A Poem

A poem for your enjoyment: "Disobedience" by A. A. Milne James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree Took great Care of his Mother, Though he was only three. James James Said to his Mother, "Mother," he said, said he; "You must never go down to the end of the town, if you don't go down with me." James James Morrison's Mother Put on a golden gown. James James Morrison's Mother Drove to the end of the town. James James Morrison's Mother Said to herself, said she: "I can get right down to the end of the town and be back in time for tea." King John Put up a notice, "LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED! JAMES JAMES MORRISON'S MOTHER SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID. LAST SEEN WANDERING VAGUELY: QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD, SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN TO THE END OF THE TOWN - FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!"

James James Morrison Morrison (Commonly known as Jim) Told his Other relations Not to go blaming him. James James Said to his Mother, "Mother," he said, said he: "You must never go down to the end of the town without consulting me." James James Morrison's mother Hasn't been heard of since. King John said he was sorry, So did the Queen and Prince. King John (Somebody told me) Said to a man he knew: If people go down to the end of the town, well, what can anyone do?" (Now then, very softly) J.J. M.M. W.G.Du P. Took great C/0 his M***** Though he was only 3. J.J. said to his M***** "M*****," he said, said he: "You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of-the-town- if-you-don't-go-down-with-ME!"

GPoD: 10.15.2005

Now that's a happy baby.

GPoD: 10.14.2005

Graham is usually most cheerful first thing in the morning. We know who that came from....

This is a picture of the scarlet maple tree I planted in our front yard this spring. I post it here lest any of my Yankee readers suppose that North Carolina is completely devoid of the splendors of autumn (now where would you get that idea?). As you see, it's quite lovely.

GPoD: 10.13.2005

Irony (i're-ni), n. [Fr. ironie; L. ironia; Gr. eironeia], 1. a combination of circumstances whereby the literal reality (a onesie saying "happy laughs") is opposite the actual reality (cries of misery).
Does anyone know where we can find baby clothes with the words "Crabby Colic" printed on the front?

The Two-Month Checkup

Graham had his two-month visit to the pediatrician today and received three shots. He was not pleased. But he weighed in at a thumping great 13 pounds, 8 ounces--in the 90th percentile, the little glutton. And he's tall, too: 24 inches in length--again in the 90th percentile. So at least he's well-proportioned. His head measurement was only in the 75th percentile, which suggests that even though he's a big boy, he isn't getting a big head about it.
Things are going very well on the sleep front, as well. He slept for twelve hours last night with only two feedings--including one six-hour stretch--a remarkable accomplishment for so small a person. The next step is getting him to put himself to sleep. The pediatrician suggested today that we start putting him to bed before he's actually asleep; this so that he'll not become dependent on his mummy or dad to go down for the night. A nice thought, but we're still cherishing our precious hours of sleep, so this may have to wait for a while....

GPoD: 10.12.2005

Hurrah for new blue jeans!

GPoD: 10.11.2005

We are sleepy bunch these days.

The First Fire of the Season

Fall has finally arrived in North Carolina. Sort of. It's mid-October, and the outside temperature has finally dipped below 70 degrees. Is this really cold enough to justify a trip to the woodpile? Not in Minnesota, it isn't. But we're not in Minnesota any more. It's October in the South, and even though there isn't even a hint of color in the foliage, we're enjoying carmelled apples and the crackle of the fire.
As Garrison Keillor puts it, "There are no simple changes in this life. You divorce Minnesota for the California coast [or the North Carolina Piedmont!], a rational move, and all is well for a while, but then October rolls around . . . and suddenly you miss fall. Terribly. You miss the delicious sadness of a fall day, the blazing yellow birches and aspen, the red and orange and yellow maples, the red sumac, the oaks turning orange, the air smelling of old horses and potaoes and wood smoke and rotting logs. The great monument of trees, the sweet air, the keys to memory, to your story. You've become an occupant of a house, a credit-card holder, an insuree, a face on driver's license. October is the connection to when you were eight years old and the splendor in the woods, the pageantry of trees, red and gold and ochre, and the sweetness of the chill air. You long for it." (In Search of Lake Wobegon, 116)
Yes, we do. But at least we've got the wood smoke. Better go open the flew a tad more...

GPoD: 10.10.2005

The complacency of a clean diaper.