New Career Possibility

I think Evan's leaning towards becoming a politician. He LOVES to hear himself talk, and only he understands what he's saying.

Pee-ping Tom

We went to the Ellensburg Rodeo this weekend and learned that our little cowboy may need some lessons in bathroom etiquette. During the rodeo intermission, Evan was happily perched atop my dad’s shoulders. The horn blared, signaling the end of intermission, and I began to walk back in while my dad hung a sharp right towards the bathrooms – with Evan still on his shoulders.

I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want any visuals and I certainly didn’t want to hear about the logistics of what he was planning. So, hard as it might be, I walked away and returned to my seat. Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible to not inadvertently create some sort of visual when you see your father disappear into a men’s room with your 15-month-old atop his shoulders. Was he going to put Evan down while he did his business? Would Evan be running around eating urinal cakes, splashing in the toilets, and picking up pubes off the floor?

As it turns out, my dad didn’t put Evan down. And here’s where the etiquette comes in.
I know in a women’s restroom basic privacy protocol is pretty straightforward: don’t peer through the crack between the stall doors and don’t let your kid crawl under the stalls to peek at other people. It’s pretty simple.

For guys, I’m guessing it’s even more straightforward. Seeing as how men pee shoulder to shoulder with strange men, I’m going to go ahead and assume the number one unbreakable rule of don’t-get-your-ass-kicked-restroom-etiquette is eyes forward at all times.

As far as stall protocol goes, I figure it’s safe to assume it’s the same as the women’s – don’t peek through the cracks and don’t let your kid crawl under the stalls. But above all, eyes forward. Although here’s a new one:

When the urinals are full, and you choose to use a stall, when you have a child perched atop your shoulders, make sure he knows the eyes forward rule. My dad had a heck of a time keeping Evan on his shoulders with Evan busily leaning this way and that, peering over the stall walls to watch the guys next door.

I hold this event to blame for Evan’s current refusal to sleep and any subsequent nightmares he may or may not have, as well as any future therapy bills involving Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Bird Boy

In one of the many houses we had growing up, there was a giant ant hill in the backyard. My little brother spent countless hours sitting outside in the middle of that thing. He called them his "friends," which is probably why he didn't have very many friends of the two-legged persuasion at that time. The second we got home from school he would run outside and sit down amongst his loyal subjects. There he would referee fights, help them carry pieces of wood and food, hell - for all I know he was the architect for their colony. He was God of the ant pile, defender of justice, instituting ant morality as he saw fit. He never came in until dark and always had one or two of his followers with him. It drove my mom crazy, but what could she do. They were his "friends."

It must be biological because Evan is obsessed with the chickens. Evan is Bird Boy; King of the Fowl. He even talks to them in that strange half-cluck they do that I can't even begin to imitate. A couple of years from now I expect to find him in the chicken coup trying to lay an egg.

Side Note: I strongly suspect Evan ate some chicken poop while I was taking this picture. That boy is going to be immune to salmonella and e coli like no other.

Baby Boogs

I know what Evan boogers taste like.



I’m still new to motherhood. I do the typical mom things, but not with quite the same finesse as a seasoned parent.


Today I performed The Mom Lick. We all know what it is. It’s a practice dreaded and despised by all children and a few unfortunate spouses (my spouse included).


I licked my finger, and as if my spit was some magical cleanser superior to water, I began scrubbing Evan’s face. I licked my finger a second time, continuing with my cleaning job, and low and behold, I was treated to the sweet salty taste of baby boogers.


Note to Self: Don’t lick the same finger twice.