Weekend for Two

In approximately 36 hours, SuperHubby and I will pack the car, wave goodbye to our adorable progeny, and head west for two delightful days and nights all by ourselves.
We are singing at a wedding of some dear friends, and decided that we should turn it into a romantic getaway destination, even if it is to the middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania.

Grammy and Grandpa have volunteered to come and sit for the Tominator for the weekend, so we know he'll be in good hands.

Let me just tell you, two whole nights of uninterrupted sleep is sounding very good right now. Especially since I haven't been feeling very well.

But do you know what I'm looking looking forward to the most? Not 12 solid hours of uninterrupted snuggle time with my sweetie. Not restaurant-prepared, planned and served meals. Not even using a bathroom with a full-sized tub.

It's the cable TV. It's sad, but true. We don't have cable, by choice. But man, the cable is the best part of going to a hotel. I get my comedy central/Jon Stewart/HGTV fixes, and I'm gold. I do love to vegetate.

Ahhhh. TV.

Cross-Country Dreamin'

Ok, so turns out it's not only Daring Young Mom who gets to be featured in my dreamlife. Apparently Chilihead wanted in on the action, since she showed up in a classic convertable last night.

We had our very own Thelma and Louise moment, except without the shooting and murdering and the cop chases. Yeah. It was just like that, only not at all.

But we had a really good time driving across country. You may not know it, but Chili is very funny. She should totally have her own stand up routine.

You may be pleased to know that Miss Chili, although stunning in her Groucho Marx glasses, is also really good at keeping her secret idenitity without them. Throughout the entire dream, I only saw the back of her head or the side of her face, so I still don't know what she looks like. Crazy.

So, as much fun as I'm having meeting some of my blogging idols in my dreams, I would love to meet some of them in person someday!

Wednesday Joy

This morning, just shy of dawn, I heard my son stirring in his crib. He was chattering sorrowfully to his stuffed duck. I cracked open my heavy eyelids and prayed he'd go back to sleep.

"Just 30 minutes more," I silently begged. "Just 30 minutes more."

But his pathetic conversation continued, and I there was no way I could leave him in his crib when he sounded so sad.

I hauled myself out of bed and down the stairs to his room. He was laying on his stomach in his crib, running his hand along the rails like a prisoner runs a tin cup along the bars of his jail cell.

My half-asleep heart melted.

I bundled him up and carried him and his duck downstairs, where we set up shop on the couch. He promptly snuggled down on my chest and went right back to sleep. And so did I.

What a lovely way to spend my morning - stretched out on my couch, cradling my baby.

I Shake My Fist at You, Blogger Beta

So, I switched. And I really like it. Blogger beta has some great features. But today, all of my links to blogspot sites that have not switched to beta do not work. Which makes me very angry, as I like to read my blogs.

Grrrr.

Are any of you other beta bloggers having this problem?

UPDATE:

Now it's working. Funky. But at least I can catch up on my reading.

Stop

He used to let me rock him to sleep, so I could catch a faint whiff of lavender when his hair brushed my cheek.

He used to let me rock him to sleep, and I would marvel at the perfection of his hands as his head lolled against my shoulder. We would read Good Night Moon and The Velveteen Rabbit, and somewhere in the middle, about when the Skin Horse is explaining how Nursery Magic works, he would drift off.

He used to let me rock him to sleep, but now he wants to lay down, big-boy style, and toss and turn until he’s perfectly comfortable.

My boy is growing up, and I should have seen it coming, but somehow it snuck up on me. We celebrated his first birthday last month. He decided he’d had enough of the nursing and self-weaned just barely a week later.

He knows more than a dozen baby signs, although clearly spoken words of any variety still elude him.

One day recently we were playing the kiss-kiss game. “Mommy’s gonna kiss you!” I teased, leaning in to give him a smackeroo on the lips. “Mwwwwwwah!”

He laughed. So I did it again. And again. When I went back for a fourth kiss, I was stopped a few inches from his face.

“’Top,” he said, smacking his hands together to let me know that my kisses were no longer welcome. “’Top.”

I Have Learned ...

to always close the baby gate.

I was typing away at my computer, and I noticed the Tominator's raspberry-blowing sound effects growing quieter as he toddled onto the sun porch. "Brrrbrrrbrrr," I heard. It was quiet for a minute, and my mommy spidey sense began to tingle.

"Clink, WOOOSH, (pause) hahahahahaha," echoed from three rooms away.

I was out of my seat in a flash, fast enough to watch my son tipping the remainder of the water in the stainless-steel dog bowl into his mouth. Most of the water, thankfully, was on his shirt or the floor. The very soggy carpeted floor.

I was fast enough to see him put the bowl on his head, but not fast enough to grab the camera before he'd moved on. So I offer the Babies-Gone-Wild Tominator (spring break babes, watch out.)



to resist the urge to let my strung-out dog help with the KP.

Later that evening, as I was cleaning up the dinner dishes, Coltrane decided to help with the prewashing, by licking the surplus food off the plates already stacked in the dishwasher. Normally, this doesn't bother me too much, since the dishes will be cleaned and sanitized once they are put through the wash cycle.

"Chank, ting" went his dog tags against the silverware. It was a peaceful sort of rhythm to compliment the clinking of the glasses as I stacked and carried them to the sink.

Suddenly, the rhythm changed. Cole began trying vainly to pull away from the dishwasher.

"Chankchankchank, tingtingting," went his tags. And then a screech. A crash. Coltrane bolted from the room.

The lower basket of my dishwasher was sitting in the middle of my ceramic tile kitchen floor. A bowl was upended on the floor. Silverware was scattered in every direction. A single dinner plate was split down the middle, the two halves rattling dejectedly as they settled on the floor.

But I'm not angry. That's what I get for letting the mutt who looks like he stayed to long at a Phish concert help with the dishes.

Under Construction

Renovations, renovations. We all love a little home improvement. While I may not be Ms. Rocks and her amazing paper bag walls, I am working on changing a few things around here at Wishful Thinking. I'm giving Blogger Beta a try. And I'm futzing. So, please bear with me through the construction. This shouldn't take more than a week ... or two.

Where I've Been

create your own visited states map



create your own visited countries map

Surely, This is a Sign

Because Daring Young Mom will not stay out of my bedroom.

No, not like that. Ewww. Go wash your brain out with soap.

Back in March, I posted, rather sheepishly, that the inimitable DYM had appeared in two of my dreams. While I was flattered that such a big blog celebrity would take the time to fly clear across the country to visit me in slumberland, I was a bit perturbed. I mean, she was nice and all, but I don't even know the woman. Slumberland is kind of an intimate place for introductions.

But last night, she decided to up the ante. Not only did I have the prime opportunity to visit with DYM, Daring Young Dad was there, too. (He's cool, in case you were wondering.)

We were hanging out in their new house, looking at photo albums. And they were both really, really nice. And funny. We did not, however, have a freestyle rap battle. My poor brain would have been too self-conscious, I think. I am not so great with the insta rhymes.

And, because I know you are wondering, their house is really gorgeous. At least the one in dreamland is lovely. It had a lot of beautiful blond hardwood in my dream. Very open, with a loft type space over the great room. It was neat.

And here's the weirdest part ... DYM was mother to Mopsy's kids. Or Mopsy's kids were living at her house. I'm not entirely sure, but I think this may be a sign that I am spending too much time reading blogs and not enough time with actual people. At least actual people over 3 feet tall. Hm.

So, thanks for the visit, DYM. It was fun. But next time, lets meet for lunch, k?

Private First Class Aaron J. Rusin

Pfc. Aaron J. Rusin, 19, had only been in Iraq for a month when he was shot during an Oct. 10, 2004 attack on his military convoy outside of Baghdad. Rusin, of Johnstown, Pa., died Oct. 11. He was assigned to the 44th Engineer Battalion, 2nd Infantry Division, Camp Howze, Korea, and had joined the Army in the tradition of his father, grandfather and three uncles, who all served.

Before joining the Army, Rusin volunteered with two fire departments."He was awesome. He was one of those kids who would do anything. You never had to ask him twice," said Barry Emerson, assistant chief for the Jackson Township fire department.

Pfc. Rusin, we thank you and your family for the sacrifice you have made in service to our country. We will remember.

Sources: The Associated Press; Fallen Heroes of Operation Iraqi Freedom

The ladies over at Some Gave All are hoping to have all the tributes posted by Labor Day 2006, but you might squeak one in if you get hopping.

This is especially important to me as a dear family friend is about to start his third tour in Iraq with the Marines. His name is Corporal John Davis; please say a prayer for him if you have a moment.