Bye, bye, binkie.

Honestly, I don't even know when it happened officially. But I realized this morning that we are totally binkie free. Actually have been for quite some time.

When he turned 2 (April 15), we started allowing the binkie when he was in the crib, only. Aka bedtime and nap time. And as soon as he got out of the crib, we would drop it back in and say, "See you later!" I think we had about 4 in the rotation at that time, and as he started to bite through them I'd just toss them out one by one. There aren't any left.

So that's it. No more binkie. He's never even asked for it. I would guess it's been nearly a month or two by now. Is it really that easy?

And to the Moms that totally experienced Hiroshima Pt. 2 when doing the binkie cease and desist (or some other version of binkie banishment that involves shipping it off to Santa for orphans that don't have binkies, recycling it for Captain Planet, or sending it to binkie heaven...I've read some cray-zee stories, for real), you are not allowed to hate me. I didn't plan it this way. I honestly thought we would have WW3 over this. It just sort of happened.

As payback for this little slice of binkie perfection, I fully expect potty training and moving to a big boy bed to be hellacious. Stay tuned.

At the tone, the time will be...

Remember the time lady? Ha. I was totally reminiscing about her the other day. My Dad was super obsessive about the clocks in our house when I was little--ensuring that each one was set to the actual, real time. He was super specific. Like an astronaut, only without the bubble head. So I have many a fond memory of my Dad telling us to call 894-1212 to get the exact time and repeat it to him. Verbatim. Live. To the nanosecond.

"Good evening. At the tone, the time will be 6:24, and forty seconds. Beeeeeeeep." Click click.

"Good evening. At the tone, the time will be 6:24, and fifty seconds. Beeeeeeeep." Click click.

"Good evening. At the tone, the time will be 6:25, exactly. Beeeeeeeep."

Obviously, I did it with a British accent, ensuring it was as ridiculous as possible for my flawless reenactment to Joe. I also made my Dad sound like Father Time himself. On purpose. But that's neither here nor there, because Joey actually ratted me out to my Dad. Via email!

____________________________________

From: Joey
Subject: Sticking up (read: kissing ass) for my father-in-law
 
Quite recently your daughter made fun of you for making her call the official time lady so you could set all of the clocks in your house to the correct time. She said it was a funny childhood memory and thought you were a bit obsessive for doing it. I said it was brilliant! If it were not for the cable box and our cell phones letting us know what the time was, I would make Alex call the time lady also.
 
From: Dad
Subject: RE: Sticking up (read: attempting to be funny) for my father-in-law (son-in-law)
 
Thank you Joe--at least somebody sticks up for me! It was brilliant and the only accurate time we had available. Now we have atomic clocks, cellphones, mandroids and blueberries--but not back in the day! Nowadays, and if Kristi were still living at home, I would have her log onto her cellular device and tell me the time. And if it were 2000 years ago, I'd have her go out and look at the sundial! I'm just sayin'.

____________________________________

Now, there are at least 4 lessons to be learned from the above conversation: 1) Never trust a husband. Especially when brownie points with the FIL are involved. 2) If I were still living at home, I would not have to log into any cellular device, because I would actually have already killed myself for living at home at the ripe old age of 28. 3) I do not actually know how to read a sundial, because they are ridiculous. And 3) My Dad said "mandroids" and "blueberries." DYING.
 

Joey? I'm onto you and your little games. And Dad? Mandroids...seriously?! I die.

No...seriously, Samuel. Please make yourself comfortable.

Call me Grace.

Mothertrucker.

I fell at work yesterday. I'd like to say that I have some herioc tale of search and rescue--that some rare breed of baby koala was trapped in a tree and I scaled a building wearing nothing but a lace bra and some water shoes to save its nearly-extinct life, but the real version isn't that glamorous. I fell in the loo. Slipped on a little puddle of water by the sink.

I am stupid. And OUCH.

Do stuff for FREE.

It recently came to my attention that libraries are not scary places. In fact, they are an oyster of free resources--everything from books (duh) to Wii games to children's entertainment. More on the specifics of my fear of libraries later.

But imagine my delight when I learned that you can check out FREE passes to many statewide attractions at your local libary. State parks. The DIA. Children's Museums.  The Henry Ford. Cranbrook. Eegads!

So on Saturday, we picked up our free passes and headed on down to the Detroit Children's Museum.

BUT WAIT. There's MORE.

Right next door to the DCM was fire station. A very cool, very old, very "Authentically Detroit" fire station. The garage doors were open, so we popped in just to say "Hi" and show Alex around. Our 2 minute stop turned into a 20 minute tour, during which Alex got to sit in the driver's seat, the captain's seat, the "muscle" seats AND got to wear a fireman's hat. To say his brain matter was splattered all over the walls is an understatement. To him, it was better than Disney.

He listened VERY carefully as the fireman explained
to him what he would look like if he ever had to come
to our house to save us from a fire.
He showed him the mask and reminded him not to be scared,

and Alex said, "I'm not scared!"

Such a big boy!

In summary, make time to explore your community and turn fun things into teachable moments. The guys at the fire house LOVED the visit and welcomed us back any time. Sometimes it's the things that cost the least that mean the most.

Up, up and away!

It seems that the older I get, the more weird things I learn about my father. Like, for instance, that he wants to own a hot air balloon. For real. The funny thing is, until about 3 weeks ago, he had never even been IN one. I decided to change that.

Since you can only buy a man so many socks, undershirts, shovels, bagel slicers and grill scrubbers, I decided to get a little something different for his birthday this year. And, as my luck would have it, Groupon offered a hot air balloon ride just a few weeks before his birthday. I snatched two up and was giddy as a schoolgirl to share such a sweet adventure with my Dad.

We wanted to do a sunrise flight. Fun fact: sunrise flights with Michigan's relatively unpredictable weather  patterns are hard to come by. We ended up rescheduling four times until July 2, when we were finally able to take flight. Turns out, we were actually pretty lucky. Others in our group that day had been waiting over a year to get a good weather day. It was so worth the wait.

Ready for takeoff!

The basket. Ours held 15 people total.
4 each in the top L and R quadrants, and 3 each  in the lower L and R quads. The pilot goes in the center.
Dad and I were in the lower left quad.
I know, it's intimidatingly small.

Cool shadow shot.

Another balloon flew with us.
Also, I guess it's rare to have clouds on a sunrise flight,

so that was cool!

Enjoying the view.
Or holding on for dear life,

whichever you prefer.

Cool reflection shot.

Safely back on the ground!

The whole experience could not have been more perfect, and it was awesome to experience it with my Dad. You know, since his other option would have been to take my Mom, who would have likely passed out at liftoff due to a serious fear of heights.

Oh, and for what it's worth, the old man no longer has a desire to own a balloon. Turns out they're much more work than he thought.

Seriously. This face.

*BAM* I just thought we would go ahead and get the obligatory ohmygoshheissocuteitmakesmewanttopunchbettywhiteintheface picture of Alex out of the way. That face? Kills me. Slays me on a daily basis.

Especially when he's being a typical 2 year old. See also: putting his sand in the pool, farting in the bath tub (which he thinks is high-LAR-ious, btw), standing at the top of the stairs with a deathgrip on the baby gate screaming, "MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMY! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOOOOOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM!" (you get the point?) at the top of his lungs, and/or his perception of reality that ice cream is, in fact, all he needs to consume for a well-balanced dinner.

Don't you see? He's becoming a PERSON. A little, tiny version of what I can only imagine is going to give me a serious run for my money at age 13. He's becoming more independent ("I can put on my shoes, Mommy."), telling us what he wants ("I want M&Ms, Daddy. A brown one.") and has an opinion on basically everything ("I want to watch Special Agent OSO, Mommy.") For the record, I will state here and now that if the actual Special Agent OSO ever shows up on my doorstep, I will punch him in his bear groin until he weeps magical bear tears in three special steps.

The moral of this story is that Alex is ri-donk-ulous. And I'm loving it. And bears should stay away from my doorstep.

Gettin' real up in here.

Here's where y'all buckle in for a hefty dose of reality from yours truly.

Today I was treated very poorly in le office environment. By a man. By a relatively high-powered man. I'm not sure if it's because of his perception that I'm young, or that I'm a woman, or something else entirely...but he was a dick. There's really no nice way to word it. An arrogant, asshat of a dick. It's safe to say I'm not the VP of his fan club.

I was careful to chose my words and my actions wisely. I remained knowledgeable, professional, and most importantly, outwardly unfazed by his demeaning words and actions. On the inside, I was three seconds from running out the door. But true to my self-respect and generally mild-mannered business demeanor, I did my job. And I did it well.

I'd like to think that we've come pretty far as a human race, but it's moments like these that remind me of how far we have to go.

So today's advice is simply to be nice to people. To the cashier at the supermarket. To the stranger in the elevator. To your husband. To your wife. To me! You'd be surprised how cinchy it is to be kind to others.

And for the record? Karma is a bitch.

Dear ridiculous heat wave and excessive humidity.

Please kindly piss off.

Love,
Kristi

I do, in fact, have legs.

Remember Sans Pants Pam? Yes, well, other than our love of words, snark and Frill, we are basically the opposite in every way possible. In the same way she is dress obsessed, I am pants obsessed.

In fact, it recently dawned on me that I have never, ever, ever, ever in my professional career worn a skirt to work. Ever. This is not hyperbole. I literally have worn dress pants every single day for the last 7 years.

Alas, someone in the office decided yesterday would be a superb day to have an outdoor picnic lunch. I was not about to schweat my balls off while eating crappy pizza in 100° heat, so I thought I would throw together a little capri number for the day. Until, BAM. A brown linen skirt practically fell out of my closet. I don't know where it came from. I don't even know if, in fact, it is mine. But I do stand by the old 'finders keepers' rule, so I tried it on and somehow magically a-la Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, it fit. And looked relatively normal.

And so, I wore it.

It's me! In a skirt! Nearly as rare as the sighting of the one eyed, one horned flying purple people eater. Obviously, I am also showing off my afternoon Starbuckies delight, as well as the wicked awesome bruise on my right cankle, courtesy of the French River.

In summary, I did not hate wearing a skirt. I also did not love it. And while I will most likely never escalate to the level of crazy that is Sans Pants Pam, I might rotate a skirt into the mix every now and again. You're welcome, world.

Boom.

Did you hear that? It was the sound of tectonic plates colliding and colossal chaos somewhere in middle Michigan. Worlds are imploding. Oceans are emptying. This is BIG.

My Mom got an iPhone. And an iPad. Yesterday.

My Mom, who was quite certain 5 years ago that the Internet was "just a passing craze." My Mom, who still insists that texting is "impersonal and a waste of time." My Mom, who would ask me when I was 12 and checking Juno e-mail through our dial-up connection via the archaic IBM, "who are you talking to?" My Mom, who rolls her eyes at Facebook and the silliness of "sharing such personal things with the entire World."

But you know what? She's awesome for doing it, and I admire her willingness to constantly learn. Despite her usual persistence, she's gotten on board with texting and has thumbs quicker than most boy-crazed 13 year olds I know. She's learned how to email, realizing it's the coolest (and fastest) way to keep in touch with her kids. She's learned how to check our blogs and is known to comment occasionally, though she likes to stay anonymous.

We Skyped with her and Dad last night - it was awesome. Alex loved saying "nigh nigh" to his Grammi and Poppi and laughed when she gave him kisses through the screen. And no matter how old I get, it will always be nice to see my Mom's face AND hear her voice at the same time. There's just something comforting about that, you know?

So Mom, even though I know it kills you, thank you for being so hip and trendy by hopping on the technology train. Someday, when Alex wants me to get on board with whatever new-fangled, solar powered, telepathic communication devices exist, I hope I will be as cool as you.

High five.

In a shocking turn of events, Samuel's 5 month birthday is TODAY. And you thought it went fast when it was YOUR kid. Sheesh!

Happy 5 months, Mr. Sameoh!

And for fun, here's a look back at Alex and the WIPpo at 5 months. For the record, this was my favorite WIPpo picture, ever. Quite possibly the little guy at his cutest, though I will deny it if ever asked.



For Mike.

I suppose I should have warned y'all that I was going to be oot and aboot for a week or so. And apparently, my lack of scheduling caused at least one faithful reader to hop into a tailspin and vandalize my Facebook wall with pleads of entertainment of the blogging kind. So, here we are.

Hi, Mike. I see that you missed me. I would say I missed you, too, but then I would be lying, and I only tend to lie when Joey's cooking* and Kelli's most recent shoe purchases are involved. Instead of missing you, I was jumping off cliffs, floating through rapids and rediscovering why my liver hates me but loves tequila. On that note, Raspberry Crystal Light and tequila is DELISH. Trust me on this.

The Joey and I headed for our annual trip to the French River, Canada. Why we go to Canada for the 4th of July week I will never know, but what I do know is that it's one of the most amazing places on earth, and certainly worth the eleventy billion hour drive to get there. But that is neither here nor there, and instead of boring you with my tales of yore, I'll stimulate you visually, eh? That's what they say in Canada. Both the 'stimulation' and the 'eh'.

 Floating on the French.

Joey used it as an opportunity to keep his beer cold.
I love that man.

 Joey with his River wenches.
Note the incredible scenery behind us.
I hiked in that. HIKED. As in, sweatted my own sweat, which I
try to do as infrequently as possible.

It is at this point in our journey that I entertained the idea
that cliff jumping might be fun.
I did this three times. What is wrong with me?!?

Joey also took a brave turn.

Note that he is smarter than yours truly and only did it once.

 The rapids to the immediate right of the rock?
Another moment of insanity pictured below.

I'm the head under water.
I also did this thrice. Glutton for punishment? Perhaps.

 Tequila, duh.

The view from the cabin. Not a bad place to spend a week, eh?

So there you have it - that's what I was doing when I wasn't blogging. I promise to not ever leave you again, Mikey. Or, at the very least, warn you when I do so you can take up other reading hobbies. I recommend Chelsea Handler. I think we're long lost fourth cousins or something.

*For what it's worth, I love Joey's cooking. Mostly because if he's cooking that means I'm not.