Carpe Filia

Seize the daughter!

I did just that today. It was fairly impromptu, too, which is the bestest part. I had an appointment to get my hair done today. It was the first time since about June that I'd been able to escape and get my hair done, so I was really looking forward to it. My stylist had texted me that she wanted to do something "different," and since I trust her implicitly with my hair and its odd funkadelicness, I was all for it.

M2, however, had been a cling monster all week and said, "Mom, I want to get my hair cut, too!"

She'd really been looking forward to growing her hair long enough for braids, so I was surprised that she said that, so I halfheartedly told her that she could come, figuring the day would come and she wouldn't mean it.

Au contraire, the girl got up this morning and not only declared precisely what she wanted done to her hair - 3 inches off and chop the bangs, please - but also futher proved her point by trying on two pairs of flip-flops and two pairs of sandals and showing me that all of them were too small. Since this left her with only one pair of sneakers and one pair of dress shoes that she has always whined about hurting her feet, I knew shoe shopping was in order.

She also got dressed up for the occasion of going to see Miss Billie. She put on a brand-new outfit that consisted of a long, mid-thigh-length, cowl-neck sweater, purple at the top fading to black at the bottom, over black leggings. With the tennis shoes, it just didn't look right.

I caved. I told her she could come to get her hair done with me and we'd go shoe shopping afterward.

It was the beginning of something great. Hair first. She was so patient while I got my hair done, it was amazing. Then we hit the shoe store. They were having a buy one, get one 1/2 price sale, and when we found black AND brown boots AND new black dress shoes that didn't hurt her feet AND I found black ballet flats AND we got M1 some slippers and dress shoes as well when he and Oz met us... it was a beautiful experience. Everyone is now shod for the winter.

M1 is wearing size 7 men's shoes now.

I'm not going down that road in this post, though. That I can save for another day, when he outgrows pants.

It was Happy Hour at Sonic, so M2 and I swung by there on the way home. I had $5 in cash, thanks to the contents of Oz's wallet, and I might have blown it all on Cheddar Bites to have along with the drinks since M2 had only had one piece of pizza for lunch and had been such a darling at both the salon and the shoe shop.

On the way home, with M2 in her new black boots and new hairdo and new outfit, it occurred to me that since I also own a purple cowl-neck sweater and black boots, if I put them on, it would be a great "mommy & me" event.

And THEN it occurred to me that my friend Mary might like to come out to dinner with M2 and I and we could make it a girls' night.

It all went beautifully. Mary had had a wisdom tooth removed yesterday, so her mom had her boys, and she hadn't eaten anything all day since she'd spent most of it sleeping while doped up on Lortab, and she was dying to have good food and company. Plus, she was already wearing black yoga pants and a purple sweater! M2 and I picked her up (M1 and Oz got Chinese food and eclairs and "How to Train Your Dragon" while we were gone), and M1 selected Red Lobster for dinner. We got there before the main dinner rush and only had to wait about two minutes for a table. Dinner was delicious (Cheddar Bay biscuits, anyone??), Mary and I got wine, and we all three shared a dessert called the chocolate wave. M2 had to use the restroom during the middle of dinner, and she just ate up all the comments that we got on the way to and from the facilities. She had borrowed a pair of dangly crystal earrings from me (I had put on silver dangly earrings), I had put a black barrette in her hair (and a black headband on me), and so we really did look remarkably similar, and all the comments just made her glow.

She declared on the way home, completely exhausted at 7:15 p.m., that this had been "the best day EVER in my life, Mama."

I do believe we might have to paint our toenails together tomorrow, and she wants to have an official mother/daughter dinner with some of our friends in January. This sort of bonding has warmed me heart and soul. I don't think I ever knew that having a daughter could be so much fun!

I May Have a Problem

Books.

I'm addicted.

My daughter came home from school today and announced, "Mama! My teacher sent home magazines from the book fair!"

In plain English, that meant she brought home Scholastic catalogs. Four of them, to be precise. I have a hunch that if the second-grade teacher had been able to catch her in the hall before she came home, there would have been more.

I am a book slut. I'll sell my body, mind, and soul for a good book. I'm currently working my way through Caesar's "Gallic Wars." I have three more library books lined up on the coffee table, two nonfiction, one fiction, just waiting to be read. The kids and I have a running average of 20+ books checked out from the library, and I'm constantly requesting more.

We don't have a big house. In fact, there is only one bathroom among the four of us. That we can manage to share. However, we have five bookcases. One for homeschool curriculum, one for books the kids share, and one in each of the three bedrooms. We share books, but it's a jealous process.

I have a method to ordering books these days, because yes, I am that mom who can't see a Scholastic catalog without going, "Ooooooooooo boooooooks...." and ordering something. Or 12 somethings. The teachers love me. My method goes something like this:

Step 1: Go through everything with a blue highlighter (this would be the one I hurled at the cats last night) and circle everything I MIGHT even POSSIBLY want. Someday.

Step 2: Add it all up and have a heart attack.

Step 3: Go back through everything with a red pen and re-circle everything that the kids specifically requested or that will actually be useful in the coming months, because it's not like more catalogs won't come home in late January, just in time for Valentine's Day.

Step 4: Add it all up and experience palpitations instead of a heart attack.

Step 5: Narrow it all down one more time to a financially manageable level, get on the web site, and place the order.

Step 6: Somehow still managed to be surprised 2-3 weeks later when the books arrive and the girl has to have help hauling her backpack out the door of the classroom because there is roughly the cargo of a U-Haul stuffed in there.

Step 7: Read.

Ahhh, bliss. It is all worth it in the end, isn't it??

Even if my husband hesitates to give me free rein at Borders.

It's safer for our budget that way.

Timing is Everything

Timing is everything: There's a cricket in my living room right now. Dorian Gray found it first. I don't think it's a particularly bright cricket. My first thought was that it was suicidal, but I think that's a projection from all the writing I've been doing, and I think it's actually got a seriously masochistic streak instead. It hopped all around the living room and is now hibernating in a rolled-up piece of paper that's been stuck behind M1's desk all week. All of Dorian's action, which is odd for him, drew the others in, and now the cats are driving me nuts trying to get at the cricket. I may or may not have chunked a blue highlighter, a red ink pen, and my iPhone cord in their general direction to try to get them to stop without actually A) getting up or B) hurting the cats. I'm running out of painless, lazy options on my end table, though, so eventually I'm going to have to move. Either that or the cricket is going to have to get an actual suicidal streak and come out to be eaten. Which means I'll clean up cricket remains in cat urp later. Decisions, decisions. Mostly I'm just happy for the laugh.

Timing is everything: I woke up with a migraine this morning. I hadn't had one in a long time, over a month, but since my migraines are related to a negative drop in air pressure and we haven't had a good low move through in over a month, and when I woke up this morning it was also drizzly and rainy... it all makes sense. The part that sucked was that I also used up my last migraine fixer last time I had a migraine and hadn't refilled the prescription. Thankfully Oz was here. He also had volunteered to take M1 to his swimming lesson today, so I went to bed, zonked out, woke up, took some Aleve, and then called the doctor and pleaded my case with the nurse. I swing by the pharmacy tomorrow. A Boy Scout I am not.

Timing is everything: I made a pumpkin streusel pie today. Pie. Singular. There were supposed to be two of them. I made two pie crusts. I made a big honkin' recipe of pumpkin pie filling. I filled two pies. I even started cooking them like the recipe said - 15 minutes at 450 - and then took them out to cover the crusts with foil. I went to put the first one back in, and in total slow motion horror movie close-up shot, it tilted. The silicone potholders slipped. And 2/3 of the pie wound up splattered over the inside of the oven door. I stopped. I stared. And I chunked the rest of the pie in the trash can. It's just pie, right? Then I had to work out a way to clean most of the mess off the door so I could continue cooking the other pie. For the record, LOTS and LOTS of paper towels will keep you from burning yourself and will get most of the stuff cleaned up, except for the brownish residue you find later, cooked to the inside of the door like a bad spray tan. The other pie came out beautifully. I want to see the glass half full here.

Timing is everything: I might have committed murder today. It wasn't entirely my fault. The thing DID play dead for two days. It was the last fish in M1's tank, and when a fish spends one day stuck to the back of the filter and one day lying motionless and visible on the bottom of the tank, I tend to think it's dead. It is a fish, after all, and I'm not prone to giving a fish the ol' poke-'n'-prod to make sure it is actually dead and cold and infused with rigor mortis. Since it was the last fish, I told M1 that I would empty out the tank for him while he was at his swimming lesson. I got the siphon. I got the bucket. I started draining the water. I got the tank 3/4 empty when I realized that I hadn't yet removed the fish and that it would be easier to remove if I siphoned it up as opposed to trying to grab it with my bare hands, something my son will happily do right before feeding it to bugs or dissecting it but something I don't find nearly as fun. I aimed the siphon at the fish and watched it schloop up the siphon. Halfway. Then, at the last possible second (I'm trying to work up drama here), the fish jerked around and flew back out the bottom of the siphon and parked itself in the only remaining corner with more than an inch of water. I had to pause for thought before realizing that even if I filled the tank back up and put in a new filter and got the whole thing going again, the whole water cycle was going to be completely out of whack and it was going to actually die anyway, and M1 wasn't home, and nobody would ever know, and HEY! We have chickens!

They appreciated the odd little treat.

If the stupid fish hadn't waited till the very last second, it would still be alive.

Timing is, indeed, everything.

More Fun With My Son

How My Boy's Mind Works, Vol. 32568:

Picture it. M1 and I are in the van today, getting him a haircut, grocery shopping, and going to the bank, and he suddenly announces out of the blue, "St. Nicholas."

Random.

"St. Nicholas?" I query suspiciously.

"Yes. St. Nicholas is Santa Claus, right?"

Oh God.

"Yes..."

"Well, St. Nicholas was alive a LONG time ago. He should be dead.

[pause]

"But if he's Santa Claus, that means he's still alive.

[pause]

"But if he's still alive, then he can't be a saint."

"Right...," I respond cautiously.

-----

The End.

No, really, that was all. He never did press further. But I strongly suspect this is the last year that Santa exists in his world. It's hard to watch him grow, but dang, the logic is amazing.

Laughing on Tuesday

BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

I love my son. He's quirky. He likes to refer to himself as a freak, which cracks me up because, well, he can accept who he is!!! (I have no problem with freaks. I have six live cats and a collection of miniature cats. I'm a freak myself.)

My boy is very much an Aspie. I need a bumper sticker that says "I [heart] my Aspie." He's so much fun. He may not listen, but it's usually because his mind is engaged elsewhere. He's a combination of the new Sherlock Holmes on PBS and Sheldon from "Big Bang Theory." He gets obsessed with science and ending world hunger and building solar-powered or wind-powered cars. (Yes, a wind-powered car. No, I do not have any clue how this would work.) He has very little gross motor coordination. He has no fine motor skills whatsoever. He likes to do spelling upside-down hanging off the ottoman. It's awesome to hear your kid spell the word 'easily' while his face is turning red and his voice is starting to sound a tad strangled. He doesn't like certain fabrics and specifically hates hotel pillows. He's vegetarian and got excited last night when I made him tofu curry with jasmine rice. Tofu. Who in my family *LIKES* tofu?? Bizarro. Which reminds me, he likes "The Far Side" cartoons. They appeal to his sense of humor. So does John Cleese. The Ministry of Silly Walks is at the height of 8-year-old Aspie humor.

He has an addictive giggle.

He has sensory integration issues when it comes to sound.

Usually the SID (sensory integration disorder) is kind of a pain in the butt because it means that he gets easily overwhelmed when we go places that might have sudden, loud noises.

Usually.

Sometimes I play with him, though, because when he is alarmed by noise, his reactions are extreme.

Today, he did two math pages. Why? Because it's the last lesson in the book and he really, really wants to get to the next book. Why? Because it's the next book. It means he's progressing and can *see* the progression. So he did two math pages. He passed them both. After the second page, he was standing in front of me, between the couch and the ottoman, waiting on the verdict of 'pass' or 'redo these and we'll try another page tomorrow.'

The air was thick with tension.

I held the red pen in the air over the page, watching his expressive little face crease with worry.

Then I yelled, "YOU PASSED!!!" at the top of my lungs.

His eyes blew up into huge circles, his arms flailed widly in the air, and he lost his balance and keeled over backward onto the ottoman. In most kids, this would be overly dramatic. In my kid, it's a reaction to sudden noises, and he and I both cracked up.

Teehee.

I can't help but be amused by all this. It might be wrong, but when it all ends in laughter, it sure does feel right.

Thanks and Other Stuff

I hope you all had a lovely weekend. I did, except for the part at the end where the time change screwed with my head and made me feel like I was coming down with something. At least, I'm blaming the time change because I'm still a bit off today and refuse to believe that I might be coming down with a cold, and it makes perfect sense to me that setting my actual clock back an hour could mess with my internal clock as well.

The chickens, of course, know no difference between now and two days ago, because for them bedtime is sundown, but it's highly inconvenient for me because LAST week I could take out dinner scraps - carrot and potato peelings, random bits of veggies, eggshells, etc. - but this week, they're in bed by the time I get around to making supper, and there's nothing that'll attract members of the rodent family to my house like food scraps lying around the yard saying, "Eeeeeeat meeeeee."

And I've already stepped on mouse entrails in my house once this year. I do not need a repeat experience.

Ever.

(By the way, anyone local need/want eggs? Locally grown! Free range, if you consider my back yard free range. They're not technically organic, but heck, it's $2/dozen + a carton... any takers, let me know. I have almost five dozen eggs in my fridge.)

OK, didn't mean to digress down the chicken trail.

What I really wanted to say was thank you all who read and responded to the weird little post about my NaNoWriMo excerpt. I appreciate the feedback. You guys are wonderful.

And that is all. Keeping it short tonight. My brain is in a fog.

Stupid time change.

G'night!

Sucking It Up

So two days ago I promised that yesterday I would post an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel.

I meant to. I really, truly did. I even picked out the section that I wanted to share, which given the fact that I've only written 12,000-ish words, didn't take long.

But then I chickened out. I've never had anyone read anything I've written outside of a school setting. I know I can put a sentence together in all its grammatical correctness and make it technically accurate, though occasionally I throw phrases together like 'grammatical correctness,' but I know it's made up and am choosing to use it anyway. But you guys read this, so I know that you don't mind that, right? The *real* reason I didn't post it is because I can hear my mother's voice in my head, and she's being my mother, which means that she's going through every word I'm writing and asking, "Is that what your childhood was like? Is that me? Is that you? Who is that?" because she's my mother and she always overanalyzes things.

It's just who she is. I get that. And to paraphrase one of my favorite movies, she's the voice in my head telling me I can do better. But she overanalyzes.

So now, because I have arguments in my head that will never happen in real life, I am trying to negate any arguments by telling myself, "Be the duck." Let it all roll off. Ignore the fears which are probably unfounded, anyway.

And post the blamin' excerpt!

So here it is folks, in all its unedited glory. My main character - the narrator - is writing the story of her life with bipolar disorder. In this scene, she's seven years old and is eavesdropping on her parents through a crack in the door as they debate whether or not to take her to see a pediatric psychiatrist.

-----

My mother's silence filled the room, as cold as the fluorescent light above. She disapproved of doctors, and 'Archer' wasn't a good name in her book, I could tell. She judged a lot of a person's character by their name. That's why I was never allowed to have a nickname. On the first day of school, when everyone got to state their preferred name, I never got asked what my nickname was. The teachers knew. My mother had inevitably gotten to them first.

"Catherine," she'd instruct the teachers. "Not Katie, not Cat, not Cathy. Not Marie, either, because that's not her first name, it's only her middle name. Catherine, and nothing else. It's a good name, and I want her to use it."

I had been the only child in kindergarten whose name was longer than the blank on the paper for writing it. It had taken me months to master the spelling.

My father sighed again, and I heard the chair creak as he leaned forward again and started to turn back to his work.

"I'll make the appointment if you like, Martha, to absolve you of any responsibility, but I don't think being firmer is going to do any good. Look at all we've done so far. She has so little compared to all the other the kids her age, we've been consistent with her since she was born, and still she's angry. No. I'll make the appointment, and I'll take her if need be."

My mother straightened, and I readied myself for the dash back to my room.

"No, Frank," she stated flatly, "Since you insist on this course, I'll take her. You can come if you like, but I want to be there to see this doctor for myself."

My father nodded silently, and I vaulted for my room. When I reached it, I shut the door and slid down against it. My thoughts tried to roll themselves around all I'd heard.

Pediatric psychiatry. Foreign words in the English language, I had no idea what it all meant. 'Doctor' was easier for me to understand, and when I put that together with my mom talking on the phone to Pastor Schulz, I knew I'd be going somewhere I didn't want to go. I didn't like being angry or sad all the time, but I didn't think there was anything wrong with me. True, I didn't have many friends at school, but that was nothing to me. It wasn't like I could bring them home, so I didn't really talk to too many people. I'd play games with them, talk to them if I needed to, and come home. It was a ritual. I sensed somehow that this doctor was going to mess things up.

I didn't like change. I decided I didn't want to go to this doctor, and if they tried to make me, well... we'd see about that.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary...

So I get on here, have a good rant, and then what happens? The next day comes.

And as inevitably happens, after a bad day, there comes a good one.

Almost too good.

You know the kind I mean? The kids woke up happy, which never happens around here especially when it's dark outside, and nobody dashed down the hall to open the other's bedroom door while the other child was in the middle of getting dressed, which is usually what happens and is punctuated by a shriek and "MOM!!!" while the culprit runs giggling back to his room. Nobody tried to kick each other under the breakfast table. Nobody spilled their milk. M2 put MATCHING barrettes in her hair, which is a first in my book. I didn't even think matching barrettes had survived in this house, because she loves to take ONE of a pair to her room and hide it in a drawer or jewelry box or put it in the hair of a purple plastic pony... then she leaves the other in the bathroom where it's supposed to be. Someday I'm going to set up a singles party for all these lonely barrettes. Nobody tried to kick each other while putting shoes on. Nobody tried to kick each other on the way to school.

We got back home, and M1 has been spectacular. He has focused on math, focused on writing, focused on grammar and truly surprised me when he was able to recite half of a long poem that I had asked him to work on memorizing last week but had forgotten to remind him about and didn't expect him to get past the first couplet. He's doing art now, getting frustrated but refusing to give up. He got excited when I mentioned piano because we get to start a new book today. (And of course he's always excited when I say the word 'science.')

I know sometimes I get grumpy. It *is* hard for me to remember that my giant dude is 8 sometimes and that my giant girl is 5. I try not to expect too much of them, but sometimes I get carried away by their size and intermittent bouts of maturity.

I have good kids, there's no doubt in my mind about that. I just get frustrated with feeling like a broken record player. I know I'm not alone, and that makes it better.

Off to piano. He's setting up without me. Even if this good morning doesn't last all day (and of course it won't, because they're kids), at least I have a record of it!!

Tomorrow I hope to share with you a small excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel, if you're interested. Fingers crossed!

AAAAARRRRRGH!!!

Thank you. I needed to get that out of my system. November has not been kind to me so far.

First of all, we have NaNoWriMo. I think I'm doing well! I have written about 8,500 words in my projected-to-be 50,000+ word novel. I had more written this morning until the Blue Screen of Death appeared on my laptop and ate my work with relish. I hadn't seen the Blue Screen of Death in a long time. I haven't missed it.

Then we have M2. She's back to the girl she was before all the poo hit the fan back in March or April or whenever it started; I've blocked the date conveniently from my memory. We went to see the psychiatrist yesterday, and when I told him that she was back to baseline, we chatted a bit about the nastiness of the Lexapro and then he said, "So... if she'd been like this all along, you'd never have come in?" "Right." That answer pleased him, apparently, because the invisible wall that had been up before, the one that basically said he was taking me at face value and didn't really BELIEVE me, disappeared. He said we're left looking at three options to explain her behavior:

1. It was all a phase and we'll never see it again.
2. It's all anxiety, but she's one of the odd kids who just react negatively to SSRIs due to age, and if we have to try it again in a few years, she might have a different reaction.
3. This is the upswing in a roller coaster that will eventually include the rages again.

He thinks we're looking at option #3, though he'd like to see #1 or #2. We go back in three months or sooner if the symptoms return.

So there's that. Which is good. Never mind that I still feel like I'm on pins and needles around her waiting for the other behavioral shoe to drop, and when she's at home, she's like a leech stuck to my leg that can somehow make its thoughts heard in my head and doesn't SHUT UP. Today, after violin, we got home and she insisted on coming out to the chicken coop with me to collect eggs, add straw, clean out and refill water containers, get mail, etc. Leech. I love her dearly, but sometimes I need five minutes of silence. Five minutes. An eternity of silence in a mom's world.

M1... M1, M1, M1... he's the one that caused all the anguish today. The boy has. no. self-control. NONE! I don't understand it. I can tell my 5-year-old to go do a simple chore like picking up the toys in her room, and she will go, and she will do it, and it will be done, and more often than not, it will be done well. I mean, she's five, she ain't perfect, but she FOCUSES and she TRIES. That's what counts. The boy... the boy would honestly and truly lose his head if it wasn't attached. I think I've mentioned that next year I'm going to have him dress up as the Headless Horseman for Halloween just so I can watch him lose his head.

And he's sneaky.

And he lies.

And he doesn't CARE, because if it doesn't affect him or he doesn't think he'll get caught, it must not be wrong. I thought kids with Asperger's were supposed to be rule-followers. Where on earth did MY kid come from?? Oh, right... rule-followers as long as the rules make sense to them.

Today, he lost a library book. Not a big deal in and of itself. I thought I'd help him look for it, and in the process I found Halloween candy wrappers hidden in a drawer. He tried to lie and say they'd been there a long time, but it's only been a few days since I've opened that drawer, and they weren't there then. He finally owned up, but he lost the rest of his candy. I told him he needed to clean up his room in an effort to find the book, and when I went to check on him, he was playing his sister's Didj. I confiscated that and gave it back to her AND took his Didj as well. Anyone want it? Now that he has a DS (which lives in my room permanently because of this exact issue), he doesn't need the Didj. It comes with a blue plastic 'case.' I'd be happy to sell it to ya. And ship it. The process went like that for the rest of the evening. I gave him a 20-minute warning before it was time for supper, warned him that he needed to get to work on *something,* because he hadn't done squat, but it wasn't motivation enough. Twenty minutes came (with warnings) and went and he was no closer to being done than before. I told him he had thirty minutes to be at the table, gave him multiple warnings in between, and still nothing. I told him that he had 15 minutes if he wanted leftovers; nil. I started yanking allowance bucks, and that finally motivated him a little bit, but he still lost $5 before all was said and done.

The book is still nowhere to be found. Since it's not due till next Wednesday and I can recheck it online up to three times, I figure it'll turn up somewhere between now and then. No worries. My beef is that I do not have the time to stand over an 8-year-old boy and monitor his every move. When I say don't play the electronics, it means DON'T PLAY THE ELECTRONICS. When I say clean your room to look for a book, I mean that, too! I know he hears me; he can repeat verbatim what I tell him to do. But somehow the words don't make it from the ears to the brain. The brain is simply bypassed for the mouth.

Someone tell me that eventually a synapse somewhere will fire and he'll be able to monitor his own actions. Just humor me if you have to. I just need to know that at some point my son is going to quit stealing and ignoring and lying and will actually be able to complete a string of commands or own electronic devices (including flashlights) without a 24-hour monitor. Because if he can't start following rules and laws and commands, that 24-hour monitor is going to be attached to his ankle.

Prank Love...

October. It's over now, but it brought lots of good times. Helicopters, earthquakes, parties... and, of course, my friend Beth's birthday.

I'll leave it to you to work out how old she turned.

You should also probably know that Beth is pretty much allergic to earth. Here's a rough rundown of her allergies:

Blue dye of any sort (she once gave me blue dishwasher detergent because the residue was making her break out into hives)
Strawberries
Nightshades of any sort, including tomatoes
Gobs of medications (it's a seriously scary list)
Grasses
Trees
Basically anything outdoors...

And...

Most importantly for this blog post...

Mushrooms and ALL tree nuts.

She's also lactose-intolerant, but really, that just makes for Fun With Gas. It won't actually kill her.

Yet.

Anywho, so she had a birthday, and we hadn't properly pranked her yet. She made the mistake of going out of town again, though, so my friends Christy, Sonia, and I put our pointy little heads together and came up with a plan.

First came the peanut- and mushroom-shaped cupcakes. These we delivered to Beth's mom, who is always happy to help us out in our little schemes.

Then we met up at Beth's house and placed small ceramic mushrooms all over her yard. Please ignore Sonia's costume. She was headed to a costume party that night and was meant to be a vampire slayer. In her words, though, "I'm supposed to be a vampire slayer but I look like Lady Gaga."

Hon, you're still hot.

Then we hung our personalized banner on the bushes so that EVERYONE would know it was her birthday.

That's love right there.

Finally, we had the piece de resistance.

We named him Skippy. And since Christy and I were going to a wine "tasting" party ourselves that night, we decided Skippy should come along for the ride.

Wigs are standard fare at our wine parties. Usually the Bubba Teeth get broken out, too, but this year they didn't make it out. A tutu did, though.

Never mind.

Let me now share with you some of the more G-rated moments that Skippy experienced that night.

Some of the party took place outdoors. I dig the blanket.

Christy was rather possessive of her little goober.

She even let him ride on the swing in the back yard!

She was a very proud mama.

By the end of the night, Skippy had survived but was a little worse for wear, having fallen out of a chair once or twice. We put his hung-over self on Beth's porch for her to find. He's a good little mascot.

Happy Birthday, Beth! We love ya!