Analyze This

The other night I had a dream. I don't usually remember my dreams, partly because they're frequently interrupted by Grant screaming or Erin griping that I've stolen something from her (the electric blanket, the comforter, her dignity, etc). But the other night, I had a dream so vivid that I've been thinking about it ever since.

It started with my entire family on my dad's side sitting in a room debating. It wasn't clear what they were debating, at first, but my dad and uncle were obviously very bothered about the whole thing. Eventually they came to a consensus, at which point they came over to explain the situation to Erin and I.

Apparently, in my dream, you could bring someone back from the grave, but only for a relatively short amount of time. The ongoing debate between my dad and uncle surrounded the individual our family had chosen to revive -- my great grandfather, Dewey.

Anyone that has known me for any length of time has heard at least one Dewey story. He was eccentric, possibly to the point of being what one might call "disturbed." He had a parrot that he fed coffee and bacon to in the morning. He had an organ in the family room of his house, but he'd only play the black keys. He believed you could heal burns by saying a poem -- something about "blow out fire, blow in frost." He was one card short of a full deck, you might say.

Anyway, apparently we had decided, for whatever reason, to bring back Dewey. Part of the revival procedure involved riding with the coffin through a series of conveyor belts and mazes. But you actually started in the ground at the grave site. So Erin and I rode with the coffin, which was terrifying. The entire journey you could see Dewey's feet sticking out of the bottom of the coffin, and he was angrily kicking at the lid complaining that we weren't moving fast enough at getting him unpacked.

Once we returned to the first room, we unboxed Dewey. He was in a burial suit and was a bit musty, but otherwise in tact. We immediately began grilling him with questions about our family history. At first he obliged, but he quickly became agitated -- true to his living character.

Meanwhile, my mom searched around the room for a pad of paper and pencil to write down what he was telling us. Nobody could believe that we were so ill prepared for the experience of reviving this dude, but seeing my mom scampering around looking for something to write with seems pretty true to form.

Eventually I awoke to the sound of Grant screaming. I immediately began wondering why we hadn't chosen more intriguing questions to ask my great grandfather, like why he used to throw live wires in the sink while you washed dishes, or how he'd manage to spew crazy genes throughout our family tree. But alas, I'll have to wait until we dig him up again to ask the tougher questions.

I need a drink.

Still...hurting...

Click on the picture for a closeup...

Grandma and Gracie

Maybe my mom just couldn't pass up a good deal; maybe she knew Gracie's arrival was imminent. Either way, my mom dropped by yesterday (her birthday) with a load full of new clothes (even loads of Ralph Lauren stuff... including the cutest little Ralph Lauren dress for Gracie) for Grant and Gracie. I'm talking three shirts and three dresses for Gracie and three pairs of pants and two shirts for Grant. She did get a whopper of a deal at Kohl's (the most expensive item was like three bucks), but it's no wonder that I don't have to buy clothes for these kids the way their grandparents spoil them.

We did hear some more news about Gracie today. The CCAA (the agency in charge of adoptions in China) has referred through March 6. Again, it's like the DMV, so our number is March 15, and each month we inch closer. Now, with some certainty (cough, cough), we can assume to get Gracie's referral at the beginning of May or the beginning of June. May would be ideal... please pray for MAY!!! I've got to see this little girl. It's just killing me to think that we've been in pursuit of her for 3.5 years!!!

Either way, we know one thing: she's going to be dressed like a fashionista!

Grant's Prayer

Tonight's Prayer (no joke):

Mommy: Grant, do you want to pray?
Grant: Yes.
Mommy: Go ahead.
Grant (covering eyes with hands): Dear Jesus, be with Gracie. She lives in China. I don't want her to be my family.

He's got it half right. Grant tells us daily that he doesn't want to be a brother, but I've got some news for him: the train has left the station.

We'll have a Grace update soon. This next week will tell us a lot about when we'll be heading to China.

Some Pictures

He's just too cute... and he's not lacking in the personality department either. Oh, and these are a bit old; Grant lost his afro a few weeks ago, but I haven't recovered enough from the trauma of that outing to even post about it yet. Time heals all wounds, right?

"Hey look, it's Grant's parents!"

The other night at WalMart, our designated spot for birthdays, anniversaries, and all special occasions, we were shopping in the Health and Beauty section of the megastore. To be more precise, we were giggling like middle school kids at the variety of colors, shapes, and sizes of, shall we say, preventatives, when we heard a voice declare, "Awww look, it's Grant!"

There's some amount of trepidation involved when anyone sees you shopping for such things, even as an adult (or a taller, heavier juvenile, in my case). I'm still prone to sliding anything even remotely "Birds and Bees"-y (preventatives, home pregnancy tests, hemorrhoid cream) under my bread and roast beef in the shopping cart to prevent speculation on the part of my fellow shoppers as to my intentions later in the evening.

But in this case, it was slightly more horrifying than usual. Erin and I turned to see one of Grant's pre-school teachers from a local church standing there with open arms to greet Grant and his two shameful parents. We quickly turned our backs to the display shelves in an effort to prevent her from noticing what we were looking at, but I don't think it helped. We talked to her for a few minutes, and afterwards, I'm fairly certain she winked at me.

Scarred

Way back on December 3 I made mentioned of having done some "home surgery" on this funny looking spot that developed on my neck. My face has always been prone to these types of things. Shaving frequently leaves me in need of a blood transfusion.

In any case, regarding the funny looking spot on my neck -- sumbitch is still there.

I took another crack at figuring out why this weird spot isn't healing last night, but only left the wound looking refreshed. In any case, this morning after I got out of the shower, Erin informed me that I needed to "cover that thing up. It looks hideous."

When I got downstairs to eat my Cheerios (a delicious and healthy way to start ANY day...I'm looking for some General Mills sponsorship love here), I found a little powder brush and some makeup on the counter, courtesy of Erin.

So just before throwing Grant in the car for the ride to school, I dipped into the bathroom to pretty myself. Grant entered soon after to find me dabbing some natural colored concealer onto my wound, and as he always does, asked "What are you doing, Daddy?"

I immediately started having images of that dude in "Silence of the Lambs" and Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire. There's no conceivable way that you aren't scarring your two year old son when you say, "Daddy's putting on his makeup, Grant." I have failed him yet again.

What's In a Name?

This weekend, Grant said one of the funniest things ever! First, you should know that Grant has entered the stage that other people refer to as the "terrible twos," but there's nothing remotely terrible about Grant, so I just like to call it the "trying twos," as, at the most, his fits and his attitude are a bit trying.

On Sunday, I was asking Grant about his name. I asked him his first name. That's an easy pitch. Then, his middle name, and he responded, "Grant Nicholas." Now, please keep in mind that Grant knows his last name and has said it often, but I guess the last several weeks, as we have been part of that "trying twos" fun, he's heard a different name because when I asked him about his last name, he said, "Grant Nicholas Come Here." I guess I better stop barking orders for my toddler to "come here," as he's starting to get the wrong idea.

Happy Birthday, Erin!

Grant and I would like to wish our wonderful mother and wife (singularly accurate for Grant, and somewhat accurate in both senses for me) a happy, happy birthday and Valentine's Day! We've started the day with homemade pancakes, cards, and in Erin's case, a large dose of Grey's Anatomy.

I'm down with the pancakes, but there's nothing about the show or the term "grey anatomy" that does anything for me.

Hope you have a wonderful day, Honey!!

and so it begins

"And so it begins" was Bret's response last night when, for the first time, Grant started asking "why?," only to be followed up with another "why," then another. A classic toddler conversation.

Another classic conversation happened on the way home from preschool when I opened one of Grant's valentines (since when have valentines had candy?) and let him eat some of the gummy bears. I told him "this is your last one," as he had already finished the rest, and his response was a classic move in toddler manipulation: "just one more" followed quickly but not too quickly with a "please." A classic trick that has worked on many a parent.

Oh, and don't ask why Grant's shirt has a skiing wolf. I bought it for a dollar at WalMart.

Brainwashed

Since Grant is now an ardent fan of Bob the Builder, I find myself singing things like, "Can you reach it? Yes, you can!" while in the shower each morning. (I have some theories about Bob, Wendy, and their separate trailers. Ask me about them some time.)

I'm glad Grant enjoys programs like Bob and Thomas the Tank Engine, but I've noticed that the values presented in these shows are a far cry from the cartoons Erin and I grew up with.

For example, Bob the Builder visits "the recycling yard" during almost every episode. Plus one of the characters lives in a yurt. What the heck? Is this thing written by Greenpeace? How many tons of coal do you think Sherman and Peabody used to power that time machine? It probably took 50 gallons of gas and a herd of baby seals to even START that thing.

I've also noticed that in Bob the Builder, everyone always makes peace with each other by the end of the episode. At least on Sodor, the trains occasionally bash into each other leaving irreparable wounds that last at least through the next story. Not in Bob the Builder. Everyone returns to their state of blissful, Marxist ignorance by the end of each episode. Did you ever see the Coyote shake hands with the Roadrunner after his Acme Endangered Species Killer blew up in his face? I think not.

And since when was it a requirement that all cartoon characters be bilingual? Grant now runs up to me and says things which make absolutely no sense to me, and it's not because he's a jabbering toddler, it's because it's in Spanish. "Handy Manny said...yo quero...blah blah Cinco de Mayo....blah blah..." My own kid is making me feel like I got dropped off in Juárez without a passport. This isn't the world I grew up in...

Housekeeping

So, in the name of keeping up with the chilly month of January, here's some blog housekeeping:

Grant's Birthday
Post some of Grant's B-day pics. For his little party with Bret's family, he received presents that screamed "male child lives here": a soccer ball, a football, a basketball (two actually), a t-ball set and baseball, golf clubs, not to mention Thomas stuff galore. He was one happy kid. Again, he wasn't remotely interested in his cake, but like last year, his favorite part: everybody singing happy birthday!

This picture is the new "Tiger Who?"-two handed, two-clubbed golf swing.



Tagged
My cousin Kathy tagged me to go to my fourth picture folder and put up my fourth picture and tell about it. Anyone else who blogs, it's a fun little exercise you should try. This folder was all about Grant's new room, a blog I never wrote and probably never will. Grant moved to his "big boy bed" without incident, all in one evening. But, poor thing, Grant essentially lived in the office until I could get the room repainted and redecorated. Now, Grant lives in pale blue/steel grayish room full of trains, dump trucks, airplanes and more. This is Grant's "wardrobe" as the closet in his room is full of office stuff. It's nothing more than garage shelving, but I found the wallpaper decals on sale for 5 bucks and added them for a little bit of little boy flair.



Growing Up Quickly

Grant reminds us daily that he is all boy. He loves to grunt, play, push, and tackle. We've started some tentative steps toward potty training, and he can drink from an open cup without incident. He still has plenty of sensory issues (tags in his shirts are starting to be a problem), and so food continues to be a big challenge. He eats spinach dip until he's practically green, so at least we're getting some veggies in him. He's finally eating most meats, but he's still pretty picky. And despite my most persistent parenting measures, I can't get Grant to cover his mouth when he sneezes or coughs, a skill I find some of my own high school students have failed to grasp.

He still talks a blue streak, and he loves to sing. He sings everything from "Jesus Loves Me" to "Frosty the Snowman," but he's also got a special place in his heart for hymns. Bret sings hymns to Grant nightly, and Grant's favorite is "Trust and Obey," a song he'll sing for you if he likes you. I fancy myself something of a jingle writer, and Grant actually think there's a song for everything. For example, he'll say, "sing the bulldozer song, Mommy," but we all know there's no such thing. And, I'll tell Grant that I don't know a bulldozer song. But, he knows his Mommy's soft spot for thinking herself creative, and he'll ask me to "make one." I now have entire songs for Bob the Builder, every engine on the Island of Sodor, songs about letters in the alphabet, and of course, songs about Grant. They are terrible, but Grant loves them, and in the end, that's all that matters.

Grant can count to 20, sing his ABCs (though "I" through "L" are sketchy, and I'm pretty sure he thinks LMNOP is said "elmo pees"), identifies most letters, colors and shapes. To be silly, I thought I'd teach Grant some "adult" words, but they've stuck, which now just makes him weird. For example, Grant uses the word cantankerous in common conversation. Or, triceratops. Or, frigid. I'm done now. I swear. I don't want "the strange kid." We'll put his memorization skills to better use... maybe the Greek Alphabet. Just kidding. Kind of. I think Grant is smart, but what I think he can do with amazing ability is remember; that kid's memory is a steel trap. He remembers what the presents people got him for Christmas. I don't even remember that. But, before you think he's too smart, he still chews on his socks.

My favorite thing of recent is Grant's imaginative play. When he plays with his trains now, they talk to each other. But the best part is that he talks like he is reading a book (actual conversation with his trains): "'Look at that mountain,' Percy groaned. 'I'll try it,' Percy huffed." I could die it's so cute. Or, sometimes, he breaks into Thomas speak in the most un-Thomas of places. You know your son is a Thomas fan when he's playing at the park and yells, "Cinders and ashes, I fell," or "Bust my buffers, mommy" in the grocery store.

More to come... just give us time.

I Am...Hurting...

I realize I posted a while back about shoveling our driveway, back pain, etc. But in the days since, I've come to the conclusion that a) I'm really in a lot of pain and b) I'm not really doing anything to help it.

I've tried icing it, but that just leaves me with a large red splotch on my back and a numbness that might normally suggest I've been on the toilet for too long. I've tried pharmaceuticals, which seemed to work briefly but are now failing me. And I've even tried stretching, which if you know me, is just ugly. Nothing on my body stretches properly, except for my gut, and it is only partially involved in this current issue.

To make matters worse, I continue to engage in behaviors that are detrimental to the health of my lower back and leg -- the source of my current pain. This Sunday, I helped out with the 4 and 5 year olds at church. This group provides a somewhat ominous view of my next few years. These are some weird little people.

Unfortunately for me, it's not the girls who are so weird -- it's the little boys. One kid wore a seaman's hat, like the Captain in Captain and Tennille the whole morning. Another one wandered around with a protective hand down his shorts all morning. Another one would just occasionally yell "Blaaaaaah" and kick whatever object was nearest. It was crazy. I looked at Grant when I got home and wondered how I would protect my well mannered son from himself in the coming years.

The other detrimental behavior I keep engaging in is sitting around on my rear. My doctor keeps telling me "Don't sit any more than you have to!" But I've gotta tell you, this dude requires quite a bit of sitting. For one, my job requires me to sit at least half the day (3/4 if you count time in the john). I also quite enjoy watching movies at home or listening to music or reading books, none of which can be done while standing. (Don't you people with treadmills open your traps. I said I "enjoy" these things, not torture myself while doing them.) And finally, we just booked a vacation to drive to Florida over the course of 2 days each way. Perhaps they'll let me in the handicap lines at Disney World by the time I get there.

It's been a while

As I type this, I am s...t...i...l...l recovering from a lung infection that has me sounding like I've smoked for 70 years (just to be clear: my lips have never touched a cigarette, a fact my students find hard to believe. I guess I've got "live hard and die young" tattooed on my forehead).

My sickness and general malaise have kept me from even feeling remotely like blogging, but then I freaked out as I thought of all the cute things Grant is doing lately that will drop into childhood oblivion because I have failed to record them.

Don't think that I haven't been on the computer, though. In fact, the computer has come in handy as of late. First off, I sent in my sub plans for the last several days via computer, a perfect use of modern technology. And, much to Bret's chagrin, I have become an expert in all things Disney World. No, really. I'm a freakin' expert. Seriously, ask me a question. I understand every single nuance of the Disney Dining Plan, and we're not even going to use the Disney Dining Plan. I know the height restrictions for every ride, the ins and outs of every resort (please keep in mind, we're only staying in one of the twenty), and every single trick and tip for saving a dime (or your left arm, which is the going rate for a cheeseburger) inside the Disney Complex. You think that I'm kidding or that I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. I'm not in love with Disney, never have been, but I am in love with Disney for Grant, and I wanted to know everything. Really, everything. In fact, all I've done for the last two weeks is learn everything I can about that money-thirsty Mouse. Quiz me, if you dare.

But, keep in mind, this is all mother motivated love, and anything done under that umbrella passes by the "crazy" or "codependent" or "unhealthy" categories and moves directly over to the "perfectly acceptable" if not "necessary" categories.

So, in the name of motherly love, I'll get some pictures and videos of Grant up soon.

Snow Day!

It snowed somewhere in the neighborhood of 10-12 inches here at our lovely central Indiana home last night. Erin's sick, so she was already taking the day off. And with my Chinese colleagues on vacation for Chinese New Year, my job is stalled, so I decided not to risk life and limb by traveling in to work today.

Instead, I got up, had breakfast, took my morning Aleve for my bad back and Prednisone for some lingering Sciatica, and spent a couple of hours heaving snow over my shoulder in an attempt to clear our driveway. I'm sure I'll walk again. Someday.

As I began pushing the snow around, I gave myself a little pep talk. "You know, it's more manly that you've chosen not to purchase a power tool to do this. I'm sure Erin thinks it far more chivalrous that you're out here using your own muscles to do this work, rather than spending our hard earned cash for a machine we might use twice a year."

Somewhere in there, I heard what sounded like a gang of giggling squirrels. I looked over, and one of my neighbors was out with an ELECTRIC snow blower. Now part of me was jealous, but part of me was laughing. The same neighbor has an electric lawn mower, which also makes me giggle. I'm all for saving the environment, but if you own an electric lawn mower, your wife better have made you buy it. It's just not right.

I watched him struggle with his faux-power tool for a while, and then went back to my snow heaving. I looked over every once in a while to see where he was, and it gave me a little boost. Sort of my own John Henry story, if you will. (Although, doesn't John Henry croak in the end? Eeks.)

Anyway, I'm proud to say that I beat him by a few paces in the end. I went over and tore my shirt open to show him my copious chest hair and overt manliness. I shoveled like a mad man -- even moving the stuff dumped by the snow plow at the end of the driveway. I'll let everyone know what my address is at Hendricks Regional Health.

Slice of Life

Sorry for the lack of posts; we'll pick it up... I've got to make sure to get some of the happenings chronicled.

Right now, it's 8:30 pm, and I should have a sleeping toddler, but Grant is screaming and crying in his bed. He is screaming, "I want to see Mickey Mouse in his clubhouse." I guess I should have held off on telling him that we're going to DisneyWorld over spring break (they were practically giving those vacations away... thank you bad economy).

Now to deal with a crying, heart-broken, not-remotely-patient child.

Other Church

On Sunday, we visited a church that isn't our "home" church. I sang in the Indianapolis Children's Choir as a kid, so I've visited my fair share of churches and synagogues, but I still find visiting a new church to be both entertaining and horrifying.

The church that I grew up in was very conservative. There was a hitching post out front, and the bathroom featured a special dryer for "thy longeth beard." Erin, on the other hand, grew up in slightly less conservative worship environments that featured things like instruments, women and electricity. The diversity in our upbringings always spurs interesting conversations when we attend a new church together.

Sunday morning we pulled into the parking lot and made our way to the front door. Things get tricky for me right off the bat. First off, I had us walk the length of the building in sub zero temperatures to go into an entrance that I thought was near the children's classrooms -- despite there being an indoor, heated walkway that traversed the same path. I did this because I will always risk frost bite over prolonged human interaction. Therefore rather than say, "Hi, my name is Bret, and this IS my first time here" fifty times over the course of 30 feet, I'd rather freeze my ass off, say my greeting once, and follow it up with "Where's the classroom for two year olds?"

We trotted back down the hallway and deposited Grant in his Sunday school classroom. Grant was "the black kid" at Sunday school this week. As usual, there were no tears and hardly a backward glance to make sure we had agreed to return to pick him up. Grant just headed for the nearest group of kids and began playing gleefully. I'm glad he's so social. It makes life much easier. I always dread working in the toddler room at church and having to deal with the two year old who screams and removes various pieces of their parent's clothing as they get dropped off in the classroom. That's always delightful.

Erin and I headed for the main sanctuary and carefully chose a seat a few rows from the back. About 30 seconds after sitting down, the door greeter tracked us down and provided us with some reading material about the church. To be fair, he was one of the better church greeters I've encountered, despite finding us twice within our first few minutes in the building. He was kind, not pushy, and provided me with some genuinely useful information.

Worship time at a new church is always full of questions. Will I know any of the songs? Can I pass on the collection plate without getting a scowl from some old lady who doesn't realize we're new? Will everyone suddenly kneel without warning? Will there be any live animals involved? Is there enough padding on this seat to keep parts of me from getting all numb and tingly, but not so much as to put me to sleep?

The service at this particular location was pretty typical. At one point, the lights did go dim and then completely off for a few seconds for no apparent reason. I took it as the "2 minute warning" and luckily, I was pretty much on target.

During the invitation song, several couples made their way to the front of the sanctuary. At my church growing up, if you made your way down front during the invitation, there was either a body in the trunk of your car, or you fornicated with an elder’s wife out back during a pot luck. You didn't go forward because you wanted prayer about an upcoming medical test or your grant aunt Edna had a growth on her neck. At this new church, you had to go forward if you wanted to become a member of their congregation. I found this interesting, although I was disappointed that I didn't get to witness a public shaming of one sort or another.

All in all, I enjoyed our experience, and I think it's good to see what other churches have to offer on occasion. If there had been one, I might have stuck around for a pitch-in. Casseroles and desserts often say more about a church than a sermon.

Jeans

When I was younger, I used to go with my dad to buy blue jeans. Normally, I wouldn't say "blue jeans," I'd just say "jeans." But in dad's case, blue jeans was absolutely correct. My dad used to buy the bluest, rawest jeans he could find. They'd stand up on their own and still had enough dye to stain your legs the first time you wore them. My dad would slide those babies off at the end of their first wear, and he'd look like Papa Smurf (minus the fluffy white beard...all other physical characteristics applied.)

Dad even took me to a special store to buy his jeans. The store took half an hour to drive to and wasn't near any malls or other stores. He was always looking for the ever elusive "34-29" size. As a rule, when your waist is bigger than your inseam, you might have a problem. But when the inseam is 29, not so much. Anorexic dwarfs are few and far between.

The jean store sold every imaginable size, shape, and color of jeans. They sold gigantic jeans for heavy folks, overalls for the Hoosier farmer, and really, really blue ones for dad. They also sold a lot of other fashionable stuff like oversized belt buckles and those swingin' "jean slacks" for the older set.

I should have known my dad would have pant issues early on. My grandfather once sent my mom and I looking for size 40-30 "jean slacks" for Christmas one year. Why do older men like these things? They frequently have elastic waistbands and are washed until you can almost see through the fabric. Comfort and expandability -- I guess I just answered my own question.

The other necessity in a pair of jeans for an older man is that there be at least 18 inches of fabric between the waist band and the crotch. We used to have an older gentleman at church who would pull his pants all the way over his belly. He always seemed comfortable enough, but his zipper was about 3 feet long. He had to bend over to finish zipping up in the bathroom.

As I grow older, I'm finding my taste in jeans is changing as well. I used to spend a lot more on my jeans, but now, I just don't give a rip. Well, actually I do. I don't want ANY rips in my jeans when I drive them out of the store parking lot. If I'm spending money on clothes, I'll rip them myself when I fall off the roof or bend over to tie my shoes, thanks.

The last three pairs of jeans I purchased came from Wal-Mart. I'll admit it. I saw the Faded Glory tag and $12 price and couldn't resist. They looked just like all the OTHER jeans at Wal-Mart, so who cares? The only problem with the Faded Glorys is that they have really deep pockets. In one sense, they're really convenient because I can fit my iPod and cell phone in one pocket with no issue.

The only problem is I can't get my hand in far enough to get my keys out when I'm in the parking lot. I have to push my arm in up to my elbow to get to the bottom of the pocket, and then I have to fish around for a while looking for my keys. People look at you funny when you walk around with a hand in your pocket, wriggling all over the place like you're trying to take your pulse down there.

In any case, someone needs to stop me if I ever ask for denim Dockers for Christmas, and remind me that I'm not yet ready to shop at my dad's special jeans store.

CES Wrapup

Trying desparately to get back home for Grant's birthday on Tuesday, I departed Las Vegas Monday morning with high hopes. The previous night I'd enjoyed a wonderful dinner at Wolfgang Puck's Trattoria del Lupo at Mandalay Bay. (Can someone please explain why Wolfgang's crotch is highlighted in the picture at the upper right corner of that link? It confuses me.)

It was seriously one of the best meals of my life...plus they had "donuts in a sack" on the menu for dessert. (Actually, they gave it some high and mighty Italian name, but any good Hoosier with at least one shoe would know that it was good old Fried Do-nuts, just like at the fair.) With a good meal under (and slightly hanging over) my belt, I boarded a plane bright and early Monday morning.

Earlier in the week, I had changed my flight home from a connection through Memphis to a flight arriving six hours earlier via Minneapolis. Now I know that Minneapolis in winter SEEMS like a bad idea, but they have some unbelievable snow removal gear at MSP, and I've actually never had any problems there. Everything proceeded very nicely until we began doing laps around the airport. Apparently they were alternating open runways in some sort of "plow, let planes land, close, replow" cycle, so they were far below their usual capacity.

After circling for an hour, the pilot came on and informed us that we were out of gas and would need to divert to Duluth. Duluth? Isn't that basically Canada? Crud. Half an hour later I'm sitting on the runway in Duluth, only moments after watching a pilot flying an Airbus A320 stand on the brakes in an effort to keep the plane from sliding off the end of the runway, through the bar, pizza parlor, city hall, and out the back end of Duluth.

One older woman was very excited to have gotten the world's first and last direct flight from Las Vegas to Duluth. She deboarded the plane, and I'm fairly sure she made an obscene gesture toward the rest of us as she did so. To Northwest Airline's credit, we got refueled and were back in the air within an hour.

Upon getting off the plane, I was handed a new ticket for the last flight of the night to Indy, arriving mere moments after my original flight via Memphis. Unfortunately, our pilot and crew were unable to get to the flight in time, so we took off a couple of hours late.

Our lateness and sub zero temperatures required our plane to go through the de-icing process once again, so it was really dang late before I left Minneapolis. After an uneventful flight to Indy, we landed at our lovely new airport, only to be greeted by a rather non-intellectual gate crew who decided that since our plane looked vaguely like a Delta plane and was parked at a Northwest gate, they should not let us off until Deputy Dan came down from the Northwest office to take a gander. Someone forgot to let these kindly employees know that the two airlines have merged.

After waiting yet ANOTHER half hour to get off the plane, I was on my way to baggage claim, inventing various new swear words in the process. After waiting for ANOTHER half hour at baggage claim, I saw the "Last Bag" sign light up and headed for the baggage claim office -- better known as the Island of Lost Underpants. As I began filling out my paperwork, a kind employee walked in and threw my bag on the floor a few feet away. "Somehow one bag from that last flight got onto the wrong carousel. Dunno how that could happen."

"Do the Northwest gate agents have anything to do with the baggage?" I inquired.

I scooped up my bag and headed home, a mere nine or so hours past schedule.

My co-workers found all of this highly entertaining, especially since many of them had opted to stick with the late night flight from Memphis. Perhaps next time they will get diverted to Tupelo as payback.

Look Who's Two

It's hard to believe that two short years ago (and, boy, do I mean short) Grant came into this world as a quiet baby boy. He didn't make a sound for what seemed like days. He opened his eyes just long enough to make sure you had formula in your hand. We couldn't be more in love or more proud of our baby. Grant is such a delight. We are blessed beyond measure!

He celebrated with NeNe and Papoo on Saturday (as my mom is in CA visiting family) and his "party" is this weekend, but today is going to be a quiet day with Mommy and Daddy involving breakfast out with Daddy, a few presents including Thomas clothes and a Mr. Potato Head, and chicken nuggets at Chic Fil A (with lots of play time in the "treehouse," as Grant calls it). Here are some pics from the morning and a video too. The super cheesy ones are when I asked Grant to "smile big."