Stories For My Son: Scene Three.

(Watch the others here.)

P.S. I am having great difficulty (both technically and personally) with the good ol’ blog today. Do forgive me for any weirdness you may have seen here today.

I save flowers. I dry them out and I save them. I have kept a bouquet in a homemade vase for several years. The picture below was taken of our place before we had a baby, before we moved the futon from the guest bedroom (now the nursery) into the dining room (now the makeshift guest room/storage area).

The flowers and the vase are outlined in white. And at some point it moved to where the food processor sits in the picture above. (Also outlined.)

The bouquet has grown a lot since then. It grew larger each and every time Tobyjoe bought me flowers. Sometimes I’ll add one or two from a bouquet, sometimes more. It represents a timeline of moments and holidays.

For example, there was that really difficult day last year. I was very pregnant and becoming more and more immobile by the minute. I had just discovered a massive band of stretch marks all over my underbelly. I called Tobyjoe to complain about it. He asked me if I wanted anything, needed anything. What I really wanted was a cupcake, but cupcakes are what got me there in the first place, so Tobyjoe brought home flowers instead.

One might assume, given what I just wrote, that I’m really attached to said bouquet. It does cover years worth of loving memories after all. And to some degree that assumption is true, but probably not to the degree that it should be.

For starters, they are dust magnets. I haven’t ever seen any other household item gather so much dust. And they’re impossible to clean. If you touch them, they crumble. But they’re sentimental, right? And so I have held onto them because throwing them out feels like burning books, trashing art, shredding old love letters.

Plus, we’re moving soon. The idea of moving a bouquet of dried flowers doesn’t sit too well with me. I knew that once we moved, the flowers would have to be destroyed. Tobyjoe and I would have to start anew.

The point is, the flowers had a lifeline. I just had no idea how short it’d be.

Two days ago, I was in the kitchen cooking chili cheese tofu dogs for Tobyjoe and me. Murray was sitting on the back of the futon, watching me move to and from the kitchen. At some point he grew bored with me and decided it was time to play with my memories.

I’m not going to go on and on about how it happened. I think I’ll let the picture below sum up the aftermath. (Keep in mind, this was taken after I removed the still whole branches, some of which were still covered in thorns. Ouch.) The really good news is the vase I so lovingly threw while living in Washington was still in tact. The flowers weren’t as lucky.

I’m a little relieved that I don’t have to figure out a way to get rid of the memories, throw out the dried flowers. Murray took care of that for me.

Now if only he could do something about the memories my body saved from eating all those damned cupcakes.

What if you woke up today and read the following expert from a blog based out of Brooklyn.

I saw a woman pull a baby out of the trunk of her car on Friday afternoon. It was horrifying.

You see, I was at the bodega on Meeker Avenue buying some lottery tickets. I rounded the corner and headed to the park. I noticed a woman rummaging through the trunk of her car. As I got closer, I saw her lift a baby out of the trunk!! We made eye contact. I gave her a look like, “You’re a sick person!” At first she was smiling and then she realized she was busted. Her happy expression turned into one that read, “Let me explain. I can explain.”

“That’s right you’ll explain, you sick bitch. But not to me. Save it for child services! THIS IS SO GOING ON MY BLOG!“

What kind of sick person puts a baby in the trunk of a car? You’d ask.

Let me explain. I can explain.

We live on the top floor of a three floor walk-up. Every day I take Emory out for a walk. We visit the park down the street, the one filled with shirtless Polish drunks, men and women so wrinkled and dehydrated, the whole of their body looks like the eye of an elbow.

I take him to the swings, an enclosed area protected by a sign that reads, “CHILDREN AND THEIR GUARDIANS ONLY.” Emory loves to people watch.

In order to avoid having to carry the stroller up three flights of stair each and every day, I store it on the first floor next to the front door. On Friday, however, I had to retrieve it from the trunk of our car where it had been left the day before.

I held Emory in one arm and opened the trunk with the other. As I bent down to get the stroller, I smelled urine. “Did you go pee pee?” I asked Emory.

I touched his diaper. It was puffy. “You went pee pee, didn’t you?”

I wouldn’t call myself a lazy person but I do try and avoid unnecessary exercise while toting a 20 pound baby. My thoughts were: why bother walking all the way back up three flights of stair if I don’t have to?

We’ve changed Emory in the car on many occasions. It’s not easy. The car is small. It’s even smaller now that the back seat is taken up by the car seat. Even when you do change Emory in the backseat, it’s impossible to lay him down flat.

I looked down at the flat, clean, carpeted trunk and had a brainstorm. I was so proud of the idea, I couldn’t wait to share it with TobyJoe. This idea was so grand, it begged the question, “Why hadn’t we thought of this before?”

I changed Emory in the trunk of the car as he laughed and giggled and looked up at the sky. Changing him lately has become quite the chore. If I don’t give him something interesting to look at, he screams the entire time. But this? This was one of the easiest changing sessions we’ve ever had together. The scenery and chorus of birds amused him greatly.

Just as I was applying the finishing touches to my baby’s bum, a woman rounded the corner. At first I didn’t think anything of it, I was, after all, just changing a baby diaper. But as I lifted Emory from the trunk of the car, I saw a look cast across her face, and let me tell you, words fail to describe that look.

I wanted to explain the situation to this woman, but she seemed entirely too freaked out. Plus, an explanation may come off as my making excuses as to why I’m driving around with my baby in the trunk of a car.

I chose to ignore it and go about my merry way. I put Emory in the stroller, draped the diaper bag across its handles and shut the trunk. She crossed the street gabbing away on her cell phone presumably telling some gasping third party about how she just witnessed some crazy woman lifting a baby out of the trunk of a car.

Motherhood is slowly shedding me of any decency or care I once had about what others think. This is something I am becoming unabashedly proud of.

Stories For My Son: Scene Two.

(Side note: I realized today that I have a lisp. I am not sure if it’s due to my excessive hearing loss or all the orthodontic work I had done as a kid. But it’s there, clear as day.)

A couple of weeks ago I decided to make a sandwich only to discover we were completely out of bread. As I cursed at Toby for finishing off the bread and not letting me know, I heated up some soup instead. Later that day I purchased two loaves of bread at our local Key Foods.

A few days later I was lying on the floor playing with Emory when I noticed something peculiar underneath the couch. At first it looked like it might be Murray’s red catnip pillow. But we got rid of that a long, long time ago. What was this mystery object under the couch?

I put the loaf of bread back where it belonged and noticed that TobyJoe had finished off the other loaf. We were down to one loaf of bread that loaf was punctured by cat teeth and paw prints.

Our apartment isn’t exactly baby friendly. We live in a railroad apartment where one room leads into another making it impossible to have any closed off area for a baby. It’s just a big open space—no definite barriers, no doors to shut, nothing. It’s a great for giving the illusion of open space, but horrible if you have a baby. It’s just not possible to close off an area in a railroad apartment.

This means that on any given day I spend the majority of my time with one eye on him and the other on the laundry, cleaning, bathing, cat feeding, Internet writing, bill paying, etc. etc. etc. It’s not easy. I’m not trying to sound like a big ol’ whiney bitch, but it’s not easy.

Some areas of the apartment are just all out dangerous, take the computer desk for example. There are more wires leading to an from that desk than one might find at Clark Griswold’s house at Christmas time. I refer to this area as the Gaza Strip.

There are, however, a few areas where I can take one eye away from him for a second. For example, the rug in the living room is really safe. It’s usually covered in toys, wooden spoons, spatulas, and plastic containers for amusement. I call this area The Green Zone.

So, yesterday I was hanging out with Emory in the Green Zone letting him play and babble. I didn’t worry too much about his getting into trouble since it’s such a safe area. But then he started to crawl away from the Green Zone. That’s when my left eye began to wander.

If you have a toddler and/or a baby who crawls, you are very aware of the moments of silence that erupt when they’re not supposed to. Perhaps your little one stops moving suddenly, all babbles come to an end. It’s at that moment you realize he or she is up to a degree of something less than positive. It doesn’t mean there’s something horribly dangerous taking place either. It’s probably more likely that you’ll interrupt your little guy stuffing a handful of cat hair into his mouth or sucking on your very filthy sock. Or maybe you discover that he’s remoistening a slice of very stale bread taken from a loaf of bread that’s been stored in an otherwise empty side table.

Why Murray is storing loaves of bread, I haven’t the slightest idea. But he’s making childproofing this apartment all the more difficult. I really am starting to believe baby and cat are in cahoots.

And our bread is now being refrigerated.

Sleep tight, Big Guy.

Toby has been working a lot lately. I was starting to wonder if I still had a husband. The good news is, the project is wrapping up. I’m excited for obvious reasons—I get my (weekend) husband back. But I’m also excited because I finally get to share the project with everyone!

The Barbarian Group worked with CNN and created a pretty awesome campaign and system for taking select (video) headlines and turning them into t-shirts. (You get to the page shown above by clicking one of the small t-shirt icon on the homepage next to some of the latest headlines.) I can’t tell you how awesome I think this idea is. Plus, the design is remarkably clean. Go check it out if you have time.

I love Top Chef. Toby and I are huge fans. We look forward to it each and every week. It’s not unheard of for one of us to wake up on Wednesday morning and express out loud how excited we are about 10 PM. And season three was awesome.

I don’t know what it is about season four but I almost can’t stand it and I can’t put my finger on why. Did they hire different editors? Writers? What’s going on? Perhaps it’s the people. I really don’t care for many of them.

You might call this is a stereotypical blog post (ie. bitching). It is. But I really want to talk about why season four of Top Chef seems to suck so very badly. Is it just me? How do you feel about it? Please feel free to disagree, agree, or tell me I suck for watching reality TV at all.

I’m starting a new series called “Stories For My Son”. Well, that’s the working title. It may change. My plan is to record a story at least once a week. We’ll see how it goes. But for now expect a new video every Wednesday.

Edited to add: So, I think my video may have made some people uncomfortable. Perhaps giving a voice to a blog is uncomfortable for some? I can relate, I think. I’m sorry!

This is my 40th week doing Tuesdays With Murray. I can’t believe that. To celebrate this milestone, I put together another video of clips featuring the furry beast. Enjoy!

(P.S. This is a work in progress. The final video will be up later today whenever Emory takes his nap.) I’m sorry, but what’s a nap? We don’t know what “nap” means.

Some parents get really upset when people refer to their baby using the wrong pronoun. Some parents go to great lengths to avoid having their baby girl be mistaken for a boy. They dress them head-to-toe in pink, stuff them into frilly dresses, wrangle bows onto the three or four strands of hair on top of their daughter’s otherwise bald head. I mean, who doesn’t appreciate a perfectly adorned coconut?

But this doesn’t only happen to baby girls.

Emory gets referred to as a girl all the time. Pretty much every time we’re out in public someone will say, “What’s your daughter’s name?” And Toby and I laugh because the answer doesn’t do much to correct them. Emory has become such an androgynous name. We joke about new ways of answering the question, like delivering his name with a resounding tenor-like “EMORY!”

Had we known we were going to have such a “pretty” boy, we’d have named him Maximus, Bob, or Texas.

I’ll be perfectly honest, it doesn’t bother me at all that people think Emory is a girl. He does have long eyelashes, big blue eyes, and, shit y’all, he’s a freaking baby. I think we can forgive people for messing that one up. What does bother me, however, is the reaction we get from people if we’re forced to correct them. (Sometimes, we don’t correct people especially if they’re passing strangers whom we’ll never see again.) They act mortified, apologetic, like they called him a sissy on the playground. We reassure them, “It’s OK. He’s just a baby. He doesn’t know.”

Perhaps I should dress him in military garb or stuff his diaper with a sock.

Maybe we should buy him a Hummer.

Did you know that my brother moved to China? It’s true. He lives in Beijing. He used to work on Wall Street. (Remember this?) Now he’s learning Chinese. (Mandarin, I think.)

He has a blog. And he’s threatening to shut it down, which would suck because it’s really the only way I get to hear from him. (Time difference plus the baby, makes it very difficult to catch one another online.) So, I figured I’d send him a little traffic and maybe, just maybe he’ll continue writing.

Yesterday’s post is a rant about the olympics. It may piss some of you off, I’m not sure. My brother doesn’t shy away from confrontation! I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be like on 8/8/08. (Which is Emory’s first birthday, by the way.) Say hello to Ryan if you have some time.

Our bid was accepted. We were to enter attorney review today. Another offer came through 15 grand higher. We were given the option of meeting that offer and have declined. (We simply cannot afford to pay any more). We are back at square one. We don’t have a place to live come July. I wish I could say I was disappointed, but I’m not. I’m actually a little angry and anger isn’t an emotion I’m accustomed to. Not sure what to say. Think we might find another place to rent if something doesn’t happen soon.

^{I’m going to open comments after all to potentially start a dialogue. Judging by the number of email I have gotten in such a short amount of time, I thought it might learn us all something. Maybe.}

Edited to add: I have addressed the “offer less and then negotiate” issue regarding this house in the comments section. :] I hope this helps.

Emory started crawling yesterday. He crawls while on the rug but the wooden floor is still designated for commando baby. But that’s OK because commando baby makes me laugh. I’m not ready to say goodbye to commando baby yet. I had to say goodbye to fake coughing baby, drunk babbling old man baby, and shrieking at the sight of kitties baby. I want to keep commando baby around for a while longer.

His first ever tooth made its appearance on Monday. I didn’t think that would happen for quite some time since I didn’t get my first tooth until I was 13 months old. But a tooth appeared on Monday. I discovered it the hard way. We were crawling around on the floor and he grabbed a fuzz and put it directly in his mouth. I reached for it, thinking my finger would be greeted by a soft, pink gum and got cut! It’s one sharp little tooth.

About three weeks ago, we really started to feed Emory from our plates. I read somewhere that as soon as you baby shows interest in what you’re eating, it’s OK to let the baby explore. I was a little surprised to find out just how quickly and open that area of exploration becomes, however. Everything is fair game (as long as it’s small enough for them to consume) except for fish, nuts, artificial sweeteners, and raw honey. (I’ve received mixed reviews regarding eggs.)

We’ve had fun ever since, giving him bits of whatever we’re eating at every meal. And he seems to enjoy everything. I discovered just yesterday that he even has a taste for Dr. McDougall’s Pad Thai Noodle Soup. I think feeding Emory new food excites me so much because I wish I could erase ever having had chocolate so I could enjoy it for the first time all over again.

Can you imagine?

And cupcakes?

(Actually, I do treat each and every cupcake as if it were the first cupcake I’ve ever seen or sunk my teeth into, which is why I want so many of them all of the time. Ah, cupcakes. What I wouldn’t give to have the metabolism I had as a teenager.)

I’m excited to have him try avocado and fruit the moment it comes in season, and ice cream? Oh my goodness! Fresh tomatoes? I may be projecting a bit. But isn’t this why we have kids? So we can experience the joy of youth all over again?

^{This post is dedicated to Jen and Mike who had to say goodbye to someone very special last week.}

I have a bad habit of not realizing how much I’m going to miss a part of my life until it passes me by. I get nostalgic over everything even “bad” times, depressing times.

For example, I found myself fondly remembering the time right after Emory was born where sleep had become non-existent and I was pumping breastmilk around the clock. I started to miss 3 AM pump sessions where I’d sit listening to the hum of a breast pump while reading I Can Has Cheez Burger. I was so chemically imbalanced back then, it’s amazing to me now that I can remember it so fondly. Yet I do.

I can glorify even the most depressing moments of my life, the only requirement is that they are in the past, which doesn’t particularly narrow down my options. I can renovate my history no matter how beat up and ugly it may seem.

Today I want to take a step back and look at a snapshot of my life 12 months ago because 12 months ago, I was about to enter a time of my life that I consider to be one of the happiest.

A year ago today, we were getting ready to say goodbye to a beloved (fuzzy) family member. We were days away from being told that he had incurable cancer that had been killing him for several months.

Saying goodbye to Schmitty was very, very difficult and with the anniversary of his death quickly approaching, we’ve been talking about him more than usual. We have discussed the fact that we’ll soon be leaving the last place that he ever lived. We’ve discussed that he won’t get to retire in a house like we always wanted him to. It brings me great sadness that I’ll soon walk on a floor that his paws have never touched. It bothers me that we won’t walk common ground ever again. It bothers me that we’ll be leaving behind a wall that holds his footprint and reminds us of the fact that he once used it to help him down from the windowsill.

When Schmitty died, I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover from it. It just hurt so, so very badly. (I have done my fair share of renovations to this memory and it still hurts.)

But day by day things started to look up and before I knew it, I was feeling happy in the present tense.

I was six months pregnant. I was putting on weight like a champ and growing more and more immobile by the minute. I was looking forward at a very hot and potentially daunting New York City summer but that didn’t bother me. I was staring my first ever child-birthing experience directly in the face and that both scared and excited the hell out of me. I was being pumped full of happy hormones. I was eating cupcakes without a care and craving an alarming amount of fruit. I watched entirely too much Live, Ellen, and The View. I went to the gym every day and really enjoyed the walk to and from. Every day I stopped along the way for a decaf cappuccino. I even enjoyed riding the bus whenever it got to be too hot and my feet began to swell beyond the confines of shoes.

I was really happy, like unbelievably happy. I even knew it at the time.

Right around the same time, I was introduced to one of the most hilarious creatures ever born. We named him Murray after Bill Murray because he was covered in stripes and he made us laugh. He was no bigger than a hamburger bun. He was small and therefore a champion hider.

Every day I would walk home from the gym in anticipation of trying to find him. He had several hiding places. My personal favorite and the one behind the books on the bottom shelf of our bookshelf. It took me forever to find that one. There was also the hiding place behind the VCR, under the bed pillows, in the shoebox in my closet. There was one that was so good, we never, ever figured out where it was.

Every day I looked forward to finding Murray. It was a game he and I would play. I’d come home, call on him, look for him and then he’d climb on my growing belly for some scritches.

So, what happens whenever a memory doesn’t need renovation? A Super Memory is created, the God of all memories, a memory that will likely comfort me right before I say my final farewell, one lacking regret or necessary reconstruction.

Those days bring me an inexplicable amount of joy.

Of course, there is also a song associated with that time. This isn’t something you’ll hear on the radio. In fact, only three people have ever heard it. Ever. Every day on my way home from the gym, I’d sing a song in anticipation of seeing the creature I once referred to as “My Little Person”.

Here are the lyrics.

Murray Man

He is a furry man.

He’s Murray Man.

From Furrymanistan.

He’s my Murray Man.

He is a furry man.

I love my Murray Man.

From Furrymanistan.

What I’m trying to say is this: on this day last year, I was about to say goodbye to one of the kindest creatures I’ve ever known. I was nearing a time that would bring with it an inexplicable degree of sadness.

But unbeknownst to me then was that right as that time was coming to and end, a time that would hurt so badly no amount of renovation could ever fix it, another section of my life was about to begin, a really happy time, one that wouldn’t need any work done to it at all.

We didn’t get the house we put an offer on. And even after we said we’re not the bargaining type (meaning, we’ll never accept a counter, that the amount we offer upfront is the amount we’re comfortable with) the sellers came back with a counter. And the counter was more than our real estate agent said they’d settle for. I’m thinking one of two things took place: either they are really that arrogant and/or stupid, or they got an offer closer to what they’d settle for and figured they’d have nothing to lose asking us to go higher. Nevertheless, we feel we offered them a fair price and have said no to their counter.

OK, so, this whole house buying thing is and has been an emotional roller coaster. They now HAVE accepted our offer. We’re going into attorney review tomorrow. I’m not going to get my hopes up — I made that mistake last time — but it looks like we may become homeowners soon. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

On Sunday Tobyjoe and I did something neither one of us would have agreed to a year ago. We went to a couple of open houses for the condos going up all over Greenpoint and Williamsburg. (Remember this?) I’m not sure why, really, anything we need (size) is too expensive. Most of them looked exactly how you’d imagine, which is to say trendy and cookie-cutter. But there was this one…

I actually really liked one of them. I even pictured myself living there. Granted, we’d have to sell the baby in order to afford it, which seems silly since one of the reasons we like it is because it happens to be in one of the best public school districts. It also has an elevator that delivers its occupants directly into their apartment. Do you have any idea how appealing that is to me right now? After spending 8 months lugging a baby, a diaper bag, and whatever other baby things I need up three flights of stair just to take my son outside? Orgasmic!

They also had balconies, an added bonus for those of us who haven’t had access to an outside space since college.

I don’t know what to say. I’m deflated. I’m sick of driving around each and every weekend to look at overpriced, sometimes rundown properties with annual taxes of ten thousand dollars plus. Factor in crime statistics, resale value, size of lot, garage space (or lack thereof), driveway space, walking distance to anything (we would rather not depend on a car), public school rating, oil tank burials, commute time (and price), and you’re left wondering why any member of the middle class chooses to buy a place at all.

One of the places we looked at (and it wasn’t cheap) is three blocks from the apartment complex that housed one of the shooters from this heinous murder. Yes, that’s in Newark. The murder took place there as well. No, we weren’t looking to move to Newark. Yes, one of the neighborhoods we’re looking at borders one of the most dangerous places in America. I am left thinking that denial must play a huge role in how some folks agree to buy what they buy.

And I’m thinking that choosing to read this book right now was a bad idea. (Anyone commuting to NYC from Southern Virginia?)

Should we continue to rent? Am I just having a bad week? I am still sick, 8 days and counting. Do I sound like a broken record?

Do I sound like a broken record?

Let me begin by saying I have had too much coffee this morning. Couple that with the Sudafed and I’m completely out of my mind on speed.

The baby is down for his morning nap and so I’m going to try and squeeze in a few paragraphs.

Let’s see, I’m still sick. It’s been five days and I still feel awful. The first few days were brutal, however. I had hives and I was freezing no matter what I put on. I could barely keep up with Emory. Having to go to work sick is one thing but being a mom and taking care of a baby is far, far worse unless, of course, your job is taking care of babies or kids.

To top it all off, we still don’t have a place to live come June 30th. If that doesn’t scare the pants off someone, I don’t know what will. As of right now, I have no idea where we’ll be living when Emory celebrates his first birthday. Perhaps that’s why my body is having trouble shaking this sickness, stress induced hives? If all else fails, we’ll move into The Hobo Nest.

We do have an offer in on a house we really like but we’ve been told they are planning on countering out offer, which we will not agree to. The house is awesome, sure, but it lacks a garage, the basement is unfinished, there is no real yard (it’s small compared to all the rest), and the attic is unfinished. (Many of the houses in that area have finished basements and/or attics.) I think we offered a fair price and I think that if they don’t accept it, they’re going to find themselves paying the difference in two mortgages. We’ll see, but I’m not getting my hopes up, not this time.

Real estate is a strange business and real estate agents make me feel a little sad. Lately, I have had the scene from American Beauty in my head. You know the one where Annette Bening is shown in the middle of a very dated looking home declaring that she “WILL SELL THIS HOUSE TODAY!” while she’s down on all four scrubbing its surfaces.

I swear to you I could smell the desperation.

I have been reminded of that scene a lot lately especially as we trudge through some homes and listen to these poor real estate women (yes, they’ve always been women for us) try and ignore all the horrible things. I have no idea how they do it. The whole experience makes me feel really sad sometimes, sad for everyone—the agent, the people who once lived there, the people who will, the emptiness. What good is a home without voices?

Ah well.

Our Emory is incredible. He’s now pulling himself upright. Everywhere. I discovered this one day by interrupting a potentially dangerous moment. We put Emory down for a nap. He was fussing and fussing and fussing and then he just stopped, just like that, silence. I peeked into his room to check things out and there he was, standing upright in his crib, arms holding onto the top bar. A mere head-thrust forward and he would have toppled out. Needless to say, his mattress was lowered immediately. And I get the feeling he’s going to skip the whole proper crawling thing and move directly from commando baby to standing upright and walking.

It’s Friday. It’s raining and I am dead tired.

The last time I had a strange sensation about a day, two planes flew into the World Trade Center. The thing about that was I never said it out loud and so I wasn’t sure if I thought I had the sensation ahead of time or if I decided I had the sensation ahead of time after the fact. I’m not sure if that makes any sense.

I’m not going to get all doom and gloom on ya, because the day actually looks quite lovely, but there’s something in the air today and it’s not an easy feeling. Today seems to want to introduce the people I know to more and more bad news. At least that’s how it seems.

I just got back from taking a walk with Emory. We went to the park and I let him swing for a while. Everything went well, nothing strange happened. But if it’s OK with you, I think that I’ll stay put for the remainder of today.

^{(April 3, 2008 made me feel uneasy.)}

If somebody from Animal Planet contacted you about taking part in a reality TV show about pet weight-loss (Biggest Loser for pets) would you consider it? Murray’s so fat! Speaking of Murray…

TobyJoe and I have talked about how Murray will most likely be considered Emory’s first childhood pet. Tucker and Pookum are much older and unfortunately, he probably won’t get to know them very well. But Murray should be around for a while.

Lately, Emory and Murray have started to actually play with one another. They have their toys mixed up a bit. For example, Emory really likes to play with the blue cat toy shown above but it doesn’t really bother Murray too much considering they can knock the ball around together. And they do.

Murray and Emory tend to find the same things amusing, take the Swiffer, for example. Both of them love the Swiffer! Which I find really quite strange and since neither one of them speak English, I can’t get a straight answer as to why.

I thought today might be a good day to put together a video of clips featuring how Emory and Murray interact. I want to share it with you today to thank you for all your support lately. (I received some pretty great email last night and when I find the time, I do hope to write everyone back personally.)

Lastly, and this may sound a little silly, but when I watched the final video, it brought tears to my eyes. I hope you enjoy it as well.

UPDATED TO ADD: Lisa posted a video of Murray when he was just a wee little man. Check it out.