Someone left a comment (anonymously, of course) on the last post I wrote calling me a racist. It bummed me out enough that I haven’t wanted to approach this Web site all weekend. At first I thought, who cares what this coward anonymously wrote on my Web site, but then I realized that others may feel the same way.

If my last post came off as racist, it wasn’t intentional. Of course it wasn’t intentional. There were several races and nationalities present on the playground that day. There were several different classes present as well. At no point did I suggest that the fight was between a certain race, at least I don’t think so.

I live in between Greenpoint and Williamsburg, Brooklyn. This area is made up of every single race, religion, and nationality you can think of. It’s also home to several different classes, there are a lot of lower income people and then there are a lot of people who have moved in over the last couple of years that are (for lack of a better term) filthy stinking rich. Even more recently, there have been a lot more Western Europeans moving into the neighborhood. (Eastern Europeans make up a large group and have since long before I arrived back in 2000.) I liken the influx of Western Europeans to the solid Euro. But this is admittedly not my ground of familiarity.

Because of the huge and constant influx of people heading to Greenpoint and Williamsburg, the high schools become more and more diverse. At least that’s the way it appears from an outsider’s point of view. (And by outsider, I mean one without kids of high school going age.)

When I compared us moms to guppies, I meant we’re breeders. (Aren’t guppies breeders? Don’t they tend to take over fish tanks whether you like it or not?) When I compared the high school kids to attack fish, I meant that sometimes (especially when they’re in large groups, which is usually the case whenever school lets out around here) then can become really nasty and sometimes violent. There was one occasion where another driver and I had our cars surrounded by kids who had just gotten out of the Automative high school (the group was made up of several different races, mind you).

It was really scary, to be honest. And if Emory had been the car, I probably would have called 911. Instead, I looked straight ahead, as did the driver in front of me, and waited for them to get bored. (Thankfully, there are usually cops around that area because of the amount of fights and problems that break out whenever school lets out.)

The whole experience, the way they surrounded our cars, reminded me of piranha. Perhaps I irresponsibly failed to bring that up. Perhaps it came off as racist. If it did, it was unconscious to me.

So, I’m sorry if any of you thought my last post was racist. Perhaps it was a little classist. The groups represented on the playground last week may hold animosity toward one another because of classism, but I don’t think anyone could stay in this neighborhood for too long if they were in fact racists. They would go completely insane with hate. There are just too many different walks of life. Maybe my naivety is showing. But I have seen more acts of hatred due to class differences while living here than I have acts of racism. (Not that racism doesn’t exist.)

We live in a culture that promises its people that the harder you work the richer and more prosperous you’ll be, which is a load of crap. We’re not all given equal opportunities. Life is highly unfair for a lot of people living in the U.S. I see it here each and every day. Sometimes the folks who work the absolute hardest make the smallest fortune. I fall into the bitterness from time to time—hating on the really rich people buying up the waterfront real estate without a care in the world, without a care about the history of this place. Yet, I am that person to people who have lived here for decades. I took over at one point as well. Perhaps we need to redefine fortune to mean more than just money. Maybe then people will be less resentful toward others.

I’m not sure why I’m writing about this today. Perhaps the comment bugged me more than it should have. And perhaps that is exactly what the person was going for. (You win, anonymous coward.) But it always does. Every time I get a hateful email or comment it bugs me more than you can possibly know.

I’m also not really 100% today. I seem to have come down with one killer of a sickness. I woke up covered in hives this morning, big white welts. I feel worse than I have in a long, long time.

So, if you want to discuss race and class and how insensitive my previous post was to you, I invite you to do so. I would have left the anonymous comment had it held any redeeming points. Instead, the person insulted me and then walked away. I really do learn from the people who visit and post on here. I cherish each and every voice I have read. Feel free to say whatever you want, just be kind in making your points, and make valid ones.

And maybe today you could put one kid glove on, I really feel very ill.

No matter how many times I remind myself to do otherwise, I find myself out of the house at the very same moment every school in Williamsburg and Greenpoint is letting out. Yesterday, I did it again.

Imagine you’re a guppy wading through a river with your young and a school of piranha are released from the stream directly to your north. Perhaps that’s not a big deal, you think, because directly to the south there’s another stream you can retreat to. Just as soon as you think of moving to that stream, it opens up and another school of piranha gushes out. You look west. Piranha are pouring in from the west as well, and those pirana have long fingernails and permed hair. East? That stream is releasing piranha and barracuda and automotive high school kids. And believe me, you do NOT want to mess with the automotive high school kids. They despise spawning, rich guppies. And I can’t say I blame them, some of these folks tend to all look the same and hold a fair share of self-awarded (and undeserved) entitlement.

So, you’re a guppy, a guppy who moved from one overpriced stream to annex another. You’re a transplanted guppy surrounded by piranha, barracudas, automotive high school kids and now a really bad analogy.

So, yeah, back to yesterday.

We’re at the park. Emory likes the swing and so we swing for a while. Eventually, we take a break and sit on a bench for a snack. He enjoys his mid-afternoon meal. I enjoy the sunshine. Suddenly, the park is engulfed by teenagers.

A few teenage boys walk by us discussing girls, iPods and bitches. A couple sits down across from us and starts to make out between puffs from a cigarette, their chapped lips form ovals and I am reminded of blowfish. The sudden ruckus causes Emory to lose all interest in his bottle.

Teenagers suddenly outnumber moms and babies. The conversation turns away from baby poop, playdates and sleepless nights to shit, fucks, and motherfuckers. I think, LA! LA! LA!, as curse words meet Emory’s ears.

A group of teenage girls run into the middle of the park from the north. They stop five feet from where Emory and I are sitting, a foot from the kissing fish. They carry a previous confrontation with them, one that probably took place earlier at a locker, in the bathroom, or in a hall.

There are two girls and a school of followers.

“COME ON, BITCH! I’M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS!” Says the shorter girl, the instigator.

“Why you not want to fight her, pussy? You gonna let her talk to you like that?” A voice calls out from somewhere within the group.

“I don’t care how she talks to me, I ain’t gonna fight her!” Says the tall, lanky, long haired girl.

She doesn’t want to fight. I watch her and write a story in my head about her parents. She’s a good kid. Her parents don’t want her in any trouble. She keeps walking away from the group. I feel sorry for her. I think that I want to tell her that I think I can speak for every spectator on that playground, she’s doing the right thing. But I stay silent. I freeze, actually.

“BITCH! FIGHT ME, PUSSY!”

The instigator tugs at her hair. The group moves in around her.

“I ain’t gonna fight you!” She screams.

The instigator swings, and hits the young girl on the side of the head. The girl still doesn’t budge. Her hair is disheveled.

“WHY YOU WALKIN’ AWAY, GIRL? FIGHT HER!” Another voice calls out from the group.

I think to myself, I hate the group mentality.

The moms watch from their swings. Two, three, four and then five mothers lift their cell phones to call the cops. No one thinks to interfere with the girls. They live in a world much different from our own even though we share sidewalks, pavement, city water, and grocery stores.

I don’t move because I don’t want to be seen. I figure that if I can keep still, they won’t notice me sitting there with Emory. I think of those animals on nature shows, the ones that try their and blend in no matter how different their background is from the color and texture of their skin.

More obscenities fly, words I haven’t ever heard before. Girls can be so mean to one another.

Finally, the instigator hits the girl hard enough for her to respond. She doesn’t cave into the taunts coming from the group; she’s actually angry. She swings her arm and smacks the instigator broadside across her head. Little teenage fists begin flying, ponytails are yanked from their Scrunchies. A full blown cat-fight erupts.

I cover Emory with my arms. He’s standing upright, his feet are on my knees. I look down at his face. He’s staring directly at the girls, watching their every move. It occurs to me that he’s actually trying to figure this out. That can’t be good for development, I decide. He may not be able to talk or walk on his own, but he’s very much absorbing the hostile confrontation.

We get up and slowly move away.

“You don’t want to see this, Pumpkin Pie.” I assure him.

We return to the fenced-in, swing area where the other moms are casually calling 911.

The girl runs off as the group continues to taunt. The instigator stands proud like an ugly cock, a raging bull.

Had this been a group of boys, would it have played out differently? I remember the plethora of unpleasant days that make up my teenage years and I think about ones yet to come for Emory. I realize that I’ll be as powerless then as I feel regarding the girl. The thought makes me shiver. I make a mental plea that he not experience such humiliation or succumb to the hideousness of the group.

I loathe the group.

“Poor girl, she only wanted to do the right thing.” A mother next to me says shaking her head. “Kids can be so cruel.”

I nod in agreement as I give Emory a push. He laughs gleefully from his swing.

It takes anywhere from five to 15 minutes for Murray to take a poop. It’s never an easy, in ‘n out kind of deal. I think he plans for it, actually, like a vacation or a picnic in the park.

I’m usually in bed or watching something REALLY IMPORTANT on the television whenever he decides it’s time to unload. Never in my life have I met a cat with such a noisy poop ritual. (Incidentally, this is the main reason we got a DVR. The TV must be paused for the duration otherwise we miss everything.)

I guess it’s a good thing the noise I’m complaining about doesn’t actually come from within or due to anything passing from one place to another. According to TobyJoe, that’s not even possible since cats are incapable of making fart sounds on the account of their having only one sphincter.

The things you learn while married to TobyJoe.

No, the noise doesn’t come from Murray’s butt itself. The noise comes from his inability to carve out the perfect dirt dent. No doodoo dent is good enough for Murray. He probably creates anywhere from 5 to 35 holes before doing his business. Perhaps it’s the feline version of searching for that perfect magazine? I have no idea what type of hole he considers good enough to envelope his poop. They always look the same to me.

I realized today that (if I’m lucky) I’ll probably know Murray for another 15 years and in that time the only thing I can be absolutely sure of is that I’ll never, ever figure him out.

It appears there could be a potentially HUGE problem regarding the underground oil tank that will keep us from actually buying the house. I plan on discussing this further today but I have to feed the baby first. Heh. So, we may not be homeowners yet. We may back out of this entirely.

Tell me, why? Why did people think it was a good idea to bury oil tanks? I got so worked up last night and then I spent an hour thinking about all the environmental faux pas we’re currently committing that our kids and our kids’ kids are going to have to deal with once we’re dead and gone.

More later. And happy Good Friday.

Later…

We were told by our real estate agent that the whole oil tank fiasco is the leading cause of contracts falling through. During attorney review, the buyers request that the sellers have the oil tanks removed at seller’s expense and the sellers refuse. The deal ends swiftly. We’re looking at this house as a place to raise a family, sure, but we also don’t want to find that our ground is contaminated and we’re potentially in the hole (no pun intended) hundreds of thousands of dollars. I realize that’s a worst case scenario, but when planning for one’s future, one can never be too careful.

Here’s the bigger stinker: this particular oil tank isn’t just underground, it’s beneath the basement as well. Digging said tank up, or testing the soil, could prove to be one gigantic pain the ass for whoever decides to take on said feat. Not only do you have to pay to dig up the tank (which isn’t all that pricey alone) but you have to dig a giant hole in the basement, test the soil, wash the soil out (if there is any contamination) and then put the basement back together again. Scary, is the first and only word that comes to mind.

I wrote this before we entered attorney review and learned more about what lies beneath:

“We have a screened in porch that runs the entire length of the house. I am looking forward to turning it into a sanctuary for the entire family. (I envision plants, bird feeders, creaky rocking chairs, candles, and maybe a designated spot to practice yoga.) I can’t wait to listen to the chorus of crickets from that porch, let my cats curl up into fat furry balls at my feet on that porch, grow more wrinkles on that porch. I can’t wait to sit outside on hot summer nights, sipping a glass of chardonnay to wash down my Grand Old Man with my grand old man.”

I took the rose colored glasses of yesterday and am now willing to accept (as egirl put it) having to kiss a few more frogs first.

Crazy day.

Between The Mountain Goats show this evening, Emory’s doctor’s appointment, and my mother visiting, I haven’t had a lot of time to write. But I wanted to take a minute to say that today we became homeowners.

The Mountain Goats are going to sound so much more sweet this evening. And my life gets better each and every day.

I think I’m in shock.

Edited to add: I wrote this yesterday flippantly and excitedly, however, we aren’t actually homeowners. Yet. Technically, we’re in attorney review and there’s still a lot to work out before we sign the deal. This could fall through. I feel I need to correct myself. Plus, I hate getting excited about something to only be let down. Assume the worst! ;]

I was going to write a story to go along with this photo, but I think the photo speaks for itself. Murray does this every single time we bathe Emory. Even after Emory begins to flap his arms and fling water everywhere, Murray remains.

Someday when Emory’s older and he and his friend Jim Brown are going through the Brown family photo album and they stumble upon the family photo staple featuring all three Brown toddlers in a bathtub, Emory can pull this image out in comparison.

I’m not sure if that fantasy makes me laugh or cry. Maybe both.

(Tub courtesy of Jen.)

(Please note: what appears to be soap scum along the rim of our tub is not soap scum at all. It’s actually the outcome of a poor caulk job done by our cheap landlords. That is all.)

Emory has been sick. He got a cold the day before we left for Florida, kicked it the day before we headed back north, and then got another one from one of the 4 billion kids we saw while we were away. He’s been cranky.

Wiping his nose has become one of the most impossible tasks. It’s become such an ordeal, we basically don’t do it, which explains why we have a bunch of vacation pictures that show Emory’s face covered in dried snot.

Here’s a video of one of his smaller hissy-fits. Believe me, this is nothing compared to what it’s like when he’s really cranky.

It’s been a rough couple of days for this mother and son team. He’s been unbearably fussy and impossible to amuse for more than a minute at a time. Yesterday, after listening to him scream and fight sleep for almost an hour straight, I sat on the couch and cried into my egg salad sandwich. (Which was nice because I forgot to add salt and I was too lazy to get up and grab some.)

Wooden spoons seem to amuse him long enough for me to pee or brush my teeth. The picture below gave me mental chatter, a problem I have whenever I’m dead tired. I repeat phrases or words until I exhaust every syllable, sound, and approach every cadence. Yesterday, I must have said, “MY SPOON’S TOO BIG!” 4,000 times.

I think it’s time for some sleep training because I’m losing my mind. But I don’t know when or how to begin or if I have the stamina for it. Plus, every time I let him cry for a bit, the cats circle and howl because the shrill sound hurts their ears. Tucker has gone as far as to climb close to my face and touch my nose with his paw as if to say, “Please make the lambs stop screaming. Please?”

I read last night that you’re supposed to take away a baby’s pacifier at 4 months. Well, we missed that window of opportunity. (We read that they help with SIDs, so we left it in. Conflicting reports, as usual.) I’m having trouble deciding what to focus on first. Do I let him cry it out for sleep with the pacifier, which will be easier to deal with. Do I take the pacifier away and then let him cry it out later whenever he’s over the pacifier? Or do I do it all at once? If it’s the last option, I am going to need either a whole lot of booze or a whole lot of antidepressants.

The more I read about how to nurture (or train) a baby, the more I think that sometimes this educated woman/mother thing causes more of a headache than it helps. I am convinced that’s how mothers who are cruel to other mothers get to be that way. (i.e. When career-oriented women become mothers, they tend to educate themselves to the point of judgment. Suddenly, there are no longer raises or bonuses, bosses or coworkers telling them what a great job they’re doing, so they have to convince everyone and themselves how awesome they are on their own usually at someone else’s expense. This can take the form of a three-way call where one mother calls another mother while a third remains silent on the line and the called mother tells the instigator how horrible a mother the silent mother is.)

But I digress.

I realize that I will have to let him cry it out (and soon) because he needs to learn how to sooth himself but when I combine it with all the other things I’m supposed to do (or have done), I start to feel a little overwhelmed.

The laser work I had done yesterday didn’t hurt nearly as bad as I anticipated. I really worked myself up about it too. I was so freaked out yesterday, I sent a text message from the waiting room letting him know. He wrote back, “Don’t be! I know it’s easy to say. Remember: courage is about facing fears, so you can’t be courageous without fear.”

Whenever she called me in, I was told to lie back in a chair. I put on metal goggles. They looked like the kind you’re given while using a tanning bed. (Believe me, I see the irony here.) Only they’re a lot heavier. The doctor walked me through everything verbally since I was unable to see. The metal gun spit cold ice first and then it hit me with a laser. I smelled burning flesh, but it wasn’t all that bad. It felt exactly like she said it would: like being flicked with a rubber band.

I look like this today. I am told it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

I hope makeup will cover it up until then.

Speaking of things aging, withering and dying, my Hindu Rope plant isn’t doing well. It looks like this:

Last year at this time it looked like this:

What am I doing wrong? This is depressing me far more than it should.

Lastly, if you didn’t see the post from yesterday, please go there now. Write the Mayor of Randolph, Iowa. Let him know what he’s suggesting is wrong.

UPDATED TO ADD: See this link about how you can help reach out to the Mayor of Randolph, Iowa. Apparently they DO NOT have access to email. (I wonder where my email went?) I wonder what happens you call the number? I’d happily call right now but the only sound they’d hear is the sound of a baby SCREAMING his head off because he doesn’t want to sleep. Perhaps that could work? I’ll just hit redial and let Emory scream into the phone.

My day? NOT EVEN CLOSE TO AWESOME.

The Mayor of Randolph, Iowa has offered a 5 dollar bounty for any feral cat that is brought to him alive. An action I find mindblowlingly deplorable. Why not take every five dollar bounty and pay someone to come and do this properly and humanely?

Please join Murray and me and write to the Mayor of Iowa. Let him know that this is a terrible idea.

107 S Main St Randolph, Iowa, 51649

712-625-2601

randolphcity@iowatelecom.net DOES NOT WORK (?)

Mayor: Vance Trively

Even if you are (what CNN so irresponsibly refers to as) a “cat hater” then pretend this is about dogs, hippos, whatever the crap. Members of a community cannot take matters such as this into their own hands. I can’t even imagine what kind of abuse these cats are going to experience, let alone what they could do to the kids looking to make some money.

Please see this link to send a letter via Alley Cat Allies.

I’m scheduled to have laser surgery done on my face today at 4 PM. (See previous posts here, here, and pictures here.) I’m not at all looking forward to this. Last time I went in for followup, my doctor injected the scar with steroids and it hurt like hell.

Here is what it looks like today:

I am having trouble capturing it and I know I may be more critical than others, however, the scar is pretty damn obvious. It looks like a much enlarged version of what was removed. It’s puffy and white. It looks like a blister or a burn. It’s not pleasant and it’s not easily covered with makeup. They’re trying to remove it, lessen it to some degree.

Anyway, I’m preoccupied because I hate having needles shoved into my face. I hope this doesn’t hurt. I hope it doesn’t actually get worse. I hope I don’t have to walk around again with a big red sore on my face. I hope to one day be able to put this MOHs thing behind me.

I did download the (very few) pictures we took digitally while we were away. There are more of the film variety that we need to get developed. I’d do it myself but they’re color.

Here’s a shot of Emory at The Animal Kingdom. He’s watching kids feed the ducks.

And here’s one taken while we were riding It’s a Small World. (Unfortunately, dumbass me brought only the 50 MM lens making it impossible to capture anything more than close-ups of someone’s face.)

Here’s a picture TobyJoe took of me giving my kid a manicure.

We’ll have more once we have the film developed.

^{Tuesdays with Murray we return next week. Trying to get it up today! If baby cooperates!}

In late February I received a message from a friend (the same friend who introduced me to my husband) letting me know that a mutual, online friend of ours named Nicholas Francisco was missing. Nicholas left work on February 13th, told his daughter he’d be home to help her bake cookies, and then he and his car vanished. (The car has since been found). He leaves behind a pregnant wife and two young children.

I have always known Nicholas online as “Francisco”. Our online paths have crossed a few times since early 2000. Most recently, we kicked around on the same private, invite-only messageboard, which housed a couple dozen people who knew each other in real life or long enough online to ensure a positive environment. (I am no longer a member of said messageboard. I quit a while ago.)

I like Francisco. I don’t know him well at all. But he has always been kind and helpful. He stood out. Plus, he’s a graphic designer, so we gravitated to the same topics.

I’m writing today for a couple of reasons. The first one is to just let folks know that Nicholas Francisco is missing and his wife and children miss him. When I first heard he was missing I told Toby, “I know this sounds awful, but I kind of hope he just left.” Because imagining the alternative was just too awful. (I would rather live in a world knowing my kid’s father had a change of heart and chickenshitted out than one where he no longer exists at all. I DO NOT, however, believe that’s the case here at all.)

The other reason I’m writing today is to bring up something a bit more cynical and a lot more confusing.

When I got back from Florida, I spent a few minutes looking over my stats. I discovered a referrer I hadn’t seen before. Normally, I don’t check every referrer that links to me but this was a messageboard and nine times out of ten when someone on a messageboard links to a blogger they are guilty of one of three things: slander, pedophilia, or hotlinking.

Anyway, I found this written by a woman named Kim:

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Well, it lists people who’s blogs or websites he follows. When they update their site it alerts him and he can go check it out. Some of my blog friends have it so I signed up but never really figured it out.

I went to one of the females sites. Yes, I’m going down that road. There are only a few females that he follows. I went to her entry from Feb 13th and there’s a comment from “Nico”. It wasn’t a suggestive comment or anything but I’m wondering if he’s going by the name Nico when he comments. Here’s the link, look in the comments under the post titled “Artificial Sweetners”.

http://mihow.com/

I have to get dinner ready but will be back after the youngest is in bed. This is all very interesting.

Disclaimer: I am not implying that any comments or contacts that Nicholas made or has mean anything other than a simple blogging community. If you guys were able to find his twitter account then so could Christine so I don’t think he was hiding anything.

---

With the Internet on the case, who needs law enforcement? Seriously, someone has been watching way too much Dateline.

It appears that a few of the members of that particular online community are actually accusing Nicholas’s wife of making it all up so she can run off with the donations. Some other members were asking if he played the game World of Warcraft. What does that have to do with anything? (Admittedly, I haven’t combed through the 15 plus pages so I am not sure if there’s a background to what many of these people are insinuating. I have also been away for over a week. The little bit I did see disturbed me). I’m not sure what to say or do. I want to tell these people that I’m just an online acquaintance and that “Nico” is very much NOT Nicholas Francisco and instead a gal I’ve known since I was 16, one I used to smoke cigarettes with after school.

I wasn’t going to link to the messageboard because I really don’t want to fuel what appears to be a fire of cynicism, but maybe someone with a little more time on their hands (and a lot less baby) can make sense of it. So, here’s the link to the page featuring the link to my site. (If you want to start from the beginning, you have to go to page one). On second thought, some of the people are just awful. Some of them make me uneasy. I am deleting the link.

I hope this isn’t nearly as cynical as it appears to be.

And lastly, I do hope Francisco is found safe and sound and soon. The Interweb misses him too.

Edited to add:

A commenter named Tessie added a link to The Francisco’s Web site. I hadn’t seen it until now. Sadly, Christine Francisco feels that she needs to defend herself. This is really gross.

I have been trying to write for several hours (days even) and have had zero luck. There’s just too much to do. Plus, picking up a computer after a week of barely touching it is not like riding a bike. I’m having great difficulty getting back into the swing of things.

There is so much to report. And almost all good. Going to shoot off a few things in random order while the baby bounces and watches some show called Super Why!

We are home from vacation. We had a great time.

I ran every day since there were no yoga classes. (If you run or work at a yoga studio, I might suggest opening one somewhere on Disney’s “campus”. There are a plethora of conferences that take place there and I imagine a lot of people might like it).

Taking Emory around Disney was incredible. He loved getting out. He preferred the people to the rides. He rode It’s a Small World and loved it, absolutely loved it.

We took him on Aladdin and he wasn’t so into that. He made the “I am going to puke face” right away. Poor kid.

Emory loved swimming! Watching TobyJoe and Em swim was a highlight. There are pictures, but they are of the film variety and need to be developed.

I actually lost weight. (This happens every time we go to Disney. I am appalled at the food choices Disney offers its customers, which is to say an unhealthy smorgasbord of crap. Nearly 50% of Disney’s visitors are obese, which makes me think about how much I have put on and have yet to lose. So, yeah. I lost weight. We’ll see if this continues since I can’t run easily here).

Emory has formed a potentially unhealthy attachment to me (and Toby). He had his first ever emotional meltdown while my parents watched him. He was away from us for a couple of hours and in that time he completely lost it. He stopped screaming the moment I walked in the door. Alarming? Entirely. I’m supposed to go away (alone) in May. I am not sure what I’m going to do about this.

The Auto Rail rules. I can’t even begin to sum up how much fun I had onboard this train. I will explain later whenever I have more time.

Friends of ours had their (Brooklyn) daycare shutdown by the fire department. Apparently it wasn’t up to code. They are in trouble as both of them work. They and other parents are scrambling to find alternatives. I learned yesterday that there is a waiting list at most all of the daycares near us. Looks like Emory will not be spending time away from me anytime soon. (Which means his attachment is going to grow even more).

I saw a video of a (Florida?) nanny who tossed a baby aside while watching TV and now I am wary of hiring a nanny.

I did watch America’s Most Wanted while in Orlando.

I did not see any fugitives.

Damn.

I wore sunscreen.

We saw a house yesterday that we really liked. It is small but really well cared for. We’re not sure what to do about that. It’s in a great neighborhood in the ideal school district. We’ll see where that goes. I’m nervous.

I am not in Austin.

I took a private yoga class with (the talented and lovely) Kyra of Inspired Yoga. I miss her greatly. I miss her smile and the way she teaches. She corrected a plethora of mistakes I have been making. I am excited to perfect my practice.

Soung looks great.

Springing forward is NOT good for babies and even worse for the parents of babies.

Now I must run along and delete the hours and hours worth of TV shows from our DVR that I’ll never have time to watch.

Do not wash a load of blacks with a biodegradable, applicator-free tampon.

As of March 1, 2008, Murray is one year old. March 1 may or may not be his real birthday since he was orphaned, found and rescued. March 1st is a guestimate, one we’re sticking with. Unfortunately, we were out of town and thus unable to celebrate his first birthday with him. I feel terrible for scheduling a vacation at this really important milestone. I have apologized profusely.

Well, it just wasn’t good enough, all of my apologies were simply not good enough. This was an image sent to us by our beloved cat sitter, Lisa.

We’re not sure if this is the aftermath of an actual throwdown, a message letting us know just how angry he is that we weren’t around, or an attempt to make us believe he threw a party so that we’d think we missed something unbelievably special – the party of the century. Murray’s first birthday party.