Cal pulled up to the trailhead and was surprised to see no other cars. Not that it mattered. There were several campsites off the main trail as well as the other two which intersected it, and Cal knew every single one of them. So finding a private spot wouldn’t be a problem.
Still, it was always better when your private spot was the entire side of a mountain.
A few Friday’s ago, my wife and I were channel surfing when we stumbled upon a rare treat. Grease is the word, my friends. And it’s also a classic, one that I first saw at a very young age.
Which is how I started watching the movie. With the wide-eyed wonder of the ten-year-old whose tummy felt all funny inside the first time he saw Sandy, her fair complexion, cardigan sweater, full-length skirt and prudent yet playful ponytail.
But by the end of the movie, my perspective had changed to that of a 42-year old parent.
So, wow. I thought that Beyonce’s pregnancy got a lot of press, but it certainly pales in comparison to the press that the birth of Blue Ivy Carter has received. Lots to talk about, apparently. Like did Beyonce fake her pregnancy and farm out the dirty work to a surrogate? Or did Beyonce carry the child herself?
And what about the security measures taken by the couple? Some parents are claiming that such measures prohibited them from visiting their own children in the NICU. If true, that’s clearly disconcerting.
But of all the disconcerting elements which have surrounded the arrival of Blue Ivy Carter, none are more troubling to me than the song Jay-Z wrote in celebration of her birth.
Love being his dad, but wouldn't wanna be him.
Last week, Babble Deputy Editor Mira Jacobs wrote a post called 12 Reasons Why I Want to be a Toddler Again. Hysterical. Plus, she got me thinking that it really would be great to be a toddler again.
But upon further review, I’ve had a change of heart.
I mean, maybe it’s because I’ve lived with four toddlers already (won’t be long till Grand Finale makes five). And maybe I’m too familiar with this pesky developmental phase, thus immune to its many undeniable charms, but there’s no way in hell I’d ever want to be a toddler again. And here are 10 reasons why.
Lauren opened the pantry door and raked through the clothes which hung from an old curtain rod that was cut to fit and jimmied between the two walls. Her third time through, she realized she’d ironed in front of the TV the night before, so she walked into the den and over to the alcove window where more clothes hung from yet another old curtain rod.
Hard to believe that 2011 is coming to a close. Okay, no it’s not. That’s just something people say. It’s hard to believe that summer’s already here. Or, I can’t believe you’re such a big boy already. Why is it that people have such a hard time believing that time passes us by? It’s so utterly…believable.
Even so, there are times which strike me as more profound than others. And the end of the year is one such time, possibly because it’s such a natural period of reflection. Which is exactly why I decided to make my final post of 2011 a reflective one.
[Click here to read more and see the pics]
Photo: woodleywonderworks
Twas the night before Christmas, and since we have kids,
It’s sorta amazing, the stuff we just did.
The holiday meal we prepared with great care.
The toys we assembled while slightly impaired.
We stuffed all the stockings, and wrapped all the gifts.
And even remembered to hook up St. Nick.
With cookies and milk — the rules of engagement.
And carrots for Rudolph — the standard arrangement.
Every kid loves Christmas. But that’s not to say that the season doesn’t have a few low spots. Because it does. And as parents, it’s important to identify some of these low spots, especially now that we’re heading into the heart of the holiday season. You know, to help shield our little ones from potential unpleasantrie, thereby enabling them to have the best Christmastime experience possible.
It’s in that spirit that I offer you the following list of the 7 worst things about Christmas as experienced by your child.
You can thank me later.
[click here to see the 7 Worst Things slide show on BabbleVoices]
I told myself that I’d never write a vasectomy post. But apparently I lied, which I’m totally comfortable with given this whole Santa Claus scam I’ve been clobbering my kids over the head with. (Say what you want about the jolly fat bastard, but you gotta give him this: he makes December bedtimes a LAY UP.)
See, I wasn’t gonna write about the big V because I believe that vasectomy posts are overdone. But a coupla things occurred to me shortly after the procedure as I sat in bed watching TV in a pain-pill-induced stupor. First, there’s no shame in crying at the end of Home Alone. It’s a tender reunion between an abandoned, vulnerable little boy and the mother who never meant to leave him.
Photo courtesy of Loimere via Creative Commons
Dear Santa,
I’ve got some seriously complicated feelings that I gotta get off my chest.
Back in the day? You were the harbinger of Christmas, a jolly good man armed with a shit ton (it’s metric) of toys, and I believed, Santa. With every bit of my little, innocent heart. Then, virtually overnight, you became a laughing stock to me — a pretend dude only little babies still believed in.
