avablog

I got this one from Kevin and have enjoyed it so much I thought I’d pass it on. If you’ve never seen Peep Show, well, hang in there; it’s only a matter of time before someone at NBC gets a hold of it and produces a less funny, crappy U.S. English version (I’m so looking at you, The Office). In the meantime, please enjoy the intellectual stylings of David Mitchell (ITMS link!). It’s difficult to pick a fave, but “TV Rudeness” and “Spelling” are especially good, and “Unusually Smart” certainly resonated with me, owner of one suit jacket.

I was making bolognese yesterday afternoon when Ava pranced into the kitchen and asked if there was any cooking she could help with (I immediately recognized her mother’s hand). I’d just finished preparing the sauce for its long simmer, so there wasn’t much else going on. Momentarily flummoxed, I asked how Ava would like to make some soup. The idea excited her, and she sprinted upstairs to grab a bowl.
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That’s how long it takes us to get from our driveway to Ava’s school in the morning; we get exactly one time through Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” which is Ava’s new favorite song (I don’t miss “Hungry Like the Wolf”). After I’ve backed out of the garage, I start the song, and Ava sings along as we toodle down the road. It’s awfully cute to hear her singing (she knows most of the words, but she doesn’t like “the slow part”), and it’s fascinating to catch the interpretations she comes up with when she’s not sure of what’s being sung.

I’m also awed by how much money has been made over the last 15 years or so through use of the contraction “I’m’a,” which takes the place, variably, of “I’m going to,” or “I’m gonna.” Love that Hip Hop economy of speech.

Before the weather went to s*#t yesterday, Ava and I ran (no, really, we ran) down the street to the neighbor’s place to see all the crocuses growing in his yard. He doesn’t have any beds or anything, the flowers just come right up through the grass.

In case ya didn’t know, I’m a fan of Hardee’s. I actually only eat there three or four times a year, tops, but it’s really the only fast food burger joint I frequent (if you can call that schedule “frequenting”).
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They’re doing a project at Ava’s school for which each kid brings in a picture from each year of his or her life and writes a description of what’s important about the photo. Four or five pictures. They’re calling it a “personal timeline.” Easy, right? HA! HA, I say! Why, we have just under 3K pictures from Ava’s first two years of life alone. And they’re all freakin’ adorable, of course. Sure, some were taken at events, like Ava’s birth, or her first trip to the pumpkin patch at the tender age of five weeks, or her first trip to Grand Marais. So many photos…. I don’t regret taking a single one, of course, but still…. Thank God for tags, I guess.

EDIT: Here are your winners!

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2 (Incidentally, one of my all-time fave pics of Ava. Of course, it was taken by Kevin.)

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To circumcise or not? A thought I’d not had on the matter before today, from this article:

But once you and your penis are fully baked, the advantage of a foreskin is not clear. Some scientists speculate that it protected the prehistoric penis as it swung, naked, through thick forests and over tall grasses; and unless you take your penis on that sort of excursion, they argue, you don’t need a foreskin.

Sure. But isn’t it best to be prepared?

Ava’s pretty adept at most things. She enjoys talking, especially. I love it when she goes off on a tangent and gets all excited about explaining or describing some thing or another. The other day, I was listening to her talk when she came across the word “regular.” But it sounded, from her mouth, like reg-yer-ar. I said, “reg-yoo-ler.” She repeated reg-yer-ar. We went a couple more times before I dropped it, but my heart when out to this sweet little girl as she struggled to make her mouth produce the sounds she heard. I know Grandma Georgie is worried Ava has a speech problem, but I’m more concerned (and not too, at that) that these temporary verbal stumbling blocks will damage her confidence and make her less inclined to talk when she has something to say.

I really need to get more multi-generational pictures with the Klevar women.

Editor’s note: No, Ava doesn’t live in that shirt.

Sometimes I need to remind myself that this blog isn’t all about me. Or Leah. So I’ll try to put together a unicorn chaser here. Thanks to all those who commented on yesterday’s incendiary post; it’s always interesting to find the limits of acceptable public disclosure.
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Sometimes that little ol’ wife of mine sure does crack me up. Like today. She got a really nice glider rocker in excellent condition FOR FREE from friends of mine. She wanted it for the nursery, but only on the condition that she could get it reupholstered to match the wall color and the brown skirt on the crib. Well, guess what? It’s going to cost $400 to get it reupholstered. And no, the company that makes the chair does NOT make replacement cushions. So, the options upon discovering this cost seem pretty clear: Spend $400 on upholstery; get a brown blanket and throw it over the chair; use the chair as is, for free. Leah insists that the chair is useless to her if it’s not a shade of brown that will match the room. Go back and read that sentence again. You probably think I’m exaggerating. I assure you I am not.
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Applying Easter window decals at G.G.’s this weekend.

At 31 weeks:

Will Leah and I find Ava’s blog more titillating than she finds ours? When can I expect the tipping point at which the children of blog-age parents spend more time reading their parents’ blogs than the obverse?

Leah informs me frequently that we’re dealing with a little girl who has a fragile ego, and that under no circumstances does she need to hear any discouraging words from her father. I see the validity of her argument. Like most parents, I’d love for my child to live a life free of negativity and pain, emotional or otherwise. But when Ava approached me this morning in her little red flowered skirt and matching sweater, her mouth and cheeks smeared with lipstick, I did the unfatherly thing and asked what all the goop was on her face. Her demeanor went immediately from proud to crestfallen. I’d destroyed her. “Why do you always have to be such an asshole?” Leah hissed.
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My dearest Ava,

Every night before bed, I lie with you, and you beg me to recount stories from my childhood. As I lie in the dark with you and cast my mind back to places and people long forgotten, I feel my heart breaking just a little bit. It’s breaking because my own childhood slipped by so quickly, and I know yours will, too. I feel this more acutely than ever, now that you are almost five. I feel frantic to hold each day, each hour, each moment with you just a little longer.
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This is not a political blog. And maybe this post isn’t really political.

I’ve been bugged mightily lately by our new President’s recent comment on Jay Leno’s show equating his bowling skills with something you’d see at the Special Olympics. I’ll make this brief: I know that people sometimes screw up and say things they either don’t mean or wouldn’t otherwise say in public. I’m disappointed in President Obama because I expected him to be better than this. I wanted the is-our-children-learning years to be in our past. I’d hoped for a leader who sat at home in his spare time contemplating the legal justifications for imprisoning enemy combatants, not telling retard jokes. And now we have this.

Obama reportedly called the head of the Special Olympics and apologized even before the Leno episode aired, but that doesn’t much matter. You’d think a man who traded so heavily on a heritage of stereotyping and segregation during his campaign would be even more sensitive to the feelings of his socially marginalized constituents, but maybe that big white house (or Jay’s big white cowlick) put the zap on his head.

We had a nice weekend at home. Dinner with friends on Saturday evening (Exotic India; go there), then Alex’s 4th birthday bash on Sunday afternoon. Once again, we failed to get any maternity shots of Leah this weekend. We have got to get that done. That baby’s going to be here before we know it. I wonder if Mercy Hospital has wireless internet in the birthing rooms; is it wrong to tweet a birth? Of course, it’s not like I didn’t get any shots over the weekend. In fact, Ava and I even had a digicam shootout on the streets of downtown I.C. Witness:

Leah and I went to the mall at noon to run some errands. Still spring break here, and the mall was mobbed with kids, mostly teens, some with their parents. Have you had occasion to take notice of teenagers recently? I superimposed Ava’s face on every girl who walked by, leaning evermore heavily on my shopping cart as my knees weakened at the thought that my daughter would ever venture out in public — alone! — dressed in such fashion.
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