Jefe

Uncle Jeff came into our lives just shortly after Baby Girl was born.He sent a gift to Baby Girl before he had met her. It was a set of baby teething rings and her first toothbrush.

Uncle Jeff still plays a pivotal role in Baby Girl's oral hygiene. When she refuses to brush her teeth, a mock phonecall to Uncle Jeff is paid.

Uncle Jeff, of course, is a dentist. A dentophile. A crocosmile hunter.

When Baby Girl fights the brush, Loverpants puts his celly to his ear, "Uncle Jeff? Yeah, I've got Madi here. She ate a lot of sugar today and she doesn't seem to want to brush her teeth. You think it's important, huh? Yup, that's what I told her. Okay, let's see if we can get her to reconsider."

A thorough teethbrushing usually follows.

Because Uncle Jeff is on the ready speed-dial, Baby Girl now seems to think that he is the 4-1-1 every time she deals with intransigence. "Know what Uncle Jeff says, Mama? He says you have to come play dolls with me." Like Uncle Jeff is an operator on QVC, just standing by, ready to take her call.

All I can say is that Auntie Eunis better keep her man on lockdown, because Uncle Jeff is a rockstar as far as Baby Girl is concerned.

'Tis himself

Sometimes I look over and I see my husband for who he is. I mean I really give him a long look-see and have a long think about that man.  It's easy to lose focus on the particulars as we're whirling on this carousel of snack packing and stuffed monkey fetching, pirouetting around the same square footage of floor space all day. I will be the first to tell you that I never thought I would get so caught up in this madness, so much that I get to the end of the day and I hear Loverpants swishing mouthwash in the bathroom and I think, Did I look him in the eye today?  Or did we carry on like comic book characters, our thoughts pinned to the air in thought bubbles, as we bent over and picked rattles off the floor and packed a school lunch for the girl grabbing one of our knees and asking for another temporary tattoo...

When I take a long look at my husband, I see glints of John 1.0, the college dude with the Nalgene carabinered to his adidas pants, walking his inimitable slow jaunt, headed somewhere with purpose but in no hurry to get there.  I hear his latenight laughter or his hoarse senior RA yell at his freshmen residents.  I can smell the faint scent of chlorine on his hoodie and the ample plate of fries he will eat at lunch in Brooks Dining Hall.

I have not forgotten who he was and moreover I have not forgotten who we were, but these days I have to work to remember that we are more than co-pilots.  We have history.  We used to eat whole disgusting trays of Country Fair nachos at 2 a.m. and walk up a brisk 1/2 mile hill laughing the entire way.  Now we say things like, "Wow, that's a medium tinkle!" and we wish we had lo-jack for Blue Eyed Baby who pulls more disappearing acts before bedtime than Houdini.

*** Sitting across from Baby Girl this afternoon at Mickey D's, she eating a small fries, drinking a berry smoothie. Little Man asleep in the stroller.

"Where's John?" asks Baby Girl.  {She bandies about his first name because she knows it.}

"At work."

"Oh."

"Do you know what Daddy's job is?"

"No."

"He's a therapist."

"Why?"

"Well, that's just what he does.  He helps people...

...

...Do you know what job you want when you grow up?"

"I'm going to become a daddy," she said.

Kid you not.

Mini Van/Mega Fun

I've had several friends purchase mini-vans over the few months and with every purchase came a decree. E-mails circulated with subject lines that rang of "The Swagger Wagon in our driveway? I don't know anything about it." I expect more of these e-mails in the years to come. It's just the chapter they're writing right now, wee little mouths and car seat totals expanding incrementally. My friends have come to grips with what this says about them, but I've only awakened to it all...

Because when you drive a mini-van, when you purchase or lease an honest to goodness space-pod on four wheels, you are reluctantly saying I SURRENDER. I surrender to the fact that what I transport is more important than my vanity. You might also be saying I can no longer masquerade as anything else. I can be a businessperson, a postal worker, a Jenny Craig model, a balloon animal artist, a diamond miner, or a carney. But first and foremost, I drive a mini-van. Orange slices and juiceboxes and whole weekends on the soccer sidelines? Yo. That's MY m.o.

I'm not there yet. But I am comfortable with a small orchard of raisins on the floor of my vehicle, because you can't fight every battle and a box of the Sun-Maid goodness is the perfect peace offering. And my li'l SUV is bigger than my kitchen at home, anyways, so it feels appropos.

***

Baby Girl drew this picture of me. Do you see the resemblance? Uncanny, really....