technique #4: “I have to pee.” After chugging down some milk, Reilly then announces that she has to use the potty. Knowing full well that she just went less than an hour ago, we still give in to this one. Potty training knows no inconvenience. The thing is, Reilly always manages to go when she uses this delay technique, which makes me think that she’s more capable at holding it that I thought.

Delay technique #5: “Shake my hand.” I referred to this in an earlier post. Nothing like ending the night with a firm handshake is what I always say.

Baby of the Week:

A hearty congratulations to Ellen and Joe Wong, who today welcomed Charles Ellis York Wong at 1:13pm. Ellis, as he will be called, clocked in at 8lbs, 3oz, with a height of 21 inches.

Let's hear it for the boy!

Week 123 Pictures

Below is your photo of the week. For more, click here.

(sh)usher

Here’s what happened over a recent breakfast:

Me: “Reilly, please finish your—“
Reilly: “Shh!”
Me: “I want you to—“
Reilly: “Shh!”
Me: “—eat your—“
Reilly: “Shh!”
Me: “—cereal.”
Reilly: “Shh, Daddy! Quiet!”

She gets her little finger up to her mouth and shushes like the son of Dr. Evil.

This morning, Reilly even shushed Shawn while she was flossing.

The only good part of this new development is that she now has the aptitude to earn her first job as a teenager: movie theater usher.

The "Daddy's Girl" fallacy, cont.

This morning, Reilly and I ate breakfast in the kitchen. She sat on her stool and I sat on the floor next to her. If you must know, we were eating cinnamon Life cereal. Reilly likes it.

After Reilly finished her cereal, she scooted over on her stool, and then patted the empty space next to her. “Come sit next to me, daddy,” she said.

I squeezed in next to her, and then she took my arm and put it around her shoulders, resting my hand on her knee. She patted my hand lovingly.

Shawn, who was observing the whole scene while she was ironing, said, “She must not be feeling well.”

Yes, you heard her right. So odd is it for our daughter to show any affection to her father, that Shawn concluded Reilly she must be delirious from illness to display such tender behavior to me.

Week 121-122 Pictures

The hundred or so photos we took on Halloween were lost in an unfortunate accident (my fault), so we've got a truncated version for the last two weeks. (At least you got a good vocabulary word out of it.)

Your photo of the week:


For more, click here.

Bar graffiti, Corrina, and Guinness

Last night, after enjoying a cuban sandwich and a side of maduros at Gordo's, I decided to head on over to an old Tallahassee haunt, the Warehouse.

Now, back in the day, I didn't even consider "going out" until 10:00pm. So, when I busted through the door at 7:00pm, I immediately realized how old I am.

Due to my early arrival, I was literally the first customer in the bar. The two bartenders were watching the show "Scrubs" on TV. One of the bartenders got up and poured me a Guinness, then the three of us sat there and watched the rest of the episode.

We laughed together.

I imagine that this scene could happen at any bar, especially at 7:00pm, but somehow this felt special--it felt like something that could only happen in Tallahassee. The thing about a college town is how readily that people "make friends." This openness and casual acceptance is magic. (I don't know if I am willing magic onto the town, or if the magic still exists.)

Two more Guinness later, I had gotten to know the two bartenders--George and 'LaBamba'--and had talked music, talked politics, talked popular culture. Just when I hit my stride, a crowd came in, the bartenders got to work, and cigarette smoke filled the air. The moment was lost.

Age 31, ex-smoker, work-to-do-tomorrow Brian took his leave (but to avoid being too melodramatic, he took his leave with a smile).

Business trip to Tally

My big decision for the day: Where to eat dinner?

Choice 1: Gordos for a cuban sandwich
Choice 2: Bagel Bagel for a TBCC
Choice 3: GutBox

Chasing the sunset

This afternoon I was driving west from on I-10 to Ft. Walton Beach. I was doing what I call “chasing the sunset;” traveling at a high rate of speed while watching the sky as it turned from yellow to orange to plum over the course of an hour.

The traffic was light, and with my rental car on cruise control, I had the rare opportunity for some reflection.

The image that I kept returning to was of earlier in the day: I was standing at the kitchen window, watching Shawn take brush from the yard and load it into a wheelbarrow. Next to her was Reilly, quiet and focused, working in Shawn’s shadow.

When the wheelbarrow was full, Shawn let Reilly push it to the garbage can out back. Again, Reilly took her task seriously, wheeled the brush without saying a word, without losing her focus for a moment. When she needed help navigating a rough patch, Shawn took over.

Her little blue gloves, far too big for her hands, hung loose at her sides as she followed Shawn. As they passed through a gate, Reilly closed the door behind her mother, and then hurried to chase after her.

And the score is...

The most challenging part of being a father to Reilly is getting her ready for school in the morning. I do not exaggerate. The time between 7:00 and 8:00 every morning is enough to crush even the most patient of souls.

Most of the problem comes from the fact that Reilly has fully discovered her free will. A sample conversation:

Me: “Reilly, time to get dressed.”
Reilly: “No, I’ll do it!”
Me: “Okay, I’ll sit over here at the table.”
Reilly: “No, sit over there daddy! On the couch!”
Me: “Okay, fine. Daddy will sit on the couch and watch you get dressed.”
Reilly: “No, I want to eat my bagel!”
Me: “Okay, you can eat your bagel and then get dressed.”
Reilly: “No! I don’t have to!”
Me: “Reilly, we are going to be late. I need you to get dressed or I’ll have to dress you.”
Reilly: “Okay. I get dressed Daddy.” Reilly then walks over to the couch and is distracted by a puzzle. “Let’s do a puzzle, Daddy!”
Me: Speechless, because my brain has exploded in my skull.

This morning, after not going potty for daddy, not eating her bagel for daddy, throwing her milk on the floor for daddy, and refusing to get dressed for daddy, all the while demanding Special Treats and stamps from daddy, I decided to put Reilly in Time Out.

I counted off a minute, then went back in, gave Reilly a hug, and explained to her that she was in Time Out because she was not listening to her daddy. I then told her that she should come out of Time Out and get dressed.

Her reply: “No! I want to stay in Time Out!”

So how do I respond when my daughter prefers the punishment over the thing she is being punished for?

Reilly 1, Daddy 0.

Ebony and Ivory

Me: "I don't feel good."
Shawn: "What did you eat so far today?"
Me: "About 30 pieces of candy and two Krispy Kremes."

*Silence*

Me: "What did you eat so far today?"
Shawn: "A bunch of celery and two Wasa crackers."

Honey Pie

I think it was Saturday evening when Reilly came up to me in the kitchen and told me that she had to go poopy. (Yes, that’s what she calls it: “poopy.”) She’s been using my bathroom lately, so I walked her over to the toilet, set up her stool (no pun intended) and closed the door. She likes her privacy.

A few minutes later, we heard a call from behind the closed door: “Mommy! Daddy! I went poopy!” Shawn and I rushed over to the bathroom and were greeted by a certain scent which let us know that Reilly had indeed been successful. We helped her wipe up and then gave her hearty applause and congratulations (positive reinforcement, positive reinforcement, positive reinforcement).

To further celebrate, Shawn gave her not one, not two, but three Special Treats (M&M’s). Since she normally maxes out at two, three Special Treats was indeed a momentous occasion.

After the excitement died down, Reilly joined us in the kitchen, where we were cooking dinner. Reilly approached me right away and told me that it was time for me to go poopy. I told her that I didn’t currently have to go poopy. But she insisted, explaining to me that I could get three Special Treats. Though her encouragement was tempting, I tried to explain to her that as much as I might try, there was no poopy in my plans until sometime the next day.

She then said, “Come on, honey.”
I said, “What?”
“Come on, honey, it’s time to go poopy!”

Shawn and I started to die laughing, not because of her insistence, but because of her use of the word ‘honey’ which was so clearly an appropriation of Shawn always calling her by that same word.

Happy Valentine's Day!

It's been baby crazy lately around these parts, so I thought I would send out a hearty congratulations to the three new babies who have entered our cirlce of friends in the past two weeks! (They are all Valentine's Day babies, if you know what I mean.)

Welcome to:

Aidan James Wilson
Born October 10th at 3:19pm
7lbs even, 20 3/4 inches long

Samuel "Sammy" Edward Hendrix
Born October 15th at 11:26am
5lbs, 15oz and 19 1/2 inches long

Lila Katherine Calipari
Born October 25th at 2:00pm
7lbs, 3oz and 21 inches long

Still waiting for one more, Charlie Wong, due in three weeks or sooner...

Week 120 Pictures

Fresh from the Canon, your picture of the week:






For more, click here.

No limp fish here!

When Shawn was away earlier this week, I decided to teach Reilly a proper handshake. For some reason, I have an aversion to a poor handshake, or should I say, I have a true appreciation for a properly executed handshake. Since it is never too early to plant your neuroses in your own child, I taught my baby how to shake my hand.

As Reilly is prone to do, she not only understood what I was trying to teach her, but also shook my big hand with her little one like she’d been doing it her entire life.

I enjoyed our little lesson, then, as I am prone to do, forgot all about it.

Flash forward to yesterday. The phone rings at work.

“Hi, Bri.”

“Hi, Shawn.”

“So, I asked Reilly to give me a high five today, then she told me to shake her hand. Did you teach her that? Because it was really cute.”

“How was her handshake?”

“Good.”

“That’s my girl.”

One mint, or two?

This morning in the car, Reilly asked for a mint. I keep Altoids in the car for bad breath emergencies, and she knows right where they are.

“Daddy, can I have a mint?”

“Sure.”

“I pick a pair?”

“Sure, Reilly.”

Every morning, the first step to getting ready is when we ask Reilly to pick out a pair of underwear to put on. We typically have to make this request a half dozen times before she actually complies.

Because a “pair” of underwear is actually a singular object, when she said “pick a pair” this morning, she was really only asking for one mint.

Protection

Yesterday, we went to the park after school. Reilly asked to go to the swings, but when we got there, three of the four swings were taken up by some loud 12 year old boys. I saw Reilly hesitate to join them, and she looked up to me with a little trepidation on her face.

“Daddy, you protect me?”

“Of course I will protect you, Reilly.”

“Okay!” she yelled, and she ran off to the swing.

There is a difference

This morning while Reilly was watching the show “Franklin” on TV, I set her bagel and juice down before her.

“Here’s your breakfast, Reilly.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“You’re welcome. And thank you for saying ‘thank you.’”

“I didn’t say ‘thank you’ daddy. I said ‘thanks.’”

Week 119 Pictures

Happy Monday!


Click here for more.

Just think how she'd react to Tabasco

Last night I was sitting on the couch in the living room and listening to Shawn and Reilly in the bathroom. Shawn was leading Reilly through her bedtime ritual. I heard the water turn on in the sink, and then Reilly shouted out, “That’s spicy!” which let me know she was brushing her teeth.

You see, being the parents we are, we bought Reilly three different kinds of organic, safe-to-swallow, mild-flavored, ridiculously expensive toothpastes, none of which she liked. We should have known that Reilly would not want her own toothpaste. She wants mommy and daddy’s toothpaste.

So, we let her have a bit of our Crest on her toothbrush. Every night when she first puts it in her mouth and the minty tingle hits her tongue, she exclaims, “That’s spicy!”

I have considered teaching her the word ‘minty’ in place of ‘spicy’ but it is just so damn cute hearing her yell out “That’s spicy!” each night, that I just haven’t been able to do it.

Such a big girl

I am amazed each day on how much Reilly's speech is maturing. Here is an example of a dialogue Shawn had with our 2.3 year old daughter:

Last night, Reilly had a coughing fit that woke her up from her slumber. Shawn picked her up from her crib and brought her into our bed to calm her down.

Reilly ended up sleeping between her mom and dad, her feet at our faces and her head at our knees.

When Reilly woke up this morning, Shawn asked her if she had a good sleep.

Reilly looked up at her and said, “Yes. I’m still a little bit tired though.”

Shawn said, “Okay, baby. We’ll go slow this morning.”

Reilly Grace - Week 118

I was away this week, so I've only got one picture to share, taken by Grandma:




Do you think she was missing her daddy?

Five more things

1) I forget what day it was, maybe last Friday, but Reilly was refusing to let me help her get dressed. I sat down on the couch and told her to go ahead then. Show daddy how you do it. She then shocked me by not only undressing herself, but also dressing herself. All the way down to the socks and shoes. She even got her underwear, shorts, and shirt on facing in the right direction. I was stunned.


2) Reilly’s two cutest mispronunciations: “surprise” is “puh-prize,” and “porcupine” is “porkypine.”


3) Reilly has a fear of thunder, which is probably a good thing for a girl growing up in Florida. The last time it thundered, Reilly pulled me into her room, slammed the door, and said, “Now we’re protected.”


4) Reilly has started telling us stories about past events in her life. For example, she told Shawn a story the other day about her recent haircut:


“Mommy, my lollipop is all gone.”


“It’s all gone?”


“Yeah, I got my haircut with grandma and now my lollipop is all gone.”


5) Last night, after Shawn had put Reilly in her crib and was walking to the door, Reilly called out to her, “Mom, mom, come here. I need to tell you something.”


Shawn walked back over to the crib and said, “What is it, Reilly?”


Reilly responded, “My eyes are blue.”

Puzzling

On Friday, Mrs. A. called Shawn to tell her that Reilly was sick. Diarrhea. Come quick.

Shawn picked up our baby girl from school and brought her home to get cleaned up and down for a nap. Reilly, being a two-year-old—a sick two-year-old—woke up from her nap with devil horns sprouting from her head. It got so bad at one point that Shawn decided to give “Time Out” a try.


Shawn sat Reilly in a chair in the corner of the dining room and told her that she had to stay there for two minutes. Much to her surprise, Reilly not only stayed there, but when the two minutes were up, apologized for kicking her mommy and gave her a hug and kiss to make up.

Flash forward to Sunday afternoon. Reilly and I are playing with a peg puzzle of various shapes. Apparently, the circle, diamond, and star made some bad decisions, because Reilly picked up the three puzzle pieces, walked over the chair and set them down. When I asked her what she was doing, Reilly said quite sternly that the puzzle pieces were, “doing time out.”

(Oil) Change

It’s Saturday morning. I am standing at the counter at my local auto shop, waiting to pay for the oil change they just performed on my car. I have my debit card out and while I wait for my bill, use the card to flick around a little piece of paper that was left on the counter.

The clerk at the counter looks at me with a raised eyebrow, and then says with a wry smile, “Are you playing?”

I laugh and explain to her that I was just at the playground with my daughter, and that the effects haven’t quite worn off yet.

Then, almost as an aside, she says, “Well, she will grow up to break your heart, I can promise you that.”

I am really caught off guard by this comment. Lately, I have been thinking a lot about how Reilly might turn out to be a difficult teenager, but until this moment, haven’t yet considered that my heart might get broken in the process.

Not knowing what to say, I just mumble, “I believe you’re right,” and then sign my receipt and head out the door.

Week 117 Pictures

Reilly has taken to carving apple o' lanterns with her teeth:

For more, click here.

Little Girl Blue

While we were away in New York, Reilly stayed over at her grandma and grandpa’s house. One of the cuter stories that came out of that weekend follows:

When Shawn was a toddler, her mom used to sing her the song “Little Boy Blue.”

Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn.
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy that looks after the sheep?"
He's under the haycock, fast asleep."
Will you wake him? "No, not I;
For if I do, he'll be sure to cry."

When Shawn’s mother (aka “Donna,” aka "Grandma") would say the line, “Will you wake him?" little Shawn would answer, “No, not I” and then her mother would finish the song.

Donna decided to continue that tradition this weekend by teaching Reilly “Little Boy Blue.”

However, when Donna sang the line, “Will you wake him?” Reilly would respond, “Yes! Wake him up!”

Old Home Place

Over the weekend, Shawn and I traveled back to our old home turf. The real purpose of the trip was for Shawn to attend a baby shower for our friend Sara, who is due at the end of October. Unfortunately, we ended up visiting her in the hospital, and it appears that she will now be due today! Welcome to the world, baby Brian Seth Wilson!

I’m not sure how to put this, but with each visit to The City, I feel like I always have a second, underlying purpose: to figure out what my relationship is to New York. The City became a part of my fabric in the five years I was there, and grew to be like a friend to me. And an enemy. And like those complex relationships you often have with certain friends, I am always trying to figure out if I love The City or if I hate it.

Poor Shawn. As we walked through the city streets, I would start nearly every sentence with, “Well, now that is something I love about The City,” or, conversely, “God. I hate that about The City.” This constant back and forth probably made her crazy, since she loves the city wholeheartedly; like a bosom buddy.

I am always trying to make sense of things, and New York City puts this personality trait into overdrive because everything in The City is out in the open, is raw and present. The problem here is that one cannot make sense of The City, there are too many variables. To try is to flirt with insanity. Yet still I try.

In the end, I had fun last weekend, but I mostly had fun because of the people I had around me, old, good friends. We ate sushi, we drank wine, we walked to favorite pubs and old streets, and as good friends are prone to do, we picked up right where we left off.

As Shawn and I rode the A Train back to JFK airport on Sunday, sitting across from us was a stinking bum chugging from a quart of malt liquor. At one stop, the door opened and he stood up to throw his empty bottle into some bushes by the platform. Through the open door came the soft sunlight and cool fall air of the north. At that moment, I was able to distill my conflicting relationship with the city down to one sentence:

At the same time, The City represents everything I can’t take with me, and everything that I am willing to leave behind.

Week 116 Pictures

They say breakfast is the most important meal.

Click here for more.

Proof

Tuesday night while we were sitting on the couch, Shawn read my last blog entry. She laughed, and then we went back and forth trying to decide who it was that Reilly picked up “I a crazy kid,” from. I thought that it might be her, and Shawn claimed that she was pretty sure it was me.

Now, if it we were trying to determine who taught Reilly the word ‘shit’ I would have to claim responsibility. But the whole ‘crazy kid’ thing just didn’t sound like me.

We ended up in a stalemate.

The next morning Shawn came to me with something to confess. Apparently, when she picked up Reilly out of her crib, she said, “Good morning you crazy kid.”

She claimed that it was just because the phrase was fresh in her head from the night before.

Right, Shawn. Sure.

"No"

This morning Reilly was being a two-year-old. By that, I mean that she was just dragging her feet through every morning process. On the potty, she wanted her treat and her hand stamp after she did her business. Make that two hand stamps. Then she got the ink on her fingers and had to wash it off. But the handwashing removed part of her handstamp, so she needed another one.

Then she didn't want to put any clothes on. Though I was tempted to send her to school in the buff, I knew this wouldn't bother her. The kid would go naked 24-7 if we let her. So, I asked her 100 different ways with as many bribes to please, for the love of God, put your underwear on. Her special Elmo underwear.

Her answer? "No."

(Imagine me pulling my hair out.)

I resorted to forcing her into her clothes, which was a terrible idea. Shawn heard the commotion and came in with a cool head and had a talk with Reilly and was able to coax her into her clothes.

At some point in this process, Shawn asked me to please stop pacing the room. It was making her anxious.

Finally, I got Reilly out the door, and after dragging her feet on the walk to the garage, we made it to the car. Of course, she wouldn't let me put her in the carseat. She had to climb in herself. And I wasn't allowed to buckle her in. She wanted to do it.

Once I was sure that she was properly buckled in, I got in the driver's seat, sighed, and started up the car.

Reilly piped up from the back:

"I a crazy kid."

Unsure if she just said what I thought she said, I didn't respond, so she repeated herself:

"Daddy, I a crazy kid."

I laughed.

"Yes you are, Reilly. Yes you are."

Week 115

Attack of the turtles!

Another list

Things I observed on my way to work today:

1) As I leave my neighborhood every morning, I drive through a school zone. There are the requisite flashing lights and orange safety cones plastered with 15 MPH signs. There is also a crossing guard, who acts a bit differently than most crossing guards. Instead of standing there and watching the traffic go by, she waves and says good morning to every car that passes. I know this sounds a bit sentimental, but it makes my day.

Every morning.

Until I get on the Interstate.

2) I once read on another blog that the writer decides whether to let someone into his lane based on what bumper sticker the car is sporting. I let in anyone that turns on their turn signal, since that is the law and I am for the most part an anal law-following man. However, just because I let someone in with a lame bumper sticker doesn’t mean that I won’t judge them and say snarky comments.

The driver I let in today I call the I call the “triple threat”: A pickup truck with a Gator license tag, a W bumper sticker and those plastic testicles hanging off the trailer hitch.

Classy.

3) On the drive over the bridge today, I approached a car that was weaving a bit in the lane. As I passed the car, I saw the reason for the erratic driving. The driver, a young girl of let’s say 24, was rocking out in her seat, bouncing and singing and thrashing her hair around her face. I couldn’t help but laugh. Everyone does this from time to time, right? What was killing me though, and what I wonder every time I come across this situation, is what not knowing what song has so excited the driver.

Or perhaps I should be wondering what drug has so excited the driver?

Five more things

Here are five more things you might not know about Reilly:

1) Reilly has learned how to count to 10. She sometimes gets stuck at 7 and reverts back to 4, but for the most part, can do 1-10 in short order.

2) Reilly has learned how to sing her ABC’s. Like the counting, she sometimes gets stuck in the L,M,N,O,P section, but for the most part can belt out the song pretty well. She can identify by sight about half of the letters, and understands that “R-E-I-L-L-Y” spells her name.

This morning, as Shawn dropped Reilly off at school, she drew a heart on a piece of paper and wrote Reilly’s name in the middle of it. Reilly look up at Shawn and said, “That’s my name!”

3) To keep Reilly calm while on the way to preschool, Shawn and I redirect her unhappiness by singing. Now when Reilly is in the car, she just sings to herself, mostly songs that we sing to her at bedtime or that she learns at school.

Lately, she has also started humming the songs, or the bits that she can’t remember. I don’t think I have to tell you how cute this is, but sometimes I like to really drive home the point, in case you’re not getting it: the humming is super cute, and makes me well up sometimes.

4) Trapped inside the house one rainy day, I built Reilly a fort out of pillows and a blanket on the couch. I called it her ‘cave.’ She instantly changed the word to ‘cage.’ The game went like this: she would hide in her fort and when she peeked her head out, I would growl, “Get back in your cage!” to which she would respond with a squeal and a dive back into the pillow fort. We repeated the game like 100 times that day. It was fun, but now she wants me to make her ‘cage’ every afternoon.

I’m just dreading the day that her teacher pulls me aside and says, “Reilly says you put her in a cage every night at home.”

5) In the morning, we like to take Reilly into bed with us for a little snuggle. Reilly likes to snuggle, but only for about 30 seconds or so. Then she slides out of bed, puts her face in my face, and says, “Get up daddy!” Then she walks to the other side of the bed and says, “Get up mommy! Feet on floor!” Then she walks back to me and says, “Daddy get up! Daddy make coffee!”

*Sigh* She’ll make a great drill sergeant some day.

One if by day, two if by night

We returned from Salem last night. Having had a day to process our trip, here is my impression of that old city:

By day, Salem is a quaint, almost quintessential New England town, with a heavy dose of history. The streets and public spaces are immaculate and designed in such a way that tourists and locals alike might walk to their respective destinations. You will walk on brick sidewalks, cross cobblestone streets. You will see homes as old as the Declaration of Independence. Overall, you will enjoy a picturesque and historic city.

By night, Salem’s underbelly rolls to the forefront. Like New Orleans, there is a black magic counterculture that hides during the day, only seep from the cracks as the night falls. It is at this time that the history of Salem’s witch trials becomes personified in costumed, face-painted weirdo wannabe vampires and mystics. The strangeness is as funny as it is weird as it is downright creepy. In the same way that religious zealots scare me, so too do these witchy women.

My final recommendation would be to make Salem a daytrip only, unless you’re into sorcerers and the like. I’d also mention that you should avoid the week around Halloween, which one local called “the Mardi Gras of the Northeast.”

Week 114 Pictures

We're back from Salem, MA. Here is my favorite photo from our trip:


Click here for more.

Hold your applause

Every night, Shawn and I take Reilly through the same bedtime ritual: dinner, bath, milk, stories, nightlight, songs.

Here is the setlist from last night:

Set I: The Ants Go Marching (verses 1, 2 & 3)

Set II: Row, Row, Row Your Boat --> ABC’s

Encore: Happy Birthday

The audience seemed pleased with the one-man-band's song selection, and rewarded him not with applause, but with sound sleep.

Another Tuesday

This morning was perfect. Reilly was up and out the door in record time. We sang “The ants go marching” all the way to preschool, and once there, she ran gleefully into her classroom, hung up her backpack, and then kissed me goodbye. As I backed out the door, the teachers told me how wonderful my daughter is. I was glad that they thought so too. I was back in the car and on my way to work, the clock reading 7:46. I smiled. I was going to be early.

When the phone rang and I saw it was Shawn, I recounted our seamless morning and spread the good cheer. As I approached the bridge, I told Shawn how beautiful the sky was today, how a cold front had brought in rain and scrubbed the air clean. It was then, at that moment, that I remembered what today is.

The guilt was immediate: How had I forgotten? At the same time, I felt some relief; the forgetting was progress for me.

In the past, I have anticipated this day for weeks, the storm in my head growing worse by the day. That I had not gone through this tedium was a relief, and also a testament to time, which slowly erases the edges around a memory until even the center begins to fade. At the same time, I feel the need to remember, to pay due respect to the thousands of civilians who lost their lives that day, and the thousands of soldiers who have lost their lives since.

This feeling of being caught in-between the need to forget and the need to remember lends a sort of miasma to my day, but underneath all that foggy mess are two steady feelings: one of anger, and one of sadness.

As I walked across campus this morning, I saw the flag was at half mast, and I thought, I can’t wait for this day to be over. Time, do your work, and quickly.

Skipping Aisle 20

I was going to start this blog by typing, “On Saturday, the family went grocery shopping,” but I decided that I would first have to explain why the whole family has to go to the grocery store together.

There are two ways to grocery shop when you have a two-year-old in your family:
1) Both parents shop with said two-year-old, or
2) One parent shops alone.

For a time, I would take Reilly grocery shopping with me. However, I have come to understand (through a difficult trial and error period) that it is not an option for only one parent to take a pre-school age child to the local Publix.

Why, you ask? Reilly only rides in the cart for about two minutes before asking to get out. It is possible to keep her in the cart, but one has to bribe her with constant feeding. The last time the two of us shopped together, there were about 10 boxes of food open by the time we reached the checkout line.

If I were to refuse to open the box of goldfish or cheerios or gummy snacks, then she would whine to get out of the cart until my ears fell off. To let her out of the cart creates a bull in the china shop type situation, and I think everyone knows how hard it is to chase after a toddler when you’re pushing a shopping cart and at the same time trying to remember what sort of tofu your wife likes to eat.

So, on Saturday, the family went grocery shopping.

The best part of the shopping trip was when we passed aisle 20. The diaper aisle. Shawn and I were giddy.

That’s right, Reilly is potty trained. Now, she’s not 100% by any means. She still sleeps in a diaper, and has the occasional accident, but for the most part, she pee-pees in the potty with no problem. And, true to her independent nature, she has even started going to the bathroom by herself. In fact, just this morning she announced that she had to go and started walking back to the bathroom. I followed to see if she needed any assistance, and when I reached the door she put her hand out to stop me and said, “No, daddy! Go in the chicken, daddy!”

(For some reason, Reilly reverses the words ‘chicken’ and ‘kitchen.’ When she wants dinner, she asks to cook some ‘kitchen’. When she wants to get a juice out of the refrigerator, she leads me to the ‘chicken’.)

Back to the potty training. I suppose some people would like to know how we did it. No? Too bad, I’m too proud to stay silent. First, we modeled the behavior that we expected, which is to say, we brought her to the bathroom with us each and every time we had to go. Second, we bought “Potty Power,” a potty training DVD. Third, we rewarded any successful potty attempts with a “special treat” (an M&M) and a flower stamp on her hand (stamp it up!).We also gave her a lot of encouragement; clapping and woohooing and so forth. When Reilly had to go, we often had to sit for dozens of minutes at a stretch, so patience was a huge ingredient. We never pushed her, and never made a big deal about accidents, which seemed to happen mostly on our rugs and not on our hardwood floor, which made cleanup that much more frustrating.

In the end, all the work that we did—as parents—was all just a set-up for pre-school, where the potty training was finalized. There, it was gentle peer-pressure and a kind teacher that brought Reilly the rest of the way. The first week, she came home in a different outfit each day. Lately, when I pick her up, she’s wearing the same outfit we took her to school in.

The kid just makes me proud.

To end, I will quote a song from “Potty Power”:

No more diapers for me!
Say good bye to diapers:
Bye-bye!

"Behind Bars"

Your picture of the week:

Sometimes I do act like a six-year-old

As Reilly and I ate our cereal at the dining room table this morning, she suddenly paused and addressed me.

“Reilly is two.”

“That’s right, Reilly,” I answered.

She paused, still looking at me.

“Daddy is six,” she said.

I laughed a little, then said, “Okay, sure.”

“And mommy is seven,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, “and how old is Grandma?”

I could see Reilly searching her mind for the answer, but instead of replying, she turned back to her breakfast.

I guess she couldn’t count that high.

She’s got it backwards

This morning I got Reilly’s milk ready and then handed the sippy cup off to her. Perhaps it was her early morning grogginess, but she dropped it and the cup landed squarely on her toe. She had a natural reaction to the pain, which included some crying and tears. What came next, though, was one of the sweet quirks I love about my daughter.

After I comforted her, Reilly turned to me and said, “Sorry, daddy.”

Since she first started talking, Reilly has always apologized to me (and Shawn) when she hurts herself. The apology is always difficult for me to process emotionally. On one hand, it is terribly endearing, but on the other hand, it makes me feel sad that she thinks she has to apologize for her pain.

If the injury is not too bad, then Reilly will often say, “It’s okay, daddy. Reilly’s okay.”

In a similar vein, when Reilly wants to be picked up, she will turn to us and demand, “Hold you!”

We always reply, “Do you want me to hold you?”

Reilly will then reach out her arms and say “yes,” like Duh. That is what I just said.

She’s still working on her pronouns.

Sticks!

The other night, we had my mother over for dinner to belatedly celebrate her birthday. To start the evening, we had put out an appetizer of olive tapenade over crackers, and a little bowl of marinated white beans. The crackers you ate with your fingers. The beans you ate with a toothpick.

Reilly, being her usual curious self, was very interested in the toothpick-impaled beans. Already a bean lover, using the toothpick as a utensil elevated this food to the sublime.

Fast forward to the next night. Shawn and I are looking at Reilly, who is staring down at her usual dinner of chicken nuggets, peas, and zucchini, as if something is missing. She looks back at us and asks for “sticks.” When she realizes that we do not understand what she is asking for, she goes into lock-down mode and refuses to eat until we honor her demand. It takes us a minute to figure it out, but we finally realize that she is asking for toothpicks.

That night she ended up eating her whole meal with toothpicks, requesting a new toothpick for each piece of food on her plate. (It’s a good thing we had a whole box of them.) Aside from the two-dozen toothpicks she went through, all went well with dinner except for the peas. Toothpicks are not so good for peas.

Carpooling

This morning, as I hurtled down the interstate toward work, I saw some movement out of my peripheral vision. To my right—riding shotgun in the passenger seat—was a little grey and brown lizard. He cocked his head, looked at me, and then faced forward again.

I thought this gesture seemed awfully nonchalant considering that the lizard was making his first trip out of Pinellas County.

Bob Barker's newest venture

Today the family went to Weedon Island to do a little hiking amongst the palmettos and mangroves. Reilly held up like a champ, and though we carried her a bit of the way, she did much of the walking herself.


The only problem we ran into was the bugs. The "no-seeums" were having a bug buffet all over my body. To escape the microscopic biting flies, we decided to head into the nature center. As we came in the door, I realized my problem when I read this sign suggesting items one would need for a successful day on the trail:

Silly me, I had put on bug spray instead of bug spay.

The Things They Buried

In January of last year, we bought a house. We fell in love with the house because it was an old house, and because even though it was built in 1934, we are only the second owner. The house has its original light fixtures and wood flooring. In some places, I’m pretty sure it still has its original paint.

Sometimes, I dislike the house because it is an old house, and because little things keep going wrong with it, like finding a large leak in the roof. A $1,600 leak.

Many young boys want to be firemen or astronauts when they grow up. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an anthropologist. I wanted to find dinosaur bones and use my special brushes to gently expose the ancient fossils. I wanted to travel the world just to dig in the dirt or explore ancient tombs, pyramids, and the like. (It goes without saying that I was heavily influenced by the Indiana Jones series.)

One thing that is great about our old house is that it brings out the archeologist in me. Whenever I find an occasion to dig in the backyard, it takes only moments to find some sort of artifact from the previous owner. In fact, I have a collection of interesting items that I parade out when people come over so that they might help me discover why there was a coffee-can shaped concrete block with a metal 10-inch metal screw buried in my backyard.

Yesterday, I cleared out an old, overgrown garden in the backyard. The size of the plot was six feet by six feet. Here are the items I found buried in the dirt, starting at the top and rotating clockwise:

(For scaling purposes, these items were placed on one of those high-quality outdoor patio tables.)

- A piece of plastic covered wire
- The top to a sardine can
- A piece of crimped copper tubing
- A grey plastic cap
- A piece of black tar paper
- A square terra cotta tile
- A rectangular piece of white metal
- A rusted clamp
- A green metal pole
- Two pieces of old roofing tile
- A four foot metal pipe
- A piece of curved concrete

I was thinking about putting the whole lot on eBay. What do you think the starting bid should be?

From the Portfolio of our Budding Young Artist

"The Face"



"Loose Circle, Tight Circle"


"Dots"

'Tis Herself

Reilly has a onesie that she has since grown out of, it is white with green lettering that states: “Tis Herself.” I believe her grandmother gave it to her.

Lately, when I watch Reilly I am envious of how much she is herself. She has the same personality she was born with—is so happy and full of life, so spirited. Her personality is the closest now to its original starting point than it will ever be, I guess. As she moves on through school and life, she will assimilate the personality traits of the people around her, become more like the crowd around us all.

Shawn and I try to cultivate her personality, try not to press too much of ourselves onto her, though a certain amount is inevitable. We are her closest models, and to that point, we try to be the best role models that we can. I sometimes find this to be a burden, to always be mindful of how I am presenting myself. Another problem is that this self-awareness can sometimes turn into self-criticism. I constantly have to remind myself that I am a good dad, and that I am doing a good job, but it is easy to feel otherwise.

In college I had the opportunity to reinvent myself, or rather, to be more like who I was under all those layers of high school. In New York I lost myself in many small ways, and now it seems I’m reinventing myself again, or, I’m just realizing that I’ve been reinventing myself all along, into a father, a person more responsible out of necessity. I think I like this self the best.

Yesterday when Shawn dropped Reilly off at school, the kids were already out on the playground. Shawn sent her off and closed the gate, and when she turned back, saw that Reilly was just standing there. When Reilly saw that Shawn was leaving, she sat down next to the chain link fence, stuck her little hands through the links and waved solemnly goodbye. It was heartbreaking to Shawn, and when Shawn related the story to me, it was heartbreaking for both of us.

That image was burned in my mind all day yesterday, and remains there today. The self I am now, a father—a working father—might be my favorite self, but is also the most emotionally taxing, and the guilt that comes from being this self is the worst guilt of all.

Backpack-Backpack! Backpack-Backpack!

On Dora the Explorer, there is a character in the cartoon called ‘Backpack.’ Unsurprisingly, he is a purple squarish bag with two straps which go over Dora’s shoulders for the purpose of transporting her things. He’s got his own little theme song and everything.

Reilly loves Backpack, so we bought her a replica at the local toy store. (And no, it’s not on the list of recalled items from China.) The backpack is cute on her, and she loves to put her little toys in it and carry them around. It’s the perfect size for a toddler, maybe 8x10 inches.

Last week, Shawn and I went to Reilly’s new preschool for parent orientation. Among the many things we had to figure out was how to get her cot sheet, lunch, blanket, and other school items to her classroom. The teacher suggested buying her a backpack. In my head, I’m thinking, check, already got one of those. The teacher, showing her skills, read my mind and said, “It has to be a big backpack. Big enough for all her things. Otherwise they will get lost or taken home by another child.”

Imagining the drama of some kid taking home Reilly’s blankey, we decided it would be wise to shop for another backpack. So, last night when we returned home, Shawn found some website where we could browse through a variety of backpacks. Straight off, she found a couple she liked, but all of them were too small, about the size of Reilly’s current Dora backpack.

Eventually, we settled on one that was about 18x26” and were about to purchase it when I realized one problem. The backpack, at 26” tall, would probably be too big. Reilly is only 33 inches tall, and the distance from her head to her shoulders has to be at least seven or eight inches, which means, according to my expert calculations… that the bottom of the backpack would come to rest right around the soles of her faux Crocs.

Reilly sez:

It's the weekend...

...so have a ball!

(Or two.)

On the topic of "Good"

This morning, after I dropped off Reilly at preschool, I called Shawn on the phone and we had a conversation about “good.” More specifically, we talked about the different types of good people out there.

There are people who are good because their religion tells them to be good. Others are good to get attention. The word that comes to mind with this type of good person is ‘martyr’. And by martyr I do not mean the I’ll-blow-you-up-with-my-car-bomb-type, but instead the I’m-holier-than-thou-type. (A kindler, gentler martyr.) And some are good because of an ethical reason aside from religion, because they think that the foundation of a good society is made of good people.

There are plenty of good people out there, and I don’t mean to come off as disparaging of any of these groups. What I am getting around to is one specific type of good person, the person who is good not because of what they are, or how they act, but simply because they are made up of the fabric of good. This person is good for no reason other than that he or she knows no other way to act.

Shawn and I were having this conversation about good because we are lucky enough to have a preschool teacher for Reilly that falls into this final category. Miss A. is a kindler, gentler soul, the type of person that you feel great about leaving your daughter with because if she absorbs even an ounce of her teacher’s goodness, she will become that much better of a person. As a parent, to be in her presence is to at once be relaxed and disarmed. Her patience, and her love for the children who are her students is nothing short of magic.

Also, she is a Florida State grad, which makes her good on yet another level.

Photo Essay: School Days

Reilly had her first day of pre-school on Monday. Here she is at the start of the day:



Here she is at the end of the day:

Five things, reincarnated

To reinstate an old theme, here are five things you might not know about Reilly:

1) Number one here is the most recent, in fact, this event just happened about an hour ago: Reilly took a shower by herself. By that I mean, I turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature, and handed her the soap, and she took it from there. She even shampooed her hair. When I offered to come in and help her out, she said, “No daddy! Out!”

I took that as my cue to go grab the video recorder.

In the past, Reilly didn’t much care for showers, opting instead for the tried and true bathing technique for toddlers: the bubble bath. The one time I tried to take her into the shower, she hated it, she found the spray of water overwhelming to the nth degree, and let me know my opening her mouth wide and screaming her lungs out.

It wasn’t until we took her up to North Carolina that she took a liking to showers. The issue there was that the cabin we had rented for our vacation had no bathtub; only a shower. Being that we were there for a full seven days, we figured Reilly would have to adapt to standing up while she bathed. It took a couple of tries, and a loofa with the head of a teddy bear sewed on to it, but she adjusted by the third day. That teddy bear loofa saved us from a week of smelly baby.

Thank you, teddy bear loofa.

2) Reilly can say the word ‘overcast’ with perfect pronunciation. Shawn taught it to her today.

Now she knows a synonym to ‘cloudy.’

3) Today, Shawn asked Reilly, “Who’s your mommy?”

Reilly answered: “Shawn.”

4) The other day, I left Reilly in the care of her Nana while I went to work. When I returned from work, Reilly had learned the following letters and associations:

D is for Daddy
M is for Mommy
G is for Grandma
N is for Nana
P is for Papa Bear
R is for Reilly

That’s what happens when you leave your child with an elementary school teacher for a day.

5) Reilly can read. Not really. But she will sit on the couch in her playroom, the couch that once served as pretty much the only piece of furniture in our apartment in New York, and flip the pages, chatting away. It is endearing.

In other reading news, we’re potty training Reilly. Whenever she sits on the potty, we give her a “Special Treat.” (Special Treat = M&M.) Then, we read a variety of potty books to kill time while she works up the moxie to take a leak. Her favorite potty book is, “Time to Pee,” by Mo Willems.

The beginning of the book starts, “If you ever get that funny feeling…”
The next line is, “Don’t worry!”
And then Reilly will chime in and beat me to the next line, “Don’t fret!”

The first time she did it, I thought she was reading the book. Then, realizing that she’s smart, but not that smart, I understood that she had memorized the book.

I can just hear the chorus of Nana and Grandma from the distance: BUT SHE IS THAT SMART!

My baby’s got metrics

At some point over the last two years, I’ve noticed that in the business world, the word ‘statistics’ is steadily being replaced by ‘metrics’. I don’t like the word ‘metrics’. To me, it sounds pretentious.

Lately, however, I’ve noted that the word has worked its way into my vocabulary. First it popped out at a staff meeting. As soon as I said it, my internal monologue went into alarm mode: Metrics? Who do you think you are dropping that word, fancy boy? Unfortunately, the word continues to claim its space in my lexicon, slowly pushing out poor old ‘statistics’.

Anyway, enough blather. My baby’s got metrics!

• At her two-year check-up, Reilly weighed 25lbs, 3oz, which put her in the 29th percentile for weight.
• She was 33½in tall, which put her in the 37th percentile for height.

She remains thinner than she is tall, and though they didn’t measure her head this time, she is still a bit top-heavy, owing to her big brain and all. Of course, all these metrics just confirm what we already know. We didn’t need a doctor’s visit to realize that our little baby is growing to be more and more like a girl every day.

Round and Round

Reilly calls the game “round and round.” To play the game, you run around in circles in the living room until you’re dizzy. The only problem is that Reilly doesn’t get dizzy. The kid does 3, 4, 5, 6 laps and is still circling when daddy hits the floor.

You should also make some sort of noise while playing “round and round.” Unsurprisingly, girlish screams seem to be the choice of my two-year-old. Unfortunate for anyone standing nearby, I try to mimic her.

I play the “round and round” game because I am my daughter’s father, and with that responsibility comes the requirement of playing games that one might find annoying. Or sickening.

I’ve never liked anything that spins me around. One of the most horrifying events of my childhood was a ride on the teacups at Disney World. After only two rotations, I began to feel nauseous. A hundred or so rotations later, I was soaked in sweat and green.

My weak stomach is also a problem when it comes to seasickness. I am the last guy you want to invite on a boat. I’m fine inshore, but once we get a mile out and the horizon disappears and the waves pick up, it’s like being back on the teacups again. Bring me on you next fishing trip, and you won’t need any chum.

When I play the “round and round” game, and stop after the second or third lap around the living room, Reilly will say, “Daddy! Round and round!” Like, come on, man, let’s go! We’re playin’ here, dad. And so I suck it up and keep on running, happy to be playing with Reilly, happier that yet another of my weak genes was not inherited by my daughter.

Paul's rash

A few months ago, I got an email from my friend Paul. I’ve known Paul since graduate school—about nine years now. We sat next to each other on the first day of orientation, and I noticed that we had on the same pair of sandals—the type made from thick straps of leather. The ones that my brother derisively called my “Jesus sandles.”

So I turned to this guy next to me and said, “Nice sandals.”

He laughed and we started talking and were pretty tight since. We’ve floated in and out of each other’s lives, he was in NYC a few years we were there, but now lives in Austin. What can I say of Paul but that if you were to measure a person by the type of people he has around him, Paul is a real class act. He’s responsible for bringing a lot of good people into my life, people that I have come to know as friends.

Since we were in writing classes together, when we email it is perfunctory that one asks the other how the writing is going.

Not long ago, I stopped writing this blog and opted instead to just put up photos. Why did I stop writing? I don’t know. I do know, though. I mean, it was several reasons, but none of which were really enough to make me stop the blog altogether. I’ve done this many times throughout my writing life, where I take a month off, or a few months, or in this case, seven months. I’ve never really understood it, and in many ways, it has bothered me, when the muse just gets up and leaves the room and I’m left feeling torn about not writing, equal parts relieved and lacking.

So when he wrote me this email a few months ago, he summed up, as a talented writer would, what writing is to some writers, many writers:

“You writing any these days? Maybe we should exchange stuff sometime? I rarely have time to update my blog, unfortunately. But this summer I plan to write like a madman.The rash comes and goes. You know how it is.”

This email was a revelation to me, and somehow allowed me to exit this in-between stage and to forgive myself for whatever reason I wasn’t writing. To begin to think creatively again. And then, like he said, it comes.

The rash is back.

Week 110 Pictures

Today, last week's pictures.
Tomorrow, a post. With words.

Click here.

Week 109 Pictures

This week, last week.
Tomorrow, Colorado.

Click here.

Week 108 Pictures

We stayed in a lot this weekend, it was just too hot to go outside with Reilly. When we did get outside, I snapped this photo:





To see the rest of this week's set, click here.

Reilly Grace - Weeks 106-107

**Warning: Family vacation photos ahead**

We spent the last week at a cabin in the woods of North Carolina. Click here to view our little hiker in action.

Two Years, One Hundred Photos

The other night, I went back and looked through the 105 weeks of photos that I've taken of Reilly. It's hard to explain the emotions I felt--to see her as a one-day-old, to see her first tooth again, to see all her smiles (so many!), some drool, some tears, some tired eyes...

How far she's come, from baby to baby girl, and how far Shawn and I have come, as parents.

I thought it would be fun to distill those thousands of photos down to my favorite 100 shots and post them here. When selecting them, I chose photos that showed Reilly and Reilly only, and ones that showed as much of her face as possible. There won't be any shots of Reilly with Dad, or Reilly with Mom, (though I could do another 100 photo album of my daughter and my wife together).

I tried to choose my #1 favorite, but it was impossible. I'll leave it up to you, then. Which is your favorite?

Click here to view the Top 100. (Best viewed as a slideshow. Just click the tab in the upper right corner on the Smugmug page.)

Week 105 Pictures

Here you are, another short week: Click here.

Week 104

Reilly turns two. Click it.

Week 103 Pictures

Lots of photo opportunities this weekend. Unfortunately, my hands were either wet from being in the pool, or occupied with beer, to take many pictures. Here are the ones that made it: click here.

Week 102 Pictures

Cake, and a visit from the vaccuum fairy: Click here to find out what I mean.

Weeks 100-101 Pictures

A double-dip of photos for you this week, including Reilly's first professional haircut and first ice cream cone. Click here to view.

Week 99 Pictures

Here you go, Week niner-niner at your service: CLICK IT.

Your picture of the week:

Week 98 Pictures

Here is your picture of the week.



Click for here for more.

Week 97 Pictures

Another short week, as Shawn and I spent the weekend out of town without--*gasp*--Reilly.

Have some pigtails:

Week 96 Pictures

Week 96 pics are up, including a trip to the easel, a trip the park, and a trip to the zoo. Trip on over to the Smugmug site by clicking here.

Your picture of the week:

Week 95 Pictures

Here you go, week 95 at it's finest: clickity-clack

Week 94 Pictures

Here's your week 94 pics, complete with a quick trip to New York Citeeeee!

Click here.

Week 93 Pictures

Whee! Week 93! Click here for a short set.

Week 92 Pictures

Here are the week 92 pictures, complete with snakes, ducks, and one dirty toddler. Click here to view.

Week 91 Pictures

Your weekly pictures, Easter edition! Click here to view: