(Please note my excellent grammar in the subject line.)
So much for thinking it would be several weeks, if not months before I heard back regarding my graduate school application. I was informed a few minutes ago, via e-mail, that I have been accepted into the Indiana University Master’s in Journalism program. Holy shit, this is actually going to happen! I’m going to go run around the block ten times to celebrate, then probably puke from excitement.
I’ve been watching afternoon episodes of Being Bobby Brown the last couple of weeks. We assumed it for the last decade, but Bobby and Whitney are officially insane, aren’t they? You don’t act like that on national TV if that’s not who you really are, right? When the cameras turn off, they don’t magically transform into the black Cleavers, do they? There’s a part of me that feels dirty about watching it, since you’re seeing the basis for years and years of therapy for their kids in each episode.
I just realized the error of the stats I shared with you earlier this week. M’s head is 48 centimeters around, not 48 inches. I’m sure some of you caught and laughed at my error. It’s still a big head, but it’s not four feet around. S. thought my error was very funny.
M. had her 12 month check-up today. 27 3/4", 10-25th percentile. 22 lbs, 12 oz., 75th percentile. Head circumference, 48", 95th percentile! To quote our pediatrician, “Do big heads run in either of your families?”
I’m never disappointed by the people I see when I’m out and about. There’s always someone acting like a jackass or dressed inappropriately to entertain me. It’s one of the true joys of living in the Midwest. Example: I was at Target Sunday and saw a guy walking around with a shirt that said “<a href=“http://64.77.21.137/cat.asp?flt=320&ltr=A&nav=11&prd=14540”>Jerkmeoff</a>.” I think it’s supposed to be a parody of a Smirnoff shirt. I hope. I guess.
Almost a year ago, I brought back two large boxes of old cassette tapes from my step-dad’s home in Kansas City. I’ve tallied those up in a spreadsheet and have a couple writing ideas based on the results that I will get to one day.
Yesterday, however, I took the rather new-millennium step of packing all my CDs away. I already had a large box of all the CDs in my collection that were either crap or rarely played.
Many others have written about this connection, but I for one think it’s very cool that I’m part of the generation that produced Lance Armstrong and Tiger Woods. Lance avoided the curse of my recurring dream (Which, by the way, entailed him losing control on a mountain descent and going over a guardrail. I had this dream at least ten times over the past year.) and retired at the top of his game, with no questions about his ability left to be answered.
I can say, without reservation, that M.’s first birthday was a great success. She got to spend some quality time in the pool. She took two very good naps. Ate some tasty food. Got some presents. And best of all, had a fat slice of her own birthday cake. We kept things small and informal; only four relatives came over for the celebration. Since we were doing things at night, we figured it best not to overwhelm her just before bedtime.
It’s hard to believe that M. turns one year old today. I’m not sure what’s harder to comprehend, though. The changes we’ve made as a family over those 12 months, or the amount of development in M. over that same time. You look at a one-year-old and imagine all of the growing, skill discovery and mastery she still has to do. But really, she will never grow as fast as she has since her birth.
I brought back several boxes of books and other old items from Kansas City two weeks ago and have slowly been working my way through them. Two absolute gems of finds were my sixth and eighth grade yearbooks (I don’t know if seventh grade is just located elsewhere or if it was destroyed thanks to an especially unfortunate picture of your favorite blogger that year). As you can imagine, each yearbook was good for quite a few laughs.
Today is one of those brilliant days when S. is working normal people hours and M. is at the in-laws. That means daddy can do lots of stuff. Here’s my To-Do List:
Finish grad school application (Only two weeks later than I had planned). Write thank you notes to people who wrote me recommendations. Complete my blog post about the comments in my middle school yearbooks. Sort books I brought home from KC.
Our top-notch plumbing team finally removed all their equipment from our property this morning. What should have been a one-day project spilled over parts of three days. In the process, a neighbor’s irrigation line was cut, the phone line was severed, the plumber’s tractor broke down in our neighbor’s driveway (and sat motionless for roughly 24 hours - luckily the neighbors had both of their cars out of the garage), three of our neighbors along with our house went without power for seven hours on Monday (only 89˚ that day), and S.
A rare weekend post. Tomorrow is the day the plumbers/electrical people come to hopefully repair our sewer problems for good. It’s only supposed to be 90, so going with out A/C won’t suck at all. Thankfully, I found a sitter so I can stay here and monitor the work while M. chills in climate-controlled nirvana.
Here’s a running diary of my morning with M. Friday.
4:45: M. cries. Wake up and check her.
Goodbye: Formula. M. had her final two ounces of Similac yesterday. We’ve been giving her 50/50 bottles of formula and milk since we returned from KC. The last can of formula is gone and she’s on the cow full-time now. She doesn’t seem to have noticed the switch at all. As an added bonus, we’re only using a bottle before bed now. She gets a sippy cup the rest of the day.
I made it to the 8th inning in last night’s MLB All-Star game, which I believe is the latest I’ve made it in 4-5 years. See, it’s not just fatherhood that slows you down!
My man DTS posted some thoughts about the All-Star game yesterday. Perhaps it’s the difference between growing up in St. Louis and Kansas City, because I always loved the All-Star break. Maybe Cards fans were always comfortable with knowing people nationally understood what St.
“An infernal, murderous pace.” “Vinokourov is about to pop.” “What we’re seeing is a man destroying all of his competitors.” “Lance Armstrong is an angry, angry man.”
I don’t know what I enjoy more about watching OLN’s coverage of the Tour de France. Lance Armstrong’s sublime performance or the pitch-perfect comments the announcers use to describe what is happening. Today was the second snapshot moment for Lance in this year’s tour.
There’s nothing like the feeling of coming home after a vacation. You get to sleep in your own bed, control the food in the refrigerator, don’t have to be polite to people anymore. Yet there’s also the sense of malaise that kicks in. After all, you’ve probably been looking forward to the trip for several months and now it has come and gone.
I must say, our daughter did phenomenally well on the trip.
The only good thing about having another sewer line backup is the fact the plumber who was scheduled to pay us a visit between 5-7 got bogged down on his early job. When the emergency replacement finally showed up at 8:30, we had earned a $300 credit on our bill. For those of you who aren’t homeowners and have never had to pay for a plumber to do more than fix a leaky faucet, yes, we still dropped some money even after the credit.
Is there a scientific/mathematical term for the change in a baby’s level of steadiness and propensity to make sudden movements as they get closer to dangerous objects? For example, M’s ability to remain stationary while holding onto something gets progressively worse the closer she gets to the sharp corner of a coffee table or to our brick fireplace. She is also much more likely to squat down or stand from a kneeling position quickly when she’s directly next to something she can bang her head on than if she’s just sitting in the middle of the room grasping a toy.
In our cul-de-sac, there are several families that have teenage boys. Most of them are really good kids; super polite and friendly and respectful of their neighbors. Of course, the oldest just turned 15 so there’s plenty of time for that to change.
One of our next door neighbors is a 14 year old who just finished 8th grade this spring. When we moved in, he was kind of a small guy with thick, wavy hair.