A report on our camping trip and some photographic miscellany

I have to tell you, we had a grand time camping over Memorial Day weekend. We went to one of our favorite state parks in Wisconsin, Peninsula State Park in Door County. It is truly a gorgeous place to be. I was a wee bit nervous about camping with 2 kids, one of whom likes to crawl through mud, eat rocks, and bash his head into things, and the other of whom was just learning not to piss herself. Plus my parents were involved, and it is fair to say that their enjoyment of camping is tenuous at best. And my sister was trying to drag her surly boyfriend out into the wild as well, even though he strongly preferred spending the weekend tearing down a garage. Really, a recipe for disaster. But all in all, it was a disaster-free time. The weather was lovely during the day but chilly at night (and we were prepared for the chilly at night part). Phook maintained her pottying skillz and marked a lot of territory in the great outdoors. Pig ate a lot of dirt but didn't choke on any pine cones. Sleeping in the wild went well, excepting one rough night for Pig. Overall though, it just went well and was a lot of fun. (It would of course be better for my blog if it was a disaster, but sometimes you just have to accept the positives that life throws you rather than yearn for how you could have made that train wreck sound really hilarious on your blog.) So let's have a peek, huh?

Let's kick this off right. Big K is a big eater. A real big eater. We made pancakes one morning on our Roadtrip Grill with the sweet tits griddle attachments we got for Christmas. (I've often thought of doing occasional product reviews on this blog, and that grill would be one of the items I'd like to expound upon...two fat thumbs up.) But anyhow, Big K made a griddle sized blueberry pancake for himself (note that it's larger than a standard size paper plate):

And then he wrapped the thing around a giant sausage. Not a breakfast sausage. A full-sized meal sausage from a previous dinner. It may have even been infused with hot sauce or something. He was disturbingly proud of having made the world's largest pig in a blanket:

While we were there, we were happy to discover that the campground offered some really nice playground equipment, which Hode abbreviates to "P.G.E." when she's trying to outsmart Phook. My kids really like to swing, so it came in handy. Phook, semi-pensively swinging:

Pig, not remotely pensively swinging:

And also, I at this point need to mention Pig's top teeth, which we refer to as "toppers" in this house. Yeah, he got his two top middle teeth. The unfortunate thing is that you could fit a third tooth between them. He is totally that kid. You know, the gentle giant hilarious headbutt kid with a giant gap between his front teeth. This picture captures it somewhat, but you'll have to probably click on it to expand it to see the true awesomeness:

And here we all are, happily swinging together:


We also took a couple of hikes. This consisted of Phook running ahead of everyone in the woods for approximately two miles or so, screaming, "You coming, guys?" I think I have a cross country runner in my family. It's unfortunate that those kids seem to puke a lot and cross the finish line covered in snot and blood, because none of that business is very becoming. But I believe she may turn out to be an adolescent trail runner who likes to elbow the shit out of her competitors when no one is watching. But I digress. We tried to capture a decent photo of us acting like woodland explorers, but it didn't work out. Instead we have Phook grabbing Big K's face to kiss him while dressed in one of her jacked up camping ensembles, Pig looking odd while clinging to his toy drumstick which at this juncture I think has the best chances of becoming his lovey, and me just looking like a tool in a track suit and a visor - but it's proof that we were there, right?

At the end of our hike, we were rewarded with a lovely view of the water. Phook regarded it thoughtfully with her father, and was quite excited about all the boats passing by. She told me that there were guys on all the boats lookin' for fish. I love listening to her observations about general shit when we're out and about. As much as it sucks once your kid is able to tell you off, the rewards of them being able to tell you what they are thinking are just unbelievably huge. Just listening to her chat about everything she sees is pretty much the highlight of my life.


While my mom does not necessarily enjoy the labor intensity of readying herself and my father for camping, or sleeping in a tent, or freezing her ass off, or being away from her deck, she's not one to piss in her grandkids' cheerios. So she was in high spirits the entire trip, and amused my shorties with tunes on the grass flute. She also looked a bit like the Unabomber, which was nice:

While we were there, we paid a visit to one of our favorite pit stops, the Plum Loco Animal Farm. It is a delightful mini-farm gig that is sized just right for toddler types. You get to feed animals, dick around in little kid-sized play houses, and generally have a lovely time. Here is Phook feeding a creature:

And here is Pig saddled up on a wild beast:


So that's what we did. We ate in the woods, we wandered around in the woods, we fed beasts for a reasonable fee, and had a great time.

Now, while I'm at this whole labor intensive business of posting photos, let's just continue on and regard some additional recent adventures. On Mother's Day, we went to the zoo. It was lovely. Observe Phook as she slides with glee:

Observe Phook as she pretends she's a gerbil:

Observe Pig as he enjoys his first carousel ride:

We finished up our day with lunch at a diner, which locals of the area will know as being famous for pie. Phook enjoyed licking the sprinkles off of a giant cookie there:

We also recently attended a wedding. Pig was very handsome and greasy at the dinner table:

Before I left for the wedding, I attempted to take a self-portrait of me and Pig. Unfortunately, a random serial killer snuck into the shot - and I didn't know it until I later reviewed the pictures, which was pretty dang funny to discover:

I also recently busted out the sandbox. The Pig loves it. More specifically, he loves to eat dirt. But whatevs. Have it your way, buddy.

One night recently, I had to cover up my plants on account of cold weather. Phook took the opportunity to nest in the covers I used - it was rather amusing to find her self-bundled in the blankets like this:

Also, Phook recently determined that she required another sibling. A green, overweight sibling who must sit at the table with us wearing a bib. And eat things like meals of salmon, asparagus, and roasted potatoes.


And finally, in this uncertain world filled with economic strife, climate change, raging nations, and my sister's phobia of hitting peak oil, I am going to leave you with one absolute truth. One indisputable nugget that I use as my personal bedrock for remaining sane in insane times. And that is this:

The Pig is ridonkulously cute.

The End.

Beautiful Music

I've always really enjoyed the sounds of water. You know, ocean waves crashing, rain hitting the roof, a melodic tinkling fountain. But no sound of liquid in motion has ever moved me so deeply, brought me to tears so quickly, as the sound of Phook's urine hitting the toilet. Dudes.

So, I've been loathe to post about Phook's dipe wearing in-depth, because I just haven't been in the mood for 19 comments saying, "Don't worry, she'll do it when she's ready." That would have been supportive and nice and all, but quite frankly, I've been handling a duo of diped butts for nearly 11 months now, and it would be really nice to reduce the number of times in a day I get poop on my hands. That, and, to be honest, it is THE THING people have been asking about for like 6 months now. You know how when you have a 3-week-old baby (preferably with colic or reflux or something) and every clown on the planet asks if she's sleeping through the night, and being the sleep-deprived milk cow/bottle warmer that you are, you just want to fashion a shiv out of of the nearest toothbrush and disembowel them? Well, now the question with daggers is "Is she potty-trained yet?" Eat it, people. You can clearly see the mural of Elmo on her Pampers sticking out of the back of her shorts. Ugh.

So. We've had some limited successful pottying incidents over the last couple months. Perhaps 6 times Phook has been placed upon the potty and urine has escaped. But when encouraged to wear underwear, Phook has rejected the notion forcefully. She has also violently rejected many attempts at pottying. I have of course responded by purchasing enough bribes to personally stimulate the economy via M&M's and small plastic objects in the shape of things my kid likes. But the other day, I upped my game and apparently hit the jackpot. I bought one of those machines that blows about 9 trillion bubbles per second. I showed it to Phook, told her it was a bubble chine, and said it would shoot about 9 trillion bubbles per second. I said, "If you pee on the potty, you can have this." Phook said she would. And she did. And then we covered the entire interior surface of my home with bubble residue. Unfortunately, she still rejected (forcefully) the lovely Elmo underwear we've had for her forever. And at that moment, you should have felt a sharp dagger enter your torso if you're one of the people who has ever said to me, "All I did was get my daughter some pretty underwear and tell her she was a big girl, and that was it!!!"

So we went to the store, and I asked her if she'd like some underwear with Lightning McQueen on them. Phook is currently a very big fan of the movie Cars, so I thought this might be appealing. Of course these are boys underwear, but an escape hatch for a peen might come in handy if she ever needs to smuggle something across a border or whatever. She said, "Uh huh, yup. Maybe Phook try doze ones." We then had urinary success in the store's restroom and at a Mexican restaurant where we lunched. All the way home, Big K and I told her that after her nap, she'd wear her McQueens. She said,"Uh huh, yup. After napper." So her nap occurred, she came downstairs and peed on the potty, and then I tried to put the McQueens on her. She was pissed. But I put them on her anyhow, and then held her on my lap while she held pink bankie and mourned. She settled down. Big K took her and put her capri pants over the underwear against her will. At that point, I seriously would have caved. I don't like forcing certain stuff on my kids. I don't like pushing food. I don't like pushing her to hug people she isn't compelled to hug on her own. I will force the words "thank you" out of her, but there is some stuff where I just get a little queasy and think that she really does have the right to say no, even if she is two. I don't want someone shoving food in my mouth, forcing me to hug my weird uncle, or cramming me into garments I don't like. I try to extend those courtesies to others in my home. That being said, Big K tends to know when to push. Like when he dropped Phook in her big girl bed the night before her 2nd birthday without my knowledge or consent, and she slept peacefully through the night there that night and every night since.

So he crammed her in the pants. She started hollering. And I ran in the room and screamed, "Let's go outside!" The protest stopped, and out she came. She has been in underwear since then, excepting naps and nighttime, when I've put her in a pull-up. And the pull-up has been dry every single nap, so I might even get brave on that soon. Now, there have been several (about 2 per day) pee accidents, usually when I've gotten lazy about reminding her to pee and when she's been engaged with some activity. But by and large she is going on the potty. About half the time it is at my suggestion and about half the time she's telling me she needs to go.

Now, perhaps you are wondering about poop. I have friends who spent in excess of a year training their kids re: #2. I was twitching with fear about this issue. I was so scared that first day that if she didn't poop on the potty, she would hoard it until she got in the pull-up, deuce it in secret during her nap, and then we'd have a precedent of pooping in the pull-up at naptime that I'd spend the better part of 2009 and 2010 trying to correct. But she did not. She was clearly nervous to poop on the potty, as she told me about 12 times that first day that she had to go, but then got scared and didn't go. But around dinner time on Monday, she declared she had to do it. We went in the bathroom, she got on her potty, and I suggested that she pull the towel hanging on the nearby towel rack over her face if she wanted to hide. (I didn't say this to be a weirdo, but she has been hiding behind curtains and bookcases to poop in her dipe for a solid 6 months, and I thought that if she wanted to hide to get past the anxiety, it would be okay.) So she pulled a towel over her head and deuced it. You probably heard me screaming with joy. Even if you do live in Egypt. So there was much rejoicing and I gave her a small plastic dinosaur and some pressure valve in my brain finally released and the gasses of anxiety flooded out into the atmosphere. (I predict it will be an especially hot summer in Wisconsin.)

The next day, she informed me in the morning that a deuce was imminent, and then just did it. Later in the day, she came down from her nap while I was at a meeting and my friend was watching the kids. My friend was outside with the baby monitors but hadn't heard Phook come downstairs. She came in to check on them, and Phook was standing in the kitchen, nude from the waist down. She said to my friend, "I just pooped in the potty." And she had. First solo mission, a raging success. Later that day, I picked up a book I had ordered from the library that a friend had recommended. It was entitled, "Toilet Training in Less Than a Day." Irony.

The other major success came when I decided we should take a nearly 3-mile hike around a lake. With no potty access. I simply informed Phook it was cool to pee in the grass, and she proceeded to mark her territory around the entire lake. When we stopped for a picnic lunch mid-way, she surprised everyone involved by providing serious fertilizer to the earth, right there in front of God and everybody. I stared at my child's turd on the ground. And then I realized that with that single turd, I had saved about a quarter. And then I rode around on a fake bull and slapped my own ass a lot.

I don't even know what else to say. Clearly we are going to be pissing ourselves occasionally for a little while here and maybe we'll even make the summer fun with some sort of large-scale pottying regression. But, really, I'm pretty cool with that. At least we are on the road. We're going camping today for the weekend, so that should be interesting on a number of levels. Crawling baby who likes to bash his skull into things? Check. Grandparents who basically hate to camp but aren't 100% ready to throw in the towel? Check. Two-year-old mid-pottytraining? Check. Should be fun.

So that's the update. Phook is the rockstar of the restroom, the queen of the commode, and the princess of the potty. And I have $50 extra a month to put towards E.R. copays for the Pig's impending stitches and casts. This couldn't be more awesome.

Mrs. Buff Guy

Friends, I fully realize that my last post was a poetic, tear-inducing tribute to the wonder that is my husband, the one and only Big K. (And by the way, thank you all for all of your lovely, supportive, and kind comments on that post.) But let's return to our regularly scheduled programming now, okay? Let's all join hands and mock my husband.

I have a story...

So, today I had a thing for work. Specifically, I went up to our local high school to speak to a youth group there about plans for activities for this coming summer. It's basically my job to organize things in our community that people want to do in an attempt to keep them out of trouble of the substance abuse variety. So I had this idea about starting some kind of fun, casual summer sports league at our city park. I was prattling on to about 25 high schoolers and asking them what sports they wanted to play, when they wanted to have this, how often, yada yada yada. We're making plans, we're chatting, we're collaborating, they're getting distracted and whispering to each other, etc. I mentioned that I would be going out into the community to get adults to facilitate our plans. And then someone said it.

"Can we get Buff Guy to help?"

And then a chorus erupted. "Yeah, get Buff Guy." "Do you know Buff Guy?" "Buff Guy is so good with us." "We gotta get Buff Guy to play with us." I'm acting casual, my conscious mind wondering who this magical Buff Guy is. But my subconscious, my soul, the hairs on the back of my neck....they weren't wondering. They knew. They knew it was Big K. And then it was confirmed. Someone said, "What's Buff Guy's real name?" And then someone said, "Big K." And then my head spun around 6 times, bile flew out all of my facial orifices, and 14 years were sloughed off of my life expectancy. Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? The high school students have a disturbing (yet flattering) nickname for my husband and refer to him wistfully like he's some kind of magical fucking creature? Yup. Exactly. That is exactly what I learned today.

So after all that bile escaped from my tear ducts and I stopped shaking, I said, "Um, yeah, I know Buff Guy. As a matter of fact, I am Mrs. Buff Guy." And they freaked out. "Really? You're married to Buff Guy?" "No way!!!" "I can't believe you're Buff Guy's wife." I was like Yoko Ono or something. Perhaps not as reviled, but definitely playing the role of the much lesser sidekick of a celebrity. You see, Big K had gone and talked to their youth group a couple times about getting kids on the city council. And apparently they fell for him. Males, females, young, old, all of those suckers. Fell for him. Hard enough to name him "Buff Guy."

Okay, don't get me wrong, Big K is a seriously broad man. And, yes, he can pick up pianos, major appliances, and compact cars. While eating corn on the cob. But the man who once benched four bills and branded a "K" inside a Superman symbol on his own thigh has sort of been replaced by a polo-shirt wearing dad type whose next big competition is just as likely to involve competitive eating (butter, as I've said before, as he considers the world record vulnerable) as it is to involve actual sport. So it's kind of funny to know that all these kids still view him as The Woods' own Mr. Universe. And Mrs. Buff Guy knows the dude can't even manage to haul the garbage out at least half the time. But I guess Yoko probably knew all of John's secrets too.

So I stood there and made Buff Guy references for another 10 minutes, and then it was over. And then I came home and shrieked the above story to the Buff Guy in question. As you can imagine, he needs to enter an ego-deflation tank as soon as possible. In the last two hours, he's referred to himself as Buff Guy about 94 times. At one point during my shriekfest over this, I hollered, "Geez, ya freakin' peen." And Phook, downing chicken and rice at the dinner table, looked up and goes, "Geez, ya freakin' peen." And then we laughed really hard. So then she said it a thousand more times. And I'm sure the next time I hear it will be really loudly in a room that is soundless, excepting the voice of the guy giving the sermon.

So, there you have it. First I was simply Big K's wife. That was bad enough. But now I'm Buff Guy's wife. If someone could send me a gift certificate for therapy, that would be great.

Really. Buff Guy?

Typing this story, I'm just kind of staring at the computer slackjawed, marveling at the fact that I'm not lying. Woof.

The Lord provides

If there is one thing I hate, it's keeping my mouth shut. But now friends, I can open it. And I get to reveal what might be the best possible news ever, short of a birth announcement. So here it is, the Very Unbloggable Event revealed...My husband got a big, big, big promotion.

I don't want to put his actual title on the internets, lest social worker haters try to find us and egg our house, so I will say he is officially the Boss of All Other Bosses and Therefore the Biggest Boss. The man is in charge of over 60 people and a giant chunk of our county's budget. It is sort of the pinnacle of a career in social work. Say you got a bachelor's degree in education, and started working as a teacher. Say you taught social studies for maybe four years, and then got a little extra certification or something and spent three years teaching math. And then say you went out on a limb and applied for principal of your school even though you only had that bachelor's degree. And somehow, someone decided to give you the job. So say you spent a year being the principal of your school, and you did a good job, and then the winds of fate blew and the district administrator position opened up. You knew it was insane, but you applied to be a district administrator, still just rocking your bachelor's degree. And you got an interview and did really well. And then there was a lot of secretive political mayhem that made your wife's head explode. And then, one day, they called you up and made you the district administrator of that entire school district. That, my friends, is the education parallel to what my husband just did in social work. (For you sticklers out there, I know you can't actually get those jobs w/o advanced degrees in the education world (at least in Wisconsin), but whatever...it's the closest fit I could think of to explain what has happened.) So, yeah, my husband moved into a big, big, big corner office today with a big, big, big title on the door.

And, yes, I am bragging.

I cannot explain the pride. The man is 32 years old. There are parts of his face that he doesn't really need to shave yet. And he has worked his way to the top of a field dominated by people twice his age with a lot more degrees than he has. But it's not even the work history that makes this so remarkable, it's his life history. There really should be a "Big K: Behind the Music." Because there are some pretty raw moments in the early years. Not quite Nikki Sixx being dead a couple times and then just hopping back on tour, but seriously, a background that is not exactly conducive to this version of life events playing out. The man doesn't eat lunch to this day because he was a free lunch kid but too proud to eat it. The man tells stories about burning the roof of his mouth off on pizza because his mom could only afford one frozen pizza for 3 hungry boys, and he'd start eating it as fast as he could when it came out of the oven--even knowing he was going to burn the hell out of his mouth--because if he didn't eat faster than his brothers he didn't get enough. The man once endured some family turmoil (complemented nicely by his own binge drinking), and was kicked out of college after rocking a semester with a .7 G.P.A. (Yes, less than a 1.0.). The man was told by his own father, when he announced he was going to college, that it was a waste of his time and essentially an insult to the family junkyard business to do so. Really, I could peel a few more thousand layers off that onion and make you weep with sad little Big K childhood stories that he has told me over the years, but I don't know that that will serve much of a purpose. Just trust me when I say that the likelihood of Big K being anywhere other than on a bar stool at this moment is about 2%.

I guess what I am trying to say is that my husband is special. He was planted in some seriously sandy ground and no one bothered to or was able to water him very much, but somehow he managed to grow into this. This amazing person whose patience and unbelievable ability to refrain from judging others defies description. This person who is always, always, always the eye of the storm, no matter what is swirling around him, both personally and professionally. This person who cares deeply but somehow manages to think clearly even when emotions should by all rights be overtaking him. This person who at first glance appears to be a big, beefy jock but who upon closer inspection turns out to be the smartest person I have ever encountered.

I could go on. For about two months, probably.

And then, of course, there is the fact that this promotion means a pay raise. Of course in our county this position pays way less than it would anywhere else on the planet, but still, a pay raise. One that will by no means make us wealthy but will certainly make a difference. He found out about the job on Tuesday. I think I slept better the past two nights than I have in the previous two years. We will survive. We will make it. The raise came before the savings ran out. The Lord provides. We gambled on this life path even though a lot people thought we were crazy, and we won. Because the Lord provides.

This ball started rolling months and months ago, when Big K's former boss started having serious health problems and her ability to remain in the position started to look dicey. It has been incredibly, incredibly stressful. Even though it probably seems laughable to the majority of the world, there really are actual political forces in The Woods, even though it's small potatoes. We have been contending with so many rumors and so many secrets and so much stress as this process has been unfolding. It was really, really taking its toll on me. (I wanted to tell you, oh I did.) The night before the interview, we were lying in bed talking about Big K's chances and lamenting the politics involved and weighing the rumors we'd heard over the last few months. I was flipping my lid and basically foaming at the mouth and begging him to give me a percentage likelihood that he'd get the job. He said, "You know, at times like this, the hymn "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" always pops into my head. My psyche always communicates with me through music. Right now it's telling me that this is out of my hands and in God's hands, and that makes me feel better." In case you aren't familiar with it, I'm going to share the words of the first verse with you:

        What a friend we have in Jesus,
all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear,
all because we do not carry
everything to God in prayer.

That pretty much sums up the wisdom of Big K right there. I'm freaking out so badly that my teeth are chattering and I swear an alien is about to burst out of my torso, and he's unconsciously humming soothing hymns to himself that pretty much provide the perfect answer to how to handle the situation.

You know, when you get married, there's very little (no) chance that you and your partner will get along perfectly, always be on the same page, and never be irritated by one another. And of course that is true of Big K and I. I can't tell you how much rage I've experienced seeing what the man does to my kitchen if I happen to leave him home alone with the kids for a few hours. Obviously, that's a petty example, but of course there is shit that is not all puppies and kittens and sweetness and light that occurs when you are with someone for over a decade. But that story I told about how Big K handled the anxiety of this process pretty much tells me that I am profoundly lucky to have chosen him to make a life with. (Or to have been chosen by him, depending on how you want to look at it.) Big K, at his core, is as good a man as has ever walked the earth. My theory on marriage is that you need to be with the person who you would want to be with in the worst possible scenario you can imagine. I'm not trying to be morbid or weird, but it's not too hard to be happy in your relationship when everything else in your life is truly going swimmingly. It's not too hard to be happy in your relationship when all you want to do is make out with the other person. It's not too hard to be happy in your relationship when your partner is bringing you flowers and telling you you're gorgeous every day. But when the early stuff fades and life kicks in and babies arrive and you've taken a few knocks and you find yourself in a place where you have been clinging to a lifeboat in freezing water for what seems like an eternity and you look over and realize that the reason you're still holding on is because that person is there--the one you picked or the one that picked you--and he is the person, the one and only person you could ever imagine clinging to that boat with.........well, then you're pretty lucky.

And I am, I am the luckiest.


And so are they.

Phooktionary

You know, Phook is two. This means that she sometimes busts out the kind of antics pulled by two-year-olds. You know...general mayhem, limit testing, unreasonable and ill-timed demands, seemingly irrational emotional outbursts, and the like. But I've got to tell you something. I kinda like two. In all honesty, this past winter of two and a half beat the pants off of last winter's one and a half. One and a half was almost completely nonverbal mayhem and boundless physical energy with no place to burn it. Two and half, while challenging, has been pretty amusing in a lot of ways. And the most amusing part of two and a half has been speech. I really, really, really need to capture her talking about something funny and post a video, but it's hard to have the camera ready at the right moment and to get something that does not include identifying names, etc. So I'm going to try to describe her speech to you, even though that's a weird thing to do. And I just want to document some of her strange linguistic habits, because I'll surely forget them as quickly as I forgot what she looked like crawling.

I should probably start by explaining that Phook is fully verbal and will at least attempt to say any word you put forth. Sometimes things with like 4 syllables stump her goat brain and she garbles them badly, but in general she can say most anything. She speaks in detailed paragraphs, tells stories with events detailed in chronological order, busts out new vocab pretty much daily, and says things she clearly knows are jokes. However, her pronunciation is not exactly pristine. You know those kids who seemingly come out of the womb speaking perfect English? Yeah, Phook isn't one of those kids. If people aren't familiar with her, some translation from Mom is generally helpful, although more and more she is able to conduct lengthier and lengthier conversations with strangers without me chiming in. But it's more than pronunciation that makes her speech amusing. She actually almost has a weird little accent. It's kind of hard to describe, but I'd say there are elements of Arnold Schwarzenegger involved. Vowel sounds are just a tick off and are drawn out in an Austrian-bodybuilder sort of way. There is an expressiveness to her speech which I'm going to go ahead and attribute directly to the fact that she spends 99.8% of her time with me, and, as you might be able to imagine, I'm sort of an expressive speaker. She uses wild intonations, wild body language, and wide eyes to tell you what is up. She just sounds funny. And she is funny.

So here is an annotated Phooktionary of some of her words/pronunciations/phrases that I am currently finding amusing. I am sure I will forget some, but that's okay. In 20 years, I'm guessing this might be my favorite blog entry of all time, for the reminiscence it will provide.

vaction - For some reason, this is how Phook pronounces "vacuum." When I bust out my vacuum, she always says, "Phook go get my vaction now to help you!"

basegameball - Some wires get crossed in her head, and she generally says "basegameball" instead of "baseball game."

mu-ox - This is how Phook pronounces "music." It actually is said "moo" (like a cow) and then "ox."

chine - Anything that is mechanized, automated, or otherwise powered can be referred to as a "chine" by Phook. This is apparently short for "machine." Her favorite chine was the one that sent the medicine into her body in the hospital. She still talks about that chine.

turn on da ceiling - When we redid Phook's room, we installed heating units in the ceiling. The room was originally an attic and not included in the home's duct work, and when the previous owners turned it into a bedroom, they put in electric baseboard heaters. We basically moved the heaters to the ceiling so they wouldn't be a fire hazard for kids/stuffed animals/etc. that will be on her floor. We tend to have the heaters basically off during the day, but we turn up the thermostat on her wall when we walk out of her room after tucking her in at night or for her nap. She caught onto this, and when we leave her now, she always reminds us to "turn on da ceiling."

keem - Phook is not potty-trained. Phook has had a few random toileting successes but is in general none too interested in going on the potty. I'm not interested in holding a howling child onto a toilet bowl, so we remain diapered. This means she occasionally has a touch of ass irritation, as children tend to do. Phook refers to any substance we put on her butt to alleviate said pain as "keem" which is her pronunciation of "cream." As I believe I have mentioned before, we here refer to butts as "heins," which is short for the term "heinie." So Phook often utters the sentence, "I have sore hein...I need KEEM!" I love that.

pink bahnkie and jean bahnkie - You have all seen pictures of and heard tell of Phook's pink blanket. It's pretty much attached to her all Linus-style. This is her "pink bahnkie." You may not know that there is also a "jean bahnkie" in existence. (Jean = green). Jean bahnkie must be used to swaddle her baby doll, who accompanies her during sleep and also on various excursions. She has been known to wake in the middle of the night, find Baby unsatisfactorially swaddled, and holler out, "Baby need jean bahnkie RIGHT NOW!" At 2 a.m. That is correct - in addition to our two living children, Big K and I are caring for a plastic infant who needs assistance when she busts out of her swaddle in the middle of the night.

i want need - This particular tic is already going the way of the dodo, but Phook recently went through a charming stage during which she stated that she "want need" things. Most commonly, it would be, of course, "I want need bahnkie!" I loved that.

besian - I believe I have referenced that in my household we refer to things as "aubesians" if they are anything that can be described as a lengthy grasping tool. It's a reference to a tool centaurs use to wipe their butts from an episode of SNL and is totally obscure. But, if you're raised with a word, you pretty much think it's a word, right? So my kids have this pincer-grasp toy that Hode and I got for Big K at the Museum of Science & Industry as a joke after he broke his kneecap in half and found himself relatively immobilized. And we've always called it an aubesian. So Phook thinks aubesians are actual things. Only she can't say aubesian. She just says "besian." So my kid runs around saying things like, "I need go get my besian to do dat." Total nonsense. (As I type this, I think that this inherited linguistic nonsense may be my biggest point of pride as a parent...and I'm not kidding.)

Jower - Everybody's favorite special needs cat in this household is Snoot. You probably know him as Uncle Growler, because even cats need a pseudonym. The thing is, Phook can't exactly pull off the hard "g" sound at this juncture. So she calls him "Jower." I love that.

shua - Phook cannot say "cereal." She is getting close, but forever she has called it "shua." This of course also applies to one of her staple foods, the shua bar. On the night before Thanksgiving, we were attending an evening church service. It was past Phook's bedtime, and she was really sleepy. We were singing a hymn, and she was kind of lolling about on my lap, and I noticed she was singing too. When I listened closely, I realized she was very melodically singing, "I want a shua bar..." in this pleasing little tune.

libooks - Every Tuesday, we go to our local library for children's storytime. It's a highlight of the week for those of us who don't exactly get out much. When we started this ritual, I'd tell Phook we were going to storytime and that she could pick out some library books. She decided that that term was better said if she combined the words and called it "libooks." So now both the building and the act of going and the actual items selected are referred to as "libooks" in this house. There is a little tune with which that is said too, and a gesture. You basically put your hands over your head, curve your body and point your hands to the left in the air, then sing "libooks" in a sing-songy little voice, shift your hands to your other side of your body, and thrust your hips in the opposite direction. And there you have it.

cirque - Phook has some pretty serious curly hair. Those of you with little curly-haired girls know what that means. Tangles. Lots and lots of tangles. Getting those tangles out in the morning can be one of the lowlights of my day. The current method I use for tangle removal is to squirt Phook's head with water from a bottle, and then squirt it with kids' hair detangler, smoosh it around on her head and let it marinate for a few minutes, and then attempt to get a comb through it while offering bribes in exchange for low decibel levels. Phook cannot say "squirt." Instead she says "cirque." Sometimes, one of the bribes is that she gets to cirque the water bottle into the air while I comb. Sometimes, we don't get to that point though, because Phook sees me coming with my toolkit and runs off hollering, "No cirque me, mommy!!!"

I can't do it - it's too hard to do it - This is her best Arnie phrase. Seriously, read that like you are doing an Arnie impersonation, and that's exactly how she sounds. When Phook is attempting to open a container or put on a tricky shoe or otherwise trying and failing at something, she says, "I can't do it. It's too hard to do it." It is so, so funny.

I too busy - Phook recently picked up on this phrase and now employs it as an excuse when called upon to put away a toy, eat a meal, go to bed, etc. "No, no, I too busy." If it weren't so dang charming...

Mommy keen up dat kitchen - it's weewy dirty. - Phook is at the age where she thinks she can outsmart me, and I love it. (She probably has actually outsmarted me on some occasions...that I do not love.) When she wants to do something that she knows I would dislike--for example, drink an entire can of my soda or smack her brother in the head--she tells me to go clean up the kitchen because it's dirty. This is because the kitchen offers no views of the living room or toy room or other places where she commits crimes. And she knows this. And thinks that she can get me out of the room to clean so she can have her way with things. Dude. I fear 16-year-old Phook.

Daddy - you got a kitty cat in your armpit - This upon seeing Big K's pit hair. Enough said.

Stop singing daddy - you're killing me - This uttered today for the first time. No explanation required.

dat heng dere - Phook cannot say "thing." The "th" sound is not something she's mastered. She pronounces the word "thing" as "heng." So if she wants some miscellaneous thing, she will refer to it as "dat heng dere." (That thing there.) I don't know why, but I find that really charming.

Jammee and Jampee - Phookspeak for Grandma and Grandpa.

Hoink - She recently added an "h" sound to the front of "oink" to make a pig sound. This after a solid year or more of oinking. Who knows. I think I prefer "hoink" anyhow.

Race Car movie, etc. - Phook has developed a taste for cinema. To say the least. And now I will reveal the names she has for her movie selections, in case you ever come over to babysit:

• Race Car movie = Cars
• Ice movie = Ice Age
• Penguin movie = Surf's Up
• Hippo movie = Madagascar
• Pig movie = Charlotte's Web
• Robot movie = Wall-e
• Super movie = The Incredibles
• Shrek = Shrek
• Shrek with kitty cat = Shrek 2
• Big Kid movie = High School Musical
• E-I-E-I-O movie = some godforsaken Wiggles DVD featuring nursery rhymes
• Shark movie = Shark Tale
• Dorothy = Wizard of Oz

Chuck Norris, Hode. - You know those Chuck Norris jokes/statements? As in, "Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried." Yeah, I think they are pretty much the most hilarious crap ever. So does my sister. So once I made Phook leave Hode a voicemail simply indicating she was thinking of Chuck Norris. And it rocked.

No, no, you lock it up. - I love the movie Wedding Crashers. There is a scene in which Vince Vaughn is trying to get out of a wedding reception quickly, having had an unfortunate liaison with a bridesmaid, and he's trying to get Owen Wilson to leave, but he doesn't want to because he likes a girl there. They start yelling at each other, saying, "Lock it up!" and then the other says, "No, no, you lock it up!" and back and forth from there. This weekend, Hode taught it to Phook. So now you tell Phook to lock it up and she yells back, "No, no, you lock it up!" Training my kid to repeat trashy movie quotes is yet another feather in my parenting cap.

I just restin'. - If you tell Phook it's bedtime, she lately prefers to lie down on the couch, tuck herself in, and inform you that bedtime is not necessary because she is just restin'.

In one minute - When asked to do something, Phook will now inform you that she will do it in one minute. Or if you're extra lucky, she might tell you she will be ready to comply in two minutes. Awesome.

Forty times - When Phook is sporting a particularly soaked dipe, I ask her how many times she peed in that thing. Without fail, she acts all contemplative, and then says, "Ah, forty times."

Wem-made - Phook likes lemonade (it's actually generic Crystal Light, but she doesn't need to know). Either way, she can't say it. In Phookspeak, she needs "wem-made."

Dat make me cry. - When Phook so much as sees an onion, even one in a bowl that was cut up hours before, she says, "Dat onion make me cry. Need tissue." She then blots her eyes sadly. She also seems to think lemons can make her cry, because she also needs a tissue for those. And she informs me, "Dose wemons weewy sour. I no eat dose. Dey just for cookin'." Do you think the child has spent much time sitting on the counter while I chop things?

Weewy hansome - When I get the Pig ready for church, she informs me he is "weewy hansome," and the other day when he was especially dressed up for work, she informed Big K that he "wook weewy hansome, wike [Pig]!"

See ya, suckers - Shortly after Halloween, I was pushing the kids in the double stroller, and Phook was reminiscing about trick or treating. At the time, she wasn't talking nearly as fluidly as she does now, and she was basically putting together a smattering of words related to her trick or treating experience. She was saying "bye," "thank you," "see ya," "bee," "sucker," etc. And then she put together, accidentally at the time, "See ya, sucker!" Well, I was amused, to say the least. So amused that it morphed into our standard farewell. When Phook says goodbye to people, she generally says, "See ya, suckers!" And then I laugh. And that anecdote pretty much exposes my childrearing style in a nutshell. Sorry, society.

So. There you have it. I will probably think of a million more of these as soon as I post this, but I thought you might enjoy a selected Phooktionary. Chuck Norris surely will, the next time he googles himself.

Now that's an ego boost for ya

Lord. So, I have a quick, funny story.

I have recently been in my local paper a lot, promoting various things for work. This has been really kind of horrific and embarrassing for me, as the photos have been unsavory, in my opinion. However, I apparently have a few fans...

My youngest cousin, KW, recently became a prison guard at a maximum security prison in the general vicinity of The Woods. She's all badass and stuff, obviously. And the people housed in this prison are serious, serious, nasty criminals. But apparently they have a soft spot. For Big W.

Okay, I saw KW the other day, and she said she had a funny story to tell me. Apparently she saw about six inmates huddled around a newspaper, hollering things like, "Hey, look at this chick!" "Whoa, she's so hot!" "Dude, check her out!" So KW looks over their shoulders and sees that the group of inmates is fawning over none other than yours truly. Seriously, people, seriously. I don't even know what to say. The thought of inmates appreciating my looks is equal parts startling and horrifying. I really hope someone recycled that paper immediately. I really hope I'm not pasted up on someone's cell wall. Arf.

And that's it for now. I just thought you should know. You know, in case I go missing in 7-10 years or something.