The Tot Spot and Other Adventures

Vacation: This picture says it all

Dad tries to look candid while feeding ducks

Just checked the "monetize" section of my blog, which I still do from time to time even though the revenues don't budge much since I stopped making up stories about famous people and exploiting gossip sites. On the plus side, I still managed to make forty-eight cents last week and I've finally eclipsed the $100 threshold, which means Google should be sending me a check next month. On the puzzling side, according to the "stats" link, people are still reading the aforementioned fiction way more than any of my real or meaningful posts - except the one titled "First Boob Free Night or Best Dad Ever" which I suspect brings in the porn-seekers. And finally, on the most baffling side of all, even though I've participated in writing complete and utter lies about people on the Internet, I'm still just as likely to type questions like "Dick Vitale glass eye?" and  believe whatever answers come up, provided the person sounds knowledgeable.

On to the priceless meaningful stuff...

Spring break has come and gone, and once again we spent the week in Lake Tahoe with my dad, watching the rain and snow, listening to the wind howl, and enjoying tons of awesome Indian food. We don't have the luxury of an Indian restaurant in our town, which means we plan vacations around them when we travel. Spending time with my dad feels like it gets better all the time. I now appreciate the ways we're alike and love just going around, running errands, and being silly.

Amari with Elmo and Babaji 

Three Generations of Fishmans

On one outing, my dad related a funny story which pretty much sums up the paradox that he is - yoga studio owner, Buddhist practitioner, and eternal adolescent. Earlier that week, my dad was in line at the bank to do some weekly business for the shopping center he manages. There was a gentleman in line who appeared to have a lot to take care of, so my dad asked the bank manager, a woman he was familiar with, if she could help him. She said she couldn't, so my dad stood close to the counter and did what he does, which in this case was strike up a conversation with a kid in his early twenties who entered the bank both distressed and smelling as though he'd dressed in marijuana.

In speaking with the young man, my dad learned that he'd come to close his account and withdraw his last $200 from his account because an ATM had refused to give him the cash he needed to pay the cab that was waiting for him outside. My dad jokingly said, "You might need all of it to pay the cab the way this line is moving." When the man at the counter finally finished his business, he stopped by my dad and the young man and said to my dad, "You are an arrogant and rude person."

My dad was taken aback, felt like he had to say something, but didn't know what would be an appropriate response. With years of yoga and meditation in his tool belt, my dad calmly replied, "I'm rubber and you're glue, whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you," pausing, deciding that wasn't enough, he added, "Asshole."

I love my dad.

Other highlights included Amari learning to repeat the words "I," "Lub," "Dada/Bapa," and Dronme (my dad's 12 year-old step-daughter) announcing proudly over dinner her knowledge that Pig Latin was, in fact, not spoken in any country. Priceless.

Crazy, Pig Latin, Step-Sister

Amari and Siobhan

Another hit with the whole family was a place called Tahoe Tot Spot - an indoor play facility for babies, toddlers, and parents. We discovered it on an outing to Rite Aid and gave it a shot the next day. When you walk in the door, you're greeted with a wall of super cool kids toys, costumes, puzzles, accessories, etc., but to your left is a wide open play area with tons of gym mats, tunnels, toys, spring boards, a long giant trampoline that leads to a pool of plastic balls. Around the corner is an art room, a toy room, a wall of costumes, and high quality, fun stuff for parents and kids to play with together. It was awesome. And for just ten dollars, you can spend as much time as you like there from 10 - 2. Plus there are all sorts of classes offered in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings. I immediately wished we had one here at home and started to fantasize about starting a similar business here.

http://www.tahoetotspot.com/

After our second day there, I spoke with the owner, Amy, about how she'd started it and how viable it is. She's considering putting together a franchise package or offering her services as a consultant if other parents want to start their own. I got myself on the mailing list, and told her I'd be interested in learning more about the business side of things if she's willing to share. The coolest part for her is that she got to work while raising her kids. She said it was challenging at times, but way better than not seeing them at all.

Sadly, no pictures of the Tot Spot, but a video will be coming soon.

Prior to Tahoe, we stayed in Marin for a couple nights where the friends from my old stomping grounds helped usher me into my fifth decade by celebrating my fortieth birthday. A good time and carrot cake was had by all. It felt nice to spend a solid chunk of time with Jessica, see how Amari took to both her and Bodhi's daughter, Hero. Although they drive me nuts sometimes - it's really nice to have friends who have known me forever.

Thanks everyone. May I be just as blessed the next forty years.

Birthday Wishes

Amari with Poet and Hero

Tots and Teens

Parenting is hard sometimes - like trying to grab those little pieces of eggshell that fall into the bowl when I'm making an omelet. Just when I think I have a grasp on it, it slips through my fingers and ends up both farther and further away. With omelets I generally accept a little crunchiness and with parenting (at least recently) I end up with egg on my face - or more accurately, frustrated, angry, and sad.

It certainly isn't Amari. A seventeen month-old has the distinct advantage of diluting said challenging feelings with their unbearable being of cuteness. That was a weak attempt and Milan Kundera word-play. A seventeen year-old, however, has the distinct disadvantage of being at that in-between age where she desperately clings to childlike irresponsibility while the rest of the people in her life want her to grow the f--k up. Unfortunately for Carrie and I, the responsibility of helping her through this transition was thrust upon us without the benefit of the sixteen years of experience usually afforded parents in our position. Unfortunately for Siobhan, the world doesn't stop spinning for anyone.

When my niece arrived last August I was optimistic and excited, hopeful that Carrie and I could prepare her for life in ways that a boarding school on a hill station in the middle of nowhere might not. I knew she wasn't going to be thrilled with the move away from everything and everyone she knew, but I figured that time and our loving family would ease the pain and hopefully give her a new sense of home. I was loving, I gave her space to find her own way. I encouraged her gently but never forced her to do anything. I waited...

She went from a small, private, international boarding school in India to mildly redneck, slightly larger public school in rural California. The change was bound to be hard on her, but she showed promise at times that she could take anything the world threw her way. As the weeks and months went by, I saw glimmers of the person Siobhan could be, probably the person she is when she's with her friends back in Kodaikanal, or Facebooking or whatever. She joined the soccer team, got good grades, and seemed to at least be not hating it.

Along the way, I started the upward struggle of teaching Siobhan how to be a part of a family - rights and responsibilities, respecting shared space, and most importantly, common courtesy. I mistakenly thought that a boarding school experience fostered independence, but instead it inhibited it entirely. I've come to believe now that boarding schools are kind of like high-priced prison - three hots, a cot, and some distant, future, release date, when you're cast into the world like a newly hatched bird from its nest. I hoped Carrie and I could cushion the fall, but not at the expense of our own nest.

I now feel as though everything I've tried to do to support Siobhan has been summarily thrown back in my face. She asks for help, I offer my hand, and she refuses to meet me half way. She wanted to eat better, to exercise more, to study for the SATs. I cook eggs in the morning, invite her to exercise, tutor her in the evenings, but when she has been unwilling to put the work in on her own. She doesn't wake up on her own, feed herself well, get to sleep at a reasonable hour, help out around the house. I know, I know - she's a teenager, but that doesn't make it easier to live with.

My lectures have gone from comical encouragement and pleas for help to angered annoyance and silent indifference. The last one is where I'm at right now. The last week has been brutal. I now equate parenting a teen to the cycle of abuse that can be tracked in some relationships. Acrimony and venom six days a week, but the flowers and candy on Sunday make the person think, "Maybe s/he's not so bad. This time will be different." I don't feel venomous, but I certainly feel duped. Every time I feel as though I've had a breakthrough conversation, Siobhan's behavior will change for about thirty-six hours - she'll do some dishes, say please or thank you, help with Amari - before she holes back up in her room and disappears into cyber-land.

Long story...well, you know, I feel sad. I feel like I've failed even though I wasn't given much to start with. I feel like I'm damaging my relationship with my niece by not even wanting to talk to her right now. I know she knows I'm mad - if she couldn't tell by me barking, "I'm sick of this shit, Siobhan. If you're not going to help around her, then you're not going to get in the way either." It was my way of saying, "You're on your own until you start meeting me half way." I don't ask for a lot. I really don't. I just want her to start participating in her life, or at the very least in our family. So far, I'm 0 for 2.

On that note, the Giants beat the Dodgers tonight 5-4 in thrilling back and forth nail-biter. That's how my dad always used to change the subject when things got uncomfortable, "So...how 'bout them Dodgers."

As for the tots in the house. Awesome. Siobhan said something very telling the other day while Amari was mastering the art of putting triangle pieces in triangle holes. "I wish that's all I were learning," she mused. I get it. I really do. But that's just not how life works. And the longer you keep using out-dated tools that don't serve you anymore, the harder it is to catch up.

Amari's vocabulary is multiplying every day, and she recently graduated to two-word sentences (all joking aside - something Siobhan could still improve on. Don't ask a yes/no question if you expect anything more). It's an exciting stage of development because you never know what to expect. From simple repetition of similar worlds - blue, book, bubbles - to the unexpected mimicking of things like, "Uh oh" (today's greatest hit) "Got it," "Bite dad," (when it was my turn to enjoy her delicious cottage cheese and beans), or "Mo ice," when it's her turn to enjoy my delicious beverage of choice.

The sun is finally shining consistently, which means lots of outside time, planting vegetables and flowers, therapeutic lawn-mowing, and general upkeep of our property. It's slow-going most days, but Amari loves to help, which mostly means steering the tractor or filling the evaporating puddles with gravel. She is truly her father's daughter when it comes to the latter, because I could happily spend all day throwing rocks into a body of water - no matter what size.

So be it tots, teens, triumphs, or tragedies, the hard days go by just like the easy ones. The sun rises will rise tomorrow and I'll get to do it all over again - hopefully with a little a more grace and always a little more consciousness.

Stranger Danger or Twelve Down Eight To Go

I've been thinking a lot about my mortality lately. The fact that new pains seem to find their way into random parts of my body on a daily basis coupled with my fortieth birthday fast approaching and you've got a slightly hypochondriacal daddy. Unfortunately, I also have a low pain tolerance and an irrational fear of doctors, which just makes for whiny comments like, "Ouch. I should really go get that checked out," or "if that doesn't go away by my birthday..." or "Is there such thing as hangnail cancer?" Those really hurt.

Now I've been through bouts of existential thinking before - a war of attrition between meaningful and meaninglessness during my adolescence, the uncertainty of whether I wanted to live when I was drinking my life away in my late twenties and early thirties - but this feels different because I've grown very attached to my life, to my family, to my daughter. Although I'm still very much a teenager emotionally, there is no doubt left in my heart as to what in life is truly meaningful. The consequence of my certainty - the occasional bout of cognitive morbidity. If that doesn't go away by my birthday, I promise to...

start another paragraph. And another subject.

Amari's bottom left molar finally broke through last night. For the past month we've been anxiously monitoring her ever-swelling gum wondering when the hell it would finally happen. In the interim, countless tears, sleepless nights, and doses of Tylenol later, not only did the molar pop, but two others we hadn't noticed came in up above. I'm pretty sure that's twelve now, and if my Googling skills serve me correctly, that leaves only eight to go. Can I get an amen? Can I get a hallelujah? Never mind. I'll do it.

I went away this weekend to visit my buddy Matt from grad school. Matt and I used to spend every Thursday night watching TNT basketball double-headers and playing video games late into the night. Save the occasional Wii bowling at the Calverts, I honestly never play video games, but with Matt it became a ritual. When basketball season ended, we'd switch to baseball, and when the World Cup came around in 2006, Matt purchased the PS2 video game and we played and played and played until Portugal found their rightful place on the championship podium.

This time I arrived Friday afternoon, just in time for the last four Sweet Sixteen basketball games. The first two were routs, but the last two were nail-biters - in both cases coming down to the final shot. To unwind, we played eighteen holes of Wii golf, but promised to go shopping for a March Madness college basketball the next morning. The next day we palled around, made a short film about fantasy baseball (coming soon to a blog near you), and found an inexpensive used copy of March Madness '07. After Shelvin Mack hit a clutch three-pointer to complete Butler's comeback from nine points down against Florida, after the clock wound down to zero securing their improbable return trip to the Final Four, after both Matt and I developed man crushes on Bulldog's coach, Brad Steven's, we played the Madness video game (as Butler), and took them to their first national championship.

Note: Although Portugal did not win the 2006 World Cup, when Matt and I playeed again and took Spain to the title in the spring of 2010, the Spanish squad did in fact win the World Cup that summer, bringing us up to an astonishing 50% accuracy at Video Game Prophecies. Looks like Butler's bringing home the gold.

During our movie making, Matt and I each played two characters. He was an obsessed Boston Red Sox fan and a fantasy baseball Sabermetrics nerd and I was a dumb (albeit serious) player and a goofy British guy who didn't really know what he was talking about. Attempting to look different, I gave myself some lamb chop sideburns and a chin goatee, but not wanting to freak Carrie or Amari out I shaved them off before I came home. I did the same thing last time I was at Matt's, but Amari was only about six month's old, so she just tripped out on my face and touched my smooth cheeks. This time she wouldn't come near me for an hour. I'd say, "It's me, Dada," and she would look at Carrie or Granny C and roll her eyes as if to say, "Who's this guy trying to fool? I wasn't born seventeen months ago."

From the rest of the peanut gallery, I got comments like, "What happened to your face?" (Carrie) or "Ohhh, you look so...young" (Granny C with a very disappointed tone) and "Oh my God." (Siobhan) followed by an agreement with Carrie that I look better with a beard. I'm kind of used to it now because I've shaved a few times and been received with comparable warmth since I grew my beard a few years ago, but I can't say that it's entirely heart-warming that everyone thinks my face looks better covered with hair. How come nobody said anything the first 35 years of my life. Will I be getting a burka for my fortieth birthday?

I'm sure they just really love the rugged handsomeness of my beard. Either way, I won't be shaving it off in the near future unless Amari is right there to witness the transformation. It was only an hour, but it was sad to see her looking so suspicious of me. Kind of like this:

Who are you and where's my Dada?

I prefer this look:

Beware the Ides of March Madness

I like titles. I always have. When they say you can't judge a book by its cover what they're really saying is you shouldn't, because everyone does. Show me a person who is judgment free and I'll show you a corpse. Reminds me of the joke where a crowd of people has gathered at town square to stone a woman for infidelity. Fortunately, Jesus steps between the woman and crowd and pleads, "Let he who has never sinned throw the first stone." The crowd is stunned, silent, motionless, until a single rock sails over their heads and pelts Jesus right in the face. "God damnit," Jesus cries, "you can be such a bitch, mom."

I also like Shakespeare. And basketball. And what better way to celebrate both than to write on the day after the anniversary of Julius Caesar's assassination and the eve of the greatest three weeks in all of sports? The Ides of March, the fifteenth, was made famous in William Shakespeare's tragedy of Julius Caesar when a soothsayer cautioned the emperor to beware its impending arrival. Sure enough, he was murdered that day in 44 BC by his good buddy, Brutus, and the envious senator, Cassius. March Madness, on the other hand, was made famous by being the greatest three weeks in all of sports - domestic and international. Some might argue that the World Cup or the NFL playoffs hold this title, but to them I say, "Beware the Ides of Being Wrong, Suckers."

March Madness is the end-of-the-year tournament for the top 64 Division I basketball programs (technically 68 but I won't get into that). Each of the first two weekends the field is reduced by 75%, first to sixteen, then to four. Last year, I took Amari to her first Sweet Sixteen party - a gathering where fans can come and bid on teams they think will survive the next weekend. This year, I let her fill out her first bracket, placing it her writing desk and giving her several crayons to choose from. Since she can't write yet, I had to come up with a system to interpret her choices. For example, when she carefully placed each crayon on the floor beneath the desk and squealed loudly with delight, I assumed she was picking top seeds to advance (straight chalk as the experts say), and when she crumpled up the bracket and tried to draw on our cat, I picked twelfth seeded Clemson to upset West Virginia.

Amari may not actually be capable of filling out her own bracket yet, but by next year this time I guarantee she'll be able to pronounce - if not spell - Krzyzewski (coach of the highly favored Duke Blue Devils). Lately, she's been developing extremely rapidly in all sorts of cool AND not-so-cool ways. On the cool side, she's mimicking us more and more, and she's taking risks with language.

Cool

For a while now it's been clear that Amari understands most things - she follows directions, retrieves things, takes items from one place to another, identifies correctly, and so on - but when it comes to saying words, she shies away. Can you say..., I'll ask, and she'll shake her head. The past few days, however, she's sounding things like ball, doll, book, and other words that sound similar. I've found that when I get her into a rhythm of words she knows, "Dada, mama, more," and then throw in a new one, it will slip out of her mouth before she has time to think about it and shake her head. It's pretty freakin' cool to watch her learn, and I'm really excited to have conversations with her in the future.

Not So Cool

On the not-so-cool end of the spectrum, Amari has started hitting Hunter without provocation. Granted he spent months poking, hitting, grabbing, taking, pulling, but to see her do it now without concern for reprimand is kind of a bummer. Hunter isn't phased in the least, but I still get her attention with a loud no, sometimes coupled with removing her from proximity. Unfortunately, her response to my attempts at discipline as been to develop greater speed and sneakiness. Towards the end of our visit this morning, I saw Amari sitting with Hunter, appearing to play quite nicely with a pile of his stuffed animals. Suddenly, like a Mr. Miagi-trained karate master, she reached up with an open palm, slapped the side of Hunter's face and returned the palm to its resting position. I might not have believed what I'd seen had she not glanced back smugly at me to see if I was watching. I shook my head in disbelief before reiterating my loud, "No." What the hell happened to my sweet, little Amari.

The good news is Hunter's parents actually believe he deserves the retaliation, that it's about freakin' time,  and they actually prefer the play dates where he gets his ass kicked. The bad news is, I don't like it at all - and I hope it doesn't last. The best news of all is neither of their hitting or poking or taking or pulling last very long and they almost always get quickly back to the business of being adorable little toddlers. Here's one of the latest music videos I put together as a tribute to their growing friendship.

http://www.vimeo.com/20308429

That's all for tonight.

Hail Caesar and go UCLA Bruins (even though I picked you to lose in the first round)

Dada

Rembrandt! Van Gough! Fishman?

Amari went to her first play group last Friday - a gathering of parents and children at the local community center in Elk. After our daily dose of Hunter and Jim, Amari and I picked up Nicole and Reya and made the windy journey south for rest of the morning.

We arrived early and volunteered to help the director, Diana, set up the stations - everything a kid could want,  including a play dough table, crafts, building blocks, painting, tumbling mats, balls, and so on. At about a quarter past ten parents began to trickle in with their tots ranging from the ages of about 1 to 5 years old. Amari was the second youngest there, but what she lacked in age she made up for in ambition.

Amari's favorite stops on the circuit were the tumbling mats and the water colors. Amari has been wanting to go up and down stairs, but still needs our help with both directions. On the mats, she was able to step off the mat onto the wood floor - a drop of about two inches - and she took immense pleasure in her success, quickly turning around, stepping back up onto the mat, and descending once again. The look on her face each time she stepped off the mat was sheer delight, coupled with the occasional chuckle. On top of the mats were other objects she could climb, and she did so with reckless abandon, not once crying after a fall or a collision with the other kids.

The water colors, however, had her attention the most. As we stood at the table, I tried to demonstrate the technique t her, dipping the brush in water, then paint, then paper. Amari jumped right in, but itstead went paint, water, paper, which is apparently a technique called a wash. Her color choice was mostly black in the first painting, and when I tried to correct her technique, she grew angry and pushed my hand away as if to say, "Dude, I'm sixteen months old, okay? Back the f--k off, Dada." After two such implications, I backed the f--k off. I know when I'm beat.

All in all, I loved the plaIy group and will definitely go back. I met a couple of moms and a couple of dad, and I learned that the uniqueness of Amari's name depends on whom you're spending time with. She was the like the Bob of the play group down there with other kids named Usi and Kaira and what-not. Kind of reminded me of my upbringing..

The coolest thing of all was taking home the finished product of Amari's first water coloring experience. I know I'm her dad, but I think she might have some talent already. Having had a long talk/mocking session about the paintings Jim enjoys and has paid good money for, I told Nicole I was going to frame Amari's work and try to get a few thousand dollars for them.

You be the judge

Amari's Dark Period

Amari's work after the Beatles took LSD

The best part of all - the epic three hour nap Amari took when we got home. It was so sound I had vacuum  to wake her ass up so we could pick up Maba (Mama).

Charlie Sheen Does Cocaine During Interview

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Am I soliciting traffic again with fake headlines? Absolutely. Why not? I'm celebrating my 100th blog entry today and I'm seventy-one cents shy of earning my first hundred Adsense dollars, which - like Charlie Sheen - makes me feel very "bi-winning." For those of you who have not seen this interview, enjoy the hell out of it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5aSa4tmVNM

And then, if you're like me, marvel sincerely at the following miracles:

a) Charlie Sheen is still alive.

b) People still talk to him.

c) "Two and a Half Men" has been on the air for EIGHT seasons.

It's amazing what having an unlimited supply of cocaine can do for your social and vocational networks. 

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In celebration of my 100th blog entry, I fell fast and hard from my pink cloud of parenting. In a conspiracy of forces that included a return to work for Mama, a 48 hour bug for Dada, and a bursting bottom left molar for Amari, Monday through Wednesday felt like some twisted initiation into toddlerhood. My patience and tolerance and energy level all drop dramatically when I'm sick, and although I think I'm pretty good at containing my complete exasperation, I secretly want to scream things like "Learn some fucking words," when Amari is whining incoherently and vaguely pointing at things while saying, "Mo, mo, mo." Mo what? Jesus. Instead, I just pick her up and say, "I'm sorry you're hurting," blah, blah, blah. 

I used to think "Mo" was pretty much the best word Amari could learn, defining the world by things she does and does not want additional amounts of. Especially when she learned the reinforcement word, "Yeah." I figured we had it made. I'm feeding her, I pause, she says, "Mo," I ask, "This?" she says, "Yeah," life's pretty sweet. Now I see very clearly that "Mo" without a pointer stick or a mood ring that lets  me know if she's talking about food, music, videos, etc. I know vocabulary is coming son, but according to this dad during this week - not soon enough. 

In addition, Amari is becoming aware of workday mornings mean, and is increasingly clingy with Carrie as we approach our departure time. This, of course, breaks Carrie's heart - and she's already an emotional wreck trying to teach the bottom of the barrel seniors who are failing at about an eighty percent clip. Scary what our future holds. Moral of the story - tensions have been a little high here at FishManor

It's funny, here I am complaining about how clingy Amari has been, but over the weekend I was lamenting how fast she is growing up. At my friend's 40th birthday, there were kids between the ages of three and eight running around without a care as to who or where their parents were. Amari was interested, stepping close to the action from time to time, but maintained a pretty close distance to Carrie or me at all times. It occurred to me that at Bodhi's 41st birthday, she'll be running around with the rest of them. It made me kind of sad. 

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On a side note, before I close this entry - it freakin' snowed on the Mendocino Coast. Inland sure, a little every year on the ridges, but here - at sea level? Hasn't happened in twenty-five years. In fact, a woman at the Botanical Gardens told me that the last time it snowed here there wasn't a single roll of film left in town. Here's the exciting video footage. It's almost as crazy as Charlie Sheen.

http://www.vimeo.com/20397945

Elmo Loves Diaper Changes

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Amari does not.

In fact, the mere question, "Do you need a diaper change?" now invokes a dramatic drop to her knees accompanied by an operatic wail that might loosely translate to, "Oh, the humanity." She doesn't put up a fight, which is nice - some of my friends need tasers and four-point restraints quell their child's resistance - but the insta-tears and the theatrics have inspired Carrie and I to try anything and everything to make it a more pleasant experience.

Music has always been an effective distraction, specifically a very colorful caterpillar who sings songs of different genres according to the colored segment you push. Red is reggae, blue is opera, orange/country, and so on. Along with us singing goofy songs about what we're doing at the time - hits like "I Found My Thrill on Pooberry Hill" and "Damn That's a Lot of Pee" - the caterpillar has had the most staying power.

A few days ago, during a visit with her friend Mackenzie, I noticed Amari take a particular interest in a life-like baby doll - something we don't have at home. She was fascinated by it, stroking its hair and giving it pats on the back, something she likes to do with just about everyone. It's kind of her thing and it's very endearing. By the end of our visit she was hugging and kissing the baby, probably longing for a smaller friend who didn't pull her hair and take her things.

In the past, I've tried to get Amari involved in the diaper-changing process, opening the drawer and asking her to pick out her own diaper. She would get very excited, run over to the drawer, and pick out several diapers, close the drawer, open it again, pick out another diaper or two, and so on. Nonetheless, when I'd close the drawer more definitively and try to pick her up, the mellow-drama ensued.

Yesterday, I decided to see if getting Amari to change someone else's diaper might help so I recruited the always lovable Elmo. I pulled out a diaper, asked Amari if Elmo needed his diaper changed, and let her go to work. For fifteen minutes, she stood by the diaper-changing area, carefully pulling the blanket flat, trying hard to open the diaper correctly, then placing Elmo on top of it while attempting to wrap it around him. She never succeeded, but she was fully enthralled, and when she was done to her satisfaction, she began covering him with a small blanket and tucking him in for a nap. When it came time to change her diaper, although there was still some fuss initially, having Elmo lying beside her draped in wool and synthetic polymers, somehow made things a little easier.

Tonight, as bedtime approached, Amari snatched up her new bestie, Elmo, whose diaper had long since slipped off of his scrawny, hairy legs, and walked towards our staircase. Carrie scooped them up and I followed moments later to tell them a bedtime story and let them share an mmm-ba (bottle). When I came downstairs, Amari was curled up in Mapa's arms with Elmo faithfully sitting against the wall just above her head.

I can't find my camera right now, but I'll try to remember to add pictures of Elmo manana. In the meantime, here are a few pics of Amari from the past week or so.

Oh yeah, I forgot - first outing in full rain gear.

Amari was not completely sold on this, but maybe 

when she grows into her raincoat. 

My latest $1 thrift store buy. It doesn't run, but

with a rope and Granny's handy-dandy tractor...

Video footage coming soon.

Moonshadow's being followed by an Amari

G'night all.