Of Southern Drawls and Garage Sales

It seems that someone has been subtly influencing my two-and-a-half year old. Or perhaps someone has cloned him and replaced the original child with an identical duplicate.

A child with a Southern accent.

Very recently we started to notice some interesting verbal trends. He is dropping his r's and adding unnecessary syllables to certain words. For example, over there has become "ova they-uh." Snack is now "snay-uck." And bath is either "bay-uff," or a whopping "bay-ay-uff," if we're lucky enough to hear it.



If you are reading this and happen to live somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line and see my sweet boy wandering the streets, would you send him back to us?

But if not, this one is pretty cute and I suppose we'll keep him.

On another note, we are entering garage sale season, and I could not be more thrilled. I love the hunt and the bartering and the victory of finding a great deal.

But this year I'm switching things up and I'm going to be the seller. Since my children have entered a lovely phase of sibling squabbles, I've decided to sell everything they have. They fight over the same object so many times throughout the day that I lose track. And nearly lose my mind.

Sometimes it's a bouncy ball. Other times it's a book. Or a toy car. Or a pencil. Or a-- you get the point.

So I've decided to sell the playroom. All of it. Okay, I might keep the carpet and light fixtures, but everything else must go.

Except for one toy.

I haven't decided which one yet, but since they always want the very same thing at the very same time, what's the point in keeping all the rest of it? It's just more for me to have to dust.

Think it will work? No, I don't either.

*sigh*

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some dusting to do and a silly little boy who needs a bay-uff.

Late night delusions

It goes without saying that I've been up a lot during the night lately. Having a new baby in the house means lots of wakefulness at odd hours.

The other night while I was up cuddling with my new little bundle of joy, with my hubby softly snoring beside me, I heard what I believed to be illegal activity going on in our neighborhood. I snapped quickly from my drowsy state into wide-eyed alertness, wondering if I should be calling the police to report these shenanigans.

In my sleep-deprived state, it sounded distinctly like there were drag races going on outside on our street. I was sure of it.

I listened for a bit, not knowing exactly what to do. But my sleep-deprived body took over, and the next thing I knew I was waking up to silence. I knew I had to tell my husband in the morning, and he would help me decide what to do if it happened again.

A few nights later, my sweet hubby was up, changing a diaper, and he heard it, too. He went to investigate (by looking out a window, go figure) to find the culprit:


Yes, our milk delivery truck sounds like a hot rod.

And apparently they deliver our milk at 2:00 a.m. Ugh.

Easter, yes. Happy? You decide.

If you've been following my blog for a while you may recall the fiasco of last year's Easter photos. Or, rather, our lame attempt at taking them. This year wasn't much different. But we added a new member to the cast of characters. Needless to say, he got to sleep through the whole thing.

Lucy pasted on her fake smile for the camera. And as much as she wanted to "hold" Adam, she was very much hands-off. It was a little precarious in the rocking chair.

Josiah simply would not smile unless John tickled him. But then there's the issue of the thumb. He is the image of pure misery here.

And sweet little Adam. Still so clueless. Give him a year and I'm sure he'll join in the miserable practice in our home known as holiday photo taking. I can almost hear the crying now...

Ahhh, my three sweet cheribs. Love 'em!