Renae du Jour

S.A.M. had been playing very quietly in the kitchen while L.K. and I read a book in the living room. He was not very quiet once we pried this sucker out of his sticky little hands.

Somewhere in the high-pitched wailing I swear he looked at me with glazed eyes and shouted that we’d been holding out on him.  Life for S.A.M. will never be the same.

If you look very closely between the carrot smears you’ll see S.A.M’s two teeth. They’re both on the bottom, which is something I’m thankful for every time he bites me.

When the top two teeth pop in he’ll have some ferocious power, and that might lead to a quick end to nursing. I suspect that’s alright with S.A.M, as he’s already trying to order steak, medium well, every time we’re in a restaurant.

The scene:

7:30 PM, LK’s room, the bottom bunk. LK has lined her stuffed animals in a row at her feet and  I’m reading Laura Ingall Wilder’s “Little House in the Big Woods.” 

Me, reading: “Ma’s big butcher knife was already sharpened and Uncle Henry brought Aunt Polly’s butcher knife.”

LK: “Wait.”

Me: “Yes?”

LK: “Wait, wait, wait wait, wha, wha, whaaat?”

Silence

LK: “Are they going to kill a pig?”

Me: “Yes.”

LK: “Wh, wh, wh, why?”

LK looks near tears.

Me: “They want the meat to eat.”

LK looks uncertain.

Me: “Did you know bacon comes from pigs?”

LK: “No.”

LK’s bottom lip begins to quiver.

Me: “Yes. So to get bacon a pig has to be killed. But you don’t have to eat bacon if you don’t want to.”

Silence.

LK: “Oh. I like bacon. START READING AGAIN NOW!”

Me: “Then Laura ran and hid her head on the bed and stopped her ears with her fingers…”

LK: “I REALLY like bacon. I like this book. They’re getting BACON.”

Conflicted, yet unwilling to give up bacon. She’s definitely my daughter.

Next post: LK visits a slaughter house.

Some people say they don’t eat anything with a face. At our house we try to stay away from anything that has a belly button, but we can not help ourselves when it comes to bacon. We are crazy for bacon. Crazy.

LK has a new favorite place and it’s the Honey Potty.  

She’s not sure where they keep the honey, but she’s willing to keep looking.

This is my new favorite summer coffee drink and it has officially made me one of those people that I used to make fun of. It’s D’s fault because he is one of those people.

This is an iced, grande, Starbucks-double-shot, no classic, sub sugar-free vanilla with soy milk, please.

Seriously. I had to write down the order because I will never remember it. It takes longer to say than it does to drink.

Feel the excitement of the Starburst Jelly Beans.

I think LK was more excited about her big bowl of candy than she was about Christmas. She had tons of questions: Where does the Easter Bunny live? (Palm Springs, of course.) How does the bunny get into our house? (He breaks in.) Can I meet the Bunny. (No, because the bunny only breaks and enters when everyone is a sleep. Now go to sleep. Go to sleep. SLEEP.)

We thought Easter was long gone, but then the star player, Bunny, made an appearance at the Alderwood Mall a FULL WEEK after we’d eaten all the jelly beans. LK acted as if she’d met President Obama. Her celebrity encounter outside the local Build a Bear started the entire Easter Bunny conversation all over again.

This time, D told LK that the Easter Bunny becomes Hassenpfeffer after Easter. He was making a joke, but Lena backed him up: apparently in her village it’s an Easter tradition for children to chase after wild rabbits with a pepper shaker. I can not make this up.

In Germany, the Easter Bunny really does turn into Hassenpfeffer.

After more than two months of quietly observing our family, S.A.M. has agreed to answer a few questions. The following conversation took place last night at 8 PM.

Me: So, what do you think?

S.A.M.: It’s cool.

Me: I’m so glad you think so because I’ve been a little worried about…

S.A.M.: Except the one with the squeaky voice. Dude, she’s got boundary issues.

Me: LK?

S.A.M: Yeah. Can you ask her to stop cleaning my toes?

Me: We’ll work on it. Other than that, everything good?

S.A.M.: The milk. The milk is good. Do you have the milk? Where’s the lady with the milk?

Me: Uh… that’s me. I’m your mom.

S.A.M: That’s what I said; I said I wanted the lady with the milk.

Me: OK, let’s wait awhile on the milk.

S.A.M: MILK, MILK, MILK, MILK, MILK, MILK.

Me: How about daddy? Do you want to see daddy?

S.A.M.: The tall one? Does he have milk?

Me: No

S.A.M: No more questions please.

In mid-August we were joined by Lena, a foreign-exchange student from Germany who does not like seafood, rice, Thai-food, peanut butter or root beer.

This is a picture of Lena, who was politely eating seafood during a visit to the Seattle waterfront. 

Even though she dislikes some of our favorite foods she does like cheese and chocolate and shares her care packages full of Gummi candies, so she’s clearly OK. When she leaves in June we will be very sad and immediately phone in an order of crab legs.

In early February S.A.M. joined us. He was more than a week late but, once labor began, arrived within three hours, just in time for LK’s bed-time snack. He has already proven himself to be extremely polite and will likely do all of LK’s bidding.

There’s always a pile of children around somewhere. 

LK loves S.A.M., so much so that we spend a lot of time and energy saving him from suffocation by hugging. It makes us all a bit tired.

That is, everyone is tired except for LK, who is ramping up for the coup. She’s hoping to topple the ruling king and queen so that she can become family dictator.

Once she’s in power she plans to take control of the brownie supply to fund her addiction to chocolate.

I say it’s a good time to stock up on chocolate.

It turns out that my memorial for the neighborhood chicken, the one I posted back in AUGUST before I stopped writing my blog, doing dishes or ironing, needs a correction.

NOC will quote Mark Twain: “The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.”

Or, if you prefer the newspaper approach: “An earlier posting implied that NOC, a neighborhood chicken, died of injuries obtained while fighting with a neighborhood dog. While severely injured and slightly humiliated, NOC survived. We apologize to NOC and her family for any inconvenience in this matter.”

A few weeks after my memorial post NOC wobbled into our back yard. She was missing all her tail-feathers and looked as if she might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. This was a chicken in need of Prozac. I ran for the camera but NOC, apparently tired of the paparazzi, ran away.

The neighbors built a chicken coop and she’s now on lockdown, waiting for her call from Dr. Drew. I can’t wait to see her on the next episode of Celebrity Rehab, snuggling in Andy Dick’s bunk bed.