There is some very cool art in November's issue of Ladybug Magazine. I credit entirely the inspiring poem.

Crisis

Two hours before time to head out Wrigley decides she hates her Halloween costume. It's pretty tragic when the imagination run head on into reality. Lesson to mom: try on the costume 3 days in advance and get signed contract that minds won't change.

For the record, I thought Bat Princess was a fabulous idea and when she'd let me try a few different things with the scarves she looked great, but she rejected the scarves all together.

Also for the record, when you're running from house to house demanding candy, it doesn't matter how your costume turned out.

Happy Birthday

I'm posting this 9 days late, but we did celebrate on time. I swear.

A couple of days before of her birthday, in proper alomost 5 year old exuberance, Wrigley proclaimed, "I'm so glad I was born!"

So am I. So am I.

Matrimony?

W: Mom, did you know that I'm the Mom of Marble, you're the Mom of me, and Daddy's the Mom of you. Even though you're not from the same family, the taller one takes care of the little bit shorter one.

What Do You Get The Girl Who Has Everything?

Well, a little more than a week before her fifth birthday ... Wrigley got her first nightmare!

On three consecutive nights, she had three tiny nightmares. One was about a river (that's all she could tell me about it); one was about falling off a cliff ("and then ..." quothe the Wrig, "... and then ... that's all I remember."); and one was about falling over a waterfall and "Mommy and you were on the shore and that wasn't fun."

On the third night, she refused to even try to fall asleep. So I blatantly plagiarized from a story that someone wrote during the children's writing conference I attended this summer. The story was about a boy who had nightmares, so his mom helped him make "nightmare spray."

Wrig and I came upstiars and I hollered, "Chris, can you look up the recipe for the nightmare spray on the internet?" Not exactly dying to relinquish valuable computer time, she hollered back, "Oh, I already printed it up. It's in the back of the purple book [where we keep our recipes]."

I flipped open the purple book, found a recipe that didn't have a picture of food on it, and said, "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." I took Wrig into the kitchen where we filled a spray bottle with 1 c. of water, 1/8 tsp. of salt, and two drops of lavender oil. I told Wrig the recipe says you have to shake it up and say, "No more nightmares" three times. I have never heard her say anything more passionately than those three "no more nightmares." We went downstairs, sprayed a little nightmare spray outside the bedroom doors, and cuddled blissfully to sleep.

After about three nightmareless nights (spraying the doors carefully each night), Wrig - ever the scientist - asked, "I wonder how the nightmare spray works?"

The answer, my friends, is that nightmare spray works quite well, thank you very much.

Planning

W: Mom, some people grow up to be old and crabby, but I am planning to not be old and crabby when I grow up.
M: (trying my very best not to crack up) Do you know anyone old and crabby?
W: No.
M: How do you know about being old and crabby?
W: Oh, Ed told me about it.

Hmmm, what else is Ed filling this kid's brain with, I wonder all the time.

Lord, What Have I Become?

I was at a store the other day, buying a new pair of used shoes. I'm waiting in line for way too long in a store that's way too loud, and suddenly this little girl, 'bout three and a half, starts howling. She's five feet away from me, fifteen feet from the door, clinging to her sippy and wailing away.

The old me, the sensible me, would have rolled his eyes. He would have thought sarcastic thoughts inwardly and groaned outwardly. He probably would have taken this opportunity to make an already unpleasant situation more unpleasant.

But the new me? Something twanged inside my belly. I started to wonder if the kid was lost. I looked around for something that might look like a parent. I swear, I was even thinking about going up to the kid, kneeling down, and asking if she was okay. Seriously.

Clearly, fatherhood changes a man, and not always for the better.

Am I Really That Easy?

Wrig: It's four days until chocolate night, but it's only three days until Saturday!
Me: What's Saturday?
W: Eleanor's birthday party!
Christie: You gonna go?
E: Um ... No.
W: But, Ed, you might get a piece of cake at the birthday party ...